was the wrinkled shirt, the unkempt hair, or just the look on his face, but I would have bet you then and there that this guy was beyond caring, that everybody who'd loved him was gone. He was just playing out the hand.
"Right heah," he said. "No need yellin'."
"Hobart." Sam turned in his direction and started telling him how my van was broken down, how I was staying out at the Averys' and needed a car for a few days. Hobart walked up, stuck his hand out, and I shook it. It felt like I had a handful of what I'd spent the morning wrestling out of Louis Avery's pasture, rough, no inner warmth of its own, covered with hard bark. He didn't squeeze in that adolescent way that some guys do, but I got the feeling he was taking my measure somehow, and more out of habit than interest.
"How's my old friend Louis?" It struck me as an odd question to ask, in a place so small. How could you avoid running over the guy every other day?
"Seems fine to me. You want me to say hello for you?"
Hobart chuckled. "Long as you can do it when Eleanor ain't around. She thinks I'm a bad influence."
"That so?"
"Ayuh," Hobart said. "Tell the Frenchman to give you the Brat."
* * *
It was a Subaru Brat, sort of a miniature pickup truck, fiercely rusted and seriously cramped for a guy my size. I wondered if Hobart had chosen it out of some sadistic impulse, but Roscoe told me the thing was the most dependable piece of shit they had. It started with a roar and ran raggedly, stood there on the lot in front of Hobart's garage and quivered like a dog who'd been in cold water too long. Roscoe told me, while we waited for it to warm up, that his band was going to be playing at the VFW that night, and that I was invited. Sam Calder made his way back over to his office to resume the cockfight with his old man. You assume, when you're on the outside looking in, that families tend to be, you know, love, caring, mutual support, all that shit. Maybe not exactly the Brady Bunch, but everybody on the same side, at least. Right then I got an image of Sam and his father: two cats with their tails tied together, thrown over a tree branch. No matter what their motivations, they would only continue to slash at each other, each unable to help either himself or the other guy. How do you get into something like that? Was I, even now, taking the steps that would lead to Nicky and me being thrown across that same branch?
Jesus.
Roscoe seemed genuinely pleased when I told him I'd probably see him at the VFW.
All the other drivers waved at me on the way back to the Averys'. I mean, all of them. They did it in the minimalist way Mainers have, nothing very demonstrative, just a quick flash of one open hand. Hobart's vehicle, it seemed, had given me entrance into some private club, and even though they were probably waving to the Subaru and not to me, I found myself waving back, Hey, how are you, hello, whoever you are. It got me in the habit of looking at whoever was riding inside the cars, not just at the outside of the vehicles. These were people out here, individuals, not just cars in my way, slowing me down.
I took a wrong turn somewhere on my way back to Louis's house. I knew right away that I was on the wrong road, because the stream was missing. I didn't turn around, though, I followed the road as it twisted and turned past what I assumed were abandoned farms. There weren't any farmhouses, just a decaying wooden shed here and there, and fields of tall yellow grass banded by rock walls. It was impressive, in a sort of melancholy way, because of the sheer volume of backbreaking labor it must have taken to build those walls. Some poor bastard busted his ass for what had to be decades to hump the rocks out of his fields, and now the fields were empty and untended. In some places the woods had taken over, the stone walls ran through stands of trees, and not skinny ones, either, these were
"Right heah," he said. "No need yellin'."
"Hobart." Sam turned in his direction and started telling him how my van was broken down, how I was staying out at the Averys' and needed a car for a few days. Hobart walked up, stuck his hand out, and I shook it. It felt like I had a handful of what I'd spent the morning wrestling out of Louis Avery's pasture, rough, no inner warmth of its own, covered with hard bark. He didn't squeeze in that adolescent way that some guys do, but I got the feeling he was taking my measure somehow, and more out of habit than interest.
"How's my old friend Louis?" It struck me as an odd question to ask, in a place so small. How could you avoid running over the guy every other day?
"Seems fine to me. You want me to say hello for you?"
Hobart chuckled. "Long as you can do it when Eleanor ain't around. She thinks I'm a bad influence."
"That so?"
"Ayuh," Hobart said. "Tell the Frenchman to give you the Brat."
* * *
It was a Subaru Brat, sort of a miniature pickup truck, fiercely rusted and seriously cramped for a guy my size. I wondered if Hobart had chosen it out of some sadistic impulse, but Roscoe told me the thing was the most dependable piece of shit they had. It started with a roar and ran raggedly, stood there on the lot in front of Hobart's garage and quivered like a dog who'd been in cold water too long. Roscoe told me, while we waited for it to warm up, that his band was going to be playing at the VFW that night, and that I was invited. Sam Calder made his way back over to his office to resume the cockfight with his old man. You assume, when you're on the outside looking in, that families tend to be, you know, love, caring, mutual support, all that shit. Maybe not exactly the Brady Bunch, but everybody on the same side, at least. Right then I got an image of Sam and his father: two cats with their tails tied together, thrown over a tree branch. No matter what their motivations, they would only continue to slash at each other, each unable to help either himself or the other guy. How do you get into something like that? Was I, even now, taking the steps that would lead to Nicky and me being thrown across that same branch?
Jesus.
Roscoe seemed genuinely pleased when I told him I'd probably see him at the VFW.
All the other drivers waved at me on the way back to the Averys'. I mean, all of them. They did it in the minimalist way Mainers have, nothing very demonstrative, just a quick flash of one open hand. Hobart's vehicle, it seemed, had given me entrance into some private club, and even though they were probably waving to the Subaru and not to me, I found myself waving back, Hey, how are you, hello, whoever you are. It got me in the habit of looking at whoever was riding inside the cars, not just at the outside of the vehicles. These were people out here, individuals, not just cars in my way, slowing me down.
I took a wrong turn somewhere on my way back to Louis's house. I knew right away that I was on the wrong road, because the stream was missing. I didn't turn around, though, I followed the road as it twisted and turned past what I assumed were abandoned farms. There weren't any farmhouses, just a decaying wooden shed here and there, and fields of tall yellow grass banded by rock walls. It was impressive, in a sort of melancholy way, because of the sheer volume of backbreaking labor it must have taken to build those walls. Some poor bastard busted his ass for what had to be decades to hump the rocks out of his fields, and now the fields were empty and untended. In some places the woods had taken over, the stone walls ran through stands of trees, and not skinny ones, either, these were
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