Home Cooking

The sun was hot and the road seemed even grayer and dustier than it had before. His boots kicked up an ugly, lingering haze that settled on his pant legs like ashes. There were a few buildings up ahead, maybe the beginnings of a small town, but when he saw the big sycamore its shade looked so inviting that he couldn’t resist. There was no reason to keep going, no destination in his mind, no one expecting him. He could stop when and where he wanted to. Funny, it felt more like loss than freedom.

Plopping himself beside his rucksack on the sparse grass under the spreading tree, he closed his eyes and sighed, leaning his sweaty, chambray covered back against the rough bark and letting the weariness keep his mind a comfortable blank. He never knew how long such respites would last, but he’d enjoy it while he could.

After a lazy while, he became conscious of a faint musical sound and lifted his head to see a little creek tripping along at the foot of the grassy slope. Butterflies played in the rushes on its bank and a small fish leaped brightly in the sun and disappeared with a splash. In a little while, he thought, he might go down there for a drink, maybe wash his face, but not just now. He shut his eyes again, awake but dreaming of other, more pleasant times.

A squeaking hinge startled him out of his trance. He brushed at a fly that had made his chest a resting spot and looked up. Tall and quite thin, dressed in khakis and a stained white apron, a man had come out the back door of the little building perched near the crest of the hill and was walking toward him. The smell of greasy chili and coffee that wafted ahead of the fellow reminded David that he hadn’t eaten that day. Knowing that only a few coins rested in his trouser pocket, he told his stomach to go back to sleep. Maybe he’d find another apple tree, like yesterday.

He had learned the hard way that it was often a mistake to take another’s good will for granted, but right now he was comfortable and uninclined to move unless it became absolutely necessary. He felt he could outdistance the older man in a run if he had to. The man stopped about six feet away. His eyes fixed on David with a curious expression, but no hint of hostility. Finally, uncomfortable at the duration of the quiet gaze, David was first to break the afternoon silence.

“Um, is it alright if I sit here for a while?” The difference between politeness and deference seemed elusive, and asking permission for anything often galled him, but he was not in power here or anywhere else anymore, and had to remind himself of that on a daily basis. He also had to remember that his present circumstances were his choice, no matter how hard his mind tried to blame fate.

The man shoved out his lower lip, inserting a broom straw into one corner of his wide mouth and wiggling it back and forth in a jaunty fashion. A smile seemed to play around his eyes. “Sure. It’s a hot afternoon. Maybe I’ll sit here with you.”

David tensed at that, then relaxed as the man stuck out a chapped, much washed hand. His own was none too clean, but the man didn’t seem to mind.

“They call me Shorty, friend,” the voice was low and pleasant, “but my real name is Scott.”

Shorty? It was a long way from the tips of the scuffed brown leather shoes to the fine, sand-colored hair.

“Why would they call you Shorty?” he asked, without even thinking. It was none of his business and he hated the way curiosity always seemed to get the best of his better judgment.

A good-natured grin melted the sun-browned features, crinkling creases around the mouth and faded blue eyes.

“Same reason they’d call you ‘Ugly’, I reckon.” There was laughter as the man folded himself down to a seat on the grass.

[This story has been withdrawn for publication in I Do Two]