“I just can’t believe how backward you people are,” she said.

I studied my feet. With the exception of Hank Spruill, I had never met a person whom I disliked as much as Stacy. What would Ricky do? He’d probably cuss her, and since I couldn’t get by with that, I just decided to walk away.

The Buick was returning, with my father at the wheel. He parked it, and all the adults got out. Jimmy Dale yelled for the Spruills to come over. He loaded up Bo, Dale, and Trot in the backseat, Hank in the front, and away they went, flying down our dirt road, headed for the river.

It was late in the afternoon before Jimmy Dale made any mention of leaving. We were ready for them to go, and I was particularly worried that they might hang around long enough for supper. I couldn’t imagine sitting around the dinner table trying to eat while Stacy commented on our food and habits. So far she had despised everything else about our lives, why should she relent over supper?

We moved slowly to the Buick, our languid good-byes taking forever, as usual.

No one was ever in a hurry when it was time to go. The announcement was made that the hour was late, then repeated, and then someone made the first move to the car or truck amid the first wave of farewells. Hands were shaken, hugs given, promises exchanged. Progress was made until the group got to the vehicle, at which time the entire procession came to a halt as someone remembered yet another quick story. More hugs, more promises to come back soon. After considerable effort, the departing ones were safely tucked away inside the vehicle, then those sending them off would stick their heads in for another round of good-byes. Maybe another quick story. A few protests would finally get the engine started, and the car or truck would slowly back up, everyone still waving.

When the house was out of sight, someone other than the driver would say, “What was the hurry?”

And someone standing in the front yard, still waving, would say, “Wonder why they had to rush off?”

When we made it to the car, Stacy whispered something to Jimmy Dale. He then turned to my mother and said softly, “She needs to go to the bathroom.”

My mother looked worried. We didn’t have bathrooms. You relieved yourself in the outhouse, a small wooden closet sitting on a deep hole, hidden out behind the toolshed, halfway between the back porch and the barn.

“Come with me,” my mother said to her, and they left. Jimmy Dale suddenly remembered another story, one about a local boy who went to Flint and got arrested for public drunkenness outside a bar. I eased away and walked through the house. Then I sneaked off the back porch and ran between two chicken coops to a point where I could see my mother leading Stacy to the outhouse. She stopped and looked at it and seemed very reluctant to enter. But she had no choice.

My mother left her and retreated to the front yard.

I struck quickly. As soon as my mother was out of range, I knocked on the door of the outhouse. I heard a faint shriek, then a desperate, “Who is it?”

“Miss Stacy, it’s me, Luke.”

“I’m in here!” she said, her usually clear words now hurried and muffled in the stifling humidity of the outhouse. It was dark in there, the only light coming from the tiny cracks between the planks.

“Don’t come out right now!” I said with as much panic as I could fake.

“What?”

“There’s a big black snake out here!”

“Oh my God!” she gasped. She would’ve fainted again, but she was already sitting down.

“Be quiet!” I said. “Otherwise, he’ll know you’re in there.”

“Holy Jesus!” she said, her voice breaking. “Do something!”

“I can’t. He’s big, and he bites.”

“What does he want?” she begged, as if she were on the verge of tears.

“I don’t know. He’s a shitsnake, he hangs around here all the time.”

“Get Jimmy Dale!”

“Okay, but don’t come out. He’s right by the door. I think he knows you’re in there.”

“Oh my God,” she said again, and started crying. I ducked back between the chicken coops, then looped around the garden on the east side of the house. I moved slowly and quietly along the hedges that were our property line until I came to a point in a thicket where I could hide and watch the front yard. Jimmy Dale was leaning on his car, telling a story, waiting for his young bride to finish her business.

Time dragged on. My parents and Pappy and Gran listened and chuckled as one story led to another. Occasionally one of them would glance toward the backyard.

My mother finally became concerned and left the group to check on Stacy. A minute later there were voices, and Jimmy Dale bolted toward the outhouse. I buried myself deeper in the thicket.

It was almost dark when I entered the house. I’d been watching from a distance, from beyond the silo, and I knew my mother and Gran were preparing supper. I was in enough trouble-being late for a meal would have only compounded the situation.

They were seated, and Pappy was about to bless the food when I walked through the door from the back porch and quietly took my seat. They looked at me, but I chose instead to stare at my plate. Pappy said a quick prayer, and the food was passed around. After a silence sufficiently long enough to build tension, my father said, “Where you been, Luke?”

“Down by the creek,” I said.

“Doin’ what?”

“Nothin’. Just lookin’ around.”

This sounded suspicious enough, but they let it pass. When all was quiet, Pappy, with perfect timing and with the devil in his voice, said, “You see any shitsnakes at the creek?”

He barely got the words out before he cracked up.

I looked around the table. Gran’s jaws were clenched as if she were determined not to smile. My mother covered her mouth with her napkin, but her eyes betrayed her; she wanted to laugh, too. My father had a large bite of something in his mouth, and he managed to chew it while keeping a straight face.

But Pappy was determined to howl. He roared at the end of the table while the rest of them fought to maintain their composure. “That was a good one, Luke!” he managed to say while catching his breath. “Served her right.”

I finally laughed, too, but not at my own actions. The sight of Pappy laughing so hard while the other three so gamely tried not to struck me as funny.

“That’s enough, Eli,” Gran said, finally moving her jaws.

I took a large bite of peas and stared at my plate. Things grew quiet again, and we ate for a while with nothing said.

After dinner, my father took me for a walk to the tool shed. On its door he kept a wooden hickory stick, one that he’d cut himself and polished to a shine. It was reserved for me.

I’d been taught to take my punishment like a man. Crying was forbidden, at least openly. In these awful moments, Ricky always inspired me. I’d heard horror stories of the beatings Pappy had given him, and never, according to his parents and mine, had he been brought to tears. When Ricky was a kid, a whipping was a challenge.

“That was a mean thing you did to Stacy,” my father began. “She was a guest on our farm, and she’s married to your cousin.”

“Yes sir.”

“Why’d you do it?”

“ ‘Cause she said we were stupid and backward.” A little embellishment here wouldn’t hurt.

“She did?”

“Yes sir. I didn’t like her, neither did you or anybody else.”

“That may be true, but you still have to respect your elders. How many licks you think that’s worth?” The crime and the punishment were always discussed beforehand. When I bent over, I knew exactly how many licks I’d receive.

“One,” I said. That was my usual assessment.

“I think two,” he said. “Now what about the bad language?”

“I don’t think it was that bad,” I said.

“You used a word that was unacceptable.”