Leo didn’t know which he was more excited about, being called Allie’s new beau, or getting the chance to work under the sun with iron tools and wood until he had the kind of hands Ryder said were best for a harp player. As he walked down the river road, lit only by an occasional flood light reflecting off the water from the other side, he pulled his C harmonica from his pants pocket and blew and sucked out do re mi, then do re maw, then do re mi again. He walked fast and put as much air into the harp as he could without bending the little metal reeds inside it. When he got to the covered bridge he thought of Allie all over again, the way she put her hands on his hips and slipped her tongue inside his mouth.

He walked through town, and at the gravel road of Saunders Hill he put his harmonica back into his pocket. Soon he could hear the men in his house. There was no music and at first Leo thought somebody was telling a game-buster of a joke because the voice was loud and nobody else was talking. When he got closer he could see into the lighted windows of the kitchen from the road. It was Lars’s brother-in-law, Dwight. He was one of the only poker men who didn’t work at Heywood Paper. He painted houses and he had a brand new Ford van which said so on both doors: “Call Dwight-He Paints It Right.” He was tall with no muscles to speak of, but not skinny either. Standing at the kitchen table, Dwight had a face the color of a cooked lobster, and Leo didn’t know if that was because he was sunburned or drunk or maybe both. He sure sounded drunk and he wasn’t telling a joke.

“That’s all I’m saying. We burned witches in this very state, den we? Den we? And those girls weren’t doin’ no treason either-a little hookey-poo maybe.”

One man laughed. So did Lars. He was sitting next to Dwight. He put his arm on the back of Dwight’s chair. “Good enough, Dewey. Let’s get back to the game.”

“No it is not good enough. Next time those pink-ass shitheads hold a match, I say we spray ‘em down with gasoline. They wanta burn their citizen ’sponsibility, they burn the right to live far’s I’m concerned. I’m telling ya, we’re starting to look like weak little shits.” Dwight picked up his beer and drained it. He sat, but didn’t pull his chair up to the table. He was looking down at the floor like he had dropped something there and couldn’t reach it and nobody would get it for him. A man’s hands were shuffling the cards. It was Jim.