Wrapped in Rain(64)

I didn't have time to argue or talk him out of it. "Look in the cabinet beneath the coffeemaker. Mose has got a few things in there. And behind you, in that other cabinet, there are some rags and stuff like that." I was edgy and short, and I knew it. I hung up the phone and knew it was coming.

Child, that's your brother! He's only asking you because he's afraid to clean your truck without your permission.

I grabbed her picture and turned it facedown on top of the Bible.



What good is that?

"Go away," I said aloud. "I need about a week's worth of sleep."

Not until you acknowledge me.

I sat up, clicked on the light, and picked up the picture. "Yes, you're right. But can't we deal with this in the morning?"

Tucker, Mutt deals with this every second of every hour of every day. He never escapes it. If you're tired, then what is Matthew?

I put down the picture, pulled on my jeans and T-shirt, and stomped upstairs. The air outside was growing cool. Mutt had pushed my truck inside the barn entrance and turned all the spotlights on it. When I got there, he had washed it, dried it, and started applying the wax. The handle on the passenger's side door was faded and now showed deep scrub marks-a recent discoloring. Mutt glanced up, splatters of soap and wax paste spotting his face, and looked at me blankly. I shook my head, glanced at my watch, and grabbed a towel. I tore it in two, knelt down next to Mutt, and followed in behind him. He put on the wax and I pulled it off.

We finished as the horizon began to glow. My eyes were heavy, and all I wanted to do was put my feet up and my head down. Mutt took one long look at the truck, grabbed the wax container, and immediately began applying a second coat-something my truck had never had. I had no chance talking him out of it, so I put on the percolator and grabbed a second towel.

An hour later, the first rays of sunlight hit the body of my white truck and glistened like a half-moon. It was beautiful. Mutt had even applied a thin coat of 30W oil to the sides of the tires. The truck looked brand-new. Scattered on the ground around us were the remains of almost twenty used hand towels, three rolls of paper towels, four empty squeeze bottles, and three cans of car wax. Mutt bagged up the trash and I fetched two cups of coffee. "No thanks," he said. We leaned against the barn, looking at the truck and saying nothing, but feeling satisfied. Content, Mutt climbed back into the loft and lay down.



I heard him talking, but not to me.





Chapter 26


AT 7:00 a.m., KATIE STEPPED THROUGH THE DOOR AND onto Miss Ella's front porch. From my perch in the northwest corner of the pasture, I squinted and peered through my 300-millimeter telephoto. She arched her back, stretched her arms, yawned, and then smelled the three-hour-old coffee wafting from my percolator. She floated off the porch, under the covered walk, into the back door, and emerged a few minutes later nursing a steaming hot cup between both hands. When the cup grew too hot on her palms, she pulled the sleeves of her sweatshirt over her palms and hid her fingers inside. Standing six feet from my truck, she noticed I had parked her Volvo just on the other side of it. She circled the car and seemed pleased with the work, but she did not seem happy.

Guarding the heat, she leaned on the fence, looked out across the pasture, and scanned the horizon. Midscan, she noticed the trail through the dew-soaked hay and followed it out to me where I stood watching her like a Peeping Tom. She shielded her eyes against the sun, craned her neck, and climbed through the fence.

"Good morning," she said after a five-minute hike across the pasture.

I peered around the viewfinder, straightening my Georgia Tech baseball cap, and attempted to look professional, like I hadn't been caught peeping.

"Hi."

She eyed the camera, raised both hands to her lips, and sipped. The end of a tea bag hung suspended over the side of her cup. "What're you doing?"



`Just looking."

She nodded suspiciously. "Taken any good ones?"

"Nope," I said, looking out at the house and trying to avoid eye contact.

"Come on," she said, smiling. "What're you shooting?"

I clicked open the back of the camera and held the film door open. The camera was empty. No film. She looked confused and suspicious. "You stand behind one of these long enough and it becomes your window to the world."

She nodded, but the suspicion never left her face. I waved my hand across the pasture. "I used to come here way back when. I'd set up with black-and-white on a tripod like this and shoot a timed frame every five minutes throughout the last hour of sunup or sundown. Then I'd develop the negatives and study the contrasts." I shrugged my shoulders. "It gave me perspective." I tapped the viewfinder and said, "When I need to switch lenses, I do it here."

She walked behind me and looked out over the pines and down in the direction of the quarry. "I'd like to talk with you."

The tone and sudden shift sounded serious. "Okay," I said, placing the camera between us.

"I want to talk about what we're not talking about."

"Okay," I said, uncertain as to what we weren't talking about and where this was going.

She walked around me in a circle, making me feel a bit measured and hemmed in. "Out there, somewhere, is a man who's very angry that I've taken his son, even though he never really cared much for him, and I need a safe place to stay for ..." She paused again. "A while." She turned, took two steps in my direction, and looked up at me. When she spoke I could feel her breath on my face. It was warm and sweet and smelled like Darjeeling tea.