poorly,” Cogswell said.
“Not so poorly,” John said, and they stood in silence midway between the house and the truck. Hildie was off across the road aiming her hunter at brown and yellow butterflies.
“Well, they sent me here,” Cogswell said. “They’d be mighty glad if you could give just this once again. You don’t want to be the only holdout.”
“There’s always Pa’s big chiffonier,” Mim said softly. “It’s not like we used it so much now he’s gone. Only to look at.”
And, because it was Cogswell, John led the way upstairs and helped him carry out the heavy old piece. When he was ready to go, Cogswell stood by the open door of the truck, working the door handle up and down, looking at the door and not at John.
“Hear about Caleb Tuttle?” he said. “A heart attack got him just as he was headin’ into the barn to do the milkin’. Somethin’ must’ve startled him. The coroner over to Powlton says it seems he took a fall.”
“I heard,” Moore said. But he hadn’t.
Cogswell wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “A man just does what he has to do,” he said, mostly to Mim, but she was staring at him as if he were a stranger.
After the truck had rattled out of sight, John and Mim stood where they were. Then, in a rare gesture, John put his hand on his wife’s back and turned her around to see the pond flattening out to a mirror now in the calm that preceded evening.
Ma was fretting because Cogswell hadn’t come in to see her. “He was the sweetest, funniest one of the lot of you,” she said. “And he always had ideas in his head. Nobody likes to let Mick Cogswell get away without a word.”
“He asked after you, Ma,” Mim said. say why he ain’t been down this long time? she asked. Cogswell’s land abutted Moore’s on the high side and they were neighbors in the summer when the old fire road between their farms was open. Cogswell had thirty-five acres of blueberries, some stock, and a fair-to-middling skill as a mason, depending on how sober he was.
“Too busy bein’ a deputy,” John said.
“He’d been hittin’ the cider,” Mim said.
“The more’s the pity,” Ma said. “Though there ain’t three men in Harlowe can drink and still work as staunch as Mickey Cogswell. He have a job for you, Johnny?”
“No.”
“Well what was he here for then?”
“He was sayin’ that to his mind it’s a pretty good idea to be a deputy.”
“Him and his schemes,” Ma said. “He’s goin to be the death of Agnes and those kids. How many times have they had potatoes and milk gravy for supper because he was off squanderin’ their cash on some fool scheme? What was it he done that time up to the blueberry field?”
“He was goin’ to make an airport of it,” Mim said.
“How about the pond for raisin’ ducks?” John said.
“It breeds dandy mosquitoes,” Mim said. “They’re head and shoulders worse up there than they ever used to be.”
“After all that money,” said Ma. “What a crazy man. If he’d just stick to buildin’ his chimneys, him and you’d do just fine. What d you show him up there overhead? Thought maybe you was lookin’ at our chimney.”
“He was collectin’ for the auction, Ma,” John said.
“Collectin’ for the auction?” Ma said. “Thought that attic was plumb empty.”
Nobody answered. Mim was peeling carrots at the sink. Hildie was still outside. John was standing at the back door peering up into the pasture.
Suddenly Ma banged her cane on the floor. “What’d you give that man from up in my room, without so much as a by your leave?” she cried.
“Pa’s chiffonier, Ma,” John said, whirling to his mother, the temper piled up and heavy in his stance.
Ma leaned to him over the table as if to plead with him. “Pa’s chiffonier?” she said in a small voice.
“Must be others gettin’ low on patience,” Mim said the following Thursday as they did the morning milking. “We don’t need to be the ones to
“Not so poorly,” John said, and they stood in silence midway between the house and the truck. Hildie was off across the road aiming her hunter at brown and yellow butterflies.
“Well, they sent me here,” Cogswell said. “They’d be mighty glad if you could give just this once again. You don’t want to be the only holdout.”
“There’s always Pa’s big chiffonier,” Mim said softly. “It’s not like we used it so much now he’s gone. Only to look at.”
And, because it was Cogswell, John led the way upstairs and helped him carry out the heavy old piece. When he was ready to go, Cogswell stood by the open door of the truck, working the door handle up and down, looking at the door and not at John.
“Hear about Caleb Tuttle?” he said. “A heart attack got him just as he was headin’ into the barn to do the milkin’. Somethin’ must’ve startled him. The coroner over to Powlton says it seems he took a fall.”
“I heard,” Moore said. But he hadn’t.
Cogswell wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “A man just does what he has to do,” he said, mostly to Mim, but she was staring at him as if he were a stranger.
After the truck had rattled out of sight, John and Mim stood where they were. Then, in a rare gesture, John put his hand on his wife’s back and turned her around to see the pond flattening out to a mirror now in the calm that preceded evening.
Ma was fretting because Cogswell hadn’t come in to see her. “He was the sweetest, funniest one of the lot of you,” she said. “And he always had ideas in his head. Nobody likes to let Mick Cogswell get away without a word.”
“He asked after you, Ma,” Mim said. say why he ain’t been down this long time? she asked. Cogswell’s land abutted Moore’s on the high side and they were neighbors in the summer when the old fire road between their farms was open. Cogswell had thirty-five acres of blueberries, some stock, and a fair-to-middling skill as a mason, depending on how sober he was.
“Too busy bein’ a deputy,” John said.
“He’d been hittin’ the cider,” Mim said.
“The more’s the pity,” Ma said. “Though there ain’t three men in Harlowe can drink and still work as staunch as Mickey Cogswell. He have a job for you, Johnny?”
“No.”
“Well what was he here for then?”
“He was sayin’ that to his mind it’s a pretty good idea to be a deputy.”
“Him and his schemes,” Ma said. “He’s goin to be the death of Agnes and those kids. How many times have they had potatoes and milk gravy for supper because he was off squanderin’ their cash on some fool scheme? What was it he done that time up to the blueberry field?”
“He was goin’ to make an airport of it,” Mim said.
“How about the pond for raisin’ ducks?” John said.
“It breeds dandy mosquitoes,” Mim said. “They’re head and shoulders worse up there than they ever used to be.”
“After all that money,” said Ma. “What a crazy man. If he’d just stick to buildin’ his chimneys, him and you’d do just fine. What d you show him up there overhead? Thought maybe you was lookin’ at our chimney.”
“He was collectin’ for the auction, Ma,” John said.
“Collectin’ for the auction?” Ma said. “Thought that attic was plumb empty.”
Nobody answered. Mim was peeling carrots at the sink. Hildie was still outside. John was standing at the back door peering up into the pasture.
Suddenly Ma banged her cane on the floor. “What’d you give that man from up in my room, without so much as a by your leave?” she cried.
“Pa’s chiffonier, Ma,” John said, whirling to his mother, the temper piled up and heavy in his stance.
Ma leaned to him over the table as if to plead with him. “Pa’s chiffonier?” she said in a small voice.
“Must be others gettin’ low on patience,” Mim said the following Thursday as they did the morning milking. “We don’t need to be the ones to
Similar Books
