Page 37 of The Drifter

I had not decided to speak. It came out of me the way a hand comes off a hot pan. The two of them stood there and blinked. I heard my own voice ringing in the rafters of a building I had never once raised it in.

"Otis. Do not send this man to the mall."

"What's wrong with the mall?"

"What's wrong with the mall." I put my hand flat on my chest. "Come on, now."

Otis was delighted. He was radiant. He was having, I understood, the best morning of his year.

"Well," he said. "He asked me."

"He asked you because you were standing there."

"That's how askin' works, generally."

Clint hadn't said anything for a little while.

He was leaned up against the bell stand with his arms crossed, watching the two of us go at it. There was something on his face I couldn’t read and had nowhere to put. Not amusement. Quieter than that.

He was watching me the way a man watches something he came a long way to see.

Stop it, I thought.

"You need boots," I said to him.

"I've been told I need a sprucing."

"By who?"

"My brother." He said the word plainly. "Came by this morning. Gave me a card and told me to go get a haircut and some clothes that fit. Then he made jokes about it, because that's what he does. Now, I've got a card in my pocket and no idea what to do with it. I've been standing here a good while asking this man where a fella buys a shirt in this town."

"And Otis said the mall."

"Otis said the mall."

"Otis," I said, "has worn the same jacket since the Clinton administration."

"It's a good jacket," Otis said.

"It's a great jacket. That is not the point I’m making."

And then, Clint laughed.

It wasn't a big laugh. It came out low and rusty, like a shed door that doesn't get opened. It stopped almost as soon as it started. The man looked faintly startled by it. Like he'd heard a sound come out of himself he hadn’t authorized.

I felt it land under my ribs and stay there.

I had made a promise. In this room. On that floor. I'll pour their coffee. I'll burn their paperwork. But I will not love one. I'd been so certain of it.

And here I was, arguing about footwear.

"Where would you send him?" Clint asked.

"Excuse me?"

"You've got opinions." He tipped his chin. "You took Otis apart in front of God and everybody, so, I figure you've got a better answer. Where would you send a man for boots?"

"King Street."