Fourth of July Creek by Smith Henderson Page B

burned his eyes. He took another drink, and then filled the flask and put it in the interior pocket of his coat. The world clicked up into place when he closed the trunk. He felt all right. It’d be all right. The boy ran. He’d call it in, someone would pick him up sooner or later. No big deal.
    From within the restaurant the hostess tapped the window and pointed back at the register. The big old rancher who’d been pumping diesel had Cecil in a standing full nelson just inside the door.
    “Huh,” Pete said.
    He walked through the gale to the restaurant. His arrival occasioned deeper interest among the customers, arms crossed and so on.
    The hostess said, “There he is.”
    The rancher turned around with the boy. Cecil’s arms splayed out, and his head was forced down under the man’s laced fingers. The man’s liverspotted skull was red with effort. The two of them breathed heavily, twitched as they strained against one another.
    “This yer boy?” the old man asked.
    “I’m his caseworker,” Pete said, reaching out for a handshake. The rancher forced a grin onto his granite face, as if to ask if Pete thought he was an idiot. Pete dropped his hand.
    “Are you responsible for him or not?” the rancher asked.
    “Yes,” Pete said. “I’m taking him up to Shelby.”
    “The hell you are. I got a mother up in Shelby.”
    Pete nodded. Conveyed that he was listening, that the man had his complete attention and respect.
    “I seen him run outta here, you know. And you go after him. Seen him sneaking up there to my truck when I was paying for gas. Little shit had the gall to fight me too. This young girl here talked me into waiting a minute to see if you come back before we call the cops. She said you’s his parole officer.”
    “I said you worked for the state, that you were like a parole officer or something,” the hostess clarified.
    “Well, I thank you both,” Pete quickly offered. “You did a good thing, waiting for me. I appreciate it.”
    The man grunted as Cecil squirmed.
    “He about got himself tore up from earhole to asshole.”
    “I’m sure. I’d have not been able to restrain myself like you did. What say you remand him to me now?”
    “Remand?”
    “I can take him.”
    The rancher took long measure of Pete, his hands laced over the boy’s nape like knurled stocks. Wondering should he trust Pete, whether Pete looked capable. Cecil tried to twist and slip free but the rancher simply clenched the boy all the more tightly, lifted him up onto his tiptoes.
    “Just hold still, Cecil,” Pete said.
    “It don’t look to me like you finished the job correcting this boy. Course the government ain’t been any good at fixing anything, has it? Probably had him sitting on his ass all day, didn’t ya? Hold still, godamnit.”
    Pete and the man at the crux now. How long until the boy raises his arms, drops, and wheels free. Or kicks the old man in the nuts with his heel.
    The rancher looked at the top of the boy’s black thatch of hair as though he could derive an intent from it. A bead of sweat traced the ridge of his nose and fell from the tip.
    “Take him before I change my mind,” he said as he unthreaded his fingers, sprung loose his arms, and Cecil stumbled forward. He remained arms out, head down, like a mold of the old man’s action on him. He smirked up at Pete.
    “He’s bleeding,” someone said, and the hostess ran outside after the old man with a dishtowel. Behind the big man’s left ear was a long fresh scratch, the rust-colored blood from it in the forking wrinkles at the back of his neck. They all watched her call to the old rancher and point at his head. The old boy touched his neck and grimaced at the blood on his fingers. He snatched the towel from her and stormed off to his pickup with it pressed to his wound.
    Pete thanked the hostess when she returned, waved vaguely at the patrons. Everyone looked on Pete and his cretinous ward with annoyance approaching disgust. Muttering