Read Sons from Afar for Free Online

body perfectly coordinated. James jumped and ran, did sit-ups and stretches, making himself keep on, hating it. To avoid thinking about how he looked, and what everyone was probably thinking of him, hekept his mind busy. That March day, he concentrated on the letter he’d mailed, figuring out how long it would take to get an answer. If you figured it would leave Crisfield in the evening, go up to Baltimore probably, then Boston, then it would be three or four days to Provincetown. Maybe two or three days to be answered there. Three or four days back. He should hear during the first week of April. That allowed for a couple of weekends, when nobody worked and mail wasn’t delivered. So he’d know in the first week of April what his father’s name was. Then he could start figuring out how to track him down.
    Besides, James reminded himself, standing at the end of a line of boys that faced another line for the throwing and catching drill, not looking at any of the faces opposite him for fear of what he’d see if they were looking at him, it looked good on a college application if you played a sport. Colleges wanted well-rounded people, not just brainy types. Brainy types, if they didn’t do anything else, colleges figured they were liable to be dorks. Colleges didn’t want dorks any more than anybody else did.
    The ball, which was going quickly down the lines, thrown and caught, back and forth, came closer to James. He nerved his body, and tensed his arms, getting ready. He hoped it wouldn’t burn into his glove the way it sometimes did, coming in so fast that it stung his fingers even through the leather, and hurt, causing him to fumble it. You could break fingers catching wrong, he was willing to bet. Nobody else seemed bothered by the ball coming at them fast, coming too fast, coming at their faces. They’d probably all had fathers playing catch with them from the time they could stand up alone, showing them how to catch and how to throw. He wouldn’t have had anyone to do that with, even if he’d wanted to waste his time throwing a little round object around, catching it.
    When James finally got back home, the daylight was fadingand hunger was like a knife in his stomach. If he’d had the strength, he would have jogged up the driveway from the bus, just to get to the kitchen sooner, but he was too worn down to hustle. He walked up the driveway, enduring hunger, then around to the back. Inside, he dropped his books on the table and grunted hello at his grandmother. Gram barely turned around to look at him from where she was peeling the skins off carrots. He was glad she ignored him. He was too hungry even to talk. He poured himself a glass of milk, drank it, ate a banana and then a handful of cookies. The hunger faded, dulled by food, and he turned around to face the room. Something smelled good, some kind of pot roast.
    â€œYou know, you come in here like you haven’t eaten for a week,” Gram said.
    â€œI feel like maybe I haven’t,” James said. “Anything I can do?” She had a pot of peeled potatoes in water on the stove.
    â€œNope. It’s all been done.”
    James took the pitcher and mixed up more milk, because he’d finished what was made. They used dried milk, which was thirty percent cheaper than regular. Gram made their bread, too, which saved about seventy percent of the cost. She bought flour in hundred-pound sacks from Tydings grocery store. Maybeth’s piano teacher, Mr. Lingerle, brought out the sacks for them, when they ran out, or Jeff Greene loaded one into his station wagon, if he was home from school. Gram’s bread was about three hundred percent better than anything you could buy in a store, even the fancy brands which they would never have bought anyway because of the cost. Dried milk was only about fifty percent worse than regular, so James figured they came out well ahead. He stirred the milk and water with a