Prodigal Summer - Barbara Kingsolver [101]
“Is ’at there barn made of chestnut?” Herb’s nameless boy was asking her now.
“You’re asking me?”
“Your barn, ain’t it?”
She was startled by this turn in the conversation that had now, suddenly, given her authority over her barn. Their wives wouldn’t even acknowledge Lusa’s ownership of her kitchen. But of course, these men were in-laws, too; they hadn’t grown up in these buildings any more than Lusa had. She’d never really thought of this—they weren’t Wideners, either.
“Yeah, I think it is chestnut,” she said. She pointed at the joinery under the peak of the gable end. “You see how the roof got raised up at some point? That was more recent, and I think they used oak. It’s not weathering as well. All the rafters need to be replaced.”
Herb whistled. “That’s going to cost you.”
“Tell me,” she said. “If you hear of anybody who likes to replace barn roofs, tell him you know a lady who’s looking to make him rich.”
“You ought to have him build you a gabazo up there on your hill, while he’s at it,” said Frank. “So you could set up there in it and watch your goats.”
“I know a man that had two gabazos,” Rickie said. “But they died.”
“Rickie Bowling, you’re a damn fool.”
They all stood silent for a moment in the early-evening light, studying the barn with its many seams of age and repair. From the depths of the chicken house behind them came the low, world-weary moan of a hen slowly accomplishing an egg. In the ambient air the choir of summer insects was tuning up its infinite clicks and trills. By nightfall they’d be deafening, loud enough to drown out the fireworks. But for now Lusa and the men could still hear the constant voice of Lois, who had flagged down Hannie-Mavis and was now bending her ear about the price of gunpowder.
“I’m a damn fool,” Rickie said solemnly, “what spent a hundred dollars on fireworks, and won’t hear the end of it till Christmas.”
“I heard it was a hundred and eighty-one dollars and twelve cents,” Lusa said. “Approximately.”
“No, now, the eighty-one dollars and twelve cents, that was Joel.”
“Come on,” Joel said, suddenly excited. “Let’s go shoot.”
“Hold your horses, Mr. Sexton. We can’t start till it gets good and dark.” But Joel was already walking back uphill. They all watched him go, observing as his path intersected with that of the starred-and-striped Hannie-Mavis, who had broken free of Lois and was headed in her husband’s direction carrying a hot dog on a bun. Lusa started to make a remark about her outfit also looking better in the dark, but she thought better of it as Hannie-Mavis stood on tiptoe in her little gold shoes, letting Joel give her a kiss before he took the hot dog from her. There was such a wealth of simple fondness in his hand as it touched her back, in her stretched calves and her head turned to receive his kiss. A vast loneliness crept over Lusa. She needed Cole to negotiate this family. With him it had made sense. Or could have, maybe, eventually.
Joel began poking into the paper bags, holding the hot dog high in his other hand as he bent over. Rickie seemed nervous about letting him do it alone. “I hate to leave such pleasant company,” he said, making a courtly bow and giving Lusa a look in the eye that shocked her with suggestion. “But I have to go keep an eye on my brother-in-law. He is not to be trusted.”
“I don’t think you are, either,” she said.
He winked. “I believe you may be right.”
Lusa turned her face away to hide a blush, pretending to look uphill toward the food table. She felt incensed—here she was not six weeks a widow, and her brother-in-law was flirting. Although he may have just been trying to cheer her, and the alcohol muddled