Belle Prater's Boy Read Online Free Page A

say anything like that. He did not think of me as “just a girl” any more than I thought of him as a cross-eyed boy.

Four
    â€œ G ypsy,” Granny called from the front porch as we approached the house. “Just ’cause Woodrow’s here, don’t think you can get out of practicing your hour like always. And don’t forget you gotta unplait your hair and wash it before the party.”
    I groaned. It wasn’t the piano practice I minded, but when it came to washing my hair, I’d rather clean up vomit. It had to be done twice a week no matter what, and it took hours to dry. If that wasn’t enough, I had to brush it one hundred strokes every night to make it strong and shiny. After that Mama always rolled the ends for me on paper rollers, which I slept in. My hair was a great source of pride for her. She
would tell everybody how many inches long it was and how many years she had been growing it, like it was one of her prize azalea bushes or something. To even hint at cutting my hair could spoil her day.
    â€œWhat party?” Woodrow said. “And what are you practicing?”
    â€œOh, it’s Porter’s birthday,” I said. “We always have a big supper and a cake on everybody’s birthday.”
    â€œHot dog!” Woodrow said.
    â€œAnd I have to practice the piano an hour on Saturday and an hour on Sunday and a half hour on weekdays. I’ve been taking lessons from Granny since I was six years old. You know, she was a piano teacher for forty years, but I’m her only student now.”
    â€œHow can she teach with her bad hearing?” Woodrow said.
    â€œShe watches my hands when we’re having a lesson, and she can see a wrong note almost before I hit it. It seems as her hearing gets worse, her vision gets better.”
    As we reached the porch, Dawg greeted us. We sat down and petted her.
    â€œYou know, she played the piano,” Woodrow said softly.
    â€œShe who?” I said.
    â€œMama. Granny taught her, too. She played so pretty it made me want to cry.”

    â€œY’all didn’t have a piano in that li’l ol’ shack, didja?” I said, then bit my tongue. “I mean …”
    â€œNo,” Woodrow said, seeming not to notice my blunder. “Mama always wanted one. She played over at the church on Poplar Creek of a Sunday. Can Aunt Love play?”
    â€œNo,” I said. “She never could get the hang of it. Granny told me that Mama tried her best to learn, but she was so bad when she started practicing, the dogs would leave home.”
    We giggled.
    I did my duty that afternoon, and about 7:00 p.m. we all settled down to supper in Granny’s dining room.
    There sat Mama looking like royalty, with Porter beside her, his arm draped across the back of her chair. Porter’s brother, Hubert Dotson, the town doctor—we called him Doc Dot—was there with his wife, Irene, and two little twin girls, Dottie and DeeDee Dotson. Woodrow started giggling when he heard their names, so I whispered to him, “That’s not the worst of it. Porter and Doc Dot’s daddy was named Bobby Robert Dotson.”
    I thought Woodrow was going to have to leave the table when I said that.
    â€œWhat are you two young’uns giggling about?” Grandpa said.

    He was standing at the head of the table fixing to carve the pork roast. When I looked up at him with his thinning hair and wire-rimmed specs, it struck me how much he favored Harry Truman.
    â€œNothing,” I managed to say.
    â€œNothing?” Porter said. “Well, nothing seems to be mighty funny.”
    Everybody looked at us, but nobody was mad. They were smiling and in a good mood, and glad to see Woodrow having fun.
    â€œWell now, Mother, is that a bottle of your homemade blackberry wine I see there on the sideboard?” Porter shouted to Granny.
    â€œOh Lordy, yes, I nearly forgot,” Granny said, and fetched the bottle