"Howdy, Gil."
"Get any rain out at the old man's place last night, Howard?"
"How'y'doin', Gil…"
The metal legs of his chair scraped on checked linoleum, gritty with dirt and manure from many boots. The stooped and white haired day-shift waitress brought a menu he knew by heart.
He grinned at her. "Millie, why don't you go out with me tonight?"
A smile blossomed the soft wrinkles of Millie's face into fussy sweetness. "Gil, when you grin like that, you look so much like your dad, it ain't even funny." She drew an order pad from the pocket of her smock. "Roy was the best lookin' boy I ever saw, but your granddad, now—" she rolled her eyes appreciatively, and giggled like a girl—"he was really somethin' in his day."
The liars hee-hawed.
She patted his cheek. "You're a sweet boy, darlin', to think of old Millie, but I have to stay home tonight and fill my bird feeders." She winked. "Otherwise, I would."
He laughed and handed her his menu. "That's what they all say. I'll just have the double cheeseburger with fries and a Coke. Pie, too."
Millie turned away and disappeared through the batwing doors between the cafe and the bar.
He finished his meal and left a dollar beside his plate then stepped outside into bright sunshine. Pulling the Skoal can from the pocket of his shirt, he took a dip.
A few feet away, the door from the bar opened and Rod Baker, the Lazy H outfit's hired man, stepped out, red hair and freckles gleaming in the sun. He settled a dusty Stetson on his head. "How's it goin', Howard?"
"It's goin', Baker. You decide if you want my horse yet?"
"You all done with him?"
"Gentle as a kitten."
Rod spit a stream of tobacco juice at the curb where a frail lady with blue hair made a shaky attempt to park a Ford Falcon.
He nodded toward the car. "That's Miss Means. She's about a hundred years old. She taught my dad third grade, and then she taught me third grade. Could she ride him?"
He eyed the elderly woman's determined effort to pull into the space then grinned. "Sure."
Rod threw back his head and laughed. "I don't want him, then."
He laughed, too. Then from the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of Katie coming out of the post office next to the bar. He turned his head to meet her gaze, his laughter abruptly dying.
Vivid color flooded her face. She froze with her hand on the stair railing, her eyes wide…and as blue as he remembered. He flicked his gaze down her slender form in a flowered summer dress to her small feet in leather sandals then back to her face.
With panic in her eyes, she glanced down the street toward the hardware store where he'd left his truck, and then the other way. She hesitated. Then she took a deep breath and started down the steps toward him and Rod.
He snatched off his hat and hurriedly wiped the chew out of his lip to flip it toward the curb. She moved quickly toward them on the sidewalk, head down.
She wouldn't go past without speaking…Would she? He couldn't let her. By the time she approached to arm's distance away, his heart was pounding so he could hardly breathe.
"Hi, Katie."
She hesitated then stopped. Slowly, she raised her gaze to his. Her eyes held none of the animosity he had expected. Instead, they seemed shadowed by unhappiness matching his own.
She rubbed her hand nervously over her flowered skirt. "Hi."
"Doin' okay?"
"Yes." Her gaze flickered over his bare head. "You?"
He nodded.
She looked down, smoothing the fabric of her dress. Her lashes fanned across the soft, tanned skin of her cheek, and a lock of bright hair curled against her neck. She stood near enough for the fragrance of her hair…like lightning…to reach him.
He cleared his throat. "Your leg all right, now?"
She nodded. The breeze lifted a wavy strand of hair from her ponytail and carried it to rest on his faded denim shirt over his chest.
Miss Means shut off the Falcon's motor. The car spluttered a few gasps and then died.
"I have to go." Katie made a vague gesture to where Karl sat in his red pickup halfway down the block reading a newspaper. "Karl's waiting on me."
He swallowed and nodded jerkily. "See you around, Katie."
She walked away quickly, her shining ponytail swinging in time with her skirt and the movement of pretty calves. A minute later, Karl backed out of the parking space and drove away toward their place.
Rod Baker guffawed loudly. "You've got it bad, dude."
"Huh?"
"Katie Campbell. What's with that?"
"What's with what?"
"She's hot, I'll give you that, but that family's a weird outfit, you know."
He eyed Rod. "What're you talkin' about?"
"I went to school with Karl. That family's so religious it's unbelievable. You know what he did one time?" Rod shook his head. "He found a fifty dollar bill in the parking lot and gave it to the principal." Disgustedly, he spit a dark stream at the curb and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. "I can't see her gettin' hooked up with you, Howard. She won't look at anybody that don't go to her church. I've tried, believe me." He shrugged. "But sometimes the quiet girls surprise you and—"
"Now'd be a good time to shut your mouth, Baker," he said, the broken spot on the bridge of his nose burning.
Rod stared at him. "Hey. I'm just sayin'. I sure wouldn't mind gettin' lucky with her, so I can see why you'd—"
A red haze obscured his vision. Seriously? Katie…pure and good, and probably the only virgin either one of them knew…with Rod Baker's dirty eyes on her speculating about getting lucky…?
Without thinking, he popped Rod, hard, on the mouth with the back of his hand.
Rod's hat flew off. His eyes widened. "Hey," he yelled, fingering his bleeding lip. "What'd you do that for you stupid son of—"
"You keep your dirty mouth shut about her, you hear me, Baker?"
Baker swore and launched at him, eyes blazing. Rod's fist connected with his nose.
The searing pain nearly blinded him. That stupid goofball had probably broken his nose…again. He drew back his fist and drove it into the other man's stomach.
Baker's eyes stared, wide-eyed, as the air exploded from him, doubling him over. He rammed his knee under Rod's chin, whipping back his head and staggering him. Then he grabbed the other man by the shirtfront, swung him off his feet, and hurled him over the hood of the Falcon. Rod's hard, red head cracked down on the old glass of the windshield, splintering a network of fissures across it.
Halfway out of her car, Miss Means stared at her former pupil as he slowly sat up on the hood clutching his head, a torrent of loud profanity pouring from his bleeding lips. Her bluish hair rose like an old hen's feathers while her penciled brows snapped together and her thin lips tightened.
Expecting Miss Means to rush forward and peck Rod on the head, he swiped at the blood gushing from his nose with his shirt sleeve. Just then, the town marshal pulled his Chevy Blazer into the space next to the Falcon. The young marshal unfolded his lanky frame from the Blazer, gaze narrowed on him beneath the brim of his Stetson.
He groaned inwardly. That guy hadn't liked him ever since the dark haired waitress decided she didn't think much of hot-shot marshals.
The marshal spit his chew onto the asphalt and sauntered around to Miss Means. "Miss Means, you all right?"
"No, I am not, young man," Miss Means snapped in a high, wavering voice, "I only came to town for a sack of cat food when these two ruffians…"
A crowd gathered on the sidewalk. Miss Mean's quavering outrage shrilled over the gleefully earthy suggestions of the ranching community. Rod started popping off at the mouth again.
He lunged at the stupid turkey in an attempt to shut him up before he said Katie's name in front of everybody, but the marshal grabbed his arms.
He shrugged out of the man's grip. "Listen, Barney Fife—"
"Okay. That's it, Howard," the marshal
roared. "Get in the Blazer. I'm gonna haul you in for assault and destruction of private property…and for bein' just too dang funny."
***
An hour later, his grandfather's telephone rang twenty times or more. While he waited, Gil leaned his head against the institution grey of the concrete wall in the county jail gently fingering his nose, assessing the damage. Maybe Rod hadn't broken it again after all.
He sighed. His grandfather must still be with Mabel's family. Or he might be at the Campbell place by now.
He hesitated, and then dialed Katie's number he'd memorized. Just in case.
She answered.
He winced. The one time he didn't want to talk to her…
"Hey. It's Gil."
She paused. "Hi."
He cleared his throat. "It was good to see you."
"Thank you," she said stiffly.
"Er…Is my gramps there?"
"Just a minute."
The screen door squealed in the background. She shouted for his grandfather.
A few minutes later, the old man picked up the receiver. "Gil?"
He winced again. Why'd his grandfather have to talk so loud all the time? People five miles away could probably hear him. "Gramps, I'm in jail."
The line went silent.
"How come you're in jail?" his grandfather bellowed, at last.
Unless Katie had suddenly gone deaf, she'd hear every word.
"It's kind of hard to explain and it'd take a long time—"
"I got plenty of time."
He sighed and leaned his aching head on the wall again. "I hit Rod Baker and broke Miss Means—"
"Who?"
"Miss Means. Ol' gal in a Falcon. Has cats."
"Not her. Who'd you hit?"
"Rod Baker."
"Rodney Baker? I went to school with his granddad."
"Was Miss Means your teacher?"
"What?"
"Was Miss Means your teacher?" he yelled.
"Naw. I went to school with her, though. Knew she'd never find nobody to marry her even then. Bossy little sourpuss always looked like she'd just swallowed a lemon. What'd you hit him with?" In spite of his grandfather's aside about Miss Means, steel underlay his tone.
"With my fist."
"Hurt him?"
"Not as bad as I wanted to."
"What'd you do that for?"
He hesitated. "I can't tell you right now. I just need you to come bail me out. I'll pay you back."
The old man paused. "Naw. Jail's the best place for you."
The receiver clicked in his ear.
Chapter Seven
The next morning, his grandfather held out a paper sack to the jail guard. Gil slouched at one of the half-dozen tables in the empty visitors' room while the guard—his stomach straining against the buttons of his uniform—drew a book from the bag, flipped its pages, and then nodded, handing it back.
The old man threaded his way through the tables then pulled two books from the sack, dropping a heavy, leather-bound Bible and an even bigger dictionary onto the table. Then he hooked the toe of his boot around the leg of a chair and drew it out.
He lowered his lanky frame and removed his hat, nodding unsmilingly at the books. "Brought you somethin'."
Still irritated by the old man's refusal to bail him out, he only raised a brow.
"When you're finished readin' that Bible, you call me and we'll see about gettin' you out—"
"Why can't you just—"
His grandfather raised a hand and went on—"of here. In the meantime, I know the sheriff and he's let me make some special arrangements for you."
He sullenly regarded the old man. "What arrangements?"
"Through the years, when any of the church boys has ended up here at the crossbars motel for bein' stupid—" his grandfather's gaze hardened—"the sheriff's let me make special arrangements for 'em. You boys get a special diet, an hour after dinner to go outside and get some air, and the rest of the time you're in your comfortable room with no tobacco, nothin' to bother you, and plenty of time to read. Somehow it always works out that the Book gets finished before the sheriff gets all the paperwork done to let you fellers out. He likes it 'cause he's never had a repeat offender out of the deal."
"Gramps—" he sat up in alarm—"I need to work. Why can't you just get me out of here? I told you I'd pay you back."
"Gil." The old man's gaze held his with sober intensity. "There's somethin' you don't realize. A whole lot of us church people around the world work our whole lives to maintain a good relationship with the law. This sheriff may not agree with the church on matters of faith, he may think we're too literal in our understandin' of the Bible, but he respects us and our right to live what we believe. Now, what do you think he'd make of it if I was to treat you different than the other boys just because you're my grandson?"
He eyed his grandfather then turned away. "What about my horses?"
"I turned 'em out in the big pasture."
He groaned. The big pasture was four hundred acres of the roughest ground his grandfather owned. "I ain't never gonna catch that paint horse if he runs loose for a couple of weeks."
"Read fast."
He eyed the thick, leather-bound volume on the table. Someone had engraved his name with silver lettering on the cover. "I've gotta read all of it?"
"I guess you don't have to read that letter to King James in the front, but it wouldn't hurt nothin'."
He flipped listlessly through the pages. "I went to school on an athletic scholarship, Gramps. The girls did my homework."
The old man scanned the empty room with raised brows. "Don't see no girls."
He sighed and lowered his head to his hands. A long silence stretched between the two of them.
"Does Katie know?" he asked, at last.
"Yep."
"Did she say anything?"
"Nope."
Another long silence stretched out, broken only by the echo of a metal door slamming and somebody swearing in the hall. His grandfather cleared his throat.
"She's havin' a pretty rough time of it with Dave still needin' care, and her mama bein' sick. She broke up with her boyfriend, too. You have anything to do with that?"
He jerked up his head in surprise. "No. She sent me down the road two months ago. I hadn't seen her at all to speak to until yesterday. Why?"
"No reason." The old man eyed him levelly then reached for his hat and stood. "You just start eatin' that book up. Parts of the Chronicles are pretty tough sloggin', but shouldn't be too tough for a tough guy," he said with heavy sarcasm. "Wouldn't hurt you to do some prayin' while you're at it. On your knees. There ain't no shame in bowin' to a King, and a little humility'd do you good. Call me when you get done with your readin'."
The disapproval and deep shade of worry in his grandfather's eyes troubled him and for the first time in his life he knew shame at disappointing somebody.
"One more thing," the old man said.
"What?"
"That jumpsuit don't do much for you, but I like the shoes." His grandfather's lips twisted into the shadow of a grin. "Might get me some."
He glanced down at the bright orange jumpsuit he wore, three inch tall letters emblazoning 'INMATE' across the back. The hems hit him about mid-shin when he sat down, and when he crossed his foot to his knee to examine a black canvas shoe, a strip of pale, hairy skin showed above his white socks.
He looked up at his grandfather. The old man's grin widened. He laughed in spite of himself.
His grandfather reached down, slapped his knee, and then started for the door. "The work's pilin' up, so call me soon's you're done readin'. There'll be a quiz."
***
The old wing of the jail held only one other inmate, a short guy with wimpy hands, stringy black hair, and cavernous dark eyes in a yellowed, skull-like face. In jail for his third drug violation, he was worried—as much as a guy who had burned up most of his brain cells could be—he'd be doing some hard time.
&nb
sp; He sweated a lot, too, and Gil hated touching the damp basketball when the two of them shot hoops for an hour after the noon meal. He'd asked for his own ball, but since that had been the day after he'd asked the guard when his baby was due, the guard only denied his request with a sadistic roar of laughter, jiggling his gut against the strained fabric of his uniform. Fortunately, none of the uniform's buttons had popped loose. With pressure like that behind them, they could've killed somebody.
After noon on the third day, Jerry, the doper, worried about going to prison for real and missed baskets with the sweaty ball. He listened to the guy with half an ear—he had his own troubles. Every time he leaped into the air to dunk the ball, the legs of his orange jumpsuit rose halfway up his legs and one of his canvas shoes fell off.
He slipped on his shoe for the fifth time and glanced at Jerry, whose jumpsuit nearly swallowed him. "You had any dreams about it? Anything with baskets on your head?"
Jerry stared at him open mouthed, his brain almost visible in his vacant eyes, slowly grinding away.
"Most of my dreams have, like…crawly stuff…you know? I don't remember no baskets, man."
"I just wondered. There's this guy in the Bible that was kind of in charge of the jail." He passed the ball to Jerry. "He could tell people what their dreams meant. This one guy dreamed he had baskets on his head."
Jerry dropped the ball and ran after it, tripping on the hems of his jumpsuit. He turned to take his shot, leaping about three inches off the ground. His shoes stayed firmly attached to his feet. He missed the shot, chased the ball across the small area again and then tossed the ball underhanded to him.
"Maybe this guard knows somethin' about dreams." He jerked his chin toward the yawning man at the gate and lined up for a shot. "Go ask him what your dreams mean."
Jerry shuffled away toward the guard.
He bounced the ball, waiting. Sure enough, a moment later, the guard roared with laughter.
He shook his head and turned away…that right there was why he had never done drugs. What a turkey.
That night the food on his tray appeared exactly the same as the two nights before—canned beans and a slice of bread. He eyed it disgustedly.
The Cedar Tree (Love Is Not Enough) Page 9
