Page 10 of Possibly Texas

Gently, I slid the middle window in the dormer up, letting in the fresh night air. My eyes stayed on the barn in the distance and the laser-like lights shooting out of the roof. The summer night hadn’t kicked up much of a breeze, but it carried a tune upon it. Something, way off in the distance, sounded like a song.

Night club. I nodded to myself. Maybe? Levi Lee’s probably there, dancing in his green-screen suit, trying to impress all the ladies with…things.

I listened to the sound for a moment, wondering if I could figure out which song was playing over at the barn, but it was too far away. Eventually, I gave up and closed the middle dormer. I pushed back the covers and laid on the stale sheets. Jack’s washing machine would have to be used the following day, but one night on stale sheets wouldn’t kill me. Even with the air conditioning doing its best, my room was stuffy. So, I laid there in my boxers and let the moon shine its cooling blue light down on me through the window as the stars blinked their soundless lullaby. Before I knew it, everything ceased to be.

The washing machine on the screened-in porch had seen better days, but it was still capable of washing my bedding. Jack was working on some project in the yard as I stuffed the sheets and blanket into the washer and added soap. After considering how long it might have been since the sheets were washed, I tipped the detergent jug and added a little more.

When I’d woken up as the sun was rising—the open drapes on the dormer window allowed the sun bring me back from the dead early—Jack was already eating breakfast in the kitchen. Actually, he was eating cereal out of a bowl as he stood at the sink. He didn’t use his notepad when I had stumbled down the stairs groggily, but he gestured at the shelf containing cereals, waved at the fridge—generally gave me the idea that I should help myself. Apparently, breakfast was not a “sit at the table and eat together” meal. By the time I had poured myself a bowl of cereal and found the milk in the fridge, Jack was done with his bowl and had set it in the sink to soak.

He dashed off through the living room and screened porch to the backyard before I had even had a chance to pour my milk.

Was he regretting my presence already?

I sat at the kitchen table and ate slowly, waiting for my body and brain to catch up with the day. Afterwards, I washed mine and Jack’s bowls and put them in the draining rack, then went back upstairs for a shower. Fresh clothes, some deodorant, brushed teeth—I finally found myself ready for the day. A glance at my phone let me know that Mom still hadn’t tried to text me, so I left it on the desk. I wanted to text or call her and tell her I was okay, and to make sure she was doing fine, too. But something resolute in my gut refused to let me.

Instead, I stripped the sheets and blanket off of my bed, took the pillowcase off of my pillow, and ventured back downstairs, cradling the bundle carefully as I went down the steps. Before I bothered using the washing machine, I had hollered at Jack through the screens in the porch, asking if it was okay to use his machine. He had simply waved a hand in the machine’s direction, so I took that to mean it was okay.

I turned the dial, pushed the start button with my thumb, and the machine came to life with a jolt. After a few moments, I realized that the machine was going to work—it was just loud as hell. Hopefully, I had done everything right so that Jack’s machine wasn’t destroyed by my bedding. When I opened the screen door on the porch and stepped down into the yard, I got a better look at what Jack was doing. A long oak table, probably long enough to seat twelve or more people for dinner, was set out in the yard on a tarp. It looked as though it had once been painted—who would do that to such lovely wood?—but Jack had stripped it and sanded it down to the wood grain once again.

Some type of electric cutting tool was in his hand and he was carving grooves in the wood of the tabletop, his back to me. So that I wouldn’t startle him, I rounded him in a wide arc, making sure he saw me coming towards him. He wasn’t deaf—obviously—but if he started up the tool as I was walking up to him, he wouldn’t hear me approach. Then he might spin around and gouge me with the tool on accident. You don’t make it to sixteen years old without knowing a little bit about staying out of the way of tools that could accidentally be used as weapons.

Jack’s eyes caught mine and he paused, the bit in the tool against the wood.

“I didn’t see a dryer,” I said.

Jack gestured across the yard.

I turned to find a clothesline on the other side of the yard—metal cords strung between two T-posts that had been painted a sky blue.

Really?

“Okay.” I shrugged. “Uh, what are you doing?”

One of Jack’s eyebrows raised and he glanced down at the table, then back to me.

“Yeah,” I said. “Working on the table. What are you doing to it?”

Jack set his tool down and started to make movements with his hands before remembering that sign language was mostly pointless with me.

“Want me to get your notepad?” I asked.

Jack shook his head in frustration and reached into his pocket. He extracted his phone and held it up so I could see it.

“I don’t have mine on me. It’s upstairs,” I said.

Jack still unlocked his phone and tapped away at the screen. I waited patiently, wondering if he had heard anything I said. Did he realize he didn’t even have my phone number? Even if I had my cell phone on me, I’d never get the text. When Jack finished tapping away, he held the phone out for me to look at the screen.

I leaned over and read his screen.

I need smokes and the mail.

“Cigarettes?” I asked.

He nodded.

“You shouldn’t smoke.”

Jack just stared at me.