Rock Springs by Richard Ford Read Free Book Online

said.
    â€œHello,” the young man said, and nothing else. And for some reason I looked at his arms, which were long and pale. They looked like a young man’s arms, like my arms. His short sleeves had each been neatly rolled up, and I could see the bottom of a small green tattoo edging out from underneath. There was a glass of whiskey on the table, but no bottle.
    â€œWhat’s your name?” my father said, standing in the kitchen under the bright ceiling light. He sounded like he might be going to laugh.
    â€œWoody,” the young man said and cleared his throat. He looked at me, then he touched the glass of whiskey, just the rim of the glass. He wasn’t nervous, I could tell that. He did not seem to be afraid of anything.
    â€œWoody,” my father said and looked at the glass of whiskey. He looked at me, then sighed and shook his head. “Where’s Mrs. Russell, Woody? I guess you aren’t robbing my house, are you?”
    Woody smiled. “No,” he said. “Upstairs. I think she went upstairs.”
    â€œGood,” my father said, “that’s a good place.” And he walked straight out of the room, but came back and stood in the doorway. “Jackie, you and Woody step outside and wait on me. Just stay there and I’ll come out.” He looked at Woody then in a way I would not have liked him to look at me, a look that meant he was studying Woody. “I guess that’s your car,” he said.
    â€œThat Pontiac.” Woody nodded.
    â€œOkay. Right,” my father said. Then he went out again and up the stairs. At that moment the phone started to ring in the living room, and I heard my mother say, “Who’s that?” And my father say, “It’s me. It’s Jack.” And I decided I wouldn’t go answer the phone. Woody looked at me, and I understood he wasn’t sure what to do. Run, maybe. But he didn’t have run in him. Though I thought he would probably do what I said if I would say it.
    â€œLet’s just go outside,” I said.
    And he said, “All right.”
    Woody and I walked outside and stood in the light of the floodlamp above the side door. I had on my wool jacket, but Woody was cold and stood with his hands in his pockets, and his arms bare, moving from foot to foot. Inside, the phone was ringing again. Once I looked up and saw my mother come to the window and look down at Woody and me. Woody didn’t look up or see her, but I did. I waved at her, and she waved back at me and smiled. She was wearing a powder-blue dress. In another minute the phone stopped ringing.
    Woody took a cigarette out of his shirt pocket and lit it. Smoke shot through his nose into the cold air, and he sniffed, looked around the ground and threw his match on the gravel. His blond hair was combed backwards and neat on the sides, and I could smell his aftershave on him, a sweet, lemon smell. And for the first time I noticed his shoes. They were two-tones, black with white tops and black laces. They stuck out below his baggy pants and were long and polished and shiny, as if he had been planning on a big occasion. They looked like shoes some country singer would wear, or a salesman. He was handsome, but only like someone you would see beside you in a dime store and not notice again.
    â€œI like it out here,” Woody said, his head down, looking at his shoes. “Nothing to bother you. I bet you’d see Chicago if the world was flat. The Great Plains commence here.”
    â€œI don’t know,” I said.
    Woody looked up at me, cupping his smoke with one hand. “Do you play football?”
    â€œNo,” I said. I thought about asking him something about my mother. But I had no idea what it would be.
    â€œI
have
been drinking,” Woody said, “but I’m not drunk now.”
    The wind rose then, and from behind the house I could hear Major bark once from far away, and I could smell the irrigation