Past our house I could see, from my lofty position, the cotton trailer in the middle of a field and a few straw hats scattered about. I searched until I found the Mexicans, in the same general area as usual, and I thought of Cowboy out there, switchblade in his pocket, no doubt quite proud of his latest killing. I wondered if he’d told his pals about it. Probably not.

For a moment I was frightened because my mother was back behind us, alone. This didn’t make any sense, and I knew it, but most of my thoughts were irrational.

When I saw the tree line along the river, a new fear gripped me. I was suddenly afraid to see the bridge, the scene of the crime. Surely there were bloodstains, evidence that something awful had happened. Did the rain wash them away? Days often went by without a car or truck passing over the bridge. Had anyone seen Hank’s blood? There was a good chance the evidence would be gone.

Had there really been bloodshed? Or was it all a bad dream?

Nor did I want to see the river. The water moved slowly this time of the year, and Hank was such a large victim. Could he be ashore by now? Washed up on a gravel bar like a beached whale? I certainly didn’t want to be the one to find him.

Hank had been cut to pieces. Cowboy had the nearest switchblade and plenty of motive. It was a crime that even Stick Powers could solve.

I was the only eyewitness, but I’d already decided I would take it to my grave.

Otis shifted gears and turned around, no small feat with a road grader, as I was learning. I caught a glimpse of the bridge, but we were too far away to see much. The monkey grew weary of staring at me and shifted shoulders. He peeked at me around Otis’s head for a minute or so, then just sat there, perched like an owl, studying the road.

Oh, if Dewayne could see me now! He’d burn with envy. He’d be humiliated. He’d be so overcome with defeat that he wouldn’t speak to me for a long time. I couldn’t wait for Saturday. I’d spread the word along Main Street that I’d spent the day with Otis on the road grader-Otis and his monkey. Just one monkey, though, and I’d be forced to tell what happened to the other. And all those levers and controls that, from the ground, looked so thoroughly intimidating but in reality were no problem for me at all. I’d learned how to operate them! It would be one of my finest moments.

Otis stopped in front of our house. I climbed down and yelled, “Thank you!” but he was off without a nod or word of any sort.

I suddenly thought about the dead monkey, and I started crying. I didn’t want to cry, and I tried not to, but the tears were pouring out, and I couldn’t control myself. My mother came running from the house, asking what was wrong. I didn’t know what was wrong; I was just crying. I was scared and tired, almost faint again, and I just wanted everything to be normal, with the Mexicans and the Spruills out of our lives, with Ricky home, with the Latchers gone, with the nightmare of Hank erased from my memory. I was tired of secrets, tired of seeing things I was not supposed to see.

And so I just cried.

My mother held me tightly. When I realized she was frightened, I managed to tell her about the dead monkey.

“Did you see it?” she asked in horror.

I shook my head and kept explaining. We walked back to the porch and sat for a long time.

Hank’s departure was confirmed at some point during the day. Over supper my father said that Mr. Spruill had told him that Hank had left during the night. He was hitchhiking back to their home in Eureka Springs.

Hank was floating at the bottom of the St. Francis River, and when I thought about him down there with the channel catfish, I lost my appetite. The adults were watching me closer than usual. During the past twenty-four hours I’d fainted, had nightmares, cried several times, and, as far as they knew, gone for a long walk in my sleep. Something was wrong with me, and they were concerned.

“Wonder if he’ll make it home,” Gran said. This launched a round of stories about folks who’d disappeared. Pappy had a cousin who had been migrating with his family from Mississippi to Arkansas. They were traveling in two old trucks. They came to a railroad crossing. The first truck, the one driven by the cousin in question, crossed first. A train came roaring by, and the second truck waited for it to pass. It was a long train, and when it finally cleared, there was no sign of the first truck on the other side. The second truck crossed and came to a fork in the road. The cousin was never seen again, and that had been thirty years ago. No sign of him or the truck.

I’d heard this story many times. I knew Gran would go next, and sure enough, she told the tale about her mother’s father, a man who’d sired six kids then hopped on a train and fled to Texas. Someone in the family stumbled across him twenty years later. He had another wife and six more kids.

“You okay, Luke?” Pappy said when the eating was over. All of his gruffness was gone. They were telling stories for my benefit, trying to amuse me because I had them worried.

“Just tired, Pappy,” I said.

“You want to go to bed early?” my mother asked, and I nodded.

I went to Ricky’s room while they washed the dishes. My letter to him was now two pages long, a monumental effort. It was still in my writing tablet, hidden under the mattress, and it covered most of the Latcher conflict. I read it again and was quite pleased with myself. I toyed with the idea of telling Ricky about Cowboy and Hank, but decided to wait until he came home. By then the Mexicans would be gone, things would be safe again, and Ricky would know what to do.

I decided that the letter was ready to be mailed, then started worrying about how I might accomplish mailing it. We always sent our letters at the same time, often in the same large manila envelope. I decided that I’d consult with Mr. Lynch Thornton at the post office on Main Street.

My mother read me the story of Daniel in the lions’ den, one of my favorites. Once the weather broke and the nights became cool, we spent less time on the porch and more time reading before bed. My mother and I read, the others did not. She preferred Bible stories, and this suited me fine. She would read awhile, then explain things. Then read some more. There was a lesson in every story, and she made sure I understood each one. Nothing irritated me more than for Brother Akers to screw up the details in one of his long-winded sermons.

When I was ready for bed, I asked her if she would stay there, in Ricky’s bed with me, until I fell asleep.

“Of course I will,” she said.

After a day of rest, there was no way my father would tolerate further absence from the fields. He pulled me out of bed at five, and we went about our routine chores of gathering eggs and milk.

I knew I couldn’t continue to hide in the house with my mother, so I bravely went through the motions of getting ready to pick cotton. I’d have to face Cowboy at some point before he left. It was best to get it over with and to do it with plenty of folks around.

The Mexicans were walking to the fields, skipping the morning ride on the flatbed trailer. They could start picking a few minutes earlier, plus it kept them away from the Spruills. We left the house just before dawn. I held firm to Pappy’s seat on the tractor and watched my mother’s face slowly disappear in the kitchen window. I’d prayed long and hard the night before, and something told me she would be safe.

As we made our way along the field road, I studied the John Deere tractor. I’d spent hours on it, plowing, disking, planting, even hauling cotton to town with my father or Pappy, and its operation had always seemed sufficiently complex and challenging. Now, after thirty minutes on the road grader, with its puzzling array of levers and pedals, the tractor seemed quite simple. Pappy just sat there, hands on the wheel, feet still, half-asleep-while Otis had been a study in constant motion-another reason why I should grade roads and not farm if, of course, the baseball career did not work out, a most unlikely event.