Stray Dog Beggin'

Francis is in no hurry to reply; no telling how long he's been standing there in that one spot waiting to be discovered. He likes to weird people out nowadays, anyway. He cocks his head to one side and grins. "Wanna beer? --this out the side of his mouth in that high singsong voice of his, a ring to it, like a Bluegrass tenor.

"Nope, I got this drink," I say.

"Suit yourself, old man."

But I'm not old--though my full beard is beginning to show a little gray. I keep it neatly trimmed knowing it may be my best feature, for I am short, only five seven and a half, but my boots give me an extra inch. Ellen said that I was becoming a little stooped over, but that's from hard work.

I raise hay and corn and a few beef cattle to get by. But the problem with farming is that you always need part-time help, which is hard to find since everyone usually needs them at the same time. But that's where Francis comes in--part-time help. But then we sort of got attached to each other. Now, not so much since he started running with a bunch of young outlaws.

His arm goes up again, raises it like a big arching featherless wing--beer to lips, guzzles, wipes mouth with the same forearm. Then just stands there grinning as if I'm expected to applaud or something.

I feel he is testing me, not really drunk but acting stupid to see how hospitable I can be. "So--what's going on?" I repeat.

"Just thought I'd stop by--"

"Ain't seen you in a while. Whatcha been doing?"

"Ay, just workin' hard everday."

He drains the beer in little swallows, crushes the can, drops it in the carton, picks up a full one, pops it open--all this with one hand. Throws his head back for a big gulp and wipes his mouth then drops his chest and looks around at me. "Wanna ask you somethin', Lester."

"Ask me what?"

I'm tired. I'm dirty. And I've just lit one of Ellen's tall candles from the dining room table and set it on the edge of the sink for atmosphere--a painful reminder of her. Tub is about half-full, soap suds foaming up around the rim, mirror over the sink fogging up--

Then quickly back through the living room to the kitchen to pick up my drink, tuck smokes and lighter under my armpit, portable radio in the other hand, everything coming together nicely.

But crossing back through the living room I catch something out of the corner of my eye that I don't want to believe: something standing stock-still out in the yard. Most of him obscured by the loosely-tied back curtains, but by what very little I see of him--T-shirt, sunburned arm curved around a large bulky paper bag, and the big belly, or part of it--I instantly recognize who it is. No vehicle in the yard, though. How'd he get here and what he wants keep going through my mind as I begin undoing everything--bathwater off, candle out, radio back on kitchen counter. I pull my dirty britches back on and step out on the porch, bringing my drink and smokes with me.

The man hasn't moved, just a big fat arm up, beer to his lips.

Francis Hughes is about the last person on Earth I want to see standing there at this moment--if anyone at all--but I speak without showing too much displeasure.