Arly by Robert Newton Peck Page B

and the Cooters.”
    â€œYou’re not a picker yet, Arly Poole.” Miss Hoe stared me right in the eyes. “And if Binnie Hoe is as capable a teacher as I’m convinced she is, you may not
ever
be one.”
    â€œHonest?”
    â€œCross my heart and hope to teach. Which way to Shack Row? Is it far?”
    â€œNot very.”
    Stopping, I bended myself over, to blow my nose into the dirt. But then, as I straighted up again, Miss Hoe looked at me in a strange way, like I’d done something wrong.
    â€œYou don’t have a handkerchief?”
    I give her a grin. “No, not me. Papa says that a poor man blows his snot on the ground, but a rich man puts it all back in his pocket.”
    Miss Hoe shook her head, like she couldn’t think of anything to say. And I was sort of decided that schoolteachers sure git some odd notions. We walked along together. Seeing as Huff Cooter and I used every single shortcut in Jailtown, along with the fact that Shack Row was only as far as the edge of town, Miss Hoe and me got there sudden quick.
    â€œWhich house is yours?”
    â€œOver there. But I don’t guess Papa’s got an eye for company coming. Dan Poole might be in his underwear. Or worse.”
    Miss Hoe stiffen her spine. “In that case, Arly, I am sure we will first knock before entering. We’ll send you in first. I can’t admit that I’d favor your father’s calling on me when I was in
my
underwear, so surely we can afford him some preparation.”
    I laughed right out. “Miss Hoe, you surely got a wit to you. You certain do.”
    â€œA teacher with no wit, young man, wouldn’t last too long this side of the insane asylum. Now scoot, and tell Mr. Dan Poole that he has a caller.”
    I bolted ahead and into our shack. Papa was there,sitting in the dark like usual, down on his tick on the floor.
    â€œPapa,” I said, “we got company.”
    Fading light from a crack in the cookstove lit up his face so I could read his surprise. He jumped up to his feet. I’d been right when I’d warned my teacher that he’d be in his dirty old underwear.
    â€œHere,” I said, “pull on your pants.”
    â€œWho’s coming?” he asked me, stuffing in one skinny leg and then the other. “Tell me it ain’t Broda.”
    â€œIt’s Miss Hoe.”
    â€œThe
teacher
?” As he said it, his fingers let loose of his garment and his pants fell to around his ankles. I helped him fix decent, but then I smelled his breath, which was foul on moon whiskey.
    â€œPapa, you best rinse out your mouth with vinegar, or hold back breathing.” I wasn’t mad with him. Nobody’d fault a picker from a swig or two of moon after a day of toting cuke baskets to a wagon. Besides, he never oft got what you’d call shirttail drunk. The word he used on himself was
meller
.
    He gargled a mouthful of vinegar, spat it to the dirt floor, and turned back to me.
    â€œReckon I’ll do.”
    â€œOkay,” I said, “because we sure ain’t fixing to keep a lady like Miss Hoe waiting outside in the bugs and chizzywinks.” I went back out the door and called to her. “Miss Hoe?”
    It was dark in Shack Row. So I took her by the hand and into our shack where I struck a match to light the table candle. Slowly I saw its flicker begin to yellow up her smile.
    â€œMr. Poole?”
    â€œYes’m,” he said. He bent a bow, and to watch him pull it off so proper made me feel righteous proud.There always had been, I had noticed, a
gent
inside my daddy, as if he’d almost could have been somebody. At the small table in the corner, where we ate, sat a pair of three-leg stools, one of which I dusted off quick with my sleeve, to offer to Miss Hoe. She sat, looking stiff and more than a meager away from home.
    â€œDan,” she said, “you can call me Binnie.”
    â€œOh,
no
,” Papa said real