“My anti-porn novel, Saying No to Naked Women, is a fascinating story about how one man conquered porn values and sexual addiction. It unlocks invisible behavior patterns you must understand to solve personal problems. There’s nothing else like it, especially because it’s set in the backwoods of the Arkansas Ozarks,” says author David R. Yale. h^=99hjh**$kkg565

“When the second draft was finally finished, I thought my job was done. But then I ran a word count, and discovered my novel was more than 210,000 words long! That would have made the printed book a whopping 650 pages – way too long for a novel in the 21st century.”

“So I started revising again. Some of the editing was simply tightening up the writing, like changing “Jerl chimed in” to “Jerl said” or “So I started again in the morning, putting the skin on the shack’s skeleton” to “In the morning I started putting the skin on the shack’s skeleton.” Each of those edits saved several words – and I probably made a thousand of them.

“I also looked at every story, anecdote, and scene to see if they helped advance the plot, and if they were really necessary. And I found many of them were not. So even though I loved the writing in them, Snip! Snip! – out they went, and they landed on the cutting room floor.”

“But some were so interesting, I wanted you to have the chance to read them,” Yale says. “None of them are about stages of a healthy relationship – for that you’ll have to read the book or the free chapter on this website (pdf file). But they’ll give you a taste of the book’s setting and characters, and I’m pretty sure you’ll enjoy reading them.

Click on any of the titles below to go directly to that selection. Or read and enjoy them all in less than 20 minutes!

Annella, the owner of the Springtime Café. sat down and at my table. She didn’t have her usual smile. h^=99hjh**$kkg565

“Best fried chicken I ever tasted. I have dreams about it.”

“Enjoy it while you can. I won’t be in business much longer.”

“Why? Everybody in town loves your cooking. I hear them talking about it all the time.”

“But it won’t do me no good. One of them chain restaurants is gonna put me out of business.”

“But their food is like cardboard.”

“Yeah. But it’s cheap. They can sell a burger for half a buck. I can’t.”

“But a burger isn’t a meal. Your meals are four-squares, and they aren’t high-priced, either, just a dollar thirty-nine.”

“That’s high for some folks. If a couple wants to eat out, they can both eat burgers for a buck thirty-nine. This town isn’t big enough for two café’s and a chain restaurant. The other café has the bus station business, so they’ll probably hang on. I won’t be able to.”

“I ate there once. Their food was awful.”

“It ain’t about how good the food is.”

“You know for sure there’s a chain coming?”

“Yeah. They bought a lot south of town past the auction barn.”

“That’s bad news. This fried okra is wonderful!”

“Have a second helpin’. Enjoy it while you can.”

“I hope you’re wrong.”

“Me, too.”

Buy Saying No to Naked Women

Man Saves Life by
Making Car Do Tennessee Waltz

As I came barreling around a sharp curve, I saw a hitchhiker standing at the side of the road, thumb out. I’d seen him before at Watkins’ store, so I hit the brakes hard, and backed up as he ran toward my car. h^=99hjh**$kkg565

“Hi. Where you headed?”

“Up to the store. Gotta call my girlfriend. We don’t have a phone.”

“I’m going there, too. I keep my car there.”

“Yeah. I know. Annie told me you’re a writer. That’s what I want to do some day, too.”

“How did you know who I am?”

“There ain’t but one Japanese car in the whole county. It’s easy to tell.”

“Yeah. I guess that’s true.”

I had never thought about it. Suddenly I felt like I was on display, like I didn’t have any privacy at all anymore.

“What do you want to write about?” I asked.

“Travelin’.”

“Traveling?” I said, trying to figure out how to get an angle on that.

“Yep! I’ve got enough good stories to fill a book. And I could add a how-to section called ‘Travelin on the Cheap Side.’”

“That could be helpful. Tell me one of your stories.”

“Well, it was out in Tennessee. I thought it was strange that a guy was trying to hitch a ride out in the middle of a state forest. But I was lonely, so I picked him up. Well he was one quiet dude. Didn’t hardly say a word. Did about as much for my loneliness as an aspirin would for cancer. We drove that way for about 15 minutes, but it seemed much longer to me. Then, real quietly, he pulled out a gun and aimed it at me.”

‘I’m going to kill you,’ he said.

‘I ain’t worth it. All I have is two hundred and twenty nine dollars and this old clunker of a car. Oh yeah, and a change of clothes, but they ain’t no tuxedo, either.’

‘But I feel like it,’ he said to me. I could hear him breathing heavily.

“It didn’t make any sense to me, and I was trying to figure out how to argue with him about it, when I saw a telephone pole ahead. I hit the gas hard.”

‘Put the gun away or I’m gonna hit that pole head on and we’re both gonna die.’

“I headed right for the pole, goin’ about 80. He put the gun away. I turned the wheel hard, went into a skid, and that car waltzed all over the road like Fred Astaire, himself, had given it lessons. When I got it under control, I looked at him. He was a-shakin’.”

‘Now you sit there real nice or I’ll make this old jalopy do the Tennessee Waltz again.’

‘I thought you’d beg for your life,’ he said. “Most people do.’

‘I ain’t most people.’

‘You scared the shit out of me.’

‘Well you didn’t scare me,’ I said, which wasn’t true. But there was no way I would have told him that. So he sat there quietly for another half hour, until we got to a town. I pulled up to the curb on Main Street. He got out, and walked off without saying another word. Didn’t even close the door behind himself!”

“That’s a great story.”

“Thanks. I’ve got a lot more like that. But I don’t know anything about how to put it all together, and find a publisher.”

“Well, you get started the best you can, and then I’ll look at what you have. You know, you can’t edit what’s not there. I’ve only published one article, but I’ll do what I can to help you.”

“Thanks.”

“My name is Jack Derritt.”

“I know. Annie told me. My name is Medford Coombs. My friends call me Ed. By the way, it may be none of my business, but I heard Annie wants to introduce you to LouAnne Turner. She’s a very pretty lady. If you landed her, you’d be the envy of every guy for miles around. Includin’ me.”

“Thanks, Ed. But I have a girlfriend waiting for me in San Francisco. I’ll be heading out that way late in the fall.

“Too bad. It would be nice to have another writer around here.”

I pulled in beside my pickup at Watkins’ store.”

“Hey, can I buy you a soda pop?” Ed asked me.

“Yeah, thanks! That would be nice. This heat has sure made me thirsty,” I said as we walked into the store.

“What kind do you like?”

“Red hog! You can’t get it anywhere else but in the Ozarks.”

“Yeah! I sure did miss that Red Hog when I was out on the road!”

When I finished my bottle of Red Hog, in one big thirsty gulp, I said to Ed, “I’ll be waiting to see your writing.”

“I’ll work on it,” he said, as we shook hands.

Buy Saying No to Naked Women

The Least Daughter

The porch door opened, and a man I hadn’t seen before stepped outside. He looked like he was a little older than me. h^=99hjh**$kkg565

“Jake, this is my son-in-law Stan,” Aggie said. “Stan, this is the writer I told you about. He’s a master’s degree.”

Stan and I shook hands.

“I’m pleased to meet you. I’ve never known a writer before,” Stan said.

Mike, standing next to Stan, punched him in the arm.

“What about me, Stan? What about me? I was almost a writer.”

“You didn’t get published because you never finished anything. Besides, that was ages ago, in the days of the Model T. But Dorothy told me that Jake has four articles published now. And she said his novel is ‘somethin’ else’ – whatever that means. Some literary critic, that Dorothy, huh?” Stan said.

Aggie’s face clouded over.

“You mean you showed it to her first?” Aggie said “And she didn’t even tell me? Some friend you are!”

She stormed into the house and slammed the door. Mike, looking upset, went in after her. But Stan just laughed.

“There she goes again, getting all upset about nothing. Dorothy did say not to tell her about your novel, but I figured there was no harm. Well, she’ll calm down, Jake. Just give her time.”

“Uh-huh,” I said, trying to keep my face blank. I didn’t like Stan’s behavior at all.

“I was just about to go walking in the woods with my daughters. You’ll come along with us. We’re going all the way to the end of that side road. Hold on for a moment; I’ll get them from inside.”

He emerged with two girls. The older one, who was about 15, had long, dark hair, a pretty face, a ready smile. But the 13-year-old kept her blonde hair cropped short. She had a vacant expression, and a slouch in her shoulders.

“This is my Least Daughter,” Stan said, by way of introduction.

I shook her hand and smiled at her. Her expression did not change.

“My name is Jack. What’s yours?”

“Least Daughter.”

“What’s your real name, the one your friends call you?”

A flicker of something filled her eyes for a moment, then faded.

“Amanda,” she said, not much louder than a whisper.

“And this is my elder daughter, Jennie,” Stan said quickly. “Jennie’s not shy like the Least Daughter, are you, Jen?”

He hugged her too tightly.

“Nope. The Least One is so quiet you hardly know she’s there,” the older girl said, laughing.

Amanda’s shoulders slumped just a tiny bit more. Stan and Jennie started off down the path. The younger girl hesitated.

“Amanda, will you walk with me?” I asked.

The girl nodded her head yes and shrugged her shoulders at the same time. Ahead of us, Stan and Jennie laughed and joked. But Amanda was quiet. I wanted to draw her out.

“How old are you, Amanda?”

“Thirteen.”

“Are you just starting eighth grade?”

“Yes.”

Stan and Jennie were already way ahead of us. Amanda ambled slowly, in silence. She threw rocks at dandelion seed heads as we walked, hitting them all squarely, sending showers of feathery white into the air each time.

I tried to start a conversation with her. I wasn’t sure she wanted to talk because I got one-word answers, all in a dull monotone. After 15 minutes, I was beginning to doubt my conversational abilities.

At the top of a gentle rise, I saw a milkweed plant, ran over to it, grabbed a rounded, brown seedpod, and blew on it, filling the air with fluffy little parachutes, each sending a small brown seed drifting across the field.

“Look, Milkweed!” I said, happy that I had found it. “It doesn’t grow much up here on Evergreen Hill.”

“You know about plants?” she asked, her face suddenly coming alive with interest.

“A little bit.”

“Prove it!”

“How?”

“Name a parasitic vine that can’t make its own chlorophyll.”

“That’s a tough question, Amanda.”

“Do you know the answer?”

“I do. Do you?”

“Yes.”

We walked on for a few minutes in silence.

“So what is it?” she asked.

“The dodder vine.”

“Wow! You’re the only adult besides my science teacher who knows that one.”

“And you’re the only kid I’ve ever met who’s heard of it. Back in ninth grade, they made fun of me when I gave the right answer to that question in class.”

“Didn’t you hate that?”

“Yes. Does that happen to you?” I asked.

“Yeah. The kids at school make fun of me. But grownups can be worse. Some adults think it’s very funny when I start talking about botany. I don’t like to be laughed at.”

“Me, either. It’s tough being smart, huh?”

“Yeah. Sometimes I wish I was pretty instead.”

“Who says you aren’t?”

“I know I’m not. My Dad says so. That’s why he likes Jennie better than me. He says the only thing that matters for a girl is to be pretty. Like Jennie.”

“Personally, I think your Dad is just plain wrong.”

“Wrong? Why?”

“Because you are pretty. You’ll never have Jennie’s good looks. But you’ll always have Amanda’s beauty.”

“Me? Beautiful? Never!”

“I know that’s hard for you to accept.”

“How do you know?”

“Because my dad didn’t believe in me, either. He called me names, too. When I was your age, I thought I was funny looking.”

“So what did you do about it?”

“It wasn’t easy, but somehow, I imagined that I was a little seed buried under tons of gravel. I had to worm my way, zigzag, now this way, now that, between the stones and up to the sunlight, so I could grow leaves and flower. No matter what, I always knew I’d reach the sun and grow into something wonderful. From the little you’ve told me, there’s a lot for you to believe in about yourself.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re smart.”

“And?”

“And you’re pretty.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive. So. Can you do that?”

“Do that?”

“Believe in yourself?”

“I don’t know.”

“Will you try?”

I could see that she was thinking about what I said. And then, her face suddenly came to life, filled with a wide smile that transformed her into a beautiful little girl.

“Yes. I will,” she repeated.

“My goodness, Amanda! When you smile, you are gorgeous, not just pretty. Some day soon, there will be dozens of boys who will think about your smile 24 hours a day, for weeks on end.”

“Promise, Jack?”

“Promise. Tell me more about your science teacher.”

“Well, I did a science project last year, for school. You know, there are two different types of morning glories: convolvulus, often called bindweed, and ipomea purpurea.”

“I didn’t know that. I’m impressed.”

“Well, they’re both annuals. You know what that means, right?”

“Yes.”

“My science teacher said you can’t propagate annuals with cuttings. But I had done it once. So I told her she was wrong. She said if I could prove it, I’d get an ‘A’ in science. So I said ‘OK. I’ll do that.’ I found out that I was half right. I could get ipomea purpurea to root. Convolvulus would not. I even tried rooting hormone, but that didn’t do it either. So I wrote a report, and brought in my rooted cuttings of ipomea purpurea. I got my ‘A,’ and I got the science award. But my dad just laughed at me. I just wish someone would talk some sense into his head. Maybe you could?”

“I don’t think it would do any good.”

“Why?”

“Most of the time, people don’t want advice – especially if they don’t ask you for it. But I could try talking with your Grandpa Mike. I think he might be willing to listen because we’re friends and we already talk about stuff. Is that OK with you?”

“I guess so. But my Dad doesn’t let us see Grandpa and Grandma much. I don’t know why.”

We walked on, through the dappled sunlight. A clump of purple flowers bloomed at the side of the road. Amanda pointed to them.

“Those are fall-blooming asters. Did you know, one of them helped me once?”

“How?”

“I aster which way to go when I was lost. She told me ‘south,’ and if I was too tired to walk that way, I should pull off a few of those purple things and petal away.”

I chuckled.

“Most people don’t laugh at puns,” she said.

“That’s because they’re not real smart. But I knew a wonderful woman once, who made up puns all the time. And I always laughed at them, because they were funny.”

“Did you love her?”

“Very, very much.”

“Do you think when I’m older a man will love me very much? My dad says that will never happen.”

“I’m afraid your Dad is wrong again,” I said, anger filling me.

“Don’t judge him so quickly, Jack,” I thought to myself as we walked. “You don’t know very much about him. Remember in that simulation, where you were about to hit your child?

You’re not faultless either, you know. Maybe there’s more to Stan than you know about. And you know you wouldn’t be a perfect parent, either.”

“You know, Amanda, you remind me of Katie. I think she must have been like you when she was 13.” I said.

“Is Katie the woman you loved?”

“Yes.”

“Did she die like my Momma did?”

“Oh, Amanda, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. No. Katie didn’t die. But she’s gone.”

Amanda’s smile had vanished. But instead of the blank look, her face was filled with pain. Around a bend in the road, we caught up with Stan and Jennie. They were pointing up into a tree, with their arms around each other.

“I found some grapes. They’re all ripe,” Stan said.

“Yeah, he sure did find them. With my eyes,” Jennie said.

Stan whacked Jennie’s butt. Amanda ignored her father and sister, and looked up intently at a thick vine that wound around an old oak tree.

“Those aren’t grapes; they’re muscadines. They’re in a separate sub-genus called Muscadiniae. Grapes grow in bunches, muscadines grow in clusters. They don’t grow anywhere else besides North America, but grapes…”

“They’re all the same to me,” Stan interrupted. “How are we going to get them? Least One, can you climb up after them?”

The slump had returned to Amanda’s shoulders, and her face was expressionless again. She climbed the tree quickly, and dropped the clusters of muscadines down, missing Stan’s hat, which he held out in front of him, and hitting him on the head. Jennie laughed, but Amanda was silent and expressionless.

We ate the sweet, mottled fruits, which were larger than grapes, and tasted better. Amanda insisted that we had to save some to take back to her grandparents. We continued walking. Stan dominated the conversation, interrupting, bragging, talking to Jennie and ignoring his other daughter.

“You know, this used to be the main route before the state highway was built,” Stan said.

“How do you know that?” I asked.

“I know a lot of things.”

“When was this road put in?” I asked.

“About 1915.”

“Well, the state highway was built back in 1902. It followed the path of a wagon trail that wound through the valleys. The settlers never traveled up here in the hills when they could help it. It was too hard on the ox teams. This road was built in 1908, when Noah Tidwell’s father started logging up here.”

Amanda looked at me, her eyes laughing.

“How do you know that?” he asked.

“I talked to Mr. Watkins. His Dad sold some land to the state for the highway, and Mr. Watkins remembers them building it. He was in his teens back then.

“He’s just an old codger. He probably doesn’t remember the dates right,” Stan said in a huff.

“Maybe. But he did show me a dated receipt for the money his dad got for the land. And Mrs. McGinnis, down in town, told me her dad worked as a foreman for Old Man Tidwell, who used to own this whole mountain. His foreman’s orders for April, ‘08, which she showed me, included a new East-West logging road on the Evergreen Hill property Tidwell had just bought. I checked the coordinates on the orders with a map at the County Courthouse, and they match the route of this road.”

Stan fell silent. Jennie didn’t say anything, either. Amanda, walking next to me, had a look of pure contentment on her face. We turned off down a side road that wasn't as distinct as the logging road. After a few hundred feet, it disappeared in a tangled mat of brush. Skirting the brambles, we found the road again, running beside a slope where someone once quarried for sand or gravel. The whole side of the hill was covered with finely fragmented limestone bits. Only a few scrawny weeds had managed to establish themselves on the scar: an angry mark that would never heal. Turning again, the road ran for a way along a dry creek bed with a beautifully made stone wall on the opposite bank. Then it forded the dry stream, and faded into deer runs branching off in two directions.

Suddenly, Stan lifted his shotgun, and fired three bullets at a pop can, a strange spot of man-made purple, deep in the woods. He missed each time.

Stan wanted to follow one of the deer runs, but I needed to get back home and check on my soup. The fuel tank would need to be pumped up again pretty soon, or the flame would go out.

“I’m going to head back. I have to check on my dinner, to make sure it’s still cooking right.”

“Quitter!” Stan said. “I’m going to continue on as far as I can go. C’mon, girls!”

“I’m going back with Jack,” Amanda said quietly. “I want to bring these muscadines to grandpa and grandma.”

“Why are you always a quitter?” Stan bellowed.

The girl winced. But she turned around and started walking with me.

“Are you a quitter?” I asked her, when Stan was out of earshot. “Or do you know better what you want than he does?”

“I guess I know better what I want.”

“Remember that, Amanda! Promise?”

“Promise!”

“To yourself, not to me.”

“I promise myself.”

The girl began to talk again. She told me about the books she was reading, and how she played the trumpet in the school orchestra, back home in Little Rock. I nodded my head, and listened, saying a few words here and there to draw her out.

“Things are real hard now since Momma died two years ago. Dad just seems like a crazy man, and I miss my Momma so much. She understood me. And I understood her, even if Dad didn’t. It just doesn’t seem right to have so much pain in my life. I better stop talking about it, or I’ll start crying, and I’m afraid that I won’t be able to stop. My Dad gets mad when I do that. He yells at me and says ‘If you don’t shut up, I’ll give you something to cry about.’ He acts like he doesn’t miss my Mom at all, and he can’t understand why I do.”

“Maybe he just can’t admit how much he misses her.”

The girl looked at me, and I could see the sorrow in her eyes.

“Maybe he just never did care about her.”

“I don’t know him and I didn’t know your Mom. But I can see that you care about her.”

“I do. I always will.”

Tears filled her eyes.

“Sometimes it’s OK to cry and feel your pain. Sometimes it’s better to let it out than to try to keep it all tight in a little package deep inside you. I just wish I had a magic wand that would make your pain go away. But I don’t.”

“Do you ever cry?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Dad says real men and big girls don’t cry. So when I’m around him, I just try to go blank. No feelings. No thoughts. No words. But Chris’ mom, she agrees with you. Chris is my best friend. Sometimes, her mom holds me and I cry and cry, while she talks to me real quietly, like my Momma did.”

“Chris’ mom sounds like a good friend to you.”

“She is. I don’t know what I’d do without her.”

“It’s OK that you’re crying now, you know.”

She wept in silence, still walking, her feet hitting the ground hard, in a determined stride. After a while, she looked at me.

“I want to tell you about Chris,” she said, the tears still flowing. “Well, she lives around the corner from me, and we’re in the same class. She’s really into botany like I am, but she doesn’t like puns that much, and she gets all crazy and excited about insects, which I can take or leave. That’s OK, though. My friends don’t have to be just like me. That would be bore-ring. When she goes to visit her grandparents’ farm, I often go with her. That’s where we practice our botany skills.”

Suddenly, Amanda stopped, and pointed up into a huge hickory tree.

“See that up there?”

“What?”

“Those three bunchy things on the top of that branch?” she said, drying her eyes with her hands.

“What are they?”

“I think they’re mistletoe plants. Nothing else looks like that except witches’ brooms – and brooms don’t grow on hickory trees. I’m going to climb up and have myself a look.”

“Go for it!”

She shinnied up the tree, and eased herself way out on the broad, thick branch, where she grinned down at me like an oversized Cheshire cat.

“Yup! They sure are mistletoe. OOOH! Chris is going to be jealous that I found it first. I’m not sure whether they’re Phoradendron serotinum or Phoradendron tomentosum. In this part of the US, you can find both species, and they look similar. I’m going to pull a plant off to show Chris and my science teacher. Catch it when I throw it down!”

“Sure! I’ve never seen mistletoe.”

“Really? Well, here it comes!”

She dropped a small plant with leathery green leaves and round, pinkish-grayish berries; I caught it.

In no time flat, she was standing beside me again, full of excitement, talking so fast her words jumbled together.

“Mistletoe is a weird parasite, you know. It sucks sap right out of the branch it grows on, but it can make its own chlorophyll, too. That branch is full of the mistletoe’s root system. It’s almost like that mistletoe thinks the branch is earth, setting roots into it like that. Next spring, those roots will grow even more mistletoe plants.”

“You’re one smart girl!”

“I just have a good memory.”

“But the way you put ideas together and the way you use words – that’s more than just memorizing.”

“Put words together? Like in puns?”

“Well, that’s one way.”

“Wanna hear some more? They’re originals!”

“You bet!”

“What tree never grows crooked?”

“I don’t know.”

“A plumb tree!”

“Why must you use a pencil to draw a level line?”

“Beats me,” I said, laughing.

“Because if you use a pen, you get an ink line! And an incline is always tilted, never straight. I like it when people laugh at my puns.”

“They’re pretty clever, you know.”

We were back at Mike and Aggie’s house; they were sitting out on the porch.

“Hello, Amanda. It’s so good to see you smiling. Was Jack telling you jokes?” Mike asked.

“Nope. She was telling them to me. She made up some good ones.” I said.

“She’s a smart girl, my granddaughter,” Mike said.

“That’s an understatement, Mike.”

Mike beamed his broad smile at Amanda; she smiled back; Aggie sat there with a blank look on her face.

“I brought you some muscadines,” Amanda said, handing them to Mike.

“Thank you, honey. Your Grandma and I love muscadines.”

“And look what she found, growing way up in an old hickory tree,” I said.

“Is that mistletoe?” Mike asked.

“Sure is! I just don’t know whether it’s Phoradendron serotinum or Phoradendron tomentosum. But my science teacher will tell me.”

“Hey, Jack, hold it up over yourself so I can kiss you!” Mike said.

I held the mistletoe over my butt.

“Go ahead, kiss away, Mike!”

“I always said you can’t tell one end from the other,” Mike said.

Amanda laughed, too. But Aggie didn’t crack a smile.

“Aggie, are you still peeved because Dorothy got to see those two parts of my novel?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Well, there’s only one way you can get to see them, you know.”

“What’s that?”

“Ask me. That’s what Dorothy did. And that’s why she got to see them first.”

“Well, when do I get to see them?”

“That’s not asking me.”

“OK, OK, can I please read your novel, Jake?”

“Sure! I should have it back from Dorothy very soon, and you’re number two on the list.”

“Can I be number three?” Amanda asked.

“Whew! She beat me to it. Will you put me down as number four?” Mike asked.

“Gladly,” I said.

“Jack, can you come over to the hen house with me? I need your help with something,” Mike said.

We headed down the footpath. He leaned against the hen house, looking serious.

“I’m worried about Amanda. I haven’t seen her smile since she arrived here. Until now. How did you get her to do that?”

“I got her talking. And then, I listened – and let her know I was listening.”

“That’s it?”

“Well, I didn’t judge her. And I let her know that it’s OK to feel pain, and to miss her mother.”

“How can I talk with her like that?”

“Well, it won’t be too hard. Be sure you get her to talk about her feelings.”

“Feelings?”

“Yep. They’re critical. If you get her talking about them – and she thinks you understand her – you’ll never have trouble talking with her. Mike, she needs a father figure to listen to her and encourage her, especially about her interest in botany. She’s one smart cookie, you know. If you do those two things – talk about her feelings and encourage her – she’ll adore you.”

“Feelings, huh? I don’t know. I never discuss my feelings because there’s nobody to discuss them with. Aggie gets angry when I try to tell her how I feel, and the only way I know what’s going on with her is when she explodes at me. I’m afraid I’m out of practice. But I’ll try.”

“If your heart’s in the right place, Amanda will respond to that. She kind of expects you to talk with her, you know.”

“Why?”

“She asked me to speak with her dad. I said that would be a waste of time.”

“That’s for sure.”

“So I suggested talking with you instead. She agreed.”

“Do you think she’ll be all right?”

“She has her head screwed on right. Did you know that her best friend’s mom has taken Amanda under her wing? Don’t tell her I told you. Just talk with her, and she’ll tell you herself. That little girl needs a loving mom, and she found herself one.”

Mike’s eyes suddenly looked wet. He picked up a tree branch and threw it hard, against the side of the hen house, where it broke into pieces. Then he picked up another, and swung it up and down at his side.

“God, I wish my daughter was still alive. Amanda isn’t the only one who misses her.”

“I know how you feel. It’s something you just never can get used to.”

“It doesn’t seem fair.”

“It isn’t.”

Mike was silent for a few minutes, breaking the branch in his hand into little bits, and dropping them on the ground.

“But how often will I get a chance to talk with her? This is only the fifth time Stan has allowed a visit with us since my daughter died.”

“Stan doesn’t much like Amanda. If you play on that a little bit, you should be able to arrange visits. Once you’ve gotten on firm ground with Amanda, you can work on getting Jennie to visit. That will be harder.”

Mike sat down on a tree stump, his back leaning against the tarpaper side of the henhouse, his chin resting on his right hand. He was silent for a while, and I kept wondering whether I should tell him about my suspicion that Stan was having sex with Jennie. I didn’t have any real evidence, just my intuition, which didn’t seem like enough to me. I decided not to bring up that question – at least for then – but I was uneasy.

“You gave me a lot to think about, Jack.”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“No, no, it’s a good thing. That’s what I like about you.”

“What did you mean when you said you were almost a writer?” I asked.

“Well, many years ago, I was on disability, and a friend lent me his cabin way up in the Rockies for six months. It was me, the elk, and the timber wolves. I tried to write a novel, but even though I knew some good stories, I just never could get anything much on paper. I sweated blood over that thing. But when it came down to hard reality, I was just a dewdrop that disappeared in a thin stream of vapor, rising up with the morning mist. You, Jack, I think you’re more than a dewdrop. You’re not like me because you are the controlling factor in your own life. I never was. Life happened. I reacted. It’s still that way, now. I ran away from home when I was 12, because my Dad beat me. Got myself a job in the Civilian Conservation Corps, typing invoices, and joined the Marines at 15 by lying about my age. I knew how to type because we always had a typewriter at home. I thought I’d be able to write just because I could type. Well, it wasn’t so, and I found that out for myself. Glad I tried it, though. Now, I have to be content with just reading. You know, I’ve read every novel by Mark Twain, Jack London, John Steinbeck, and a bunch more. I’m looking forward to reading your novel. Knowing you, I think it will be right up there with the best.”

“Hey, Mike. That means a lot to me.”

“Can I give you one bit of advice?” Mike asked.

“Sure.”

“Watch out who you marry. It’s a decision you’ll have to live with for a long time, and it makes a great deal of difference.”

“I know what you mean. I know exactly what you mean,” I said.

Stan came walking down the footpath, staring at us.

“What the hell are you two gossiping about, like a couple of old ladies? Aggie says to come and eat your pie before it gets cold and soggy.”

We both stood up and followed him back to the house. We didn’t say anything while we ate. Only Jennie and Stan were talking. Just Stan and Jennie.

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