The Ranger - Ace Atkins [33]
She felt hands on her shoulders and she jumped. But it was just a dumb boy putting a jacket on her. The jacket was warm and smelly and about four sizes too big. But she was in no place to refuse it and thanked the boy, who was short and fat and had the face of a pig.
His hair was shaved down, like all the men in Gowrie’s world. But his teeth seemed a mite better, and his voice was even and steady, asking if he could fetch her some food. She just nodded and followed, moving back to a row of freezers laid side by side at the back of the barn. A big Honda generator kept them going, and the boy opened the top of one of them to show food stocked like the cold section at a Walmart. TV dinners, sausage biscuits, even whole pies and ice cream.
The boy’s T-shirt had a picture of Alan Jackson on it. His arms were covered with goose pimples in the cold. He smiled a lot as he lifted a whole chicken potpie into a microwave and sent it spinning. He poured her a tall Mountain Dew in a plastic cup and took her over to a card table piled high with books so worn they’d grown soft and spineless. Weapons of the Middle Ages. Being White in America. The Coming Race War. Several comic books featuring Wolverine.
“You know Charley Booth?” she asked.
He nodded.
“Are they really gonna get him out?”
“That’s what Gowrie says.”
“He creeps me out.”
“Shh. Gowrie’s got a lot on him. Everything we got here is on account of him.”
“I think he’s crazy.”
“How’s your eye?”
“How’s it look?”
The bell dinged on the microwave, and the boy brought the potpie out to her. His jacket felt mighty warm. And she no longer noticed he had the face of a pig. She just saw a mess of freckles.
“My name is Pete. They call me Ditto.”
“Why they call you that?”
“I guess on account of me agreeing with most folks.”
You had to hand it to Jean Colson, she could sure put on a Sunday spread. Quinn and Boom stepped into the full house, barely noticed by all the people Quinn didn’t know, piling their plates with boiled ham and fried chicken, potato salad, and collard greens. His mother had made biscuits and corn bread, two pies, and that damn casserole based on cream-of-mushroom soup. Quinn took off the rancher coat, hung his baseball cap on the hook by the door, and started the progression of handshakes and hugs, making sure Boom was included in the conversation when the conversation turned to war. Boom seemed not to give a damn, excusing himself to join the line for the food, Jean making him comfortable up at the long, polished dining-room table, filling his glass with sweet tea.
Sometime in the night or the early morning his mother had decorated for Christmas, lights across the mantel, garlands on the front railings, and candles around the kitchen. The house smelled inviting and warm. His mother brought him a plate, and he sat down next to Boom, his chair in the center of the table, the wide mirror in the hallway reflecting Quinn flanked by family and friends, an elderly aunt patting him on the shoulder, more potato salad passed from his left. Elvis, as always, played on the stereo, Jean choosing a nice mix of old-time hymns and songs from his movies. “Peace in the Valley.” “Clambake.”
Wesley Ruth and Judge Blanton stopped by but didn’t eat. Luther Varner got loose from the Quick Mart for a few minutes. Mr. Jim stayed, taking an empty seat by Quinn and not saying a word but giving a polite nod before settling into a large piece of fried chicken. Boom excused himself and left with his plate empty, and that chair was empty all of ten seconds when Anna Lee sat down, wearing a bright red coat buttoned high, blond hair loose over her shoulders, giving a crooked smile and a roll of the eyes to Quinn. “We missed you in church,” she said. “They called for you all of two times. Your mother said you were working. I thought you might have headed back to camp.”
“I went