It makes you feel like you been robbed, don’t it?”
“I guess so,” he said.
“That’s the feeling I can’t live with. Right after Burt . . . it’s like I’ve been stolen from. You know what I mean? It’s like I was asleep and woke up to find someone stole an arm or leg from me. And where do you go looking for an arm or leg? Nowhere.”
Lucy took another sip from the bottle and offered it again to Jim, who raised his hand, kindly refusing.
“Do you know anything about coyotes?” Lucy asked.
“Some. Not much.”
“They’re coming inside my fence now. Derrick, he’s that high school boy who still works a couple days a week, he said they took two lambs. Dragged them right out into the woods.”
“They aren’t too hard to get rid of. All you need is to tighten your fences, find out where they’re coming in, and set a few traps. We can come by and do that for you whenever you like.”
She turned to him, her dark eyes staring him right in the face, her left hand moving up to touch the crags of his cheek, the other still holding the bottle. It felt like Jim’s heart had maybe stumbled off the edge of a cliff. There in the shadows of that failed business concern, in the widow’s passenger seat, he felt like he was going to faint, the heat of the sun through the car’s windshield making his forehead sweat, his lips sticky from the blackberry schnapps, his left shoulder and hand not numb but tingly as it was the appendage closest to Lucy, her face, her chest.
“Well, I guess we oughta head on . . .” was all Jim got out before he felt her mouth against his. She was fast, this one, her lipstick smearing upon his lips, her teeth clinking gently against his own, her hands quickly finding his. She was leaning over, setting the glass bottle between the two seats, beside the parking brake. She was acting bold, unbuttoning her rayon blouse, and Jim, his hands feeling like they had grown ten sizes, fumbled for her breasts, finding only the hard wire of her brassiere. Everywhere he turned, her mouth was already there, and then she was sliding her left hand, the palm and fingers unfairly soft, down the front of Jim’s jeans. He felt his breath go, like the wind had been knocked from him, wondering what he was supposed to do next, but in that moment, Jim—the silent, lean-faced chicken farmer, the former MP and frequenter of a few Pusan whorehouses—found his ability to attain an erection, like his optimism, like his once wavy hair, was gone, gone, gone. There was nothing to be done about it, no matter how quickly she kissed him or where. Below his waist there was just a dull ache, the feel of her fingernails tracing an arc around his uncooperative privates. When—after a few more minutes of smiling, then laughing, then her face growing a little sour—she saw that what she was tangling with was more of a medical impossibility than simply the shyness of a man unaccustomed to someone else’s touch, she slipped her hand back out from beneath his waistband and placed her palm flat against his chest.
“It’s been a problem,” he muttered.
“Are you sure? I don’t mind . . .”
“No ma’am. I should have warned you.”
“We could . . .”
“No, I better get on. The boy will be waiting for me and I got a horse back home that needs to be fed and a couple chickens too, I guess.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes ma’am.”
She nodded, buttoned up her blouse, and turned to stare out at the factory’s broken shadows. He had hurt her feelings somehow, not meaning to, but he had hurt her deeply, he knew that now, and wished he had had the sense or the guts to never have climbed into her car.
“How is that horse of yours?” Lucy asked, giving the key in the ignition a quick turn. “It’s a quarter horse, isn’t it?”
“Yes ma’am. She’s fine. Raced against one of Bill Evens’s two weeks ago and won.”
“Bill Evens? He’s awful smooth. You better keep an eye out for fellas like him.”
“I
“I guess so,” he said.
“That’s the feeling I can’t live with. Right after Burt . . . it’s like I’ve been stolen from. You know what I mean? It’s like I was asleep and woke up to find someone stole an arm or leg from me. And where do you go looking for an arm or leg? Nowhere.”
Lucy took another sip from the bottle and offered it again to Jim, who raised his hand, kindly refusing.
“Do you know anything about coyotes?” Lucy asked.
“Some. Not much.”
“They’re coming inside my fence now. Derrick, he’s that high school boy who still works a couple days a week, he said they took two lambs. Dragged them right out into the woods.”
“They aren’t too hard to get rid of. All you need is to tighten your fences, find out where they’re coming in, and set a few traps. We can come by and do that for you whenever you like.”
She turned to him, her dark eyes staring him right in the face, her left hand moving up to touch the crags of his cheek, the other still holding the bottle. It felt like Jim’s heart had maybe stumbled off the edge of a cliff. There in the shadows of that failed business concern, in the widow’s passenger seat, he felt like he was going to faint, the heat of the sun through the car’s windshield making his forehead sweat, his lips sticky from the blackberry schnapps, his left shoulder and hand not numb but tingly as it was the appendage closest to Lucy, her face, her chest.
“Well, I guess we oughta head on . . .” was all Jim got out before he felt her mouth against his. She was fast, this one, her lipstick smearing upon his lips, her teeth clinking gently against his own, her hands quickly finding his. She was leaning over, setting the glass bottle between the two seats, beside the parking brake. She was acting bold, unbuttoning her rayon blouse, and Jim, his hands feeling like they had grown ten sizes, fumbled for her breasts, finding only the hard wire of her brassiere. Everywhere he turned, her mouth was already there, and then she was sliding her left hand, the palm and fingers unfairly soft, down the front of Jim’s jeans. He felt his breath go, like the wind had been knocked from him, wondering what he was supposed to do next, but in that moment, Jim—the silent, lean-faced chicken farmer, the former MP and frequenter of a few Pusan whorehouses—found his ability to attain an erection, like his optimism, like his once wavy hair, was gone, gone, gone. There was nothing to be done about it, no matter how quickly she kissed him or where. Below his waist there was just a dull ache, the feel of her fingernails tracing an arc around his uncooperative privates. When—after a few more minutes of smiling, then laughing, then her face growing a little sour—she saw that what she was tangling with was more of a medical impossibility than simply the shyness of a man unaccustomed to someone else’s touch, she slipped her hand back out from beneath his waistband and placed her palm flat against his chest.
“It’s been a problem,” he muttered.
“Are you sure? I don’t mind . . .”
“No ma’am. I should have warned you.”
“We could . . .”
“No, I better get on. The boy will be waiting for me and I got a horse back home that needs to be fed and a couple chickens too, I guess.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes ma’am.”
She nodded, buttoned up her blouse, and turned to stare out at the factory’s broken shadows. He had hurt her feelings somehow, not meaning to, but he had hurt her deeply, he knew that now, and wished he had had the sense or the guts to never have climbed into her car.
“How is that horse of yours?” Lucy asked, giving the key in the ignition a quick turn. “It’s a quarter horse, isn’t it?”
“Yes ma’am. She’s fine. Raced against one of Bill Evens’s two weeks ago and won.”
“Bill Evens? He’s awful smooth. You better keep an eye out for fellas like him.”
“I
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