coming to church with us, honey?” Mom asked.
“I do every year.”
“I wasn’t going to make you do it,” said Mom, “but I do like the idea of the whole family in church on Easter Sunday.”
Dad came in and sat down at the table.
Cord said, “I hope I’m included in the family, Mrs. Burrman.”
“Be delighted,” said Mom.
“Don’t you ever go to your own church?” Dad asked.
“Why, Douglas!” said Mom, “What a thing to say.”
“Just curious why he doesn’t ever go to his own.”
“Because Evie’s not there,” said Cord.
“Not ever going to be there, either,” said Evie.
“So I’ll go where you are,” Cord said.
“See how much he thinks of you, Evie?” Dad said, and there was an edge to his voice.
I said, “Who’s going to start the bread around?”
Cord reached for the bread basket. “We did good today, Douglas,” he boomed.
“So far,” said Dad. “So far.”
“I might not go to church tomorrow,” said Evie.
“You wouldn’t skip Easter, honey.”
“If she doesn’t want to go, don’t force her,” said Dad.
“Since when?” Mom said.
“I’d go if it was sunrise, like at The Church of the Heavenly Spirit,” Evie said, “but we waste the better part of the day going to the eleven o’clock at St. Luke’s.”
“I agree,” said Dad. “We might not even be finished.”
“We’ll be finished,” said Cord.
“Why are you selling your pickup?” Dad asked him.
“I need a bigger truck bed. That thing’s ten years old anyway.”
“I saw your sign,” Dad said.
I said, “Dad, pass me the butter.” I gave him the eye when he did, as if to remind him he didn’t want to get anything started yet.
He shot me back an appreciative wink. I knew he was dying to get at Cord. I knew when he did, I was going down the tubes with him.
“What are you going to get?” Evie asked Cord.
“I got my eye on the Dodge Ram.”
“You’ll get rooked if you buy it from Deigh Dodge.”
“Private owner,” Cord said.
Somehow Dad got through dinner without saying much more to Cord. Then we heard a car pull into the drive.
“Here’s Doug now,” said Mom.
“About time,” Dad said.
Cord was stretching his neck to see out in the driveway. “It’s not Doug,” he said.
Evie pushed back her chair, her face brightening.
“It’s not your girlfriend, either,” Cord said.
“Cord,” said my father, “I’ve had about enough.”
“Enough of what?” Cord answered.
Dad didn’t get to say enough of what.
Evie said, “It’s Sheriff Starr. What’s he want?”
26
D AD SENT CORD BACK to the Atlee fields, saying Sheriff Starr was there on family business.
Everybody in Duffton knew him. He mostly took care of domestic disputes on the farms, and traffic violations on the roads and highways.
He was a large, redheaded fellow with freckles and tight curly red hair. I went to County with Spots Starr, his son, who got his nickname from the same kind of freckles. Spots was a big deal at CHS, a senior, a sports hero.
The Sheriff stood there blowing on the lenses of his dark glasses, wiping them with a Kleenex.
When he finished saying he’d come at Mr. Duff’s request, explaining about the sign fixed to the bayonet, telling everybody what it’d said, Evie cussed.
“I don’t believe there was a sign,” she said. “I believe he’s making that up.”
“There was a sign,” said Dad. “It’s down to the barn. Mr. Duff put it in our mailbox early this morning.”
“Now, I don’t know who put that one up there,” said the sheriff, “but—”
“I do know,” said Dad. “Cord put it there. You can go out that door and look in the back window of his pickup and see the same kind of sign!”
“Well, there was another one stuck to Duff’s Porsche this morning,” Sheriff Starr said, “the one she drives when she’s here. A nasty one.”
“Isn’t there some kind of law against that type of thing?”
“Douglas, I’d have to arrest half the kids
“I do every year.”
“I wasn’t going to make you do it,” said Mom, “but I do like the idea of the whole family in church on Easter Sunday.”
Dad came in and sat down at the table.
Cord said, “I hope I’m included in the family, Mrs. Burrman.”
“Be delighted,” said Mom.
“Don’t you ever go to your own church?” Dad asked.
“Why, Douglas!” said Mom, “What a thing to say.”
“Just curious why he doesn’t ever go to his own.”
“Because Evie’s not there,” said Cord.
“Not ever going to be there, either,” said Evie.
“So I’ll go where you are,” Cord said.
“See how much he thinks of you, Evie?” Dad said, and there was an edge to his voice.
I said, “Who’s going to start the bread around?”
Cord reached for the bread basket. “We did good today, Douglas,” he boomed.
“So far,” said Dad. “So far.”
“I might not go to church tomorrow,” said Evie.
“You wouldn’t skip Easter, honey.”
“If she doesn’t want to go, don’t force her,” said Dad.
“Since when?” Mom said.
“I’d go if it was sunrise, like at The Church of the Heavenly Spirit,” Evie said, “but we waste the better part of the day going to the eleven o’clock at St. Luke’s.”
“I agree,” said Dad. “We might not even be finished.”
“We’ll be finished,” said Cord.
“Why are you selling your pickup?” Dad asked him.
“I need a bigger truck bed. That thing’s ten years old anyway.”
“I saw your sign,” Dad said.
I said, “Dad, pass me the butter.” I gave him the eye when he did, as if to remind him he didn’t want to get anything started yet.
He shot me back an appreciative wink. I knew he was dying to get at Cord. I knew when he did, I was going down the tubes with him.
“What are you going to get?” Evie asked Cord.
“I got my eye on the Dodge Ram.”
“You’ll get rooked if you buy it from Deigh Dodge.”
“Private owner,” Cord said.
Somehow Dad got through dinner without saying much more to Cord. Then we heard a car pull into the drive.
“Here’s Doug now,” said Mom.
“About time,” Dad said.
Cord was stretching his neck to see out in the driveway. “It’s not Doug,” he said.
Evie pushed back her chair, her face brightening.
“It’s not your girlfriend, either,” Cord said.
“Cord,” said my father, “I’ve had about enough.”
“Enough of what?” Cord answered.
Dad didn’t get to say enough of what.
Evie said, “It’s Sheriff Starr. What’s he want?”
26
D AD SENT CORD BACK to the Atlee fields, saying Sheriff Starr was there on family business.
Everybody in Duffton knew him. He mostly took care of domestic disputes on the farms, and traffic violations on the roads and highways.
He was a large, redheaded fellow with freckles and tight curly red hair. I went to County with Spots Starr, his son, who got his nickname from the same kind of freckles. Spots was a big deal at CHS, a senior, a sports hero.
The Sheriff stood there blowing on the lenses of his dark glasses, wiping them with a Kleenex.
When he finished saying he’d come at Mr. Duff’s request, explaining about the sign fixed to the bayonet, telling everybody what it’d said, Evie cussed.
“I don’t believe there was a sign,” she said. “I believe he’s making that up.”
“There was a sign,” said Dad. “It’s down to the barn. Mr. Duff put it in our mailbox early this morning.”
“Now, I don’t know who put that one up there,” said the sheriff, “but—”
“I do know,” said Dad. “Cord put it there. You can go out that door and look in the back window of his pickup and see the same kind of sign!”
“Well, there was another one stuck to Duff’s Porsche this morning,” Sheriff Starr said, “the one she drives when she’s here. A nasty one.”
“Isn’t there some kind of law against that type of thing?”
“Douglas, I’d have to arrest half the kids
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