Lou closed the desk and looked at Billy, who pursed his lips and attended to his book.
"No," said Lou.
It was lunchtime, and the air was cool, but with a warming sun, and the children gathered
outside to eat, lard buckets and other like containers in hand. Just about everyone had
something to line his or her stomach, even if it was just scraps of cornbread or biscuit,
and many a hand cradled a small jug of milk or jar of springwater. Children settled back
on the ground to do their eating, drinking, and talking. Some of the younger ones ran
around in circles until they were so dizzy they fell down, and then older siblings picked
them up and made them eat.
Lou and Oz sat under the deep shade of the walnut tree, the breeze slowly lifting the ends
of Lou's hair. Oz bit heartily into his buttered biscuit and drank down the cold
springwater they had brought in a canning jar. Lou, though, did not eat. She seemed to be
waiting for something, and stretched her limbs as though preparing for a race.
Billy Davis strutted through the small clumps of eaters, prominently swinging his
wooden lunch pail made from a small nail keg with a wire driven through it for a handle.
He stopped at one group, said something, laughed, glanced over at Lou, and laughed
some more. He finally climbed into the lower branches of a silver maple and opened his
lunch pail. He screamed out, fell backward out of the tree, and landed mostly on his head.
The snake was on him, and he rolled and pitched trying to get the serpent off. Then he
realized it was his own dead copperhead that had been tied to the lid of the pail, which he
still clutched in his hand. When he stopped squealing like a stabbed pig, he realized
everyone in the schoolyard was belly-laughing at him.
All except Lou, who just sat there with her arms crossed pretending to ignore this
spectacle. Then she broke out into a smile so wide it threatened to block the sun. When
Billy stood, so did she. Oz pushed the biscuit into his mouth, gulped down the rest of the
water, and scooted to safety behind the walnut tree. Fists cocked, Lou and Billy met in
the very center of the schoolyard. The crowd closed around them, and Yankee girl and
mountain boy went for round two.
Lou, the other side of her lip cut this time, sat at her desk. She stuck her tongue out at
Billy, who sat across from her, his shirt torn and his right eye a nice purplish black.
Estelle McCoy stood in front of them, arms crossed, a scowl on her face. Right after
stopping the championship bout, the angry teacher had ended school early and sent word
to the fighters' respective families.
Lou was in high spirits, for she had clearly licked Billy again in front of everybody. He
didn't look too comfortable, though, fidgeting in his chair and glancing nervously at the
door. Lou finally understood his anxiety when the schoolhouse door crashed open and
George Davis stood there.
"What in the hell's going on here?" he roared loud enough to make even Estelle McCoy
cower.
As he stalked forward, the teacher drew back. "Billy was in a fight, George," Mrs.
McCoy said.
"You called me in here on 'count of a damn fight?" he snarled at her, and then towered
menacingly over Billy. "I were out in the field, you little bastard, ain't got time for this
crap." When George saw Lou, his wild eyes grew even more wicked, and then the man
threw a backhand that caught Billy on the side of his head and knocked him to the floor.
Father stood over the fallen son. "You let a damn girl do that to you?"
"George Davis!" Estelle McCoy cried out. "You let your son be."
He held up a menacing hand to her. "Now on, boy works the farm. No more this damn
school."
"Why don't you let Billy decide that?"
Louisa said this as she walked into the room, Oz following closely behind her clutching
at the woman's pants leg.
"Louisa," the teacher said with great relief.
Davis stood his ground. "He a boy, he damn well do what I say."
Louisa helped Billy into his seat and comforted him, before turning to the father. "You
see a boy? I see me a fine young man."
Davis snorted. "He ain't no growed man."
Louisa took a step toward him and spoke in a quiet voice, but her look was so fierce Lou
forgot to breathe. "But you are. So don't you never hit him agin."
Davis pointed right in her face with a nail-less finger.
"Don't you go telling me how to handle my boy. You had yourself one child. Had me
nine, 'nuther on the way."
"Number of children fathered got little enough to do with being a good daddy."
"You got that big nigger Hell No livin' with you. God'11 strike you down for that. Must
be that Cherokee blood. You don't belong here. Never did, Injun woman."