ON MY WAY TO WORK , I pass the worn-out white cottage where I lived as a little kid. The windows are boarded up. So is the door. I expect it’ll be put up for auction. I expect it’ll go cheap. Nobody’s moving to Spirit, Texas.
Every year, the high-school grads pack up and leave — one or two for college, the rest for jobs in bigger towns. And every other week, a crowd gathers at the funeral parlor to pay their respects to one of the old folks. Death is the most lucrative business in town.
It seems like everyone dies or leaves. But I’m not going anywhere. Spirit is home. It’s the little piece of the world that makes sense to me, which, lately, is saying a lot.
“Cody!” calls a bright, female voice from behind me.
I ignore her. I’ve never been a talkative kind of guy.
“Cody Stryker!” exclaims the teenage daughter of the new mayor — the one who’s going to turn the empty storefronts into antique shops and the abandoned houses into bed-and-breakfasts and offer Spirit a future again, or so he says. “Wait,” she pleads. “I need to talk to you.”
I pause, turn. Did I say nobody moves here? The girl standing in front of me this evening is an exception to that rule. Last fall, Ginny Augustine and her folks arrived in Spirit after the bank foreclosed on their home in The Woodlands.
Typically, you have to live in town for at least a year before running for office, but nobody else wanted the job, so the city council passed a waiver and Mr. Augustine ran unopposed.
My glare falls to Ginny’s hand on my sleeve.
She snatches it back. “I don’t believe we’ve met before. I’m—”
“I know who you are.” I begin walking again. Glancing at her sideways, I ask, “What do you want?”
I feel a faint flash of guilt when she blinks, startled.
“Well,” Ginny begins again, “someone’s cranky. Here’s the deal: I’m going to handle ticket sales for you. Cool, huh?” When I don’t reply, she adds, “You know, at the theater. Movies? Tickets?”
For the first time in over fifty years, the Old Love Theater will open tonight at 8 P.M. After Uncle Dean’s death, I sold off a third of his cattle, his antique gun, and his fishing boat to make the down payment. None of it was worth much, but neither is the Old Love.
It’s reassuring to have somewhere to be on a night-to-night basis, though, to have another purpose beyond satisfying my thirst. To have something else to think about besides the night I faced down my uncle for the last time.
I keep going, trying to ignore how Ginny falls in step by my side.
At sixteen, she’s girl-next-door pretty, medium height, and curvy. Her teeth are even and pearly white. Long, honey-blond hair frames her friendly face. What with the powder blue baby T that reads
sassy
in rhinestones and her faded denim cutoffs, Ginny looks like she was born and bred in Spirit, like a real small-town girl.
When we reach the theater, she persists in following me around back.
Ginny leans against the door, coy, as I fish my keys out of my jeans pocket.
“Big night,” she observes. “You nervous?”
“No,” I lie, unlocking the dead bolt. Once inside, I add, “And I’m not hiring.”
“Really?” Ginny asks, shoving a sandal-clad foot in the doorway. “You mean you’re going to run the projector, pop the corn, restock the concession stand, ring up food and drinks, vacuum the carpet, change the toilet paper, and do . . . whatever managers do — paperwork and bills — all by yourself? Think about it, cowboy. How do you plan to sell tickets and handle concessions at the same time?”
On one hand, I don’t want to encourage her. On the other, I don’t need any trouble from her leaving pissed off. I don’t need trouble — period. I wish she would just take off. “I’m not opening the concession stand.”
“Well, there go your profits! You’re charging — what? — three bucks a show? I know people around here are cheap, but do you have any idea what, say,
Every year, the high-school grads pack up and leave — one or two for college, the rest for jobs in bigger towns. And every other week, a crowd gathers at the funeral parlor to pay their respects to one of the old folks. Death is the most lucrative business in town.
It seems like everyone dies or leaves. But I’m not going anywhere. Spirit is home. It’s the little piece of the world that makes sense to me, which, lately, is saying a lot.
“Cody!” calls a bright, female voice from behind me.
I ignore her. I’ve never been a talkative kind of guy.
“Cody Stryker!” exclaims the teenage daughter of the new mayor — the one who’s going to turn the empty storefronts into antique shops and the abandoned houses into bed-and-breakfasts and offer Spirit a future again, or so he says. “Wait,” she pleads. “I need to talk to you.”
I pause, turn. Did I say nobody moves here? The girl standing in front of me this evening is an exception to that rule. Last fall, Ginny Augustine and her folks arrived in Spirit after the bank foreclosed on their home in The Woodlands.
Typically, you have to live in town for at least a year before running for office, but nobody else wanted the job, so the city council passed a waiver and Mr. Augustine ran unopposed.
My glare falls to Ginny’s hand on my sleeve.
She snatches it back. “I don’t believe we’ve met before. I’m—”
“I know who you are.” I begin walking again. Glancing at her sideways, I ask, “What do you want?”
I feel a faint flash of guilt when she blinks, startled.
“Well,” Ginny begins again, “someone’s cranky. Here’s the deal: I’m going to handle ticket sales for you. Cool, huh?” When I don’t reply, she adds, “You know, at the theater. Movies? Tickets?”
For the first time in over fifty years, the Old Love Theater will open tonight at 8 P.M. After Uncle Dean’s death, I sold off a third of his cattle, his antique gun, and his fishing boat to make the down payment. None of it was worth much, but neither is the Old Love.
It’s reassuring to have somewhere to be on a night-to-night basis, though, to have another purpose beyond satisfying my thirst. To have something else to think about besides the night I faced down my uncle for the last time.
I keep going, trying to ignore how Ginny falls in step by my side.
At sixteen, she’s girl-next-door pretty, medium height, and curvy. Her teeth are even and pearly white. Long, honey-blond hair frames her friendly face. What with the powder blue baby T that reads
sassy
in rhinestones and her faded denim cutoffs, Ginny looks like she was born and bred in Spirit, like a real small-town girl.
When we reach the theater, she persists in following me around back.
Ginny leans against the door, coy, as I fish my keys out of my jeans pocket.
“Big night,” she observes. “You nervous?”
“No,” I lie, unlocking the dead bolt. Once inside, I add, “And I’m not hiring.”
“Really?” Ginny asks, shoving a sandal-clad foot in the doorway. “You mean you’re going to run the projector, pop the corn, restock the concession stand, ring up food and drinks, vacuum the carpet, change the toilet paper, and do . . . whatever managers do — paperwork and bills — all by yourself? Think about it, cowboy. How do you plan to sell tickets and handle concessions at the same time?”
On one hand, I don’t want to encourage her. On the other, I don’t need any trouble from her leaving pissed off. I don’t need trouble — period. I wish she would just take off. “I’m not opening the concession stand.”
“Well, there go your profits! You’re charging — what? — three bucks a show? I know people around here are cheap, but do you have any idea what, say,
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