didn’t involve washing the boats, patching roofs, cleaning toilets, or raking the beach.
On one such night, when Wade was twelve years old, they were driving the pitch‐black roads around the lake, keeping an eye on the empty lake houses, making sure nobody busted into them during the off‐season, though it happened a lot anyway despite the patrol. There was too much lake, and too many houses, for Glenn to maintain a vigil on them all.
It hadn’t started snowing yet, but it was cold enough outside at night to keep a milk shake from melting. Wade and his sister had tried it. The darker it was at night, the colder it seemed to be. He could almost measure the temperature by staring into the darkness.
A call came in from the dispatcher in Silverton. The cook at the roadhouse and bait shack on Highway 99 was frantic. Four guys from the lumber mill were drinking their paychecks, beating up on the waitress, and trashing the place.
Glenn got there in about five minutes. They drove up to the clapboard roadhouse just as a chair flew through a window and landed in front of the two pickup trucks in the gravel parking lot.
Through the broken window, Wade could see the four men inside the restaurant. They were drunk, rowdy, and spoiling for a fight. If there’d been any other customers that night, they were long gone now.
His father parked the car beside the two pickup trucks, took the gun out of his holster, and placed it in the glove box, slamming the lid shut.
“No matter what happens, you stay right here,” his father told him.
“You’re going up against them without your gun?”
“I don’t want anybody to die tonight,” Glenn said. “Guns tend to bring out the death in a room.”
“But there’s four of them,” Wade said. “How are you going to protect yourself?”
“Most of the time, it’s not whether or not you have a gun in your hand that matters,” his father said. “It’s what you stand for and how strong you stand for it.”
That wasn’t the first time Wade had heard that “what you stand for” line from his dad. It was his father’s all‐purpose explanation for every decision he made on any subject, whether it was whom he voted for, how much he’d pay for a shirt, or which kind of bait he chose for his hook. Now the line sounded not only hollow to Wade, but foolish.
Glenn got out and walked into the roadhouse.
Wade looked at the glove box and thought about his dad in the bar, outnumbered by a bunch of drunken, pissed‐off mill workers.
He grabbed the gun, ran out of the car, and crept up to the window, raising his head just enough to peer over the sill to see what was going on.
It looked like a tornado had swept through the place, upending tables and breaking dishes. Three big men, about as wide as the pickup trucks they drove, stood proudly in the midst of the destruction, grinning drunkenly and sweating from their exertions. Another man sat on a barstool, his back to the bar, directing the show.
A waitress cowered in the far corner, holding a rag to her bloody nose. One of her eyes was already swelling shut. A fat cook stood protectively in front of her, holding a greasy frying pan up like a shield.
As Glenn came in, the man on the stool spun around to face him. It was clear that the guy was the group leader, or at least their spokesperson, by the way the others fell in behind him.
Glenn walked up slowly to the bar and addressed the man on the stool. “You want to tell me what happened here, son?”
“We’re just having a good time, that’s all,” said the man. “There a law against that?”
Glenn gestured to the waitress. “How did Phyllis get hurt?”
“She done that to herself,” the man said.
“Clete hit me!” she said. “Twice!”
“I put her in her place,” Clete said. “She ought to know better than to slap a man.”
“You grabbed my ass,” she said. “Nobody does that without an invitation.”
“Your ass is an invitation,” Clete said. “Ask
On one such night, when Wade was twelve years old, they were driving the pitch‐black roads around the lake, keeping an eye on the empty lake houses, making sure nobody busted into them during the off‐season, though it happened a lot anyway despite the patrol. There was too much lake, and too many houses, for Glenn to maintain a vigil on them all.
It hadn’t started snowing yet, but it was cold enough outside at night to keep a milk shake from melting. Wade and his sister had tried it. The darker it was at night, the colder it seemed to be. He could almost measure the temperature by staring into the darkness.
A call came in from the dispatcher in Silverton. The cook at the roadhouse and bait shack on Highway 99 was frantic. Four guys from the lumber mill were drinking their paychecks, beating up on the waitress, and trashing the place.
Glenn got there in about five minutes. They drove up to the clapboard roadhouse just as a chair flew through a window and landed in front of the two pickup trucks in the gravel parking lot.
Through the broken window, Wade could see the four men inside the restaurant. They were drunk, rowdy, and spoiling for a fight. If there’d been any other customers that night, they were long gone now.
His father parked the car beside the two pickup trucks, took the gun out of his holster, and placed it in the glove box, slamming the lid shut.
“No matter what happens, you stay right here,” his father told him.
“You’re going up against them without your gun?”
“I don’t want anybody to die tonight,” Glenn said. “Guns tend to bring out the death in a room.”
“But there’s four of them,” Wade said. “How are you going to protect yourself?”
“Most of the time, it’s not whether or not you have a gun in your hand that matters,” his father said. “It’s what you stand for and how strong you stand for it.”
That wasn’t the first time Wade had heard that “what you stand for” line from his dad. It was his father’s all‐purpose explanation for every decision he made on any subject, whether it was whom he voted for, how much he’d pay for a shirt, or which kind of bait he chose for his hook. Now the line sounded not only hollow to Wade, but foolish.
Glenn got out and walked into the roadhouse.
Wade looked at the glove box and thought about his dad in the bar, outnumbered by a bunch of drunken, pissed‐off mill workers.
He grabbed the gun, ran out of the car, and crept up to the window, raising his head just enough to peer over the sill to see what was going on.
It looked like a tornado had swept through the place, upending tables and breaking dishes. Three big men, about as wide as the pickup trucks they drove, stood proudly in the midst of the destruction, grinning drunkenly and sweating from their exertions. Another man sat on a barstool, his back to the bar, directing the show.
A waitress cowered in the far corner, holding a rag to her bloody nose. One of her eyes was already swelling shut. A fat cook stood protectively in front of her, holding a greasy frying pan up like a shield.
As Glenn came in, the man on the stool spun around to face him. It was clear that the guy was the group leader, or at least their spokesperson, by the way the others fell in behind him.
Glenn walked up slowly to the bar and addressed the man on the stool. “You want to tell me what happened here, son?”
“We’re just having a good time, that’s all,” said the man. “There a law against that?”
Glenn gestured to the waitress. “How did Phyllis get hurt?”
“She done that to herself,” the man said.
“Clete hit me!” she said. “Twice!”
“I put her in her place,” Clete said. “She ought to know better than to slap a man.”
“You grabbed my ass,” she said. “Nobody does that without an invitation.”
“Your ass is an invitation,” Clete said. “Ask
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