The Spindle Chair by Shellie Arnold

Author:Shellie Arnold [Arnold, Shellie]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, azw3
Publisher: Firefly Southern Fiction
Published: 2015-10-20T02:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

John slowed his truck, parked beside the barn, and strode to the house.

Lately, he’d spent his days off with his dad, rather than visiting after long days in the office or sleepless nights in the labor and delivery unit. The lazy afternoons spent together on the front porch could almost be called pleasant. He and Luther had even shared a couple of real, if short, conversations.

The morning sun beat the ground, its heat bouncing up in waves. With no breeze and pea soup humidity, before noon the heat would be stifling. What would it take to install an air conditioner in the cracker box home? The hottest part of summer had arrived; adding a window unit shouldn’t be difficult. Not nearly as tricky as getting his dad’s permission.

“Dad?” John stepped onto the porch.

He heard a groan, but not from inside. The sound came from behind him, to his right, past the pig shed.

Not again.

John found his dad amidst a Swiss cheese-like configuration of holes, facedown in muck and mud, shovel in hand. No telling how long Luther had been there. He took the shovel and tossed it aside, knowing he’d have to refill some of the holes before leaving today or the shed would fall over the next time it rained.

What was wrong with Dad? Three, four times now, John had found him like this, or seen evidence he’d been out here working during the night. Luther Bridges, demented digger.

“I can’t find her,” he said as John rolled him over.

“Can’t find who?”

His dad raised a knee, blinking and coughing. John checked his forehead for fever and took his pulse.

Luther batted away John’s hands. “I have to tell her about our boys.”

“I’m your boy. How many fingers am I holding up?”

His dad looked straight at him. “But John’s a baby.”

“Not anymore. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

He stood behind his dad, hooked his arms around the old man’s chest. On the third try John got him up and shuffled backward, dragging him toward the house.

When had Luther begun shrinking? Not his height, his limbs were still long, his hands and feet still big. But he lacked meat and muscle, his bones looked like a skeleton wrapped in tissue paper. Even his boots sagged on his narrow feet.

“Why are you pulling on me?” Luther complained.

“To get you inside.” He thought back over his limited geriatric training. “I should’ve taken you for a physical weeks ago.”

John’s heels hit the bottom porch step. He dragged up, up, while Luther’s feet struggled for purchase. When they backed to the doorway, Luther’s hand went out. “Put me down, boy.”

“Dad, you need to get cleaned up.”

Luther grunted.

“I’ll cook lunch while you shower.” John glanced behind him, noticed the kitchen stank in its normal state of “slum meets the south.” Mud, hay, heaven-knew-what coated the floor. He would gladly pay someone to clean weekly if Dad would agree.

Luther pushed away and straightened. “You cook. I’ve got work.” He walked down the steps swaying like a drunk, then headed for the pig shed.

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