nonprofessional teams in the country, and would play at midnight at the Growden Memorial Stadium without artificial light. Sag Pack planned to attend in force.
“If you think you’re going to that baseball game, jive turkey, you’d better take a deep peek at that creek.”
Silky had unrolled her bedroll and was zipping up her tent when she heard the unmistakable “disk-jockeyese” of Mr. Douglas, Randy’s father.
“Awe, Ice Man, I ain’t dirty.”
“Oh yeah? Well, if you’re not, you’re doing a pretty good imitation of it.” Silky stole a look through her lashes as the elder Douglas lifted his mirrored sunglasses to squint at the boy. Heexhaled rather tiredly. “Look, kid. I gotta sit next to you, so give me a break, and scrub.” He pushed his glasses back into place on his slightly bent nose and gave Randy a swift swat on his cutoffs-clad backside, raising a puff of dust.
Randy screwed up a freckled scowl, baring oversized front teeth. “I’ll get you for this, man.”
“Yeah? Something else you learned from your mom?”
Silky’s eyes widened, surprised by the definite edge that had come into Mr. Douglas’s voice.
He tossed his plastic soap container after Randy. “Go scrub! I’ll be there in a sec.” Running his fingers through his shaggy mane of sandy hair, he paused by Silky, who had now stood up and was brushing grass from her knees, trying not to appear as though she’d been eavesdropping. Tossing his towel across his shoulder, he extended a hand. “Hey.”
Dusting off her hands, she took his. “Hello, Mr. Douglas.”
“Call me Ice. Everybody who’s anybody does.” He squeezed her hand and let it go. “You ever catch my show? ‘Ice Man Morning Drive’ on WROK in Anchorage?”
She smiled apologetically, shaking her head. “I’m afraid not. My musical preference falls somewhere between Johnny Mathis and Johnny Cash.”
He made a classic sour-lemon face and clutched at his heart. “
Mathis! Cash!
Hell, lady, that’s the dreaded adult-music chasm! You fallinto that and the next thing you know, you’re wearing a hearing aid and burpin’ grandkids!”
She laughed at his melodramatic exaggeration, countering, “But you’re the one who’s a dad.”
He sobered at the mention of fatherhood, his features closing in a scowl. “Hey—no way. Not
this
lad. Not for long, anyway.”
Silky frowned, confused. “What do you mean?”
He looked at her thoughtfully as he lifted his reflective glasses again. This time she could see his eyes plainly. Light-lashed and the gray color of roadside snow, they seemed too sad for his twenty-some-odd years. She doubted that he was any older than she, but, still, there were definite wrinkles etched into the corners of his eyes, deep creases that had not been carved by laughter.
“Say,” he asked quietly, apparently having made a decision. “Do you mind if I unload something on you?”
Silky was surprised and a little unnerved by his inquiry. Sweeping her gaze away from his doleful eyes, she offered tentatively, “I—I don’t mind, I guess.”
“I wouldn’t bother you with this, but the kid—Randy—well, he’s bad-mouthed about everybody on this trip except you, so I thought he might listen to you.”
“Listen? To me?” Silky shifted uncertainly. “What is it that you want him to hear from me?”
Dropping his glasses back into place he looked around. Silky looked around, too. People were busy with the fire detail, dinner detail and general cleaning up. They were all too preoccupied with other things to eavesdrop. He motioned toward a spot under some pines where the bikes were parked. “What say we sit down?”
She nodded silently.
With long, disjointed strides, he beat her to the shaded area and spread his towel for them both. He rubbed his crooked nose then started, “Well, this is the deal. A little over a year and a half ago, I met Belle. She was this beautiful, young-looking lady of thirty-three. You know, the
“If you think you’re going to that baseball game, jive turkey, you’d better take a deep peek at that creek.”
Silky had unrolled her bedroll and was zipping up her tent when she heard the unmistakable “disk-jockeyese” of Mr. Douglas, Randy’s father.
“Awe, Ice Man, I ain’t dirty.”
“Oh yeah? Well, if you’re not, you’re doing a pretty good imitation of it.” Silky stole a look through her lashes as the elder Douglas lifted his mirrored sunglasses to squint at the boy. Heexhaled rather tiredly. “Look, kid. I gotta sit next to you, so give me a break, and scrub.” He pushed his glasses back into place on his slightly bent nose and gave Randy a swift swat on his cutoffs-clad backside, raising a puff of dust.
Randy screwed up a freckled scowl, baring oversized front teeth. “I’ll get you for this, man.”
“Yeah? Something else you learned from your mom?”
Silky’s eyes widened, surprised by the definite edge that had come into Mr. Douglas’s voice.
He tossed his plastic soap container after Randy. “Go scrub! I’ll be there in a sec.” Running his fingers through his shaggy mane of sandy hair, he paused by Silky, who had now stood up and was brushing grass from her knees, trying not to appear as though she’d been eavesdropping. Tossing his towel across his shoulder, he extended a hand. “Hey.”
Dusting off her hands, she took his. “Hello, Mr. Douglas.”
“Call me Ice. Everybody who’s anybody does.” He squeezed her hand and let it go. “You ever catch my show? ‘Ice Man Morning Drive’ on WROK in Anchorage?”
She smiled apologetically, shaking her head. “I’m afraid not. My musical preference falls somewhere between Johnny Mathis and Johnny Cash.”
He made a classic sour-lemon face and clutched at his heart. “
Mathis! Cash!
Hell, lady, that’s the dreaded adult-music chasm! You fallinto that and the next thing you know, you’re wearing a hearing aid and burpin’ grandkids!”
She laughed at his melodramatic exaggeration, countering, “But you’re the one who’s a dad.”
He sobered at the mention of fatherhood, his features closing in a scowl. “Hey—no way. Not
this
lad. Not for long, anyway.”
Silky frowned, confused. “What do you mean?”
He looked at her thoughtfully as he lifted his reflective glasses again. This time she could see his eyes plainly. Light-lashed and the gray color of roadside snow, they seemed too sad for his twenty-some-odd years. She doubted that he was any older than she, but, still, there were definite wrinkles etched into the corners of his eyes, deep creases that had not been carved by laughter.
“Say,” he asked quietly, apparently having made a decision. “Do you mind if I unload something on you?”
Silky was surprised and a little unnerved by his inquiry. Sweeping her gaze away from his doleful eyes, she offered tentatively, “I—I don’t mind, I guess.”
“I wouldn’t bother you with this, but the kid—Randy—well, he’s bad-mouthed about everybody on this trip except you, so I thought he might listen to you.”
“Listen? To me?” Silky shifted uncertainly. “What is it that you want him to hear from me?”
Dropping his glasses back into place he looked around. Silky looked around, too. People were busy with the fire detail, dinner detail and general cleaning up. They were all too preoccupied with other things to eavesdrop. He motioned toward a spot under some pines where the bikes were parked. “What say we sit down?”
She nodded silently.
With long, disjointed strides, he beat her to the shaded area and spread his towel for them both. He rubbed his crooked nose then started, “Well, this is the deal. A little over a year and a half ago, I met Belle. She was this beautiful, young-looking lady of thirty-three. You know, the
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