would suspect during such events.
Off behind a bend of trees, hidden from the funeral attendees, a man crouched, thinking himself undiscovered. Dennis left his wheelbarrow there in the deep weeds and continued more cautiously, still moving in the direction he’d intended but going in an effort to remain unnoticed by the interloper all the same. Dennis didn’t do so out of any sense of intrigue or mischief, but respect. On more occasions than he could record on one hand, Dennis had been privy to the mistress, or sometimes it had been the estranged drunkard father, tucked away behind a tree or marble monument, as they attended where polite society decreed that they should not.
Once he was clear of the man’s line of sight, however, Dennis couldn’t help but pause and spy on the interloper this time. For, unlike those other occasions, Dennis couldn’t fathom what possible relation there could be that tied the deceased Raymond Stout to this clandestine attendee. The cicadas began their cacophony in earnest, such that the preacher who spoke to those gathered couldn’t be discerned by Dennis from his distant vantage point. Nor could John Sayre, who sulked in the shadows not too far away, catch the content of the funeral service, either.
The murder of crows suddenly took to the wing as if startled by an unseen force, but not before one of them paused to deftly snatch the exhausted cicada from where it was caught halfway out of its nearly-molted shell. With the unlucky insect still squirming in its open beak, the bird fell in behind his fast-departing brethren.
...
Buckshot pedaled madly, which was nothing new since he almost always pumped his legs beneath whitened knuckles as if a hoary host of Lucifer’s minions were fast on his tail. Actually, it wasn’t what was behind him, but what waited ahead, that fueled his fevered race on this occasion. In his dungaree’s front pocket, the dollar bill, wadded about his small savings of coins, kept time with his heart, bouncing off his chest as the frenetic motion of his pedaling rocked him back and forth and side to side. The dirt road before him was hazy with the distortions of the mid-morning heat, while behind him a drift of dust kicked up and hung briefly, a dirty contrail left in his wake.
After a ways, the dirt evolved into a narrow lane of blacktop, but still Buckshot kept up his heart-pounding pace. The road was quiet. In his last three miles he was only passed by one vehicle, a blue Ford pick-up that whisked past him going in the other direction. Buckshot nodded to the ghostly figure obscured by a grime-caked windshield when it lifted two fingers from the steering wheel in greeting as they passed one another. He had no idea who it was, nor did he care.
Considering his exertion, Buckshot would’ve been soaked in sweat regardless, but with the heat being what it was, by the time he glided into town the boy looked as though he’d dunked his head in a bucket. Several folks called out “Hello” and “Hey there, Buckshot!” to the youngest of the Sayre family, but he did little to acknowledge them as he made his way down the sidewalk to Melby’s brand-new, and first-ever, pet store.
It was on Worth Street—the fourth of the five streets that bisected Main Street within the city limits proper—and it was painted a bright green amongst the browns and dun whites of all the other businesses that Buckshot couldn’t have cared less about at the moment. Melby’s House of Exotic Pets, was the name that graced the shingle over the front door, although that was a bit of an exaggeration, since the most exotic creatures to be found within only ran the gamut of parakeets to tropical fish. But, for sleepy little Melby, the proprietors, Frank and Stella Humble, figured those were exotic enough. And they were right.
When Buckshot had originally learned of Melby’s first pet store he’d been smitten with the idea of getting a budgie. Even before his first visit, however,
Off behind a bend of trees, hidden from the funeral attendees, a man crouched, thinking himself undiscovered. Dennis left his wheelbarrow there in the deep weeds and continued more cautiously, still moving in the direction he’d intended but going in an effort to remain unnoticed by the interloper all the same. Dennis didn’t do so out of any sense of intrigue or mischief, but respect. On more occasions than he could record on one hand, Dennis had been privy to the mistress, or sometimes it had been the estranged drunkard father, tucked away behind a tree or marble monument, as they attended where polite society decreed that they should not.
Once he was clear of the man’s line of sight, however, Dennis couldn’t help but pause and spy on the interloper this time. For, unlike those other occasions, Dennis couldn’t fathom what possible relation there could be that tied the deceased Raymond Stout to this clandestine attendee. The cicadas began their cacophony in earnest, such that the preacher who spoke to those gathered couldn’t be discerned by Dennis from his distant vantage point. Nor could John Sayre, who sulked in the shadows not too far away, catch the content of the funeral service, either.
The murder of crows suddenly took to the wing as if startled by an unseen force, but not before one of them paused to deftly snatch the exhausted cicada from where it was caught halfway out of its nearly-molted shell. With the unlucky insect still squirming in its open beak, the bird fell in behind his fast-departing brethren.
...
Buckshot pedaled madly, which was nothing new since he almost always pumped his legs beneath whitened knuckles as if a hoary host of Lucifer’s minions were fast on his tail. Actually, it wasn’t what was behind him, but what waited ahead, that fueled his fevered race on this occasion. In his dungaree’s front pocket, the dollar bill, wadded about his small savings of coins, kept time with his heart, bouncing off his chest as the frenetic motion of his pedaling rocked him back and forth and side to side. The dirt road before him was hazy with the distortions of the mid-morning heat, while behind him a drift of dust kicked up and hung briefly, a dirty contrail left in his wake.
After a ways, the dirt evolved into a narrow lane of blacktop, but still Buckshot kept up his heart-pounding pace. The road was quiet. In his last three miles he was only passed by one vehicle, a blue Ford pick-up that whisked past him going in the other direction. Buckshot nodded to the ghostly figure obscured by a grime-caked windshield when it lifted two fingers from the steering wheel in greeting as they passed one another. He had no idea who it was, nor did he care.
Considering his exertion, Buckshot would’ve been soaked in sweat regardless, but with the heat being what it was, by the time he glided into town the boy looked as though he’d dunked his head in a bucket. Several folks called out “Hello” and “Hey there, Buckshot!” to the youngest of the Sayre family, but he did little to acknowledge them as he made his way down the sidewalk to Melby’s brand-new, and first-ever, pet store.
It was on Worth Street—the fourth of the five streets that bisected Main Street within the city limits proper—and it was painted a bright green amongst the browns and dun whites of all the other businesses that Buckshot couldn’t have cared less about at the moment. Melby’s House of Exotic Pets, was the name that graced the shingle over the front door, although that was a bit of an exaggeration, since the most exotic creatures to be found within only ran the gamut of parakeets to tropical fish. But, for sleepy little Melby, the proprietors, Frank and Stella Humble, figured those were exotic enough. And they were right.
When Buckshot had originally learned of Melby’s first pet store he’d been smitten with the idea of getting a budgie. Even before his first visit, however,
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