Three

      “It wasn’t the smartest thing you could do. But at the same time I don’t blame you. That rooster deserved becoming soup.”

      Hugh attached Esmerelda Calderone’s loading receipt to the clipboard on the wall and reached for a brown grocery sack sturdy enough to hold five pounds of chicken scratch. He began scooping from the larger bins framing both sides of the warehouse doors, while trying to-shut out the feeble crone’s voice. She might be only their fourth customer of the day, but at the same time she was the fourth to think she had a right to comment upon his return to Redoubt.

      “You were always a good boy, Hugh Blackstone. And everyone knows who was the bad hombre when young Marsden died. Bad, bad blood in that one.”

      Hugh kept measuring and scooping. Before long the sun was going to be inching into the warehouse; and the temperatures would climb high enough to slow-bake his brains. He hoped the humpbacked woman was gone by then, otherwise he couldn’t guarantee to hold his tongue. As it was, he was tempted to tell her that she should save her breath because he didn’t give a damn what anyone thought anymore.

      “How are your grandsons, Mrs. C.?” If he couldn’t stop her one way, at least he could redirect her focus.

      She raised an arm that was almost as thin as the handle on the push broom he’d set aside to wait on her. “Eiyeeee. Little Manuel is wonderful. He’s with the archdiocese in Philadelphia. Can you believe that? My Emilio’s firstborn becoming an important man in the church. As for Roberto—” her expression grew more whimsical “—he’s now Mr. Rob at the Crimson Curl in San Francisco and paints people’s hair purple and green. A strange boy. I think maybe chickens are easier to raise.”

      She could say that again. Hugh didn’t weigh the sack he’d filled almost full. It would register way over, but he knew the old woman lived on social security and what her kids could afford to give her on the side, so he simply taped the sack as though that was normal procedure. Maybe Blackstone Feed and Supplies would go bankrupt, but it wouldn’t be as a result of giving away a few cents worth of extra grain.

      “That should fix you up. Let me put this into your truck, and I’ll help you off the dock,” he told her.

      After setting her purchase on the front seat of the dilapidated vehicle, he took hold of the crone’s tiny waist and lifted her from the concrete platform. She tittered like a schoolgirl as she hurried into the truck, her dark eyes twinkling with delight.

      “Be careful driving home!” he said, standing back to escape being swiped by the closing door.

      “Hmph. Been driving for sixty-three years. Should know the way by now.”

      No doubt, but she’d never gone more than ten miles per hour, Hugh thought as she inched the old relic away from the dock. As he wondered how many people had suffered wrecks or nervous breakdowns from driving behind her, he raised a hand in answer to her wave into her sideview mirror.