“So have you ever heard of Ivan Dodge?” Lee asks. The hot sun is now behind them and it’s a relief not to be heading into it.
“No,” Shiloh says. “Should I have?”
Lee reaches into his pocket and pulls out the old watch. “This could be his pocket watch,” he says. He knows it’s probably not, but it belonged to some old-time cowboy. He tells Shiloh the story of the hundred-mile race and he makes up a part about Ivan losing his watch and how Lee found it, the very watch, in a coulee. When he’s done telling it the best he can remember, he puts the watch back in his pocket.
“Is that it?” asks Shiloh.
“Well, it’s a pretty good story, don’t you think?”
To the north, they see another small herd of cattle. About twenty cows and calves are spread along the flat, most of the calves stretched out in the late-afternoon sun. Lee and Shiloh notice a coyote that is sitting in the grass, watching the cows. He turns his attention to horse and riders briefly, but decides they’re far enough away that he doesn’t have to worry about them. He settles on one cow that is grazing on the edge of the small herd, her calf asleep in the grass nearby. The coyote stands, shakes himself nonchalantly, and then approaches the sleeping calf. When he gets too close for the cow’s comfort, she takes a run at him. The coyote backs off, sits and gives himself a scratch behind one ear, and then approaches again. Once more the cow runs him off.
“Cheeky bugger,” Lee says.
He stops the horse and they watch as the coyote approaches the sleeping calf several more times and each time is chased off by the cow. Finally the coyote decides he’s had enough and he moves off to the north and disappears.
“He knew all along he wasn’t going to get close to that calf,” Lee says. “He was just having fun.”
He asks Shiloh if he’s good for a jog.
“Whatever,” Shiloh says. “I’m in no hurry.”
“We might as well get home before tomorrow,” Lee says.
He urges the horse up into a trot and the animal pricks his ears forward as they head eastward, and then breaks into an easy lope. Lee can feel Shiloh immediately find the horse’s rhythm. The kid can ride, Lee thinks. If the horse hadn’t caught him off guard, maybe he could have handled the buck, and then what would have happened? Lee would be walking the last leg of the hundred miles, just like the old Perry cowboy, the one who lost the race.
They’re silent for a long time and the horse slows up to give himself a rest and Shiloh says to Lee’s back, “My dad says you’re lucky.”
Without stopping to think, Lee asks, “How’s that?”
“How you got all that land, all paid for.”
Lee isn’t sure how to respond, how much Shiloh knows about Blaine and Vicki’s situation. At the same time, Lee is on the defensive, wondering what Blaine has said about him, his private business.
“It was passed on to me, just like Blaine’s land was.”
“Yeah, but it’s different,” Shiloh says.
Lee lets it go. It is different, and compared to Blaine he is lucky. He wouldn’t let anyone get away with calling Lester lucky. Every-thing Lester had was earned through hard work and frugality. As for himself . . . he agrees. So far, just lucky.
“My dad’s going to buy another herd of cows, you know,” Shiloh says. “That’s why he’s working construction. Maybe this fall.”
“Good,” says Lee. “I hope that works out for him.” He feels bad for the kid. An idea comes to him. “You ever have a 4-H calf?” he asks.
“Course,” says Shiloh.
“I could use a hand once in a while, there on my own,” Lee says. “You want another calf, you could earn one by helping me out. Few hours on a Saturday here and there, maybe after school. When your dad doesn’t need you at home, that is. Think about it.”
“I’ll think about it,” Shiloh says. “But we’re pretty busy at our place. I might not have time.” Then he says, “You can drop me near town, I guess. When we get there.”
“I could drive you home from my place,” Lee offers.
“I’ll walk from town,” says Shiloh.
A dust devil blows across the prairie, carrying dirt and sand into their path. Lee automatically closes his eyes. When he opens them again he thinks he can see Juliet in the distance, but it’s just a mirage.
Handyman
Norval is sitting on the bottom step in the church basement, and Joe is standing at the top of the stairs looking down at him, obviously perplexed. When Norval tries to stand he realizes that one foot has gone completely to sleep and it crumples—the oddest sensation, no feeling at all, as though his foot has been amputated—and he has to put a hand to the wall to keep from falling over.
“What are you doing down there, Norval?” Joe asks, and Norval mumbles something about resting his feet.
He takes his hand away from the wall and brushes off his khaki pants, and now he can feel the pins and needles as his foot comes back to life, and he realizes that even with the foot awake, he has the sensation that he is floating.
“Is that your new lawn mower out there?” Joe asks. His deep voice booms down the stairwell.
Norval nods and manages to say that he just picked it up at the hardware store.
“We could use a new one here at the church,” Joe says.
Norval lifts his foot and rubs his ankle, floating on one leg now, and says that Joe can have his old one if he wants to fix it up, and if it’s better than the old one he already has. They talk about lawn mowers—gas versus electric, whether a riding mower is really necessary for anyone with a small property—while Joe stands at the top of the stairs and Norval floats around at the bottom, like a man in a life raft.
Finally Joe says, “I guess there’s no point me standing here, is there?” and he descends, and then launches into an explanation of why he is so late. He did get Norval’s message, he says, but then his sister phoned and she had a leaky water pipe and it was spraying all over the laundry room and she didn’t know how to shut the water off, so Joe had to rush over and do an emergency repair, and then he had to help clean up the water before it ran all over the basement and ruined the carpet. Why his sister didn’t just call a plumber, he doesn’t know. “But I guess,” Joe says, “if there’s a handyman in the family, you’re going to call him first.” And then he says, “What the heck did you do to your pants?” He’s looking at the paint spot.
“Painting accident,” Norval says. Nothing more. He doesn’t want to explain about the Dolsons and the mess. “What time is it?” he asks. He could look at his own watch but it seems like too much trouble.
Joe tells him it’s after seven.
After seven. That means he’s been sitting on the bottom step for over an hour.
“Is everything all right, Norval?” Joe asks. “You don’t seem quite yourself.”
Norval pauses and thinks about whether or not he is all right, whether a person who is all right hovers in a church basement, whether a person who is all right would think, in the presence of a man with a gun, Give me whatever I deserve. Surely he was wrong when he concluded he deserved nothing. He begins to write a manifesto in his head, to list what he deserves other than nothing: I, Norval Birch, deserve a chance to . . . But before he articulates even one opportunity, he feels his feet hit the floor. Thud, he can almost feel the jarring in his ankles, right on up to his knees, and with his feet on the ground it seems so obvious that even if he does deserve more than nothing, he certainly doesn’t deserve more than what he already has. The shiny new lawn mower outside is evidence of the adequacy of his life.
He looks at Joe, waiting patiently with a somewhat worried look on his face, and he segues from his state of mind into the real reason he is here. “I’m fine,” he says. “It’s just a bit awkward. The wife . . .” And then he clears his throat and stands firmly on both feet and
takes Lila’s list out of his pocket and explains to Joe, calmly but firmly, that the church is in need of cosmetic repair.
Joe looks at him as he speaks, listening, nodding agreement. He concurs that the lighting is a problem, as is the waxy buildup on the pews. Norval is careful to say Not your fault, Joe, several times throughout his discourse, and Joe nods No offense taken, and he even agrees that a more modern look would improve the reception hall. They talk about paint colors—cranberry and taupe and olive green—and Joe says that green would be very nice on the walls as long as they keep the ceiling white so it’s not too dark, and white trim—smart, yes. They run through all the items on Lila’s list, giving them the same serious consideration, and when they come to the end, Norval folds the list in half and says, “Well, then.”
Joe, still nodding, says that there is a meeting of the maintenance committee next week and he’ll put this to them and he’s sure they’ll welcome suggestions. “Although,” he says, “the stained-glass windows upstairs are in pretty bad shape. Something needs to be done there before it’s too late.”
Norval says he realizes the windows have to be a priority; they don’t want the windows falling into such disrepair that they can’t be fixed. Still, he uses Lila’s argument when he says, “These other things are important, too, if we want to keep weddings in the community.”
“You’re right,” Joe says, nodding until Norval wonders if his head might bob off. “No argument from me,” Joe says, “that the place needs sprucing up.”
No argument, so much accord, but Norval knows—as he did before he phoned Joe earlier—that not one of Lila’s demands will be met in time for Rachelle’s wedding.
“I’d best get home,” he says. “I’ll be in the doghouse if Lila’s supper gets cold.”
Joe apologizes again for being late and tells Norval he can blame the cold supper on him.
Norval ascends from the basement and steps out into the sunlight, not at all worried that Blaine Dolson will be waiting. He knows he won’t be. He sees his sports jacket hanging on the lawn mower and sticks Lila’s list in a pocket, then wheels his new mower up the sidewalk toward home. In the kitchen, he drapes his sports jacket over the back of a chair and then manages to get upstairs to change clothes before Lila notices the paint stains. He places his phone on his bedside table before tossing his pants and shirt in the back of his closet, thinking he might even throw them out rather than explain.
When he gets to the kitchen his supper is indeed cold, but he’s saved from Lila’s reproach when he says he was talking to Joe at the church.
“Well, you could have let me know,” she says, carrying his plate to the microwave just as the phone rings.
Norval is going to ignore it, but Lila says, “It might be Rachelle,” which he takes to mean that Rachelle is off again, who knows where. He picks up the receiver and it’s Mrs. Baxter, who has already heard a rumor that her rival candidate didn’t show up for her interview. This should make Norval crazy—the way news travels, that nothing in this town remains confidential—but it doesn’t. He calmly tells Mrs. Baxter that, yes, she is now officially in the running for the job, while he silently gives thanks that Rachelle will not be in Mrs. Baxter’s class next year. He apologizes that he has to cut the call short, but his wife has supper on the table, and of course Mrs. Baxter understands the urgency of a hot meal.
Norval returns the phone to its cradle, then sits at the table to enjoy his warmed-up, heart-smart stir-fry. He picks up the chopsticks that Lila insists they use with Asian food and examines them for crusted bits of the last meal they were used for. This infuriates Lila because her kitchen is nothing if it isn’t clean. She sits across from him, wanting to know what Norval said and what Joe said, and what exactly did Joe promise?
“He promised,” Norval said, “to speak with the maintenance committee. He’s the janitor, Lila. It’s not up to him.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, of course it is,” Lila says. “You’re just not assertive enough.”
“You know, Lila,” Norval says, “I was almost shot today.” He aims for his mouth with the green beans and lean beef strips that are pinched precariously between his chopsticks, then lifts his plate to shorten the distance that he has to transport his food.
Lila stares at him. “You were almost shot today?” she says, alarm in her voice.
Norval concentrates on holding the chopsticks the way Lila showed him. If Lila weren’t here, he’d give up and get proper cutlery out of the drawer.
“Eating with chopsticks requires my undivided attention, Lila,” he says.
“A robbery?” Lila asks. “Did someone try to rob the bank?”
“Not a robbery,” Norval says. “At least not one where I was the victim.”
Lila prods him for information, but he says no more and eats until his plate is clean save for a few grains of rice that he can’t manage to pick up. Then he pushes his chair away from the table. “That was good,” he says. “Hit the spot.”
Norval goes to the living room, where he turns on the television and sits on the couch. He tries to find a news channel, but when he does he can’t make sense of all the information that it throws at him: sports scores down the side, headlines scrolling across the bottom, someone talking at him, elaborating on a topic that is not related to any of the headlines on the screen. He starts to feel again as though he’s floating.
Lila appears in the arched doorway, silent now, seething. “Norval,” she asks, “what in the world happened today? You can’t just say ‘I was almost shot’ and then sit there watching the news. What kind of a man does that to his wife?”
“What kind of man?” Norval says. “Very good question. A lucky man, I suppose, when he can use the word almost.”
He switches to the weather channel and watches the forecast for the Caribbean. The weather is not especially good in the Caribbean. Cuba is experiencing unusually high winds and below-normal temperatures. There’s a short video clip of a honeymoon couple from Canada confirming the poor state of the weather. “It’s sure not beach weather,” the young woman says.
At that moment Rachelle storms through the front door.
“The wedding is off,” she says when she sees Lila, and Norval on the couch.
“What do you mean, the wedding is off?” Lila asks.
“Just what I said.”
“The wedding can’t be off.”
“Why not?” Rachelle asks.
“Because you’re still pregnant, for one thing,” Lila says.
“I am sick to death of hearing about that,” Rachelle says, and goes to her room.
Norval and Lila hear the door slam.
“And what do you have to say, Norval?” Lila asks. “That is, if you will lower yourself to say anything much at all.”
Lower, an interesting choice of word, he thinks, when he is floating again. “It’s a relief,” he says.
“A relief. That’s it.”
“Yes,” says Norval. “Exactly.”
“I don’t deserve this,” says Lila.
And then Norval finds out that he, in fact, does deserve something after all. He grabs at his chest—of course, why didn’t I think of this?—while Lila cries, “Norval, Norval, what’s happening?”
HURRY, SUNDOWN
Rendezvous
When Lee passes through a gate on the western edge of Hank’s home pasture, he sees right away that he was wrong the night before when he assumed Hank had moved his yearlings. Just inside the fence line there’s a slough with a puddle of water in the bottom and the calves standing in mud around it. Lee remembers the open gate and hopes the calves didn’t get out and cause Hank a bunch of trouble. He should have closed it and kicks himself for not doing so.
He rides the half mile through the pasture, the horse in no hurry now, and thinks about Shiloh and how he slid to th
e ground and headed up the road toward town. Shiloh had turned around and shouted back to Lee, “I might take you up on that offer of work, as long as my dad doesn’t need me.” Funny kid.
Up ahead, Lee can see the buffalo rubbing stone. There appear to be two people at the stone, one of them sitting on it. He wonders if the high school kids are in the pasture again. He asks the horse to jog one last time, and as he approaches he sees that the person standing is George Varga, wearing a new straw cowboy hat. And sitting on the rock is Karla Norman, the hairdresser, Dale Patterson’s fiancée or ex-fiancée, hard to know which, depends on the day of the week. Lee can see one of TNT’s famous cars—the black Trans Am—catching the sun like a show car, parked on the approach next to George’s truck. George has a thermos and appears to be drinking coffee from the metal top. Karla, more interestingly, has a six-pack of beer beside her on the rock. Once the six-pack registers, it’s like a magnet.
Old George grins like mad as Lee rides up and stops.
“You look like you could use a cold one,” Karla says. “Well, almost cold.” She pulls a bottle out of the box and twists off the cap.
“You have no idea how good that looks,” Lee says. The mosquitoes are swarming now that the heat of the day is over. Karla has a can of insect repellent on the rock, but it’s only the beer Lee cares about.
Karla moves to the edge of the stone and reaches to hand him the bottle. “Cheers,” she says.
Lee tips back the bottle and swallows, feels the moisture on his dry throat. Never has a beer tasted so good, even if it isn’t cold.
He wonders what Karla and George are doing here together—an odd pair—and then he realizes they aren’t together. George came to see if Lee would show up at the stone like Ivan Dodge did. Karla, apparently, is here to drink beer with the mosquitoes. Lee notices that the rock looks festive in the daylight with the colored handprints on it.
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