her bedpost with his best friend’s name on it. In an immediate afterthought, he conceded the likelihood that Rick would harbor damn little hesitation in helping her carve it.
“Honey, wouldja mind goin’ ahead and callin’ ’im while Linda and I fix us a sandwich? I invited myself to supper ’fore you got here. He might find himself sump’m else to do if you wait ’til tomorrow.”
Backing the wagon into the turnaround in the next morning’s rainy semidarkness, Jack resigned himself to the return of normal February weather, which was, on the whole, the worst this part of the country had to offer in a typical year. Won’t mind seeing the last of this shit, he thought as he rolled down the driveway and past the gate. Leaving it open so Cordelia wouldn’t have to deal with it, he headed into town, driving with the extra care of the hung over. Cordelia had passed out midway through her Underwood’s Deviled Ham on rye; they’d put her to bed in the guest bedroom and, flushed with the success of that maneuver, made the mistake of celebrating with Stingers, rendering themselves comatose soon after.
He was thinking about Cordelia’s still-spectacular body, which they’d seen in its entirety while getting her into bed. She was a year or two past forty, but in every bit as good shape as Linda, and that was no small achievement. Simultaneously wondering if she worked out to stay that way and envying Rick’s probable enjoyment of her bias toward professional athletes, his hangover-horniness evaporated with Nick’s sudden occupancy of the passenger seat. “Morning, Jack,” he said, shifting in the seat to face him as he draped an arm over the seat back. “Sorry to startle you; we’ve gotta decide on a way for me to announce myself. I’m just not comfortable using the Goshawk’s shriek in this dignified persona.”
“‘Hey, Jack!’ would beat the hell out of nothing,” I’m in a weakened state, or hadn’t you picked that up?”
“Indeed I had, my boy; the aphorism ‘be careful what you wish for’ comes to mind. You’ve had a busy twenty-four hours, so I’m not surprised that you allowed Mr. Ballantine to take over last night. Unfortunately, you didn’t fulfill my ultimate fantasy in your inebriated state.”
“Which was?”
“To screw your aunt, of course, with or without your girlfriend’s connivance, before Rick beats you in there.”
“You are a mind-reader, I’ll give you that.”
“That, and much more. But given the state of my corporeality, I’ve gotta derive such sexual satisfaction as I can from watching you work. Still hope it’ll work out, sooner or later.”
“And gimme a ‘Hey, Jack’ next time, if it’s not to goddamn much trouble!” Nick’s departure was so swift, however, that Jack wasn’t sure that he got it. But then, he thought, how much had the son of a bitch missed?
The cafe was steamy, laden with breakfast scents, and at seven-thirty already full of Bisquites girding themselves for a day of commerce. Sliding onto his customary stool, he put his head in his hands and awaited Reba’s arrival. “Good mornin’, honey; looks like you’us up late last niit.”
“Bingo; can you spare a couple aspirin with the coffee?”
“Sure thing; now that I get a good look at you, I think I better get you a dose of what Nelson takes when he comes in a-lookin’ like this.”
“God, don’t tell me I’m finally in Nels’s league! What the hell is it?”
“Just a lil’ ol’ mountain oyster, honey. It’ll fix ya riit up.”
7 DRAFTIN’ OL’ FIREBALL
“Get in here, y’all,” said a grinning Cordelia, predictably voluptuous in snug-fitting black knit slacks and a long-sleeved white blouse of what Linda recognized as fine silk. “Hey, honey.” This to Linda, accompanied by a brush-kiss on the cheek, while her eyes stayed on Rick. “Y’all’re already a drink behind. Jack, wouldja mind just throwin’ y’all’s coats in there on th’ dinin’
“Honey, wouldja mind goin’ ahead and callin’ ’im while Linda and I fix us a sandwich? I invited myself to supper ’fore you got here. He might find himself sump’m else to do if you wait ’til tomorrow.”
Backing the wagon into the turnaround in the next morning’s rainy semidarkness, Jack resigned himself to the return of normal February weather, which was, on the whole, the worst this part of the country had to offer in a typical year. Won’t mind seeing the last of this shit, he thought as he rolled down the driveway and past the gate. Leaving it open so Cordelia wouldn’t have to deal with it, he headed into town, driving with the extra care of the hung over. Cordelia had passed out midway through her Underwood’s Deviled Ham on rye; they’d put her to bed in the guest bedroom and, flushed with the success of that maneuver, made the mistake of celebrating with Stingers, rendering themselves comatose soon after.
He was thinking about Cordelia’s still-spectacular body, which they’d seen in its entirety while getting her into bed. She was a year or two past forty, but in every bit as good shape as Linda, and that was no small achievement. Simultaneously wondering if she worked out to stay that way and envying Rick’s probable enjoyment of her bias toward professional athletes, his hangover-horniness evaporated with Nick’s sudden occupancy of the passenger seat. “Morning, Jack,” he said, shifting in the seat to face him as he draped an arm over the seat back. “Sorry to startle you; we’ve gotta decide on a way for me to announce myself. I’m just not comfortable using the Goshawk’s shriek in this dignified persona.”
“‘Hey, Jack!’ would beat the hell out of nothing,” I’m in a weakened state, or hadn’t you picked that up?”
“Indeed I had, my boy; the aphorism ‘be careful what you wish for’ comes to mind. You’ve had a busy twenty-four hours, so I’m not surprised that you allowed Mr. Ballantine to take over last night. Unfortunately, you didn’t fulfill my ultimate fantasy in your inebriated state.”
“Which was?”
“To screw your aunt, of course, with or without your girlfriend’s connivance, before Rick beats you in there.”
“You are a mind-reader, I’ll give you that.”
“That, and much more. But given the state of my corporeality, I’ve gotta derive such sexual satisfaction as I can from watching you work. Still hope it’ll work out, sooner or later.”
“And gimme a ‘Hey, Jack’ next time, if it’s not to goddamn much trouble!” Nick’s departure was so swift, however, that Jack wasn’t sure that he got it. But then, he thought, how much had the son of a bitch missed?
The cafe was steamy, laden with breakfast scents, and at seven-thirty already full of Bisquites girding themselves for a day of commerce. Sliding onto his customary stool, he put his head in his hands and awaited Reba’s arrival. “Good mornin’, honey; looks like you’us up late last niit.”
“Bingo; can you spare a couple aspirin with the coffee?”
“Sure thing; now that I get a good look at you, I think I better get you a dose of what Nelson takes when he comes in a-lookin’ like this.”
“God, don’t tell me I’m finally in Nels’s league! What the hell is it?”
“Just a lil’ ol’ mountain oyster, honey. It’ll fix ya riit up.”
7 DRAFTIN’ OL’ FIREBALL
“Get in here, y’all,” said a grinning Cordelia, predictably voluptuous in snug-fitting black knit slacks and a long-sleeved white blouse of what Linda recognized as fine silk. “Hey, honey.” This to Linda, accompanied by a brush-kiss on the cheek, while her eyes stayed on Rick. “Y’all’re already a drink behind. Jack, wouldja mind just throwin’ y’all’s coats in there on th’ dinin’
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