Read In Open Spaces for Free Online Page B

front door and defiantly dropped a basket of food my mother had prepared for them on the stoop.
    “We don’t need anybody’s charity,” she declared, turning proudly on her heel. We knew then that they wouldn’t last.
    The silence was so strong that when I walked, the rustle of myboots against grass sounded as if my head was right between my feet. I looked at the land around me, at the wheat field I had plowed the previous spring, and at the stack of hay George and I had pitched a month before.
    Even before George’s death, every time I was in this pasture, I recalled an incident that happened when I was ten years old. One day Dad, George, Jack, and I were stacking hay in that pasture. It was a hot day, a rare muggy day in this dry part of the world. After lunch, Dad had shocked the three of us by suggesting we take a little break. We were even more surprised when he pulled a bat and ball from the back of the wagon, meaning that he had planned the diversion ahead of time. So we laid out a couple of bases, and George and I took on Jack and Dad.
    The game started out light, with cutting remarks tossed between each pitch. George had his usual running monologue going, teasing Dad about his swing, which was pretty bad, and telling Jack he threw like a sheep. Jack laughed, and made a bleating noise. But after a few innings, something shifted. Both George and Jack had always been competitive. When we played against other local teams, they were both there to win. But their competitive natures showed in different ways. George was cool but relentless. He never appeared ruffled, and he kept the same patter going on the baseball diamond as he did in the fields. He talked to the first baseman after he’d gotten a single, he talked to the catcher when he was batting—always trying to bait them into an argument, trying to rattle them.
    But Jack was out to prove something. Playing baseball didn’t come as naturally to him as it did George. So he clenched his teeth and turned each play into a personal war. He never spoke. He stood at the plate squeezing his bat until his knuckles turned blue, his lips pursed, eyes raging. And he fought. About once a year, he would get into a fight during a game, and someone would have to tackle him and calm him down.
    But they had rarely been on opposite sides of the field. We usually didn’t have time to play outside of the local fairs. So as the game progressed, their competitive tendencies kicked in, and it was like the weather had changed. George’s banter became more pointed. Jack’s mouth tightened. The laughter stopped.
    With Dad and Jack just a run down, George stepped to the plate with two out and peered out at Jack, who was pitching. “Hey, Jack, you got something between your teeth there.” He pointed to his own teeth. “Something stuck in there.”
    Jack smiled at him and fired a pitch. I was catching, and I was afraid to get in front of the ball, he threw it so hard. But I blocked it and tossed it back.
    “Really, Jack,” George continued. “Right in the front there.” He pointed again to his mouth. “Looks like…I don’t know…”
    Jack threw again, his smile gone now, this time buzzing a fastball close to George’s knees. George dodged the pitch, chuckling calmly to himself. He turned and winked at me. “He’s getting rattled,” he muttered. I didn’t respond. I didn’t want Jack throwing one of his fireballs at me.
    Jack took my toss back, and got set to throw again.
    “Oh, I think I see what it is now,” George said just as Jack began his windup. “It’s chicken, Jack. You got chicken in your teeth.”
    The words left George’s mouth just as Jack was about to throw, and when he let the pitch go, he threw it as hard as I’d ever seen him throw a ball. The pitch came in so fast that George didn’t have time to get out of the way, and it nailed him right in the ear. The crack of ball against bone flew across the prairie. And George went down.
    Dad rushed in. I