Continued from the previous chapter, here.

The next few days in Pronghorn saw much of the same as had Wednesday and Thursday. The people of the town gathered together to clean up the damage that had been left by the Tuesday Storm–and people were beginning to call it that, capital letters and all. Roads were cleared relatively quickly, with all that needed to be done being dragging wood from the streets and, for the larger pieces, cutting it with chainsaws that were kept in some numbers in local homes. Many houses and yards were similarly quickly restored, and roofing and window companies began to filter in to handle the damage that had been inflicted from on high. Many homes suddenly began to carry metal roofs where they had had shingles in need of repair, and many homes began to have well-fitted double-pane windows where they had had old single-pane panels to keep out the air and let in the light. Garbage service resumed, and while several families had to get rid of more than they would have liked to have done, they were able to do so, and other food, offered freely from neighbor to neighbor, took its place.

This is not to say, of course, that there were not people excluded from the general amity. Every town has people in it who do not fit in, and some of those do not do so because they do not want to do so. Pronghorn remembered such people after the Tuesday Storm, and they found themselves working alone to clear out their yards and driveways, or their freezers that had been opened while the power was out. Rufus Hochstedler was one of them; Asa Pemewan was far from the only one who had had him wave his gun about, and many had been more brusquely treated than he. “Deux” Lee LeBeaux–really Lee LeBeaux, Jr.–also found himself on the outs; his business largely catered to tourists, but his custom was stingy with the people in the town, and his treatment of workers, usually the youth of Pronghorn, was far from ideal. He should not have been surprised when the teenagers all quit after the storm, although he seemed to be.

It is also not to say that the only help that came to Pronghorn came from Pronghorn. The Red Cross sent trucks in with food–mostly military surplus rations, but easy and abundant–and cleaning supplies. The few big-box stores the town had–mostly on the outskirts, on Highway 411 towards San Antonio–sent in relief, as well, in building materials and furniture. (At least one of the managers marked some lumber as “destroyed by water” or “destroyed by hail” that was not; his only request was that he not be thanked aloud, but he did not buy his own drinks for a while afterwards.) Franchise restaurants–again, clustered on 411 towards San Antonio, with a few on 701 as it headed north out of town–ran deep discounts, supplemented by corporate offerings. And state and federal aid was available to be had, despite people’s complaints about the taxes that make them possible and conspiracy theorists’ rants about FEMA death camps.

Local government had a harder time of it than the populace, though. More damage had been done to city offices than had initially been thought–although a tree falling through the building is not insignificant, to be sure. Water had infiltrated quite a bit of the building, including records storage that had been retained on site rather than deposited at the college library. Some of the electronic records had also been affected by the loss of power and the intrusion of water; not all of them had been backed up to remote storage, so some contracts that had been under negotiation were lost. (It is certain that some city officials were not displeased at the results, whether because they had opposed the contracts or because they had been doing as those in office often do. And it is rumored that one person managed to win free of blackmail, although whether that was an accident or not is questionable.)

Anna Kerr had a spot of work of her own. Alone in town, one of her congregants had died in the Tuesday Storm, and so she alone of all the clergy had the solemn duty of preaching a funeral. Bartholomew Smitherson had been a figure of no mean influence and power in the town, and the church was filled to bursting by the throng of mourners. By all accounts, the ceremony was a calm and dignified affair, much in line with the public persona presented by the decedent. His wife had predeceased him (breast cancer), as had two children (one in combat, another as a drunk driver); three other children–the Chandlery manager, the honey plant manager, and an executive for Frost Bank in San Antonio–were in attendance, as were the children of the latter two, and the young granddaughter of the last. So were various collateral relatives, as well as the ostensible heads of the Zapata and Hochstedler families, Guillermo and Wilhelm, respectively. And tears were shed, of course, some sincerely and others clearly for show–for small towns make much of what is “supposed” to happen–both during the ceremony at the church and at the internment afterwards that followed the mile-long funeral procession.

At the graveside, the Chandlery manager received a folded flag; Bartholomew, as had many men of his generation, had been in the armed forces in his youth, though he spoke of it little. And the man himself was lowered into the ground beside his late wife and children, rejoining in the grave what had been parted in the world above. So the deed was done, and the people of Pronghorn worked each to return to some normalcy in the days that followed.

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Continued from the previous chapter, here.

Asa Pemewan drew a deep breath as he made to answer the questions the Reverend Anna Kerr had put to him. “The work yells at me, really,” he said. “Even now, I can’t help but see what’s on your bookshelves, and I keep thinking how to read what you read to get some idea about who you are and what you are. I keep looking for things we’ve both read, thinking about what the fact of our shared readership shows about the communities in which we participate entirely independently of where we are in the physical world. What your choice of words says about you and your history, and the history of the people who taught you to talk and to read, all of it and more floods on me at any given moment, and I can’t shut it off. It won’t be shut off; it is the lens through which I look at the world, bending all the light that reaches me and throwing some things into relief even as it hides other things from me entirely.”

He paused. “If the work you do is like that for you, then I understand, and I’ll not keep you from it. I couldn’t, in any event, and I’d be a kind of ass I try very much not to be if I made the attempt at doing so.” He stood to leave.

Anna stood, as well, and she came around her desk once again. Looking up at him, for he was slightly taller than her, she said “It is, and I’m glad you understand.” She reached up and kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll call you when things settle down a bit, and we’ll get that lunch. Or dinner. And we’ll split the check.”

Asa reached up to touch his cheek where she had kissed it. His eyes were wide, as if looking somewhere else. “Yeah.” His hand dropped, and his attention returned to where he was, where Anna stood. He nodded. “Yeah. That’ll be good. I’d like that a lot. A whole lot.” He made a short bow with his head and left, tripping over his feet a little as he did so, and making his way back to his teal hatchback in something of a daze.

Starting the car but sitting in it only, not yet driving, he thought That went…oddly. I’m not sure what to make of it. She seems interested, but I could be reading too much into that. I’ve done so more than once before. His mind flashed back to his undergraduate days. There was Allison; she gave me her phone number, and I thought she wanted to go out on a date. Turns out, she only wanted to set up a study session; she had a boyfriend. I wonder what happened with her.

He shook his head again, breaking his reverie. “Best not to think about it” he said aloud, and he put the car in gear. His stomach rumbled a bit as he did so, and as he left the church’s parking lot, turning back onto the street to head towards downtown, he said to himself “I do need to eat. I wonder if anything in town is open, or if I ought just to go back to the house and get something there.”

Driving on, Asa found more repair work in progress, and he saw that the Red Cross trucks that had passed him before were out distributing food and cleaning supplies to the people at work. Best head home, then. Here, I’d be in the way more than anything else, and that’s not what folks need at the moment.

When he reached his parents’ house, Asa took a look at his phone. Several texts had come in while he was out; he’d silenced his phone for the date that did not happen. One of them was from Art Martinez: “Checking to see if you weathered the storm. Let me know if you’re well.”

Asa smiled a bit. Of course an English professor punctuates texts he thought as he replied. “I’m well. Town’s messed up, though. Check on campus.”

A reply came quickly. “Main ofc. noted closure, no injuries. Have a paper to write anyway. Good to know you’re fine.”

Asa headed into the house. His mother noted his entrance. “You’re back quickly. What happened?”

“Anna had to work, as you might expect. We’re taking a raincheck; she says she would like to get together, but with the storm and the cleanup…”

“Well, that makes sense.”

“Red Cross is in town, too. They’re passing out food and such downtown. City hall’s trashed; a tree fell through it. Lots of businesses are going to be hurting, too. Windows are out in many, and Rufus Hochstedler’s store’s roof fell in.”

“I hadn’t heard that.”

“Yeah. I saw it when I drove by. Got a text from Art, too; he says the college is closed, but nobody got hurt there, so that much is good.”

“That is good.”

Asa’s father popped in at that point. “What’s good?”

“The college didn’t have anyone hurt by the storm. Campus is closed for cleanup.”

“Right.” Asa’s father paused. “Wait, what’re y’ doing home? Thought y’ had a date with Rev’nd Kerr.”

“She’s got to work. The storm, you know.”

He nodded. “Makes sense. Anything we can do to help?”

Asa shrugged. “Red Cross is in town. Might donate to them. Otherwise, staying out of the way’d probably be good.”

His father nodded again. “Also makes sense. And we’ll want to head to the city for groceries in the next few days. Power outage played hell with the coffin coolers in the stores here.”

“Did we lose any food?”

“Nope. Kept everything closed; it stayed cool. Not everyone did, though; neighbors found out their freezer doesn’t seal. Had most of a deer in there, too.”

Asa winced at the image that formed in his mind. Glad it wasn’t us.

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Continued from the previous chapter, here.

Asa Pemewan pulled into the parking lot of the church. As he did, he noticed that there was minimal damage to it; a few panels in the stained glass windows were cracked, and one seemed to have been punched out, and it was clear that the roof would need some work, but little else seemed to be wrong. The trees on the property had kept their greater branches and limbs; the shrubbery seemed disheveled but intact. The sound of a working air conditioner betrayed that the power remained on, as did the obvious flickering of a fluorescent light bulb that would soon need to be replaced.

Asa parked, exited his teal hatchback, and made his way up to the church building. The door was unlocked; he walked inside, and the prevailing quiet of the church on a day when no services were in session surprised him. I don’t know why it should be a shock, though, he thought. Churches are supposed to be places of reflection, places to hear Elijah’s “still small voice.” And Asa did hear voices, muted through walls and doors but still plain to his ears; he moved toward them, navigating halls he vaguely recalled from long-ago abortive attempts to join vacation Bible schools and youth groups. I never did fit in here, did I? And at this point, I doubt I ever will; I’ve been gone too long and changed too  much.

Soon enough, he came to a door marked “Pastor’s Office.” It was shut; he knocked, and Anna Kerr’s voice rang out “Come in,” so Asa did. “Oh, hi, Asa!” She stood and came around her desk, past messy bookshelves whose boards bent under the weight of volumes of commentary, translations of Scripture into and out of several languages, copies of holy texts from many other religions–Risky move, keeping a Qur’an in this part of the world, Asa thought–histories of Scotland, and knickknacks and tchotchkes of many different kinds and qualities. She stuck her hand out, Asa shook it, and she continued. “I’m glad you made it through the storm. Al and Matilda are okay?”

It took Asa a moment to recognize his parents’ names. He nodded. “They are. But I was sorry to hear about Bartholomew Smitherson.”

He sat as Anna gestured, and she resumed her seat behind her desk. “I was, too,” she said. “We didn’t always agree–which was good; I don’t want my congregants not to think–but he was a solid member of the church. I’m working on the services we’ll have; I’ve heard a bit from the family. Not much, as you might expect, but a little. The funeral’ll be here; he’ll be buried on the family land north of town, so far’s I know.”

Asa nodded again. “Makes sense. I’m waiting to hear from them, myself; Bartholomew’d hired me Tuesday before the storm. Now I don’t know if I have a job or not.”

“I suppose I’d better buy lunch, then.”

Asa shook his head. “That’s not why I said that, and I’ve got some other leads at the moment; I can buy. I asked you out, remember?”

“Yeah, about that…”

Asa sighed. “I figured we’d need to reschedule. Not much is open in town right now–or it wasn’t when I drove through.”

“I haven’t had a chance to look.”

“There’s a lot of cleanup that needs doing. A lot of it’s in progress, but downtown got hammered pretty badly. City offices have a tree through the wall. Rufus Hochstedler’s store’s roof fell in. Other places have windows out, and I imagine the power going out will have hurt a lot of the local eateries and such.”

Anna winced. “I thought as much. The church sent what it could with the Red Cross.”

“I saw the trucks roll by, coming from this way. I’m glad you could help them.”

“I’ve actually been emailing back and forth with the bishop’s office. There’s a bit of an aid fund that the local conference maintains; I’m trying to get some of it sent this way to help with recovery. We’re not the only town that got hit, though, and there’re other concerns in the area, so it’s not going as well as might be hoped.”

“I hope the bishop sees clear to help.”

“Me, too. And I hope we’ll be able to get together sometime when the skies haven’t been falling.”

“But that won’t be today, I know. And I’ll not keep you, Reverend. But I really would like to get together sometime. I mean it when I say I’d like to get to know you better.”

She looked at him levelly. Oh, hell. “I mean,” he found himself stammering, “I’d guess you get that quite a bit, people saying they want to get to know you better. Maybe they mean it. Maybe I protest so much.” His pace quickened as he spoke on; Kerr continued to look at him levelly, and Asa lapsed into silence.

After a moment, just before the urge to flee became irresistible for Asa, the reverend said “Actually, Asa, I don’t. Most of the people I meet are either already committed or are somehow intimidated by the fact of my collar–when I wear it. And I can tell you’re nervous, too. But I’m glad that you’re asking; it’s nice to know someone sees me as being at least a little more than the job, even if it’s not necessarily the way I’d most like to be seen.”

Asa felt himself blushing mightily as Kerr continued. “And, truth be told, I’d like to get to know you better, too. I really would. But from what I hear, what I know about people who’ve been in academic life, you’re called to do the work you do–just as I’m called to this. And today, at least, I need to work on this. People need help, and I’m called to help them. Just like you’re called to the work you do.

“You are called to it, aren’t you? Even knowing that you are where you are, the work you’ve trained to do, studied to do, it calls to you, asking to be done, doesn’t it?”

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Continued from the previous chapter, here.

The next day saw Asa Pemewan rise early and take care dressing once again. He skipped a tie, for he was not going to look for work that day, but he did have an appointment he wanted to keep. Provided it is still going to happen, he thought. I imagine Anna has a fair bit to do right now.

After dressing , Asa checked his emails, noting that a few more job applications he had put in before had been rejected. No surprises there. The doctorate seems to be working against me every way I turn, anyway.

That done, Asa made to place a phone call. A quick online search revealed the number he would need to call: that of the Smitherson Chandlery. He dialed, and the phone rang once…twice…thrice…a fourth time…and voicemail picked up. The recorded voice was cheerful, with a lilting cadence.

“Thank you for calling the Smitherson Chandlery. We can’t currently make it to the phone, but if you’ll leave your name, your number, and a brief message, we’ll return your call as soon as we can.”

The expected beep followed, and Asa cleared his throat before saying “This is Asa Pemewan calling. I heard about Bartholomew’s passing, and I wanted to extend my sympathies to the family for the loss. Please do let me know what, if anything, I can do to help.” He left his phone number and hung up. Puts it in their court. And if I don’t hear back, I’ll head to the one office on Monday, and the Chandlery if it’s not open.

Several hours remained for Asa before his appointment–lunch date–with Reverend Anna Kerr. Asa took the opportunity to drive around the town, looking at what the Tuesday storm had done and how the people were recovering from it. Pronghorn Creek was still swollen, of course, with several of the local bridges–low-water crossings, really–still closed off. It was clear that at least one person had sought unsuccessfully to get around the black-and-orange barricades that had been placed to stop people from driving into the running water; a waterlogged truck stood with its doors open, clearly having been dragged up onto the bank of the northern branch of the creek. I hope the people who were in it’re okay, even if they’re idiots, thought Asa as he turned his teal hatchback around and continued.

Some of the roads in town still had tree branches fallen across them. Others had been cleared of larger debris, although twigs and leaves and fragments of bark and splintered wood still festooned the pavement across much of the town. The city offices themselves were being frantically repaired; a tree had fallen into the building, curving one wall inward, and many of the panes of glass that had let civil servants look out over Pronghorn had been shattered. Many of the storefronts Asa had gone into over the past days were similarly broken, sheets of plywood going up to keep out the weather now that the storm had passed. He could not help but smile a bit as he drove past Rufus Hochstedler’s antiques store, the roof of which had clearly collapsed into the showroom. The Browning didn’t do you much good, did it, you asshole?

Asa caught himself thinking thus uncharitably and shook his head as he drove on. I really shouldn’t be happy about it. Rufus might be an ass, but maybe his family isn’t, and they suffer if his business does badly. Driving further, he found crews at work clearing debris from roads and yards, and the schools–he was able to drive past both–seemed to be clearing. Fortunately, the public schools were out of session, and the college was only lightly attended at this time of year. I hope Sergeant Gonzales is okay, he thought as he drove by Pronghorn Community College. I figure Art is, off in San Antone.

Asa found himself thinking back to graduate school, where he had met Arturo and the two had been fast friends. He smiled thinking of one conference they had attended together, each wearing a shirt that had the other’s face emblazoned on it–each advertising for the other. There was another that had seen them get extravagantly drunk at lunch in San Angelo–and while a high-school language competition was going on at Angelo State University. Art painted two or three of them an interesting series of colors, then. And there were others when the two of them…

Another head-shake dispelled the thought. Not the kind of thing to have in mind with what I’m about to do, I think. And those days are long behind me, too. He glanced at the clock in his instrument panel. And it’s getting to be time for me to go to church and see if Anna is still up for lunch with me. And if anything’s open today; I haven’t seen a lot of places ready for customers.

A red light called Asa to stop. Trucks from the Red Cross drove past him as he waited for the light to change. It’s good to see them now thought Asa, and when the light changed again, he pulled out, turning left, whence they had come. I hope they do some good for the folks here.

And I’m glad that I’m not in a position to need them. Much as I do need, that kind of thing’s not part of it. Asa cleared his throat again as he proceeded towards the church his parents attended, ready to pick up the preacher, his heart beginning to race as he went on. I don’t know why I’m so nervous. It’s just lunch, after all. Even if it is with a good-looking woman.

Asa shook his head yet again, driving on.

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Continued from the previous chapter, here.

Asa Pemewan looked up from where he was helping his father clear branches from the back yard. “I’m still not sure what all I need to do. It’s not exactly a normal situation, you know.”

“Well,” his father replied, “there’re still branches for y’ to pick up. If y’ can’t get that one,” and he gestured towards a particularly large tree limb that had fallen into the yard, “then I’ll help y’. But it’s really just lift-and-carry work.”

“Not that. The job thing.”

“Oh. Right. It isn’t a usual thing, no. And I’ve never run into it, really. Never have had a boss die on me before I went to work. Hell,” and he puled on a tree limb of his own, “never had one die on me yet. Quit, sure, or get transferred or fired. One got arrested; tried to hire a high school girl as a hooker, I think. But never died on me.”

“I didn’t think so.” Asa had moved over to the indicated limb and begun to tug on it. In between the efforts, he added. “I don’t think a lot of people have, actually. So I’m not sure where to look for insight. Not that I can do a lot of looking at the moment.”

Asa’s father said nothing in reply, only nodding as he continued his clean-up work. Asa pressed on. “It’s the kind of thing that I run into a fair bit, actually. Folks have this idea that you can Google any damned thing, just punch in a few keystrokes and reveal all the information in the world. But it doesn’t work that way. Some stuff is online but doesn’t show up on Google. And while some of that’s the kind of thing you hear about in the news–child porn, drug trafficking, how to buy your politicians, and the like–a lot of it’s not. Like what the etiquette is for job offers made by somebody who dies before the offer can be taken up.”

Asa struggled a bit more with his limb, dragging it across the yard to the pile of brush and other assorted debris that was growing in one corner of the Pemewan backyard. “Or what the etiquette is for a date that was scheduled before a storm rolls through and wrecks a lot of the town.”

His father grunted out among his own exertions “Yeah, I’d wondered about that, too. I’ven’t heard that the church was damaged at all, and I think Rev’nd Kerr lives on site; I know there’s a parsonage, and I think she uses it. But, yeah, y’ll prob’ly still need to drop by and see if y’re still on–and offer to help if y’re not.” He heaved on the fallen branches and other assorted detritus. “I imagine a preacher’d appreciate having the help.”

Asa nodded. “Who wouldn’t? But it is strange that I’d be on a date, let alone a date with a minister. It’s been a long time since I was possessed of any great religious feeling.”

“I know, but I don’t know why. Y’ used to be eager for church, y’ know, more so than y’r mother and me. Not because we doubted, mind, but because working makes folk tired–and, well, son, y’ were a little shit as a kid. I loved y’, and I still do, but y’ were a pain the in ass when y’ were growing up.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Y’re welcome. Thought y’ deserved honesty at this point in y’r life.”

“Like I said, thanks.”

The two men worked without words for a time, but not silently; both grunted and groaned frequently as they bent their backs to clearing the yard of debris. They continued in the same way as they moved to the front yard, grimacing at the sucking mud that much of the yards had become. But they continued, and they saw many others at the houses nearby doing much the same thing. A few encouraging words were exchanged among them, fathers and sons and daughters–but few mothers, if any–working to clean up what the storm had disturbed.

At one point, a man from down the street whom Asa did not recognize but his father did came down and asked to borrow a chainsaw; a tree had fallen through his roof, and he was working to remove it. Asa and his father followed the man back to his home, where his young daughter, perhaps two and a half years old, was crying and his wife, her mother, tried to comfort and quiet her; the three men worked to cut the tree into manageable pieces and remove them from the house, and others who lived on the street found tarps and pieces of plywood that had been held in garages and shed for projects that would be done “someday.” They did not make a perfect seal, to be sure, but they made enough of a barrier to keep out the sun and the rain. “And it’ll be like camping in the forests, like in the fairy tales,” Asa told the girl, and she nodded, although tears still streamed down her plump and reddened cheeks.

Amid the work, Asa had little enough time to think about his own problems. Taking care of others’ often has such an effect. It also often puts a person’s own problems into relief. Asa knew that things could be better for him–they can be better for everyone, really–but he was also being reminded a bit of the perspective into which to place his problems. And when, at around half past five, the power came back on–the sudden lurching into life of a street’s worth of air conditioners sang in polyphonic tenors of electricity’s return–his voice joined the general cheering. After all, cool air–both in the home and in the refrigerator around beers chilling down–is a welcome thing after a long working day.

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Continued from the previous chapter, here.

The next morning, Asa Pemewan woke in darkness. The air was still and humid, although cool. He padded through the house and saw no lights on in it, and he thought The power must be out. Makes sense.

Another thought stopped him where he stood. Damn. Coffee pot’s electric.

The bubbling sounds of a percolator heating up reached him then, and Asa stepped into the kitchen. His father stood by the stove–a gas appliance, fortunately–with a lighter in hand. A couple of candles were on the kitchen table, flickering with the currents driven by Asa walking in. “Mornin’, son.”

“I guess the storm knocked out the power.”

“Seems that way. Whole block’s dark. Been hearing sirens off and on, too. Heard a whole lot of ’em overnight. Cops, fire, EMS. Heard a chopper, too. Somebody’s had a real bad evenin’.”

“We have any branches down?”

Asa’s father nodded. “Couple out in the back yard. Nothin’ too big, though, and nothin’ on the house. You got a crack in your windshield, though, and we’ve all got dents all over hell. Gonna have to get the roof inspected again. Damn shame, too; had a new one put on just a couple, three years ago.”

“Is it still under warranty?”

“Maybe. Not likely, though.” He snorted. “My luck, it ran out Monday.”

Asa made a non-committal noise and shook his head. We’ll not talk about my luck. After a moment, he asked “Do y’all have a weather radio?”

“Got a hand-crank jobbie under the sink, I think. Gets other stations, too.”

Asa nodded and rummaged around in the indicated cabinet. He soon found the object of the search: a combination radio/flashlight/lantern, powered by a hand-crank. Asa began to work the device, and although his hand soon cramped around the small handle, he soon had a crackle of static and coherent voices coming out of it.

“–are down throughout much of Pronghorn County. Several traffic accidents took place during last night’s storm, with several people taken to San Antonio for treatment. One man, identified as Bartholomew Smitherson, has died as a result of one such accident. He had been taken by helicopter to University Hospital in San Antonio after being caught in the middle of a multiple-vehicle accident around eleven o’clock last night. Police reports suggest that a tree branch fell onto West Second Street in Pronghorn, causing a pickup truck to swerve to avoid it; the driver of the truck lost control and hydroplaned into Smitherson’s vehicle, knocking it in turn into oncoming traffic. Smitherson stood at the nexus of several family businesses and was a figure of influence in Pronghorn; how his death will affect several business deals is uncertain.”

“Fuck!” exclaimed Asa, and his father turned, saying quietly and forcefully through gritted teeth “Keep y’r voice down! Y’r mother’s still sleeping!”

“No, she’s not.” Asa’s mother spoke from behind him, and he started, dropping the radio. “And what’s the ‘fuck’ about?”

Asa stooped to scoop up the radio that still cracked with reports of the night’s storm damage and changes to the stock market. Standing again, he answered “Bartholomew Smitherson was killed. He was also the one who hired me; I was going to start work for him on Monday. Now, though, I don’t know what’ll happen–and I can’t really ask his businesses. I get the impression they’re all family-owned, and they’ll have a lot else on their minds right now.”

“Well, yeah, they will. And I imagine there’ll be a big to-do at the church about it, too; Smitherson was heavily involved, as you might have noticed. He doesn’t–didn’t care much for Reverend Kerr, I know, but she tried to reach out to him and keep him included.” Asa’s mother nodded as she spoke. His father poured cups of coffee from the percolator.

“I wasn’t aware of the strife” said Asa as he accepted a cup of bitter black brew and sipped at it.

“No reason you would’ve been, since you’ve not been involved in the church or the tow for some time. But if you were going to be sweet on Kerr, you might not’ve done well to work for the man.”

“Why didn’t he like her?”

“Oh, the usual bit for folks of his age. Doesn’t–didn’t think women ought to be preaching; says so in the Bible–1 Timothy, as I recall, not that that comes out of Jesus’s mouth. Didn’t think we ought to be even polite to gays; says so in the Bible.” Asa’s mother shrugged. “Didn’t think a lot of things ought to be that ought to be. But he donated a lot to the church, and he did a lot of work with it, especially after his wife died.”

“When’d that happen?”

“Two years after you left for school. I only knew about it because of the papers and your sister. She had apparently made a friend in Smitherson’s daughter, clever girl, and used it to get some paying work in San Antonio. She also let me know some of what all she figured out, so that was interesting.”

“Hm.” Asa sipped at his coffee again. “Well, I suppose I ought to see about doing something. Looking for work will have to wait, of course, but there’s stuff to do here, to be sure.”

Asa’s father chimed in. “I appreciate it, but drink y’r coffee first. And have y’ got boots? Today, you’ll want ’em.”

“I’d have to look, but I don’t know. I think not.”

“I might have a pair y’can borrow. But I mean it. Finish y’r coffee. Seen y’ try to work without it before. Nobody ought to have to see that twice.”

Asa shook his head at his father. He also took another sip of coffee.

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Continued from the previous chapter, here.

The storm that broke upon Pronghorn that Tuesday was not the fiercest or most destructive that the town had seen. There was hail damage in plenty, to be sure, and no small amount of wind damage to be found, but no catastrophic damage befell the town, and only one fatality was recorded–and that was because of drivers handling the road poorly rather than the direct effect of the storm. Those who had been in the town for a couple of decades before that Tuesday might think back to the summer of 2002, when a low-pressure system sat over the Hill Country and spun. Kerrville, a couple of counties away, saw some 51 inches of rain fall in three days, which, combined with other factors, flooded parts of the town and washed away houses; a similar amount of rain fell in Pronghorn, and with similar effect on the southern parts of town. (The town north of Pronghorn Creek stands well above the normal level of the flowing water.)

Those who had been around a bit longer might think back to May 1995, when a system of storms trained just upstream of Pronghorn on the creek and water did rise high enough to lap at the buildings on the north side of the creek. Cleanup took quite a while afterwards, and even as late as 2010, the corpses of some houses ruined in the flood still stood in the southern parts of town, their ribs bleaching in the Hill Country summer sunlight, only to blacken with rot and mildew in the wetter parts of each year.

Those who recalled a generation before might think back to October 1973. It is rare that the Hill Country sees a tornado; something about the shapes of the limestone hills seems to keep them from happening. Usually. October 1973, however, was not so fortunate a time. No fewer than five tornadoes came through town that month, and although each was relatively small and weak so far as such things go, the people of Pronghorn were utterly unprepared for such a thing. And why not? The Zapatas, who have been in the area longer than any others–although they were not the first to live on the land, to be sure–and have kept reasonably detailed records across that time, only note three prior instances of tornadic activity, and that in some three centuries; once in a hundred years is not a rate that invites a lot of worry for most folks.

Those same records, as well as the minds of those who had lived the longest lives in the town, attest that the worst storm to befall Pronghorn happened in August 1938. It began as a windstorm more than anything else; the hot, dry air that normally smothered the town in August was whipped into a frenzy by strange weather away to the west. It remained hot and dry, to be sure, but such air does different things when pushed at sixty miles an hour or so across several hours than it does when it hangs hazily under the hot sun–and Pronghorn got to see some of those things. One of them was a propensity towards fire, and, as might be expected and feared, fires broke out all around town. The Smitherson Chandlery stood strong, of course, as did the Hochstedler Saloon and a few other choice buildings. but a lot of others burned to the ground or close enough, and not even ash remained in the following wind. Buckets were of no avail, and such fire engines as the town then boasted–two, and old–did not suffice, either. So when dark clouds built on the the western horizon and approached, they were greeted with eagerness and joy.

Neither lasted long in the event. The rain they brought was like the rain that would fall again in 1995 or 2002, pounding and opaque. Its fall did not stop the blowing winds or even slow them, but instead was pushed by it into cold and cutting jets that masked the smaller hailstones that fell–and not the larger ones that bruised and bloodied where they battered at the people whose homes were now gone or who fought to keep more from being consumed by flames; several of them that had been saved from the fire were torn down by the wind and what it carried, or holes were punched through windows and shutters and roofs. Many bones were broken by the force of wind-driven ice. One young woman, Agatha Reynolds, was blinded, shards of ice smiting her full in the face and piercing her eyelids; she sustained other injuries, as well, but none so severe as the loss of both eyes. A middle-aged man, Rodrigo Zapata, was killed by the ice, or so it is thought–although if it was a hailstone that killed him, it was the size of a grapefruit; he was found dead, the top back of his skull caved in much like those who died of wounds in old wars, when the weapons of the day were swords and maces. Admittedly, Rodrigo was far from popular in the town, but the idea that someone would brave the storm with a large hammer or a random cannonball defies belief.

It is because memory of the 1938 storm remains alive that the people of Pronghorn have the perspective on storms that they do; they are respectful of each that rolls into town, but they doubt that they will see such a thing again. For the most part; there are some who fear that kind of storm will come again, and they are not at all certain that the town will survive a second one–or that, if it survives, there will not be more like Agatha.

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Continued from the previous chapter, here.

As Asa Pemewan drove to his parents’ house, he noticed that the western skies were heavy and gray. The wind began to push at his hatchback, and Asa gripped the steering wheel more tightly, his forearms tensing. The many pickups on the road with him had more trouble; each gust pushed them hard against the double yellow line at the middle of the road, and each correction against the wind took the trucks a little closer to the dashed or solid white lines to their right. Asa eyed them warily as he drove on, glancing among them, the road ahead, and the growing storm away to the west.

By long custom, a good rain is always welcome in the Hill Country (as is a new calf, but that’s a different thing). Year after year of hot, dry summers–seventy days or more with temperatures above 100°F (37°C for friends in SI) that soak into the limestone and granite that undergird the oak and cedar and mesquite so that even the nights bake from below, and not even the ghost of rain unless it is the kind of downpour that floods and sweeps away school buses full of children or houses that have stood for a hundred years–and the certain glory of green and bloom that follow the wet assure it. And there is much in the way of good rain that falls in the hills of which Alan E. Craven wrote; gentle soaking rain falls in the winter and the spring, some years more than others, and the fall will get drenched in half-days that keep children inside for the whole of them.

But there are also the remnants of hurricanes that come and sit and spin and drop in three days more rain than otherwise falls in a year. And there are thunderstorms of peculiar ferocity that sweep in from the northwest, perhaps funneled by the hills or responding to some long-ago machinations of those who are now gone even in memory, bringing opaque curtains of falling water and, as often as not, hail in sizes that bespeak whole produce sections. Pea-size, grape-size, pecan-size and walnut, and even up to the sizes of apples and oranges or sweet Texas onions, or the ruby red grapefruit of the fertile Rio Grande Valley–and sometimes bigger, although not often.

Such storms break upon the hills with loud fury, rolling thunder that does not die away, but rattles doors and windows in rapid cadence amid dazzling shows of electric lights from heaven. The cascades of hail that fall sheet the ground in granulated white that lingers for a time and vanishes save for the pockmarks in sheet-metal and cracks in glass and holes punched through shingles that accompany its coming. The wind rages among the rolling limestone hills and granite intrusions, voiceless but loud enough to drown out speech, and fragrant cedars and sturdy oaks split when they hear its words. And the rain gathers, hiding from view the rough and vital vistas that are the Hill Country’s fancy clothing, coming to ground and, when it cannot percolate through the porous stone, running off in rivulets that join with creeks and rivers and swell them in moments from tiny trickles to terrible torrents that rise twenty feet in the time it takes to turn away and back again, flashing forth as floods that cannot be opposed and are not always avoided.

Such a storm is what Asa saw coming as he drove home from the Chandlery, and while he knew what it would do and that he would like as not be fine–for he was in Pronghorn raised, and he had seen such storms before, many times–he still was wary. For he had seen such storms before, and he knew that each might be but a passing thing, but he knew what could be left behind in its passing. He remembered seeing the news reports of Comfort in 1987, when children died, though Comfort stands some miles from Pronghorn, and Pronghorn Creek is not the Guadalupe. He knew of others, families flooded out, homes and businesses ruined, lives lost–the last sometimes from folly, true, but sometimes from what must seem fate going as ever it must. And he knew that the other drivers on the road, locals mostly, would know what he knew, and they would be as eager to be in place as he was–but the winds were not so kind to trucks meant to cross above rugged terrain as to his low-profiled hatchback, and the trucks would not be kind, either.

So Asa hastened as he could, dodging the larger vehicles as he could and letting them pass uncontested when he could not, going so quickly as the beginning rain would allow, and cringing when the first low-pitched plinking began to sound above him. The sounds sharpened as he drove along, hailstones falling more frequently and faster and larger, cracking on his car’s roof and windshield and windows with sounds like nuts under hammers, and he waited for the glass before him and about him to shatter as he saw quarter-sized chunks of ice bounce through sheets of water and the frantically insufficient swiping of his windshield wipers.

And when he reached his parents’ home, Asa ran from car to door, hands and arms shielding his head–and fortunately enough, for he could feel the bruises begin amid sharp, cold shocks upon him. But he was safe and sound, and not even his skin was broken by the battering. Towels had been left beside the door, and Asa took one, drying himself as he looked back out to see the world had been swallowed by a darkening pale gray, muted by the hiss and crack of falling water liquid and solid. He waited for what would come.

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Continued from the previous chapter, here.

As Asa Pemewan walked into the Smitherson Chandlery, a wave of smells crashed upon him, scents flooding up his nose and soaking into his skin. Bouquets of flowers familiar–roses, orchids, bluebonnets–and less so interwove with spices–cinnamon, vanilla, nutmeg, clove, allspice–and other smells–leather, whiskey, pipe tobacco, fine paper, linen–and Asa quickly realized that his sinuses were beginning to plan mutiny and desertion. This was not a good idea, he thought, but I have to find a job, and I might get used to it. So he pressed ahead, walking towards the back of the store.

As he did, he began to hear a familiar hoary voice. It was speaking of needed reports as Asa slowly advanced, almost creeping, and saw Bartholomew Smitherson standing at the sales counter, speaking with a middle-aged woman who favored his own appearance: lean and gray, slightly built and taller, and with keen eyes. She saw him and said “Welcome to Smitherson Chandlery! How can I help you?” When she did, Bartholomew turned, and the wrinkles on his face deepened in a frown. Asa felt himself flush in embarrassment and, more quietly than he had intended, replied “I saw the help wanted ad in the Proclaimer and thought I might put in for the position.”

Bartholomew made a dismissive noise. “If you’d rather have this job than the one with me, Mr. Pemewan, you’re welcome to it.”

The woman turned to Bartholomew. “He applied with you, Papa?”

“Yes, and I had been favorably inclined toward him. But if he’d rather be working elsewhere…”

“With respect, sir,” Asa put in, finding his voice again, “you gave me no indication of being favored, and I think I can hardly be blamed for trying to better my lot instead of waiting for a decision.”

The woman chuckled a bit. “Seems like a go-getter, Papa. Not as many of those around here as there used to be, you know.”

Bartholomew made another dismissive noise. “It would be better had he a civil tongue in his head.”

“And what’d he say that was out of line, Papa? It was honest, and I recall why your last assistant was asked to leave. Don’t you?”

“Yes, well…” Bartholomew trailed off and stood quietly for a moment. “I’m still not sure I can have someone on hand who skulks about as Mr. Pemewan here did. You saw him turn red as he came up, did you not? You heard him speak quietly, as if abashed? And if he was abashed, it is because he knew he was sneaking about like some, some common, base…hooligan. It’s hardly the kind of behavior I can countenance, and hardly the kind of thing that the family would benefit from supporting.”

The daughter continued to press on her father. “What if, Papa, he was simply embarrassed about being out of work in the first place? You value work, as has the central Smitherson line since time immemorial. If Mr. Pemewan here is familiar with Pronghorn at all–”

“He is, if his resume is at all to be trusted. As well as a few telephone calls I’ve made over the past day.”

“–then he’ll know that well. How could he not be a bit abashed that he isn’t at the moment gainfully employed? But you could help him with that, I think. And haven’t we Smithersons benefited from others giving us a chance? Haven’t you, personally, Papa?”

Bartholomew lapsed into silence for a moment, folding his arms and frowning more deeply. “Alright, then, my dear. I’ll call the newspaper and tell them to cancel my advertisement. Mr. Pemewan, the position is yours–unless you would rather work here.”

Asa looked between father and daughter. “I haven’t applied for the Chandlery job yet, Mr. Smitherson.”

The daughter gave another chuckle, while Bartholomew offered an arch look. “Very well, then. I shall expect you promptly at eight on Monday morning. And unless you plan on making a purchase, I shall need you to leave. I have more to discuss with my daughter and no need for an audience.”

Asa, suddenly smiling, stammered out a “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir!” as he gave a little awkward bob of his head and made his exit. He nearly skipped back to his car, despite the heat, and he smiled the whole way back to it. I can hardly believe it worked out for me, he thought. And it almost didn’t. Had the daughter–what was her name?–not interceded, I’d still be looking. I suppose I owe her a thank-you.

A sudden thought took ASA as he reached his car. I think I also owe Mr. Smitherson one. Damn! I was supposed to do that yesterday. I guess I know what comes next. He smiled again as he got into his car. But that’s not a problem at all.

I wonder what Anna will think about it, he thought as he started the car and put it into gear. And what does it say about me that I am wondering about her opinion? I’m infatuated, I guess, which is damned foolish; I’ve only met her twice, and we’re just having lunch. It’s not like we’re married or anything.

The loud honking of an approaching car’s horn broke his reverie. Asa clamped his hands onto the wheel and returned his full attention to the road. As he drove, though, a smile crept onto his face. Soon enough, though, it fell once again. I never really have good luck for any length of time. Something is coming, something will screw things up, and the better things look for me now, the worse it’ll be. It always is.

It always is for me.

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Continued from the previous chapter, here.

Asa Pemewan woke with his head on his laptop’s keyboard as the alarm on his cell phone rang him to wakefulness. His neck and back were stiff, and the smell of himself in the clothes he had worn the day before struck him as strange and unpleasant. A need to visit the toilet struck him in the crotch with great force, and he hustled that way as quickly as his body, suffering the effects of poor sleep in an uncomfortable position, would allow him to go. As with the previous day, though, he found the bathroom occupied when he arrived, and he soon found himself standing with legs painfully crossed, hoping to hold back the flood he knew would soon come.

Asa’s father emerged from the bathroom, and Asa pushed by him, more brusquely than he had perhaps intended, almost not reaching a safe place in which to let go of what he was carrying. But he did reach his goal, and he avoided incident in doing so, albeit narrowly.

That done and Asa having restored himself therefrom, he skulked back to the bedroom that had been his and was again, gathering together a new change of clothes and returning to the bathroom. After a shower and a shave, he felt better, and he dressed swiftly. Thence he grabbed a cup of coffee while he toasted bread to eat for breakfast, and when the toast was done, he ate it swiftly. All the while, Al looked on, and Matilda emerged, and both of them looked at their son with concern. For he spoke little who was normally prolix, and his replies were terse and flat, one or two words each delivered in a monotone. None were rude, as such, but none were engaged or engaging.

His breakfast eaten, Asa cleared his place and returned to his bedroom to gather up more copies of his resume; he said nothing as he did so. When he left the house with them in hand, he said only “Goodbye” to his parents. He remained taciturn as he got into his car and drove into Pronghorn to apply to more jobs. He drove past the Chandlery, slowing down only in response to a traffic light and to the traffic just returning to motion at its changing. He pulled in and parked on East Water and began to make his way down it as he had North Main and East First the day before. And he had much the same results, visiting small restaurants and shops and having his resume taken but no offers made in earnest, and not even much talk about them. Bars still closed taunted him as he walked, and the manager at the Red Eye, the one bar actually open at that time of the morning–near the college, it catered to rowdier students and third-shift police and hospital workers–took one look at Asa, no look at his resume, and said “I can’t use you, and I don’t think any of the other bars can, either.”

A small grocery store in an old building, one that seemed to cater to tourists–well-heeled tourists, to judge from the prices Asa saw, did much the same thing as the bar had. But where the manager at the Red Eye was gruffly sympathetic, the manager at the store with the incongruous name of “L’Epicure” was strangely angry. Looking over the tops of her glasses, she said through her nose “I really don’t think that you have the skills to do what we would need done. I mean, it’s clear to me that you don’t have the experience serving our particular clientele that you would need to be successful here, and I can’t take on anyone who can’t already be successful. I have a business to run, you know, and I can’t be bothered by someone who wasted his life getting degrees nobody cares about. I mean, I bet you think your’re some kind of smart guy, Mr. ‘I Have a PhD; Look at Me, Special Me,’ but you’re clearly desperate, or you wouldn’t be trying to work here–as if this were just some grocery store. If you want that, go to the old market off of Fourth.”

Asa smiled woodenly. “Thank you, ma’am,” he offered, and he left.

Asa pressed on the rest of the way down the block, calling on each of the businesses along the water that were open; many were still closed on the day or closed for the day entirely. Each that was open looked at Asa–dressed again in slacks, button-up shirt, and tie, despite the warmth that was already again sliding into being heat–and at his resume, and as they scanned down the latter document, past the skills list and details about freelancing, past the teaching positions, and down at last to the education entries, they shook their heads and said some variant of “No” or “We’ll get back to you”–which might as well be “no,” given how few seem to get back to those they say they will.

Asa walked back up the street to retrieve his car. He could feel his armpits sweating into his undershirt, and he could feel moisture gathering in his crotch as he went, the sunny Hill Country day working on him through layers of clothing. He crossed North Main when traffic and signals allowed, walking over to the beginning of West Water and trying to put in for work at the few businesses there. Most of the buildings were empty, though, or houses instead of the businesses they had been built to be. But the Hochstedler Saloon still filled one large building, despite being closed, and the Chandlery doors were wide open on all sides.

After pausing in front of it for a few moments and looking up and down West Water Street, Asa shrugged and went inside.

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