get out?"
"Secret."
"Good. Listen, I can't keep you here."
"Well, I got to sleep somewhere. Goddamn, Lamar, I'm family, man. Shit. Where does that old woman live?"
"What old woman?"
"The one might be my grandma—with the cake and stuff."
"Oh, Mrs. Rigsbee. She lives in Listre. Why?"
Wesley leaned against the sink, eyed the dirty dishes.
"I told Blake I'd have some of the best cake he ever eat—from my grandma. Man, that was the best cake I ever eat."
"Don't get any ideas about stealing cake, Wesley."
"I ain't. I ain't." Wesley sat down in a chair on several newspapers.
Lamar walked over and sat on the couch. "Yeah, she can flat cook, all right. I'm supposed to take her a well-house roof tomorrow."
"Can you get me a big hunk of that cake?"
"Hell no, I can't do that. Listen, you got to get out of here."
"Where does she keep her cake?"
"Hell, I don't know. Why? Wesley, don't go steal none of her cake. Listen, ah, it's warm outside. I'll pull the truck out behind the shop and you can take my sleeping bag and sleep in the truck bed. If the law comes I'll turn on the light and them speakers out there and you sneak off or something."
"Okay. Hell, I can do that. But I could just sleep on the couch it seems like to me," said Wesley.
Lamar stood. "No way. You sleep in the truck. I'll get the sleeping bag. If they catch you, you tell them you got it out of the truck and never saw me. Here—bug spray."
"Where's my belt and that bracelet and stuff?"
"I'll get it." Lamar went to his bedroom and came back with a manila envelope and a paper sack. Inside the envelope was Wesley's thick leather belt with "Wesley" carved across the back, an Indian-made silver ring and bracelet with light blue settings, and a leather necklace. In the sack were a pair of trousers and two T-shirts.
While Lamar was moving the truck, Wesley picked up the telephone and dialed. "Patricia? This is Wesley ... Wesley ... Yeah, I busted out. Me and Blake planned it and he'll be out tomorrow night... I'm sorry, I thought you'd be up. Well listen, why don't you come over to Lamar's in the morning? ... Yeah, the trailer. We'll go on a picnic or something ... Okay, good night... Moochie moo you, too."
"Moochie moo?" Lamar stepped inside.
"Don't worry about it."
"Was that Patricia?"
"Yeah. She might come over tomorrow."
"Y'all are going somewhere, ain't you?"
"Picnic or something."
Wesley slept behind Lamar's shop in the truck bed. Saturday morning after helping Lamar load the well top into the truck bed he asked if he could see inside Lamar's shop for a few minutes. Lamar let him in. Wesley stood in the doorway. Across the back wall hung tools—several makes of the same tool were hung side by side in descending sizes. There were five hammers, four wood saws, three hacksaws, six paint brushes, adjustable wrenches, chisels. A long table held a plane, other tools, small jars and cigar boxes of screws, nuts, bolts, and nails. Along one side wall was a table with a lathe, a clamp, electric saw, and electric file.
"Why don't you keep your trailer this neat?" said Wesley. "Them dishes stunk."
"Don't worry about it. Listen, I got to get going."
"Well," said Wesley, backing out of the door. "It's a nice one."
"Yeah, I got a lot of money in it," said Lamar.
As Lamar was driving away, Patricia pulled up in her Camaro.
Wesley got in beside her. "Follow Lamar, but stay way back so he don't see you."
As Lamar turned into Mattie's driveway and drove behind the house, Particia pulled over on the roadside and Wesley got out.
"You stay right here," he said to Patricia. "I'll be back inside ten minutes with the best pound cake you ever eat in your life."
Wesley walked along the road toward Mattie's house. On the side of the house facing him was the porch. The screen door to the side porch was in the front. While they were out back at the well house he could walk from the road straight across the front yard, up to the porch, into the kitchen, find
"Secret."
"Good. Listen, I can't keep you here."
"Well, I got to sleep somewhere. Goddamn, Lamar, I'm family, man. Shit. Where does that old woman live?"
"What old woman?"
"The one might be my grandma—with the cake and stuff."
"Oh, Mrs. Rigsbee. She lives in Listre. Why?"
Wesley leaned against the sink, eyed the dirty dishes.
"I told Blake I'd have some of the best cake he ever eat—from my grandma. Man, that was the best cake I ever eat."
"Don't get any ideas about stealing cake, Wesley."
"I ain't. I ain't." Wesley sat down in a chair on several newspapers.
Lamar walked over and sat on the couch. "Yeah, she can flat cook, all right. I'm supposed to take her a well-house roof tomorrow."
"Can you get me a big hunk of that cake?"
"Hell no, I can't do that. Listen, you got to get out of here."
"Where does she keep her cake?"
"Hell, I don't know. Why? Wesley, don't go steal none of her cake. Listen, ah, it's warm outside. I'll pull the truck out behind the shop and you can take my sleeping bag and sleep in the truck bed. If the law comes I'll turn on the light and them speakers out there and you sneak off or something."
"Okay. Hell, I can do that. But I could just sleep on the couch it seems like to me," said Wesley.
Lamar stood. "No way. You sleep in the truck. I'll get the sleeping bag. If they catch you, you tell them you got it out of the truck and never saw me. Here—bug spray."
"Where's my belt and that bracelet and stuff?"
"I'll get it." Lamar went to his bedroom and came back with a manila envelope and a paper sack. Inside the envelope was Wesley's thick leather belt with "Wesley" carved across the back, an Indian-made silver ring and bracelet with light blue settings, and a leather necklace. In the sack were a pair of trousers and two T-shirts.
While Lamar was moving the truck, Wesley picked up the telephone and dialed. "Patricia? This is Wesley ... Wesley ... Yeah, I busted out. Me and Blake planned it and he'll be out tomorrow night... I'm sorry, I thought you'd be up. Well listen, why don't you come over to Lamar's in the morning? ... Yeah, the trailer. We'll go on a picnic or something ... Okay, good night... Moochie moo you, too."
"Moochie moo?" Lamar stepped inside.
"Don't worry about it."
"Was that Patricia?"
"Yeah. She might come over tomorrow."
"Y'all are going somewhere, ain't you?"
"Picnic or something."
Wesley slept behind Lamar's shop in the truck bed. Saturday morning after helping Lamar load the well top into the truck bed he asked if he could see inside Lamar's shop for a few minutes. Lamar let him in. Wesley stood in the doorway. Across the back wall hung tools—several makes of the same tool were hung side by side in descending sizes. There were five hammers, four wood saws, three hacksaws, six paint brushes, adjustable wrenches, chisels. A long table held a plane, other tools, small jars and cigar boxes of screws, nuts, bolts, and nails. Along one side wall was a table with a lathe, a clamp, electric saw, and electric file.
"Why don't you keep your trailer this neat?" said Wesley. "Them dishes stunk."
"Don't worry about it. Listen, I got to get going."
"Well," said Wesley, backing out of the door. "It's a nice one."
"Yeah, I got a lot of money in it," said Lamar.
As Lamar was driving away, Patricia pulled up in her Camaro.
Wesley got in beside her. "Follow Lamar, but stay way back so he don't see you."
As Lamar turned into Mattie's driveway and drove behind the house, Particia pulled over on the roadside and Wesley got out.
"You stay right here," he said to Patricia. "I'll be back inside ten minutes with the best pound cake you ever eat in your life."
Wesley walked along the road toward Mattie's house. On the side of the house facing him was the porch. The screen door to the side porch was in the front. While they were out back at the well house he could walk from the road straight across the front yard, up to the porch, into the kitchen, find
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