Page 58 of A Boy Called Lovesong

And that shriek.

That blood-curdling shriek.

Come to me.

My veins ran cold, even despite the heat. “Is there anywhere I can rent a car so I can get back to New York?”

“In Clara’s Crossing?”

“No, I don’t mean in Clara’s Crossing. Obviously not. I’ve seen what’s on offer in this town. If you want anything other than the Bible, booze, or a flat tire fixed, you’re out of luck.” I flapped my hands in frustration. “I’m talking about somewhere nearby. Is there a car rental office somewhere near here?”

Earl scratched at the wispy hairs on his head. “No doubt there’s something in Baton Rouge.”

“How do I get there without a car?”

“Like I said, Cybil’s headed that way today. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind you hitchin’ a ride. Hell, you could even help her load the cotton in back.”

I tilted my head to one side, as though not quite comprehending what he said. “Help her do what?”

“You grab yourself a pitchfork, like so.” Cybil speared a huge bundle of cotton inside the shed out back of the general store, where she had backed her pickup truck. “Then you stab it, like so, and get as much of it as you can on that pitchfork, which may be kinda heavy cause of yesterday’s rain.”

She grunted as she raised a dirty big snowball of murky-looking cotton up in the air, over the edge of her pickup and into the back of the truck.

“Oh Jesus, that looks like it weighs a ton. Are you sure it’s cotton, not coal? It’s kinda disgusting looking. Isn’t cotton supposed to be white?”

“This is Acadian brown cotton… white boy. Originally referred to ascoton jaune. You speak French?”

“No.”

“So maybe you’re not so fancy after all. Here, catch.”

She tossed me a pitchfork and it almost stabbed me in the foot before it fell on the ground next to Chet, who scampered behind me. “Fuck! Are you trying to kill us?”

Cybil chuckled. “No. I’m just getting a kick out of watching you flap around like a stoned crow.”

“Excuse me if I’ve never picked up a pitchfork in my life.”

“Then you’re definitely not the Devil. Be sure to let Reverend Jim know. Now put your back into it.”

“Really?”

She nodded at me, then to the pitchfork on the ground. “You want a ride to Baton Rouge?”

“Yes. So I can rent a car, drive back here, pick up my things, and go.”

“Then let’s get to work.”

She heaved another fork load of cotton into the back of her pickup.

Reluctantly I picked up my pitchfork.

I impaled the bundle of brown cotton with it.

I grunted as I lifted a wad of the murky harvest up off the ground, using all my strength to guide it toward the pickup and dump it in back.

“That’s the way,” Cybil said. “Just be sure to treat the cotton with care. It bruises easily.”

“You told me to stab it.”

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