laughed, out loud this time.
“You should put that line in your newspaper article,” she said.
His hand was still on the filly’s head and June’s hand was still on top of his, and she looked up at him with a closed-mouthed grin, waiting for a response. Did she recognize him from the roof? he wondered. Or was she only aware that he wasn’t the reporter he had claimed to be? He couldn’t be sure which; she was impossible to read.
He decided to risk it, although what he ended up saying sounded more cryptic than he had planned.
“It wasn’t just a cry for help, you know.”
“Oh, I know, darling,” she immediately replied. “Who would have heard you from way up there anyway?”
So, she did know . She knew and she had just been waiting this whole time for him to say something; she’d been watching him follow her around from barn to barn with his seeminglyendless need for lead ropes and halters and bits, but knowing all the while that what he really wanted was to speak with her about that day on the roof.
“I’m glad you’re keeping your promise,” she said.
She even remembered their conversation.
David nodded. “I guess I’m lucky you were there.”
Her smile deepened, this time making its way down to her mouth. “Maybe lucky. Or maybe you were exactly where you were supposed to be that day, and perhaps I was too.”
A moment of understanding passed between them. At least David thought it did. But then she removed her hand from his and stepped over and turned on the hose to fill the watering trough of a neighboring stall. His hand was still on the filly’s velvet head, but June’s was gone, and he felt as though she were gone too.
He turned to say something to her, something more about that day on the roof, but her back was to him now, and in addition to monitoring the water, she was busy scooping grain into feed bins. It was almost as if she had gone directly back to work, forgetting their conversation as quickly as it had happened, forgetting that he was even there.
David lingered for an awkward half minute or so before he took up the halter from where he had hung it and eased out of the stable without a word. He thought about their conversation a great deal that night. He would have thought about it more the following day too, except that was the day the busload of hippies with a wounded ostrich arrived, and the day he first learned what it felt like to really fly.
9
I T WAS A terrible place to leave off telling the story, it really was, but I’ll be damned if the old man hadn’t fallen asleep right there at the kitchen table in midsentence. He had just segued quite eloquently from his encounter in the stable with June to telling me about a bus full of young hippies who had arrived to drop off an injured ostrich they’d been traveling with—you’ll have to wait for the story; I was just as curious as you are—when his chin dropped to his chest and he started snoring.
I was worried at first, before I heard him snoring. Like maybe he’d up and kicked the bucket on me or something. I’ve had a lot of crazy stuff happen on these pre-foreclosure visits, but no one’s ever died. One guy in our office had a homeowner set the house on fire, then try to lock him in it. But that’s a story for another day.
With Mr. Hadley snoring, I didn’t know what to do. I noticed he had hardly touched his sandwich, although a drying ring of tomato soup clung to the white whiskers surrounding his lips. Sleeping like that, with the soup around his lips, he looked more like a little boy than an old man. I decided I’d try to clean up the kitchen, if I could do it without waking him. It was kind of out of character for me, but I really had wanted to help when I’d offered before.
I carried our dishes to the sink and began washing them, stealing glances at my sleeping host and being careful not to make too much noise. There was a window over the sink and it looked out on an apple tree beside the house.
“You should put that line in your newspaper article,” she said.
His hand was still on the filly’s head and June’s hand was still on top of his, and she looked up at him with a closed-mouthed grin, waiting for a response. Did she recognize him from the roof? he wondered. Or was she only aware that he wasn’t the reporter he had claimed to be? He couldn’t be sure which; she was impossible to read.
He decided to risk it, although what he ended up saying sounded more cryptic than he had planned.
“It wasn’t just a cry for help, you know.”
“Oh, I know, darling,” she immediately replied. “Who would have heard you from way up there anyway?”
So, she did know . She knew and she had just been waiting this whole time for him to say something; she’d been watching him follow her around from barn to barn with his seeminglyendless need for lead ropes and halters and bits, but knowing all the while that what he really wanted was to speak with her about that day on the roof.
“I’m glad you’re keeping your promise,” she said.
She even remembered their conversation.
David nodded. “I guess I’m lucky you were there.”
Her smile deepened, this time making its way down to her mouth. “Maybe lucky. Or maybe you were exactly where you were supposed to be that day, and perhaps I was too.”
A moment of understanding passed between them. At least David thought it did. But then she removed her hand from his and stepped over and turned on the hose to fill the watering trough of a neighboring stall. His hand was still on the filly’s velvet head, but June’s was gone, and he felt as though she were gone too.
He turned to say something to her, something more about that day on the roof, but her back was to him now, and in addition to monitoring the water, she was busy scooping grain into feed bins. It was almost as if she had gone directly back to work, forgetting their conversation as quickly as it had happened, forgetting that he was even there.
David lingered for an awkward half minute or so before he took up the halter from where he had hung it and eased out of the stable without a word. He thought about their conversation a great deal that night. He would have thought about it more the following day too, except that was the day the busload of hippies with a wounded ostrich arrived, and the day he first learned what it felt like to really fly.
9
I T WAS A terrible place to leave off telling the story, it really was, but I’ll be damned if the old man hadn’t fallen asleep right there at the kitchen table in midsentence. He had just segued quite eloquently from his encounter in the stable with June to telling me about a bus full of young hippies who had arrived to drop off an injured ostrich they’d been traveling with—you’ll have to wait for the story; I was just as curious as you are—when his chin dropped to his chest and he started snoring.
I was worried at first, before I heard him snoring. Like maybe he’d up and kicked the bucket on me or something. I’ve had a lot of crazy stuff happen on these pre-foreclosure visits, but no one’s ever died. One guy in our office had a homeowner set the house on fire, then try to lock him in it. But that’s a story for another day.
With Mr. Hadley snoring, I didn’t know what to do. I noticed he had hardly touched his sandwich, although a drying ring of tomato soup clung to the white whiskers surrounding his lips. Sleeping like that, with the soup around his lips, he looked more like a little boy than an old man. I decided I’d try to clean up the kitchen, if I could do it without waking him. It was kind of out of character for me, but I really had wanted to help when I’d offered before.
I carried our dishes to the sink and began washing them, stealing glances at my sleeping host and being careful not to make too much noise. There was a window over the sink and it looked out on an apple tree beside the house.
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