Sunday after Meeting I rested. Make that slept—like a dead man. I slept and slept and, when I got up, ate hugely, ravenously. My mother had a worried look about her as she watched me eat.
“You must be growing,” she said.
That night I heard them murmuring, late, in their bedroom. I was not sleepy since I’d napped so much, and so I laid out my pressed and starched uniform for Monday, then tried to read my Bible—with no success. I lay there in the dark well past midnight listening to WLS out of Chicago. At low volume the Rolling Stones, the Beach Boys, and the Byrds whispered under my blankets.
On Monday, when my mother picked me up after work, she was smiling.
“What’s up?” I said cautiously.
“You’ll see,” she said.
At home, someone—not my father, certainly—was in the garden hoeing. “Dave the Jailbird!”
“Don’t call him that,” my mother said.
Dave waved, then leaned on his hoe to watch us pass, as if he’d never seen a 1958 Ford pickup.
“How long has he been here?” I said. For some reason I was annoyed.
“Most of the day. With a hoe he’s not nearly as good as you, but he’ll do for now,” my mother said.
“Is he out of jail? I thought he had a couple of weeks left.”
“He does. But I talked to the sheriff, and he allowed Dave a day pass to work out here.”
“For just today?”
“No. Every day. Until his term is finished.” She parked the truck.
“I was keeping up,” I said crabbily as I got out. I stared back at the garden. He was using my personal long-handled hoe, the one I kept razor sharp.
“Yes and no,” my mother said. “He’s also taken care of the calf pens. Your father and I thought that might be helpful to you. So you’re not quite so tired in the evenings.” She raised one eyebrow and gave me a good look.
“We have to pay him, right?”
“Yes. But not a lot.”
“I’ll chip in,” I said begrudgingly. Now I was more than annoyed; I’d been counting my hours, figuring my wages with an eye toward an eight-track-tape player for the truck. In two weeks I’d have my license.
“Thank you. We’ll work out the details later. Right now the sheriff’s happy, Dave’s happy—and I hope you are, too.” She cocked her head as she looked at me.
I manufactured a smile. “Sure,” I said.
“Dave!” my mother called. “Suppertime.” Dave tossed my hoe in the weeds and was on his way to eat before it hit the ground.
At the table Dave sat down—in my place.
My mother’s eyes flickered to me. “Ah, Dave? Would you mind sitting one place to the right? That’s where Paul usually sits.”
“It’s no problem, Dave,” I said.
“All right,” Dave said easily, and didn’t move.
More annoyance.
To begin the meal, Dave bowed his long, battered face, scrunched up his eyes, and concentrated. I smiled; my mother glared at me. After my father finished grace, Dave leaned toward my father and with great earnestness, said, “Thank you, sir. Thank you so much!”
My mother rapped my shin with her foot.
“You’re quite welcome, Dave,” my father said, with a glance toward me. “Shall we eat?”
But Dave was already reaching for the steaming bowl of mashed potatoes. There was sweet corn also.
“Would you pass the corn along?” my mother asked Dave.
“Sure,” Dave mumbled through a full mouth. He reached for a yellow ear with his big greasy fingers, and handed one to me and then one to her.
“Let’s pass the whole plate next time, Dave,” my mother said. “It’s more polite that way.”
Dave froze; his face suddenly drooped; his nose twitched and I was certain he would cry. “Table manners! I forget about table manners.”
“It’s all right, Dave.”
“I used to have them, but they got lost!” Dave said, his eyes brimming.
“We’ll get them back,” my mother said. “Just eat for now.”
And Dave obeyed. He was not wrong about his table manners. In fact, I had a hard time finishing my meal; I couldn’t eat and watch him at the same time. Dave concluded his meal by smacking his lips loudly and sucking clean each finger. “Was there any pie?”
“Yes, Dave,” my mother said evenly. “We’ll have some pie—when everyone else is done.”
Dave looked down, shamefaced.
After supper, I drove Dave back to jail, with my mother sitting in the middle.
Hawk Bend came into sight.
“I hate that damn jail,” Dave said suddenly.
“You only have a few more days,” my mother offered.
“People coughing and farting and snoring all night …”
I laughed. My mother gave me an annoyed look.
“You have to remember all that when you get out—how bad it is,” she said to him. “That’ll keep you on the straight and narrow.” I braked at the tall brick building.
“The straight and narrow was always too narrow for me,” Dave said.
We walked Dave inside. My mother signed off on a clipboard; the jailor initialed it. “Same thing tomorrow?” my mother said.
“You got him,” the jailor said. “Our pleasure, believe me.”
Dave pushed his mug at the jailor’s face. “I had homemade fried chicken and apple pie for supper—what’d you have?”
“Let’s go, Dave,” the jailer said, and prodded him sharply forward.
As we left, I heard doors clang deeper in the jail, and then catcalls greeting Dave’s return. In cheerful reply, Dave said, “I had homemade fried chicken and apple pie tonight. What’d you $@#$@$##&**% losers have?”
My mother flinched. “Goodness!”
We passed the Shell station where Tim was on night duty, then stopped at the Dairy Queen for three vanilla cones to go. Heading out of town, we approached the back of the Hawk Bend city limits sign. It was slightly tilted. I’d always felt some small sadness attached to that sign. It was stuck exactly between things—not city or country, not one place or another.