Chapter 15: Cut Down

Rhett held still.

I think it surprised us both.

He stood in the middle of the flatbed with his arms half raised, and he let me step up to him and take hold of his vest.

The leather was warm and smelled of him.

I had cut that hide myself, six years ago, on the table in our kitchen, the winter before the wedding.

"Hal, please," he said.

"Hold still, I said."

On the left side of his chest sat the road captain's rocker, black thread on gray leather, the first patch I ever made for him.

I had stitched it in a motel in Williams with a cheap lamp and a thumb I'd cut on the awl.

I slid the lower blade under it and cut the first stitch.

The sound carried.

The men who were left on the lot stopped walking and turned around.

I cut the second stitch, and the third.

I cut all the way along the top edge, slowly, while Rhett breathed through his teeth and the sheriff stood very quietly with his hat in his hand.

The rocker came away in one piece.

I held it up so the back of the crowd could see it.

"I made this," I said. "You can have it back. It's the only true thing he ever wore."

I tossed it at his feet.

Then I held out my hand.

He didn't understand.

"The other one," I said.

He looked down at his fist.

The shiny black rocker with the white thread was crushed in it, creased across the middle.

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