136
2013
NORTH CAROLINA L I T E R A R Y RE V I E W
Gene moved to the display. “See anything you like?” “You go on and pick.” He brought one from the line. “A lot of big men like this model.” Gene fit the mask over Wendell’s face, adjusted straps, nose guard, tubing. He pulled it all off, let Wendell put the gear on for himself. Two more practice runs and Wendell understood where the straps went and how the nose cup should feel. He stood up to check himself out in the wall mirror. “Good God Almighty.” He went over for a closer look. “Guess this’ll put the skids to my love life.” Gene smiled a real smile, the Oates gap on full display. “Your mask is kind of like my leg,” he explained.” Snaps off in a heartbeat.” He fit the whole works into a case and passed the case to Wendell. “Take this home and give it a whirl over the weekend. Tuesday or so, we’ll fix you up with one of your own.” “I’ll try, that’s what I can promise.” Wendell glanced at the clock. “Think I could get by your door?” “In eleven minutes you can.” Wendell’s stomach howled. “I got a cheese cracker if you want something to tide you over.” Gene opened his drawer, and Wendell caught sight of the snout end of a pistol. Gene put a sleeve of crackers on the desk and looked at Wendell. “It’s legal.”
“Mine, too.” Wendell nodded toward his suitcase and helped himself to a nab. The cracker tasted so good, he pulled the label around. “Grilled cheese, huh? Never heard of them.” “My wife. She’s always finding something new to send me out with.” “Lucky man.” “For sure,” said Gene. Wendell took the last sips from his cup without making conversation. “It’s coming up on that time,” he said at last. They made their way to the front. The two of them stood there, shoulder to shoulder, waiting for the all clear. “Tell me,” said Wendell, not looking over. “What’re the chances Welch is your daddy? “A hundred percent,” Gene replied, and Wendell knew for certain he’d already read every word on those forms. “How’s he getting along?” Gene didn’t look at Wendell either. “Stove up. From laying tile, I guess, and all that wallowing around with chickens. Only thing he talks about now is getting out and sitting on his porch.” He shifted his weight to his good side. “Your father,” Gene said after a breath. “He the lawman who got hit by a train?” “The very one.” “Lots of stories about that.” “I’ve heard a few.” “Some say he didn’t see it coming.” “Don’t know how.” Gene looked at him and shook his head. “You never really know anything about anybody, do you?” “I wouldn’t say that,” said Wendell. “You just don’t know everything.” Ping, went the lock. Wendell stepped out into the morning. It was already hot, and the air was sticky with jasmine. Once he got his hands on his cell phone, he thought he might call down to the prison farm, put in an order for some of those powdered eggs, a piece of fried baloney. He’d get them to save him a spot by Welch. And if Gene’s old man would swear not to keep so much as a biddy in his reach, Wendell would see what he could do to help him out. n
“You never really know
anything
about
anybody, Mended (mixed media acrylic, masking tape on canvas, 34x36) by George Scott
number 22
do you?”