My Timothy

7

"Of course not, silly. It's for Papa. To cheer him up. It's been ages since Mama left. We just wanted to show him we're thinking about him, that's all," said Pearlie.

June took the cake inside, hearing Shirley whisper as she passed, "Imagine! June hasn't changed a bit."

"I know," said Pearlie. "That one ALWAYS thinks only of herself."

Stink, who had remained unusually silent, soaking in the show, suddenly spoke up.

"Ya'll ain't heard?" Stink said.

"Heard what?" Pearlie asked, stepping several steps away from the urchin who lived up to his nickname.

"June's got a whoppin' surprise for you. In fact," said the little boy, picking his nose and rubbing his finger across the front of his yellowed and stained excuse for a tee shirt, "that's why I thought y'all was here. It's the reason I came. It's the biggest thing since Tyrone Lester's cow had a two-headed calf!"

"Oh, you are such a liar!" said Shirley. "I was a kid when that thing was born. I saw it for goodness sake! Tyrone backed over that poor thing with the tractor. The cow had it out in the field, and Tyrone was on the tractor trying to move a log. Flat head, maybe. But never two heads!"

Stink retreated to a far corner of the porch and resumed mining in his nostril.

June bumped open the screen door and managed to get the tray of plates and slices of cake out into the open air.

"Where's Papa, June? We didn't come all the way out here to twiddle our thumbs."

"That's right," Pearlie said. "I've got an appointment at the Beautyland. Nora's got a new machine that's supposed to do wonders for the shadow I grow under my nose. So, get a move on. Round up Papa so we can shovel down this cake and get back to where we belong!"

"It's him!" Stink shouted. "Bug! It's him!"

Everyone looked in the direction the little boy's finger was pointing.

Ambling over the hill was Parley.

But the old man was not alone.

***

The crash of the tray made all on the porch jump.

Broken glass mixed with pieces of cake.

Standing as still as a statue, June watched the man, beaming as he advanced toward the small farmhouse.

"My Timothy," June muttered. "My Timothy."