All Hat (24 page)

He parked by the barn and got out and set up to work. He'd forgotten to bring along sawhorses; luckily he found a pair in the old smokehouse by the orchard. They were worn and a little wobbly legged, but they would serve their purpose.

When he'd stacked the pine boards on the horses and ran an extension cord from the barn, he heard his name and turned to see Etta walking over the frosted grass of the yard. She was wearing jeans and a man's canvas jacket, her hands thrust in its pockets. He could see her breath in the air.

“Good morning, Mr. Dokes,” she was saying.

“Morning.”

Huddled in the coat, she walked to the lumber pile, looked at it and at the tools on the tailgate of the pickup truck and at Ray, who was sharpening a lead pencil with his pocketknife.

“And what selfless deeds would you be turning today?” she asked.

“Sounds like you got a bit of an attitude,” he said in reply.

“Does it?”

“Yeah, it does. I got some time on my hands. Figured I'd replace those broken boards on the end of the barn.”

“That what you figured?”

“Yup.”

She sat down on the lumber, and for the briefest of moments Ray thought that she was going to cry.

“You're gonna have to find some other damsel to rescue,” she told him. “The place is going on the market first of the week.”

“Why?”

“Because my sainted father got drunk at the golf course two nights ago and lost twenty-five thousand dollars to Sonny Stanton in a card game.”

Ray put his knife away and tucked the pencil behind his ear. He sat down on the edge of the tailgate. “You better explain how something like that could happen.”

“Before I could explain it, I'd have to understand it myself,” she said. “But apparently there were plenty of witnesses—Sonny's gang, no doubt—and everything was on the up-and-up.”

“Homer's not competent—how could it be on the up-and-up?”

“In the eyes of the law, Homer is competent. Because I never went after power of attorney. I should have, but I kept putting it off, I guess because I knew when I did I would be admitting that he is…” She let the sentence trail off.

“Okay. But you better get a lawyer now. This thing's got an awful smell about it.”

“You figure I've got enough money to fight Sonny in court?”

Ray lit a cigarette, glanced at Etta, and then handed it over to her and lit another for himself. He looked up at the broken and rotten boards in the north end of the barn. One was hanging by a single nail, and in the slight morning breeze it swung, hingelike, back and forth, banging softly against the barn wall.

“What's this about the market?” he asked.

“If I'm gonna sell, I'd rather sell the place to a stranger than to Sonny. Then I can pay him off. There's something else: my father has two other mortgages on the place that I never knew about. The total is about forty thousand.”

“You put the place on the market, and Sonny'll buy it. Get one of his buddies to put in the offer. How you gonna know?”

“Aw shit, I never thought of that.” She looked at him. “Do you have to be so damn smart?”

“First time you've ever accused me of that.”

She drew on the cigarette, squinting against the smoke. He saw now that her hair was slightly damp, as if she'd just stepped out of the shower. Her eyes flickered on him a moment and then looked away.

“Got any rich relatives about to kick off?” he asked.

She smiled. “Nah, but there's a dirt-poor one up at the house that I thought about killing. What was he thinking? Hell, he couldn't play cards when he was lucid.”

She let the smile go and stood up and took one last drag on her smoke before she dropped it to the ground. She pulled her collar up. “Maybe it's just time to leave. Maybe we have no control over these things. It's just the way it's meant to be.”

“I don't know if anything's the way it's meant to be.”

She smiled at Ray. “Whatever the case, you'd be advised to find another barn to fix. Or better yet, a warm place to sit inside.”

“Well, this is the only barn I know of that needs fixing. You haven't lost it yet, Etta.”

“You gonna fix it for Sonny Stanton?”

“No, but I'll fix it for you.”

She went back to the house then, and Ray got down to work. After a few minutes Etta came back out, wearing coveralls and carrying an old leather carpenter's apron. She was wearing a red ball cap, and it took Ray, on the ladder, a moment to realize it was his old cap, from when he played for London. He'd forgotten he'd given it to her.

“You want to cut or nail?”

“I'll cut,” she said. “I'm not much on heights.”

Ray called down a measurement, and she marked the length of board, squared and cut it with the circular saw. Ray watched; it wasn't a perfect cut, but it wasn't a bad cut. She handed the pine up, and he slid it into place and started a nail.

“So where's Annie Oakley these days?”

“I don't know Annie Oakley,” he told her, mumbling, with a half-dozen nails in his mouth. “If you're talking about Chrissie, she's down in Fort Erie, racing. She might be up at the first of the week. I'll bring her by for tea if you want.”

“Don't bother.”

Ray nailed the board to secure it, then took another measurement. “Where's your salvage man?”

“Busy salvaging.”

“Maybe he's with Chrissie.”

Etta laughed as she picked up the saw. “Now I doubt that.”

Shortly before noon Etta went into the house and came back fifteen minutes later with lunch. They ate in the barn, in the old milk house. They had homemade soup and thick slices of fresh bread; apparently, Etta had been baking earlier. There was a fresh pot of coffee and a couple of Macintosh apples.

They sat and ate their lunch on the old bench that used to hold the milk cans, back in the days when Etta's grandfather had one of the best dairy herds in the county. The herd that Homer sold off, cow by cow, over a period of maybe eighteen months. In the end there were no cows, no milk quota, and—Homer being Homer—no money.

When the soup and the bread were gone she asked him for a cigarette, and they both lit up. Ray got up and walked to the cottage door, which led outside to the barnyard, and opened the top half. The air smelled of autumn—wood smoke and overripe apples and decaying leaves. There were clouds piling up to the west, and the wind was threatening.

“We might be just in time,” he said. “There's some weather coming.”

When she made no comment he turned to see her looking at him. Sitting on the bench, her legs crossed, leaning forward with her elbow on her knee, eyes narrowed. Her expression never changed even as he watched her, and after a moment he looked away. He cast his eye over the field behind the barn.

“So what're you gonna do?” he asked.

She didn't reply for a long time, and that made him uncomfortable too.

“I don't know,” she said at last. “Maybe these things happen for a reason. Maybe it's time I faced facts. I could move into town, go back to teaching. What do I need a farm for anyway? I'm no farmer.”

As Ray looked out over the field he realized suddenly that there was a doe standing along the fence line, her head up, nose sniffing the wind. He reasoned she'd been standing there all along and in her camouflage had fooled his eye. As he watched she dropped her head to pick at whatever meager grazing was left in the field.

“I hear the words coming out of your mouth,” Ray said. He turned and looked at her. “But I don't see it in your eyes.”

“It could be that I don't mind leaving,” she said. “Maybe I'd just feel better about it if it was my idea. I guess in the end, it's the same old question. Do I listen to my brain or to my heart?” She looked up at him and smiled. “This heart of mine has gotten me into trouble before.”

Ray turned toward the door again, flicked his cigarette out into the mud.

“There's a doe standing along the fence line out here,” he said. “She must be awful used to people, coming this close.”

“You've always been good at changing the subject,” Etta said sharply, and she got to her feet. “That doe coming so close means she doesn't know a damn thing about people. If she did, she'd turn and hightail it out of here.”

*   *   *

They finished the repairs by late afternoon. The temperature had dropped again by then, and the storm clouds had moved in. The first raindrops hit as they were packing up the tools. Etta had been quiet for most of the afternoon, and when she'd asked Ray if he wanted to stay for supper, he'd hesitated and then said no, not wanting to rankle Homer again.

When he got back to the farm Pete Culpepper was sitting by the space heater, wearing his hat and his slippers and drinking rum and Coke, the hound settled at his feet. Ray poured himself a shot and then sat down.

“You get it closed in?” Pete asked.

“Yup.”

“Good thing. This could turn to snow tonight.”

“It might at that.”

There were papers scattered over the kitchen table. It appeared that Pete had been considering his finances. The hound got to his feet and made his way over to Ray, looking for attention. Ray obliged, reaching down to scratch the animal's ears.

“How's Etta?” Pete asked. “Did you thank her for the cider?”

Ray gestured to the kitchen table. “Etta's got the same problems you do. She's about ready to sell out, too.”

Pete got up stiffly and went to the counter for another drink. Ray watched him quietly. He absently left off petting the hound for a moment, and the dog nuzzled him for more. Pete poured more rum than Coke, came back, and sat.

“You really heading for Texas?” Ray asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Where in Texas?”

“Southwest. Not far from Pecos, right on the Pecos River.”

“Nice country?”

“Maybe not so green as here, but good country. You don't see snow, most years. If you do, just light a fire and sit tight, and it's gone in a day or two.”

Ray fell silent again.

“You thinkin' about coming along?” Pete asked.

“I'm thinkin' about it.”

Pete pulled his chair closer to the heater. He took off his hat and placed it on the floor and then ran his hand through his wiry hair. “Might do you some good to get away from here for a spell.”

“That's what I've been thinking.”

“What about your parole?”

“I don't know. If I had a job down there, it might be okay. Or I could just go.”

“Tell 'em you're working for Pete Culpepper,” Pete said, smiling.

Ray nodded and drank off his rum. He got up and went for another, disappointing the hound to the point that he walked over and flopped down behind the heater and was immediately asleep.

“What about the farm, Pete?”

“I could just put it on the market and tell 'em where to reach me when it sells. Lot of it's gonna go for back taxes anyway.”

Ray poured his drink and leaned with his back against the counter. “When did you figure?”

“Well, if I see any snow this year, I'd like it to be in my rearview mirror.”

16

Saturday morning, Jackson was working the gray, Rather Rambunctious, at Woodbine, prepping the horse for the upcoming Stanton Stakes. Against his better judgment. It was just an hour past sunup, and there was a light mist suspended over the turf. Jackson had Tommy Fallon on the gray, and he worked five furlongs in just over fifty-seven seconds. Jackson watched from the infield rail, stopwatch in hand.

When Tommy brought the horse back to where Jackson stood, he was grinning, standing in the stirrups, one hand on the horse's mane. He stopped, and the horse settled right down, blowing a little but calm. In spite of his name he had an even temper.

“In the bridle today, Jack,” Tommy said. “What'd he do?”

“Fifty-seven two,” Jackson said.

“I figured about that. He's ready to rumble.”

“Well, I don't want him too ready. He's still got a week to go.”

“Hell, you could feed this horse beer and pizza all week, and he'd still win the Stanton by ten lengths. There's nothing in that field that can touch him.”

“I guess we'll see next Sunday. I'll walk him off, Tommy.”

Tommy jumped down, and Jackson held the reins as the exercise rider slipped the saddle from the gray.

“I'll tell you one thing, Jack,” Tommy said. “This here horse is a pleasure to ride. Compared to that Jack Flash. Shit, I'd rather go grizzly bear hunting with a pocketknife than gallop that mean old bugger. Any news on him?”

“None,” Jackson said, and Tommy knew that Jackson wasn't going to talk about the stolen horse. He pulled the bridle off and replaced it with a halter. “Thanks, Tommy.”

Jackson tied a blanket on the horse and then walked him off on the main track for fifteen minutes, before leading him back to the barn. He brushed the horse down, and then he fed him a cup of grain and a sheaf of alfalfa and made sure he had sufficient water.

It was nearly noon when he left the main barn and started the walk to the parking lot. Tommy Fallon was standing along the paddock, talking to a man in a fedora. Tommy called Jackson over to introduce him to the man in the hat, a writer for a newspaper Jackson didn't know. Jackson talked politely about nothing for a few minutes and continued on his way to the lot.

Which is where he saw Sonny, cruising between the rows of parked cars in the BMW, his shades on, slumped behind the wheel like a surly teenager. Jackson cursed Tommy Fallon. If Tommy hadn't called him over, he'd have been gone before Sonny showed.

*   *   *

Sonny was looking for Jackson. By way of doing that, he was cruising the parking lot at Woodbine, nursing a Bloody Mary and waiting for Jackson to emerge from the track. When he saw Jackson finally come out, he powered the window down and beckoned him with a look rather than a word. Even from thirty feet he could tell Jackson was pissed off.