by Tony Earley
“We shouldn’t have left her by herself all this time,” said Uncle Al. “One of us should’ve stayed home.”
Through the distance the light seemed to flicker, as if struggling to remain lit against the great emptiness around it. Jim closed his eyes. Mama stood on the porch, staring up at the mountain, wondering where he was. She sat down in the snow in front of the tenant house. Penn’s fingers uncurled and the baseball dropped into the grass. His grandfather stared past him with milky blue eyes. Ada and Rehobeth followed Uncle Coran and Uncle Al to the truck, chewing on their lower lips. Whitey gave him a baseball; he threw it and hit Penn in the back. Abraham handed him a piece of apple. His father walked toward him across a cotton field; he dropped his hoe, took another step, and fell onto the ground.
When Jim opened his eyes, he saw Uncle Zeno’s face swimming inches from his own. Uncle Al and Uncle Coran knelt on either side of him.
“Hey, hey, shh,” Uncle Zeno said. “What’s the matter?”
Jim waved an arm out at the world beyond the end of the mountain.
Uncle Zeno frowned and shook his head.
“It’s too big,” Jim said.
“What is?”
“Everything.”
“I don’t understand, Doc.”
“I’m just a boy,” he said.
Uncle Zeno rocked back on his heels. He looked at Uncle Coran and Uncle Al, then smiled at Jim.
“We know that,” he said. “But you’re our boy.”
