as much a mystery to me as anybody else. But I can tell you this …” James looked Mark full in the
eye. “God knows what it is to have a child die.” He paused, giving weight to his words. “And I don’t believe he’d wish that
on anyone.”
James Montclair did pull Mark into a hug then. The preacher gone and the mentor’s arms around Mark, his friend. “Take care,
buddy. Take care.”
IN THE THOMPSON garage, Ben Thompson, immense gut hanging over faded Levi’s with the loops popped off, stirred the boiling pot like a tobacco-chewing
wizard. Flames from the outdoor cooker, a wrought-iron instrument attached to a propane tank, cast a rosy glow to his complexion.
“Come here, Mark. Need your help. It’s time for the malt.”
Mark rose from his position on the dusty Coleman cooler. Amanda slept inside, Dragonlady hovering over her, with the men relegated
to the outdoors. Or the garage anyway.
Obedient, Mark got the big plastic spoon, and stood at attention next to Ben.
“Now stir fast, try not to let any stick to the bottom. It’ll burn if it gets stuck. Don’t want a charcoal taste.” Ben poured
the thick caramel-colored liquid into the unfurling steam. “Smooth and steady, there you go.”
Malt dissipated in the water, making a rich brown liquid. “Smell that?” Ben sniffed theatrically, the aroma like hot, sweet
cereal. “Amber ale. Gonna be a good one. Ready in time for the season opener. Nothing better than a cool one and a kickoff.”
Mark murmured his agreement, still stirring.
Ben shuffled over to the garage refrigerator, a nonreturnable olive green that Katy had deemed “horrid” upon delivery, according
to family lore. The door opened with a
shlooping
sound when the airtight seal popped, and refrigeration poured out like fairy frost. Bottles tinkled in a mismatched melody
as Amanda’s dad dug for a specified brew.
Back at the pot with two bottles, Ben used his key chain to pry off the lids then handed one to Mark. He paused to take a
deep sip and Mark did the same.
“How’s the job search?” The folding chair groaned under Ben’s weight.
“I’ve got a few more interviews lined up next week. Katy’s been a big help,” Mark said.
“I bet. Her web knits far and wide through the greater Houston area.” Ben gestured with his drink, arcing from corner to corner,
invoking a horizon image.
“I wouldn’t have these contacts without her. My résumé doesn’t exactly scream
ad exec.”
“You know”—Ben stared into the bubbling pot-“you don’t have to go where she tells you.”
Mark bristled. “I’m not. I think the agencies would be a good start for me. And when Amanda gets well, maybe she can go back
full-time.”
“What about that job in the Panhandle? With Ervin whatshis-name?”
“Plumley. Ervin Plumley. In Potter Springs.”
“That’s the one. Ever call him?”
“Just to check it out.”
“Nice guy?”
“Ervin? Yeah. Seems like it anyway. Retired coach, real enthusiastic. Said he needs somebody pretty soon. Before the board
changes their mind about the position.”
“How’s the pay?”
“Okay. But they’d give us a house, and the cost of living’s low.”
“Sounds like a pretty good deal.” Ben accentuated this observation with a hearty belch.
“Maybe. But it’s too far. And Mandy…” Mark looked at the house, his wife hidden inside like some sort of a wounded Rapunzel.
“Like I said, I’m making a change.”
“I don’t know about you,” Ben said. “But me, I’d take my bride and get the heck out of Dodge. Make a
real
change. Start your own lives. Away from”—he stared at the screen door-“outside influences.”
Mark thought of Amanda, ensconced inside her pink ruffled room, Katy running interference and keeping him at bay. He wondered
when he’d get to bring his wife back home. The tiny apartment they could no longer afford as his severance dried up like rain
in the Houston heat. “You
eye. “God knows what it is to have a child die.” He paused, giving weight to his words. “And I don’t believe he’d wish that
on anyone.”
James Montclair did pull Mark into a hug then. The preacher gone and the mentor’s arms around Mark, his friend. “Take care,
buddy. Take care.”
IN THE THOMPSON garage, Ben Thompson, immense gut hanging over faded Levi’s with the loops popped off, stirred the boiling pot like a tobacco-chewing
wizard. Flames from the outdoor cooker, a wrought-iron instrument attached to a propane tank, cast a rosy glow to his complexion.
“Come here, Mark. Need your help. It’s time for the malt.”
Mark rose from his position on the dusty Coleman cooler. Amanda slept inside, Dragonlady hovering over her, with the men relegated
to the outdoors. Or the garage anyway.
Obedient, Mark got the big plastic spoon, and stood at attention next to Ben.
“Now stir fast, try not to let any stick to the bottom. It’ll burn if it gets stuck. Don’t want a charcoal taste.” Ben poured
the thick caramel-colored liquid into the unfurling steam. “Smooth and steady, there you go.”
Malt dissipated in the water, making a rich brown liquid. “Smell that?” Ben sniffed theatrically, the aroma like hot, sweet
cereal. “Amber ale. Gonna be a good one. Ready in time for the season opener. Nothing better than a cool one and a kickoff.”
Mark murmured his agreement, still stirring.
Ben shuffled over to the garage refrigerator, a nonreturnable olive green that Katy had deemed “horrid” upon delivery, according
to family lore. The door opened with a
shlooping
sound when the airtight seal popped, and refrigeration poured out like fairy frost. Bottles tinkled in a mismatched melody
as Amanda’s dad dug for a specified brew.
Back at the pot with two bottles, Ben used his key chain to pry off the lids then handed one to Mark. He paused to take a
deep sip and Mark did the same.
“How’s the job search?” The folding chair groaned under Ben’s weight.
“I’ve got a few more interviews lined up next week. Katy’s been a big help,” Mark said.
“I bet. Her web knits far and wide through the greater Houston area.” Ben gestured with his drink, arcing from corner to corner,
invoking a horizon image.
“I wouldn’t have these contacts without her. My résumé doesn’t exactly scream
ad exec.”
“You know”—Ben stared into the bubbling pot-“you don’t have to go where she tells you.”
Mark bristled. “I’m not. I think the agencies would be a good start for me. And when Amanda gets well, maybe she can go back
full-time.”
“What about that job in the Panhandle? With Ervin whatshis-name?”
“Plumley. Ervin Plumley. In Potter Springs.”
“That’s the one. Ever call him?”
“Just to check it out.”
“Nice guy?”
“Ervin? Yeah. Seems like it anyway. Retired coach, real enthusiastic. Said he needs somebody pretty soon. Before the board
changes their mind about the position.”
“How’s the pay?”
“Okay. But they’d give us a house, and the cost of living’s low.”
“Sounds like a pretty good deal.” Ben accentuated this observation with a hearty belch.
“Maybe. But it’s too far. And Mandy…” Mark looked at the house, his wife hidden inside like some sort of a wounded Rapunzel.
“Like I said, I’m making a change.”
“I don’t know about you,” Ben said. “But me, I’d take my bride and get the heck out of Dodge. Make a
real
change. Start your own lives. Away from”—he stared at the screen door-“outside influences.”
Mark thought of Amanda, ensconced inside her pink ruffled room, Katy running interference and keeping him at bay. He wondered
when he’d get to bring his wife back home. The tiny apartment they could no longer afford as his severance dried up like rain
in the Houston heat. “You
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