“Oh Lord.”

“You said it. He lived about three days. Next day of work, foreman lines us up and says, ‘Any a you fall off this friggin’ roof, you’re fired on the way down.‘” Chick grunted out a half-laugh and drove his third nail. ‘Start of my education right there.” He slid another sixteen inches along the ridge pole. Leo fed a rafter up to Tom. Just as Burrell took it, Leo heard the open-throttle scream of an engine down the road, the knock and tap of loose gravel up under the chassis. There was an easing up on the gas as a blue Chevy van drove slowly out of the trees into the sunlight. Leo recognized Dwight right away and before he could check himself, he waved. If Dwight saw, he didn’t acknowledge it. He had a white painter’s cap tilted back on his head. His face was sunburned. In the shadow of the passenger’s side was somebody wearing a white hanky around their nose and mouth. No, the mouth was showing. Only the nose was covered. Above that were small dark sunglasses. Dwight looked over the job then hit the gas again, squealing his tires over the gravel, spraying pebbles and dust out in a wide arc as he took the turn down toward the river. Leo picked up another rafter.

“Have you subbed out the painting yet?” Tom said.

“Nope, and we’re not hiring that swinging dick, that’s for damn sure.” Chick’s hammer echoed off the ridge as he missed a nail. He swore, then drove it in three swings.

For supper Jim barbecued hot dogs and hamburgers out on the grill in the driveway next to his car. Leo had just showered and sat shirtless in a pair of jeans on the kitchen stoop. He held his D harmonica and watched his father turn over the meat patties, leaning back and squinting his eyes at the smoke. The sun was still high over the trees up Saunders Hill, and when the smoke drifted into the pines it showed the twilight in slanted rays, and for some reason it made Leo think of the Civil War, of muskets and cannonballs and torn Confederate flags.

“You seeing your sweetheart tonight?”

Leo shrugged. “Maybe.”

“I bet she likes baseball. She seems like she would. Invite her over to watch the game.”

“Poker?”

Jim shook his head and turned the four hot dogs over. “Change of pace. Lars is bringing over one of his television sets. We’re starting to smell a pennant race, son. Bring her over.”

Leo put the harp to his mouth and sucked out a long bent five-hole note. He fanned his cupped hand for the tremolo, then dropped to the one- and two-holes for some train-chugging back-up. He repeated that twice and lowered the harp. “Is it wrong to give a girl a dozen roses?”

“Hope not. I used to give them to your mother all the time.”

“I read some more of her stuff.”