He has the clear, forget-me-not blue eyes of all our clan and the solid regular features of most of his cousins. None of my brothers are movie-star gorgeous and neither are their children, but nobody in our family’s ever stopped a clock either. Reese has always had girlfriends—“trashy girlfriends,” according to Nadine, but she’d say that about any woman he moved in with if there wasn’t a gold band on his finger first.
He’s been working for Herman and Nadine since high school and has never shown too much energy or ambition. All he seems to want is to put in his forty hours, then spend the weekends hunting and fishing and maybe a quick roll in the hay between football games. His younger sister Annie Sue is the only one of Herman’s kids with a real feel for the electrical business.
But ever since Herman’s brush with death left him in a wheelchair, we haven’t heard much grumbling either from or about Reese. He wasn’t slacking either. A couple of knuckles on his hands were scraped raw where he’d banged them when he was pulling wire across ceiling rafters or while he was trying to bore holes though hard-to-reach floor joists. For a moment, I almost wondered if the real reason he broke up with his last girlfriend and moved back home was so he could be there to help out as Herman adjusted to his loss of mobility.
“Even hedonists can rise to the occasion,” whispered my idealistic preacher.
“Get real,” said the cynical pragmatist. “This is Reese, for God’s sake.”
I took another look around the interior of his truck and decided I was probably imagining things.
Nevertheless, I took his sausage biscuit out of the greasy paper it’d come wrapped in and carefully tucked a fresh napkin around the bottom so he could eat while he drove without strewing crumbs.
A third of the sandwich disappeared in a single bite and his mouth was full as he said, “I could eat a horse.”
I broke off a small piece of my sausage and biscuit, barely enough to take the edge off my own appetite, and passed the rest over to him. He grunted his thanks and wolfed it down, too.
Yeah, this was Reese all right.
With the rich smell of sausage and coffee filling the cab, we drove aimlessly in a wide looping circle around Dobbs, enjoying the drive. Not going anywhere, just going.
“Dwight Bryant call you yet?” I asked.
“Nope. What about?”
“About what time you drove past Jap Stancil’s garage yesterday?”
“Who says I did?” His voice was wary.
“Saw your tracks.”
“Must’ve been from last week sometime. No, wait a minute, I remember now. I did cut through last Tuesday to see if I could fit a trailer between those willows near the long pond.”
“Oh, come on, Reese. It rained hard all day Friday. Didn’t stop till after midnight. Your tracks were laid down sometime yesterday morning. New crisp diamonds in a wide tread. You’re not going to tell me any of the other boys have tires like yours.”
“Okay, so it was me,” he said grumpily. “You don’t have to go telling the whole county, do you?”
“Why not?”
“ ’Cause I was suppose to be working. Finishing up a house there on Forty-Eight. But dammit all, Deb’rah! Dad and Ma don’t want me to work on Sunday, the state don’t allow Sunday hunting and I’ve not taken a full Saturday off in two months. Ruth and Jessica were riding their horses along the creek in the new ground Thursday evening and Jess told me she saw some pretty big deer tracks.”
Ruth is Andrew’s younger daughter by his second wife and Jessica is Seth and Minnie’s middle child. Both are still in high school.
“Well, you know how A.K. keeps bragging about that head he’s got mounted? I thought it’d sure be fun if I took a little drive through, maybe bag a big buck myself if I got lucky.”
“And did you?”
He shook his head. “Nope. Saw the tracks though and man, they’re humongous, but that’s all I saw.”
“What time was this?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. I wasn’t paying much attention to the clock. I knocked off around ten-fifteen, ten-thirty, and drove straight on over. I was maybe ten minutes away. Say ten-thirty, maybe ten forty-five?”
“See anything of Mr. Jap when you drove past the garage?”
“Nope, not a soul. I would’ve stopped to ask Allen about a sticky valve, but his truck wasn’t there neither. You don’t think Dwight’s really going to come asking me stuff, do you?”
“If someone tells him those are your tire tracks, he will. You ought to go ahead and tell him yourself ’cause that could help narrow down the time range. Dwight’s got no reason to mention it to your dad, especially if you ask him not to.”
But Reese was getting a look on his face like a right-sided mule hitched up to left-sided traces. No way was he going to pull that load.
“Granddaddy already said he saw Mr. Jap at the crossroads around ten-thirty. I’m telling you I didn’t see anybody when I drove in or when I drove out, and I don’t see why I’ve got to get involved.”
He drained the last of his coffee, crushed the foam cup in his hand, and turned down the street that would bring us back to my car. I sipped my own coffee and tried to figure out why he was so reluctant to speak to Dwight.
There was a sour feeling between us when he pulled up beside the church.
“Thanks for breakfast,” he said stiffly.
As I opened the door to climb down, a gust of cold wind caught my hair and tangled it in the bolt action of the Winchester behind me.
Awkwardly, Reese reached over to untangle me and I said, “You do have a deer license, don’t you?”
He shook his head and looked at me sadly. “What do you think I am, stupid or something?”
Anger I might’ve believed. Ironic laughter I might’ve believed. But all that innocence shining in his bright blue eyes?
I held out my hand and wiggled my fingers. “Come on, Reese. Show me.”
He slammed his hand down hard on the seat between us. “Okay, so I don’t have a fucking deer license. You satisfied? When’ve I had the time to buy one? Will you tell me that? And now I suppose you’ll tell your boyfriend and I won’t be able to turn around without a game warden breathing over my shoulder.”
“Get a license,” I told him, sliding down to the street without breaking the heel on my shoe. “And leave your gun home till you do.”
I slammed the door and was walking away when I heard both windows power down.
“You know something, Deb’rah?” Reese shouted angrily. “You used to be a damn sight more fun before you got to be a judge.”
Before I could answer, he screeched off from the curb, ran a red light at the intersection and tore off down the street in utter disregard of the thirty-five miles per hour speed limit.
“Thank goodness it’s Sunday and the streets are deserted,” the pragmatist said piously.
The preacher was too dismayed to comment.
19
« ^ » This is a great spur to their diligence, and an ample reward for their toil, which is far from severe...“Scotus Americanus,” 1773
I was in the shower next morning when my phone rang and by the time I was dried off enough to pick up, Portland Brewer was well launched into a complicated message for my machine.
“—so there’s just no way we can—”
“Sorry, Por, I was in the shower. Want to start again?”
“Not really,” she said ruefully. “Not if you’re going to be horsey about what I’ve got to tell you.”