A Thousand Never Evers Read Online Free Page A

been down on our lane. No matter how many times Uncle Bump complains, no one comes to put them back up.
    While the sheriff and the mayor yuk it up good, Uncle Bump rests his bulky arm round my shoulders and draws me toward him. Tears burn under my lids. But I’ll tell you one thing: I’m not going to let them see me cry. I’m not! I’ll save that television set for sometime soon. Sometime soon when we get our electricity back.
    “I’ve got to get going, so listen up,” the lawyer says. The sheriff and the mayor swallow their chuckles.
    The lawyer picks up the papers. Then he clears his throat and reads, “‘I hereby bequeath my furniture, my books, and the remaining contents of my home to my alma mater, Ole Miss.’”
    The lawyer reads on: “‘The house itself will be used as a gathering spot for the people of Kuckachoo. I expect the annual Christmas party to carry on without me.’”
    The sheriff and the mayor are whomper-jawed! The old man didn’t leave the house to either one of them! Now they’re desperate to know which of them will get the land.
    But the next thing we know, the lawyer reads this: “‘Most importantly, I leave my land to all the people of my community. Together whites and Negroes shall plant a garden.’”
    The instant the words leave the lawyer’s mouth, a train of gasps ricochets from the sheriff to Elmira to the mayor to Uncle Bump to me.
    Then Elmira throws up her arms and cries, “Hallelujah!”
    None of us can believe Old Man Adams left 417 beautiful rows for us to sow together, plus his huge house for
all
Kuckachookians! And those rows are smack in the middle of town. Sure we knew Old Man Adams was freehearted, but this is another breed!
    All of a sudden, my stomach gurgles. I can smell the delicious food that will come from that land: corn chowder, pumpkin pie, and best of all, warm button squash with cane syrup dripping down the sides! I’ll bet we can sell the vegetables we grow at the farmers’ market. Then we’ll take our money and buy batches of Mr. Mudge’s famous chocolate chip cookies! I’ll bet those will keep our tummies full all night long.
    The lawyer fumbles with his papers till they’re all buckled inside his suitcase. “I’ll keep the will in my office,” he says to us all. Then he looks at the sheriff and the mayor and says, “As leaders of Kuckachoo, you two are responsible for seeing that the home and the land are used according to the will.”
    The sheriff stands and strokes the holster of his shotgun like it’s a puppy. And by the way that little lawyer hustles to the front door, I reckon he can’t leave the big house fast enough.
    As soon as the lawyer’s gone, the mayor smacks his palms flat against the dining room table, cranes his torso across it, and shouts, “You heard what that man said!”
    “We’re in charge!” bellows the two-ton sheriff. Then he turns to Uncle Bump and shouts, “Give us the keys!”
    There’s the key to the big house, the key to the garden gate, and the key to the garden cabin. But Uncle Bump doesn’t hand any of them over. Instead, he reaches down to his belt loop and clenches those keys tight in his fist.
    So the sheriff picks up his shotgun and cocks it with a loud
clackity-clack.
    Nothing about the scene stays put: the bulging veins in the sheriff’s neck, the bald circle on the mayor’s scalp, the rocking chair beside the dining room table. Everything shimmers like it isn’t real, like I’m not real, like this isn’t happening.
    I want to yell what I know is true:
This land, it’s ours too!
But the words are stuck inside me. I’m afraid we’re all going to die. And I wonder if it’s worth it, for the land.
    Then the sheriff points his gun at the ceiling and blasts who’s who and what’s what sharply into focus, just in case we didn’t already know who was boss here. The chandelier crashes down on the dining room table, and a thousand glass beads thunder onto the wooden floor.
    I dart into the