He tried to pull himself together and regain his composure, but he wasn't sure how good of a job he was doing. Inside he was busting. "Okay, cool. It should be fun. And, man, you're evil. You had me going."
Julie shrugged in the same way Clifton had earlier. "What can I say? It's a gift."
***
On a Friday afternoon and with exactly one week to go until the prom, Clifton got off the school bus feeling good about everything. About life. About Julie. About everything. He and his mother had already gone into Samford to have him fitted for a tuxedo, and he was pretty sure his mother was more excited about the prom than he was. After the New Year, she'd gotten a promotion and had been moved to the dayshift. She now worked from eight to five each day, which gave them more time in the evenings to spend together. She was even taking a couple of night classes at the community college, thinking she might try to get her nursing degree.
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Most important, she'd managed to stay sober since she'd returned from rehab, and Clifton felt like he had his old mother back. The mother he remembered before his father died. She'd turned into a completely different person. Or maybe not a different person but the person she'd once been. The kind, sweet mother who Clifton had been missing for years. The medication she was on for her depression was doing wonders. She finally seemed happy, and she and Swamper were actually talking on a regular basis now. He'd even come over for dinner a few times.
As Clifton stepped off the bus, the sunshine warmed his body. It was one of the first really warm days of spring and he felt excited. He felt happy to be alive. The pinkish-red flowers of the redbuds were finally blooming around the neighborhood, and an earthy smell of rejuvenation filled the air after the long, icy winter. In the distance, the tops of the mountains were still gray and leafless, but along the foothills, things were beginning to green up with the pastel colors of spring. Man, this feels like fishing weather. I'm gonna see what Swamper's up to.
He still tried to see Swamper and Bosco as much as he could, but with school, homework, and everything else, he usually got over there only on the weekends. But with the coming of the warmer weather and school ending in another month, he planned to be there every day starting soon.
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When he arrived, he found Swamper in his usual spot, rocking slowly, a light haze of smoke around his head. Bosco lay next to him but didn't even bother to get up. Instead, he just thumped his tail lazily against the porch. As Clifton hopped the steps, he was surprised to see a glass of whiskey in Swamper's hand. In all the time he'd been around Swamper, he'd seen him drink only on a couple of occasions, and never during the middle of the day.
"Hey, boy," said Swamper. "What're you doing here?"
"Just wanted to see what you were up to. And wanted to ask you something," he said, but he was confused by Swamper's demeanor. "What're you up to?"
"I'm just setting here, having a few drinks." He looked off into the distance, blinking hard as if trying with all his might to prevent tears from flowing. "Feeling a little down for some reason today." He took a drag from his cigarette and then a sip of whiskey. A solitary ice cube clinked against the glass. When Bosco got up and tried to nudge his head between Swamper's knees to get a scratch, and Swamper rebuffed him by locking them together, Clifton knew something was wrong.
"Swamper, what the heck is going on?"
"You know, I don't really have no idea," he said as he continued to train his eyes toward the river. The sycamores, walnuts,
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and oaks lining the water were beginning to green, taking away some of the gray drabness of winter, but he could still see the rounded clumps of squirrels' nests tucked into the V's of the branches. In another week or so, as the leaves took life and spring gained control, the nests would completely disappear from view. "Actually, believe it or not, I'm happier than I've been in years."
"Well you got a funny way of showing it."
"I know. I guess I've just been sitting here thinking about how lucky I am. This time last year, I was pretty sure I was going to end up dying out here one day, not knowing if anybody'd ever even find me. And I was pretty positive I'd never get to talk to your mama again. Never had no idea I'd get to meet you. My only grandson. Now, a year later, you and your mama are the two most important things to me in this world. I can't tell you how lucky I feel. How fortunate I am to have you in my life, Clifton. I know I've told you before, but you've taught me all kinds of things. Made me a better man."
"Then why the heck are you so sad? Seems like you should be happy."
"I don't know. That's just it. I reckon when you get older, sometimes things just hit you a certain way. Sitting out here by myself so much, sometimes I do a lot of thinking. Too
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much thinking, maybe. Anyway, I'm all right. What is it you wanted to ask me?"
"I just wanted to know when you thought the fish would start biting. I think this might be the year we catch a lunker."
That seemed to be just the right medicine that the doctor had ordered for Swamper. His eyes brightened, and where he'd been slumped in his rocker before, he had now readjusted and sat up straight. "This warm weather'll give you the itch, won't it? I expect we can start running a line in the next week or two if the weather holds. Spring's come later this year than I can ever remember. Have to get the last of the snow melted off the peaks and let it run on through. Once it clears, we oughta be able to get a line out."
"That sounds good to me." Clifton clapped his hands together with a sharp smack and then sat down in the other chair. "Man, I can't wait."
When Bosco heard the clap, his tail made a hollow thump thump against the porch floor. He then began pawing at the top of his muzzle. They both watched with amusement as the dog, almost in comical fashion, tried getting at an itch that he just couldn't reach. "You know," said Clifton as he watched Bosco struggle to alleviate his discomfort, "I never thought about it before, and I have no idea why I'm thinking it now, but it's impossible for a dog to pick its nose."
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Swamper took a heavy draw from his cigarette and pondered that for a second. "Yeah, that might be so," he said, nodding his head. "But who cares? He might not be able to pick his nose, but a dog can lick his own wanker. There ain't no man on earth who can do that, no matter how hard he tries or how bad he wants to get it done."
Clifton cracked up. One thing that he had really learned to appreciate about Swamper was that he had always, even from the very first day, talked to him like an adult. So often, Clifton thought, other adults, teachers, whoever, always seemed to talk to teenagers like they were trying to protect them from something. Like they didn't think kids knew what was going on in the world. And he hated that. But Swamper never held back just because Clifton was younger. "Yeah, well, speak for yourself, old man. Maybe you just never tried hard enough."
"Oh, trust me. I've tried." He grinned now as he took a final draw from his cigarette and flicked it over the railing. Whatever melancholia he'd been experiencing earlier had vanished. "It's downright impossible. Don't matter how you do it--it ain't happening. You can bend over like you're touching your toes, roll on your backside in the middle of the floor, twist your body this way or that, but it can't be done. It's God's crudest trick against man, if you ask me. I think it proves that God is actually a woman."
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Clifton shook his head as he continued to laugh. "You think so?"
"Maybe," said Swamper. "You know what else you can't lick?"
"I have no idea."
"Bet you can't lick your elbow neither."
"What? My elbow?"
"Go ahead and try it. You'll see."
Clifton shook his head and gave it a shot, feeling like a fool as he did so. And Swamper was right, it was impossible. "Okay, but why would you want to? How would you ever even think to try that?"
"You sit out in these woods by yourself for as long as I have, sometimes you have to invent ways to keep yourself entertained." He paused for
a moment and then got up from his chair, stretching his lanky body toward the sky. "You feel like running some chess? We haven't played in forever."
"Sure."
Swamper's eyes lit up brighter still. He clapped his hands and then rubbed them together as if warming them by a fire. "Hot damn. I think I'm ready to beat the socks off you. You know, I even hitched a ride to the library in Samford a few months ago to find a book on chess. Read it over the winter. I got me some new strategy."
Clifton smiled. "Well, come on then. Bring it on."
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***
Twenty minutes into the game, he could tell that Swamper had indeed done some studying. He was smarter with his pieces for one thing. And he was taking his time, really thinking about his strategy. But as Clifton moved his own pieces around the board, he felt his mind drifting to another place. Thinking about Julie. Thinking about the upcoming prom. Wondering what might happen after the prom.
He was in full thought, seeing the board in front of him but not really paying attention to what was happening. That is, he wasn't really paying attention until he heard Swamper call out, "Checkmate!" Clifton stared at the crown of the white queen sitting in front of him. The crown that Swamper had just lifted his finger from. He then looked up to see a proud smile across the old man's face. He beamed like a little boy who'd just brought home an A on a report card.
Clifton looked back down at the pieces and studied the board for a moment, a look of confusion on his face. His eyebrows scrunched together and he cocked his head to the side like a kitten seeing itself in a mirror for the first time.
Swamper slapped his knees with pleasure. "Told you I'd been studying."
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Clifton looked up at Swamper, that same confused look on his face. His eyebrows were still wrinkled, his head still tilted. He then slid a black bishop from the far side of the board and took out Swamper's queen. "Sorry, old man. Not today."
Swamper stared at the board in utter amazement. He looked at his queen, which was now grouped on the edge of the table with his other captured pieces. He looked at her with a pained longing. It appeared he would have done anything, paid nearly any price, to have her back. "But... But I swear to God I checked ... I double checked. How could I miss that?"
Clifton shrugged but didn't say anything. Six moves later, he slid his black queen diagonally and put Swamper in check. Two moves after that, with the aid of a bishop and knight, the white king was mated.
Swamper rapidly stood up from the table and smacked his open hands against the edge, rattling some of the pieces like bowling pins. "Goddamn son of a bitch." He grabbed the pouch of tobacco in his pants pocket and headed for the door. The glow of fading afternoon sunlight filtered through the window and lit up some of the fallen pieces, turning them a dull orange.
"Black wins again," said Clifton with a sly smile as he looked over his shoulder.
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"Yeah, yeah, yeah," said Swamper as he opened the screen door and let it slap behind him. His voice was a bit muffled coming from the porch, but Clifton heard the click of a lighter and then Swamper say under his breath, "Black wins again, my ass."
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Acknowledgments
I'd like to thank all of the following, who have helped me so much in one capacity or another. To my editor, Julia Richardson, who took a chance and believed in this novel before it was ever written. She saw the bigger picture right from the beginning, and also again at the end. To my son, Mason, who patiently listened, absorbed, and then told me, without hesitation, exactly what needed to be changed. To my wife, Jocelyn, for everything, but also for working so hard in the real world while I spend my days playing around in a fictitious one. To Joyce Taylor, who has repeatedly gone above and beyond the call of duty to help promote my work. To Keith Johnson, a discerning reader who provided significant insight concerning some of the more delicate issues within this book. And to his son, Kam, who gave me, unbeknown to him, a perfect detail. There were others who gave details, too, whether they realized it or not: Mrs. Jeri Phillips, Courtney Altizer, Kermit Moore, Brian Blankenship, and John Van Kirk all assisted in their own way, whether it was a story about bedbugs or a simple slip of the tongue. And thanks to my agent, Scott Miller, who gave me the initial nudge to write this book.
I'd also like to give a special thanks to the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts, which provided me time, space, and, most important, the solitude necessary to complete this novel. It's a unique and wonderful place.
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