is holding a tall, slender beverage glass with a straw in his right hand, and with his left he waves at the side porch and says, “Follow me. Fay’s back there somewhere.” I follow him over the creaking boards and under the whirling ceiling fans. The porch is crowded with white wicker furniture—rockers, stools, drink tables, a long swing covered with pillows.
Fay is Ms. Rook, a spry little woman with white hair and a pair of large, round, orange-rimmed glasses. She welcomes me profusely, grabbing my hand with both of hers, as if she has not had a guest in years. “From Santa Fe?” she says. “I love Santa Fe, the home of the most fascinating woman I wish I could have met.”
“And that would be?”
“Why Georgia O’Keeffe, of course.”
“Fay is an artist,” Mr. Rook adds, though this is becoming obvious. We are on the back porch by now, high above the White River in the distance, and I have unknowingly entered the studio of a serious painter. Stacks of easels, racks of perfectly organized paint bottles, boxes of brushes of all sizes and shapes. A few samples of her work reveal an impressionist fascination with flowers and landscapes.
“Would you like something to drink?” Mr. Rook asks as he steps to a small bar.
“Sure.”
“The house drink is lemon gin,” he says as he pours a yellow mix from a pitcher into a glass filled with ice. I have never heard of lemon gin, but it is apparent I will not be given a choice of cocktails.
“That stuff is dreadful,” Ms. Rook says, rolling her eyes as if the old boy might have a problem. He thrusts the glass at me and says, “It’s not real lemon gin, which I’m told is real gin flavored with lemon, which sounds awful, but this is more of a lemonade with a bit of Gordon’s thrown in to spice it up. Cheers.”
We tap glasses, and I take a sip. Not bad. We shuffle to the side porch and find seats amid the wicker. Ms. Rook is a study in bright colors. Her white hair has a streak of purple above the left ear. Her toenails are painted pink. Her cotton drip-dry dress is a collage of reds and blues. “You must stay for dinner,” she says. “We eat from the garden, everything is fresh. No meats. Is that okay?”
There was no way to offer a polite no, and besides, I have already realized that a good restaurant might be hard to find in Calico Rock. Nor have I seen a motel.
“If you insist,” I say, and this seems to thrill her beyond words.
“I’ll go pick the squash,” she says, bouncing to her feet and hurrying away.
We sip our drinks and talk about the heat and humidity but soon find our way back to more important matters. He begins, “You have to understand, Paul, that the Castlesare very protective of Joe. If you met him, let’s say randomly, out there on the street, for example, though that would never happen because Joe is seldom seen around town, but, anyway, if you bumped into him and tried to say hello, he would simply walk away. I can’t imagine Joe chatting with a stranger. It just doesn’t happen. Over the years, we’ve had the occasional journalist show up looking for a story. There were a couple of pieces written a long time ago, and they said things that weren’t nice.”
“Such as?”
“Joe is brain damaged. Joe is disabled. Joe is bitter. And so on. The family is very distrustful of anyone who shows up and wants to talk about Joe. That’s why they would never allow him to speak to you.”
“Could I talk to his brothers?”
“Who am I? You’re on your own, but I wouldn’t recommend it. Red and Charlie are nice enough, but they can be tough guys. And when it comes to their little brother, they can turn nasty real quick. They carry guns, like a lot of people around here. Hunting rifles and such.”
The lemon gin is settling in, and I want to change the subject to anything but guns. I take a long sip, as does Mr. Rook, and for a moment the only sounds are the whirling blades of the ceiling fans. Finally, I ask, “Did you
Fay is Ms. Rook, a spry little woman with white hair and a pair of large, round, orange-rimmed glasses. She welcomes me profusely, grabbing my hand with both of hers, as if she has not had a guest in years. “From Santa Fe?” she says. “I love Santa Fe, the home of the most fascinating woman I wish I could have met.”
“And that would be?”
“Why Georgia O’Keeffe, of course.”
“Fay is an artist,” Mr. Rook adds, though this is becoming obvious. We are on the back porch by now, high above the White River in the distance, and I have unknowingly entered the studio of a serious painter. Stacks of easels, racks of perfectly organized paint bottles, boxes of brushes of all sizes and shapes. A few samples of her work reveal an impressionist fascination with flowers and landscapes.
“Would you like something to drink?” Mr. Rook asks as he steps to a small bar.
“Sure.”
“The house drink is lemon gin,” he says as he pours a yellow mix from a pitcher into a glass filled with ice. I have never heard of lemon gin, but it is apparent I will not be given a choice of cocktails.
“That stuff is dreadful,” Ms. Rook says, rolling her eyes as if the old boy might have a problem. He thrusts the glass at me and says, “It’s not real lemon gin, which I’m told is real gin flavored with lemon, which sounds awful, but this is more of a lemonade with a bit of Gordon’s thrown in to spice it up. Cheers.”
We tap glasses, and I take a sip. Not bad. We shuffle to the side porch and find seats amid the wicker. Ms. Rook is a study in bright colors. Her white hair has a streak of purple above the left ear. Her toenails are painted pink. Her cotton drip-dry dress is a collage of reds and blues. “You must stay for dinner,” she says. “We eat from the garden, everything is fresh. No meats. Is that okay?”
There was no way to offer a polite no, and besides, I have already realized that a good restaurant might be hard to find in Calico Rock. Nor have I seen a motel.
“If you insist,” I say, and this seems to thrill her beyond words.
“I’ll go pick the squash,” she says, bouncing to her feet and hurrying away.
We sip our drinks and talk about the heat and humidity but soon find our way back to more important matters. He begins, “You have to understand, Paul, that the Castlesare very protective of Joe. If you met him, let’s say randomly, out there on the street, for example, though that would never happen because Joe is seldom seen around town, but, anyway, if you bumped into him and tried to say hello, he would simply walk away. I can’t imagine Joe chatting with a stranger. It just doesn’t happen. Over the years, we’ve had the occasional journalist show up looking for a story. There were a couple of pieces written a long time ago, and they said things that weren’t nice.”
“Such as?”
“Joe is brain damaged. Joe is disabled. Joe is bitter. And so on. The family is very distrustful of anyone who shows up and wants to talk about Joe. That’s why they would never allow him to speak to you.”
“Could I talk to his brothers?”
“Who am I? You’re on your own, but I wouldn’t recommend it. Red and Charlie are nice enough, but they can be tough guys. And when it comes to their little brother, they can turn nasty real quick. They carry guns, like a lot of people around here. Hunting rifles and such.”
The lemon gin is settling in, and I want to change the subject to anything but guns. I take a long sip, as does Mr. Rook, and for a moment the only sounds are the whirling blades of the ceiling fans. Finally, I ask, “Did you
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