Clay's Quilt Read Online Free
Author: Silas House
the spirits alone, telling no one of their company. When she was a child, they would come walking toward her in the corn. She caught glimpses of them dancing in the treetops. She had been forewarned of floods, deaths, births, and had never told anyone outright. Still, little hints proved to people that she had the sight, and they all respected her for it without mentioning it to her face.
Easter had been expecting Anneth lately. She hadnât come in a while, and Easter thought that it was about time.
⢠⢠â¢
A S C LAY SPED down the crooked highway toward Free Creek, it was like he was driving back in time. If there had been mile markers on the side of the road, they would have clicked off the years instead of the miles: 1994 ⦠1982 ⦠1974. He slowed, turned right, and pulled down into Free Creek. He sang along with Dwight Yoakam and tried not to pay attention to the homesickness swirling around in his belly. He smashed out his cigarette in the full ashtray and sprayed a little cologne onto his neck so that Easter wouldnât be able to smell the tobacco. The truck bucked like a wild horse as it bounced across the old bridge set up on the huge boulders that lined the creek.
Free Creek was a narrow holler, really nothing more than an etched, packed-dirt road with a shallow white-water creek on one side and a row of houses on the other. On each side rose a great mountain, so steep and tall that when someone stood in the middle of the holler, they couldnât see to the top of either one. There were only about fifteen houses up there, and everybody knew everybody else. When Clay was little, newscasters boasted that the War on Poverty was being waged in those very mountains, but if the government had fought any battles close to Free Creek, no one in the holler heard the guns.
Clay drove slowly down the holler, silent in summer heat, and looked on Free Creek like it was a picture. When he thought about Free Creek, he always thought of long, cool evenings when you could hear the silver sound of men playing horseshoes and the redundant bounce of the boys playing basketball down on the road. The women hung out clothes, swatted children on the hind end, canned kraut in the shade. People worked in their gardens until dusk, played rummy on the porch, shouted out that supper was ready. The men worked all day and often came in drunk. The women sometimes threw their husbandâs clothesinto the yard. There might be a fistfight or the firing of a pistol into the mountainside.
Nobody was out this evening, though. Clay cruised by the houses sitting close to the road, which were sealed up tight against the summer evening. It was supper time, and nobody was outside. Far up on the mountain, two trailers sat side by side with all the windows open and box fans in their open doorways. That was how every house had survived when Clay was little, but now almost everybody had an air conditioner.
He pulled into Easterâs short driveway, which was actually two sandy ditches amid the sparse grass. The house was built on the last little slope of the mountain, so that in a hard rain all the gravel washed out to the road. He sat in his truck for a long moment, studying the little house.
WMTG was blasting out of the radio sitting above the sink when he went in the back door. The Mosley Family was singing âMeeting in the Airâ and Easter was singing along as loud as she could, patting her foot, and washing dishes. It was a fast gospel song, and she moved her hips around to the beat. He watched her, then surveyed the kitchen. The stove was crowded with steaming cookers and skillets.
He couldnât come to this house without remembering his motherâs wake and funeral. There had been plenty of food then, too. Hams had been carved, potato salad and fried corn had been dipped out. There had been chicken dumplings and baked beans that were served warm, pork chops and fried chicken that were eaten cold and
Easter had been expecting Anneth lately. She hadnât come in a while, and Easter thought that it was about time.
⢠⢠â¢
A S C LAY SPED down the crooked highway toward Free Creek, it was like he was driving back in time. If there had been mile markers on the side of the road, they would have clicked off the years instead of the miles: 1994 ⦠1982 ⦠1974. He slowed, turned right, and pulled down into Free Creek. He sang along with Dwight Yoakam and tried not to pay attention to the homesickness swirling around in his belly. He smashed out his cigarette in the full ashtray and sprayed a little cologne onto his neck so that Easter wouldnât be able to smell the tobacco. The truck bucked like a wild horse as it bounced across the old bridge set up on the huge boulders that lined the creek.
Free Creek was a narrow holler, really nothing more than an etched, packed-dirt road with a shallow white-water creek on one side and a row of houses on the other. On each side rose a great mountain, so steep and tall that when someone stood in the middle of the holler, they couldnât see to the top of either one. There were only about fifteen houses up there, and everybody knew everybody else. When Clay was little, newscasters boasted that the War on Poverty was being waged in those very mountains, but if the government had fought any battles close to Free Creek, no one in the holler heard the guns.
Clay drove slowly down the holler, silent in summer heat, and looked on Free Creek like it was a picture. When he thought about Free Creek, he always thought of long, cool evenings when you could hear the silver sound of men playing horseshoes and the redundant bounce of the boys playing basketball down on the road. The women hung out clothes, swatted children on the hind end, canned kraut in the shade. People worked in their gardens until dusk, played rummy on the porch, shouted out that supper was ready. The men worked all day and often came in drunk. The women sometimes threw their husbandâs clothesinto the yard. There might be a fistfight or the firing of a pistol into the mountainside.
Nobody was out this evening, though. Clay cruised by the houses sitting close to the road, which were sealed up tight against the summer evening. It was supper time, and nobody was outside. Far up on the mountain, two trailers sat side by side with all the windows open and box fans in their open doorways. That was how every house had survived when Clay was little, but now almost everybody had an air conditioner.
He pulled into Easterâs short driveway, which was actually two sandy ditches amid the sparse grass. The house was built on the last little slope of the mountain, so that in a hard rain all the gravel washed out to the road. He sat in his truck for a long moment, studying the little house.
WMTG was blasting out of the radio sitting above the sink when he went in the back door. The Mosley Family was singing âMeeting in the Airâ and Easter was singing along as loud as she could, patting her foot, and washing dishes. It was a fast gospel song, and she moved her hips around to the beat. He watched her, then surveyed the kitchen. The stove was crowded with steaming cookers and skillets.
He couldnât come to this house without remembering his motherâs wake and funeral. There had been plenty of food then, too. Hams had been carved, potato salad and fried corn had been dipped out. There had been chicken dumplings and baked beans that were served warm, pork chops and fried chicken that were eaten cold and
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