red-and-black-checked flannel shirt are speckled with grease and dirt.
In the past I’ve offered to replace his old work clothes since he wears them out in my employ, but he always took offense at the suggestion and acted as if I intended to dress him in the full regalia of a servant to an eighteenth-century duchess. Eventually we agreed that I would add extra money to his paycheck twice a year as part of a clothing budget. I have no idea what he does with this money.
He takes off his ball cap, folds the bill in half, and stuffs it into his back pocket. His hair is white and thinning, and his face is sunburned the deep dark red of a farmer and heavily lined.
I’ve never been able to imagine Jerry as a boy and I even find it difficult to remember him as the dark-haired, monosyllabic, rustically appealing victim of my brother’s mines who came to me forty years ago offering his services as a handyman.
Instead I think of him springing fully formed from the earth exactly the way he is now: an old man but not old in human terms. He’s as strong as an ancient tree, as permanent and weather-resistant as a boulder that’s been lying in a field for centuries, and as patient as a river carving a canyon.
“Saw her in the barn a few minutes ago,” he says.
“Thank you.”
I start on my way again, then think to ask, “Oh, Jerry. There was a man in town who was killed a few days ago in a drunk driving accident.”
“Carl Hayes,” he says, nodding.
“Did you know him?”
“Some. Not well.”
“What can you tell me about him?”
“Well, let’s see.”
He scratches at the white stubble on his cheek.
“Think he worked pushing a broom over at Burke’s. Think he worked in Lorelei before the layoffs started. His wife left him a few years back for another man. Took his little girl and left him and the two boys high and dry. The oldest one is a heck of a ballplayer from what I hear. He used to talk about those boys all the time. Loved those boys.”
“I thought you said you didn’t know him well.”
“It’s a small town, Miss Jack. Not knowing someone well means you know basically everything about ’em but you’ve probably only talked with ’em once or twice.”
“I see. Any word on Ventisco?”
He begins scratching the other cheek.
“Talked to Luis couple days ago. Said he saw him over near Spring Creek when he was out riding.”
“That’s strange. He didn’t say anything to me.”
Jerry slips his cap back on, his sign that he’s used up his quota of words for the day.
“Thank you,” I tell him again and walk on.
I don’t have to go far before I see Shelby walking toward me coming from the barn.
She’s changed her clothes since we talked this morning. She’s wearing a flannel shirt that’s threadbare enough and large enough that it could belong to Jerry. Her jeans are baggy and torn at the knees. She’s wearing a pair of black work boots, caked in mud, with the yellow laces untied. Her lovely auburn hair, so like my mother’s, is pulled back in a ponytail and covered with a dusty blue ball cap.
She’s staring glumly at the ground, kicking at stones and watching them skitter away from her oversized boots.
She’s a capricious girl: sweet and appeasing one moment; stubborn and cocksure the next. It would be easy to label her as moody or emotional, but I’ve observed her around others and she’s entirely in control of herself. Of the three sisters, she is my favorite. However, all three of them are dangerously volatile when pushed out of their roles. That whole family is entirely too thin-skinned and excitable. Spending a day with them, I feel like I’m surrounded by little yappy lap dogs with expensive clothes and good haircuts.
I wonder if Shelby’s outfit was put together for my benefit. She knows I don’t approve of girls dressing sloppily or masquerading as boys.
She’d be an absolute picture on a day like today wearing a sundress and sandals and a shawl. What a shame.
She
In the past I’ve offered to replace his old work clothes since he wears them out in my employ, but he always took offense at the suggestion and acted as if I intended to dress him in the full regalia of a servant to an eighteenth-century duchess. Eventually we agreed that I would add extra money to his paycheck twice a year as part of a clothing budget. I have no idea what he does with this money.
He takes off his ball cap, folds the bill in half, and stuffs it into his back pocket. His hair is white and thinning, and his face is sunburned the deep dark red of a farmer and heavily lined.
I’ve never been able to imagine Jerry as a boy and I even find it difficult to remember him as the dark-haired, monosyllabic, rustically appealing victim of my brother’s mines who came to me forty years ago offering his services as a handyman.
Instead I think of him springing fully formed from the earth exactly the way he is now: an old man but not old in human terms. He’s as strong as an ancient tree, as permanent and weather-resistant as a boulder that’s been lying in a field for centuries, and as patient as a river carving a canyon.
“Saw her in the barn a few minutes ago,” he says.
“Thank you.”
I start on my way again, then think to ask, “Oh, Jerry. There was a man in town who was killed a few days ago in a drunk driving accident.”
“Carl Hayes,” he says, nodding.
“Did you know him?”
“Some. Not well.”
“What can you tell me about him?”
“Well, let’s see.”
He scratches at the white stubble on his cheek.
“Think he worked pushing a broom over at Burke’s. Think he worked in Lorelei before the layoffs started. His wife left him a few years back for another man. Took his little girl and left him and the two boys high and dry. The oldest one is a heck of a ballplayer from what I hear. He used to talk about those boys all the time. Loved those boys.”
“I thought you said you didn’t know him well.”
“It’s a small town, Miss Jack. Not knowing someone well means you know basically everything about ’em but you’ve probably only talked with ’em once or twice.”
“I see. Any word on Ventisco?”
He begins scratching the other cheek.
“Talked to Luis couple days ago. Said he saw him over near Spring Creek when he was out riding.”
“That’s strange. He didn’t say anything to me.”
Jerry slips his cap back on, his sign that he’s used up his quota of words for the day.
“Thank you,” I tell him again and walk on.
I don’t have to go far before I see Shelby walking toward me coming from the barn.
She’s changed her clothes since we talked this morning. She’s wearing a flannel shirt that’s threadbare enough and large enough that it could belong to Jerry. Her jeans are baggy and torn at the knees. She’s wearing a pair of black work boots, caked in mud, with the yellow laces untied. Her lovely auburn hair, so like my mother’s, is pulled back in a ponytail and covered with a dusty blue ball cap.
She’s staring glumly at the ground, kicking at stones and watching them skitter away from her oversized boots.
She’s a capricious girl: sweet and appeasing one moment; stubborn and cocksure the next. It would be easy to label her as moody or emotional, but I’ve observed her around others and she’s entirely in control of herself. Of the three sisters, she is my favorite. However, all three of them are dangerously volatile when pushed out of their roles. That whole family is entirely too thin-skinned and excitable. Spending a day with them, I feel like I’m surrounded by little yappy lap dogs with expensive clothes and good haircuts.
I wonder if Shelby’s outfit was put together for my benefit. She knows I don’t approve of girls dressing sloppily or masquerading as boys.
She’d be an absolute picture on a day like today wearing a sundress and sandals and a shawl. What a shame.
She
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