As a boy, he had gone often with his father to cotton gins during the picking season when the wagon was packed full enough to make a bale, and there, waiting their turn for the ginning, he would sit near enough to the clustering of men to hear them talking, trading stories, yet not close enough to be teased in the way men teased boys. In such gatherings, he had learned to read the moods of people, knowing hard times by hard looks, good times by cheerful looks. And always, there was one man among them who took charge of what was being said, one man who set the mood. Not always the same man, but, still, there was always a lead talker. Always. As a boy, he had liked it when Ward Cribbs was that man. Ward Cribbs was bright-faced, wore a grin like it was a piece of his finest Sunday clothing. Loved telling stories of his travels around America as a young man seeking adventure. Noah’s father had confided that Ward Cribbs was nothing more than a harmless liar. Had said Ward Cribbs had never been farther away from Elbert County than Athens, which could be reached in a wagon pulled by slow mules in only a few hours. Had said, “Ward gets all that stuff from reading, and what he don’t get from reading, he just makes up.” His father had let a smile grow like an unfolding flower and had added, “Good Lord, whoever heard of cutting a hole through a slab of ice to go fishing? That’s what Ward said they do in some places up North. Sometimes I think that boy believes the rest of us is just a bunch of fools.”

Noah had remembered his father’s opinion about ice fishing when he learned the truth of it—that people did cut holes in ice to fish.

Men in the army had told him about it, had shown him photographs, making Noah wish his father were still alive. His father would have been amazed to hear the story, more amazed that Ward Cribbs, the great liar, was not lying.

From the front of the store, he heard a roar of laughter.

Peavo Teasley and Moody Deal putting tale on top of tale, he thought, like boys hand-walking a baseball bat up to the knob to choose which team would bat first.

The sound of a car caused him to twist on the ladder to see the road. The car that slowed to a stop in front of the store was one that seemed familiar and he paused in his work to watch the car door open. The man who slipped from the seat was Howard Reynolds.

Noah heard the laughter from the porch fade away.

Howard lifted a hand and waved to him. Noah gestured a reply with his right hand, the hand holding the paintbrush. He watched as Howard took his wobbling, fat-heavy walk toward the front of the store and disappear around the store’s corner. He could hear the muted sound of voices, spoken too softly to carry the words clearly, but hearing the words made no difference to Noah. He knew they were an exchange of greetings. Farmer to farmer. Words so worn in their saying, they were almost never heard by anyone. Expected and said, but not heard. It was near noon. Howard was probably making a stop for something his wife needed in her cooking.