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Authors: Kim Vogel Sawyer
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7
T im pounded the U-shaped staple into place over the string of barbed wire, then gave the wire a tug. It released a subtle ting but vibrated for less than ten seconds. Good and tight. He glanced down the fence line, wishing he had the funds to put up galvanized mesh fencing at least three feet higher than the current five-foot-tall post-and-barbed-wire fence. No deer could clear a fence like that. But the more protective fence was another expense beyond his reach at the moment. Maybe after this year’s crop?
He slipped the hammer into the loop of his work jeans, then snagged the water bottle he’d dropped in the grass at his feet. The water had turned tepid, but the moisture felt good draining down his parched throat. He glugged the bottle dry, then crumpled the plastic, flattening it as best he could before jamming it in his back pocket to throw in the recycle bin at home. Patting the box of staples in his shirt pocket, he turned his attention to the next post.
“Hi, Mr. Roper.”
Tim nearly jumped out of his skin. He spun around to find the neighbor’s boy, Parker, standing less than ten feet away. Why hadn’t he heard the kid approach? Feet on dry grass weren’t exactly quiet. But somehow Parker had managed to sneak up on him. The situation left him unsettled. “What’re you doing here? Didn’t your mom promise to keep you home?”
The boy cringed, hunching his shoulders. “Mom said to stay on our land.” He rocked his head back and forth, reminding Tim of a clock’s pendulum. The boy’s lips twisted into a grimace. “I’m not . . .” He straightened, throwing back his skinny shoulders. “Traipse-passing.”
Tim had to bite down quick on his tongue to keep from laughing. The boy was obviously proud of his big word, but he had no idea he’d gotten it wrong. Besides, he was definitely traipse-passing—traipsing right along Tim’s fence line.
Parker pointed, one shoulder hunching again as he squinted into the sun. “Whatcha doing?”
“Fixing my fence to keep pests out.” Tim presented his back to the boy. Parker’s mannerisms—the self-conscious shrugs, word confusion, and questions—reminded him too much of another boy. Thinking of Charlie always brought pain. Tim walked the line, checking each post to be certain the barbed wire was securely fastened. Trying to refocus.
The rustle of Parker’s shuffling footsteps followed. “Pests . . . like bugs? Mom calls flies and spiders pests.”
Tim located a loose staple low on a post. He pulled his hammer free, stooped down, and aimed its head at the post. “Stop and think for a minute, Parker. Would a fence like this keep out bugs?” Bang! Bang! Bang! He glanced over his shoulder. Parker was crouched down, imitating his pose. He jerked upright and moved on. To Tim’s chagrin, Parker trudged along behind him, faithful as a puppy dog.
“I guess not. Bugs could fly straight through the wire.”
“Now you’re thinking straight.” Tim heard the undercurrent of ridicule in his tone, and he shook his head hard. He had no cause to be mean just because the boy brought up memories Tim would rather keep buried. He turned, intending to apologize, and caught Parker extending his finger toward a pokey barb. “Don’t do that!”
The boy jerked. He clutched his hands together and stared at Tim. “I . . . I wasn’t gonna hurt it. I just wanted to see if it’s sharp.”
Tim stomped to Parker’s side, his hands curled into fists. If Parker broke his skin on the barb, he might need a tetanus shot. “Let me save you the trouble of testing it. Those barbs are very sharp.”
Tears swam in Parker’s eyes. Tim gritted his teeth, more affected by the boy’s reaction than he cared to admit. But he remained stern. “Barbed-wire fence is dangerous. You need to stay away from it. Promise me you won’t try to climb on it or put your hands on the barbs.”
The boy blinked several times, biting down on his lower lip. Finally he nodded.
7
T im pounded the U-shaped staple into place over the string of barbed wire, then gave the wire a tug. It released a subtle ting but vibrated for less than ten seconds. Good and tight. He glanced down the fence line, wishing he had the funds to put up galvanized mesh fencing at least three feet higher than the current five-foot-tall post-and-barbed-wire fence. No deer could clear a fence like that. But the more protective fence was another expense beyond his reach at the moment. Maybe after this year’s crop?
He slipped the hammer into the loop of his work jeans, then snagged the water bottle he’d dropped in the grass at his feet. The water had turned tepid, but the moisture felt good draining down his parched throat. He glugged the bottle dry, then crumpled the plastic, flattening it as best he could before jamming it in his back pocket to throw in the recycle bin at home. Patting the box of staples in his shirt pocket, he turned his attention to the next post.
“Hi, Mr. Roper.”
Tim nearly jumped out of his skin. He spun around to find the neighbor’s boy, Parker, standing less than ten feet away. Why hadn’t he heard the kid approach? Feet on dry grass weren’t exactly quiet. But somehow Parker had managed to sneak up on him. The situation left him unsettled. “What’re you doing here? Didn’t your mom promise to keep you home?”
The boy cringed, hunching his shoulders. “Mom said to stay on our land.” He rocked his head back and forth, reminding Tim of a clock’s pendulum. The boy’s lips twisted into a grimace. “I’m not . . .” He straightened, throwing back his skinny shoulders. “Traipse-passing.”
Tim had to bite down quick on his tongue to keep from laughing. The boy was obviously proud of his big word, but he had no idea he’d gotten it wrong. Besides, he was definitely traipse-passing—traipsing right along Tim’s fence line.
Parker pointed, one shoulder hunching again as he squinted into the sun. “Whatcha doing?”
“Fixing my fence to keep pests out.” Tim presented his back to the boy. Parker’s mannerisms—the self-conscious shrugs, word confusion, and questions—reminded him too much of another boy. Thinking of Charlie always brought pain. Tim walked the line, checking each post to be certain the barbed wire was securely fastened. Trying to refocus.
The rustle of Parker’s shuffling footsteps followed. “Pests . . . like bugs? Mom calls flies and spiders pests.”
Tim located a loose staple low on a post. He pulled his hammer free, stooped down, and aimed its head at the post. “Stop and think for a minute, Parker. Would a fence like this keep out bugs?” Bang! Bang! Bang! He glanced over his shoulder. Parker was crouched down, imitating his pose. He jerked upright and moved on. To Tim’s chagrin, Parker trudged along behind him, faithful as a puppy dog.
“I guess not. Bugs could fly straight through the wire.”
“Now you’re thinking straight.” Tim heard the undercurrent of ridicule in his tone, and he shook his head hard. He had no cause to be mean just because the boy brought up memories Tim would rather keep buried. He turned, intending to apologize, and caught Parker extending his finger toward a pokey barb. “Don’t do that!”
The boy jerked. He clutched his hands together and stared at Tim. “I . . . I wasn’t gonna hurt it. I just wanted to see if it’s sharp.”
Tim stomped to Parker’s side, his hands curled into fists. If Parker broke his skin on the barb, he might need a tetanus shot. “Let me save you the trouble of testing it. Those barbs are very sharp.”
Tears swam in Parker’s eyes. Tim gritted his teeth, more affected by the boy’s reaction than he cared to admit. But he remained stern. “Barbed-wire fence is dangerous. You need to stay away from it. Promise me you won’t try to climb on it or put your hands on the barbs.”
The boy blinked several times, biting down on his lower lip. Finally he nodded.
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