A Quarter's Worth of Dust

FICTION A Quarter's Worth of Dust Richard Sears As he and Junior got in the car, she called, "And don't get anything at Andy's, you hear? It'll just spoil his dinner." He nodded to her and looked down quickly to see how the kid was taking it. Junior didn't look disappointed and he didn't say anything, he just waved. But as soon as his mother's back was turned he stuck his tongue out at her. It was as small and as round and almost as red as a strawberry. "Junior," Peter said warningly. He ran his hands through the kid's hair, stirring up the wild cowlick in back, pulling it a little for punishment. Nice hair the kid had, a boy's hair, stiff and unruly, like his own. His hair had been exactly that color when he was that age, almost eight—now. Before you knew it ten and then a teenager; already Junior was full of questions. He backed the car down the driveway. The blacktop on the highway was steaming with mirages. The heat made pictures of water far down the road. "Look at the—" he groped for a word. "Hey, Junior, look at the . . . ." Junior had both feet, bare and black-soled, up on the lid ofthe glove compartment. He was cleaning dirt from between his toes with his forefinger . "Pay attention, Junior, look at the water up the road. And don't put your feet up there." He swallowed. "Did you hear what I said?" Junior lowered his feet to the floor. "I want some suckers," he said. The kid had such knobby filthy knees and his thin legs were brown and tough looking. A real boy, there was no doubt about that. Peter dropped his hand to one of the sharp kneecaps and rubbed down the shin. Junior looked up at him with his big blue eyes and threw himself over suddenly, banging himself against his father's side. "Your noggin is hard as a bullet," Peter said, laughing and cracking the kid's head with his knuckles. "I want five suckers," Junior said, stroking his father's bare arm. He pulled at die hairs on the arm absently as ifhe didn't know what he was doing. His voice was dreamy. "I want five: a yellow one and a red one and a purple one and green one and a orange one." Richard Sears, a Berea College English professor, has devoted many years to researching the origins ofthe college. 26 "You heard what your mother said." "Yes,"Junior said. He scooted over to his window and rested his chin on the sill, letting the wind blow through his hair. The air was hot and dry here. On a day like today it was better to stay at home; with so many trees around the house, the air was always pleasant, cool and moist as in a forest. They certainly lived on die right side of the river. Marshgrass was a dirty place, even ifhe had been born there. It was always mud or dust—one or the other. Right now it was dust; everything scummed over with it where people had stirred it up driving in to town. A dozen cars, all more or less yellow, were parked in the center of the street where it was widest and dustiest. The Marshgrass loafers were at their stations. Joe Callahan and his brother Hank were sitting in cane-bottom chairs tilted back against the store front. Old Man Short was squatting on his haunches, Skeeter Jones leaning against the door frame. A worthless bunch, good for nothing but to spit tobacco juice and cuss. They brought their wives to church, but they never went themselves. When they started being sickly they'd start being religious too; ofcourse, that's the way it always happened. The loafers didn't need Sunday; they had tiieir day ofrest every day. Andy had left an empty chicken coop beside die gas pump right in the way. Skeeter Jones sauntered over and moved it to one side. "Hey, Andy," he yelled. "Customer!" Andy came out smiling and rubbing his fat hands...