Facing the Music by Larry Brown Read Free Book Online

forester calling to tell him, Yes, Mr. Parker, it’s just as we feared: your whole 160-acre tract of pine timber is heavily infested with the Southern pine beetle and you’ll 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. “Hello,” he says.
    â€œHello?”
    â€œYes,” Mr. P. says.
    â€œMr. Marvin Parker,” the phone says.
    â€œSpeaking,” says Mr. P.
    â€œJim Lyle calling, Mr. Parker. Amalgamated Pulpwood andBenevolent Society? Just checking our records here and see you’re a month behind on your premium. Just calling to check on the problem, Marv.”
    They always want their money, Mr. P. thinks. They don’t care about you. They wouldn’t give a damn if you got run over by a bush hog. They just want your money. Want you to pay that old premium.
    â€œI paid,” Mr. P. says. He can’t understand it. “I pay by bank draft every month.”
    A little cough comes from the phone.
    â€œWell yes,” the voice says. “But our draft went through on a day when you were overdrawn, Mr. Parker.”
    Well kiss my ass, Mr. P. thinks.
    Mr. P. can’t say anything to this man. He knows what it is. His wife’s 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 couldn’t 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 can’t get enough of that couch.
    â€œCan I borrow from the fund?” says Mr. P. He’s never borrowed from the fund before.
    â€œBorrow? Why. . . .”
    â€œWould it be all right?” Mr. P. says.
    â€œAll right?”
    â€œI mean would everything be fixed up?”
    â€œFixed up? You mean paid?” says the voice over the phone.
    â€œYes,” says Mr. P. “Paid.”
    â€œPaid. Why, I suppose. . . .”
    â€œDon’t suppose,” says Mr. P. He’s not usually this ill with people like Jim Lyle of APABS. But he’s sick of staying up with that cow every night. He’s sick of his wife writing checks at the Fabric Center. He’s sick of a vet who’s scared of animals he’s sworn to heal. He doesn’t want Jim Lyle of APABS to suppose. He wants him to know.
    â€œWell, yes sir, if that’s the way. . . .”
    â€œAll right, then,” Mr. P. says, and he hangs up the phone.
    â€œGoodbye,” 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. He’s worried about them being outside. There’s 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, didn’t