much left of its former glory. Markos’s diner. A bakery, a market, a hardware store. The stores that had once appealed to tourists—the bike shop, the kite shop, the ice cream shop, the toy store, the women’s clothing boutiques—were open fewer and fewer hours, and some had shuttered for good, leaving empty storefronts.
But dotted here and there, mostly along the shore, were pockets of old wealth, owners of homes on cliff and beach who’d been unwilling to sell even as the town had shrunk, and it was these houses that Kincaid’s boss’s landscaping company mostly served. Some owners were rarely—or never—home, and Green Thumb did all the gardening and upkeep. These were the best jobs, because you could work in solitude.
Kincaid would never have guessed how much he’d like working with plants. Despite how at home he felt in the woods—despite the forest tattoo on his right arm and the moss tattoo on his left—he’d never thought of himself as a guy with a green thumb, or even someone remotely sentimental about nature’s soothing qualities. But he liked landscaping, liked driving the powerful lawn tractor, liked the soothing repetition of pruning, the artistry of deciding which branches to take out of a tree. He even liked weeding, grubbing in the sandy dirt, yanking out interlopers and giving ground back to the flowers. He liked that it felt like tricking evolution, messing with survival of the fittest. Man dictating his terms to nature.
The soil here didn’t smell quite like the forest on his grandmother’s land. This land smelled of bark and loam, the scent of expensive materials ordered in trucks and spread from wheelbarrows by men like him who were lucky to have the work. The other men on the crew today were all immigrants from El Salvador and Guatemala, who mostly spoke amongst themselves in Spanish, occasionally casting him a glance that lingered somewhere between guilt at excluding him and resentment at being put in the position of having to feel guilty. Kincaid was pretty sure most of them were illegal. Rodney, Green Thumb’s owner, didn’t ask questions, which is why Kincaid worked for him.
Not
that it mattered, not that thinking about the past offered anything but nostalgia and loss, but pre-prison, Kincaid had worked for Yeowing’s Board of Health. He’d planned to go to the police academy and become the town’s sheriff. He’d loved the town that much, enough to become its protector and enforcer—
And wasn’t it ironic that now he was its villain?
In OSP—the Oregon State pen—he’d had a job, too. Jailhouse lawyer, best there was. It was crazy to say he missed anything about those days, but he did. He missed being good at what he did, and he missed the way men came to him with their problems. He missed law itself, how it could be simple and tangled at the same time, how you could tease it apart and figure out which buttons to push and get
justice
out of it.
He had this crazy idea that maybe he’d keep studying. So if circumstances ever aligned, he could finish college and go to law school. He’d do environmental law, bring it all together.
The only person he’d told was Grant, and Grant had given him a look.
Don’t get too attached to that dream,
Grant’s expression said. The words he’d said aloud were: “In Oregon, there’s no law that says an ex-con can’t sit for the bar,” but Kincaid could see how deep his doubt was.
And that was
Grant.
Grant, who’d believed in Kincaid enough to represent him, who’d argued publicly that he’d done what he’d done “in defense of others.” He’d fought a second battle to keep Kincaid out of maximum security. And then, when that had failed, Grant had watched his own marriage fall apart while he gave Kincaid a crash course in jailhouse law so he could make himself useful instead of dead in prison.
So if Grant didn’t think Kincaid could do it, the chances probably weren’t too good. Still, Kincaid wasn’t ready to give
But dotted here and there, mostly along the shore, were pockets of old wealth, owners of homes on cliff and beach who’d been unwilling to sell even as the town had shrunk, and it was these houses that Kincaid’s boss’s landscaping company mostly served. Some owners were rarely—or never—home, and Green Thumb did all the gardening and upkeep. These were the best jobs, because you could work in solitude.
Kincaid would never have guessed how much he’d like working with plants. Despite how at home he felt in the woods—despite the forest tattoo on his right arm and the moss tattoo on his left—he’d never thought of himself as a guy with a green thumb, or even someone remotely sentimental about nature’s soothing qualities. But he liked landscaping, liked driving the powerful lawn tractor, liked the soothing repetition of pruning, the artistry of deciding which branches to take out of a tree. He even liked weeding, grubbing in the sandy dirt, yanking out interlopers and giving ground back to the flowers. He liked that it felt like tricking evolution, messing with survival of the fittest. Man dictating his terms to nature.
The soil here didn’t smell quite like the forest on his grandmother’s land. This land smelled of bark and loam, the scent of expensive materials ordered in trucks and spread from wheelbarrows by men like him who were lucky to have the work. The other men on the crew today were all immigrants from El Salvador and Guatemala, who mostly spoke amongst themselves in Spanish, occasionally casting him a glance that lingered somewhere between guilt at excluding him and resentment at being put in the position of having to feel guilty. Kincaid was pretty sure most of them were illegal. Rodney, Green Thumb’s owner, didn’t ask questions, which is why Kincaid worked for him.
Not
that it mattered, not that thinking about the past offered anything but nostalgia and loss, but pre-prison, Kincaid had worked for Yeowing’s Board of Health. He’d planned to go to the police academy and become the town’s sheriff. He’d loved the town that much, enough to become its protector and enforcer—
And wasn’t it ironic that now he was its villain?
In OSP—the Oregon State pen—he’d had a job, too. Jailhouse lawyer, best there was. It was crazy to say he missed anything about those days, but he did. He missed being good at what he did, and he missed the way men came to him with their problems. He missed law itself, how it could be simple and tangled at the same time, how you could tease it apart and figure out which buttons to push and get
justice
out of it.
He had this crazy idea that maybe he’d keep studying. So if circumstances ever aligned, he could finish college and go to law school. He’d do environmental law, bring it all together.
The only person he’d told was Grant, and Grant had given him a look.
Don’t get too attached to that dream,
Grant’s expression said. The words he’d said aloud were: “In Oregon, there’s no law that says an ex-con can’t sit for the bar,” but Kincaid could see how deep his doubt was.
And that was
Grant.
Grant, who’d believed in Kincaid enough to represent him, who’d argued publicly that he’d done what he’d done “in defense of others.” He’d fought a second battle to keep Kincaid out of maximum security. And then, when that had failed, Grant had watched his own marriage fall apart while he gave Kincaid a crash course in jailhouse law so he could make himself useful instead of dead in prison.
So if Grant didn’t think Kincaid could do it, the chances probably weren’t too good. Still, Kincaid wasn’t ready to give
Similar Books
