Mississippi Cotton by Paul H. Yarbrough

Author:Paul H. Yarbrough [Yarbrough, Paul H.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, General, Mystery & Detective, (¯`'•.¸//(*_*)\\¸.•'´¯)
ISBN: 9780983023807
Google: jP-xuAAACAAJ
Amazon: B00522WX42
Publisher: WiDo Publishing
Published: 2011-03-14T18:30:00+00:00

CHAPTER 12

We took a back road into town on our bikes in order to stay off Highway 49. The shortcut led into the square and the gazebo. We parked there. There were some boys throwing a baseball around. There had been a guy from Cotton City named Bobby Taylor who was a pretty good pitcher and even signed a professional contract. But he hurt his arm and never got out of the minors. They had put up a sign that read ‘Cotton City, Home of Bobby Taylor.’ He lived in Atlanta now, but the sign was still there.

“Hey boys,” Mr. Hightower called from across the street. “We goin’ fishin Sunday after church?”

He had just come out of the barber shop. His hair was slicked back with some good barber shop stuff, not Vitalis or Wildroot Cream Oil, but some real professional stuff. He was scratching the back of his neck where the little clipped hairs clung. The barber always tried to dust them away but could never get them all. I had had a haircut the day before I left Jackson, so I was safe for a couple of weeks.

“Yes, sir,” Taylor said. As soon as we got back from Clarksdale we had asked if we could go fishin’ Sunday afternoon with Mr. Hightower.

“Okay, we’ll take off right after church,” said Mr. Hightower. “I got a boat and I got an old buddy who’s got one. He wants to go, too. We’ll go down to Greenville. Get some big catfish. Sound good?”

“Yes, sir,” we replied in unison.

“Think we’ll really get some big ones, Mr. Hightower?” Casey said.

“Well, I hope so. But we gotta be careful, cats been known to eat boys under ten years old.”

Taylor and I smiled and kind of did a half-laugh, but Mr. Hightower didn’t smile. Taylor said, “Aww, c’mon.”

“I’m serious. I took some Cub Scouts, eight and nine years old down there last year. I told ‘em not to wade out. But they wouldn’t listen. Four of ‘em, whoosh! Gone. Catfish Cubbies.”

“What happened then?” Casey asked. He knew he was being kidded. Mr. Hightower hadn’t smiled yet, trying to keep up the front.

“Nothin’. We keep checkin’ the trot lines. They’ll prob’ly make Eagle Scout ‘fore we find ‘em.”

“Aww, not really,” Casey insisted.

Mr. Hightower very gently put his hat on so as not to mess up his nice, new slicked-down hair. He had coal black hair and although he wasn’t as old as my daddy or Cousin Trek, he had some grey bits of hair around his ears. “Well, how was Clarkdale? Y’all get Mr. Mayfield back all right?”

“He’s back, yes, sir. And it was fine. We ate dinner at Pete and Buger’s and hung around the John Deere place and everything,” Taylor said. “Daddy said he prob’ly needed to see you sometime today.” Taylor felt big, passing information.

“Yeah, we got lots to do before pickin’ time starts. I guess he’s at the house.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, I’ll see you boys later. I’ll tell your momma and daddy that we’re goin’ fishin’ Sunday afternoon for sure, Taylor.

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