Boys Life

everybody’s lights were on; the message network was in full operation. It was just drizzling right now, but the water was up to the pickup’s wheel rims because of the overloaded drainpipes and some people’s basements had already flooded. My friend Johnny Wilson and his folks had had to go live with relatives in Union Town for that very reason.
    Cars and pickup trucks were filling up the courthouse’s parking lot. Off in the distance, lightning streaked across the heavens and the low clouds lit up. People were being herded into the courthouse’s main meeting room, a large chamber with a mural painted on the ceiling that showed angels flying around carrying bales of cotton; it was a holdover from when cotton crop auctions used to be held here, twenty years ago, before the cotton gin and warehouse were moved to floodproof Union Town. We found seats on one of the splintery bleachers, which was fortunate because the way other folks were coming in, there soon wasn’t going to be room enough to breathe. Somebody had the good sense to turn on the fans, but the hot air emanating from people’s mouths seemed inexhaustible. Mrs. Kattie Yarbrough, one of the biggest chatterboxes in town, squeezed in next to Mom and started jabbering excitedly while her husband, who was also a milkman at Green Meadows, trapped my father. I saw Ben come in with Mr. and Mrs. Sears, but they sat down across the room from us. The Demon, whose hair looked as if it had just been combed with grease, entered trailing her monstrous mother and spindly pop. They found places near us, and I shuddered when the Demon caught my repulsed gaze and grinned at me. Reverend Lovoy came in with his family, Sheriff Amory and his wife and daughters entered, the Branlins came in, and so did Mr. Parlowe, Mr. Dollar, Davy Ray and his folks, Miss Blue Glass and Miss Green Glass, and plenty more people I didn’t know so well. The place got jammed.
    “Quiet, everybody! Quiet!” Mr. Wynn Gillie, the assistant mayor, had stepped up to the podium where the cotton auctioneer used to stand, and behind him at a table sat Mayor Luther Swope and Fire Chief Jack Marchette, who was also the head of Civil Defense. “Quiet!” Mr. Gillie hollered, the veins standing out on his stringy neck. The talking died down, and Mayor Swope stood up to speak. He was tall and slim, about fifty years old, and he had a long-jawed, somber face and gray hair combed back from a widow’s peak. He was always puffing on a briar pipe, like a locomotive burning coal up a long, steep haul, and he wore perfectly creased trousers and shirts with his initials on the breast pocket. He had the air of a successful businessman, which he was: he owned both the Stagg Shop for Men and the Zephyr Ice House, which had been in his family for years. His wife, Lana Jean, was sitting with Dr. Curtis Parrish and the doctor’s wife, Brightie.
    “Guess everybody’s heard the bad news by now,” Mayor Swope began. He had a mayorly appearance, but he spoke as if his mouth was full of oatmeal mush. “We ain’t got a whole lot of time, folks. Chief Marchette tells me the river’s already at flood stage. When that water from Lake Holman gets here, we’re gonna have us a real problem. Could be the worst flood we’ve ever had. Which means Bruton’ll get swamped first, it bein’ closest to the river. Vandy, where are you?” The mayor looked around, and Mr. Vandercamp Senior raised his rickety hand. “Mr. Vandercamp is openin’ up the hardware store,” Mayor Swope told us. “He’s got shovels and sandbags we can use to start buildin’ our own dam between Bruton and the river, maybe we can hold the worst of the flood back. Which means everybody’s gonna have to work: men, women, and children, too. I’ve called Robbins Air Force Base, and they’re sendin’ some men to help us. Folks are comin’ over from Union Town, too. So everybody who can work oughta get over to Bruton and be ready to move some dirt.”
    “Hold on just one damn minute, Luther!”
    The man who’d spoken stood up. You couldn’t miss him. I think a book about a white whale was named after him. Mr. Dick Moultry had a florid, puffed face and wore his hair in a crew cut that resembled a brown pincushion. He had on a tent-sized T-shirt and blue jeans that might’ve fit my dad, Chief Marchette, and Mayor Swope all at the same time. He lifted a blubbery arm and aimed his finger at the mayor. “What you’re tellin’ us to do, it seems to