me, and then, like a breath, his name flooded my mind.
Leon William McRae. I pictured his mother’s face on the day of the funeral, the way tears had channeled down dark grief-cut furrows to drip on the white lace collar of her best dress. I remembered her strangled words, her shame over her little boy’s pine casket and his plot in the poor man’s cemetery that lay in the shadow of the water tower; how she worried that he’d never feel the afternoon sun there.
I wondered now what she’d done with the money his death had brought, and hoped she’d made better use of it than I. Truth be told, I disliked the house; it was too big, too visible. I rattled in it like a quarter in a tin can. But I always liked to sit there at the end of the day. It was warm in the sun. I could see the park, and the oak trees made music of the wind. I would try not to think about choices or the past. It was a place for emptiness, for absolution, and rarely was it mine alone. Usually, Barbara fucked it up.
I finished my second beer and decided on a third. I dusted myself off and went inside. As I passed through the kitchen, I saw that the answering machine now had seven messages on it, and I wondered vaguely if one might be from my wife. Back outside, I reclaimed my seat in time to see one of my favorite park-walking regulars round the corner.
There was a certain magnificence to his ugliness. He wore a fur-lined hunting cap regardless of the weather and liked the earflaps down. Threadbare khaki pants flapped around legs walked scrawny, and his arms were as skinny as those of a starved child. Heavy glasses pulled at his nose, and his mouth, always whiskered, turned up as if in pain. He kept no schedule whatsoever, and walked compulsively: midnight in the pouring rain, stalking the tracks on the east side of town, or steaming in the morning sun as he marched through the historic district.
No one knew much about him, although he’d been around for years. I’d picked up his name once at a party—Maxwell Creason. There’d been talk about him that night. He was a regular fixture in town, and everyone saw him out walking, but, apparently, no one had ever spoken to him. No one knew how he supported himself and everyone assumed that he was homeless, one of the regulars at the town’s few shelters, maybe a patient at the local VA hospital; but the speculation was never very profound. Mostly, there was laughter—about how he looked, why he walked so obsessively. None of the comments were pleasant.
I never saw him like that. For me, he was a question mark, and in some ways the most fascinating person in Rowan County. I would daydream of falling into stride so that I might ask him, What do you see, in these places that you go?
I did not hear the door open, but suddenly Barbara was behind me, and her voice made me jump.
“Honestly, Work,” she began. “How often do I have to ask you to drink your beer on the back patio? You look like white trash squatting out here for the world to see.”
“Evening, Barbara,” I said, not turning around, eyes still on my mysterious walker.
As if realizing how harsh her words had been, she softened her tone.
“Of course, honey. I’m sorry. Good evening.” I could feel her as she stepped closer, a mixture of perfume and disdain that fell around me like ashes. “What are you doing?” she asked.
I couldn’t bring myself to answer. What could I say? “Isn’t he magnificent?” I said instead, gesturing.
“Who? Him?” she asked, pointing as if with a gun.
“Yes.”
“Oh for heaven’s sake, Work. Sometimes I don’t understand you. Really, I don’t.”
I turned finally, looked up at her, and found her beautiful. “Come sit with me,” I said. “Like we used to.”
She laughed in a way that made her suddenly ugly, and I knew that hope would change nothing.
“I used to wear blue jeans, too. But now I need to make dinner.”
“Please, Barbara. Just for a minute or two.” There must have been something in my voice, for she stopped in mid-turn and came to my side. Her lips flirted with a smile, and although the flirtation was brief, it made me think of smiles that were neither so bland nor so insincere, of times