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By Root 919 0

the right front quarter panel, even the ditch grass and weeds pinched in the cracks. And there was the couch that finally came, white brocade, about as inappropriate a couch for a farm living room as you could imagine. Then there was the trail of clues to our arguments about him with Caroline—a flurry of phone calls, followed by that number never appearing on our bill again, the item in the paper that appeared innocent but was intended to humiliate and succeeded in doing so, followed by a big bill, over a hundred dollars, for the Cuisinart Rose ordered from Younkers and had sent with the equally humiliating card—“Nice to read of your good news, Rose Lewis and family.” It was an involving story, frightening and suspenseful, full of significance, if only to our family, and mystery, too, since Daddy only acted, and never revealed his motives. It was a story the neighbors surely followed with relish, eager for clues to what was really going on, and ready to supply any memories or speculation that would explain unaccountable twists in the narrative.

But really the story of those days was the story of Jess Clark, of the color and richness and distinctness his presence in the neighborhood gave to every passing moment. When I think of him, or of that time, I think vividly of his face and figure, of how startling it was, for one thing, to see someone nearly naked in running shorts with no shirt in a world where men wore work pants, boots, and feed caps on the hottest days. I think of the muscles of his legs, defined by years of roadwork into sinuous braids of discrete tensions. I think of his abdomen and arm and back and shoulder muscles, present in every man, but visible in Jess, like some sort of virtue. But the fact is that it’s impossible to think of him by himself, apart from everything else. What concentrated itself in him diffused through the rest of the world, too. I always expected him to manifest himself at any time, because everything I saw around me had gotten to be him—it reminded me of him, expressed him, promised something about him. When he showed up, things were complete. When he didn’t show up, they were about to be.

Harold Clark began talking frequently and openly about changing his will. Harold was the sort of man who prided himself on knowing everyone, which meant joking in a familiar fashion with men, women, boys, and girls alike. Not long after my father’s accident, I was taking Pammy and Linda for an afternoon swim in Pike. I was to drop them and Rose was to pick them up. Halfway to Cabot, I realized that my fuel gauge was on empty, so I pulled in at the Casey’s on Dodge Street there and got out to pump some gas. I didn’t notice Harold’s truck, but when I went in to pay, there were Harold and Loren stocking up on doughnuts and slices of pizza. Loren was paying, and Harold was back by the cooler, picking out a drink. He was laughing, and his voice rang around the room. “Yeah, Dollie,” he was saying to the woman behind the counter, “I’ve got myself into a fix now. One farm, two boys. Two good boys is a boy too many, you know. Pretty soon there are two wives and six or eight children, and you got to be fair, but there’s no fair way to cut that pie. One farm can’t support all them people, so some who have the get-up-and-go get work in town, but you don’t want to cut them out just because they got some spirit. So the wives start squabbling. That’s the first thing, ain’t it?” By this time he was back at the counter, and he fixed her with an impudent eye. Dollie had gone to eighth grade with Harold, so she looked right back at him, and said, “What you know about wives, Harold Clark, hasn’t ever impressed me much.” He laughed as if this were a compliment and went on, now seeing me and including me in his audience. “But the best thing is, I’ll be dead when all this happens, and when the Good Lord says, ‘Harold, take a look at the mess you left,’ I’ll say, ‘I was just trying to be fair. I had two good boys and I followed Scripture, because didn’t You Yourself say that everybody gets the same day’s wage, whether they