In the Shadow of Alabama by Judy Reene Singer

Author:Judy Reene Singer [Singer, Judy Reene]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2017-04-03T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 23

“We were boys, really,” Willie is saying. “Boys.”

He had called me from his hospital bed to “chat me up a bit,” as he put it. Rowena is working and he was lonely. I was at my desk, working, too, on a new novel, and I reluctantly turn away from my computer screen to talk, but I am annoyed. Doesn’t he understand that I work, just like Rowena works; doesn’t he understand that at all? Does he call her in the middle of her workday to tell her stories? Does he interrupt her day with pointless memories as he tries to relive the old days?

He wants me to come to Boston.

“I’ve run out of tapioca,” he jokes. “And Rowena is tired of my stories.”

“I’ve got to take care of my farm,” I remind him. “My manager is leaving.”

“If I could come to New York, I’d help you,” he says. “I’m a bit indisposed at the moment, but I used to be good on ladders if you need anything painted.” Is he being ironic? Just in case he isn’t, I diplomatically refrain from pointing out that ladders might be a little difficult for him to negotiate, since he is ninety and has only one leg.

“That’s very kind of you,” I reply, “but I think I can manage.”

“Well, it’s just that I would really like to see you. I don’t buy any green bananas, if you know what I’m saying.” His voice is full of meaning. “I want to finish my story. So, come soon. Soon.”

Is he warning me that he is ill? I know old men talk in code.

And before I realize it, I’ve promised to go.

* * *

Two days later, Malachi has partitioned the big pasture with some post and rail we had left in the garage, so that Maja and her windswept filly can graze in peace. I insisted that he at least put Lisbon in with them.

I am leaning on the fence and watching Maja browse through her hay. Suddenly, as though cued by an unseen ghost, she pins her ears and raises her head high to swing at Lisbon, threatening him, telling him not to come near her foal. He just stares. The foal regards him with big, blinking, trustful eyes, before mincing a few dainty ballerina steps toward him. I hold my breath as she stretches her neck out and makes a chewing motion with her mouth. Mouthing, they call it. She is telling him that she is a baby and poses no threat. His eyes are fixed on her, his face alert, ears pricked, his neck rigid. She suddenly retreats behind her mother, only to peek out at him again.

“Pretty soon she’ll be arrow-straight,” Malachi predicts. “You’ll never know she was windswept. But we got to get Lisbon out of there before Maja kicks him to little pieces.”

“She won’t kick him,” I reply. “She knows that he’s just a friend.”

“She could break one of his legs.” Malachi seems not to hear me. “Or he could hurt the filly foal.

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