Bess stands very still at the side of the road, exactly as Frank left her. The only thing moving is an ear, which moves forward, back, forward, back, as if gathering up the sound of the men’s approach.
Lester empties the rest of the water from the canteen into the feed bucket, which Frank has set at the animal’s feet. Bess seems to watch as the water spills from the canteen’s mouth, a glassy liquid ribbon that shatters against the bottom of the bucket. The men watch it, too, twisting through the moonlight.
Bess lowers her head and drinks, the big lips unfurling. Frank knows well the feel of those lips, their soft, tiny hairs like a whisper against the palm of his hand. The thought of them floods him with a sense of loss; he knows Bess’s time is up.
After drinking only a little, Bess lifts her head.
“That it, ol’ girl?” Franks asks her. He runs his hand down the side of her neck. He can feel her brittle age. The mule sighs, blinks. Frank nods once. “You know best,” he says, conceding. He drags the bucket to the side of the wagon. Water sloshes at the bottom. “Knows her needs,” he murmurs. “Knows her limits, knows her needs.” He dries his hands on his pants legs.
“Think she’ll go?” Lester asks. He looks at Frank doubtfully, the empty canteen in his hand.
Frank shifts his gaze from Lester to the mule. “Think this here mule done all she was made to do. Ain’t gonna ask for any more. Asked too much already.”
“Ain’t gonna even try?”
“Had this mule twenty years.” He shakes his head. “She ain’t gonna go.”
“So what do you reckon you’ll do?
“I’m gonna wait.” He glances at the moon, gauging the time. Just a couple of hours until midnight. Soon, if nothing comes along, he’ll start walking. He may have promised Elma to get the boy a stone, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t see Willie one last time.
One last time. The words echo through his mind, inconceivable.
“Look,” Lester says. “Whyn’t you come on back to the cabin? You say mule ain’t gonna go, mule ain’t gonna go. But I say nothin’s gonna come ’long down this road. Not at this hour, least. Get some sleep, man. We get your stone where it needs to go come mornin’.”
Frank shakes his head. “Go on back to your family. Reckon I’ll stay here.”
“It don’t seem right to leave you.”
“I be all right.”
Lester looks doubtful. “If you won’t come back, least sleep some in the wagon bed.”
Frank nods. “I will,” he says. “Obliged to you.”
They shake hands, and Lester turns and walks into the field. Frank watches him go. Then he sits down on the open tailgate of the wagon and rests a hand on the smooth slab of granite, which, despite the heat, is cool, hard, and cruel beneath his touch.