her able hands

Phew, almost missed day one! I figured I’d start November off with a NaNoWriMo post, a short excerpt from the 52K words I wrote last November. Since then I’ve added about 1500, not exactly a big year for the novel writing, but I’m geared up for this month. Sort of. If I can stay awake past 8pm. Right now it’s about 7:30, and my eyeballs feel like I rubbed them with Habanero fingers. It doesn’t bode well.

Anyhoo…I give you a thin slice of the crap I wrote last year:

He sat in his idling car at the intersection of Tanner Rd. and Old Forge, watching a man and a woman just beyond the for sale sign in the front yard of his childhood home. They bent over an ancient rotor tiller, their heads nearly touching, putting their weight into a giant wrench.

Joe Tanner had called him this morning, early, before he’d even had his first cup of coffee. The phone rang while he leaned against the counter in the silent kitchen, watching the pot drip in the yellow light of the stove hood. “I just thought you should know it looks like some kids have parked themselves at the farm. I hadn’t seen anybody out there showing the place recently. You sell?”

“No. No, we haven’t had any interest in a couple of years.” Charles asked if Joe meant kids had used it to have a party, imagining the mess of graffiti, empty beer cans, and puddles he and his sister had so far avoided having to deal with in the decade the family farm had been on the market.

“I mean it looks like somebody’s moved in. Car parked overnight. Lights on in the house. Smoke coming out of the chimney.” Joe said, laying his words out like bricks and mortar.

“The hell? Are you serious?”

“That’s why I’m calling. I thought you ought to know before Barbara finds out.”

“I appreciate it, Joe.” As he hung up the phone his wife, Ruth came into the room, pulling her robe tight around her thick waist.

“Something wrong, Charles?”

He felt a flare of anger, a need to protect his sudden secret, and shook his head, “Nope. Joe Tanner just wants me to have a look at one of his hogs. Doesn’t want to pay the vet.”

“That’s nice, he thinks of you as an expert. Too bad you didn’t get that Veterenary degree, just think what you’d get paid.” Ruth said.

Charles stared into his muddy cup of coffee for a long moment, and listened to the singing water pipes from Ruth’s morning flush. He willed himself not to rise to the bait again, and said, “Seems to me he would have called in a favor from somebody else down at the feed lot, seeing as he isn’t in the position right now to pay a vet.” He set his cup into the sink without letting it clink against the scoured porcelain, and kissed the top of her head on his way to the door. The morning smell of warm hair, and her gardenia soap softened his hurt and he gave her a gentle smile. “I’m not sure I’ll be home in time for dinner. I’ll call you when I’m done at Joe’s and let you know.”

Now as he sat watching the couple try to resurrect his father’s rusted-out Troy-Bilt from the grave of a thick tangle of weeds, he tried to figure out how to keep his sister, Barbara, from finding out about this strange new situation, at least until he had a handle on it. The digital clock on the dash glowed 6:45, and he knew he needed to hightail it over to the feedlot if he intended to punch in on time. He’d have to come back this afternoon and have a talk with these kids, see what they thought they were doing. The thought that followed made him smile. He’d have to see what he could do to help.

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