“I want to write a story,” she said, “and have you read it.”
Jimmy thought about it all, ran the good and the harm of such an enterprise, and then made a decision in a minute, like all things he did now, which was based on the way he was living this last fall. “I’ll read it, Wendy, but you must have it here tomorrow. Is that going—”
“I’ll bring it by at four o’clock.” She stood up. She placed his books on the little table. “Thank you so much. You can’t know what this means to me.”
“If you miss the deadline,” he said, “the deal’s off, and you’ll have to marry Wade and have his fourteen children.”
“I don’t know what will happen with any of that, but I’ll be here tomorrow.” She crossed to the door, and then as her shadow in that rare sunlight reached onto the bed, she waved, a little crazy wave that could only be sincere.
SIX
The Wind
The next afternoon in a light skirling wind, Mason Kirby parked his Mercedes in front of the old Antlers, a bar he’d help paint thirty years before. Mason stepped into the wide empty street, avoiding the puddles. He scanned the old funky skyline of his hometown: the brick buildings, all two, three, and four stories from this end of the street, made a kind of child’s drawing. The clouds were now broken and sailing, and deep shadows came across the village, gliding up onto Oakpine Mountain and beyond to the horizon. He could smell the dry diesel of the railroad yards, and the air was neither cold nor warm. It was odd not to be focused, in a hurry, and the old street charmed him as he finally remembered how it had changed. The far side was curbed and guttered where they’d parked and smoked, sitting on the fenders of Frank’s car, and the ratty Chinese elms that made the dead end a leafy warren were gone. The bus stop had been near the far corner. It had never been marked; the bus just stopped there and a gaggle of the busworn would walk across the street carrying their packs and cases into the Antlers for a drink. There had been a smoke shop and a little liquor store, almost a closet, but later when Mason was away at college, there had been a shooting, the owner had killed a drunk robber, and he’d closed up and moved towns. You would. The facade had been rebricked pale yellow, and the two big windows were lined DUNN-ARMOR ATTORNEYS AT LAW in black letters with gilt edges.
A dirty white Suburban drove by him, and he watched it park against the train fence. The vehicle hadn’t been washed in its history. A woman got out and hurried to the back doors and began to wrestle with her big folded stroller. Mason stepped over quickly to help her lift it up so it could clear the backseat. The wheels were big as plates. He’d never, in the twenty that had come his way, taken a stroller case. The ones that appeared in his office had been made out of the wrong materials from the wrong design. Every metal hinge caught, and the wheels, until five years ago, had been like toys. Mason swung the big blue device free and turned and set it on the ground, where it unfolded neatly, and he snapped each crossbar into place. He checked each jointed rivet and saw the plastic finger guards. Good for them. He hoped it was just planning and not the result of lawsuits. It was well made. The woman now came around with the baby, an infant giant, thirty pounds and eyes roving like a soldier; he fixed on Mason and started to grin.
“Wrong guy,” Mason said, rubbing his knuckles on the kid’s cheek.
“Thank you, sir,” the young woman said.
“He’s going to be a fullback,” Mason said. “Look at this guy.” The baby was now situated in the stroller, and all through his installation he had stayed on Mason’s face.
“Oh, don’t say it,” the woman said.
Mason immediately knelt and put a finger under the wide face of the child. “Don’t you bump heads with anyone,” he said. “It’s okay to watch the game and talk to the girls. Can I say that?” He smiled at the woman. “It’s what I did. All my buddies were on the team at Oakpine.”