Page 168 of Everything Under the Sun

Atticus braced his hands on the ground and heaved himself out of the hole.

“I could use a glass of water,” he said, lightheartedly, slapping the dirt from the palms of his hands; his palms were blistered and bleeding.

“Jeffrey,” Esra called out, “go up a get the man some water.” He pointed a long, gnarled finger toward the treehouse. “Bring a whole gallon—I could use some m’self.”

“No, I stay here,” Jeffrey argued, crossing his arms petulantly. “He might hurt Thais. I stay here, Grandpa.”

(I lowered my head, and my shoulders fell. I would never hurt her…)

“No, it’s okay,” I insisted. “He’s not going to hurt anybody, Jeffrey. I promise. Please go get some water, all right?”

Jeffrey’s eyes moved between Atticus and me in contemplation, and then he took off toward the treehouse.

“Better resolve them issues,” Esra warned, as Atticus took a seat on the ground beside him.

I began to dig, but I kept my ears open to what was going on with Atticus.

“We all have issues to resolve,” Atticus said; he stripped off his sweat-soaked shirt and wiped his face with it. “I don’t suppose mine are any worse than yours or anyone else’s.”

“Maybe not,” Esra said, “but how bad mine or anyone else’s are really ain’t got no bearing on your own. Mine cain’t really affect ya. But yours can kill ya if ya let ‘em.”

Atticus dropped his soiled shirt on the ground. He sat with his forearms propped on his knees, his body hunched over.

“I know,” he told Esra, his voice distant.

The almost-silence stretched between us, the only sounds were the shovel stabbing the earth, the shuffling of dirt onto the spade, the dirt falling onto a sizeable mound. How could he have dug so much in such a short time? I was beside myself; I had only been digging less than a minute and already I hated it.

Jeffrey came running back with a gallon milk jug of not-so-clear water. We all drank until the jug emptied.

“How’d you manage to cut the wood so precisely for the casket?” Atticus asked Esra.

“’Lectric saw.”

I noticed Atticus’ interest grow.

“I got a solar panel on the roof.” Esra pointed toward the treehouse again. “Only use it when I really need it.”

Atticus nodded.

“Ya need to borrow it for that canoe yer makin’?” Esra offered.

“It’s not a canoe, Grandpa—it’s a rowboat.”

No one corrected Jeffrey.

Atticus shook his head at Esra. “Nah; I’m making a dugout—no straight-cut pieces needed, but I appreciate the offer.”

“Won’t that take a while?” said Esra.

“Yeah,” Atticus said, “but I like the work.”

“Good distraction, ain’t it?”

“It is. But I just like doing it.” Then he glanced at me and smiled. “Got all the distraction I need,” he added.

I continued to dig, felt a blush warm my face.

“Y’know,” Esra said, “I don’t really miss ‘lectricity so much—never really did. Me and my June, we had this decent little house on a hill before thangs went to shit, and we didn’t never have no fancy air conditioner. We just opened the windows most of the time, ‘cept when it got real hot, and then we’d blow ‘dem fans—used ‘lectricity fer the fans but that was it. Heated the house with a wood stove in the winter; my June cooked on gas and we ain’t never had no use fer a microwave”—his weathered old face scrunched up with disapproval—“Dem damn things were made fer lazy people. Besides, I ain’t never ate nothin’ that came out of a microwave that didn’t taste like rubbery shit.”

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