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Chapter Four
Joel
Ifeel lighter without the extra pair of hands and feet weighing me down. Not to mention the teeth. Mother Nature takes pity on me, but by the time I reach the house, her patience has run out. I’m making a second trip from the truck to the barn when the rain begins falling in large pellets, shooting droplets that promise of more to come. The drops strike the earth hard and fast, leaving black craters in the dirt. Thunder cracks and rain slams into me like bullets from an M60 machine gun, turning my clothes into a soiled mess.
As I dart across the lawn, a gust of wind whips theAlmanacfrom the top of my pile and into the air. I almost let it go. I would have, had I not come out of the barn to find that it had blown back into the yard and had plastered itself against the old oak where I’d buried Red two days ago.
The ground there is still soft, and the tilled dirt quickly turns to mud. The cross I made has keeled over in the wind, not unlike Red herself, though she fought the good fight.
I walk over, fix the grave marker, and pick up theAlmanac, brushing it against my thigh to shake loose the dirt and the water.
I take it into the house, lay it out on the table to dry, put on the percolator, and phone Layla to make sure Ray got what he needed. I always dot my I’s and double cross my T’s, but also, I worry about her.
“Why don’t you ask him yourself,” she laughs into the phone. “He’s right here.”
I hear liquor in her voice and feigned happiness, and I imagine the scene, her head lolling to the side, cigarette ash dropping toward her lap and falling onto the carpet. She is drunk; probably high, too. There's nothing more pathetic than a woman in the clutches of drugs and alcohol, and I learned a long time ago never to trust an addict.
“You don't hate me, do you?” she asks, slurring a little. Addicts often have a better sense of the world than they’re given credit for.
“How could I?” The easiest way to lie is with a question.
“Your friend is nice. You wanna talk to him?”
I remind myself that you can’t save everyone. You can only try to help where you can. I don’t know if men like Ray can be considered help, but as far as businessmen go, he’s about as honest as they come. “No need,” I tell her. “I trust you.”
It’s not the truth, but it puts the conversation to bed, which is where I want it.
Later, I sip a cup of coffee while staring out at the beginnings of a frost-covered roof. The rain has turned to sleet. It’s rare for Texas, especially this early. Other than that, I’m not thinking about much of anything, except for how peaceful it is out here, and also how quiet, now that Red is gone. Mostly, I wonder how long the freeze is supposed to last. If the burial tomorrow gets called off, it’ll leave me in a vulnerable position. I may need to resort to Plan B.
I mull it over while starting a fire. I need to get rid of the man’s possessions.
When I glance down, there it is, theFarmer’s Almanacopen to the advert section. The words practically jump off the page.PERFECT BRIDE GUARANTEED.
What a load of bullshit. At first it makes me laugh, and then, well, it sort of pisses me off. What kind of snake oil salesman printed an advertisement like that? I was curious, though, and also, I wonder, does it pay off? There’s no such thing as the perfect bride. Only an idiot would believe that. I’ve known my fair share of women. There’s not a one of them I’d want to spend a long weekend with, let alone the rest of my life.
The thought is so foreign; maybe that’s why it sticks. As I watch David Flack’s belongings burning away, I can’t stop thinking about it. The image of this perfect woman starts to take shape in my mind. She’d be soft-spoken, kind, and have a gentle heart. While that sort of woman has never been my type, I imagine what it might be like to have someone like that around. Someone to tend to the details a woman attends to. And wouldn’t it be nice to have a woman in the house to fend off men like Curtis Martin and the other nosy town folk?
It’s a nice thought, but hardly a possibility when you’re on the road as much as I am.
The people in this town assume there’s something wrong with me, being unmarried and all, but there’s not. I’m not incompetent or a drunk. I’m just not much of a people person. I grew up with my Ma and Pa and an aunt with a couple cousins scattered around in neighboring towns. And that is just fine by me. The quiet is a welcome respite. I’m not that lonely, mind you. There’s plenty to keep me busy. I like my solitude and my work, and tending the land is enough to suit me.
Unfortunately, the rest of this town doesn't see it that way, and, well, people talk.
After Mama passed away and then Pa, it was just me out here. I guess it was at that point that the neighbors and townsfolk changed their tune. They might have given me a wide berth when Pa was alive, but now I’m the odd man out, and there is no shortage of gossip. The rumors, the whispers, and the unkind stares…they never much bothered me. It is more that as time goes by, people are taking more notice. And that is a problem. So that's why I give the advertisement a second look, because being ostracized is the last thing I need. Being an outcast is only fun until it starts to draw more and more attention. Who knows? Maybe it is time to change my ways. Maybe it’s time to tread softer with the neighbors, to bask in their good graces, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll find the perfect bride. “Guaranteed!”
That's sarcasm, in case you didn't know. It’s an interesting thought. But I’m no dummy. Nor am I that desperate. Curtis Martin’s niece is not an option I am willing to entertain. There was a reason David Flack thought this ad was important enough to carry it on his person, and I’m interested in finding out what that reason was. Getting a look at the snake oil salesman behind it? Well, that’s just icing on the cake.
