Rhubarb by M. H. van Keuren Read Free Book Online Page A

cattle guard into a gravel court of about a
dozen mobile homes and pull into the third driveway on the left, behind a
beat-up Buick Skylark.
    As Martin got out, the door of the trailer opened, and a
large, hunched form filled the aperture.
    “What’s going on?” the man called in a gravelly voice, and
then coughed.
    “I’m fine, Stewart,” said Cheryl. “The car broke down.
Martin Wells picked me up and drove me into town.”
    “FastNCo.?” Stewart asked, leaning over the rail of the
little porch of untreated lumber. Martin stepped into the light so Stewart
could see him. After a strained breath, Stewart greeted him with a begrudging
nod.
    “Hello, sir. The car’s about twenty minutes west, up 15,”
said Martin.
    “I’ll call Hank, get his rig rolling,” said Stewart.
    Martin helped Cheryl carry the tanks into the trailer.
Stewart had settled into an ancient plaid recliner with a phone pressed to his
ear. On a table beside the chair, among magazines and newspapers, a portable
radio played Beyond Insomnia . The TV flickered a detective show, muted.
    “Why didn’t you do the dishes, Stewart? Or take out the
trash?” said Cheryl. She tutted over the empty Keystone Light cans on the
kitchen table as she took the last of the tanks from Martin.
    “Thank you again. Can I give you some money for gas?” she
asked, following him out.
    “No, no. It all goes on an expense report,” he said.
    “Okay,” she said.
    “Good luck with your car,” he said.
    The truck was idling, but he’d never wanted to get into the
cab less than he did at that moment. “Cheryl?” he heard himself say. He stepped
back into the porch light. “I know this is kind of out of the blue, but I
wondered if I could take you out sometime.” He almost said more but found the
sense to keep it simple, mature even, wrapped in some shred of confidence.
    “That’s very sweet,” she said, “but I don’t think it would
be a good idea.” She wagged a thumb behind her, but whether she meant to
indicate her mobile home, her stepfather, or her life in general, Martin
couldn’t say.
    “Okay,” he replied.
    “I’m sorry. Thanks again, though,” she said, and left Martin
alone in the driveway.
     
    ~ * * * ~
     
    Wake Up to the Perfect GOLDEN SUNRISE(TM)
Waffle and the Woman Who Rejected You But Still Made You Breakfast!
    Step 1: Eschew self-pity in favor of
masculine self-confidence.
    Step 2: Fill cup to line with GOLDEN
SUNRISE(TM) waffle batter as if nothing were awkward or amiss.
    Step 3: Don’t ask for GOLDEN SUNRISE(TM)
Griddle Spray, which doesn’t seem to have made its way to the counter this
morning. Trust that your waffle will peel right off the residue of a thousand
previous waffles.
    Step 4: Pour batter evenly onto
griddle.
    Step 5: Close griddle and Flip! Feel
white-hot presence of woman dropping individual yogurts into bowl of ice!
    Step 6: When timer signals, release
INNER CLUTZ(TM) to scrape stuck waffle from griddle with plastic fork. Burn
finger.
    Step 7: Pretend that GOLDEN SUNRISE(TM)
maple-flavored syrup over your waffle doesn’t taste like the ashes of your
self-esteem.
    Caution: Heating surfaces are
extremely hot. Do not add alcohol. Accidental glances may cause flight
response. You probably should have stayed in your room and finished off the
Pop-Tarts. Cooking time should not exceed three minutes. Is this really the
story of your life?
     
    “Did you get your car towed in okay?” Martin asked.
    “I’ve been told as much,” Cheryl replied.
    “Good to hear,” said Martin. He gathered his breakfast and
took his usual spot, a choice that required an embarrassingly long mental
decision tree. In the end, the appearance of normalcy won out over the instinct
to hide.
    The Great Falls Tribune had a very informative article
describing a state utilities commission hearing concerning a new transmission
line project. As he ate, Martin focused on becoming concerned, but torn. The
proposed electrical transmission line would