forester calling to tell him, Yes, Mr. Parker, itâs just as we feared: your whole 160-acre tract of pine timber is heavily infested with the Southern pine beetle and youâll have to sell all your wood for stumpage and lose your shirt on the whole deal. It rings again. Mr. P. finally gets up from the couch and goes over to it. He picks it up. âHello,â he says.
âHello?â
âYes,â Mr. P. says.
âMr. Marvin Parker,â the phone says.
âSpeaking,â says Mr. P.
âJim Lyle calling, Mr. Parker. Amalgamated Pulpwood andBenevolent Society? Just checking our records here and see youâre a month behind on your premium. Just calling to check on the problem, Marv.â
They always want their money, Mr. P. thinks. They donât care about you. They wouldnât give a damn if you got run over by a bush hog. They just want your money. Want you to pay that old premium.
âI paid,â Mr. P. says. He canât understand it. âI pay by bank draft every month.â
A little cough comes from the phone.
âWell yes,â the voice says. âBut our draft went through on a day when you were overdrawn, Mr. Parker.â
Well kiss my ass, Mr. P. thinks.
Mr. P. canât say anything to this man. He knows what it is. His wifeâs been writing checks at the Fabric Center again. For material. What happened was, the girls needed dresses for the program at church, capes and wings and things. Plus, they had to spend $146.73 on a new clutch and pressure plate for the tractor. Mr. P. had to do all the mechanical stuff, pull the motor and all. Sometimes he couldnât find the right wrenches and had to hunt around in the dirt for this and that. There was also an unfortunate incident with a throw-out bearing.
Mr. P. closes his eyes and leans against the wall and wants to get back on the couch. Today, he just canât get enough of that couch.
âCan I borrow from the fund?â says Mr. P. Heâs never borrowed from the fund before.
âBorrow? Why. . . .â
âWould it be all right?â Mr. P. says.
âAll right?â
âI mean would everything be fixed up?â
âFixed up? You mean paid?â says the voice over the phone.
âYes,â says Mr. P. âPaid.â
âPaid. Why, I suppose. . . .â
âDonât suppose,â says Mr. P. Heâs not usually this ill with people like Jim Lyle of APABS. But heâs sick of staying up with that cow every night. Heâs sick of his wife writing checks at the Fabric Center. Heâs sick of a vet whoâs scared of animals heâs sworn to heal. He doesnât want Jim Lyle of APABS to suppose. He wants him to know.
âWell, yes sir, if thatâs the way. . . .â
âAll right, then,â Mr. P. says, and he hangs up the phone.
âGoodbye,â he says, after he hangs it up. He goes back to the couch and stretches out quick, lets out this little groan. He puts one forearm over his eyes.
The kids are still screaming at the top of their lungs in the yard. Heâs worried about them being outside. Thereâs been a rabies epidemic: foaming foxes and rabid raccoons running amuck. Even flying squirrels have attacked innocent people. And just last week, Mr. P. had to take his squirrel dog off, a little feist he had named Frank that was white with black spots over both eyes. He got him from a family of black folks down the road and they all swore up and down that his mama was a good one, had treed as many as sixteen in one morning. Mr. P. raised that dog from a puppy, played with him, fed him, let himsleep on his stomach and in front of the fire, and took him out in the summer with a dried squirrel skin and let him trail it all over the yard before he hung it up in a tree and let him tree it. He waited for old Frank to get a little older and then took him out the first frosty morning and shot a squirrel in front of him, didnât
Rebecca Hamilton, Conner Kressley