In the morning my head ached even more. We ate breakfast in silence but for the very loud clatter of spoons. My mother was agitated, my father grave-faced. I glanced up at the clock. “I’d better get changed for work.”
“You already have,” my mother said, her eyes suddenly weepy.
I looked down at myself: I had slept all night in my work clothes.
At the station as I punched in, Kirk gave me a second look. “Hey, Sutton, who’s the lucky girl?”
“Say what?” I snapped without turning. We got along these days, but just barely.
“Hard to give a hickey like that to yourself,” Bud said.
I instantly touched my neck, then hurried into the men’s room; behind me they laughed. I leaned toward the scratched mirror: high up on my neck bloomed a perfect red rose. I quickly wet a paper towel and dabbed at it—which only brightened its colors. Adjusting my collar as high as it would go, I emerged from the john. Kirk and Bud were still grinning.
“That haircut did the trick,” Kirk said. “Girls don’t like longhairs.”
I muttered something and luckily the driveway bells sounded.
After a long day at the station, I drove the pickup into the farm shop to work on the door. The passenger’s side door opened and closed, but just barely; a hinge was bent. I put on my welder’s mask when I felt a presence behind: Janet and little Soybean stood in the doorway. Through my little smoked glass window they were small and far away.
“We heard pounding,” she said.
I tipped up my mask. “Working on the truck,” I mumbled. Light shone through Janet’s long pale muslin dress.
“It’s my fault, sorry,” she said, tracing a bare toe in the dirt.
I shrugged. I was glad to have tools in my hands and a mask I could shrug down; I wanted to hold her and kiss her and touch her all over. “My driving test is day after tomorrow. It would be nice if both doors worked.”
“If you pass and get your license, we can go driving for real!” she said.
I paused. “I’d better keep working.”
“Sure.”
“Don’t let Soybean watch the welder’s light, okay? It will hurt her eyes—like looking at the sun.”
They stepped back.
I attached the grounding clamp and secured a welding rod in the other clamp; then I touched the power
switch and dropped the hood. The welder buzzed, and the rod fizzed like a sparkler. A molten bead grew around the door latch, which I tapped into place as best I could with a welding hammer. Then I powered down, leaned back, and tipped up my hood.
Janet and Soybean stood there blinking. Soybean laughed and stumbled about, grabbing at imaginary butterflies of light.
“I told you not to look!” I said.
“Wow!” Janet said, waving the air in front of her eyes as if it were filled with mosquitoes. “I didn’t think it would be that bright.”
They watched me as I worked on, until a dusty sedan came slowly up the driveway.
“Damn,” I said.
Janet looked over her shoulder. “Who’s that?”
“You don’t want to know.”
She and Soybean slipped away as two white shirts slowly emerged from the car: Workers. They never showed up in the middle of the week. Garland Brown and Jeff Hillman stretched, looked around, then ambled to the house. I stayed in the shop and kept working on the truck. With any luck I could outlast them. However, only a few minutes later the light in the doorway changed.
“Hello, Paul,” the Workers called. Framed in the doorway, they did not step in.
At the supper table, Garland Brown said grace. When the Workers came and stayed at our house, they
took control of things, though not in any obvious way. One thing for sure, the blessing was even longer than my father’s. Dave, weighing the effect of two more mouths at the table, leaned forward with slit eyes to count the pork chops, tally the potatoes.
Finally we ate. Bowls passed through the Workers’ hands, which were soft and white. Once, Gus Sorheim had muttered that the Workers had a stupid name; I suddenly understood what he meant. A Worker was a different, inside-the-house kind of man.
During dinner Dave took the focus off me. The Workers tried to include him in the conversation, but he was too intent on eating to say much. This amused Garland and Jeff. The conversation returned to Is and his family.
“They’ll be on their way soon,” my mother said. “We’ve lent them money for their auto parts.”
I looked up. Her eyes met mine; there was a grim look on her face.
“Very charitable of you,” Garland said.
“Amen to that,” Jeff said.
“It was more than two hundred dollars,” I blurted.
“We thought it needed to be done,” my father said evenly. His eyes went to me. “They’ve promised to pay us back when they get to San Francisco.”
There was silence. “But what if they don’t?” I said.
“What good is a man if he cannot be taken at his word?” my father said to me.
I looked away. There was silence in the room.
“I guess it’s been a … different kind of summer for your folks,” Garland offered. “These visitors. Dave here most days.”
Dave nodded briefly to the Workers.
“And all from Paul working in town,” Jeff added.
There was silence.
“More corn, Dave?” my mother said.
After dessert, I lingered at the table for what I thought was a reasonable period while the Workers helped with the dishes. They were cheerful, expert kitchen help. As clean dishes rattled and conversation between adults continued, I eased toward the door.
“Paul?” my father said sharply.
I held up my work gloves. “I should finish in the barn.”
“I’ll take care of it, Paul,” my father said. “The Brothers want to spend some time with you.”
Garland and Jeff looked my way.
“All right,” I said. “I’m happy to take the night off.”
No one laughed.
My parents, ever so conveniently, drove Dave back to town, which left me alone with the Workers. We sat in the living room where the window shades were mostly pulled against the low, late sun. I’d overeaten and felt heavy, sluggish, confined.
“So, Paul, how is life in general?” Garland began.
“Fine.”
“And working in town—how is that?”
“Okay. No problem.”
“It must have been a big change for you,” Garland said.
I thought of Peggy and Dale in the warehouse, her sweat-covered face; Janet and her warm, hard peaks and valleys; the nutty, fiery taste of beer in my belly; Harry Blomenfeld and Angelo; the endless flow of customers; the click of the stoplight.
“Not so bad,” I said.
There was silence.
“Well, let’s turn to the Old Testament and look through a few spots, see how your reading has been going,” Garland said. He opened his well-worn Bible.
I reached for mine—picked it up carefully lest dust rise from its black cover.
“No, Paul. Let’s see how you do without it,” Garland said, always smiling.
I put it down.
“Without the Good Book—that’s how we have to live most of the time,” Jeff added, “just our faith and nothing more to help us.”
I nodded.
“In Leviticus, for example, what does God say about sins of ignorance?”
“They require atonement,” I answered.
“What kind of atonement.”
“A burnt offering,” I answered.
“What kind of offering?”
“An animal?”
“It’s important to read the Scriptures closely,” Garland murmured.
“I think I’m better with the New Testament,” I said, trying for a joke.
They were silent.
We limped through the Old Testament, and finally reached the New Testament—where I answered most of their questions quickly and with certainty.
“Well, enough of that,” Garland said at length, and set aside his Bible. I let out a breath. “With a bit more work in the Old Testament, you’ll be ready, Paul.”
I was silent.
“A great day it will be,” Jeff said expansively. “Hardly two months away.”
I said nothing.
“Any more questions about the Bible, then—or about the faith we share?”
“Yes, actually.”
Jeff Hillman straightened up eagerly.
“The Old Testament seems pretty strong on punishment of sins,” I said, “while the New Testament is more about forgiveness. On giving people another chance.”
“Yes, you’re right,” Garland said. “Good.”
“So which one are we supposed to live by?” It was a question I hadn’t thought of until this moment.
“That depends, Paul.”
“On what?”
“On you, Paul.”
I was silent. “You mean I get to choose?”
“In a way. Kind of,” Garland said.
“Well, then I’d scrap the whole Old Testament,” I said suddenly.
Their eyes widened.
I swallowed. “Well, not entirely. You know what I mean.”
“I’m not sure that I do, Paul!” Garland said. His smile was gone for good. “The Old Testament gives us many rules to live by—including the Ten Commandments.”
“That’s another thing,” I continued.
“Good, Paul,” Garland said; his teeth glinted white in the dusky room.
“Thou shalt not kill—but what about in war?”
“That would certainly be excluded,” Jeff answered.
“What about in self-defense? Say someone like that guy in Nebraska, Charles Starkweather, tried to get into our house and I shot him?”
“Doubtless that would be justified in the eyes of God.”
“Okay. But what if you were an old man who had killed people when you were younger, but felt bad about it, changed your life, and were a good person after that? Would you still go to hell?”
“That sin of murder is nearly impossible to erase,” Garland said.
“No chance,” echoed Jeff.
I thought of Mr. Blomenfeld. His kindly, sad eyes. “Okay,” I said.
Garland peered closer at me; I manufactured a smile.
“Do you have any other questions, Paul?” Garland said.
“No,” I said with certainty.
Garland Brown glanced at his younger companion, then back to me. “I’ll be honest, Paul: Your parents are worried about you.”
“And we are, too,” Jeff added.
I remained silent.
“It’s not easy growing up these days. The sin and squalor, the temptations of this world.”
I held my poker face.
“Do you have any questions for us about that?” Garland said.
“About what?”
“About becoming”—Garland Brown coughed—“a man?”
“You mean, like girls and sex?” I said.
Garland Brown tugged at his tie and glanced through the window. “Yes,” he said, “that.”
“No, no questions.”
“Well then,” Garland said with relief, glancing at Jeff. “Let us have a short prayer to finish.”
There was silence. They waited.
“Will you lead us, Paul?” Garland said finally.
I mumbled a short lame prayer about thankfulness for all things, then said, “Amen.”
And was released.