Chapter 6: Hold Still

By two o'clock the whole town knew.

I could tell because nobody mentioned it.

The hardware store owner ordered a slice of apple pie and said, "That's a good crust," and left a five on a three-dollar check.

A woman who sold eggs from her truck left me a dozen on the back step.

The old man in the first booth asked if I had a lawyer, and when I said no, he wrote a name on a napkin and said, "Tell her my cousin sent you."

I put it in my apron pocket.

"Your eggs are cold," Waylon's aunt called to the first booth.

"I'm eighty-one," the old man called back. "They were cold when I ordered them."

I laughed, and caught myself laughing, and kept going.

Waylon came in at four, smelling of diesel and cold air, and sat at the end of the counter.

He had no load until Tuesday and a day to kill.

He spent it eating soup and watching me work.

"You're staring," I said.

"I'm eating."

"You're eating at me."

"The soup's good."

"It's from a can."

"I know," he said. "It's your face I'm enjoying."

He said it flatly and went on eating.

I turned back to the oven with my ears burning.

I reached for the pie rack without a glove.

The steel edge was straight out of the oven.

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