Prodigal Summer - Barbara Kingsolver [180]
“They have those weird pupils,” she said. “Little slits, like a cat’s, only sideways instead of up and down.”
He rubbed his head violently with the shirt. “Yep. Funny eyes.” He combed his dark hair back on the sides with his hands. “Kindly like they’re from another planet.”
Lusa studied the faces of her girls at the fence. “Kind of cute, though. Don’t you think? They grow on you.”
“Oh, boy, she’s getting sentimental about goats.” He tossed Lusa his shirt. “You need to get out more.”
She dried her face and arms with the frankly male-scented shirt, suddenly recalling Rickie’s description of her dancing through the pasture waving a buck-scented rag in front of the does. This world was one big sexual circus, or so it seemed to the deprived. She balled up his shirt and threw it back. “For this I owe you big-time, Rick. If I’d known how hard today was going to be, I might have chickened out, but you stuck with me to the bitter end. Can I write you a check for some gas money, for your trouble?”
“No, ma’am, you don’t owe me a thing,” he said, polite as a schoolboy. “Neighbors and family don’t take money.”
“Well, your neighbor and aunt thanks you kindly. I don’t have the cold beer you’re thirsty for, but I could give you some lemonade or iced tea before you go home.”
“Sweet tea would hit the spot,” he said.
A bird called loudly from up in her fallow pasture behind the house—a dramatic “Wow-wheet!” in a voice as powerful and self-important as an opera singer’s.
“I’ll swan, listen to that,” Rickie said, struck motionless where he stood toweling his shoulders. “That was a bobwhite.”
“Yeah?”
“You don’t hardly hear them anymore. I don’t think I’ve heard one since I was a little kid.”
“Well, that’s good,” Lusa said, impressed that Rickie had noticed a bird, had even declared its name. “Welcome back, Mr. Bob White. I can always use another man on the place.” She picked up the box of empty glass vials and walked slowly to the house, feeling the extent of exhaustion not only in her arms but also in her thighs and lower back. She was getting acquainted with these sensations in her body, to the point where she almost enjoyed the tingling, achy release of lactic acid in her muscles. It was the closest thing to sex in her life, she thought, and gave in to a sad little laugh.
When she came back outside with the cold jar of tea and a glass, Rickie had put on his shirt and was sitting on the lawn, barefoot among the dandelions with his long legs stretched straight out in front of him. He’d taken off his shoes and for some reason set them on top of the cab of his pickup truck.
“Here you go,” she said, collapsing on the grass beside him, but facing him, to hand him the jar and glass. She’d considered changing out of her wet clothes, but the contrast of cool dampness and warm sun felt wonderful on her limbs. She probably looked like a drowned rat, but she didn’t care. She felt a friendly intimacy with Rickie after their long afternoon of sitting on goats together. She stretched her legs beside his, in the opposite direction, so her feet were next to his hipbones. Sitting this way gave her a childhood feeling, as if they were on a seesaw together, or inside an invisible fort. He poured a glass of tea, handed it to her, then turned up the jar and drained it in one long, awe-inspiring draft. Watching his Adam’s apple bob made her think of all those huge pills going down all those goat gullets. Teenaged boys were just a loose aggregation of appetites.
He produced a pack of smokes from somewhere—he must have gotten them out of his truck while she was inside, Lusa guessed, since he was entirely wet and they were not. He tipped the pack at her, but she held up her hand.
“You stay away from me, you devil. I’ve kicked that nasty habit.”
He lit up, nodding enthusiastically. “’At’s good. I should, too.” He snapped his wrist to extinguish