He thought about the old man who twirled a lasso beneath prairie stars. He wondered where the old man was in the years they’d been apart. He missed Blake, but he half hated him too for sending him away. Still, on nights like this, Coot wondered what sort of advice the old man would’ve given him. Blake always had good advice.

Maybe he would’ve told Coot, “You don’t want nothing to do with girls who got white hair.” Or maybe he would’ve said, “You don’t wanna go fight a dumb old war nohow.”

Coot stared upward. He thought how different the stars looked over this country than they did over the prairie. Memories came back to him by the boatload. He remembered what it was like, speaking to audiences in big tents, with real energy to his voice. He remembered feeling like he could do no wrong, waving a Bible in the air. He remembered what if felt like to be beautiful.

The music in the distance had stopped. People were leaving the party. Young men had girls hooked on their arms. William Oswalt had Judy Bronson on his. His service cap sat uneven on his head, like a movie star might have worn it. He was only toying with Judy, just like he did with all the girls. A wealthy young officer like him would not be seen in broad daylight with a mill worker’s daughter like Judy. But she didn’t seem to know this.

“Hey, Coot,” said Baby Joe, with a brunette around his arm. “Come go swimming with us.”

“Swimming?” one young man shouted. “The water wouldn’t even come up to Coot’s knees.”

Everyone laughed.

Coot pressed his hands farther into his pockets and said, “No thanks. Got an early day tomorrow at the mill.”

“We all got early days tomorrow, Coot,” said another young man. “We’re going to Europe to show old Hitler who’s boss!” He screamed it at the top of his lungs.

Other boys joined in and howled at the sky like a pack of coyotes.

They piled into an automobile that was brand-new. The engine roared to life. Will sat behind the wheel, revving the motor for the enjoyment of those nearby. The car sped off. Coot watched its taillights bounce away in the night.

Before they were all out of sight, he reached his right hand into the sky. Then he closed his eyes and made a tight fist, just like he used to do for tents filled with farmers and grain elevator workers. He held it high, to create the drama that tent preaching required. Then, in a quick motion, he waved his hand, like he’d once done, at the taillights. Long ago, when he was somebody, one wave of the hand would make people fall over and start mumbling gibberish. But this time, nothing happened.

Thirty-Five
Louisville