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(back to page 5)
"What's the point then?"
"What d'ya mean, what's the point?"
"If you don't get any wool. What's the point?"
He sighed. "For meat, of course."
Mattie set her fork down. "Eew."
"What do you think happens on a sheep ranch? Where do you think meat comes from? Even that beef you just added to the spaghetti?"
"From the store."
"Uh-huh, from the store." He rolled his eyes. "Next time you're down there, maybe you should pick up some lamb chops. I'd like to taste those store-bought ones that you don't have to kill a sheep to git. Maybe I'll start raising that kind."
"I'm starting to see why you live alone."
Chas snorted.
Mattie pulled the old man into a sitting position, then eased him from the bed to the wheelchair. "No offense, Mr. McPherson, but your son is kind of a jerk." When she had him situated she carefully folded his hands into his lap. She took a comb from the nightstand and raked it over his scalp, smoothing the curly, white wisps that usually flew out in all directions. "He seems like the kind of guy who doesn't handle conflict well, if you know what I mean. Like he'd just as soon rip your kidneys out than listen to a different perspective." She wheeled Mr. McPherson into the living room and positioned the chair at the window, where he could look out on the meadow. The rain had given way to snow--silent and peaceful--transforming the gloomy ranch into something resembling a Christmas card photo. A light burned in the barn, and Mattie wondered what Chas did out there all day while all his sheep, if indeed they were sheep, made snow trails in the pasture. As she pondered his perpetual absence, a dark red sedan coasted down the driveway toward the house.
A woman in her mid-thirties got out and picked her way across the muddy yard in a pair of suede pumps. Mattie watched the woman's feet. Suicide, she thought, to wear such delicate shoes in this weather. She opened the door before the visitor knocked.
"Hi, my name is Pam," the woman said, extending her hand. In her other, she gripped a clipboard with tattered pages. "I'm an aide at the Sweetwater School." The woman looked past Mattie into the house, as if hoping for an invitation in.
Mattie kept an open gaze on the stranger, not guarded, but not inviting.
"I'm collecting signatures to petition the school to eliminate the ritual Christmas celebrations."
Mattie frowned.
"We'd still have a holiday celebration, of course," the woman added quickly. "But we have children of other religions attending the school, and it isn't fair to them...focusing solely on Christmas."
Mattie shrugged and reached for the clipboard. "Okay, I'll sign it." She paused. "Does it matter that I don't live here? I'm the
homecare nurse."
"No, anyone can sign."
"You might try Chas, too. He's the one who lives here." A noticeable tremor ran through Mattie's hand as she handed the clipboard back. She nodded toward the rickety-looking structure across the yard, diverting the woman's attention. "He's in the barn."
The aide looked in its direction, then back at Mattie with doubt.
"Probably ought to come back in boots." Mattie said.
"I'll be out in the area tomorrow. Will you tell him I'll be
by?"
"Sure." Mattie watched her leave, then turned to Mr. McPherson. "Well, how 'bout that? We just saved some kids from being left out of the holiday celebration."
Despite her declaration to Chas, Mattie had fallen into a routine of preparing all the meals. What else would she do with all her extra time? And she needed to eat, too.
It was nearly dark before he came in. Mattie wondered if he waited until she took the old man to his bedroom before returning. His absences coincided precisely with the time his father spent in the common area, except for lunch, which Chas ate alone in the living room like some freakish recluse.
He washed up at the kitchen sink, splattering black, soapy water across the clean porcelain. Mattie clenched her teeth as she watched him. Couldn't he see it was clean? How hard is it to rinse it down when you're finished? The constant cleaning required to keep the house livable astounded her. Chas tracked mud from the door to the sink with every trip, except for the rare occasions he left his boots on the porch. The firewood he dropped in the entryway was infested with bugs and the dry bark found its way into every corner of the place, even upstairs stuck to the bottom of his socks. His jacket stank of animals, and the odor lingered even when he was gone. She watched him scrub his blackened fingernails to no avail. His hands were rough and cracked, and she doubted even soaking them in bleach could sufficiently clean them.
"Who was that this afternoon?"
Mattie had forgotten the visit.
"The woman in the red car," he said with irritation. "Who was that?"
(continued on the next page)
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