This Rock by Robert Morgan Page A

Daddy died. People said she had learned it from him. I was going to say something about needing boots to walk through briars and brush but didn’t. I didn’twant to argue that early in the morning. I just wanted to get out to my traps.
    â€œYou remind me of your daddy,” Mama said. She looked up from her Bible again. “He would rather die than ask anybody for help. He was stubborn as an old jackass.”
    â€œHe worked harder than I do,” I said. It was a conversation we’d had many times.
    â€œBut he worked at what he wanted to do, and nobody could tell him nothing,” Mama said. “Didn’t do no good to try.”
    â€œI just barely remember him,” I said, which wasn’t really true, for I was seven when Daddy died, and I could remember him pretty well. But it made Mama talk more if I couldn’t remember much.
    â€œHe got sick after fighting fire,” Mama said. “But he done everything like he was fighting fire. He didn’t waste his time hunting and trapping.” Mama looked at the Bible like she was remembering things. Sometimes when Mama got to thinking about Daddy’s death she would stop talking and not act like herself.
    â€œCan I fix you some grits?” Mama said.
    Truth was I was hungry for hot grits, but if I set down and eat, Mama would start telling me all the things that needed to be done on the place. She couldn’t help herself even if she wanted to. Though I done most of the work and Moody didn’t do hardly any, she still couldn’t stand to see me heading off into the mountains, no matter what the weather was.
    â€œI’ll just have a biscuit and coffee,” I said. Soon as I laced up my boots and tied them I took a cup from the shelf and poured some coffee. Mama made strong coffee in the morning. I needed about two cups before I started out.
    â€œWho’s going to do the milking?” Mama said. She turned a page of her Bible, then rubbed her hands together like she was scrubbing them with air. Her hair had gray in it and was held in place by combs. “You’ll never make anything out of trapping,” Mama said. “Your daddy never wasted his time tramping the woods.”
    I drunk the coffee so fast it near scalded my throat.
    â€œThe road needs fixing up above the spring,” Mama said. “Every time you drive on it just makes it worse.”
    â€œMoody is not helpless,” I said. I grabbed a biscuit and chewed it up and washed it down with coffee. The hot coffee smarted the tip of my tongue and burned a little as I swallowed. I had to get out in the open air and be on my way.
    â€œThe gate up by the road needs to be fixed,” Mama said. “Tom always kept it tight and greased.”
    I was going to say why couldn’t Moody fix the gate. But it wouldn’t do no good to argue any more. Mama would just say Moody was not as handy with tools as me. She would say Moody had to take the Model T and drive her to town or deliver eggs to the store. There was no use to argue. Nobody ever won an argument with Mama.
    â€œI pray about you,” Mama said.
    I took my shotgun from the corner and slipped out the door fast as I could. When Mama talked about praying for me it was time to go. For next I’d say I would pray for her, and then I’d be ashamed I’d said it. Better not to mix up praying with our quarrels. Mama and Daddy had fought over religion, and she was ashamed of that. It was what pained her the most when she remembered Daddy, how they had fussed and argued about her going to the Holiness revivals. But it was the memory of what a fool I’d made of myself trying to preach that pained me the most.
    I drove my feet onto the ground like I was driving nails with each step. As I passed the corner of the chicken house the tip of my shotgun hit the slabs, and the hens fluttered and squawked inside. Calm down, I said to myself, at least till you get out of the yard.