light, they hung the swing on the porch, while Alma cooked dinner in the pots and pans from the old hotel.
When they were done, they were worn out from lifting in the heat, but it felt good, as though a complicated thing had been done almost by accident. They sat down at the dark table in the dining room and ate Alma’s cooking, the first meal in Charlie’s new house.
After supper, Charlie sat on his own porch with his own best friends, the lights on all up and down the street, watching his neighbors as they watched him, his voice joining with theirs as the people of the town sat and discussed and scolded one another for minor infractions of this or that nature, and the children played catch in the empty street.
“I’ve got a question,” said Will.
“Shoot.” Charlie sipped his tea and rocked while the others swung gently to and fro in the porch swing.
“How’d you get to be a butcher?”
“Accident, I guess. I worked in a grocery store after school when I was . . .”
“Where was that?”
“Will,” Alma laid her hand on his. “Let the man talk.”
“Back home. I was sixteen. You know, bagging groceries and such. Then the manager moved me into the meat department, the last thing I wanted. I liked meat. I just didn’t want to put my hands on it. But I did, because that’s the kind of boy I was then. I pretty much did as I was told.
“And I got to like it. I figured, if you’re going to eat it, you might as well know where it comes from, so I studied up, learned where all the cuts were, learned how to cut clean and fair. I learned how to slaughter the animals, learned to walk up to them so they trusted me and they weren’t afraid, so they didn’t release any chemicals that make the meat tough.
“By the time I was twenty, I was the head butcher in another store. A big store. That’s when I got my knives. Cost a lot, came all the way from Germany.
“But, to tell you the truth, I haven’t done it in a while.”
“Since then?”
“Things happened. Other things I hadn’t counted on. But it’s like riding a bicycle. If you learn something early, and you learn it well, you don’t forget.”
“That’s enough, Will,” Alma shushed him. “Don’t push so hard.” Then they just sat for a while in silence, rocking, the white smoke from Charlie’s Lucky Strike floating like a ghost in the air, the boy quiet and tired on his mother’s lap. Such a simple country quiet in the air, in the softness of the dark street, the porch lights on, the last moths of summer flittering into and out of the bright ring that hung above them, where the people of the town rocked and smoked and slept and talked in quiet voices.
When it was dark, the fireflies rose off Charlie’s own front yard, and bats wheeled and circled the eaves of his house and in the dark, heavy branches of his trees. Charlie felt a mixture of freedom and imprisonment he hadn’t felt in a long, long time.
Then they did the dishes, Alma washing, the men drying, while Sam sleepily wandered around the new house, touching every single thing, asking when Beebo was going to get a radio, where the Christmas tree was going to go, asking what had happened to the people who had lived there before. When the dishes were done, Alma showed Charlie where everything was stored, put away neat as a pin, scrubbed clean and ready to use.
Sam was tired, and Will picked him up, wheezing, “I’m getting too old for this,” and they said their good nights, nodding, not touching, and left Charlie alone for his first night in his new house. Charlie closed the door behind him when they left, and took satisfaction in the fact that, when he walked through his rooms, the house didn’t sound hollow, and it didn’t sound new. It sounded already lived in.
That first night in his new house, he sat on the porch after supper, his porch light off, smoking a Lucky Strike and watching as the lights of the other porches went off as well, until there was only one left,
When they were done, they were worn out from lifting in the heat, but it felt good, as though a complicated thing had been done almost by accident. They sat down at the dark table in the dining room and ate Alma’s cooking, the first meal in Charlie’s new house.
After supper, Charlie sat on his own porch with his own best friends, the lights on all up and down the street, watching his neighbors as they watched him, his voice joining with theirs as the people of the town sat and discussed and scolded one another for minor infractions of this or that nature, and the children played catch in the empty street.
“I’ve got a question,” said Will.
“Shoot.” Charlie sipped his tea and rocked while the others swung gently to and fro in the porch swing.
“How’d you get to be a butcher?”
“Accident, I guess. I worked in a grocery store after school when I was . . .”
“Where was that?”
“Will,” Alma laid her hand on his. “Let the man talk.”
“Back home. I was sixteen. You know, bagging groceries and such. Then the manager moved me into the meat department, the last thing I wanted. I liked meat. I just didn’t want to put my hands on it. But I did, because that’s the kind of boy I was then. I pretty much did as I was told.
“And I got to like it. I figured, if you’re going to eat it, you might as well know where it comes from, so I studied up, learned where all the cuts were, learned how to cut clean and fair. I learned how to slaughter the animals, learned to walk up to them so they trusted me and they weren’t afraid, so they didn’t release any chemicals that make the meat tough.
“By the time I was twenty, I was the head butcher in another store. A big store. That’s when I got my knives. Cost a lot, came all the way from Germany.
“But, to tell you the truth, I haven’t done it in a while.”
“Since then?”
“Things happened. Other things I hadn’t counted on. But it’s like riding a bicycle. If you learn something early, and you learn it well, you don’t forget.”
“That’s enough, Will,” Alma shushed him. “Don’t push so hard.” Then they just sat for a while in silence, rocking, the white smoke from Charlie’s Lucky Strike floating like a ghost in the air, the boy quiet and tired on his mother’s lap. Such a simple country quiet in the air, in the softness of the dark street, the porch lights on, the last moths of summer flittering into and out of the bright ring that hung above them, where the people of the town rocked and smoked and slept and talked in quiet voices.
When it was dark, the fireflies rose off Charlie’s own front yard, and bats wheeled and circled the eaves of his house and in the dark, heavy branches of his trees. Charlie felt a mixture of freedom and imprisonment he hadn’t felt in a long, long time.
Then they did the dishes, Alma washing, the men drying, while Sam sleepily wandered around the new house, touching every single thing, asking when Beebo was going to get a radio, where the Christmas tree was going to go, asking what had happened to the people who had lived there before. When the dishes were done, Alma showed Charlie where everything was stored, put away neat as a pin, scrubbed clean and ready to use.
Sam was tired, and Will picked him up, wheezing, “I’m getting too old for this,” and they said their good nights, nodding, not touching, and left Charlie alone for his first night in his new house. Charlie closed the door behind him when they left, and took satisfaction in the fact that, when he walked through his rooms, the house didn’t sound hollow, and it didn’t sound new. It sounded already lived in.
That first night in his new house, he sat on the porch after supper, his porch light off, smoking a Lucky Strike and watching as the lights of the other porches went off as well, until there was only one left,
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