The Librarian of Boone's Hollow - Kim Vogel Sawyer Page 0,22
your maw howdy for me. I’ll save you a seat at the singin’. Me an’ Glory—you recall my best friend, Glory Ashcroft?—we always sit with Shay an’ some of the other young folks. Reckon you’ll wanna sit by Shay, since you ain’t seen him for a spell.”
He’d probably sit with Maw and Dusty, but it’d be good to catch up with Shay after the service. If Shay wanted to catch up, that is. He hadn’t been overly friendly last summer during Emmett’s school break. “We’ll see. Bye now, Bettina.” Emmett waved and hurried through the narrow gap between Belcher’s General Store and the little building that served as both telephone office and post office for Boone’s Hollow and Tuckett’s Pass.
A dirt path, packed as hard and smooth as marble from years of use, climbed a slight rise and ran along a row of three houses. He followed the path to the Belchers’ clapboard bungalow, the fanciest house in the whole town, even nicer than Doc Faulkner’s place. Ned and Swan Belcher sat on the front porch in matching rocking chairs, the runners squeaking against the tongue-in-groove floor.
Mrs. Belcher nodded a greeting, and Mr. Belcher lifted his hand in a lazy wave. “Emmett Tharp, that you?”
Emmett wanted to get on home, but he stopped and smiled politely at the general store’s owner. “Yes, sir.”
“You home for good now?”
Emmett chose a careful answer. “For a spell, at least.” No sense in starting rumors.
Husband and wife nodded in unison and continued rocking.
Emmett bobbed his head and moved on. Next was the Shearers’ cabin with its coating of dark-green moss climbing to the roof on its north side, then the Barrs’ tumbledown shack set well back from the path against the sloping ground. Emmett always thought it looked as if the Barrs’ house either grew out of or was trying to shrink into the hillside. All eight—or was it nine?—members of the family lived in the decrepit place. Paw didn’t know a lot of Scripture, but he recited Proverbs 21:25 anytime Jasper Barr’s name was mentioned. “The desire of the slothful killeth him; for his hands refuse to labour” ran through Emmett’s mind as he slowed and took in the dwelling’s sagging roof, cracked windows, and yard littered with rusty cans, soggy cardboard, and animal droppings. Two scrawny chickens pecked and a speckled pink pig rooted in the mess.
Emmett released a small huff, shaking his head. Nobody in Boone’s Hollow lived like a king, especially these days, but from the looks of the Barr place, Jasper didn’t even try to live as well as a pauper. The only thing Jasper Barr did well, according to Paw, was make new little Barrs. Noisy little Barrs, based on the shouts and wails escaping between the cracks in the shack’s walls.
A battered boot with a hole where the toe used to be sat on the rock that served as a stoop below the warped front door. A cluster of drooping wildflowers spilled over the boot’s shank. Probably placed there by Jennie Barr, Jasper’s soft-spoken, long-suffering wife. Half the folks in town pitied Jennie. The other half scorned her for staying with someone so work shy and slovenly. Maw’d taught Emmett not to cast stones, and he did his best to honor her, but looking at the sorry house in need of repairs made him side with those who thought Jennie could do a lot better. But if a man with a college degree couldn’t find work, how would an uneducated woman provide for herself and her youngsters? Jennie was trapped. Emmett’s feelings swung to the pity side.
He hurried beyond the ramshackle building and climbed the curving path leading to the little house Grandpaw Tharp built in 1882 for his new bride. Just a two-room cabin with a loft then, but Paw had built a shed-style addition on the west that held Maw’s prized cookstove and the handmade table and chairs she’d brought with her when she married Paw. Nothing fancy, not even by Boone’s Hollow standards. But when compared to the Barrs’ place, it seemed like a palace. He left his bag at the foot of the walkway and hop-skipped over the flat rocks Grandpaw had laid down for paving stones. He leaped up onto the narrow porch and reached for the door’s string latch. Before he gave it a pull, though, a familiar sound made him pause. He tilted his ear to the door, listening.