The Cedarville Review 2018

44 THE CEDARVILLE REVIEW Fiction by Shawn Sumrall JONI Where we currently stand, the Blue Ridge are a sad group of sputtering hills the locals call a mountain range. In reality, the Blue Ridge Parkway runs like a string 469 miles north to south. But as far as Joni can tell, they expand all the way to the edges of the map. Somewhere in the northern stretch of those little hills, plopped and nestled in between two stray water drops the range had sent splashing when the first waves of creation crashed and sprawled out into the Virginia soil, rested a Montaigne-style home with brown siding, black vinyl shutters, and a white-columned porch. At the top of the driveway, Joni could see the ridges of Rattle Snake Mountain, its two peaks perched to survey the valley below. This is where Joni spent his ninth birthday—amongst packed, half packed, half taped and empty brown moving boxes. Only nine months ago his father’s contractor first pressed his weight onto the grass of the frost-covered pasture, crunching the blades under his cold rubber boot. The site was cleared and excavated first. Joni spent many of the colder months with the builder’s children, playing in that square dirt hole that would become his family’s basement. For all Joni cared, Paul the builder’s son could have been deaf, blind, or limbless. It wouldn’t have mattered either way. That’s the way it is with bored eight-year-olds looking for something fun to be for the day. So with the innocence of children, the builder’s boy and the accountant’s son struck up a soldierly camaraderie—moving softly as they could through the little wooded area behind Joni’s new neighbor’s house. Across the gravel drive, they dashed, stopped short of the small stream that trickled from the culvert and under a dark rotting tree. Beneath the shade of the oak and sumac, Joni and Paul Jr. traipsed, both afraid Paul’s older brother