and the serpentine holes in the roof and the weeds growing up against the porch. He dabbed his
thick neck, removed his recently purchased red and white Conoco baseball cap and pulled out a
fresh handkerchief from his back pocket. He dabbed his forehead. “Damn if it ain’t hot.”
“Yeah, it is.”
“My lady won’t leave the basement.”
“You shouldn’t leave the basement either, McCole.”
McCole picked up the thermos and thought about it. “I hear yours is cooler. I’ll buy it
from you.”
Forbes squinted at him — his new pair of bib overalls handmaid by his wife, his new
leather boots and glasses, his cap, pink pinstriped dress shirt without a single sweat spot. It
angered him that McCole lived so abundantly and still wanted to rake his neighbors off their
land — a man who lusted after the crop of crops. A man like himself.
“I have plenty of water,” he said, eyes like dark swipes of ink.
“The hell you do. The water you have is a far off land and it won’t ever come.”
“The rain’ll come,” he said. “And it’ll be good for everybody. You’ll take your little
chicks into the river again, McCole, and fish .” He shut his mouth. The lines on his cheeks and
cloven chin looked like they had been scarred by a dull plow. He rubbed his stump hand. His
white, prickly stubble begged for lightning and for the storm that would stir up the community
to compassion — for a bumper crop, so lush it’d fill barns.
“Well if it does, you won’t need your combine. I’ll rent it from you.”
“I’m not renting my combine.”
“I wanted to know if you’d let me borrow it for my crop.”
“I’m not renting it.”
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