got it.'
'What's this School of the Americas?'
'It's supposed to be counterinsurgency training. But
their graduates have a way of murdering liberation theologians and
union organizers or anybody they don't approve of.'
I placed a piece of pie and cup of coffee in front
of her. She turned a tiny silver spoon in her cup, then put the spoon
down and gazed out the window.
'I'm not saying I have access. But I'll do what I
can,' she said. Static, then a dispatcher's voice squawked on her
portable. 'I'll have to take a rain check on the pie.'
She walked out onto the porch, both hands on the
brim of her campaign hat.
I picked up one of her hands and traced my fingers
down the inside of her arm and brushed her palm and touched her nails
and the back of her wrist and folded her fingers across mine.
'You're really a nice lady,' I said.
The wind filled the trees outside and blew through
the screens, and a loose strand of her hair caught wetly in the side of
her mouth. I removed it with my fingertips, then looked in her eyes and
saw the consent that I knew she rarely gave, and I put my hands on her
arms and kissed her on the mouth, then did it again, then slipped my
arms around her and touched her hair and the hard muscles in her back.
I felt a warm exhalation of her breath against my
cheek, like that of a swimmer taking a self-disciplinary pause, then
her palms pressing on my chest, and I was looking into her face again,
the light brown freckles, the brightness of her eyes. She pursed her
lips, then winked and was gone into the yard and the shadows and the
moonlight and her cruiser, all that fast.
I stood in the drive and watched her back out into
the road and pull away behind the row of poplar trees and myrtle bushes
that bordered my front yard.
Down the road, I heard a second car engine start up,
then a pair of headlights flared in the road and a sheriff's cruiser
passed my driveway, with two men in it, headed in the same direction as
Mary Beth. The man in the passenger's seat seemed to have his arm
propped up on the sill so anyone watching from my house could not
identify him.
I called 911 and told the dispatcher a drunk man
with a gun was shooting at automobiles in front of my home.
----
chapter
eleven
A half hour later I stood in the front
yard and
watched the last of five cruisers from the sheriff's department,
including Mary Beth Sweeney's, drive away. Temple Carrol had seen the
emergency lights from her house down the road and had arrived only a
few minutes ago. 'Somebody shooting at cars? I didn't hear any
gunfire,' she said.
'I saw two guys in a cruiser follow that new deputy
from my house, so I muddied up the water,' I replied.
'Mary Beth Sweeney? What's she doing at your house?'
'I wanted her to run this Mexican drug agent for me.'
'She had to come by your house to do it?' She looked
across the road at my neighbor's cattle bunched in the field.
'She was in the neighborhood,' I said.
'This broad always has a way of being in the
neighborhood.'
'You want a cup of coffee?'
She pulled a bandanna out of her jeans pocket and
tied up her hair. 'I can't sleep when I drink coffee. Or when I think
your house is burning down,' she said.
She walked toward her car.
'Temple?' I said.
She didn't answer.
I was rinsing the dishes after
breakfast the next
morning when Vernon Smothers tapped on my back door. He wore a broken
straw hat and had a matchstick in the corner of his mouth.
'What is it?' I said, opening the door part way,
without inviting him in.
He rolled his wedding ring on his index finger and
looked at the palm of his hand.
'I made a mistake about something. I need your
advice,' he said. He blew air out of his nose, as though he had a cold,
and looked away at the windmill behind the barn.
I widened the door for him. He sat down at the plank
table on the porch. The heels of his cowboy boots were worn almost flat.
'Yesterday I hauled my car in to have the oil pan
welded. To that shop next to the Green
'What's this School of the Americas?'
'It's supposed to be counterinsurgency training. But
their graduates have a way of murdering liberation theologians and
union organizers or anybody they don't approve of.'
I placed a piece of pie and cup of coffee in front
of her. She turned a tiny silver spoon in her cup, then put the spoon
down and gazed out the window.
'I'm not saying I have access. But I'll do what I
can,' she said. Static, then a dispatcher's voice squawked on her
portable. 'I'll have to take a rain check on the pie.'
She walked out onto the porch, both hands on the
brim of her campaign hat.
I picked up one of her hands and traced my fingers
down the inside of her arm and brushed her palm and touched her nails
and the back of her wrist and folded her fingers across mine.
'You're really a nice lady,' I said.
The wind filled the trees outside and blew through
the screens, and a loose strand of her hair caught wetly in the side of
her mouth. I removed it with my fingertips, then looked in her eyes and
saw the consent that I knew she rarely gave, and I put my hands on her
arms and kissed her on the mouth, then did it again, then slipped my
arms around her and touched her hair and the hard muscles in her back.
I felt a warm exhalation of her breath against my
cheek, like that of a swimmer taking a self-disciplinary pause, then
her palms pressing on my chest, and I was looking into her face again,
the light brown freckles, the brightness of her eyes. She pursed her
lips, then winked and was gone into the yard and the shadows and the
moonlight and her cruiser, all that fast.
I stood in the drive and watched her back out into
the road and pull away behind the row of poplar trees and myrtle bushes
that bordered my front yard.
Down the road, I heard a second car engine start up,
then a pair of headlights flared in the road and a sheriff's cruiser
passed my driveway, with two men in it, headed in the same direction as
Mary Beth. The man in the passenger's seat seemed to have his arm
propped up on the sill so anyone watching from my house could not
identify him.
I called 911 and told the dispatcher a drunk man
with a gun was shooting at automobiles in front of my home.
----
chapter
eleven
A half hour later I stood in the front
yard and
watched the last of five cruisers from the sheriff's department,
including Mary Beth Sweeney's, drive away. Temple Carrol had seen the
emergency lights from her house down the road and had arrived only a
few minutes ago. 'Somebody shooting at cars? I didn't hear any
gunfire,' she said.
'I saw two guys in a cruiser follow that new deputy
from my house, so I muddied up the water,' I replied.
'Mary Beth Sweeney? What's she doing at your house?'
'I wanted her to run this Mexican drug agent for me.'
'She had to come by your house to do it?' She looked
across the road at my neighbor's cattle bunched in the field.
'She was in the neighborhood,' I said.
'This broad always has a way of being in the
neighborhood.'
'You want a cup of coffee?'
She pulled a bandanna out of her jeans pocket and
tied up her hair. 'I can't sleep when I drink coffee. Or when I think
your house is burning down,' she said.
She walked toward her car.
'Temple?' I said.
She didn't answer.
I was rinsing the dishes after
breakfast the next
morning when Vernon Smothers tapped on my back door. He wore a broken
straw hat and had a matchstick in the corner of his mouth.
'What is it?' I said, opening the door part way,
without inviting him in.
He rolled his wedding ring on his index finger and
looked at the palm of his hand.
'I made a mistake about something. I need your
advice,' he said. He blew air out of his nose, as though he had a cold,
and looked away at the windmill behind the barn.
I widened the door for him. He sat down at the plank
table on the porch. The heels of his cowboy boots were worn almost flat.
'Yesterday I hauled my car in to have the oil pan
welded. To that shop next to the Green
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