Don’t think of yourself as a Yankee anymore. You’re about gettin’ over it.”
Fletch began breaking eggs into a large bowl.
Jack had been amazed to see Fletch come out of the henhouse carrying eleven eggs. “Wow!” he said. “You make your own eggs!” Then he said, “They’re dirty!”
Fletch said, “You think they were hatched already scrambled with milk and butter?”
Jack grinned. “I was hatched sunnyside up, I was.”
“I see,” Fletch said. “So you scrambled yourself.”
Near them on the driveway outside the henhouse, Leary, clutching his stomach, stumbled around in small circles. Exhausted, bruised, frightened, nearly drowned, run over by a horse, terrified by landing on a corpse, he was about as worn down as a man could be.
Fletch thought Leary did not have a whole lot of fight left in him.
Emory had parked his noisy truck in the shade of one of the sheds. He had fed the horses and the hens.
When Fletch came out of the henhouse, Emory was standing aside. First his eyes studied Jack. Then Leary.
Then he looked at Fletch.
Fletch said, “Say hello to Jack Fletcher, Emory.”
“Jack Fletcher?” It was hard to surprise or impress Emory. In the years Emory had worked for Fletch he had seen many people, country-music stars, authors, politicians, African and African-American leaders, slip on and off the farm. When people in the area asked Emory who had just been to the farm, Emory’s answer had always been the same:
I didn’t notice
. Fletch knew Emory would not ask if Jack were son, nephew, cousin, or coincidence.
Emory and Jack shook hands.
Warily, Emory looked at Leary again. Fletch noticed that Leary’s shirt and jeans were so muddy and torn the signsidentifying him as a convict were invisible. “Who’s he? Is he goin’ to be workin’ here?”
“No,” Fletch answered. “In fact, Emory, I want you to do this for me. Go get the truck and put the cattle grills on it.” The grills were steel bars that would make a pen, nine feet high, all three sides, on the back of the pickup truck. “Throw a couple of small bales of hay on it. Then put that calf bull aboard, that little bastard who’s discovered he can walk through barbed wire fences. Then put the truck up near the house, in the shade.”
Jack muttered, “Wish you wouldn’t be so free with the word
bastard.”
“Sorry, Coitus Interruptus.”
Emory started to move toward the house to get the truck. “You heard the news yet this mornin’?” He appeared to be asking his boots.
“No,” Fletch answered. “Anything interesting?”
Emory turned around and walked backward. “Something about escaped convicts. Nine or ten of them. From Missouri, or some such place. They say they’re here somewhere in the county.”
“Oh, sure,” Fletch said. “They always have to make a story, don’t they? Just to frighten the horses. By the way, Emory, Carrie will be deliverin’ the bull for me, and I’ll be takin’ Jack here down to the University of North Alabama. If anyone’s lookin’ for us.”
“Not to worry.” Emory turned around to walk frontward over the bridge. “I brought my gun.”
Driving the truck, Emory passed Fletch and Jack herding Leary toward the back of the house.
In the kitchen, Fletch said to Carrie, “The third one is outside. His name is Leary. I told Jack to get him stript and hose him down.”
Carrie looked through the kitchen window. “Big. Ugly.”
“Stupid.”
In low voices, while cooking together, Fletch outlined his thoughts regarding the truck, the bull calf, Leary, Carrie; the station wagon, Jack, Kriegel, himself. Carrie not only agreed, she relished the plan. She refined a few of its elements.
They focused on what they did not yet know.
Outside the back door, Fletch waited for Jack to turn off the hose before handing him a plate of ham and eggs. Standing in the morning sunlight, Jack proceeded to eat his breakfast.
When Fletch handed Leary his breakfast, Leary sat cross-legged
Fletch began breaking eggs into a large bowl.
Jack had been amazed to see Fletch come out of the henhouse carrying eleven eggs. “Wow!” he said. “You make your own eggs!” Then he said, “They’re dirty!”
Fletch said, “You think they were hatched already scrambled with milk and butter?”
Jack grinned. “I was hatched sunnyside up, I was.”
“I see,” Fletch said. “So you scrambled yourself.”
Near them on the driveway outside the henhouse, Leary, clutching his stomach, stumbled around in small circles. Exhausted, bruised, frightened, nearly drowned, run over by a horse, terrified by landing on a corpse, he was about as worn down as a man could be.
Fletch thought Leary did not have a whole lot of fight left in him.
Emory had parked his noisy truck in the shade of one of the sheds. He had fed the horses and the hens.
When Fletch came out of the henhouse, Emory was standing aside. First his eyes studied Jack. Then Leary.
Then he looked at Fletch.
Fletch said, “Say hello to Jack Fletcher, Emory.”
“Jack Fletcher?” It was hard to surprise or impress Emory. In the years Emory had worked for Fletch he had seen many people, country-music stars, authors, politicians, African and African-American leaders, slip on and off the farm. When people in the area asked Emory who had just been to the farm, Emory’s answer had always been the same:
I didn’t notice
. Fletch knew Emory would not ask if Jack were son, nephew, cousin, or coincidence.
Emory and Jack shook hands.
Warily, Emory looked at Leary again. Fletch noticed that Leary’s shirt and jeans were so muddy and torn the signsidentifying him as a convict were invisible. “Who’s he? Is he goin’ to be workin’ here?”
“No,” Fletch answered. “In fact, Emory, I want you to do this for me. Go get the truck and put the cattle grills on it.” The grills were steel bars that would make a pen, nine feet high, all three sides, on the back of the pickup truck. “Throw a couple of small bales of hay on it. Then put that calf bull aboard, that little bastard who’s discovered he can walk through barbed wire fences. Then put the truck up near the house, in the shade.”
Jack muttered, “Wish you wouldn’t be so free with the word
bastard.”
“Sorry, Coitus Interruptus.”
Emory started to move toward the house to get the truck. “You heard the news yet this mornin’?” He appeared to be asking his boots.
“No,” Fletch answered. “Anything interesting?”
Emory turned around and walked backward. “Something about escaped convicts. Nine or ten of them. From Missouri, or some such place. They say they’re here somewhere in the county.”
“Oh, sure,” Fletch said. “They always have to make a story, don’t they? Just to frighten the horses. By the way, Emory, Carrie will be deliverin’ the bull for me, and I’ll be takin’ Jack here down to the University of North Alabama. If anyone’s lookin’ for us.”
“Not to worry.” Emory turned around to walk frontward over the bridge. “I brought my gun.”
Driving the truck, Emory passed Fletch and Jack herding Leary toward the back of the house.
In the kitchen, Fletch said to Carrie, “The third one is outside. His name is Leary. I told Jack to get him stript and hose him down.”
Carrie looked through the kitchen window. “Big. Ugly.”
“Stupid.”
In low voices, while cooking together, Fletch outlined his thoughts regarding the truck, the bull calf, Leary, Carrie; the station wagon, Jack, Kriegel, himself. Carrie not only agreed, she relished the plan. She refined a few of its elements.
They focused on what they did not yet know.
Outside the back door, Fletch waited for Jack to turn off the hose before handing him a plate of ham and eggs. Standing in the morning sunlight, Jack proceeded to eat his breakfast.
When Fletch handed Leary his breakfast, Leary sat cross-legged
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