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Momma deserved better than that. If there was anything she wanted, it was to have a man who was as upstanding as her daddy was. Momma came from good people who worked hard for a living and held their heads high when they went out in public. Only thing was, her family lived in China Grove, and she didn't see them much. Maybe she would have, if Pop was different, but they didn't have much use for him.

Back home, I told Granddaddy that Pop had died. It was the wee hours of the morning when I came in, and I knew he was awake on account of the grunting sounds he was making. “Axel's dead,” I told him. The grunting stopped. All I could hear was rain on the roof. “They found him by the side of the road. But he wasn't hit by a car or nothing like that.”

It was quiet for a long time and then Granddaddy spoke up. “The Yankees won,” he said. “DiMaggio got two hits.” Next thing I knew, he was snoring and I was on the floor wide awake with a childish song running through my head.
It's raining, it's pouring, the old man is snoring
.

He didn't even care.

Maybe the two of them really couldn't live in the same house and Pop just let Granddaddy crowd him out. Was it possible for a person to choose when to die? Was that what Pop had done?

I felt like crying. Maybe it was because Granddaddy didn't act the least bit sad that Pop was gone. What would that be like—to die and not have your own father give a hoot?

I could've cried for myself, too. It wasn't like me and Pop were connected the way Ann Fay and Leroy were. But I always wanted us to be. Mostly, I wanted the kind of family they had. Leroy carried his lunch bucket off to work every day and came home at the end of the week with real wages that his family could count on.

I never had any reason for believing such a thing could happen to us, but that hadn't stopped me from dreaming. I kept hoping Pop would turn himself around and become the kind of man that people didn't whisper about behind his back. Now I knew for sure it would never happen. As a matter of fact, he'd just given them one more thing to shake their heads over and pity me and Momma for.

When I pulled the pillow over my head and stuffed my face into my featherbed, I wasn't crying for what me and Momma had just lost. I cried for what we never had in the first place.

July 1941

His heart gave out. That's what we told everybody. And it was true. But I could tell from the looks on people's faces that they knew there was more to the story. I went to the Hinkle sisters' house and called Momma's people in China Grove so they would know that Pop was gone. When they showed up—Uncle Tag and Granny and Gramps and the rest of them—they kept asking questions about his whereabouts that night.

We didn't have any answers about what he did after he took the Hinkle sisters' car back. He must've hitched a ride to Peewee Hudson's sweet potato house on Hog Hill. There was sure to be card playing and drinking going on in the back room.

But why did Pop start out walking toward home? That's what I wanted to know. Pop didn't mind a light rain, but it wasn't like him to walk the roads in a downpour. And couldn't he have caught a ride with somebody?

In his funeral sermon, Reverend Price told everybody how Pop was a regular church attender—except when he was sick. Momma twitched when he said that. She was probably thinking about all those times she shook the reverend's hand on the way out of church and explained to him that Pop was not feeling well. Again.

Beside me, Uncle Tag cleared his throat. I knew exactly what he was thinking. My mind went back to the day I turned eleven years old. Momma had cooked a big birthday dinner and invited the neighbors and her relatives. Pop had made a table from boards laid across sawbucks. But he climbed onto Grover and rode off, saying he had a surprise to pick up for me. He didn't come back in time for dinner. So, finally, after it was already cold, Momma started without him.

Eventually he came. We heard him before we saw him. He was singing “Happy Birthday,” but the words sounded slow and mushy. When he climbed down from Grover he landed on his backside. I think everybody gasped or let out some kind of holler. That's how I remember it anyway, like a chorus of worry that gushed out of them. Leroy ran to him, and with his help, Pop staggered into the house, singing “
Happy birthday, dear Junior
.” In that mushy voice.

I still remember Momma standing there with both hands over her mouth, tears splashing onto her fingers and running down her arms. It was the first time either of
us saw Pop drunk. But there were many more. Somehow, I knew it had something to do with my birthday. It was my fault. It had to be.

The coroner said that Pop's death was the result of his heavy drinking. But the reverend didn't mention a word about Pop's drinking habit. “Axel Bledsoe had a heart as big as Bakers Mountain,” he said. A whole bunch of
amen
s rose up out of the congregation. All of a sudden Pop had turned into a saint instead of someone the deacons were constantly trying to pull back onto the straight and narrow. I saw Peggy Sue Rhinehart's mother dabbing at her eyes. Even Momma's family was acting weepy. But maybe they were all just worried about her.

Momma herself didn't cry once during the funeral. And it wasn't because she didn't care. I knew how she hankered after him when he wasn't home and how she fixed him pecan pies because they were his favorite.

I didn't cry either, but I cared. Of course I did. He was my pop, even if other people wouldn't want him for theirs. After all the hunting in the woods and fixing cars under the oak tree, how could he just die and not be there anymore?

When the service was over, we followed the coffin down the aisle. There, at the last pew, was one of Pop's sisters, waiting for us. Aunt Lucille took Momma's arm and walked with us out of the church. She was headed toward the graveyard too, until her heels started sinking into the soft ground. Then she stopped. “I can't stay,” she
said. “But I wanted to pay my respects and tell you how sorry I am.”

Momma nodded. “Will you be by to see your daddy?”

Aunt Lucille looked off toward the trees behind the graveyard. “It figures—he couldn't come to his own son's funeral. No, I have to get back to my family.”

“Where's Lillian?”

Aunt Lucille shrugged her broad shoulders. “Am I my sister's keeper?”

Momma let out a big sigh. “I guess not. But what about Hammer? We'll need help with him, now that Axel's gone.”

You would think, from the way Aunt Lucille turned and walked away, that Momma hadn't just mentioned Granddaddy. It was like all of a sudden Lucille was deaf as a dipstick. She hurried back to Uncle James's 1936 Ford. I noticed James was in the driver's seat, waiting on her. And my cousins were climbing in a tree in the churchyard. It seemed like someone had to die for me to realize Pop had a family. And even then I could barely tell. Who knew if we'd ever see them again?

After Pop was in the ground, people came up to Momma and bragged on him. “Axel helped me bring the hay in before that first big rain,” said Garland Abernethy.

Jerry Jones took Momma's hand. “Axel fixed the brakes on my truck. And he didn't charge me one red cent.”

“No, of course not,” said Momma. “He wouldn't.”

She was right. Pop was bighearted that way. But wouldn't it have been neighborly for Jerry to offer a red cent or two? Didn't he think our family needed to pay bills? At least, when Pop worked for Garland, he'd get paid in hay or animal feed.

My old fishing buddy Calvin Settlemyre dragged himself over to the graveside. I could tell from the hang of his head that he didn't want to be there. “It's real sad about your pop,” he said.

As if I didn't know that already. I just nodded. “Thanks for coming.”

He turned away then and went back to the other boys our age who were catching some shade under a maple tree. It seemed like they'd decided to let him do the talking. A couple of them glanced in my direction but turned away when they saw me looking.

It didn't matter that much. They were mostly my Sunday-morning pals. Calvin was the only one of them I saw outside of church and school. And who knew if Ralph Settlemyre would ever take me fishing with him and Calvin again?

Myrtle Honeycutt stepped up then. “Bessie, we want you and Junior to come over for supper, if you will. Miss Pauline and Miss Dinah are coming too.”

The Hinkle sisters were planning to drive us since Momma's people had to get back to China Grove. Me and Momma headed for the car with Miss Pauline and Miss Dinah. But Lottie Scronce stopped us. She grabbed
Momma's arm. “Nobody,” she said, “and I mean nobody, can sing ‘Amazing Grace' the way your husband could. I sure will miss his singing.”

I should've been glad people were reminding us of Pop's good points. But it seemed like they were trying hard to keep from saying what was on their minds—that when Pop died, he'd been out drinking.

Lottie turned away then, and I opened the car door for Momma. We settled into the back seat.

“Bessie,” said Miss Dinah, “we're real thankful Axel fixed our car. Of course we insisted on paying him for his kindness, but we should have given the money to you instead.”

Miss Pauline, who was driving, took her eyes off the road long enough to give Dinah one of her schoolteacher looks. I could tell she didn't like her sister bringing this up. But Dinah kept right on talking. “If we hadn't given him the money, maybe he'd have gone straight home that night.”

It didn't take Momma two seconds to come back at Miss Dinah on that one. “Axel's death is not your fault,” she said. “Seemed like the minute he had a few dollars in his pocket, he had to go over to Hog Hill and turn it into something bigger. Thing is, he never won at poker. Or if he did, he'd swap his winnings for Wayne Walker's corn liquor. And that's what killed him.”

We got to the Honeycutts' then. Ann Fay was walking the front porch with baby Bobby up against her shoulder,
patting him on the back. The twins were both sitting in the same rocker, watching for us. They jumped down and raced to the screen door to holler that we were there now. Leroy met us at the door.

There was food on the Hoosier cupboard and the cook stove too—roast chicken, potato salad, garden vegetables, pickles, and blackberry cobbler. We dished up our food and sat down to eat. The twins jabbered about this and that, and every now and again one of the grownups attempted to start up a conversation.

Miss Dinah tried to take our minds off Pop and the funeral. “Did you hear that Pauline retired? I can hardly believe she has finally extricated herself from teaching.”

That sure did catch me by surprise. “You mean Miss Pauline won't be my teacher?”

“She heard you were coming,” said Miss Dinah, “and decided to quit.”

“Dinah!” said Miss Pauline. “I did no such thing. I wouldn't expect Junior to cause me a minute of trouble.” She was embarrassed, I could tell. Truth was, I was glad she was retiring. I liked Miss Pauline fine, but it just wouldn't feel right to have my neighbor lady for my teacher.

When it was time to go, Myrtle sent the leftover food home with Momma. And when the Hinkle sisters dropped us off at our house, Miss Pauline pulled some money out of her purse and pushed it into Momma's
hand. “This is what we paid Axel for the car repairs. It was intended to reach you, and I'm sure you can use it.”

Momma shook her head, and the two of them went back and forth about who should have that ten-dollar bill. But Miss Pauline won the argument. Seemed like the neighbors were bent on taking care of us. I guessed everybody pitied us now. Or maybe they always had.

July 1941

A few days after we buried Pop, Leroy stopped by on his way home from work. “Do you or Bessie need anything? How're you doing, Junior?”

I shrugged. What was I supposed to say?
I'm mad because Pop is dead? I want to go sit on his grave and cuss at him the way he'd cuss at his father?

It was better to change the subject. “Sounds like your truck still needs a tune-up.”

He nodded. “Haven't had the time.”

“I could fix that. I owe it to you. For looking after us the way you do.”

Leroy squinted like he didn't think I could do such a thing without Pop's help.

“I've been watching him for years,” I said, “memorizing every move he made.”

Leroy nodded again. “I bet you have. All right, then. Come on down Saturday morning. Bring your pop's tools.”

When I thought about working at Leroy's house, I
pictured his young'uns getting underfoot. “Or you could bring the truck here,” I told him. “It'd be quieter.”

Leroy looked up into the leaves of the big oak tree. Maybe he knew I'd do better work right there where I had learned from Pop. “That sounds fine. I'll come here.”

On Saturday morning I'd just come back from milking Eleanor when I saw Leroy's truck pulling into the lane. And, dad gum, if Leroy didn't have Ann Fay with him! He drove past the house and parked under the oak.

“Morning, Leroy. I'll be with you just as soon as I strain this milk.”

“Okey-doke. I'll go say hello to your momma.” Leroy knocked on the back door and went on inside. Ann Fay hung around on the porch.

“Can I strain the milk?”

“No.” I had half a notion to tell her to run home and help her momma if she wanted work to do.

“Why not?”

“Because. It's my job.”

“Well, you could share it. I can do stuff, you know.”

“Not this stuff.” I put the cheesecloth over a gallon jug and tied a string around the mouth of the jar to hold it on. Then I poured the milk through. “Momma won't like it if she finds cow hairs or dirt in the milk.”

Ann Fay folded her arms across her chest and turned and pouted her way to the steps. Jesse and Butch crowded up around her. Good. Maybe they'd keep her busy while me and Leroy worked.