an eighty fifth story...'the woodpile'

Lynette got to go in the boat instead of me because she’s bigger, and the life-jacket fit her.  And I went around the back of the farm house, through the field where the rye grass is up to my head, went and sulked behind the wood pile.  It was a hot, dry afternoon, and where there was dust everywhere else, dust and yellow rye grass, and brown scrub, it was damp by the woodpile – the logs had been sprayed with the hose to keep them from catching alight. 

Presently, mama comes along and finds me, sitting on my cotton pants, legs drawn to my chin, arms folded, chin resting on my folded arms, sulking.  ‘What are you doing down there?’ she says.  ‘Nothin’’, I say.  It’s hot, hot day, but it’s damp by the woodpile and I can feel the seat of my cotton pants are damp too.  ‘Nothin’?’, says mama, ‘nothin’’, I say again, I ain’t moving anywhere, any place, unless I get to go in the boat instead of Lynette.

Mama is wearing blue dungarees, the pair she always wears, with the patchwork pockets, and she has her arms on her hips, looking down at me.  Her brown hair is up in a bun, but she's tied it loose and there’s wisps of hair hanging down around her face.  ‘I was going to do some baking’, she says when she sees I’m not responding, my eyes studying the damp earth where I’m sitting, earth that would be dust if it wasn’t so hot and the woodpile hadn’t been watered some.

‘I want to go in the boat’, I say, making it quite clear I ain’t moving, or baking.  There’s a wood-louse crawling, or drowning, under my legs, by my gym shoes.  I’m tempted to pick him up, but I ain’t moving.  ‘You need a life-jacket to go in the boat’, mama says, hands on her hips, looking down, ‘and Pa said so now didn’t he?’.  ‘I ain’t baking with you’, I say, and the heat makes mama wipe her brow with the sleeve of her blouse, and she pushes a strand of her brown hair behind her ear. 

‘Why does Lynette get to go in the boat, and not me?’, I ask, now looking up at mama from my damp seat by the woodpile.  The wood-louse has curled itself right into a ball, so it can’t yet be dead, just protecting itself.  I’m probably scowling a bit, probably still cross.  Mama has her hands back on her hips: ‘Pa says you need a life-jacket that’s big enough’, she says.  But Lynette ain’t much bigger than me, even though she’s three years older, and just because Pa said so. 

‘I ain’t baking with you’, I say, and dig the heels of my gym shoes into the damp earth, which is damp because the wood pile gets watered when it’s as hot as this.