During breakfast I tell him a little about corks, but it’s just make-work talk, about how to grease them and how wet shoes take to grease better’n dry shoes and how the best application is a mixture of bear fat, mutton tallow, and neat’s-foot oil. And then Joe Ben claims it’s just as good to paint the whole boot with heavy floor paint and me and Joe get to arguing on that old bit so I don’t say any more to Lee. I wasn’t sure he was listening anyhow...) Henry returned with my “corks”—spiked boots miserably cold and stiff, obviously the recent home of migrant scorpions and rats—and before I could flee all three set upon me and laced the leather horrors to my feet. Then they draped one of Joe Ben’s extra coats over me; Hank handed me a battered metal hat with a dozen coats of varicolored paint peeling red and yellow and orange, like a chapeau designed by Jackson Pollock; Jan thrust a lunch sack in my hand; Joe Ben gave me a pocketknife with eight blades; and they all stepped back to view the result. Henry rolled a doubting eye, allowed as how he guessed I’d hafta do till somethin’ with more meat on its bones showed up, and offered me a dip from his snuff can as a sign that I had passed review. Joe Ben said I’d do just fine, and Hank withheld judgment. I was ushered out into a morning still totally dark save for a pale blue cast over the hills. I followed the silhouettes of Hank and Joe Ben down the invisible planks to the dock while the old man lurched along behind, slicing the dark in a distracted fashion with the misty beam of an enormous flashlight. While he walked he kept up a line of talk as aimless as the light: “That Evenwrite, now I don’t trust him; watch for booby traps. When we get this contract done I think by god—say, what about the drums on that donkey? You boys watchin’ out? Lord, I don’t want to be buyin’ new equipment. I was sayin’ the other day to Stokes that that old donkey wasn’t as old as this one and look at me still agoin’. ...Say now, Leland, did I tell you about my teeth?” He swung the light to his face and I watched while he removed a moldy-looking mouthful of molars. “What you think about that for lucky?” He spread back his lips. “Only three my own teeth left—lookee here—an’ two the sonofaguns meet. How ’bout that?” He laughed triumphantly and replaced the dentures. “Somethin’ more’n just luck about it, too, Joe Ben tells me; it’s a indication or something. ...You, Joe, don’t forget to lay the old oil on that boogin’ donkey drum, hear me? It’s good for another two or three seasons, treated proper. Whup. Don’t care for the way the sky looks. Hmm”—grumbling, mumbling, “Ouch oh!” pausing occasionally to curse some paleolithic pain in his shoulder. “An’ oh yeah, have Bob watch them scalers when he drives down; they’re smooth as grease an’ they’ll cheat you ever’ time you sneeze. Those boys of Orland’s will be there from the mill to give us extra help, ain’t that right? An’ no coffee and bullshooting every twenty minutes. We ain’t Wakonda Pacific yet. Keep everybody on the jump. We got only a month left to Thanksgiving, you realize, only a month...” Keeping up a frantic free-association which he hoped would, by some miracle, save the day in spite of his monumental absence. “Hey, did you hear me about that donkey, dammitall? That drum?” Hank had been yanking at the starting rope of the outboard during the latter part of the harangue; only after the motor caught with a burbling roar and the rope had been carefully secured beneath the rear seat and the gas tank checked, only then did Hank indicate any awareness of the old man. “You know . . .” He flipped the mooring rope free and settled himself beside the motor, held out his hand for the flashlight, which Henry relinquished with about as much enthusiasm as Napoleon must have shown giving up his sword on the isle of Saint Helena....“You know . . .” turning the light on Henry and stopping whatever the old man was opening his mouth to say as though the beam had knocked the wind out of his bony frame “. . . you are sure a noisy old fart this morning.” Henry blinked in the glare. He started to shield his eyes against the light with his hand but decided this would be a gesture of weakness unbefitting so noble a donkey, and lowered the hand, choosing instead to turn disdainfully away from the light and the sharper-than-a-serpent’s-tooth words of his disrespectful son. “Pshh.” And thus did he treat us to the magnificence of his profile framed there against the dramatic backdrop of dawn. He stood there—majestic, striking, confident that Valentino could not come close to matching those steely eyes, certain that when it came to classic facial proportion Barrymore was not even in the running—and slowly, deliberately withdrew the snuff can from the pocket of his robe, thumbed it open with one hand, and placed a rolled ball of it in his lower lip... “Just look at ’im,” Hank whispered. The long cowl of white hair like blown clouds; the firm jaw; the intelligent brow; the nose hooking down over the horseshoe mouth... “Yeahhh,” Joe breathed. He remained profiled before us in the light’s beam, aristocratically austere, grandly aloof, as ludicrous as a buzzard, until Hank nudged Joe Ben in the ribs and whispered again. “My, ain’t he handsome.” “Gosh, yes,” Joe Ben agreed, “no getting around it.” “You think I dast leave a sheik like that home with my pore little unprotected wife?” “Can’t tell,” Joe answered. “Mighty good-lookin’ head of hair for a man that age.” “Oh yeah. Like a prophet, kind of.” The whole thing had the ring of long practice; I imagined a scene not unlike this one went on nearly every morning. The old man tried to remain aloof. But in spite of all he could do I could see the grin creeping into the fierce features. “And will you just look.” Hank’s voice was full of mocking awe and admiration. “Just look how fine those eyebrows are groomed and slicked up. Almost like he plucks them an’ puts stuff—” “Boogers!” the old man bellowed. “Sonsabitches! You ain’t got no respect!” He made a lunge for an oar leaning against the boathouse, but Hank gunned the boat just in time and left the outlandish figure charging around the dock, so furious, so outraged, and so obviously pleased by the teasing that I couldn’t help laughing along with Hank and Joe Ben as we pulled away up the river. They swing out into the water, laughing. The tenseness that overcame Lee during his breakfast lecture begins finally to subside after the comedy on the dock, and Hank feels his concern for his wife’s mood lessen as the boat leaves the house lights behind. (We futzed around on the dock with the old man like we usually do, and I noticed Lee laughed, showing he’s loosening up some. I think, Now’s the time to make a move and try to talk with him. Now’s the time forchrissakes to try to make some kind of contact.) And as the dawning sky grows brighter the two brothers find themselves glancing quickly at each other and away, waiting . . . I had at first feared I might be embroiled in some small talk with Hank and my gnomish cousin, but neither of them seemed any more inclined toward conversation than they had at the breakfast table. The air was cold. All of us were content to let the motor hold forth in its rhythmical way while we drew our own thoughts about us against the ice-blue dawn just beginning to give the mountains shape. I tucked my chin into the sheepskin top of the jacket Joe Ben had provided and averted my face so the stinging mist struck my cheek instead of my eyes. The bow thump-thump-thumped against the river’s surface; the motor warbled, a tight, high, full-throated whine underscored by the guttural churn of water; Hank weaved the boat up the river, responding to the grunted instructions of Joe Be............