room.
He wondered what she thought when she looked at the place. All he ever saw was the emptiness of it. It wasn’t much different from how it had looked when his mama left, except for the three-year-old Kadette radio on the kitchen counter, and the barren windows with only five-and-dime store roller shades wedged into the top of the window frames.
On the day his daddy died he’d finally taken down those old, rotting lace curtains his mama made. Nettie wanted to take them down before, when they’d gotten the postcard from Dallas . But their daddy had always said no. Perhaps they reminded him of another time, when Red’s mama hadn’t wanted to run away, when she had been a woman who sewed for her man and her children, and made the place a home.
“What’s this you’re working on?” She had crossed to the table and was staring down at the engine parts.
His mama had always gone on and on about greasy auto parts on the kitchen table. She and his daddy had fought about it.
Charley Morrison picked up a piston and turned it this way and that, completely ignoring the grease all over it. She set it down and casually wiped her hand on her jumpsuit as she studied everything on the table. “Pistons, barrels, carburetor . . . ”
She knew what they were.
He almost said something stupid like, Well, I’ll be damned. Hell, with that chip on her shoulder a comment like that might get him slapped.
“I’d say by the look on your face that you think women don’t know about engines.” She sounded exasperated with him.
What was it about his face that told this woman something he was surely not thinking?
“Is that what you think?”
Finally he just laughed and raised his hands in the air. “Not me. I’m no fool. I’m not thinking anything except what you want me to think.”
“You’re a fast learner, Red Walker.”
They stood there, neither of them saying anything.
“Your turn,” she finally said.
“My turn for what?”
“To ask me a question. I ask you a question, then you ask me a question. It’s called conversation.”
“Well, okay . . . Right now I’m trying to figure out if I should ask you where you learned what a piston looked like.”
“Afraid I’m going to bite your head off?”
“Something like that.”
She sat back and gave him a direct look, then crossed her arms and one leg over a knee. “My pop told me a long time ago that if you’re going to fly a plane, you’d better know how it works, especially when you’re running it thousands of feet in the air.”
“I suppose that makes sense.”
The hail had stopped. Now it sounded like regular rain pounding down on the roof.
She shifted her weight to one side, unzipped a pocket, and stuck her hand inside it, rummaging around for something. “Look. Can I get something to drink?” She set some change on the table. “I saw the soda pop advertisement on the building, so I figure you must sell them, right?”
“I’ll get you one.” He stood up so fast he hit a knee on the table and wanted to swear. “Stay put,” he said, walking for the door. “The cooler’s in the station.”
“Wait! Here’s some money.”
“I’ll get it.” He was already half outside. The screen rattled closed behind him. He went inside the station and got a couple of bottles of soda, stuffed some bags of peanuts into his pockets; then he stepped back outside.
The wind had stopped. Now it was quiet, that empty kind of quiet that preceded something just the opposite, the kind of silence that made you stop and pay attention.
He walked toward the open side of the station and stood there a minute, holding the cold Dr. Pepper bottles by their long, damp necks.
Off toward the south, the clouds were black as iron and rolling over and over, down and sideways, twisting and moving toward the ground. A narrow outline of thin black was spinning like thread from the bottom of those heavy clouds.
He turned and ran to the house.
She met him at the door,
He wondered what she thought when she looked at the place. All he ever saw was the emptiness of it. It wasn’t much different from how it had looked when his mama left, except for the three-year-old Kadette radio on the kitchen counter, and the barren windows with only five-and-dime store roller shades wedged into the top of the window frames.
On the day his daddy died he’d finally taken down those old, rotting lace curtains his mama made. Nettie wanted to take them down before, when they’d gotten the postcard from Dallas . But their daddy had always said no. Perhaps they reminded him of another time, when Red’s mama hadn’t wanted to run away, when she had been a woman who sewed for her man and her children, and made the place a home.
“What’s this you’re working on?” She had crossed to the table and was staring down at the engine parts.
His mama had always gone on and on about greasy auto parts on the kitchen table. She and his daddy had fought about it.
Charley Morrison picked up a piston and turned it this way and that, completely ignoring the grease all over it. She set it down and casually wiped her hand on her jumpsuit as she studied everything on the table. “Pistons, barrels, carburetor . . . ”
She knew what they were.
He almost said something stupid like, Well, I’ll be damned. Hell, with that chip on her shoulder a comment like that might get him slapped.
“I’d say by the look on your face that you think women don’t know about engines.” She sounded exasperated with him.
What was it about his face that told this woman something he was surely not thinking?
“Is that what you think?”
Finally he just laughed and raised his hands in the air. “Not me. I’m no fool. I’m not thinking anything except what you want me to think.”
“You’re a fast learner, Red Walker.”
They stood there, neither of them saying anything.
“Your turn,” she finally said.
“My turn for what?”
“To ask me a question. I ask you a question, then you ask me a question. It’s called conversation.”
“Well, okay . . . Right now I’m trying to figure out if I should ask you where you learned what a piston looked like.”
“Afraid I’m going to bite your head off?”
“Something like that.”
She sat back and gave him a direct look, then crossed her arms and one leg over a knee. “My pop told me a long time ago that if you’re going to fly a plane, you’d better know how it works, especially when you’re running it thousands of feet in the air.”
“I suppose that makes sense.”
The hail had stopped. Now it sounded like regular rain pounding down on the roof.
She shifted her weight to one side, unzipped a pocket, and stuck her hand inside it, rummaging around for something. “Look. Can I get something to drink?” She set some change on the table. “I saw the soda pop advertisement on the building, so I figure you must sell them, right?”
“I’ll get you one.” He stood up so fast he hit a knee on the table and wanted to swear. “Stay put,” he said, walking for the door. “The cooler’s in the station.”
“Wait! Here’s some money.”
“I’ll get it.” He was already half outside. The screen rattled closed behind him. He went inside the station and got a couple of bottles of soda, stuffed some bags of peanuts into his pockets; then he stepped back outside.
The wind had stopped. Now it was quiet, that empty kind of quiet that preceded something just the opposite, the kind of silence that made you stop and pay attention.
He walked toward the open side of the station and stood there a minute, holding the cold Dr. Pepper bottles by their long, damp necks.
Off toward the south, the clouds were black as iron and rolling over and over, down and sideways, twisting and moving toward the ground. A narrow outline of thin black was spinning like thread from the bottom of those heavy clouds.
He turned and ran to the house.
She met him at the door,
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