Seeing Red
Authors: Kathryn Erskine
ABOUT THIS BOOK
Red Porter knows the difference between right and wrong, black and white. But he also knows that for folk in his hometown, Stony Gap, this isn’t always clear.
When Red’s daddy dies, he’s left with his younger brother, his mama, and some hard decisions. As their money dwindles, Red does everything he can to keep the family repair shop afloat. But when he uncovers some of the racial injustices that have been happening in Stony Gap since before he was born, Red is faced with unsettling questions about the legacy behind his family’s shop…
With the help of a few unlikely characters, however, Red realizes that while he can’t fix the past, he can still change the future and stand up for those who need him most.
Seeing Red
is a powerful and thought-provoking story of family, friendship and race relations set in the deep South, from the award-winning author of
Mockingbird
.
“This is an important book that deserves the widest possible readership.”
Booklist
“This wonderful story offers lots to think about.”
The Bookseller
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Why Don’t You Paint Miss Georgia’s?
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
For more information, check out Usborne Quicklinks
CHAPTER ONE
The Sign
Folks don’t understand this unless it happens to them: When your daddy dies, everything changes. He’s not around any more to teach you how to drive a truck when Mama isn’t looking, or tell you man stuff that J isn’t old enough to hear, or listen to you holler when you’re mad, and say, “I hear ya, son,” while he lets you figure out what you’re going to do about it.
Even if your brother is seven years old, he goes back to being a baby and acting more annoying than usual. Your mama turns into some kind of zombie, walking around aimlessly, in between fits of crying. And you want to cry, too, except you’re the man of the house now and you know your daddy said he could always count on you, so you can’t let him down.
PORTER’S: WE FIX IT RIGHT!
That’s what the sign above our car repair shop says. It was the truth, too. Daddy said us Porters had been taking care of vehicles around Stony Gap ever since cars were born. That’s how come our street is called Porter’s Shop Road. Daddy could tune an engine, fix a flat, smooth your dents, jump your battery – he even managed to keep Miss Georgia’s Rambler running, and that sickly old thing was held together with spit and prayers. I didn’t know how anything could get fixed right again, now that Daddy was gone. Why couldn’t the doctors fix him? How hard could it be to jump-start a heart?
I closed the shop door behind me and pushed the hair off my sweaty forehead. “It sure is a hot one, isn’t it, Daddy?” Inside the shop I could talk to him out loud and nobody heard me. Not that there was anything wrong with talking to him. Heck, Miss Georgia still spoke to her husband and he died about thirty years ago.
I walked up the stairs in the back where Daddy had his office, taking in a deep breath of everything I loved. The shop was oil and gas and paint and dirt. It was brake pads, hoses, filters, and about any kind of tool you’d ever need to fix a car or truck. It was Lava soap, old rags, and a sink with a tap you could turn on with just your elbow. It was the last place I saw Daddy.
I sat down in the swivel chair at my great- great-grandaddy Porter’s rolltop desk. Old Man Porter built our house, repair shop, and convenience store way back over a hundred years ago. Daddy called it the “holy trinity” because with the house and store on the road, and the repair shop in the middle behind them, the buildings made a triangle. “Don’t worry, Daddy,” I said, “I’m going to take care of this place. You know you can count on me.”
At the back of the desk was a brass plate screwed into the centre drawer:
FREDERICK STEWART PORTER
. I was named after my great-great-grandaddy, even though everyone just called me Red. I’d inherited his red hair, too. Daddy always said I’d inherit his desk because “it has your name written all over it”.
A shotgun went off across the creek, and I jumped. “It’s Mr Dunlop,” I said, “after those raccoons again.” As if Daddy wouldn’t know. I wanted to close the window and block out Mr Dunlop’s hollering even if the August heat killed me. But I sat back down when I heard Beau’s voice rising from the What-U-Want – our convenience store, singing that hymn
Rock of Ages
. It was good to hear some singing coming from the What-U-Want, even if it left a lump in my throat. Daddy used to sing there all the time. And he used to sing to drown out Mr Dunlop, just like Beau was trying to do.
Sometimes when we heard Mr Dunlop swearing at his family, Daddy would pull a lock of hair over his forehead so he’d look like a rock singer and strut over to the food shelves. He’d wink at me, pick up a can of beans like it was a microphone, and belt out that Aretha Franklin song. Moving his hips like they belonged to Elvis Presley, he’d dance to the back door, throw it open, yelling, “What-U-Want…huh…huh…” and sing about wanting a little respect, spelling out the word loud enough to zing all the way past Mr Dunlop’s shed, the Confederate flag on his front porch, and right into his ignorant head. The Dunlops were a whole line of bad blood, and we’d hated them since for ever. Except for Rosie, of course. It was hard to believe she was a Dunlop. Everyone loved Rosie as much as they hated her daddy. Like Miss Georgia said, “That girl is so full of love, even her face is shaped like a heart.”
I heard a car crunch onto the gravel between the house and the shop, and I sat up straight. Me and Daddy always tried to guess the type of car by the sound it made. He called me the Boy Wonder of Cars because I have a knack for understanding them. I guess it’s in our blood. I listened to the car door as it opened and slammed shut. It wasn’t as heavy as a pickup. It wasn’t a high-performance car like a Corvette, either. “What’s your guess?” I asked Daddy.
The kitchen screen door whined open, and Mama’s voice gave a shaky hello. After that she called, “Red? I need to talk to you, honey!”
She probably needed help fixing some mess J made. That kid was like a tornado, running wild, causing havoc, and leaving everyone feeling bad. I took in a giant whiff of Goodyear tyres as I walked down the steps from the office and headed for the door. Before I opened it, though, I told Daddy what kind of car I thought was outside. “Late model four-door sedan, V-8 engine.” I scrunched my face up to think real hard. “Chrysler or Chevy.”
When I opened the door, dust was still settling from Mr Harrison’s ’71 Chrysler 300. “Yes!” I couldn’t help smiling because Daddy would be proud.
Mama waved at me and opened her mouth to speak, but Mr Harrison said, “I know you want to get to Ohio as soon as possible, Betty, so I’ll get to work right away.”
Ohio? What was he talking about? We hadn’t been to visit Mama’s family in years. Besides, they’d come to the funeral not two months ago. And with only me and Beau to run the shop and the store, it seemed like a funny time to go on vacation.
The screen door banged open and J screamed, “Ma-
maaaa
!” even though she was standing right there at the bottom of the steps. “The TV’s all fuzzy and I cain’t see a thing! I wanna watch
The Flintstones
!” He was half naked, wearing only his green briefs, and he leaned his head so far back, bawling, that his curly black hair touched his bare shoulders.
“It’s all right, baby, I’m coming!” Mama looked at Mr Harrison, then me, and said, “Just give me a minute.” I wasn’t sure which one of us she was talking to, and she ran up the steps and into the house, her wrinkled black dress disappearing behind the screen door.
Mr Harrison puffed his fat stomach out and looked everywhere but at me. It was like I had some disease and grown-ups didn’t know what to say or do around me. So I looked at his car. He could afford a new one every other year seeing as how he was both a real-estate agent and an insurance agent. He had what Daddy called a “healthy business”, which is a polite way of saying he was rolling in dough. Daddy said there were only two things slimier than Mr Harrison: a leaky oil pan and a big-city lawyer.
