Rock Island Line by David Rhodes (i am reading a book TXT) 📕

involved in some family affair—some squabble over who gets what. I’ve seen too much of it myself.”

“It isn’t. I wouldn’t have anything to do with something like that. Besides, there’s nobody really to contest—The cottonwoods are down!” he cried as the van came up over the rise that brought the little cluster of houses into view.

“How long you been away?” asked the man.

“Twelve years,” said Mal.

“The bird feeders are gone, the walnut’s gone. The house was never repainted.”

They pulled up and the van stopped. “Here you go,” the man said. “Good luck.” He let them out and drove on. Five men stepped out of the garage and stared at them. Both the side door and the front door were open and someone was welding inside with a loud pzzzz. July stood still and looked around.

Mal took hold of his arm and whispered under the inquisitive eyes of the men: “July, what are we going to do now? Somebody lives there.”

His parents’ house did look occupied.

“Don’t worry. Everything’ll be all right. Just because some of the things are different doesn’t really mean anything. . . . The garage is open. Come on, let’s go talk to them first.”

“No, let’s don’t go over there.”

“Sure, come on. They’ll be friendly. They’re just a little shy.”

“They don’t look shy to me. They’re staring!”

“Come on.” And July marched over to the garage with Mal walking gingerly behind him.

“Hello there,” he said.

“Hello,” said one of the men dryly, talking for them all. The man using the arc welder stopped and cocked back his hood.

“My name’s July Montgomery.” Recognition jumped into the faces of three of them, but before they could respond he went on, “My father, John Montgomery, used to own this, and the house across the street. Do you by any chance know who’s living there now?”

“You’re July Montgomery?”

“Yes.”

“What’d he say?” asked an old man who couldn’t hear very well, stooping over insistently.

“He said his name’s July Montgomery,” the man next to him shouted in his ear.

The old face wrinkled in thought, the brows knit together; then a toothless smile opened on his face and he turned his blue eyes on July in pure delight. “July, July Montgomery! You’re the grandson of Della and Wilson.”

“That’s right,” said July, then added, “That’s right.”

“You’re John’s boy, the one who run away.”

July nodded.

“And now you’re back. Ho ho,” he laughed. “And now you’re back. You’re John’s boy and now you’re back. Ain’t that something, Glen?” he said, turning to the man with the black hood above his head, and without any sense of what’s proper and polite, which had disappeared with his hearing, went on, “That’sJuly Montgomery. That’s prob’ly his welder you got there. This whole buildin’ prob’ly belongs to him. Ain’t that somethin! Old Frunt says you was dead. Your uncle he is, ain’t he? But the relation ain’t through him, is it? It’s through her.”

July nodded. “Who lives across the street?”

“Well, I guess he does,” spoke up one of the men in overalls, happy to have a part in the conversation. “Perry Frunt . . . and the missus. Lived there for years.”

“Well, good,” said July. “I was afraid there might be someone I didn’t know,” and turning toward Mal, added, “See, I told you everything’d be all right. Say, can we get some pop out of the machine?”

“Sure,” said Glen, still holding the brazing iron; and, managing to get July a little away from the rest while making change for a dollar, said in nearly a whisper, “Say, you know Frunt sold all this to me, and a dear price he had’ave too. I tole ’im it wasn’t worth it all quite—that ‘e had my back up agin the wall what with my shop in Kalona being closed down and out a work. On good faith ‘e sold to me. I got the receipt in the house if you ever—”

July shook his head. He’d come back to regain himself, not to repossess. “I’m glad someone I know lives in the house. I was afraid there might be strangers there.”

The man took the hood from his head and nudged him with it in a gesture of extended friendship and said in a between-you-and -me tone of voice: “I’d say you might be better off if it was strangers. If it wasn’t for the nature of your aunt, that house’d be viewed sourly by everyone who goes past it. You’ll not be expectin’ to get much out a that fellow.”

July moved with the two root beers over to rescue Mal from the unrelenting eyes of the farmers.

“Do you suppose my uncle’s home now?” he asked.

“What’s that? What did he say?”

“He wondered if his uncle would be home now!”

“Wondered if he’d be home! I’d say he gets more use out a that house than any man alive. Never comes outside a it evento mow the lawn. Sets his wife to doin’ that along with workin’ for ’im. No, if he ain’t in there and most likely swillin’ from a quart bottle of beer, he’s out to the tavern in Hills, lookin’ for someone’d buy that old Ford a your dad’s offen him—thinkin’ it’d be worth twice what it is.”

“Well, we better be getting over there,” July said to Mal. “Can we bring these bottles back later?”

“Sure,” said Glen.

The two crossed the road. Back at the garage, July heard the old man cackle. “Ain’t quite as big as ’is pa, is he? But golly, wouldn’t it be right for old Wilson to be here—he’d know what to make of ’im. He’d always judge a fella right down where they was from. A person’d wonder how anybody’d get along livin’ on his own, I mean that young, without, well . . . you know.”

“They’re hateful,” said Mal.

“No they’re not. There used to be a bird feeder right here”—he pointed to a place in the lawn—“on a thin metal pole the squirrels couldn’t climb up.” They looked into the unpainted shed where the old Ford stood outfitted with twelve years of