The driver jumped down from the cab and scanned the party preparations with apparent irritation. "Alfalfa-timothy mix like you wanted," he said.
"Good," I said. "Could you drive on over to the implement building? Someone will be down to help unload in a minute."
He stared at me for a second, then wordlessly climbed into the cab.
"Unfriendly sonofabitch," Marty said as the truck lumbered out of sight behind barn B. "I think his face would crack if he smiled."
Marty, I thought, was diametrically opposite. I looked at my watch and frowned. It was later than I'd thought. "Marty, I'll get Cliff and Billy to help me stack the hay. Round up the rest of the guys to do turnouts, okay?"
"So, you're going to check?"
"Might as well."
"You never give up, do you?"
"Go on, Marty."
"Yes, sir… boss." He grinned, and I wondered if he found it odd calling someone younger than he "boss." I knew I was caught off guard whenever he said it.
The driver threw the bales off the flatbed, and I tossed them up a level where Cliff and Billy were stacking them in the mow. The quality was good throughout. Even though it was last year's hay, the aroma was sweet. I started to throw a heavy one up to Cliff, when my glove got stuck under the baling twine and almost came off. I set the bale down, straightened the glove, and bent over to grab the twine. The next bale slammed into my back and almost knocked me off my feet.
I spun around and glared at the driver. Before I could say anything, he said he was sorry, but he wasn't. He was pissed. Except for the last time, we'd never checked his shipments, and my counting the bales was shoving it in his face. I resisted the urge to rub my back, threw the bale to Cliff, and left the one that had tumbled to the ground where it was.
After we stacked the last bale in the mow, I sat down on a row of hay and did some quick calculations while the driver dragged heavy chains across the flatbed and dumped them into piles just behind the cab. I glanced up in time to catch his stare. He had been staring at me the entire time, or so it seemed. I stood and stretched, trying to get the kinks out of my neck, and decided I was getting paranoid. I signed his paperwork without comment, then watched him drive past the muck pile. He ground the heavy truck's gears as he pulled onto the side road on his way back to the office.
Saturday morning dawned warm, and by late afternoon, it was downright hot. I took off the flannel shirt I'd been wearing over my T-shirt and ran it across my face and down the back of my neck, then tossed it through the Chevy's open window. I leaned against the back fender and watched Marty unload the last case of soda into one of the plastic tubs under the canopy. That done, he walked past me, reached across the tailgate, and picked up a bag of ice.
"Here. This'll cool you off." He tossed the bag at me.
I caught it, just.
"Oooh, good reflexes." He grinned then hoisted another bag out of the bed.
We made a race out of filling the tubs, and by the time I'd dumped my last bag of ice on top of cans of Coke and 7-Up and root beer, my arms were frozen.
Marty ripped open his last bag and dumped the ice into the nearest tub. "You know," he said, "warm as it is, this won't be enough."
"I know. Terry and Cliff are going to haul in some just before the party."
I went into the lounge and bought a soda. When I walked back outside, Marty had already helped himself to a 7-Up.
"Isn't that warm?"
"A little."
I made a face, parked my soda on one of the picnic tables, and sat down. The clip-clop of horseshoes echoed off the barn siding, and a mild breeze rustled the canvas above our heads. I took a swig of Coke and rested my elbows on the table. The day had been a long one, just a taste of what lay ahead with the show season right around the corner.
I looked up in time to see one of the new boarders walk past on her way to the barn. Her name was Rachel, and she'd hauled her horse in two weeks earlier. Since she rode in the evenings, I'd been staying at work later and later with each passing day. She looked in our direction and waved. I waved back. Marty, ever observant, took it in.
After she walked out of sight beyond the corner of the barn, he said, "Holy shit. You're alive after all."
"What are you talking about?"
"I was beginning to worry about you Steve, ol' buddy, ol' pal. Is that the new boarder?"
"Yeah."
"How comes I haven't seen her 'til now?"
"She comes in after you leave." I grinned. "She must of heard about you."
He chuckled and, as if proving my point, said, "Man, oh, man. That's the best part of this job. More girls here than flies on shit. Girls and their horses. And the way they move their hips when they're riding, wearin' those tight britches like they do. Man, it's enough to make a guy crazy. What's her name?"
"Rachel."
"She's got a great ass. Must have somethin' to do with all that ridin'. Bet she's good in-" Marty looked at my face, correctly read my expression, and rephrased his statement, "eh… a lot of fun. Fun to be with, I mean." He sat on the edge of the table. "I was wondering when you were gonna wake up? You gonna ask her out? After that girl of yours, what's her name… Melanie…"
"Melissa."
"You haven't gone out since she dumped you, have you? I get dumped all the time. Matter of fact, Jessica dumped my ass the other night. But I don't let it stop me. There's always a honey out there somewhere. You shouldn't let it get to you. I don't."
I fingered my Coke can. "Sorry about Jessica."
Marty shrugged it off.
"And you're wrong," I said. "I didn't let it get to-"
"Yeah, Steve. Right. Anything you say. But I know you."
I picked up my Coke and smeared the ring of wetness across the varnished wood. As much as I hated to admit it, Marty was right. I'd been devastated, though I'd pretended otherwise. Almost believed it. But what really bothered me was that I'd gotten it so wrong. I wasn't going to let that happen again, and yet, here I was, crashing headlong into those old, overwhelming feelings. At least Rachel wasn't attracted to me because she thought I was loaded, like Melissa had been. Being poor had its advantages.
"So. You gonna ask her out, 'cause if you aren't-"
"We already have."
"Have what?"
"Gone out. Three times, in fact." I grinned at him.
"You're shittin' me?"
I shook my head.
"Well, fuck me." He jumped off the table, extended his arms toward me, and wiggled his fingers. "He no longer slumbers," he said with what he hoped was a spooky-scary voice. "He's-"
I threw my empty Coke can at him.
With the party clearly on everyone's mind, the crew wrapped up the day's work in record time. I drove home, shaved and showered, brushed my teeth, then struggled over what to wear. I decided on a striped Oxford that I'd always liked, pulled on a reasonably new pair of jeans, and found a pair of clean socks that actually matched. The nights were still chilly, so I topped everything off with my old leather jacket.
I went back into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. My hair was too long. The warmer the weather, the shorter I kept it, and it wasn't behaving. I combed it again, without effect, then leaned over the sink and squinted at the scars on my face. Even though they'd faded since my stay in the hospital, they were still depressingly noticeable.
I thought about Rachel, combed my hair one last time, and grinned at my reflection.
Damn, you're a fool to be liking her so much so soon.
At Foxdale, cars and pickups and even a motorcycle or two were jammed into every conceivable space. I parked on the grass shoulder close to the road and, with an almost forgotten feeling of lightheartedness, walked down the lane and joined the party. The last trace of daylight had seeped from the sky, and the Christmas lights Mrs. Hill had strung in the dogwood saplings beyond the indoor twinkled in the gentle breeze. The sound system was impressive, and the food smelled great. I looked for Rachel. When I couldn't find her, I loaded a plate down with barbecued chicken and steamed shrimp, grabbed an ice-cold Coke, and sat on the grass.