It had been the last week in July and the peaches were pregnant with juice, the branches of the trees bending under their weight. During the day the humidity was insufferable. At 10 years-old, Roy wanted nothing more than to ride his Huffy into town with his friends from school, who would make the nearly seven mile trek for hamburgers and fries at the McDonald's near the K-Mart. But there was fruit to pick.

In the early morning when the breeze moved through the trees, the long leaves curling inward in a swirl of complaint, Roy and Sarah would help Poppas load the baskets onto the tractor's trailer while Mama, El and Rico trudged through the dew-covered earth to set up the ladders. Poppas said almost nothing during the routine. Roy had many theories for his father's fondness for silence, all incomplete yet somehow connected, like a scattering of letters in a crossword puzzle.

He knew the farm was not what his father had planned on doing with his life. Sometimes, long after the heat of the day was chased from the valley by night's approach, Poppas would retreat to the supply shed at the bottom of the hill where one summer they kept pigs and then, the next, chickens. Now it was full of drums of insecticides and greasy work gloves and broken peach baskets growing out of the mud floors like primitive trees. It was there, peering through the shed's tiny window, he watched his father sit on a crate and, two drum sticks in hand, begin beating on everything before him. It was percussive chaos, as a cake pan gave up a bang, an overturned basket produced a whick-whack, an oil can ting-tinged. Shirtless, sweating, his father threw his arms about in a blur of movement. He was drumming! And it sounded good, something tribal and rich with meaning, layered.

He snuck back to the shed several more times to watch his father. Sometimes Roy would just climb into the branches of nearby apple trees and listen. Who had taught his father how to play the drums? And why did he do it in secracy? He needed to know and decided after the seventh night of watching his father nearly drop from such exhaustive practice sessions, he would ask him. The next day.

As he climbed down from the apple tree he let go of the last branch with a start. "Whatcha doin' up there, critter?" It was Rico, his shadowy outline briefly illuminated by the swift flare of his cigarette being lighted. "You spyin on your Pops?" -- JV