A Fine Young Man by John Northcutt Young
TEN-YEAR-OLD ROY BROWN sits in his chair at the kitchen table alone. Yesterday his brother, Billy, was killed on Pine Landing Road.
Everything’s dark. The outside pole light is on. Big Red hasn’t crowed.
Roy is barefoot. Wrapped in a quilt over long johns. Striped flannel pajamas under his brother’s old bathrobe. Rubs his feet together. Wiggles his toes. Tries crossing the one that went to market over the one that stayed home. They immediately snap apart.
Shakes his head back and forth. I should’ve worn socks.
Usually, his dad lights the gas heater before leaving for the barn making the kitchen as cozy as the inside of his bed, but he isn’t sure if his dad is up. Striking matches is another too young thing to do. They were still talking around the table when I fell asleep last night. Maybe he doesn’t have to milk this morning?
Roy yawns. Rubs his eyes. Listens to his stomach growl and rumble. This morning pea soup would seem like water. Puts his knees up, feet in the seat of his chair.
