It's Up to Charlie Hardin – eARC Read Free Page A

said nothing, but risked a glance at his mother. He knew she was listening though she appeared to give all her attention to frying eggs in bacon grease, a wartime economy that would be complete only when a jarful of that grease was donated to the war effort.
    His mouth still set in that fraudulent smile, Coleman Hardin lifted his cup again; swirled its contents. “Yep, a good job, even a fine job. You left it in my way because you knew good and well I didn’t really want to paint that side of the porch this morning,” he said, his drawl-and-twang peaking on “good and well,” then diminishing in a friendly way. He sipped and watched the boy without malice.
    Charlie worried because his father showed no sign of distress, a sure hint that he had devised some punishment to fit Charlie’s crime of forgetting to haul away several armloads of mesquite trimmings stacked near the house. Charlie kept his eyes averted, hoping his dad would develop some steam behind the rebuke, to vent in words and not in deeds. Charlie’s dad could be a booger with deeds.
    Warming to his topic: “I took one look at those clippings and I said to myself, why, that boy knows I wanted to do the whole job later, I said. I said yep, and he’s willing to make sure that I do it, too, running off to the creek after school yesterday instead, most likely. He won’t mind doing it this morning, says I; he won’t even mind if I dock his allowance.”
    Charlie jerked at the key word, “allowance.” “Aw, Dad . . .”
    “That’s what I told myself, Charlie. I realized you wanted to work this morning, and save me a quarter too.”
    “Couldn’t I just save you thirteen cents?” Though no math scholar, Charlie could subtract in an instant, from a quarter, the price of a twelve-cent ticket to a Saturday matinee at the Queen Theater.
    “A quarter ,” was his father’s reply, a few decibels added to offset a twitch at the corners of his mouth and a flickered glance toward his wife. “I reckon it won’t destroy you to miss a chapter of The Lone Ranger .” It was well known that Charlie cared little for the main feature every Saturday. It was the serial that drew throngs of boys to the Queen Theater once a week, as a magnet draws iron filings.
    “It ain’t The Lone Ranger , it’s Flash Gordon ,” Charlie replied, “and it’s on with After Midnight with Boston Blackie ! Aw, please Dad, pleeease ,” he pleaded.
    Proving she had missed nothing in the exchange as she delivered two plates of bacon and eggs: “Don’t say ‘ain’t,’” said Charlie’s mother.
    “I know where he gets it all,” his father said, his fork held aloft as a preacher might hold a Bible. “It’s that fool Rhett kid I’ve told him a million times not to associate with.”
    “Jackie’s not a fool,” Charlie blurted before he remembered that negotiations were underway. “Your tongue will burn in heck, Miz Taylor said so,” he added, invoking the mighty name of his Sunday school teacher.
    Charlie’s mother sat down quickly. “Your father didn’t actually call anybody a fool, Charlie,” she said, though the darted glance at her husband was cool. “It was just a figure of speech. He meant to say,” and again the glance, “he meant to say, that fool ish Rhett kid.”
    Charlie’s dad had not intended to ground the boy completely until this moment; had meant to motivate him into a furious assault on prickly mesquite clippings and then to part with seventeen cents, enough for the movie and a nickel sack of popcorn. But somehow Charlie had managed to enlist a man’s own wife against him. This was the trickiest sort of treachery, thought Coleman, and it needed strong measures. “That fool Rhett kid and that fool Hardin kid,” he exclaimed. “Maybe it’s our son who’s the bad influence!” In the silence he had produced, Coleman Hardin addressed his breakfast with furious speed, drained his cup with a gulp, and swung up from the table. “I’ll tell you one