Saltwater Cowboys by Dayle Furlong Read Free Book Online

without Peter, he knew that much. No one to joke with, no one to drink with, no one to spur him on. He took another proffered beer and shot of rum. And a few more. He’d have to hide behind the swish of alcohol tonight. Let it flush over his flesh, turn his tight mind into mush.
    At the end of the evening, good and drunk, Jack chased Angela down the street toward home. He teased and grabbed her waist and buried his face in her neck.
    â€œStop it, savage,” she said and broke free, scurrying down the street toward home, past the yellow, blue, green, and white clapboards, all lights extinguished, every window black except for the sky salted with stars, in a town that looked merciful, homely, and safe, except for the mine site, which looked morose, complex, and industrious, a cruel father forced to make painful, solitary decisions, choked of all emotion.
    She ran to the end of Pebble Drive and headed toward home on the gravel laneway. She made it to the back porch. Jack growled and nuzzled her neck then pulled the elastic that held her long black hair loose with his teeth. She struggled to get away, broke his grip with her hands, went inside, and slammed the door in his face.
    The next morning the sun rose gently over Grandmother McCarthy’s house as she sat in the kitchen nook peeling potatoes. Her crinkled, pale white hands, speckled with light brown age spots, expertly carved the earthy brown potatoes. Her powder blue housedress, seams in loopy threads, spread out underneath her. Her dyed-black hair curled around her small ears. Her soft, pink mouth hung gently open.
    Her husband stood by the window watching for his grandchildren. Two lines of flesh between unruly grey eyebrows formed a tent-like triangle above his square nose. Waves of crinkled flesh fanned out from the corners of his eyes. His overbite displayed front teeth marbled with barb wire-grey ribbons of rot. His bulbous, bald, shiny head dominated his features. Wild pockets of brittle black and white hair poked out of ears and sat clamped over cheeks like zebra mussel shells.
    The children rushed in, followed by Jack and Angela.
    â€œNanny and Poppy!” they yelled in unison.
    â€œWell, hello, my loves! Want tea and a Purity biscuit?”
    Angela served while Grandmother McCarthy finished the potatoes. Mr. McCarthy’s loud voice crackled throughout the kitchen.
    â€œWell, good morning, son. Angela,” he said and nodded in her direction.
    â€œJohn,” she answered politely.
    â€œHow are you today?” he asked and slapped Jack on the back.
    â€œThere’s something I want to tell you. Girls, go play in the yard, please.”
    â€œWatch my flowers!” John said.
    His beautiful garden, packed with plump roses, lazy lilacs, and charming crocuses, always placed first in the local garden contest. He spent hours and hours in it, and it was a tranquil space that the children loved to run around in and play make-believe. Inevitably they would get rowdy and knock over a lilac stem or two, trampling a few of his prized flowers like little rabbits.
    â€œMom, Dad,” Jack said and settled into a chipped wooden chair, “I lost my job. I’ve got two weeks.”
    Grandmother McCarthy nodded slowly.
    John’s chest sank.
    Angela placed the tea and biscuits on the table.
    John poured a cupful for everyone and drained his tea out into his saucer. He wondered what his son would do. He knew the boy wasn’t that strong. Jack buckled under pressure. Thank God he has Angela , he thought. He let his tea cool before he picked it up to slurped it slowly.
    â€œI’ll try to find work here,” Jack said.
    â€œNo, you won’t!” Angela said and glared at him.
    John stopped drinking his tea and placed his saucer on the table. He looked at his son and daughter-in-law evenly.
    â€œJohn, Marg,” Angela pleaded, looking from one to the other, “tell him there’s nothing here for us, close by or in