Dad wanted us to tell our story again, but Jum and I were soon in tears, so he didn't push us. "Probably a tramp or somethin'. He was just tryin' to scare you."
"Don't you guys want your pancakes?" Sue asked.
Dad and Jum and Sue and I spent the rest of the day collecting stuff that had washed up onto the beach and the road and everywhere: firewood and fences and parts of buildings and even a drowned calf, humming with flies. I recognized the smell.
We told Dad the culvert was washed out long before we got to it, and sure enough, there was a crater gaping like a hungry mouth where it used to be. When we told him how we knew, he got real quiet, and I knew then that he believed us.
"The man, what did he look like?" he asked me.
"I don't know. He was big and dirty and . . . . I don't know."
Sadly, we cut up the remains of Elmer the elm tree which lay charred and splintered in our yard. On the big branch that used to hang over the garden we found marks where the Ferguson kids had tied their swing, and even some rotten rope sticking out where the bark had grown around it. When Jum saw the rope he said he was tired and went inside.
That evening, snug inside the house, hardly aware of the rain rapping on the windows, I watched Jum wrestle with Paul in front of the fire.
"Say 'Jim', Paulie, say 'Jim'," he pleaded.
"Jum!" said Paul, giggling.
"No, 'Jim'."
"Jum!"
Jum crossed his eyes and made a funny face. "Say 'Jimmy' then. Say 'Jimmy'."
"Jum-mee!" crowed Paul, and whooped with laughter.
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