hours. He?d woken up, ate BBQ ribs from a place near the hotel, watched TV, strummed a few songs on the mandolin, and slept some more.
He didn?t want to call his uncle. He didn?t even know the guy.
Now it was the next morning, checkout time was in an hour, and he had nowhere to go. He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the phone.
He checked his wallet, confirmed he was down to forty-three bucks. He couldn?t live in the Travel Lodge the rest of his life. No more stalling. He looked for the old picture of his dad and uncle in his duffel bag, couldn?t find it, and began to search more frantically. He turned over the duffel bag, dumped everything out, searched again.
The picture wasn?t there.
Andrew closed his eyes, pictured the interior of his apartment. He could see the photo on the counter next to his phone. ?Son of a bitch.? He remembered, with only a little relief, that he?d transferred his uncle?s number into his address book. Still, he felt like a moron. He?d had the photo for years, and now when it was actually relevant to saving his ass, he?d left it behind.
Andrew picked up the phone, exhaled, dialed.
* * *
Mike Foley pretended he?d forgotten about his nephew and went about the business of the vineyard. Keone had arrived to finish cleaning the carboys. The sun rose, baked the world, the thick black flies buzzing their summer song. Mike would not water the vines today. He?d watered yesterday, and too much moisture was bad for the shallow roots.
He climbed the steep ridge that marked his property line, looked back down over the vine rows. The middle rows were straight, but the rows on either end were crooked. Mike frowned. He?d never noticed that before. He thought he?d like surveying his work from above, but distance and height showed him how sloppy he?d been. The grapes, he supposed, wouldn?t know the difference. It still annoyed him.
He cast about for something else to look at. He looked past the rows to the hill on the other side. The two- story house at the top. Nice house, white, blue shutters, big porch that wrapped around most of the back and side. He saw Linda watering her flower boxes and waved. She didn?t wave back, probably couldn?t see him among the trees at this distance.
Linda Charles was a gentle black woman, forty years old, lived alone. Her husband had been a Chicago cop, shot twice in the chest when he?d chased a purse snatcher onto an elevated train. Linda had buried her husband with full honors, then declared she wanted to move someplace where she could look in every direction and not see pavement. Mike had shared coffee and conversation with her a dozen times since she?d moved to Oklahoma ten months ago.
His knees gave him a little trouble as he climbed back down the ridge, and he reminded himself to lather up with Bengay later. When he got back to the barn, Keone was standing in the open doorway.
?Phone,? he said.
Mike?s stomach lurched. His knees had almost made him forget about his nephew. Who was this kid? What was his trouble and what did Mike owe him? His brother?s only son.
He picked up the phone at his desk. ?Hello?? He held his breath.
?Was that you coming down that hill?? Linda said.
?I was surveying my domain,? Mike said. ?I waved at you.?
?I missed it, but it looked like you were about to fall on your ass.?
?It?s steep.?
?Can you do that thing with my riding mower again?? Linda asked. ?It won?t start.?
?Did you leave it out again after the last time??
?Yeah.?
?You need to cover it with a tarp or something.?
?Well, I didn?t. Can you fix it? I?ll buy you a cup of coffee.?
Mike said, ?I don?t fix things for coffee. A beer.?
