The Architecture of the Arkansas Ozarks - Donald Harington [144]
Suddenly he heard her reply, I’m a-throwin at you ’cause I like ye best. But she hadn’t spoken, and besides she was standing four hats away, and he couldn’t have heard her if she did speak. How had he heard her? It was spooky, and the flesh of Bevis crawled, but because he was lighthearted he managed to smile at her as she wound up for the throw, and he replied to her inside his head, If that be the case, why don’t ye miss my haid clean? Okay, he distinctly heard her voice inside his head, and one by one she threw her eggs, and each one widely missed. Thanks, gal, he voicelessly told her, and she replied, You’re shore welcome. Later, when the big feed was spread and everybody had filled their plates with fried chicken and ’mater dishes and pie, and sat crosslegged on the grass to eat, Bevis noticed Emelda sitting not too far away, two, three hats away from him, and he decided as an experiment to ask her inside his head, Did you honestly say what you said? Or was I jist imaginin it? Her mute reply was immediate: You heared me, didn’t ye? And besides, I baked that thar pie that you’re eatin a piece of. Bevis looked down at the slice of pie in his fingers as if it were haunted, and his hand began to tremble, so he stuffed the whole piece into his mouth and, being unable to speak, remarked to her soundlessly, I’m a-gittin a bit uneasy, us a-talkin like this, though I got to admit, if we really was talkin, out loud I mean, I couldn’t say a word. She replied with sealed lips, I know. That’s how come I figgered that I’ve never git ye to open your mouth so iffen I was ever gonna talk together with you, we’d have to do it thisaway. Still, Bevis found it difficult to believe that he could hear her so plainly, especially since she was sitting a good little distance away. As a further test, he tried to see if this weird telepathy would work on anybody else. Spotting his brother Tearle, he silently asked, Hey, Tull, have you got the time? but Tearle did not respond. He saw his father and wordlessly yelled at him, Paw, you’re full of shit! but John Ingledew betrayed not a twitch of having heard, although Emelda’s voice entered Bevis’s head: Shame on ye. That aint no way to talk to yore own poppa! He decided that only Emelda could hear him, and he her.
Kin you read my mind? he telegraphed her, at a loss for any other way of expressing this occult phenomenon. Shore, she replied, which again made him feel uneasy, until he realized that there was nothing he could do about it, so he might as well get used to it, since he was cheerful, lighthearted, an optimist. What color underwear have I got on? he tested her. Red, came her quick reply. Although Bevis was sweating more than usual, he strove to remain cheerful. He tested her with several other questions. How much money did he have in the bank? What was his middle name? How many flapjacks had he eaten for breakfast? She answered all of these correctly, and then she asked him a question, Do you think I’m pretty? Bevis started to assure her that she was, but discovered that he could not; to his great amazement, he found himself replying, ’Naw, not exactly. There’s lots of girls roundabouts who’re a heap sight prettier