But that night in the field she made an inventory of those things she found attractive: the hair on his chest has that middle-age thickness, speckled gray. The simple unassuming way he moves through his house; upstairs, making little two-step dance movements naked in the center of the room, raising his hands up and spinning around. The husky nature of his laugh, coming easy out of her feeble jokes. Standing before him she felt polished, smoothed against his roughness. He seemed to deeply appreciate the youth of her own body. He held her so that her nipples just touched his chest and the rest of her felt suspended in midair. She liked the boyish rounded edges he presented, the flesh around his ass flat and white; above his rear a small fine patch of hair downy and soft. Good for nuzzling. For hugging. For holding her softly. And his fingers seemed even now after making love several times to still be finding and negotiating their way around her thighs and legs, not just out of shyness but some deeper, innate respect for her body. He was a good fuck, she told June. Simple as that. The guy knew what he was doing. He was king. He made her come and come again. Yeah, he’s old enough to be my dad and he says it just about every time we get together, but so what, I need a dad, didn’t have one, and well that’s what I need and that’s what he has to offer. She adds to her list: his fatherly tone, not patronizing but kind of a soft shuffle as he offers up suggestions on how to approach this fucked-up world. Ask that manager of yours for a raise, he said. You practically run that show. Without you, Kennel would be lost; he doesn’t know his Symphony from his Borkum Riff. Tell him you’ll buy a percentage of his store. Don’t ask him. Offer it up like you’re doing him a favor. Assume you’re buying in. If he says no, then give him a nice little threat. Tell him you’ve got your eye on that vacant storefront on Maple that would make a hell of a great smoke stand. He’ll say we don’t have room for another smoke store. Tell him we got room for one with a walk-in humidor and a cute girl behind the counter. That’s my advice to you, young lady.

18

The aquifers have dropped to all-time lows. The irrigation pumps have run dry and fried out. On the television weather map, a big fat sun stays pasted to the Midwest. Thompson mentions me again in passing, to John, his Amish friend, trying to cast some blame for the drought. The drought started right after I dug up and then accidentally buried that bog man, he says in the street one afternoon.