The Last Death of Jack Harbin by Terry Shames Page B

waist.
    â€œYou going to talk to Jack?” I ask.
    She grimaces. “No. I talked to him last night.”
    â€œI’m surprised he was in any shape to have a conversation.”
    â€œHe wasn’t. But he called me after I got home, and I went over there.” She turns a forced smile to me.
    â€œHe have any idea about how to deal with Curtis?”
    â€œWe didn’t get around to that.” She stands up. “Let’s get out of here. I’m tired. Guess I’m too old for this.”

I promised Laurel that I’d have a talk with Woody, so I go over Saturday morning. Woody and Laurel live in Laurel’s old home place, a sprawling octopus of a house that’s been added on to every which way. I make my way through a yard littered with all kinds of kid’s conveyances, most of them missing a wheel or two.
    My knock on the door generates shrieks inside the house that make me steel myself in case I get tackled. But it’s Laurel who answers the door. She’s laughing. “Come on in. These boys are about to get sent off to the insane asylum at Rusk; or maybe I’ll get sent there for strangling them barehanded.”
    One of the ruffians in question, a boy of about five, charges up to the door and looks me up and down and bellows, “Howdy Mister!” Then he screams and dashes away.
    â€œI can see your problem,” I say.
    â€œIf you’re looking for Woody, he’s out back. I’ll throw some hamburgers into these boys, which may give you two time to talk.”
    â€œIt’s a little early for lunch, isn’t it?”
    â€œNot when you’re up at six. On a school day I have to drag them out of bed, but this is Saturday. They get up at the crack of dawn so they don’t miss a minute of it.”
    She leads me through a minefield of toys to the back door. In some part of the house there’s a TV turned on loud, probably Laurel’s mother, who lives with them, trying to drown out the racket. I can’t even imagine how Laurel’s mother would react to having Jack live here.
    Out back, Woody is standing in front of his work shed, in the final stages of painting a chest of drawers. He’s put a coat of shiny black on the frame and painted the drawers a shade of jade green. I never imagined that Woody would end up making a living refinishing furniture; but turns out he has a knack for it, and he gets orders from as far away as Houston. He’s a happy man with a paintbrush in his hand. A couple of scruffy dogs lie in the shade at the side of the shed. They lift their heads to examine me, decide I’m all right, and go back to their nap.
    â€œChief Craddock, this is a nice surprise. Let me finish this little corner and then I’ll be right with you.”
    He hums along with a country and western song blaring from his portable radio as he finishes up. Then he steps back to admire the work. “What do you think?”
    â€œLooks good to me.”
    He turns down the radio and disappears into the shed for a few minutes to clean his brushes. He comes back out drying his hands just as Laurel pokes her head out and tells us she’s got some coffee ready.
    We take our coffee to a rickety wooden table and a couple of chairs out under a pecan tree. It’s hot, but the trees give us some shade.
    I meant to buttonhole Woody at Bob Harbin’s funeral, but with the commotion, I didn’t have the opportunity. And now that I’m here, I can’t think how to approach him without seeming presumptuous.
    â€œSounds like Coach Eldridge redeemed himself last night,” he says, rescuing me for the moment. “Laurel and I had to go to Bobtail and couldn’t make the game.”
    He takes a sip of his coffee, grimaces, and tosses the rest of it onto the grass. “The day Laurel learns how to make coffee is going to be a red letter day.”
    I grin. I know what he means, having already tried mine and found it