— You bet, buck.
— I asked Barry to ask Clifton Murray where we’re going, said Pete. It’s out at the lake. Where all the new places are going up. My mom packed you a lunch. It’s on the back seat.
They went south out of town and followed a road along the bottom edge of Lake Kissinaw. Lee remembered the geography of it, the aspect of the trees, a certain house. A sign advertised a lakeside subdivision to be built in the next year.
— I hear you don’t go to school no more, said Lee.
— I … No, that’s true. I quit.
— Wasn’t to your liking?
— You could say that. I don’t know how to explain it.
— So you work at a gas station all the time?
— Pretty much, said Pete. I’m saving some money. Before Grandma got sick, I was planning to leave.
— Is that right? Where were you going to go?
— West, said Pete. Out to the ocean. I thought I would figure it out from there. For now I just have to keep focused.
Lee felt an immense sense of strangeness with Pete, now that he’d met him and put a face to the name. It was not entirely comfortable but it was not as bad as Lee had expected it might be. Overall, it was just hard to believe that they were sitting side by side in a car all these years later.
— Was it sort of the same way for you? said Pete.
— Say what?
The kid was giving him a sidelong look, trying mostly to keep his eyes on the road as he drove.
— Staying focused. When you were … inside.
Lee thought about the question, and about the strange feeling he had sitting next to this kid. Nobody had ever asked him how he’d kept focused in prison. After a moment, he said: Well, there was this and that, I guess. The first couple of years it was all the wrong things. But later on I started looking in different places. I thought the Bible was okay. All that talk about lands of milk and honey sounded good. Create in me a clean heart and renew a right spirit in me. That’s one of the Psalms.
— Yeah, I think I’ve heard that one, said Pete.
— I also had some dirty magazines. Those helped too.
They both laughed.
— There really wasn’t all that much, said Lee. You’ve got to get along with what you have. There was TV, which a lot of guys looked at, but I never cared for it. I thought a lot of the programs were bullshit.
— They mostly are.
Lee studied Pete’s profile. He never would have believed it, but this was alright, riding along with Donna’s son. This was alright. He had a fondness for the kid already.
— I haven’t known you real long, said Lee. But I can see you’re one of the good guys.
The job site was on the south shore of the lake, which was screened by a long, rocky point from the town waterfront. An orchard used to grow here and some of the apple trees remained yet, untended and straggling. A large cottage, four thousand square feet, was being built on the property. When Pete and Lee arrived, the building was just the framing and the roof and some sheathing. The ground was trampled mud. There were stacks of building material and a tall heap of half-inch crushed stone. A BobCat and two cars and two pickup trucks all stood in the driveway. Lee counted five men unloading tools. A wooden sign read MURRAY CUSTOM BLDG, CALL FOR ESTIMATE’S.
Pete parked behind the trucks. Lee got out and retrieved his tool belt from the trunk. From the back seat he took the lunch pail Donna had packed for him. Pete watched him.
— Do you know when you’ll be done?
— No, said Lee. Anyhow I’ll see if someone here can give me a lift back into town. Don’t sweat it.
— Okay. Have a good day, Uncle Lee.
Lee’s face quirked.
— Something wrong? said Pete.
Lee laughed. He said: How about, I’ll call you Pete, and you call me Lee. There’s no need for formal shit between the good guys.
— Okay. Lee.
Lee thumped his fist on the roof of the car. Pete gave him a little salute, rolled up his window, and drove away. Lee headed over to a man tying his bootlaces beside a truck.
— Are you Mr. Murray?
The man pointed to someone else, twenty feet away. He said: That’s Clifton.
Clifton Murray was short and bowlegged, with curly red hair going grey. He held a pencil in his mouth and was frowning over an invoice. Lee crossed over and Clifton looked up, fixed him with a gnomish squint.
— Morning, Mr. Murray, said Lee. I’m Leland King.
Lee offered his hand. Clifton shook it once. He took the pencil, chamfered and moist, out of his mouth and said: Oh. Right.
— Thank you for the job. I’ve been looking forward to it since Barry told me.
— That’s good. Pastor Barry might of told you this one: You will eat the labour of your hands, and happy will you be. So if hard work is something you like …
The man who’d been tying his bootlaces ambled by and said: Morning, Clifton.
— Good day, Jeff, said Clifton.
— Anyhow, said Lee. I got my trade. Cabinets, doors, all kinds of joining. You name it.
— Well, you can give Bud a hand getting the shingles up to the roof. I got 150 bundles that have to go up.
Fifty feet away was a gangly chap perhaps five years older than Pete. His hair was cut in a severe crewcut. He was hoisting a bundle of shingles from a stack onto his shoulder.
Clifton squinted at Lee.
— There a problem, mister man?
— No, said Lee. Just thought you needed a carpenter is all.
— I’ve got a carpenter. A darn good one. I subcontract out to him when I need to. Now what I need is those shingles on the roof.
— Okay.
Clifton spread his hands: Not five minutes you’re here. I’m taking you on Pastor Barry’s good word but I don’t need any headache.
— No, sir. I’ll get them shingles moving double-quick.
— That’s better. Now. I don’t allow profane language or idleness on my job site. You can smoke once an hour. Lunch is at noontime.
— Okay, Mr. Murray.
Lee started in the direction of the stack of shingles.
— Leland King!
Lee turned.
— A good thing to think about, said Clifton. Redeeming yourself doesn’t happen all at once. One day at a time. Deeds, thoughts, prayer. That’s from Pastor Barry and I believe it, every word.
Lee looked at the mud on the ground. He fingered the buckle of the tool belt on his shoulder. He found himself coming up against a depth of religious faith that he’d not expected. Clifton now, but also with his mother and with Barry and Donna. He should have expected it, he knew, given the letters Barry had written to him over the years. But knowing it from written letters, and finding it now in the world of free men, were two different things and he couldn’t yet figure out what that difference might mean. There had been religion in prison, and it was on Barry’s urging that Lee had sought guidance from the chaplain and had taken up reading the Bible. The chaplain, in turn, had spoken on Lee’s behalf when his parole hearings eventually came around. But behind the cinder-block walls and the iron bars, the ideas of spiritual deliverance and a Kingdom of God had a much more basic appeal. Out here, it seemed somehow different. Less tangible. His mind coursed through a number of the bible verses he’d learned, but
