Morning clouds hung heavy and low, holding in for as
long as they could the hint of relief the night air had
offered. Before long, the white rays that seemed so benign
behind the gray clouds would turn bright as fire and wrap
all who dared to step outside in their unforgiving heat. It
was summer, it was Texas—and not even Willie Nelson's
Christmas album would help today.
Sera popped Willie from her cassette player and
flipped through the pile of tapes on the front seat of her
mint–condition, 1958 Cadillac Eldorado. She hummed
and rolled down her windows, waiting for the renovated air
conditioning to kick in and cool her sweat–dampened
forehead. A wave of aching nausea crept up on her, another
one of many hitting without warning these days. Must be
this God–awful heat, she thought. Or a stomach virus
she just couldn't shake. Either that or a
post–hysterectomy birth fit for the tabloids was on
the horizon.
"Monday ... Wednesday ... Sunday ... There you are."
Sera pulled a homemade tape from the heap. The
title scribbled in purple ink read "Friday – Aretha."
She slid in the tape and turned up the volume as she backed
out of her narrow driveway. Aretha's commentary on chains
of fools floated out into the humid air, greeting a
neighbor—the school teacher from one street
over—as he walked his Dalmatian past Sera and Bill's
small blue house. Sera waved. The dog tugged on the leash
toward a thick patch of grass.
With one hand lifting her unruly auburn hair off
her neck, Sera turned the Caddy onto Lincoln Avenue, easing
through an intersection with only a trace of a yield, much
less a stop. She felt better.
It was early for most businesses in town. The
streetlights still buzzed and the neon beer signs glowed in
the windows of the Circle H convenience store.
So empty, this town in the mornings, Sera thought.
Empty, and always the same. Lincoln was the town's most
traveled street, the one with three traffic lights in a
row, and it was deserted except for a police car patrolling
the first hours of the day shift. On down by the elementary
school, a few walkers in Liz Claiborne pastel short sets
peppered the city's only park—three entire blocks of
faded wooden seesaws, swingsets with squeaking chains and a
lopsided, nowhere–near–safety–code
merry–go–round. In the center of it all, a red
brick pavilion had been built for hosting school picnics
and birthday parties. And on either side of the pavilion,
each equal distance from the middle of the park, stood two
sets of drinking fountains—relics left over from a
past no one bothered to forget in this Central Texas town.
Sera looked forward to Fridays at her shop, not
only because of the receipts, which were good, but because
it signaled the weekend's beginning. It was, after all, the
day just about everyone in Lakeville got paid and the day
customers came from across a three–county area.
She grinned as she drove into the parking lot in
front of the white, wood–framed store, avoiding
potholes just off the city street. Mack's rusting brown
truck with square bales of hay piled in the back was parked
by the front door, pulled across several faded parking
lines. His black Labrador Retriever paced on top of the
bales, and chunks of crusty, dried mud clung to the back
fenders. Hank Williams's voice streamed from the cab.
Crumbling gravel crunched under her tires as Sera
pulled the Caddy in beside him. Mack leaned against the
truck door.
That young man is nothing but legs, she thought.
His faded jeans and worn work boots looked out of
place among the vivid yellow roses stubbornly growing where
the parking lot ended. Mack no doubt had a gig tonight at a
local dance hall or beer joint, probably at the Elks Lodge
or over at the VFW hall. And he probably needed strings or
picks or some other last–minute necessity.
He came around to open the Cadillac door, which let
out its usual groan. "Morning, Sera. Need some help?"