Kings Of The Earth Part 11

Tom said it didn't matter.

Nick said he supposed it didn't. What mattered, now that he thought of it, was how much cash Tom planned on putting up. Tom said no cash, and Nick glared at him. Tom said hey wait a minute. Hadn't it occurred to Nick that this high-quality locally grown weed would sell for twice as much as Henri's did and was therefore tons better than cash? Plus he was throwing in the aforementioned transportation and warehousing. They'd keep careful records and split everything fair and square. He'd taken a bookkeeping course in college.

Nick nodded and looked either bewildered or thoughtful. After a while he said maybe Tom was right but he'd have to advise Henri when he came down with a carload next month, let him know who was who and what was what and who was doing what to whom, and Tom said maybe it would be better if they just kept it between themselves for right now.

Donna.

HE DID NOT HAVE even that little bit of blood work done. Nothing his sister could say would change his mind. He came home and told his brothers that after a complete going over from top to bottom Dr. Franklin had decided that he had cancer and that he would need the same blood treatment their mother had endured through all those terrible years. "It didn't do her no good and I ain't going to let him try it on me," he said. "I ain't going to let him get started." He sat in the overstuffed chair on the front porch and he sucked on a h.o.r.ehound drop and he plucked cotton batting and he said that he believed he would do better against the cancer by holding on to his blood than by dribbling it out a little bit at a time, and his brothers thought that he just might be onto something. even that little bit of blood work done. Nothing his sister could say would change his mind. He came home and told his brothers that after a complete going over from top to bottom Dr. Franklin had decided that he had cancer and that he would need the same blood treatment their mother had endured through all those terrible years. "It didn't do her no good and I ain't going to let him try it on me," he said. "I ain't going to let him get started." He sat in the overstuffed chair on the front porch and he sucked on a h.o.r.ehound drop and he plucked cotton batting and he said that he believed he would do better against the cancer by holding on to his blood than by dribbling it out a little bit at a time, and his brothers thought that he just might be onto something.

There was a commercial on television for some kind of health-food diet, and each time it aired he dropped whatever he was doing. He had it memorized from front to back, all sixty seconds of it right down to the music (which he whistled through his teeth while he was at the milking) and the rapid-fire legal disclaimers (which echoed in his mind as he lay awake in bed trying to swallow around that lump). He dreamed without ceasing of how his life would improve if only he could afford to buy the products advertised during that hectic televised minute-some kind of natural supplements and supercharged vitamin pills-and one day he spied Preston sitting on his screen porch and he went to him.

Preston had retired from his father's business but he still went in most days. The fellow he sold it to didn't mind, although sometimes he wished that he and the old-timers who came in to chew the fat with him would adjourn to someplace other than his service desk. The seasonal area, maybe, where he'd put in a line of picnic tables and lawn furniture that they could test out. Or McDonald's, where the rest of the geriatric crowd went. But then they'd have had to pay for their coffee instead of drinking his for free all morning long. Nonetheless he knew there was a world of experience floating around in those old gray heads, a regular encyclopedia of homegrown construction, and if a person was working through a knotty bit of plumbing repair or framing work or whatever, he could do worse than to show up here and seek their wisdom. If he were in really deep trouble, he should make sure to bring doughnuts.

Preston was home from the lumberyard now, and napping on the couch when Vernon came over. Vernon stood on the ground alongside the screen porch and said his neighbor's name, not going up the two steps or even knocking from down where he was. Preston opened his eyes just a slit and saw him there outside the screen, deferential as ever, one of those famous Three Chevaliers of old. Vernon coughed and cleared his throat and coughed again, and Preston came fully awake. Sitting up and telling him to come on in.

The farmer sat on a hard chair just inside the door. Margaret kept a pair of them there and although the reason was never made plain-she hated to think of the Proctor boys' s.h.i.t-stained coveralls coming in contact with her upholstered furniture, even though the stuff out here had pa.s.sed through the house and would be on its way to the Salvation Army soon enough-he seemed to prefer the hard chair anyway. He settled into it with his boots squared before him on the board floor. He may as well have been at the milking. "I been to the doctor," he began.

"I heard." Preston rubbed the back of his neck.

"I guess I can't keep nothing a secret."

"Your sister told Margaret," said Preston.

Vernon nodded and pinched his lips between what teeth remained in his head.

"She also told her you won't have your tests done."

"I guess that'd be my business," said Vernon.

"Tell you the truth, what she actually said is you're a stubborn old mule. That's your whole family's business."

Vernon explained his belief that the medical community would fail him as surely as it had failed his mother. He said further that he couldn't exactly afford the latest in medical care anyhow and Preston said he understood from Donna that there might be fewer problems in that department than he'd think, with Medicaid and all. Vernon grunted. He sat for a minute. Margaret was running the vacuum cleaner in the house and both men listened to her work.

After a while Vernon brought it up: "I been considering them supplements."

Preston had heard everything, but not this. "Supplements."

"All-natural vitamin supplements."

"All-natural."

Vernon nodded. "All-natural. They come in a powder. You mix a little in with your water or your coffee. Your Tang."

"For Christ's sake," said Preston. "If you want to go all-natural, you'd better quit drinking Tang. A gla.s.s of orange juice'll do you more good than a gla.s.s of that Tang with a spoonful of some all-natural whatever mixed up in it."

Vernon chewed his lip, abashed.

"There's nothing all-natural about Tang. You think they drink that s.h.i.t in outer s.p.a.ce because it's natural? They drink it because it lasts forever without benefit of refrigeration." Margaret was drawing nearer with the vacuum cleaner, and he raised his voice over the whine of it. "Have you been watching the television?"

"I seen this show all about vitamins."

"You turn it right off. You forget about it. They just want your money."

"It's what they call an all-natural supplement," said Vernon.

"It's pure snake oil," said Preston. "There's nothing in the world more natural than leaf tobacco, and look where that gets a person. If you don't mind my saying, look where it got your mother. If I were you I'd drink a little more orange juice and watch a little less television. And I'd keep my money in my pocket where it belongs."

Which left Vernon without a dream in the world to trust.

1968.

DeAlton.

IF YOU THINK it's bad on a farm in the summertime, you should spend a little time there in the winter. Not the farm where I grew up but your uncles' farm. That's what I'm talking about. Where I grew up was the height of civilization compared to that. It was like the G.o.dd.a.m.ned Waldorf. Don't tell your mother I said that. She'd have a fit. it's bad on a farm in the summertime, you should spend a little time there in the winter. Not the farm where I grew up but your uncles' farm. That's what I'm talking about. Where I grew up was the height of civilization compared to that. It was like the G.o.dd.a.m.ned Waldorf. Don't tell your mother I said that. She'd have a fit.

I know. The whole winter's like one long vacation on account of she doesn't take you out there much and I don't blame her. I don't blame you either. I had my fill of that a long time ago.

No, we're not going to stay very long. We're just dropping off. Your grandma expects us for Thanksgiving over at the Waldorf.

I'm just kidding. Get in. Watch out. Mind that platter. That right there is the best meal your uncles are going to have all month. Maybe all year. I wouldn't mind a bite of it myself right about now. How about you?

Never mind that.

Ow. She put any napkins in there? Check around for me, huh? There might be something in the glove box.

Tom.

THE SKIES OF N NOVEMBER had been low and gray but until now the snow had mostly held off, leaving the landscape a barren and windblown waste. Such patches of white as there were, hidden in the deep woods and pushed up alongside the roadways, were withered and pockmarked and cancerous-looking. Gunshots of wind howled in hard gusts over the high fields, and the leafless trees offered no resistance. Now and then a black bird would shoot past the window of Tom's father's station wagon, crying, propelled by wind and by its own impulse to vacate this place of comfort withheld. had been low and gray but until now the snow had mostly held off, leaving the landscape a barren and windblown waste. Such patches of white as there were, hidden in the deep woods and pushed up alongside the roadways, were withered and pockmarked and cancerous-looking. Gunshots of wind howled in hard gusts over the high fields, and the leafless trees offered no resistance. Now and then a black bird would shoot past the window of Tom's father's station wagon, crying, propelled by wind and by its own impulse to vacate this place of comfort withheld.

The drive from town was one hill after another and the view from the top was always the same. Muted shades of brown and gray. Shorn fields encroaching on wind-ravaged farmhouses, not so much as a chained dog visible. A countryside full of that same old homegrown desolation. They saw no other cars. The wind tore wood smoke from farmhouse chimneys and sometimes Tom could smell it for a second as they went past. It smelled like his uncles' house. His father asked if he'd remembered his mittens and he reached into his pockets to produce them. It was warm in the car and it smelled like Thanksgiving and he didn't think he'd be needing mittens. He knew there was a shortcut from out here in Carversville to his grandmother's onion farm in Wampsville, but he wasn't sure where it was. His father knew all these back roads.

They climbed the last hill to the farm and saw smoke coming not just from the chimney but from a big fire in the yard. Wind yanked at the smoke, and they turned up the dirt lane and went toward the fire. His uncles' silhouettes were visible against the moving smoke and visible within it. Tom thought they were crazy to be outdoors, but then again he didn't blame them. Their house offered so little comfort. They were doing some kind of work in the barnyard, Audie throwing sc.r.a.p wood onto the bonfire and Vernon emptying a bucket of water into a vat already steaming over the coals and Creed yanking angrily at the block and tackle that hung from the beam over the hayloft door. Smoke and pale steam and the cry of metal gone rusty. They looked like devils, fiercely industrious.

Tom's father said he hadn't seen this coming but he guessed they'd arrived just about in time. "You take this platter into the house and come right on back," he said. "This is going to be educational. You'll be able to write a school report on this. What I Did on My Thanksgiving Vacation." What I Did on My Thanksgiving Vacation."

Tom ran off and slipped into the house with the red rooster gleaming darkly on the stove and slid the platter onto the kitchen table and came running back. His father was leaning against the car and he leaned beside him, hugging himself against the cold. Thinking he was missing the Macy's Thanksgiving parade for this. They were supposed to have a giant Snoopy balloon this year and everything. The World War One Flying Ace, aloft on his doghouse.

Audie had given off stoking the fire and was just now disappearing behind the shed, dragging a rope. Vernon was spreading canvas tarpaulins on the cold ground. Creed had gotten the block and tackle unstuck and was arranging a big wooden worktable they'd moved out into the yard from the barn. There were knives laid out on it and shears and big bent sc.r.a.pers that looked like tools meant for performing dentistry on a race of giants.

Audie emerged from behind the shed backward, pulling a spotted hog. The hog didn't want to come and it weighed a good bit more than he did but he was determined. Slowly he mastered it. The ground was frozen solid and slick in places and he used it to his advantage, placing his feet with care and yanking on the rope when the hog's hooves were gathered over particularly perilous and gla.s.sy spots. Eventually the resistance drained out of the beast and it came along doglike. As if this were its own idea after all.

The hog was curious about the bonfire and curious about the table and curious about everything. It c.o.c.ked a gleaming demonic eye toward the snapping flames and thrust its snout under the first tarp it came to. Whuffling, raising up the canvas with its hot breath. Audie yanked hard to keep it moving toward where Vernon and Creed stood holding two ends of the rope that hung down from the block and tackle. Creed had tied a loop of chain to his end and Vernon was poised as if to climb his, reaching up. They stood waiting, wordlessly urging their brother on.

"You much for bacon?" DeAlton asked his son.

No answer.

"I just love it myself. I can't ever seem to get enough."

Tom breathed through an open mouth, pushing out pale smoke into the smoky air. He took his arms from around himself and reached down toward his pockets for his mittens but missed and kept on going instead, entranced and mindless, as Audie drew near to his brothers. The boy tensed and held his arms flat to his sides and pushed back against the car door with his shoulders and his hands. His fingers and his palms were damp with dread, and in the cold they stuck to the frozen door a little. Flesh against ungiving metal.

Audie brought the hog near to his brothers and Creed slipped the chain over one hind leg and drew it tight. Audie dropped the useless rope and hastened without a word to Vernon's side. Creed stepped away backward, toward the table, around buckets of lye and ash and a barrel half full of salt. His movements had about them a strange disembodied grace. Vernon stood on tiptoe and hove on the dangling rope and as he reached the bottom of his stroke Audie stretched up and grabbed on above him and he hove in turn and thus they went on straining, hand over hand, a pair of old salts raising sail. Up went the hog, thrashing. Deceived, furious, disoriented, it screamed but not for long. Creed rolled back his sleeve and took up a straight knife and stepped toward the beast's swaying bulk like a duelist or a dancer, and with one thrust he drove the blade beneath the breastbone to sever the unseen artery. He drew back his hand and his arm red. Vernon tied off the rope. Audie watched, vibrating. The hog lived briefly while its hot blood drained away, spattering and streaming, pooling onto the frozen dirt and warming it and merging with it. Creed dipped boiling water from the vat and sat the dipper on the table and let it cool a little and then poured it out over his red arm and rolled his sleeve back down, satisfied. There would be some waiting now.

DeAlton tipped his hat to his brothers-in-law and said he'd love to stay all day, but they had to get going. They were expected over at the Wampsville Waldorf. He said he would pa.s.s their greetings on to their sister.

1990.

Preston.

IF YOU LIVE LONG ENOUGH, you'll owe a debt to everybody you know and some you don't. If you live right, they'll owe you back. That's why it didn't cost anything to get Vernon's hole dug. I know a fellow named Johnson over in Valley Mills who rents out a backhoe. He works by the job or by the hour. He's not particular and he does a good job and he stays busy all the time. I guess I threw a lot of work his way when I had the lumberyard, although you couldn't have proven it by me. He says I did, so I guess I did. You talk up people who do a good job and he does a good job. Anyhow between the state troopers chasing Creed around and Audie gone half crazy with grief and lonesomeness n.o.body was paying much attention to the necessities of getting Vernon under the sod. How I saw it, the medical examiner or the coroner or whoever would keep him so long and no longer and then what. I called the undertaker. Not the one who buried Ruth but his boy. That's a business that runs in families. I told him I was acting on the authority of the deceased's brothers, which I would have been if I'd had the chance to ask them for it. I told him to get in touch with the troopers and figure out his end, I'd figure out mine. Then I called Johnson over in Valley Mills and asked him what a hole that size was worth. He told me my money wasn't any good.

I remembered how that bureaucrat came out from the state when Ruth died and told me we couldn't bury her in her own plot, so I didn't bother getting permission. I asked the undertaker to keep quiet and he said he would. I walked up that afternoon with a square and a steel tape and a snap line. I don't go up there as much as I used to. I go slower when I go. The hill's gotten steeper. I'd see Vernon go up there with a scythe sometimes when the gra.s.s got long, but I don't know who'll take care of it now. Audie, I guess. He'd want to.

I paced off the hole and measured it with the tape to make sure I'd gotten it close enough and I marked it. I made sure it was right in line with Ruth and Lester's. My stride was always just a hair short of three feet but I guess it might be a little less now, and that's why I brought the tape. After I finished I stood alongside the one headstone up there and took in the view. It was a cool, dry afternoon and the air was as clear as it could be and you could see almost to Hamilton. Green everywhere you looked. I'd forgotten that view. It did my heart good to spend a little time up there, and to imagine those three having the benefit of it. I'm not a religious fanatic and I don't think I'm overly sentimental and I sure don't believe in ghosts, but when you get to be my age you think about things. The things you'd miss, if you'd miss things.

Johnson came early the next day, when the boys were just about through with the milking. He was on his way to some paying job and he didn't even bother to load the backhoe onto a flatbed, just drove it right on over. I heard him coming and I saw him turn off the main road and start up. He had a line of cars backed up behind him for a mile. None of the drivers looked like they were exactly enjoying the wait. I thought if they knew he was here to dig a hole for a person to lie in forever they might count their blessings, but you never know with people.

Audie and Creed came out when they heard the backhoe. They came out slapping the last couple of cows on the flanks and looking for the coop truck but the co-op truck wasn't there and it was the backhoe instead. I don't know how many forward gears a backhoe has but it's not enough. It made an awful racket. The cows ignored it completely. You'd be amazed what a cow can ignore. Johnson pulled up short and asked me where to, and I climbed up alongside the cab and pointed. He asked me was this the farm where that ignorant sonofab.i.t.c.h murdered his own brother and I said I didn't know what he was talking about. I said I hadn't heard about any such thing and he said he didn't know how I could have missed it. It was all over the place.

He put it back in gear and we headed up. Through the gate into the pasture. The gate was open to let the cows back through after the milking and I thought somebody ought to shut it. Creed or Audie. While I was thinking that I looked back over my shoulder and what did I see but those two boys standing on the rear b.u.mper of the backhoe and hanging on for dear life just the same way I was. Creed jumped off and closed the gate. Audie just rode on along, b.u.mping up and down and side to side as if that backhoe man Johnson wanted to shake parts of him loose. Creed got the gate shut and ran after us and jumped back on again. Up we went and across the ridge, with those boys holding on like they always did on the tractor when Vernon used to drive and they'd climb on. On a farm you take your excitement where you can find it. Those boys always knew that.

I directed Johnson to the spot. Creed and Audie knew where we were going. n.o.body told them. It wasn't any secret. We all got off and helped Johnson lower the stabilizers and chock the wheels. We just did as Johnson told us. He took off his hat and scratched his head and cussed a little bit, saying whoever picked the spot for Vernon's hole wasn't much experienced with running a backhoe since it was flatter over on the other side and this side was going to be tricky. Looking right square at me the whole time. Just pulling my leg a little, but meaning it too. The way a fellow will.

Before he climbed back on he asked Audie if those were his parents under that stone and if this hole was for his brother. Audie nodded yes and he said he was sorry for his loss. Sorry but glad they could be in the ground right here at home and glad that he could help with it. He never said word one to Creed. Not that day.

Ben.

WE HAD A LONG WAY to go, but I thought it was all going to be straightforward enough. The confession was huge, although I suppose it could have been better witnessed. The thing about it that gave me a little agita was the timing of it, by which I mean how late in the day it was. When a person signs a confession after normal business hours, people will start thinking about coercion. You take a shopkeeper who works until ten o'clock every night, or a secretary who has to pull a few evening hours now and then, and you show them a confession signed at nine-thirty to go, but I thought it was all going to be straightforward enough. The confession was huge, although I suppose it could have been better witnessed. The thing about it that gave me a little agita was the timing of it, by which I mean how late in the day it was. When a person signs a confession after normal business hours, people will start thinking about coercion. You take a shopkeeper who works until ten o'clock every night, or a secretary who has to pull a few evening hours now and then, and you show them a confession signed at nine-thirty P.M P.M. and they'll start to wonder why. They'll picture a couple of cops in a room with a lightbulb hanging down over a man's head and the man tied to a chair. Cops with saps in their hands like in the movies. I don't know why. That's the image they get in their heads and you can't entirely get it out no matter what the truth is. The truth is of course that the state police would never have taken that confession if they didn't believe it to be accurate. I don't know Del Graham very well on a personal basis, but I've worked with him a number of times and I've taken testimony from him often enough. He's as square as they come.

From an evidentiary point of view, this was going to be a complex case. The body. The bed linens and the various bits of clothing. The contents of the room. The histories and the personalities of the parties involved. To say nothing of the confession, which, as I saw it, was bound to be disputed. There were going to be a lot of details and it was going to be complex. A complex case is sometimes hard to make fly, because you can very easily wear a jury out with too many facts. Even if the whole thing fits together like a jigsaw puzzle, you need to remember that some jurors don't have the patience to work a jigsaw puzzle. Most of them don't. These days people have short attention spans, and no list of instructions from a judge is going to change that. So the upshot is that as litigator you have to consider the whole narrative, by which I mean not just the story of what happened or the internal logic of the evidence itself but the way that the story and the evidence fit together to make a kind of perfect sense that you can't get out of the world any other way. People like to believe that the truth is simple, so as a prosecutor you have to talk about these complex things in a simple way. I'm not saying people are stupid or simpleminded. But since they like the world to make sense, you have to keep everything direct and straightforward. Above all-and I know this sounds cynical-you have to keep it interesting interesting. I know. You'd think a murder trial would be interesting enough. But you have to remember how much television people watch these days. On television, everybody's problems are over inside of sixty minutes. Minus commercials.

Some of the most interesting things in the confession didn't have anything to do with the brother's death, at least not directly. Like how the three of those grown men slept in the same bed. I could see how three little boys might do that, but not three grown men. That information alone establishes certain questions in your mind. The s.e.m.e.n on the deceased's clothing establishes some of those same questions, or amplifies them. I didn't know what if anything that might have to do with the events surrounding Vernon Proctor's death, and if anything I was afraid it might distract the jury. If we ever got to a jury.

The same went for the marijuana found on the scene. I don't think people mind much if a couple of old men out in the country want to use a little marijuana or even grow it for their own consumption. What people don't like is if they start killing each other. People will want to put a stop to that.

1988.

DeAlton.

IF YOU'D SAVE your money and get a decent car, you wouldn't have to borrow your mother's when it won't start. I've got to move around a golf date so I can bring her home on account of you. your money and get a decent car, you wouldn't have to borrow your mother's when it won't start. I've got to move around a golf date so I can bring her home on account of you.

It's a guy I've been working on from down by Binghamton. He's got a big operation I'd love to get into and I'll do it one of these days. You watch. I'll do it, because I don't give up easy. You know that. He's a p.i.s.s-poor golfer, though. I don't think he devotes enough time to it.

Now don't smoke in there or I'll hear about it from your mother.

And I'm not just talking cigarettes either, ha ha ha.

Hey, don't look at me like that. I've been around the barn. I knew Woodstock before it was Woodstock. And don't kid yourself, sonny. People have been smoking that stuff a lot longer than you might think.

Yes, really. Your old man. I know.

You and your little friends didn't invent it, that's all I'm saying.

All right. Drive safe. Don't park where anything'll get dropped on it or your mother'll have your head.

And gas it up before you bring it back.

Preston.

I'D GO OVER THERE in the evenings sometimes and sit on the porch alongside Vernon, and when I'd come back home Margaret would say I smelled like an opium den. Like some kind of Turkish harem. I guess that was one way to smell after you sat with the Proctor boys for a little while, and it was better than most. in the evenings sometimes and sit on the porch alongside Vernon, and when I'd come back home Margaret would say I smelled like an opium den. Like some kind of Turkish harem. I guess that was one way to smell after you sat with the Proctor boys for a little while, and it was better than most.

You smell like a seraglio, she said one time. I didn't even know what that was. You live with Margaret, you learn as you go along.

Anyhow Vernon was smoking marijuana a good deal that summer. In the evenings he'd stay at it pretty steadily. I think for a while he'd been keeping a plug of it under his lip while he was doing his ch.o.r.es but that didn't seem to work out. I don't imagine it tasted all that good, but then again I don't imagine Red Man tastes all that good either. So what do I know. I used to smoke a little now and then but I never had any interest in chewing tobacco.

He said Tom was a good bit more generous now than he'd been before. He said Tom would pretty much give him all the gra.s.s he wanted. That's what he called it, gra.s.s gra.s.s. Just like that. It sounded funny coming from Vernon, an old dirt farmer who knew what regular gra.s.s was all right. How he'd just pick up that other meaning and go with it, like it was the most natural thing in the whole world.

He said Tom was a good boy and he knew how to take care of his dear old uncle even if Dr. Franklin didn't. If you think I'd argue with that, you're crazy. We'd sit and talk and Creed would sit with us and Audie would be over there on the steps working on a piece of wood with his jackknife. He liked the smell of that marijuana all right. That wet muskmelon smell of it. You could tell. He sat on the steps with his eyes kind of lit up and a happy little grin on his face listening to us talk and just carving away. Some of the things he carved you'd thought he was high on marijuana himself if you didn't know better. Jaggedy things and big swoopy curved things and little strange k.n.o.bby things that looked like bugs or some kind of bacteria you'd see under a microscope, all blown up bigger than they had any right to be. I don't know what he thought he was up to. Right to this day city folks, and by that I mean folks from the actual city, not Ca.s.sius and not even Utica, city folks will come out here and ooh and ahh at the most outlandish of them. The weirder the better. Smooth-looking little fellows in black outfits and big horn-rimmed gla.s.ses like they used to wear in the fifties, sometimes two by two, if you know what I mean, they'll size them up and take out their wallets and open wide. Audie only takes cash.

Anyhow I was glad to hear that Tom was being more generous than he used to be. It gave me a little bit of faith in him for a change. I knew why it was, or I thought I did. Ever since the springtime I'd seen him show up at the barn a couple of nights a month, maybe two or three in the morning, with this other fellow. I'd call the other fellow a greaser, if they still have greasers these days. He was little but he looked hard. Not the kind who goes out of his way to look hard, but the kind who's just exactly the way he is and that's the extent of it and he doesn't give a d.a.m.n if you notice or not. You'll notice just fine when you run up against him. That's what I thought and I've lived a long time and I've seen a lot of different people. He and Tom would come at night in that VW of Tom's and haul a load of something up into the hayloft. I'd take note because my bedroom window looks right down the hill toward the barn door. That and about the time I turned sixty I gave up sleeping the night.

I knew what they were putting up in the hayloft, and I wondered what my obligation was relative to it. I thought it'd been one thing when he was growing his own and storing it up there. That was a hobby, kind of like his own way of following in his uncles' footsteps whether he wanted to or not. But one thing leads to another, and now here they were bringing drugs in from somewhere else. Drugs and probably trouble. Just the greaser fellow alone meant trouble as far as I could see. I sure didn't want to mess with him. On the other hand at least Tom was sharing the wealth with his poor old sick uncle Vernon, so I guessed his heart was still in the right place. His father would have gotten Vernon hooked and then started charging him for it. That's the kind of salesman DeAlton is. So maybe there was decent Proctor blood in Tom after all.

Tom.

HIS UNCLE TRIED to give him a little money once but he turned it down. Not because he couldn't use it, although he was definitely doing better now that he and Nick had the business rolling, but because he didn't like the way it came out of Vernon's wallet all stiff and crusty. A twenty-dollar bill, twenty perfectly good American dollars, and it looked like it had been buried in a manure pile for a hundred years. It smelled that way too. He'd said no thanks, really, he couldn't take money from a sick relative. to give him a little money once but he turned it down. Not because he couldn't use it, although he was definitely doing better now that he and Nick had the business rolling, but because he didn't like the way it came out of Vernon's wallet all stiff and crusty. A twenty-dollar bill, twenty perfectly good American dollars, and it looked like it had been buried in a manure pile for a hundred years. It smelled that way too. He'd said no thanks, really, he couldn't take money from a sick relative.