going to try to reduce her sentence, string out the road show through appellate court, work on her eligibility for pardon and just all-round obfuscate justice like the good mouthpiece I am. You know, for a country boy.”
“I see.”
“No, you don’t see. What you see is acquittal for her and a fresh start for the two of you. Y’know, quiet evenings around your paint-by-numbers kit out there to the ranch.”
“You’re getting a little loose-lipped now. This thing is bad enough without the grandstanding. I mean, spare me. And make that your last one—” Lucien pointed at his drink. “Tank towns know few more unpleasant eyesores than native-son lawyers with land-grant educationstottering out of some roadhouse where they know the owner.… I got to go.”
He started to leave. The lawyer called after him, “One’ll get you ten you lose the hundred thou.”
When Lucien looked back, the lawyer had a light sweat from thinking up his last line. It was like a jog around the block for a guy who runs a lot. He looked fairly pleased with himself, but Lucien appreciated him: freewheeling hick-town wise guys were getting scarce.
Lucien tried to think directly about Emily shooting her husband, a brutal Type A personality who took it out on all and sundry. Emily would look the facts in the eye. Lucien felt he had never been able to do that. He could see her weighing the old husband in the scales of justice the way a park superintendent reviews the record of a garbage-raiding bear who is scaring the campers: we’ve got one here who’s got to go.
Lucien got up early and made breakfast. It was a wood stove with a water jacket, and kind of amusing to run. It had a lot of hot spots on top, so cooking eggs required moving the skillet around until you found a reasonable temperature that didn’t burn them up. Today they were going hunting.
Lucien stole some glances attempting to see storm clouds on her brow as she ate. There weren’t too many storm clouds. She still had the serenity of the class beauty transported through years of tribulation like a vase that has survived a revolution. It seemed a handsome contrast to his infuriating jauntiness, the air of boyish resilience that had probably cost him Emily in the first place. An eighteen-year-old boy with the air of a tired salesman thirty years his senior will get all the girls every time.
When they started out of the kitchen, Austinberry appeared and asked, “Where’s everybody going?”
“Hunting,” said Emily.
Austinberry stared at them for a long time, a gaze that was meant to be burning, and said, “Oh goody.”
They stopped the truck at an old homestead. Lucien let Sadie out to tear around the buildings while they looked through the broken windows; all the glass was on the floor. There were worn-out irrigator boots and a Scotch cap hanging on a nail. The place had been empty a long time. There was a tin of bag balm on the sill that was heavy enough to be full, but the lid was rusted shut. The gray outbuildings surrounded a common space, and the sense of their being huddled against terrific and frightening outside forces was enough to make Lucien glad he had never faced the frontier. That was no spot for a guy who trips over his own feet.
The first field had been in years past a great one for birds. It was level and uniform, and the scent of fowl had lingered in its invisible air currents. A dog like Sadie would make a strong race and lock on point in the first two minutes. A wheel-line sprinkler lay across it like a monster.
“Emily,” he said as they went along down the furrows, “how is it you’re so calm?”
“I’m not calm. I’m fatalistic.”
Lucien took this in. “You know I had a drink with your attorney.”
“Oh, I wish that you hadn’t done that.”
“Well, I did, and
I
wish he were more optimistic.”
“There’s nothing for him to be optimistic about. He knows I’d do it again.”
They hit a good stubble field. There was still
“I see.”
“No, you don’t see. What you see is acquittal for her and a fresh start for the two of you. Y’know, quiet evenings around your paint-by-numbers kit out there to the ranch.”
“You’re getting a little loose-lipped now. This thing is bad enough without the grandstanding. I mean, spare me. And make that your last one—” Lucien pointed at his drink. “Tank towns know few more unpleasant eyesores than native-son lawyers with land-grant educationstottering out of some roadhouse where they know the owner.… I got to go.”
He started to leave. The lawyer called after him, “One’ll get you ten you lose the hundred thou.”
When Lucien looked back, the lawyer had a light sweat from thinking up his last line. It was like a jog around the block for a guy who runs a lot. He looked fairly pleased with himself, but Lucien appreciated him: freewheeling hick-town wise guys were getting scarce.
Lucien tried to think directly about Emily shooting her husband, a brutal Type A personality who took it out on all and sundry. Emily would look the facts in the eye. Lucien felt he had never been able to do that. He could see her weighing the old husband in the scales of justice the way a park superintendent reviews the record of a garbage-raiding bear who is scaring the campers: we’ve got one here who’s got to go.
Lucien got up early and made breakfast. It was a wood stove with a water jacket, and kind of amusing to run. It had a lot of hot spots on top, so cooking eggs required moving the skillet around until you found a reasonable temperature that didn’t burn them up. Today they were going hunting.
Lucien stole some glances attempting to see storm clouds on her brow as she ate. There weren’t too many storm clouds. She still had the serenity of the class beauty transported through years of tribulation like a vase that has survived a revolution. It seemed a handsome contrast to his infuriating jauntiness, the air of boyish resilience that had probably cost him Emily in the first place. An eighteen-year-old boy with the air of a tired salesman thirty years his senior will get all the girls every time.
When they started out of the kitchen, Austinberry appeared and asked, “Where’s everybody going?”
“Hunting,” said Emily.
Austinberry stared at them for a long time, a gaze that was meant to be burning, and said, “Oh goody.”
They stopped the truck at an old homestead. Lucien let Sadie out to tear around the buildings while they looked through the broken windows; all the glass was on the floor. There were worn-out irrigator boots and a Scotch cap hanging on a nail. The place had been empty a long time. There was a tin of bag balm on the sill that was heavy enough to be full, but the lid was rusted shut. The gray outbuildings surrounded a common space, and the sense of their being huddled against terrific and frightening outside forces was enough to make Lucien glad he had never faced the frontier. That was no spot for a guy who trips over his own feet.
The first field had been in years past a great one for birds. It was level and uniform, and the scent of fowl had lingered in its invisible air currents. A dog like Sadie would make a strong race and lock on point in the first two minutes. A wheel-line sprinkler lay across it like a monster.
“Emily,” he said as they went along down the furrows, “how is it you’re so calm?”
“I’m not calm. I’m fatalistic.”
Lucien took this in. “You know I had a drink with your attorney.”
“Oh, I wish that you hadn’t done that.”
“Well, I did, and
I
wish he were more optimistic.”
“There’s nothing for him to be optimistic about. He knows I’d do it again.”
They hit a good stubble field. There was still
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