Hot black Louisiana coffee can’t rouse Lucille. After spending a lethargic morning in front of the television, she still needs a nap. So the day is abandoned before it really begins.
She picks up Damien, who has been awake since dawn, and carries him into the bedroom, where the blinds are drawn against the blazing late-summer sun, and the stillness is accented by the brittle sound of insect wings hovering in the hot air. While they sleep, I head down the winding lane where my ranch hand inches the bulldozer over the crown of a second earthen dike.
Diesel exhaust pours across the pond surface as the blade leavens the gravelly soil into a shallow grade. The dike looks no different than it did when I was here three weeks ago, over the Fourth of July weekend. Continuing on, I come across the shed where we store supplies and equipment such as fish food, post-hole diggers, and bailing twine. A huge nickel-plated padlock I’ve never seen before hangs from the door latch. Heading down the lane a little further, I see someone has set up a perch in a pin oak. A brick glass ashtray bristling with cigarette butts rests precariously between two branches. On the ground below, a number of spent shotgun shell casings are scattered.
I head over to Clyde, who’s riding the dozer kind of sidesaddle, like it was a horse. A cigarette juts from the corner of his mouth, and a filthy International Harvester “gimme” cap is pulled down hard over his small pale head. The moment he sees me, he casually kills the engine and hops down.
“Howdy, Mr. Braswell,” he says with a smile that exposes a rictus of abominable dental work. “Been putting the finishing touches on the dike for the past couple of weeks.”
“Doesn’t look any different than the last time I was here,” I say.
Clyde averts his gaze to the hazy distance.
“Haven’t been able to work because I haven’t been paid.”
“I paid you two weeks ago.”
“And I’ve been busting a hump ever since.”
I shake my head at this non sequitur and ask about the lock on the shed.
“Gonna re-seed the hayfield,” he says.
“That’s what’s in the shed? Hay seed?”
“Yessir.”
With this unexpected display of initiative, all is forgiven.
“Come on over to the house when you’re done, and I’ll cut you another check,” I say.
He climbs back into the dozer and I head into the woods by the house to collect firewood for a bonfire this evening. After an hour or two of work, I hear Lucille and Damien stirring about the house. The moment I come inside I can tell Lucille still isn’t rested. Her eyes are swollen and she’s entirely out of sorts.
“I feel a migraine coming on,” she says, tears glazing her eyes in fearful dread of what lies in store. “Could you get my purse, baby?”
While I’m looking about, Clyde appears at the sliding door. Lucille hurls it open, whereupon Clyde calls across the living room for his check.
“Be right with you, Clyde,” I say with mounting panic as Lucille now has her thumbs pressed into her temples. Clyde’s presence – his sweaty, sleeveless T-shirt exposing a deep farmer’s tan – is about to pitch her over the edge. I find her purse, pull out the inhaler, and toss it to Lucille.
“Oh, honey, it’s empty,” she says, her voice a plaintive bawl. “I’ll need a refill.”
“Call one in to the Walgreen’s in town and I’ll pick it up.”
Lucille rummages for the phone through the clutter on the counter as Clyde says confidentially, “Got a nasty headache, do you?”
Lucille nods spastically. Meanwhile, I’m out the door and making a beeline for the car, leaving Clyde to look after my girl while I’m gone.
Town is five winding miles away. The pharmacist has to answer the phone a couple of times before he can fill the prescription, but I’m back at the ranch within half an hour. When I come through the door, Lucille has the stereo on and is dancing before the full-length mirror in the bedroom. Through the window I can see Clyde is back on the dozer, a rooster tail of black exhaust bursting over the treetops, apparently ready to put in his first full day of work in a couple of weeks.
“Feeling better?” I ask Lucille as I come up behind her in the bedroom.
“The mystery of migraines…sort of evaporated after you left.”
I hand her the refilled prescription, and she shimmies her way over to her purse and stows it away.
“So what do you think of Clyde?” I ask.
“Lord, what a sweet-heart, Sterling,” she says, coming into my arms. “I didn’t know people like that walked the earth.”
Her response takes me back somewhat, but I am so relieved that she feels better that my stubborn naivete isn’t even budged. After all, the day just got a lot better, didn’t it?