Continued from the previous chapter, here.

Asa’s father, seeing the surprise on his son’s face, leaned over and quietly said to him “That’s Rev’nd Kerr, in case you were wondering.” Asa but nodded mutely, swallowing hard. I really had not expected that.

From the pulpit, Reverend Kerr called out for a hymn, and the congregation stood, red-covered hymnals in hand. Asa joined in, falling back on the acculturation of youth despite having long been away, and he sang quietly amid the congregants. The hymn was unfamiliar to him, and he both felt and heard his voice miss the pitches those around him found with seemingly little effort. And others heard me do it, too; I saw them flinch.

The hymn came to its end, and Kerr motioned for the congregation to sit. “I’m glad to be here with you today, folks! I’m glad to see that you’re here, too, and to join you in praising Jesus! And I’m glad to see some unfamiliar faces with you; I know you will be, too, so if those of you who’re new here could stand up, we’d like to say ‘Hi’ and know where we’re aiming it.”

Asa’s mother nudged him. “Stand up, Asa.”

Asa shook his head. “I’m not new here, remember.”

“You might as well be.”

“Mom!” This last came out in a harsh whisper.

From the pulpit, Kerr called out to one person near her who had stood. “Welcome! We’re glad to have you with us today! What’s your name?”

The response was lost to Asa as his mother replied in a similar whisper “Stand up! Be seen!”

Kerr continued. “It’s a good name to have, sounds like. And you’re here visiting your grandparents?”

Asa replied, still whispering, “Fine, Mom, when she’s done.”

“They sure seem happy to see you, John,” came from the pulpit.

John replied, nodding, “Me, too.”

“Well, we’re happy to see you, and we’d love to visit with you after service, if you’re willing.” John sat, and Kerr made something of a show of looking at the congregation. Asa glanced around, as well, saw nobody else standing, and slowly rose to his feet.

He had Kerr’s attention at once. “Welcome! We’re glad to have you with us today! What’s your name?”

Asa cleared his throat and pitched his voice to carry as if he were at the front of a full classroom. “I’m Asa Pemewan, and I’m not so much new here as I’ve been gone for a while.”

“Hi, Asa! I’m Anna Kerr, and it’s a pleasure! Where’ve you been, if I may ask?”

Asa nodded. “I’ve been away teaching at colleges and doing some other work. But I figured it was time to come home for a while.”

“What all were you teaching?”

“English, mostly.” And I know what comes next.

“Then I guess I’ll have to watch my words around you!”

Asa rolled his eyes a bit. Yep, and now time for the winning reply. “Don’t worry; I only do that when I’m on the clock.” Many in the congregation laughed, as did Kerr. She’s got a nice smile. But then, she is a preacher; she has to be able to connect.

“That’s a relief, then! And we’d love to visit with you after the service, too, if you’re willing.” Asa nodded and sat, and as he did, his mother leaned in, whispering.

“You see, that worked out for you. Now people think you’re happy to be with them.”

Asa nodded. Except that I’m not sure I am.

From the pulpit, Kerr, seeing nobody else standing, said “Well, since we’ve got that, we probably ought to take a minute to extend the hand of friendship around a bit! So turn to your neighbors and say hello!”

The congregation stood again, and Asa again found himself meeting people he half-remembered, a smile on his lips that did not extend to his eyes. Soon enough, Kerr called the congregation back to order: “And now, then, let’s offer up a prayer of confession.”

The congregants remained standing and bowed their heads. “O, Lord, we’ve not lived up to the potential You’ve instilled in each of us, we know. We’ve not done the good we ought to have done; we’ve not resisted evil as we ought to have. Forgive us, O, Lord, and help us to be better, we ask You–and we ask it of You in the Name of Your Son, who taught us to pray by saying–”

The congregation lifted up its many voices in unison around Asa, who remained standing silently. I’m not part of this; I haven’t been in years. And while I will stand here for my parents, I’m not about to speak a prayer I do not believe. Hypocrite that I am, I’ll not do that.

The prayer concluded, and Kerr motioned for the congregation to sit again. Asa did so gratefully, glad to be able to return to passivity for the moment. There is more energy in the service than I recall, though. And that’s probably good he thought as Kerr read out a series of church notices. He found his attention returning to her again and again–fittingly enough, given her position–but I really ought not to be looking to see if there’s a ring on her left hand–or noting there isn’t–or how the stole and robe are draped over her.

Asa stood with the congregation again as another hymn was called for. He sang no better than before–worse, indeed, since it seemed he was not looking at the hymnal, but further up the sanctuary. It’s stupid lust, is all, and I’m supposed to be better. I have to be better, and not just here.

As the congregation sat once more in anticipation of the Scripture readings, Asa shook his head. I know better than to look at people like that. She deserves better than to have me ogle her, and I deserve better than to think in such a way.

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Continued from the previous chapter, here.

Sitting in the passenger seat of his parents’ car, wearing a white button-up that could have used an iron and a pair of khaki slacks that could have, too, Asa Pemewan was deeply aware of being thrown back into an earlier part of his life. I think I wore the same thing the last time I meant to go to church, he thought as he rode along. I was in the back last time, though. So my legs aren’t cramped this time. That’s a plus.

Behind him, Asa’s mother sat and continued to comment on people he vaguely recalled from twenty years earlier. “Are you listening, Asa? I’m telling you about people you might well meet at the church today–well, meet again, since you went to school with a lot of them.”

Asa started. “Sorry, Mom. I was thinking.”

“Thinking’s good, sure, but so’s paying attention.”

“Mom, it’s not like I can go up to, oh, Maria Calcetines and say ‘Hi, Maria!’ She doesn’t know me from Adam, anymore.”

“It’s Zapata, now, and–”

“Not much of a shift there,” Asa interrupted.

“–and, anyway, I think you’ll find that more people here remember you than you might think.”

“Am I some kind of hero, then? ‘Asa Pemewan, returned from glory in the world outside!'” Asa’s tone was suddenly bitter, cutting, and his father snapped at him. “Mind that mouth!”

Asa huffed. “You’re right. Apologies.”

His mother continued. “There might be one or two–other than your parents or your sister–who hold you up. But I think more look back on school with a bit more sympathetic eye than you do.”

“I think some of them didn’t get punched in the face as much as I did, too.”

“That may be. But my point still stands.”

The car turned in to the church parking lot, joining many others and several dozen people dressed in jeans and slacks and polo shirts and suits. Asa and his mother and father joined the dozens as they filtered into the church, and Asa shifted uncomfortably as his parents shook hands with and hugged people they knew and had seen and seen and seen. He flushed bright red each time one of them said the inevitable  “And our son, Asa, is back from away. He’ll be staying a while, too,” and although he dutifully shook the offered hands and returned the offered hugs–fewer of the latter than the former–he remained stiff and stood as much away as he could.

The small talk pressed in on him, the cacophony around him drowning out the words directed to him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that.” “Say again.” “Could you repeat that?”

The muscles of his back grew tighter and tighter, and an ache began to grow between his shoulders. I need to get out. I need to get out. I need to get out. “Please excuse me; I need to get rid of some coffee real quick.”

The bathroom door shut behind him, and Asa leaned over the basin, catching his breath. That was not what I wanted to show. After a few moments, he stood and took care of his stated purpose. Wouldn’t do to have to do this again so soon. But as he stood and sent forth his stream–my contribution to the Danish ale-sharing he thought in another sudden memory of grad school–he flushed red again. Why am I so afraid of these people?

Oh, right, I’m ashamed. He finished, closed his fly, washed his hands. I failed. I was beaten. I came back home with my tail between my legs. Of course I’m ashamed. I should be. And I should accept that everybody will know of it–soon enough, if they don’t already.

Asa rejoined his parents as the prelude began to play and filed into the pews with them. Slowly, the sounds of conversations died down, leaving the music of the organ little contested–there are always some comments being made, the occasional cough of a throat being cleared, harshly whispered admonitions to children too old to be in nursery but too young, really, to be amid the normal service, the shifting of feet, and the suddenly resounding flatulence of one person soon red-faced, indeed, to compete–as it worked through one piece or another. Is that Bach? Asa wondered as the prelude approached and reached its ending. After a moment, the organ struck up what Asa recognized from his youth as a processional hymn, and soon, two boys, clearly brothers, walked up the aisle with candle-lighters in hand. A slim, slight woman, wearing a black doctoral robe and a stole in a red and green tartan, followed, and the congregation stood, pew by pew, as they walked by. She knelt at the steps to the altar while the boys lit the candles upon it. As they retreated, she rose, ascended to the pulpit, and stretched out her arms.

“The Lord be with you!”

Her voice, seemingly unaided by any microphone or speakers, rang throughout the sanctuary. No strain could be heard in it, no shrillness, but only a clear tone and clearer diction as her words filled the room.

The congregation answered in near-unison around Asa.

“And also with you!”

“In the name of Christ the Risen, Son of Mary, be welcome in this place, all who have sought it and all who have come to it unsought!”

“May they be welcome who seek it yet, and who seek the Lord Almighty with word and with deed!”

“And as the Scriptures say, ‘May the Lord bless you and keep you. May the Lord make God’s face to shine upon you and be gracious to you. May the Lord lift up God’s countenance upon you, and bring you peace.'”

“So may it be with you!”

And as the congregation sat, Asa thought That is…not what I expected for a beginning.

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Continued from the previous chapter, here.

The shrill beeping of his cell phone work Asa Pemewan from a dream he could not recall other than it being strange. The display read half past five, and the room was dark save for the screen’s glow. The house around him was silent save for the persistent whispering of the ceiling fan above him; the noises of crickets and frogs outside, as well as the pronghorns that gave the town its name carried easily to him.

With a snippet of a medieval lyric half-remembered from a graduate class in mind–Bulluc sterteþ, bucke uerteþ / murie sing cucu–he rose and made for the door. As his hand touched the doorknob, Asa remembered that he had slept in only his underwear, and he slipped on a pair of loose shorts and the t-shirt he had worn the day before before stepping lightly out into the hallway. The floor creaked a bit under his feet as he made his way towards the kitchen, whence the sound of the coffee pot came as a new pot brewed.

Asa moved on towards the house’s one bathroom–We had a hell of a time of it when Sis was here–but stopped when he saw light shining from under the door. Wonder if it’s Mom or Dad. He leaned against the wall and waited.

And waited.

And waited. Must be Dad, then.

And waited.

The sound of the toilet flushing and water running for hand-washing marked came from the bathroom, and Asa stood up. The door opened, and his father stepped into the hallway, tying his robe shut. “Mornin’.”

“Mornin’.” Asa slipped past and began his own ablutions. A few minutes later, he returned to the kitchen, where the older man was reading a magazine. Asa poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down. “Anything interesting?”

Asa’s father sipped at his own coffee. “Not so much.” He put the magazine down. “You know you’ve got a damn loud alarm, right?”

Asa shrugged. “Does the job.”

“Does it too damned well. Good thing I was on the crapper when it rang.”

Asa had been about to take a sip of his coffee, but he stopped and snorted a laugh. “Keep your voice down, son. Your mother’s still sleepin’.”

“Thought you’d be getting ready for church.”

“Later service.”

“Ah.” Asa and his father both sipped at their cups. “Who’s the preacher now?”

“Young lady named Kerr…I think it’s Anna Kerr. Usually just call ‘er ‘Rev’nd.'”

Asa nodded. “When did she come in?”

“Been, what, two years or so? Old Rev’nd Fisher finally retired–he and Father Reynolds still play cards together Tuesdays, though. Anyway, when he said he was gonna retire, church asked for a new preacher, and Rev’nd Kerr’s who they sent. Lives up to the fam’ly motto, too.”

“Family motto?”

“Yep. She’s got some Scotland back in her family, says she’s descended from the Kerrs in Ferniehurst–goes on for hours ’bout it if you ask ‘er. Anyway, she’s got up in her office a plaque or something with the family emblem; it says ‘Sero sed serio’ on it.”

Asa paused for a second, recalling his old coursework. “‘Late but serious,’ I think.”

“‘Late but in earnest,’ she says. And she is; never gets started on time, but quite a bit of fire in her preachin’. Some folks were worried about her comin’ in, after so many years of Fisher; they ain’t worried now.”

Asa set down his coffee cup. “I take it you approve.”

His father smiled. “A bit.” Then, seeing something behind Asa, the older man stood. “Mornin’, honey.”

Asa scrambled to his feet, too. “Mornin’, Mom.”

Asa’s mother yawned, covering her mouth. “Good morning.” She walked across the kitchen, filled a kettle, and set it on to boil.

“We were just talking about Rev’nd Kerr, honey,” noted Asa’s father as he and Asa both sat.

“Oh? So will you be coming to church with us, Asa?”

“Seems that way.” Asa shrugged. “I don’t have anywhere else to be today.”

“Now you stop that self-pity! You’re a smart young man, educated, talented. You’ve got a lot going for you.”

“It’d be nice to find someone who agrees with you, Mom, and who’ll give me a paycheck.”

Asa’s father chimed in. “You were gonna check that place on Main tomorrow, remember?”

Asa nodded. “I was. I am. But that’s tomorrow.”

“Alright, then, but don’t you go getting down on yourself. You know what I told you.”

“Yes’m.”

Asa’s mother sat down. “By the way, did you call that Richard boy?”

“I did.”

“And?”

“And it went about like I expected.”

“Which was?”

“He asked why I was calling. I didn’t have a good answer. He hung up.”

“Catching up wasn’t a good reason?”

“Evidently not.”

“Well, what’d he say?”

“That catching up isn’t a good enough reason.”

“Don’t be a smart-ass!”

“I’m not, this time.” Asa raised his hands, as if in self-defense. “It’s what he said.”

“Well.” Asa’s mother stood and started to set up her tea. “The important thing is that you tried.” She paused. “You’ll try again, right?”

“Not with him, no.”

“With who, then?”

Asa paused. “I have no idea.” But I’m sure you do.

Asa’s mother sat back down with her tea. “I think I might have some ideas, Asa.”

Of course you do. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Asa looked at his cup of coffee, seeing it empty. “But what I have in mind right at the moment is that I need to get a shower and a shave. Either of you need the room?” Seeing both shake their heads, Asa nodded. “Then I’m going to be a few minutes.”

Asa walked off to get his clothes for the day. His parents looked at each other as he did, Asa’s father with an eyebrow raised, his mother with her lips pursed.

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Continued from the previous chapter, here.

Phone up to his ear, Asa waited. Well, Mom, you insisted; let’s see how it goes. The phone rang twice, thrice, and on the fourth ring, it was picked up. A dry voice cracked as it said “Hello?”

“Hi, this is Asa Pemewan. Can I talk to Richard, please?”

“Who?”

“Richard.”

“No, who’s callin’?”

“Asa Pemewan. I went to school with Richard.”

“Oh, yeah. I remember y’ now.” A pause, then “Why’re y’ callin’?”

“Well, Richard, I’m back in town and I thought it might be good to catch up.”

“It’s been for-fuckin’-ever, dude. ‘Catch up’ ain’t gonna cut it. Now, y’ got somethin’ to say, say it. I ain’t got all night.”

“Yeah, I suppose not. Like I said, just thought I’d try to catch up, is all. Sorry to bother you.”

“Yeah.” The phone clicked off.

“That went well.” Asa muttered to himself as he walked around the room that had been his and was again. “Figured it would, that me being away so long wouldn’t help.”

He walked towards the kitchen, finding his father there, reading the newspaper. Asa clapped him on the shoulder as he walked by, and the older man looked up. “You read th’ paper today, son?”

“No, sir.”

“You might look at the want-ads. Do you good t’have something t’do.”

Asa nodded. “You’re right, it would.”

“I’m about done with it. You get me a beer?”

Asa smiled as he moved towards the refrigerator. “You still calling that piss you drink beer?”

“Don’t you sass me, son.” Asa’s father’s eyebrows raised and his head dipped slightly, a corner of his mouth lifted, his voice warm at the banter beginning.

Asa retrieved the beer, opened it, and gave it to his father. “No, sir, no sass for you. Sarsaparilla, maybe, but no sass.” Smiling, Asa poured himself the dregs of coffee that still sat in the ever-present pot and put it in the microwave to heat. Once it was done, he joined his father at the table.

“You see anything in the want-ads that caught your eye?”

Asa’s father took a pull from his beer. “Might. I know you do all that writin’ and such, figure you’re good at it. Saw one interesting ad.” He folded the paper and pushed it across, thick middle finger tapping at one ad:

“Seeking a ghostwriter for a book about my friend, her life, and her business. She has gone through poverty and abuse into art and ultimately success in her design business. Need someone who is willing to live on our property in a vintage travel trailer. Writer must have upbeat attitude, open mind, a love for life, and the ability to put together stories  into a beautiful biography. If you’re inspired by beautiful design, organic food, and love, and are interested in composing a beautiful story in a quaint Hill Country town for a few months, feel free to give me a call.”

Asa crushed his eyes closed as if pained. His father chuckled. “Sounds like a great job for a single man. I think I know th’ folks; they’d be all over you, young thing that y’are. Floppin’ and flailin’ all night long and into the morning.”

Asa shuddered and mimed retching. “Why do you do this to me?”

His father laughed. “It’s funny’s why. But,” and his finger tapped another ad, “there’s this one, too.” Asa looked again, reading “Wanted: Office assistant. Must be proficient in general ofc. procedures, MS Office suite. Clear communication skills needed. Competitive pay and benefits. Apply in person only at 200 N. Main, 3rd fl., M-F, 9-5.”

Asa looked at his father. “That still the bank building?”

The older man nodded. “Still the bank, too. Don’t recall what all’s on the third floor, though. Prob’ly a lawyer, with what th’ rent on th’ place has t’be.”

“Well, it’s Saturday today, and it’s after five, now, so it’ll have to wait for next week.”

“Seems that way. Course, could spend tomorrow afternoon gettin’ things ready for it.”

“Afternoon?”

“You’re comin’ to church with your ma ‘n’ me, right?”

Asa sighed. “Hadn’t thought about it.”

“Y’ oughta. It’d do y’ some good.”

Asa gave a short, rueful laugh. “Jesus is going to give me a job?”

Asa’s father’s eyes narrowed. “‘Ask, and ye shall receive,’ y’ little shit. But people who hire go to church, and them seein’ y’ there won’t hurt.”

Asa shrugged. A lot of other people go to church here, too, and not all of them will be so happy to see me. Richard, for example. “Maybe. I need to get my suit pressed, though.”

“Don’t need a suit. Collared shirt’ll do. Don’t even need a tie, anymore.” Asa’s father leaned in. “Think that’s a good thing, m’self.”

Asa grunted. “Like I said, maybe. I don’t recall it doing me a lot of good last time, though; I’m not sure anything will’ve changed.”

“Are y’ sure it won’t’ve?”

Asa’s mouth opened to object, and his hand came up, finger pointed. Then he closed it and dropped his hand. “You’re right. I’m not sure it won’t have changed. I’ll think about it.”

“Your mom’d appreciate it.” Asa took another pull of his beer, grimacing at the condensation  on the bottle. “I would, too.”

Asa snorted out a laugh. “Yeah, yeah.” He took another swallow of coffee, grimacing in turn at it growing cold. “Never can get coffee to stay hot out of a microwave.”

His father nodded, taking another pull from his beer. The two sat silently for a while, finishing their drinks. Then Asa’s father stood. “My program’s comin’ up. Y’ gonna watch?”

Asa shook his head. “No, sir. I never did like that show.”

His father nodded and headed to the living room, where an old, battered recliner awaited him. Asa took the empty bottle to the trash and his own coffee cup to the sink, then headed back to the room where it looked like he would be staying for a while.

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Continued from the previous chapter, here.

Pronghorn is, officially, the seat of Pronghorn County, which might be found in the Texas Hill Country if anyone were to look for it in just the right way. It is named for the animal otherwise known as the American antelope, which ranges into the area where the town sits and still attracts no few hunters during the appropriate season. The county is named after its seat, and the largish creek that runs through the town and supplied its early water is, as well. So are the local high school, the community college, their mascots, and no few of the businesses in town.

Why the pronghorn figures so prominently for the town, county, schools, and businesses has to do with one of the three families that helped found the town. The Zapatas had, of course, been on land near where Pronghorn would rise since the 1600s, holding it under the Spanish government, then the Mexican, the Texian, and the American Texan in succession. The Hochstedlers took a land grant from Stephen F. Austin–the original document is displayed prominently in what is still the main family house–and built a small compound on their land. But the Smithersons, coming in after the Republic of Texas formed but before the annexation by the United States, were led into the area by one Meriwether Smitherson, the son of an English immigrant who had settled in Illinois but been killed in a raid during the Black Hawk War.

Meriwether and his family–his wife, Elizabeth; his sons, Reginald, Samuel, and Thomas; his daughters, Ruth and Esther; and his brother, Henry George–staggered into the area in poor shape. The land they had crossed coming south had not been kind to them, and the last days before they reached what would become Pronghorn were dry and hungry for the lot of them. But the creek, being spring-fed, had water in it, and a herd of pronghorn was watering at it when the Smithersons arrived. Soon after, the herd was a fair bit smaller, and the Smithersons had no small amount to eat. With water ready to hand and a bit of arable land, they soon found themselves able to set about what they were really about, the continuation of a family tradition they had held to for centuries back in Merry Olde England.

They were apiarists, and Henry George Smitherson had carefully preserved the nucleus of a beehive–a queen and a few workers–during the relocation from Illinois to the Hill Country. Soon enough, the Smithersons had built up a thriving little compound of their own, and the Zapatas and Hochstedlers often came to them to trade for honey and wax. The Zapatas, who did a fair bit of farming of their own, would also hire Smitherson beehives to help their crops along. Business relations between the two families turned to romantic relations in due time, with George Henry marrying Teresa Zapata and Ruth later marrying Rodrigo Guerrero, a cousin of the Zapatas.

With continued trade and intercourse between the Smitherson and Zapata families, more people came into the area–some through birth, some through further settling. The Hochstedlers were perhaps a bit displeased to have more people come into the region–the original settler, Erhart, was well known to be something of a misanthrope, taking his land claim where he did in part because it was so far removed from others–but they could not deny the salutary effects of the increased population on the sales of their livestock. Some members of the family moved in closer to the growing population center to better capitalize on the increasing numbers of people in the market, adding another element to the town’s prototypically Hill Country mixture of people.

A span of a scant few years saw the town reach a population of more than 250, and it was decided that some form of order had to be put into place if things were to continue in an orderly fashion. Quiet petitions saw the city incorporated, and mechanisms of government deemed necessary–a mayor, a town constabulary that also served as a fire brigade, and the like–were put into place. Thomas Meriwether was elected the first mayor, with Rolf Hochstedler being chosen to head the constabulary and Guerrero finding himself in the position of presiding over the municipal court. A formal school was set up, as well, the town hiring Guy LeBeaux to teach students what it was deemed needful for them to know of books and the world beyond the Hill Country. Guy, as would be expected, brought his family with him, too, and, at his pointed question about what the town would be called to which he was moving, was told “Pronghorn.” It was the first recorded instance of the name being applied to the town, and Thomas Meriwether would note in his journals that the name came to him in memory of his family’s salvation years before.

Even with increasing numbers of people coming into the area from outside it, though, Pronghorn remained dominated by the interests of the three early families: the Zapatas, the Hochstedlers, and the Smithersons. As the Civil War was won and Reconstruction followed close behind, as the country lurched into the Great War and through the Depression into the Second World War, as Korea and Vietnam changed the way wars were viewed, the city offices in Pronghorn–and the county offices that had to be built when Austin, for whatever reason, split off a new Pronghorn County–were held mostly by members of one of those families or another. A LeBeaux had a good chance at one of the more reader-friendly civic jobs, and the occasional other person might get lucky on Election Day, but the town remained–and still remains–largely the shared demesne of three families that, over time, became all but indistinguishable from one another. Only in the core lines of each, and only tenuously, are the three families distinct from one another, and that through familial tradition as much as anything else–but even they recognize they have a lot of cousins in the others’ houses, and keeping those cousins happy takes up a fair bit of time.

Not all of them receive the attention they think they deserve.

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Continuing from the previous chapter, here.

With the suitcases and trunk he had had in his car brought into his parents’ house, Asa sat in a plain chair in the guest room that had been given to him (given back, really; this used to be my room), looking out the window at the hills. This time of year, they were largely brown, their layered limestone covered in oak and mountain cedar, in mesquite and scrub brush, and in short grasses already feeling the lack of rain and the brunt of encroaching summer sunshine. Wildflower season was already long past, the glories of blue and red and yellow blooms stretching out to the horizon until the skies at sunrise and sunset bled into the ground muted now, browned in the oven still pre-heating for the broiling to come.

Looks like it’ll be a hot summer, thought Asa, but that’s not a surprise. He shook his head at the thought as a soft rumbling and a draft of cool air announced the workings of the air conditioner beginning again. When a knock at the room’s door punctuated the rumbling, he started.

Before he could answer, the door opened, and Asa’s mother trundled in, gray-haired head turning rapidly to take in how things were arranged in the room. “You’re settling in okay, honey? I know it’s not like it was when you headed off to school, but that’s been a while ago now.”

Asa stood. “Yes’m, I’m settling in alright. And I don’t mind the changes.” He looked at the walls, now in a seafoam green rather than the stark white (and smeared with oil from my hands and soot from burnt sticks I used to keep here) they had been when he was a boy, at the tasteful table and chest of drawers, the chair where he had been sitting. “They look nice, actually. I wish I’d had the good sense to decorate this way when I was young.”

His mother sat in the chair; Asa sat on the side of the bed. “You were a kid; of course you acted like a kid. Why wouldn’t you? But I’m glad you’re okay.”

She leaned forward. “You are okay, right?” Brown eyes looked into his own, wide under raised eyebrows.

Asa nodded again. “More or less, Mom. Not having work isn’t easy, no, and not having had much other than work makes that harder, but, yeah, I’m okay. More or less.”

Asa’s mother twisted her mouth, cocked her head, and dropped one eyebrow as she regarded her son. (Oh, God, that look!) “Asa.” Her voice, despite showing some hoariness, was still sharp. “Don’t blow smoke up my skirt.”

“Well, Mom, there’s not a lot to say about it.” There is, but you don’t want to hear it. “I’ve put in for jobs, but I haven’t gotten many responses–and no good ones. It’s not the best thing to hear only a little, and all of it bad, you know? And it’s not a mark of pride to have a doctorate and have only debt to show for it, either.”

“Asa, you know everything happens for a reason.”

“And sometimes the reason is that I’m an idiot.”

“That wasn’t what I mean, and you know it!”

“No, Mom, I knew what you meant.” And I know you meant well, but it doesn’t help. “But there’s only so happy you can expect me to be when things aren’t quite so good, right?”

“A bad attitude won’t help. It’s like with that one boy you used to know, that Richard.”

“What about him?” I haven’t thought about that kid in years.

“Well, even after all that happened to him, he kept on smiling and moving on, and look at him now. He’s got a job and a family, and he’s doing alright.”

“Is he, now?” Well, that makes me feel not at all better. He can do so well, and I’m stuck out of a job.

“Oh, yes. Maybe you ought to give him a call.”

“Why, Mom? We weren’t exactly friends when I was here before,” I wasn’t exactly friends with anyone, really, “and it’s been nearly twenty years I’ve been away.”

“It won’t hurt you to give him a call. I’ll get you his number.” Asa’s mother stood and left the room.

This is part of why I didn’t want to have to come back, Asa thought. I didn’t like the folks around here when I lived here; I didn’t like how they coasted by on family history or on the steroids or whatever it was the coaches would give them, and now Mom wants me to act like everything was happy and fun.

He sighed heavily and began muttering to himself. “Hell, Richard used to beat the shit out of me after school. I mean, I know his folks abused him badly, but, damn, he didn’t have to take it out on me. And those other assholes who used to help him–the Delgadillo boy and David Smitherson–they didn’t have even that much excuse. Both of ’em were spoiled little shits, getting by because their families helped found the town and still ran a damned lot; they had everything they could’ve asked for. Fuckers.”

Asa looked out at the browning limestone hills again, coughing a bit to clear his throat. But I probably ought to kiss up a bit, if I’m going to stay here for any length of time. The Zapatas and Smithersons probably still run half of town between them, and the Hochstedlers probably run another quarter, too. The Delgadillo boy–what was his name?–is kin to the Zapatas and Hochstedlers, both; he might know some people, and he might feel bad about being such a shit when he was a kid.

He shook his head at the thought and muttered aloud again. “Nah. If he had a conscience, it would’ve shown up a while back.”

The knock on the door sounded again, and Asa’s mother re-entered. “I’ve got that number. Give him a call, honey; you always did stay holed up too much, you know.”

Asa took the slip of paper she handed him. “I might do that, Mom. I just might.”

But probably not. I doubt it’d do me any good to try.

Did I bring you as much pleasure as a cup of coffee does? Half a cup? Could you kick in as much for me as you’d pay for that so that I can keep doing it? Click here, then, and thanks!

Drawing in a deep breath, holding it, and releasing it slowly, Asa Pemewan (PhD, not that that does a lot of good) knocked at an an old wooden door long familiar to him. Pier and beam flooring creaked in time with shuffling footsteps approaching the door from the other side, and a clattering of door-chains scraping and locks opening rattled at Asa’s ears before the door swung open, inward.

A weatherbeaten face not at root unlike Asa’s own–years of sun and wind and weather, and the years themselves, make changes–looked out at Asa, glancing up and down from atop thinning shoulders clad in a checkered shirt tucked into faded jeans behind a well-worn leather belt. A voice every bit as weatherbeaten grunted out “Trip okay, son?” as a large, gnarled hand stuck out.

Asa took it, his hand swallowed by his father’s ironwood grip for a moment before the older man pulled him in for a rib-crushing hug. Trying not to gasp, Asa answered “Fair t’middlin’, Pop,” falling back into the cadences of his youth (and how they would laugh to hear them, the bastards). Stepping back, he added “Long drive, but good weather for it. Coulda used some decent coffee, though.”

The old man snorted out a laugh. “Ain’t got that fancy milk crap they sell too damn many places anymore, but a reg’lar cup–we got that.”

From well in behind the door–and to the right–came another voice, that of Asa’s mother. “Of course we do, Asa, and your dad well knows it! Come on in and help yourself; you know where the cups and such are.”

“Yes’m” came the reply, and Asa’s father stood aside to let his son in, following him to the kitchen and pouring his own cup full after Asa had filled his.

Asa sat in one of the wooden chairs that had been around the kitchen table longer than he’d been breathing (and the table’s been around longer than that) and sighed in satisfaction after the first small swallow of steaming black brew. “How’re things here?”

Asa’s mother shut the oven door, dusted off her hands, and said “That’s what you ask me? ‘How’re things?’ and not ‘How’re y’all?'” But she smiled as she said it, and she hugged her son, kissing the top of his head.

“Well, then, how’re y’all?”

“I’m fine, honey. Still doin’ what I do. Your dad’s still doing his, too.” A nod from the older man confirmed the words to Asa, and another swallow of coffee allowed him not to have to say more. “Your sister’s still playing places in San Antonio, if you’re here long enough to get down there.”

Asa set down his cup. It was still half-full. “I think I will be, as it happens.”

Asa’s mother stepped back, eyes wide in surprise. Asa’s father’s coffee cup joined his son’s on the table–although it was empty. The older man asked “Really? Seems strange, coming from you.”

Asa nodded. “I know. And I know I ain’t been around much.” (I’ve got to stop this.) He drew a deep breath and released it. “But I don’t really have much choice at this point. The last teaching job didn’t work out, and nothing else there would take me on. Those that bothered to reply to me–and there weren’t many of them, maybe twenty out of two hundred fifty to three hundred–wouldn’t tell me why–and I asked. Oh, I asked. But I’d only get some line about ‘It was nothing you did; we had many excellent candidates,’ which is a lie but is the kind of lie that keeps things civil and keeps them from getting taken to court.” (Like I could ever afford a lawyer.) Asa realized his voice was rising as he went on; he picked up his cup and took another swallow of coffee.

When he went on, his voice was calmer. “Really, the only thing keeping me where I was was the job, and when it went away, I didn’t have any reason to stick around. So, after a while, I’m back here.”

Asa’s father leaned in a bit and asked “You got a job lined up here yet?”

“No, sir. Not yet, I’ve not. I’ve got a bit of money in savings, though, and some off-and-on work to do for a bit. It should hold me long enough to find something.”

Asa’s mother chimed in. “You will, honey. Something will come up. It has to come up, doesn’t it?”

Asa began to reply, but his father cut him off. “Got a place to stay lined up?”

Asa shrugged. “I was thinking the one motel for a day or two, until I could find something more permanent.”

“No” came from his mother. “That place is dirty, and we’ve got a spare room, yet.”

Asa began to feel himself flush. “Mom, you don’t need to–”

“You don’t need to tell me what I don’t need to do. You’re my son; of course you can stay here, and as long as you need to. Right, dear?”

Knowing the last was directed towards him, Asa’s father nodded. “I’ve got the paper in by my chair, if you wanna look at the want-ads. Can’t hurt.”

Asa nodded, tears welling up in his eyes. “Don’t get weepy, son. Ain’t time for that. It’s time for you t’get your act together, see what all’s there for you t’do. Your mom’s right; something’s gonna come up. It’s gotta.”

“Yes, sir.” (I still can’t help that part, can I?) Asa stood, then. “I suppose I ought to unload the car, then.”

Asa’s father stood, as well. “Need a hand?”

Asa shrugged. “I could use one, sure.”

Asa’s mother asked “What about your things? Surely you’ve got more than will fit in the car?”

Asa shrugged again. “I do, but I’ve got it in storage between here and the last place. I found a storage unit with decent rates and reviews. And it’s just stuff, anyway. All the heirlooms are still here.” He paused. “They are still here, right?”

“Oh, yes” from Asa’s mother. From his father, “You know we don’t really throw things away if they’ve still got some use in ’em. Or y’ought to. Been away too long, son.”

Asa nodded again. “I suppose you’re right.” (You do always seem to be.)

Asa’s father nodded in reply. “Well, let’s get your stuff in” and he proceeded to where Asa’s car was parked on the side of the dusty street. Asa followed.

I suppose it’s good to be home.

Did I bring you as much pleasure as a cup of coffee does? Half a cup? Could you kick in as much for me as you’d pay for that so that I can keep doing it? Click here, then, and thanks!