“That’s Bill,” said Clay, smiling.
“And who’s this fancy city fellow?” asked Bill with an almost half-roar.
“I’m—I’m Austin,” said Austin, a bit taken aback at Bill’s abrupt question. He looked down at himself, sensibly dressed for being on a ranch. “How can you tell I’m from the city?”
“Jeans are so new they’ve still got a crease in ‘em,” said Bill. He held out his hand for Austin to take, and as they shook hands, Austin marveled at Bill’s strong grip. “You’re the new bean counter, right?”
“That is correct, sir,” said Austin.
“Just call me Bill,” said Bill in a gruff way, as though he’d been reminding Austin of this for years. “We don’t stand on ceremony here. Ain’t that right, Clay?”
“Sure enough, sir,” said Clay, smiling and Bill, seeming to enjoy the sass, smiled right back. “C’mon, Austin, grab a sack and let us put you to work.”
Walking up to the flatbed trailer, Austin grabbed a sack of grain, which was heavier than it looked, and was made up of some kind of plastic mesh that slipped off his shoulder every other step. He leaned to one side as he saw Clay doing, then followed him into the barn, into the shadows where it was just him and Clay side by side as they put the sacks on the pallets.
If he’d not been occupied figuring out how to set the sack down in a tidy fashion on top of the other sacks currently stacked on pallets, then he’d be flustered about what to say around Clay. What to do. What to think.
But Clay, rather than attempting more flirting, was all work and no play. He’d go out of the barn as soon as the sack he’d been carrying had been put settled on top of the growing stack.
Austin followed, like a well-trained dog, or a hapless fool who has succumbed to the first bit of kindness he’d experienced in years. Was he this easy? Was it all going to blow up in his face? Had he always been into men, or was it just Clay who’d tipped the balance?
They spent a good hour unloading sacks and putting them in neat rows on the two pallets inside the barn. Then Bill revved up his truck and pulled the flatbed trailer behind the barn, where they unloaded most of the sacks onto pallets inside of a steel-sided supply shed. By the time they were done, Austin was dripping sweat down his neck, his new blue jeans were covered with flecks of molasses-laced grain, and his new boots were properly broken in, or just about.
When they stopped for lunch, Austin realized he’d not been stressed or worried about anything, not even the fact that no accounting work had gotten done other than the two hours he’d spent that morning. It was like Clay had said the other night, that there was nothing going on and no need to rush. Just the work that would get done in its own time.
And then there was Clay. He was a hard worker, steady, always moving, carrying fifty-pound sacks with ease. Sweating beneath his armpits, pulling the tails of his shirt out when he wiped his forehead, exposing his belly, not tucking the shirt back afterwards. Sweat dripped down his temples, sticking his hair in dark gold streaks to his head.
Clay was moving, always moving. Slowing down to wait for Austin who, while he had ten years in the gym three times a week under his belt, was not used to the physical labor. But nobody chided him, nobody yelled at him to go faster, to work harder.
The smile Clay gave to Austin lit up the shadows of the barn, made the work seem easier. Made Austin’s heart beat a little faster.
But there was no way this gentle flirtation between them could go any further, right? He was only recently divorced, couldn’t get it up, and wasn’t into men. Though, as he watched Clay heft yet another plastic sack onto his shoulder, Austin thought he might be rethinking that last one.
“Want to get lunch?” asked Clay. “After I put up the canopies?”
“Yes,” said Austin, without any hesitation. “I look forward to it.”
13
Austin
Austin made a point to call Bea every day. Well, he had to call Mona first, and get into a strident, heated conversation with her. After which, she wasn’t always willing to hand over the phone to Bea, but on Friday he got lucky.
“Don’t take too long, she’s got ballet lessons,” said Mona, in a short tone as though he’d taken up too much of her time already
“How are those going?” asked Austin.
“She loves them. Here she is.”
The phone changed hands, and there were a few muffled words from Mona, and aYes, Momfrom Bea.
Then he heard his daughter’s voice.
“Dad, Dad, Dad!”
All the energy in Bea’s voice flowed into him, all the love and affection like a balm after speaking to Mona for even just five minutes.
“How are you doing, honeybee?” he asked, cupping his hands around the phone, as though someone might overhear him, but also to focus his love for her through the phone. Through the airwaves, through the air, to where she was.
