Chapter Twenty-Three

      Mid-August served up a sweltering platter of heat that demanded that people wear as little as possible in the daytime and sleep damn near naked at night.

      Tass and her friends spent their days frolicking in the cool waters of the Tallahatchie River. It was there at the river’s edge that Emmett finally took serious notice of Tass. She was splashing about with Padagonia and a few other girls. She didn’t own a bathing suit, so she was dressed in an old blue dress. Her hat of thick hair was drenched and matted on her head like a sponge. On this day, the sight of her moved something deep within in him that he didn’t know he owned.

      Emmett dove beneath the surface of the water and frog-kicked his way to the circle of girls. He brushed his hands against their calves, and they jumped from the water squealing like rats.

      When he reemerged he was laughing so hard, he snorted water through his nose.

      “I hope you choke!” Padagonia screamed. “Damn fool!”

      Emmett spat a glob of foamy saliva into the water. “Aww, come on, don’t say that!”

      Padagonia gave him a hard look. Tass tried to do the same, but you know she couldn’t, on account of the way she felt about him.

      Emmett raised his hands above his head. “Sorry. Okay? I’m sorry.”

      After a while, Padagonia waded back in, past the place they’d been able to stand—out toward the center of the river where she had to tread water to stay afloat. Tass inched out as well, until the water caressed her waist, and then stopped.

      “You ain’t coming any further?” Emmett asked.

      “Can’t swim,” she said, and scooped up a handful of water and dribbled it down her face.

      “I can teach you.”

      Padagonia splashed him. “And by teach, do you mean drown?”

      A chorus of laughter rose up from the group.

      “Naw, that’s okay,” Tass stammered as she started back toward the riverbank.

      Emmett followed her out and onto the grainy sand. He used his foot to clear away small pebbles and bits of broken tree limbs so that Tass could sit in comfort.

      “Sorry I scared you,” he said, and lowered himself down to next to her.

      Tass could barely contain her excitement. A scream slithered up her throat and she pressed her lips together to keep it inside.

      Emmett reached for a twig and used it to carve a figure of a horse in the sand. When he was done, Tass pointed at the form and said, “Horses don’t have wings.”

      “In my dreams they do.”

      Tass chuckled. “Well, maybe you eating too many peaches before you go to sleep at night.”

      Emmett laughed and raked his hands across the image. “I can draw anything, you just tell me what.”

      A cat, a dog, old cock-eyed Mr. Henley—he depicted them all, perfectly.

      “You draw really good.”

      “If you think this is good, wait till I show you what I could do with a pencil and paper.”

      “Who done these?”

      “Emmett.”

      Tass preferred the tidiness of Emmett to the clownish, absurd nickname.

      “Who?”

      “Bobo, Mr. Wright’s grandnephew.”

      “Oh,” Hemmingway murmured in her throat.

      Tass had tacked Emmett’s drawings on her bedroom wall. Drawings on butcher paper, lined composition paper, newspaper—any type of paper he could get his hands on. At Tass’s request he had drawn all sorts of magical things: winged pigs, unicorns, angels, and the buildings that made up the famous Chicago skyline.

      Hemmingway folded her hands behind her back as she studied every drawing. There was one in particular that made her catch her breath. It depicted a river, and a man and woman—or a boy and girl—holding hands, their feet hovering just above the water.

      Hemmingway was no Jesus freak, no Bible-beating Baptist, but something about that drawing felt sacrilegious to her and she tore it from the wall.

      Tass gasped. “Mama!”

      Hemmingway reeled around; her pupils were on fire. “Only Jesus walked on water,” she snarled.

      “It’s just a picture, Mama. He didn’t mean to blaspheme.”

      The force in her daughter’s voice snapped Hemmingway to attention and it was then that she saw the woman glowing inside of Tass.

      “You certainly spend a lot of time with that boy,” Hemmingway said, and then hung the bait: “You like him like that?”

      Tass blushed and stammered, “No!”

      “Let me tell you something, Tass: boys his age only have one thing on their minds!” Hemmingway aimed the tip of her index finger at Tass’s groin. “You know like I know, you’ll keep that purse of yours closed until you say, I do. And if I find out that you even thinking of doing otherwise, I’ma tear your behind up!”

      And with that, Hemmingway walked calmly from the room.

      When Tass heard the soup pot hit the burner, and was sure that Hemmingway was out of earshot, she whispered under her breath, “Look who’s talking about purses and marriage.”

      Later, as the small group convened on Moe Wright’s