"Really!" Toby clapped her hands in mock excitement.
"How exciting!
Do tell."
"You've got a boyfriend in Schuyler." Toby studied him seriously for long enough to make him squirm, then broke into laughter.
"Poor Sully," she said when she was finished.
"You are a hoot." As was almost always the case with women. Sully suddenly felt himself to be on the fringes of the conversation.
"Hey, I didn't make it up," he insisted.
"In fact, I told the guy I didn't believe it." This set Toby Roebuck off again, though she stifled her hilarity more quickly this time.
"You really are a sweet man," she said, striving for seriousness.
"It's true," Sully grinned at her.
"I just wish more women realized it." Inside the house, Carl had come over to the window and was peering out, scout fashion, into the drive where they sat.
Sully doubted he could sec anything but his own reflection. He started the truck, realizing that not hearing it might have been what had brought Carl to the window.
"Maybe you shouldn't stay here tonight," he said.
"He's in pretty rough shape." She noticed his glance and followed it.
"I can't take much more of this," she admitted.
"Look at him." Carl, still shading his eyes, was right up against the window. He looked unsteady, like he might tumble through the glass.
"Go away for a while," he suggested.
"I'll keep an eye on him." The suggestion brought a smile.
"That's a funny idea.
You looking after anybody. "
" Why? "
" Oh, Sully, don't go getting your feelings hurt. I know you'd mean to. After about two minutes you'd get sidetracked and forget, and you wouldn't think of him again until about two weeks after the funeral. You'd be walking down the street and wondering why you hadn't seen him around. " Carl had stepped back and gone to the foot of the stairs, his back to the window. " By the way, where'd he hide the snow blower "
" Out at the yard," she confided.
"In the shed."
"All right," he said.
"I'll steal it back tomorrow or the next day."
"Careful of that mean-ass dog."
"I'm not worried about the dog," Sully said.
"I'm trying to figure how I'm going to scale the fence."
"You're a man among men. Sully."
"Thanks," he said.
"It wasn't a compliment," she assured him.
"You don't have to get all dressed up to come in here," Tiny said when Sully, clean-shaven and dressed as he'd been for his visit to Vera's, came in NOBODY'S FOOL 187 and took a seat at the end of the bar.
The shirt was a gift from Ruth, given to him months earlier, and this was the first time he'd worn it. He'd put it on right out of its plastic wrapping.
The shirt's creases still conformed more to its cardboard packaging than to Sully's torso. The pinholes had still not closed, in fact. A college football game on the television above the bar occupied the attention of the dozen or so men who'd escaped their families late on Thanksgiving afternoon.
The holiday had begun too early with the Macy's parade, and they hadn't been able to enjoy the afternoon football with all the holiday commotion. At The Horse they hoped to watch the second game in peace.
"I always like to look spiffy when I know you're tending bar," Sully said. Tiny appeared to be in a better mood, and Sully knew they would not renew last night's quarrel until later in the evening. For the next few hours both would pretend they were not going to renew it at all, a notion they would surrender only when the quarrel was actually under way.
"Where's your best customer?"
Tiny consulted his watch.
"Should be along any minute," he said.
"You're popular today. I been open all of an hour and already you've had a phone call and a delivery." Tiny produced a foil-covered plate from underneath the bar.
"Smells like turkey." Sully peered beneath the foil.
Turkey, stuffing, squash, cranberry sauce. Still warm. He examined both sides of the foil.
"No return address."
"Your ex," Tiny said.
"What's-his-face brought it. The mailman."
"Ralph?"
"He said you missed dinner."
"I just finished eating, actually.
Who phoned?"
he asked, expecting it to be Ruth, who wouldn't leave her name, of course.
"Somebody about a job." Tiny had scribbled a note, which he handed to Sully.
The note contained a phone number and a man's name: Miles Anderson.
Sully frowned.
"Who the fuck is Miles Anderson?"
"Never heard of him," Tiny admitted.
"Said he just bought a house here in town. Needs some work done on it. Another asshole yuppie, probably."
"The woods are full of them, all right," Sully admitted.
"At least they've got money."
"That's what makes them yuppies," Tiny said.
"Otherwise they'd just be assholes."
"I wish I could stay busy just working for people I admire," Sully said. He was on his second beer and still chatting amiably with Tiny when Wirfslid stiff-legged onto the stool next to him.
"Nice to see all my loved ones are on speaking terms again," he observed.
"What's that?" he said, pointing at the foil-covered dish at Sully's elbow.
"It smells like food."
"No dinner, huh?" Sully said.
"I had dinner with you," Wirf reminded him.
"Remember?"
"That was yesterday," Sully pointed out.
"Oh."
Wirf grinned.
"You meant today?"
"Stick this in the microwave, will you?"
Sully said, pushing the plate in Tiny's direction. Tiny did as he was told, a shade unhappily, it seemed to Sully.
"He'll be bellyaching about that before the night's over," Sully predicted.
"He'd rather sell me half a dozen pickled eggs over the course of the evening," Wirf said.
"And who can blame him?"
"I'll be able to after another beer or two." The microwave chirped and Tiny returned with the plate of turkey and stuffing, steaming now.
Several men watching the football game placed orders for the same.
"See the trouble you cause?" Tiny said. Wirf dove into the food hungrily.
"I don't think I can watch this," Sully said, wondering how a man could get a degree in law without picking up some rudimentary table manners.
Wirf forked with his left, knifed with his right, put neither utensil down until they were no longer of practical use. Sully went across the room and dialed the number on the slip of paper Tiny had given him.
"Adirondack."
"What?"
"Adirondack Motel."
"You got a Miles Anderson staying there?"
"Why don't I check."
"Why don't you." After a moment: "Miles Anderson."
"This is Don Sullivan."
"Who?"
"Okay, goodbye."
NOBODY'S FOOL 189
"Oh ... right... Mr. Sullivan. Sorry. Listen. I just purchased a house here in town. On Upper Main. You know where that is?"
"I've heard of it," Sully said.
"Ah." Miles Anderson hesitated.
"That's a joke, I'll bet."
"I live on Upper Main," Sully confessed.
"You do?"
Incredulity.
"Which house did you buy?"
"The one across the street from the Sans Merci."
"Souci."
"Right," Miles Anderson said.
"I knew it was without something. I must have been thinking of Keats."
"Must have been," Sully said.
"That's a big house, Mr. Anderson." He'd located the house, the largest on Upper Main, in his mind.
"The plan is to convert it into a B-and-B," Miles Anderson confided.
"Okay, I'll bite," Sully said.
"What's a B-and-B, besides brandy?"
"Bcd-and-breakfast," Anderson explained.
"Surely you've heard of bed-and-breakfasts?"
"Never."
"They're the rage."
"Okay," Sully said agreeably. A good pause.
"Anyway, the place is in, shall we say, imperfect condition.
In fact, the whole place needs sprucing up."
"Sprucing?" Sully said.
"A little of everything, I fear. Painting.
Lots of painting. Plumbing. Electrical. Insulation. Also yard work.
Two tree stumps that need digging up and carting off. There's time, though.
I won't actually need to take possession until spring.
Mid-May, in all likelihood. The plan is to open in August for the racing season. "
" I don't do electrical work," Sully said. " I can recommend someone though. "
" Yes .. . well .. . that might work, mightn't it?
"
" It might," Sully said. In fact, he was calculating in his head just how well. A winter's worth of work, done at his own pace, when his knee permitted. Good timing, too. After the ground froze, Carl Roebuck would have little for him until late April. " I understand you own a truck? " Miles Anderson said. " Most days. "
" You own it most days? "
" I own it every day. It runs most days. " "I see. Yes. Well, what else can I tell you? It's going to be strenuous work, I fear." Since Miles Anderson made that sound like a question. Sully answered it.
"I'm used to strenuous work."
"Hnunm.
Yes. Well. All right then. Listen, I hope you don't mind my asking how old you are? "
" I'm sixty," Sully told him. " How old are you?
"
"Touche. I wonder. Would you be willing to drop by sometime tomorrow morning and see the place? Give me an estimate? I have to be back to the city in the afternoon."
"Which city?"
"New York City. I wonder.
Did your hourly rate just go up? "
" No," Sully said. His hourly rate had gone up when Miles Anderson had used the phrase " mightn't it. " They agreed that Sully would meet him at the house at eleven. Sully took down the address.
"I live about two blocks from there," he said.
"Indeed," Miles Anderson said, his voice rich with indifference.
"Who recommended me, by the way?" Sully thought to ask before hanging up.
"Several people," Miles Anderson said.
"You have an excellent local reputation." Sully hung up. He'd considered asking Miles Anderson if he had any objection to paying him under the table, but decided that part of the negotiation could wait. Miles Anderson didn't sound like a man who'd be hung up on an ethical matter. Wirfwas nearly finished with Sully's dinner when he returned.
"I just talked to a man who said I had an excellent reputation," he told Wirf. Wirf wiped a patch of glistening gravy from his chin with a cocktail napkin.
"Out-of-towner, huh?"
"New York," Sully said.
"Big job?"
"All winter, sounds like."
"He'll pay you under the table?"
"I didn't mention it yet, but I will."
"Good, no records. They catch you working, we're kaput." Wirf said, then added, "Hey, I got a hell of an idea. Let's you and me sit right here and drink beer all night."
"Okay," Sully agreed, deciding not to mention the man in the dark sedan or the fact that he might already have been caught. In fact, he half NOBODY'S FOOL 191 hoped he had been caught. Then the die would be cast. Right this minute, he felt good. His knee was murmuring but not singing. Could it be things were looking up? Had he yanked himself out of his stupid streak in record time? It was a possibility worth contemplating.
"Maybe if we stay right here long enough that deadbeat bartender will buy a round."
sat across the breakfast table from his mother, trying to match the splinters of the demolished Queen Anne chair, which sat in an impressive pile at his feet. His mother was fully dressed and so utterly alert that Clive Jr. understood her to be furious. Still furious.
Her lips were drawn into the same thin white scar that had frightened him as a boy and, truth be told, frightened him still. The irony of his being frightened of his mother was not lost on Clive Jr. " who weighed, the last time he checked, just over two hundred and twenty pounds--too much, he admitted, for a man five-ten, but easily dismiss able as genetic. These last ten years, he had come to bear an uncanny resemblance to his father, Clive Sr. Miss Beryl, all four foot ten of her, Clive Jr. estimated to weigh in at about ninety pounds fully dressed, as she was now, at six-thirty in the morning the day after Thanksgiving, the morning after he'd made what Clive Jr. now understood to have been a tactical error of sizable dimension. " Ma," he said, setting down the two splintered pieces of wood that didn't want to match. He kept his voice low, so as not to awaken his fiancee.