Читать книгу Watershed - Mark Barr - Страница 16

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE NEXT DAY TRAVIS PAID ONE OF THE WIVES IN THE shanty village to fry him a steak. She wrapped it in newspaper, and he took it home to eat on his porch in the evening’s cool. For a table, he sat at an upturned cable spool he’d dragged home from the dam site. His chair was an old apple crate. He ate with his fingers and his buck knife, sawing the steak into bite-size pieces. He speared a piece, put it in his mouth, and set to chewing. Twice he stopped and cocked his head, thinking he had heard a car on the road, but there were only the birds and the sun setting over the oaks like a golden fire. While he ate, he idly looked over the newsprint, eyes moving from picture to picture. There were three or four of them, each with a bit of writing. Travis studied the faces and recognized old Reg Jackson, who was a regular around the square downtown. Travis had seen him a thousand times, but Reg had come down with pneumonia and died, Travis was pretty damned sure. He peered at the pictures again.

“Hell,” he muttered, “the dead folks pages.” The thought of his food coming wrapped in obituaries unsettled him, but there was nothing to be done about it. Placing one work-grimed finger beneath Reg’s smiling face, cleaner now than Travis had ever seen it in life, he began to sound out the words.

He’d been in the habit of giving his paycheck to Claire every two weeks, and she’d seen to the buying of the things needed to run the house. Since she’d left he’d taken to putting what money was leftover into a coffee can near the stove. He’d never before had savings of his own.

He fingered a canvas patch that Claire had sewn onto the right knee of his overalls, the stiff fabric worn smooth from his kneeling. It had replaced the patch before that. Maybe he’d see if Clemmon’s down at the general store had any new overalls. He’d be damned if he’d give any of the money to Claire. She couldn’t go on hanging on her family forever. She’d need money, and then she’d have to think about what she’d done, running off like that.

Realizing that he’d made no progress on Reg’s obituary, he returned his finger at the top of the column. A blue bottle fly landed at the edge of the spool, and began cleaning its legs. Travis had once known a man so fast that he could catch them in his bare hands, easy as taking a rock off a log. Travis held his breath, concentrating, then shot out his arm with such force that his box seat scooted beneath him, nearly tipping. The fly buzzed around his head before settling on the top porch step. Travis threw himself at it, but missed again, nearly pitching himself down the steps while the fly went off into the trees, the sideways light showing briefly on his broad, blue back before it disappeared into the oaks’ shadows. Travis fingered the patch on his knee, now pulled nearly free of the stitching. Well, he thought, that’s that.

The clerk was just locking the front door of Clemson’s when he got there, but unlocked it again and led Travis inside. The store was gloomy, the air sharp with the smells of dye and machine oil.

“Patches is right over here,” the man said, remembering Travis from his earlier visits.

“No, sir, I want the whole new set,” Travis said, hooking his thumbs under the straps to indicate the overalls.

“Well, now,” the clerk said, and stopped to look at Travis anew. “I’ve got Pointer and OshKosh.”

“I suppose I’ll stick with Pointer,” Travis said. He felt for the money in his pocket. Its bulk felt substantial. He peeled off a bill and thrust it at the clerk. “Here.”

“Let me write you a receipt first,” the man said, hands up to ward off the money, and hurried through the dark displays to the counter in the rear of the store, leaving Travis standing with the money held out.

There was the scratch of a match, and a candle flared, dimly lighting the rear of the store. Travis stood among the displays and watched the clerk pen the receipt and record the sale in his ledger.

“It’s good that you’ve bought now,” the man called to him. “My supply man says that there’s not enough cotton this year, that they’re having to ship it in from as far away as Texas. Can you imagine that? Next shipment, they’re going to go up to a dollar and a half.”

Travis frowned. “For overalls? They come with a man inside?”

The clerk laughed politely.

“How much are they now?”

“Dollar twenty.”

“Christ,” Travis muttered. He’d figured on no more than a dollar. He picked his way through the displays back to the counter, where the clerk had laid a pair beside the ledger for wrapping. “These here from Texas?”

The clerk was lost in his calculations. After a moment he lifted his head. Travis repeated himself.

“They’re all sewn together in Wisconsin, I believe.” The clerk turned the overalls over, held a tag up to the candle. “It doesn’t say. I suppose that they use cotton from wherever.”

“It’s a funny thing. I’ve never been to Texas or Wisconsin, but my trousers have.”

The clerk smiled, continued tallying figures in his book. Travis looked over the rows of numbers, bore the small man some grudging respect. The clerk wrapped the overalls in paper, tied the parcel with twine.

“Is that hard, doing all that?” Travis asked, nodding towards the ledger, but the clerk handed him the package, set to locking the cash drawer again, and Travis gathered his parcel. “I suppose I’d better be going,” he said.

The clerk led him back to the door and locked it behind him. The stars were beginning to show in the eastern sky.

Travis carried his bundle down the walk, peering into the stores for prices. After the grocery, there was a shop with a businessman’s suit displayed on a mannequin with a painted face. The knot on the dummy’s tie was smaller than the ham-fisted one that Travis’ pap had taught him. He shuffled a step to the side, trying to get at how the knot was done.

Two men came out of the bank, talking, and walked in his direction. Travis peered at the knots on their ties, trying to gauge if they were larger than the mannequin’s. They guardedly stepped into the street.

“Say,” Travis began, and cleared his throat.

“Travis! Hey, Travis!” a voice called, and Travis forgot the two men and their ties.

A truck was parked alongside the courthouse, a display of vegetables in the back. A man in a straw hat stood beside it, grinning.

“Hey, Jim,” Travis said, and crossed to shake the man’s hand. “You peddling vegetables?”

“Got more than we can eat,” Jim said. “Figured I gotta make all I can. These fellas like you, working regular at the dam, might not have time to tend their gardens.” The two men stood while Travis looked over the vegetables.

Jim lowered his voice. ”That right what I’m hearing about you and Claire?”

Travis eyed the man, turned back to the vegetables again.

“She ain’t living with me no more,” he said.

“I’m just as sorry as can be, Travis,” Jim said, and pursed his lips sympathetically. “Take a couple of those tomatoes. You ought to be eating right.”

“Think a grown man can’t handle himself?”

“I was just saying, Travis.”

“How much are you asking for those collards?”

“Three cents.”

“Well, give me some of them and the tomatoes, and I’ll pay you for them. I don’t need no handouts.” He took the money from his pocket and gave it to Jim.

Jim put the produce in a small crate and handed it to Travis, who took it under his arm along with the overalls.

“What’s that you got there?” Jim asked. “You been doing some shopping?”

Travis looked anew at his parcel, then put a hand to the strap on the worn overalls he was wearing. They had another year in them at the least.

“You know they’re asking a dollar twenty for overalls at Clemson’s now?”

Jim pushed his straw hat back on his head.

“Oh, I know, I know. The world’s gone crazy, Travis.”

The street was nearly dark.

“I’ll see you, Jim,” Travis said, turning away, and made his way through the gloom back to where he’d left the car.