“This evening would be great.”
“About seven? Seven-thirty?”
“Good. I’m gonna work late tonight, leave you two alone so you can visit.”
“Okay then,” Hamp said as he scooted his chair back and stood to leave.
“Just one more thing.”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Let’s not tell her this was my idea.”
“Sure, if you say so.”
“I think it’s best,” Molly O said. “She’s not too crazy about my ideas these days.”
*
Bui had written only a few lines before the pen began to slide in his hand. While he used his shirttail to dry his sweaty palm and fingers, he tried to decide what to say next. Though he had practiced the letter in his head for many days, putting the words on paper carried a risk, the risk that she would not hear his heart speaking.
Biting at his lip, he picked up his pen again.
I know the months ahead will be hard for you there, but do not listen to those who will speak to you of shame. And when they look at you with hard eyes to make you smaller, do not think of guilt. Guilt does not belong to you, Nguyet, or to the baby you carry, a baby who will laugh with the sound of your laughter . . . see the beauty of the world with your eyes.
I want you and our child here with me, a child made of your body and my love. How could you think I would not want you both?
Bui paused when he heard the front door of the church rattle against the wind.
Do you not know that any part of you is precious to me? Do you not believe that without you, my life is nothing?
Come to America, Nguyet, and we will make for our child a good life . . . and for ourselves, a new beginning.
After he folded the letter around the money he was sending, Bui went to the window and pulled the curtain aside to stare at the moon, knowing that in a few hours it would shine on another part of the world. And he wondered if Nguyet would look at it and think of him.
W
HEN LIFE SAW CANEY unlock the front door, he grabbed the notebook off the seat beside him, then scooted out of his pickup where he’d been waiting for nearly an hour. He knew Molly O and the morning coffee drinkers wouldn’t be far behind him, so if he was going to have any time alone with Caney, he’d have to hurry.
He’d been carrying the book around with him for the past three days while he tried to decide what to do. At first, Molly O had teased him about going back to school, but when she pressed him about what was in the book, he’d felt the color burn in his face as he lied.
“Morning, Life,” Caney said. “See you’re still working on your taxes.”
“No, this ain’t tax stuff.” Life slid onto his regular stool and put the notebook on the counter in front of him. “Nothing like that.”
“Oh, I thought I heard you tell Molly O—”
“Well, I did, but I wasn’t truthful with her about that.”
“How come?”
“That’s what I want to talk to you about, Caney. See, this here’s real private.” Life patted the black notebook tenderly. “I never showed it to nobody before. But I’d like you to take a look at it.”
“Me?”
“Yeah.” Life pushed the book across the counter to Caney. “I need another man’s opinion, a man I can trust.”
“I don’t know, Life. If it’s something that secret . . .”
“I’ve give this a lot of thought, Caney. I feel like I’m doing the right thing here.”
“But—”
“You’d be doing me a real favor if you’d read it,” Life said.
“Well, okay.”
Caney opened the notebook which was filled with at least an inch of loose-leaf paper. On the first page there were two long paragraphs. One written in pencil, one in pen, they were separated from each other by several blank lines. Each paragraph was dated—the first March 4, 1941, the second, March 5.
Grinning, Caney said, “I never figured you to be one to keep a diary, Life,” but when he began to read, his grin quickly faded.
And as his eyes moved down the page, they widened in surprise.
“Is this some kind of joke?”
“No joke.”
“This is hot stuff, Life.” Caney turned the page where the next entry was dated March 6. After he read that, he riffled through all the pages, watching decades fly by until he came to the final entry written on November 10, 1983.
“What are you going to do with this?” Caney asked.
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
“Well, I don’t know a damned thing about writing, but I think you’re pretty good. You’ve got a wild imagination, I’ll say that for you, but if you’re thinking about trying to get this published, I’d change this guy’s name to Bob or Bill. Something like that. You use your own name, everybody’ll know—”
“I didn’t write it.”
Caney looked puzzled. “Who did?”
“Reba.”
“Oh, come on.” Caney smiled, seeing the humor, but he could tell from the look on Life’s face that he was serious as death. He was telling the truth.
“Reba?!” Caney shook his head, as much from astonishment as to shake loose the image of Mrs. Life Halstead.
Reba . . . a short, heavy woman who went to the Holy Ghost Tabernacle and spoke in tongues. Reba . . . a hardworking farm wife who made the best peach cobbler in the county and milked their Holsteins every morning before breakfast. Reba . . . a quiet, shy grandmother who wore loose brown dresses and sensible shoes.
Caney slammed the notebook closed and shoved it across the counter. He felt like a kid who’s just been caught peeking in his neighbor’s bathroom window.
“I found it in her dresser drawer the day after she was buried.”
“You didn’t know about this till then? That she was keeping a record of every time you two had sex?”
“We didn’t have sex, Caney. We made love.”
“You sure as hell did!”
“Reba was the only woman I was ever with,” Life said, fighting tears.
“From what I just read, she was enough.”
“Yes, she was. She truly was.” Life pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the corners of his eyes. “But she’s gone now and . . . Caney, I think you know how I feel about Molly O.”
“I guess I do.”
“Well, here’s what I’m wondering. Do you think I should show this to her?”
“To Molly O?”
“Yeah. I been thinking that she might be a little more interested in me if she saw what Reba had to say.”
“You mean kind of like providing references?”
“Something like that.”
“You want my honest opinion, Life?”
“I do, Caney.”
“Okay. I think if you show her this . . .”
Caney looked out the window as Molly O parked her Ford out front.
“Uh-oh. Here she is,” Caney warned.
“Go on. You think if I show her this . . .”
“We’d better talk about this later, Life. She’s gonna walk in here in just a second.”
“We have time, Caney! Now, what did you start to say?”
“Here she comes.”
“Dammit!” Life slapped the counter. “If I ever get to finish one conversation in this place, I’ll—”
“Morning, Life. Caney.”
“How you doing?” Caney asked.
“Great. Just great. Spring is here and love is in the air.”
Life and Caney exchanged guilty glances.
“Hamp Rothrock went by to see Brenda last night. Still there when I got home, sitting beside her on the couch. Now I could be wrong, I suppose, but she seemed happy to be with him. ’Course, she wouldn’t want me to think she was happy, but I could tell. He stayed till almost eleven. And after I went to bed, I heard her in the living room playing her guitar.”
As Molly O went behind the counter to put her purse away, she said, “Why, Life, you don’t even have a cup of coffee.”
“No, I don’t,” he said, his face pulled into a pout.
“Caney, where’s Vena?”
“She took the gelding out. Said she might ride to the lake.”
“Well, you made a smart decision not to go with her.”
“Yeah.” Caney rolled to the window. The sky was cloudless, the sun bright, the countryside greening. “Real smart.”
When Molly O handed Life his coffee, she said, “I see you’re still carrying that notebook around with you.”
“Uh . . .”
“But you’re not fooling me.”
“I’m not?” Life laid a protective hand across the book.
“Those aren’t farm accounts. That thing’s full of love letters, I’d bet.”
“Well, you could be right,” he said. “You sure could be right.”
*
The newspaper usually came about the time Soldier and Quinton showed up for their morning coffee, but today Big Fib Fry, the carrier, was running late.
“Suppose he’s been picked up by another UFO?” Quinton asked.
“Guess he’s gettin’ on right friendly terms with those aliens.
They’ve had him . . . what? Four or five times now?”
“Yeah, but you notice ever’ time they get him, they let him go real fast.”
“Hell, wouldn’t you?”
“From what I hear, Big Fib’s got more on his mind right now than aliens,” Wanda Sue said from her perch at the counter.
“What’s that?”
“I hear he’s carrying on with the wife of one of our city council-men. But don’t ask me who, ’cause I ain’t gonna repeat it.”
“Now I admire that,” Soldier said. “A woman who don’t pass on gossip.”
While Wanda Sue pulled off her glasses and used a napkin to clean them, Soldier winked at Quinton as he took out his pocket watch.
“But I will tell you this, the woman in question’s at least ten years older than Big Fib.”
“Paper here yet?” Caney asked as he came out of the kitchen.
“Nope.”
“Guess Fib got beamed up again,” Caney said.
“Huh-uh.” Wanda Sue shook her head. “He’s stopped off at his girlfriend’s.”
“Who’s his girlfriend?”
“She’s not telling.”
“No, but I will tell you this. She’s going to Houston next month to get a face lift.”
“Well, here comes the fishing king.”
As Hooks Red Eagle climbed out of his battered pickup, Molly O filled a cup with coffee and took it to Soldier and Quinton’s table.
“You get ’em today, Hooks?” Soldier asked when the door opened.
“Caught a couple of decent catfish. They go twenty, twenty-two pounds. Saw an old boy in a johnboat pull in crappie as long as my arm.”
“Lake’s warming up.”
“Man, that water’s smooth as glass today. No wind. Beautiful.
Just beautiful.”
“I’ll bet it is,” Caney said.
“Say,” Hooks said, “I heard old man Spence died last night.”
“That right?”
“She lives right next door to the Spence place,” Wanda Sue said with authority.
“Who does?”
“The woman in question.”
“Hell, Wanda Sue. Ain’t but one house next door, and that’s Frances and Luter’s place.”
“Now, you did not hear it from me.” Wanda Sue pointed her finger at Quinton to place blame where it belonged.
“Hear what?” Hooks asked.
“That Big Fib’s having an affair with Frances Dunn.” Then, to make sure everyone present realized the significance of the revelation, for which she would later blame Quinton, Wanda Sue added, “
Mrs.
Luter Dunn.”
Soldier checked his pocket watch and held up two fingers. “Yes sir, if there’s anything I admire, it’s a woman who can keep her mouth shut.”
Just then Big Fib Fry’s pickup came flying in, and as it circled the lot, the newspaper sailed out and landed on the concrete strip that fronted the Honk.
“About damned time,” Soldier said as he pushed his chair back, but before he got to his feet, Caney opened the door, and to the astonishment of all those watching, he wheeled himself outside.
“What’s he doing?”
“Why, he—”
“Went right out the door!”
“Never seen him—”
“Outside!”
“What the hell is going on?!”
*
Bui leaned across Caney’s shoulder and peered through the kitchen window.
“I believe you can hang a chain from each of those branches, then wire the bar to them.” Caney kept his voice low. “You think you can manage that?”
“I can fix, Mr. Chaney,” Bui whispered, clearly pleased to be a part of Caney’s secret.
“I’ll call the lumberyard and have them put the order together.
You think you could go in and pick it up this afternoon?”
“Yes sirree!”
Caney glanced into the dining room to make sure Vena and Molly O were still busy, then he refolded the sheet of paper with the sketch he had drawn and handed it to Bui.
“Two chicken strip baskets,” Molly O called as she slid a ticket onto the pass-through.
Caney winked at Bui, then headed for the grill.
*
Bui had just walked out of the lumberyard carting Caney’s order when he noticed Sam Kellam and two other men hunkering against the front of the building.
As Bui loaded the materials into the trunk of his car, the men started laughing, but he didn’t look up.
When he slid beneath the wheel and reached for the key in the ignition, he heard a sound like the rustle of dry leaves just seconds before he noticed the burlap bag in the seat beside him. And though he had never heard the sound before, he knew what was convulsing inside the bag even before the snake began to slither toward him.
His first impulse was to yell and pull back in fear, the same cold fear that had gripped him each time he came upon a python or cobra in the jungles of Vietnam where he had felled trees for wood.
But he remained perfectly still, breath suspended, eyes unblinking as he fought to find control.
Then, moving imperceptibly, he inched his left hand toward the door and eased it open, never taking his eyes from the snake as it disentangled itself from the bag and slid over his thigh, moving toward heat.
Bracing himself for what he was about to do, Bui drew a silent, even breath, felt the fingers of his right hand tingle as he drew it slowly and steadily into position, then, with startling speed, lunged, grabbed the snake just behind the head, hurled himself out the door and in one smooth motion flung the rattler into the air—five feet of twisting, contorting snake soaring in an arc toward the building.
The two men, one on each side of Sam, saw what was coming in time to scramble away, while Sam, still locked in a crouch, holding a match to a cigarette, looked up, too late, as the rattler slammed into his chest and fell squirming into his lap.