I dropped my head and burrowed even deeper into the weeds. I waited for her to yell something, but she did not. This sin was unforgivable, I was now certain.

I inched backward, very slowly, not making a sound, until I was near the edge of the cotton. Then I crawled furiously along the tree line and resumed my position near the trail, as if nothing had happened. I tried to look bored when I heard her coming.

Her hair was wet; she’d changed dresses. “Thanks, Luke,” she said.

“Uh, sure,” I managed to say.

“I feel so much better.”

So do I, I thought.

We walked slowly back toward the house. Nothing was said at first, but when we were halfway home she asked, “You saw me, didn’t you, Luke?” Her voice was light and playful, and I didn’t want to lie.

“Yes,” I said.

“That’s okay. I’m not mad.”

“You’re not?”

“No. I guess it’s only natural, you know, for boys to look at girls.”

It certainly seemed natural. I could think of nothing to say.

She continued, “If you’ll go with me to the creek the next time, and be my lookout, then you can do it again.”

“Do what again?”

“Watch me.”

“Okay,” I said, a little too quickly.

“But you can’t tell anybody.”

“I won’t.”

Over supper, I picked at my food and tried to behave as if nothing had happened. It was difficult eating, though, with my stomach still turning flips. I could see Tally just as clearly as if we were still at the creek.

I’d done a terrible thing. And I couldn’t wait to do it again.

“What’re you thinkin’ ‘bout, Luke?” Gran asked.

“Nothin’ much,” I said, jolted back into reality.

“Come on,” Pappy said. “Something’s on your mind.”

Inspiration hit fast. “That switchblade,” I said.

All four adults shook their heads in disapproval.

“Think pleasant thoughts,” Gran said.

Don’t worry, I thought to myself. Don’t worry.

For the second Sunday in a row, death dominated our worship. Mrs. Letha Haley Dockery was a large, loud woman whose husband had left her many years earlier and fled to California. Not surprisingly, there were a few rumors of what he did once he arrived there, and the favorite, which I’d heard a few times, was that he had taken up with a younger woman of another race-possibly Chinese, though, like a lot of gossip around Black Oak, it couldn’t be confirmed. Who’d ever been to California?

Mrs. Dockery had raised two sons, neither of whom had received much distinction but who had the good sense to leave the cotton patch. One was in Memphis; the other out West, wherever, exactly, that was.

She had other family scattered around northeastern Arkansas, and in particular there was a distant cousin who lived in Paragould, twenty miles away. Very distant, according to Pappy, who didn’t like Mrs. Dockery at all. This cousin in Paragould had a son who was also fighting in Korea.

When Ricky was mentioned in prayer in our church, an uncomfortable event that happened all the time, Mrs. Dockery was quick to jump forward and remind the congregation that she, too, had family in the war. She’d corner Gran and would whisper gravely about the burden of waiting for news from the front. Pappy talked to no one about the war, and he had rebuked Mrs. Dockery after one of her early attempts to commiserate with him. As a family, we simply tried to ignore what was happening in Korea, at least in public.

Months earlier, during one of her frequent plays for sympathy, someone had asked Mrs. Dockery if she had a photo of her nephew.

As a church, we’d been praying for him so much, somebody wanted to see him. She’d been humiliated when she couldn’t produce one.

When he was first shipped off, his name had been Jimmy Nance, and he was a nephew of her fourth cousin-her “very close cousin.” As the war progressed, he became Timmy Nance, and he also became not just a nephew, but a genuine cousin himself, something of the second or third degree. We couldn’t keep it straight. Though she preferred the name Timmy, occasionally Jimmy would sneak back into the conversation.

Whatever his real name, he’d been killed. We heard the news in church that Sunday before we could get out of the truck.

They had her in the fellowship hall, surrounded by ladies from her Sunday school class, all of them bawling and carrying on. I watched from a distance while Gran and my mother waited in line to comfort her, and I truly felt sorry for Mrs. Dockery. However thick or thin the kinship, the woman was in great agony.

Details were discussed in whispers: He’d been driving a jeep for his commander when they hit a land mine. The body wouldn’t be home for two months, or maybe never. He was twenty years old and had a young wife at home, up in Kennett, Missouri.

While all this conversation was going on, the Reverend Akers entered the room and sat beside Mrs. Dockery. He held her hand, and they prayed long and hard and silently. The entire church was there, watching her, waiting to offer sympathies.

After a few minutes, I saw Pappy ease out of the door.

So this is what it will look like, I thought, if our worst fears come true: From the other side of the world, they will send the news that he’s dead. Then friends will gather around us, and everybody will cry.

My throat suddenly ached and my eyes were beginning to moisten. I said to myself, “This cannot happen to us. Ricky doesn’t drive a jeep over there, and if he did, he’d have better sense than to run over a \ land mine. Surely, he’s coming home.”

I wasn’t about to get caught crying, so I sneaked out of the building just in time to see Pappy get in his truck, where I joined him. We sat and stared through the windshield for a long time; then without a word, he started the engine, and we left.

We drove past the gin. Though it was silent on Sunday mornings, every farmer secretly wanted it roaring at full throttle. It operated for only three months out of the year.

We left town with no particular destination in mind, at least I couldn’t determine one. We stayed on the back roads, graveled and dusty with the rows of cotton just a few feet off the shoulders.

His first words were, “That’s where the Siscos live.” He nodded to his left, unwilling to take a hand off the wheel. In the distance, just barely visible over the acres of cotton stalks, was a typical sharecropper’s house. The rusted tin roof sagged, the porch sloped, the yard was dirt, and the cotton grew almost to the clothesline. I didn’t see anyone moving around, and that was a relief. Knowing Pappy, he might get the sudden urge to pull up in the front yard and start a brawl.

We kept going slowly through the endlessly flat cotton fields. I was skipping Sunday school, an almost unbelievable treat. My mother wouldn’t like it, but she wouldn’t argue with Pappy. It was my mother who had told me that he and Gran reached out for me when they were most worried about Ricky.

He spotted something, and we slowed almost to a stop. “That’s the Embry place,” he said, nodding again. “You see them Mexicans?” I stretched and strained and finally saw them, four or five straw hats deep in the sea of white, bending low as if they had heard us and were hiding.

“They’re pickin’ on Sunday?” I said.

“Yep.”

We gained speed, and finally, they were out of sight. “What’re you gonna do?” I asked, as if the law were being broken.

“Nothin’. That’s Embry’s business.”

Mr. Embry was a member of our church. I couldn’t imagine him allowing his fields to be worked on the Sabbath. “Reckon he knows about it?” I asked.

“Maybe he doesn’t. I guess it’d be easy for the Mexicans to sneak out there after he left for church.” Pappy said this without much conviction.

“But they can’t weigh their own cotton,” I said, and Pappy actually smiled.