while Eldon drank off more of the whisky and settled back in his chair and flopped one leg over the other and smoked and exhaled clouds at the ceiling.
They ate. The men mostly talked about the farm. When he was finished the kid gathered all the plates and cleared the table. Eldon was the only one with the whisky now. The old man sipped at black tea. The kid washed the dishes and set everything back in the cupboard. He caught Eldon staring at him every now and then but there were never any words. The looks felt odd, like there were words hung off them, but Eldon never said a thing to him. When he was finished he said good night and went to his bedroom, where he coloured in a book until he was tired enough to get into bed. He heard the rumble of their talk. He thought he heard a sob and the old man’s voice rise some then it got quieter but he could still hear them talking.
“Who is he?” the kid asked while they were milking in the morning. Eldon slept on the couch near the woodstove. The kid had looked at him when he got up. His arms and legs were flung wide and his head was tilted back with his mouth wide open.
The old man pulled at the cow’s teats and the kid watched his shoulders work. “Someone I known years ago,” he said without looking back at him. “Different fella now but I knew him good at one time. Least I thought I did.”
“He smells funny,” the kid said.
“He’s been rinsed through pretty good.”
“With that whisky?” the kid asked.
“Yes, sir. Some men take to it. I never did.”
“Why not? Does it do bad things?”
The old man looked at him over his shoulder. “Keeps varmints away,” he said.
“How so?”
“Savvy what a varmint is?”
“Yeah,” the kid said. “Pests. Things you don’t want around.”
“Well, whisky keeps things away that some people don’t want around neither. Like dreams, recollections, wishes, other people sometimes.” The old man turned on the stool and set the milk pail down on the floor between his feet. “Things get busted sometimes. When they happen in the world you can fix ’em most times. But when they happen inside a person they’re harder to mend. Eldon got broke up pretty bad inside,” he said.
The old man shook his head and wiped at his face with one hand. “It’s a tough thing. Hard to watch. Hard to hear. But folks need hearing out sometimes, Frank. That’s why I let him come here.”
“He seems sad.”
“Pretty much. Sad’s not a bad thing unless it gets a hold of you and won’t let go.”
“He sleeps funny,” the kid said.
“Chasin’ varmints, I suppose,” the old man said.
He was gone by the time they finished the chores. All that remained was the smell of old booze, stale tobacco smoke, and a sheaf of bills in a glass jar on the stove. The old man stood in the doorway staring at it, rubbing at his chin whiskers.
It was almost a year before he saw him again. He was herding cows back from the open range beyond the ridge. When they broke through the trees at the field’s edge there was a dull blur of orange at the head of the lane. The closer he got the more the blur took on the shape of an old pickup. The cows took to the scent of home and trotted toward the barn. The lot of them aimed for the open gate that led to the back paddock. He rode in slow and walked the horse past the truck.
She was a weather-beaten old Merc that was a few thousand miles beyond her better days. She was slung low on her springs and the windshield was starred with cracks. The front bumper was wired on. There was a rag stuffed in where the gas cap should have been. When the kid rode by he saw a clutter of tools flung into the bed: a rusted chainsaw, pry bars, falling wedges, a bow saw, several axes and mauls, and a scattered heap of shovels. A pair of fuzzy dice dangled from the rear-view mirror.
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