The cow looked miserable beneath the falling water. Paul walked to the stall and stroked the old girl’s head. He spoke softly into her ear. “We’ll fix that roof, sweetheart. Don’t you worry.”

Paul climbed onto the tin roof carrying the bucket of tar. The metal roof was slick from last night’s rain. He walked toward the weak spot over the cattle stalls. He could see water pooled in a small crater on the tin. There were rusted holes around the puddle. He swore to himself. This was a bigger job than he thought it would be, and it would require twice the tar he had.

He walked toward the soft spot, keeping his steps careful and light. All his adult life, Paul had been light on his feet. All his life he’d been a mighty man. And he was an expert on roofing crews. He’d laid nearly a thousand of them in his day.

But age catches up with everyone.

Without warning, he dropped his bucket. It rolled off the roof and sailed to the ground. And in this moment, he realized why he’d dropped it. He felt a stabbing in his right arm, like dull knives cutting through his muscle. He dropped to his knees on the slanted roof. He gripped his shoulder. He tried to lay himself flat on the roof so he wouldn’t fall, but he slid sideways. He could feel himself slipping from the edge of the roof. And he felt the exhilaration of falling from it. In a way, it almost felt like flying.

He hit the ground so hard, he heard his own chest make a cracking sound. He landed on his bucket of tar.

“Paul!” he heard Vern yell. “Paul!”

Paul couldn’t speak. He only closed his eyes.

Sixty-Five
Bearing Witness

The sun was setting. The world was lit orange and yellow from the colors of dusk. The forest was alive with frogs and insects. The gnats were making their cause known to all who lingered outside. The mosquitoes were inflicting God’s wrath upon mankind.

And the railcar was alive with voices. Men’s voices. The tavern was overrun with men who drank whiskey, played cards, stomped their feet, and laughed a little too loud. There was even music. A blind boy named Josiah played guitar along with an old man on a fiddle from Saraland every weekend.

Friday night was big business. A good Friday could earn a working girl enough money to last a few weeks.