and sips his coffee and tells Billyabout the fox. This is where they have that conversation, such as it is. Then they sit, quiet for as long as you can imagine. Drinking coffee and not saying anything of importance or nonimportance for me to take down. So I must let them sit there in their silent cocoon while I record the other things.
The wind has picked up significantly today. Strong enough even to shake the branches of the oak tree, at least at the edges, to make the moss sway. The tall grasses try to stand straight but are blown westward. The wind is coming from the east, as if the sun were blowing with its rising, breathing heavily over Shibboleth, as if it were moving things about, clearing all the dead away.
âI love this place,â Nehemiah says. He looks to his left and right as if the words had come in of their own accord, carrying with them their own agenda.
âYou always will,â Billy says. Then they are quiet again. It is the quiet that gives me more words than you can imagine. It is the quiet that lets me read whatâs in their hearts, lets me put my finger on Nehemiahâs fear (and he is not a fearful man). On Billyâs concern.
âYou should paint the house, Billy.â
âI was waiting on you.â Billy says and spins the lazy Susan in the center of the table for no reason except to watch it turn.
If we let our eyes wander up and over them, out beyond the back field where the garden is lying fallow ready to be seeded, and through the stand of trees, the scrub oaks and big magnolias and a few firs, theyâll carry us straight down the road where weâll run right into Main Street. There we can easily travel over to Magnolia to the house of Magnus, and see her feeding and shooing cats, trying to divide their food, making sure the skinny ones get to eat and the fat ones sit and watch for a while. It is a precarious, demanding job.
We can see Trice spooning oatmeal into her mouth at the table, mindlessly eating while she reads from a book. It is a story about traveling to faraway places, a story filled with exotic flavors so pungent that she lifts her feet up off the ground and begins dancing on her toes even while sitting down. She is unaware that Nehemiah is about. She has forgotten about the whole affair. She delivered her message and rode home, sleeping most of the way with Billy listening to the radio because with her asleep he could drive without Trice singing along. You canât get her to shut up. And Trice can sing to beat the band, but sometimes he just wants to hear the music like he is alone. And driving home he could do that.
But now, Trice doesnât look as if she remembers the trip at all. Isnât the least bit concerned about the things that previously had weighed so heavy on her mind and heart. All that revelation has dissipated, as if she had run her portion of the race, had passed the baton, and was now free to sit down, mindlessly spooning oatmeal, at least until Chapter 4, which is where sheâll be when Magnus finds something that must be done.
At the wildly manicured yard of Magnus (which provides great hiding places for the cats to slink and pounce), the road takes a sharp curve past the mailbox. We can then turn back and follow it to the center of things and see that Kate is busy in the kitchen making a batch of potato salad that she is going to offer up at lunch. She occasionally wipes her hands on her apron and walks to the front window, looking out between the cafe curtains (which she notices should be washed and ironed again), and looks up at the clock. It is 8:35, and she is thinking Nehemiah is running late. Or might not come. But thatâs all right, she tells herself, I know where to find him. And if he doesnât walk in here in the next hour, heâll be sorry. She doesnât even know why she feels this way. Not really. But her sights have been set. Sheâs not backing down.
Billy stretches his legs out under
The wind has picked up significantly today. Strong enough even to shake the branches of the oak tree, at least at the edges, to make the moss sway. The tall grasses try to stand straight but are blown westward. The wind is coming from the east, as if the sun were blowing with its rising, breathing heavily over Shibboleth, as if it were moving things about, clearing all the dead away.
âI love this place,â Nehemiah says. He looks to his left and right as if the words had come in of their own accord, carrying with them their own agenda.
âYou always will,â Billy says. Then they are quiet again. It is the quiet that gives me more words than you can imagine. It is the quiet that lets me read whatâs in their hearts, lets me put my finger on Nehemiahâs fear (and he is not a fearful man). On Billyâs concern.
âYou should paint the house, Billy.â
âI was waiting on you.â Billy says and spins the lazy Susan in the center of the table for no reason except to watch it turn.
If we let our eyes wander up and over them, out beyond the back field where the garden is lying fallow ready to be seeded, and through the stand of trees, the scrub oaks and big magnolias and a few firs, theyâll carry us straight down the road where weâll run right into Main Street. There we can easily travel over to Magnolia to the house of Magnus, and see her feeding and shooing cats, trying to divide their food, making sure the skinny ones get to eat and the fat ones sit and watch for a while. It is a precarious, demanding job.
We can see Trice spooning oatmeal into her mouth at the table, mindlessly eating while she reads from a book. It is a story about traveling to faraway places, a story filled with exotic flavors so pungent that she lifts her feet up off the ground and begins dancing on her toes even while sitting down. She is unaware that Nehemiah is about. She has forgotten about the whole affair. She delivered her message and rode home, sleeping most of the way with Billy listening to the radio because with her asleep he could drive without Trice singing along. You canât get her to shut up. And Trice can sing to beat the band, but sometimes he just wants to hear the music like he is alone. And driving home he could do that.
But now, Trice doesnât look as if she remembers the trip at all. Isnât the least bit concerned about the things that previously had weighed so heavy on her mind and heart. All that revelation has dissipated, as if she had run her portion of the race, had passed the baton, and was now free to sit down, mindlessly spooning oatmeal, at least until Chapter 4, which is where sheâll be when Magnus finds something that must be done.
At the wildly manicured yard of Magnus (which provides great hiding places for the cats to slink and pounce), the road takes a sharp curve past the mailbox. We can then turn back and follow it to the center of things and see that Kate is busy in the kitchen making a batch of potato salad that she is going to offer up at lunch. She occasionally wipes her hands on her apron and walks to the front window, looking out between the cafe curtains (which she notices should be washed and ironed again), and looks up at the clock. It is 8:35, and she is thinking Nehemiah is running late. Or might not come. But thatâs all right, she tells herself, I know where to find him. And if he doesnât walk in here in the next hour, heâll be sorry. She doesnât even know why she feels this way. Not really. But her sights have been set. Sheâs not backing down.
Billy stretches his legs out under
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