closed.”
“Have you told Lila?” I asked.
Lonnie shook his head. “Nope.”
“Mind if I do it?”
A grin slithered onto his lips. “Why, you old dog, you,” he said, an answer I took to be yes.
I turned toward the door, but Lonnie called me back. “That badge,” he said. “I better get that back from you now.”
I plucked the badge from my pocket and placed it on Lonnie’s desk.
“Remember now, Roy, you’re not going to be acting in an official capacity anymore,” Lonnie said with a leering wink. “I mean, in whatever you have in mind for your old girlfriend up in Waylord.”
“What would I have in mind, Lonnie?”
A broad smile crossed Lonnie’s face. “Maybe offering a little comfort,” he said. “Nothing wrong in that.”
I pulled into Lila’s driveway a few minutes later.
At the top of the stairs, I hesitated outside the door, feeling intensely foolish now, a middle-aged man mired in a high-school romance. So foolish in fact that I might have turned and fled had Lila not come upon me suddenly.
“Roy.” She stood at the corner of the house, a basket of vegetables in her hand. “I just came from the garden.
“Mama’s sleeping.” She nodded toward the house.
“She’s not really able to take care of herself anymore.”
“Doc Poole gave Lonnie his report,” I told her. “Clayton Spivey died of black lung. The case is closed as far as Lonnie’s concerned.”
She straightened herself abruptly. “I don’t care what Lonnie Porterfield does. I’m trash to him. Always have been.”
It had been a hot summer night, Lila and I walking beside the road together, holding hands, a pickup truck roaring past, a load of valley boys in the back, waving bottles, yelling drunkenly, Lonnie in the midst of them, louder than the rest, taunting as he went by, Be careful, Roy, Waylord girls ain’t never fresh.
“He was drunk,” I told her, repeating the same excuse for Lonnie I’d offered my father only a day before. “He was young.”
“Yes, he was,” Lila replied. “Anyway, I knew what he thought about me after that. The same way his father felt. That the girls up here are just something to be used. Something to be played with.”
“You sound like my father. The way he hates the Porterfields.”
“Maybe I am like your father, Roy.”
“You’re not in the least like him.”
She smiled. “You didn’t look at me like other boys.”
“I was shy,” I said.
She grew still beneath my gaze.
“I would have come back, you know. After college. I would have come back for you if you hadn’t …”
“None of that matters now,” Lila said.
It was then I suddenly glimpsed Lila’s life as I thought she had come to see it, as something that had flowed grimly out of our teenage romance, a stream that should have been bright and glittering but had grown dark and murky.
“Lila … I …”
A voice from inside the house called her name.
“My mother,” Lila said hastily. “I’ve got to go.”
I reached for her arm. “Lila …”
Our eyes locked for an instant, then the screen door creaked open and a thin, rawboned woman emerged from the darkened house, a mere shadow of the woman I’d first glimpsed in a metallic blue dress in the bleachers.
“Who’s that?” she called.
“We have company,” Lila told her. “A gentleman caller, you might say.” She moved past me, her eyes fixed on her mother. “Do you remember him, Mama?”
Betty Cutler leaned forward, now squinting so hard, her eyes were mere slits. The name that broke from her lips chilled me to the bone.
“Jesse,” she whispered.
“No, Mama.” Lila took her mother’s arm. “This is Roy. Roy Slater. Not Jesse.”
The old woman drew away from me instantly.
“He’s just come up to visit.” Lila tugged her mother back toward the door. “Isn’t that nice?”
The old woman’s hand fell limply to her side. Something in her eyes grew dark and accusatory. “You ain’t the man your daddy
“Have you told Lila?” I asked.
Lonnie shook his head. “Nope.”
“Mind if I do it?”
A grin slithered onto his lips. “Why, you old dog, you,” he said, an answer I took to be yes.
I turned toward the door, but Lonnie called me back. “That badge,” he said. “I better get that back from you now.”
I plucked the badge from my pocket and placed it on Lonnie’s desk.
“Remember now, Roy, you’re not going to be acting in an official capacity anymore,” Lonnie said with a leering wink. “I mean, in whatever you have in mind for your old girlfriend up in Waylord.”
“What would I have in mind, Lonnie?”
A broad smile crossed Lonnie’s face. “Maybe offering a little comfort,” he said. “Nothing wrong in that.”
I pulled into Lila’s driveway a few minutes later.
At the top of the stairs, I hesitated outside the door, feeling intensely foolish now, a middle-aged man mired in a high-school romance. So foolish in fact that I might have turned and fled had Lila not come upon me suddenly.
“Roy.” She stood at the corner of the house, a basket of vegetables in her hand. “I just came from the garden.
“Mama’s sleeping.” She nodded toward the house.
“She’s not really able to take care of herself anymore.”
“Doc Poole gave Lonnie his report,” I told her. “Clayton Spivey died of black lung. The case is closed as far as Lonnie’s concerned.”
She straightened herself abruptly. “I don’t care what Lonnie Porterfield does. I’m trash to him. Always have been.”
It had been a hot summer night, Lila and I walking beside the road together, holding hands, a pickup truck roaring past, a load of valley boys in the back, waving bottles, yelling drunkenly, Lonnie in the midst of them, louder than the rest, taunting as he went by, Be careful, Roy, Waylord girls ain’t never fresh.
“He was drunk,” I told her, repeating the same excuse for Lonnie I’d offered my father only a day before. “He was young.”
“Yes, he was,” Lila replied. “Anyway, I knew what he thought about me after that. The same way his father felt. That the girls up here are just something to be used. Something to be played with.”
“You sound like my father. The way he hates the Porterfields.”
“Maybe I am like your father, Roy.”
“You’re not in the least like him.”
She smiled. “You didn’t look at me like other boys.”
“I was shy,” I said.
She grew still beneath my gaze.
“I would have come back, you know. After college. I would have come back for you if you hadn’t …”
“None of that matters now,” Lila said.
It was then I suddenly glimpsed Lila’s life as I thought she had come to see it, as something that had flowed grimly out of our teenage romance, a stream that should have been bright and glittering but had grown dark and murky.
“Lila … I …”
A voice from inside the house called her name.
“My mother,” Lila said hastily. “I’ve got to go.”
I reached for her arm. “Lila …”
Our eyes locked for an instant, then the screen door creaked open and a thin, rawboned woman emerged from the darkened house, a mere shadow of the woman I’d first glimpsed in a metallic blue dress in the bleachers.
“Who’s that?” she called.
“We have company,” Lila told her. “A gentleman caller, you might say.” She moved past me, her eyes fixed on her mother. “Do you remember him, Mama?”
Betty Cutler leaned forward, now squinting so hard, her eyes were mere slits. The name that broke from her lips chilled me to the bone.
“Jesse,” she whispered.
“No, Mama.” Lila took her mother’s arm. “This is Roy. Roy Slater. Not Jesse.”
The old woman drew away from me instantly.
“He’s just come up to visit.” Lila tugged her mother back toward the door. “Isn’t that nice?”
The old woman’s hand fell limply to her side. Something in her eyes grew dark and accusatory. “You ain’t the man your daddy
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