Cockfighter - Charles Ray Willeford [18]
But Ed Middleton was wise enough to take the hint.
“Good night, Frank,” he said finally, “I'll see you in the morning,” and the door closed behind him.
After taking a needed shower I switched on the little television set and sat on the couch to watch the gray, shimmering images. There was a lot of snow, and jagged bars of black appeared much too often. In less than five minutes I was forced to turn it off. I'm not overly fond of television anyway. Traveling around so much I have never formed the habit of watching it. And I've never owned a set.
I was impressed by this pleasant room of Ed Middleton's. It was a man's room, and if he really wanted to write a book about cock-breeding, it was certainly quiet enough. I doubted, however, that he would ever write one. What Ed Middleton did with his remaining years was no concern of mine, and yet I found myself worried about him. He had been fighting game fowl and refereeing pit matches for thirty-odd years. Without any birds to fool around with, what could he possibly do with his time? I felt sorry for the old man.
He had a nice home, his wife was a wonderful woman, and the Citrus Syndicate took care of his orange groves. He had turned over the operation of his groves to the Central Citrus Syndicate some years back. In return, they paid him a good percentage on the crop each year, and now he didn't have to do anything with his trees except to watch them grow. By giving up cockfighting he was giving up his entire existence, and, like most elderly men who retire, he probably wouldn't live very long—with nothing to do. Martha was wrong, dead wrong, in forcing Ed to give up his game chickens.
Mary Elizabeth's opposition to the sport was the major reason we had never gotten married. Why can't the American woman accept a man for what he is instead of trying to make him over into the idealized image of her father on someone else?
There was no use worrying about Ed Middleton. I had problems of my own that were more pressing. But with a little pushing from me, my problems would somehow take care of themselves. All I knew was that I had to do what I knew best how to do. Nothing else mattered.
I switched off the light and, despite the lumpiness of the beat-up old couch, fell asleep within minutes.
4
It seemed as if I had only been asleep for about five minutes when the lights were switched on and Ed Middleton yelled at me to get up.
“Are you going to sleep all day?” he shouted gruffly. “I've been up for more than an hour already. Come on out to the kitchen when you get dressed. I've got a pot of coffee on.”
Reluctantly, I sat up, kicked off the sheet, and swung my feet to the floor. The door banged shut and I looked at my wristwatch. Five thirty. It was pretty late to be sleeping. No wonder Ed had hollered at me. I stumbled into the bathroom. After a quick shave I dug some clean white socks out of my suitcase, and put on the same clothes I had worn the day before. I joined Ed in the kitchen, and sat at the breakfast nook.
“We can eat breakfast later, Frank,” he said, pouring two cups of coffee. “Coffee'll hold us for a while. I want to show you something first.”
I drank the coffee black, and it was thick enough to slice with my knife.
“You want a glass of orange juice?”
I held up a hand to show that coffee was enough for now.
Ed refilled my cup, set the pot back on the stove, and paced up and down on the shiny terrazzo floor. He wore an old pair of blue bib overalls and an expensive, embroidered short-sleeved sport shirt. The bottoms of the overalls were tucked into a pair of ten-inch, well-oiled engineer boots.