 |
| Level 5 | Level 6 | |||
| Level 8 | Level 9 | Level 10 | Level 11 | Level 12 |
| Home |
Sons from Afar
by
Cynthia Voigt
James Tillerman watched his brother Sammy, who was bailing two inches of rain
water from their boat. It had rained all the previous night – a cold
slanting March rain – and most of the morning too. Then, Marchlike,
the wind had shifted in the afternoon to the southwest, blowing the heavy
clouds away, blowing warm. In the twilight, the boys had come down to bail
the boat.
Sammy sat on the narrow gunwales, using his weight to tilt the boat and bring
the water within it into easy reach. He bent and straightened, rhythmically,
bailing the boat. The bailer was an
empty bleach jug with the top cut off; it poured water into
the bay with a wet, rushing sound. Sammy, whatever he did, moved as if he
would never get tired. James, sitting cross-legged on the dock, his arms resting
on his thighs, his fingers laced together, watched his brother.
“Do you ever wonder-?” James started.
“No.” Sammy bent, straightened, poured water out into water.
Irritated, James looked at is own hands, jealous too. He moved the fourth
finger of his right hand beneath the fingers of his left hand, then moved
over the little finger to conceal the gap. In the growing darkness, you could
fool someone, they might not notice that one finger was apparently missing.
| Home |