Cruelest Month Read Online Free PDF

and I pay them electronically. Everything is in order.”
    Ray ran his fingers over the pages of the form again, then gathered them into one pile. “Now tell me about your father, the kinds of things that aren’t here,” he said, placing his index finger on the top of the pile.
    “What are you looking for?” she asked, looking genuinely perplexed.
    “I need a sense of the man. Tell me about your father as a person. Give me a sense of his character.”
    “Where do you want me to start?”
    “During his working years, what did he do? Tell me about the connections that he has, or has had, with other people in the community.”
    Barton relaxed. “Character, that’s the word. My dad is a character, a real storyteller. At times he embarrassed me,” she laughed. “Then I just sort of accepted him for what he is.”
    “I’m not quite following.”
    “Do you know my father?” she asked.
    Ray shook his head, thinking. “I don’t believe so.”
    “Well, even though you don’t know his name, I’m sure you’ve seen him around the village. For the last ten years he’s been wearing his Native American costume—a buckskin jacket with fringe, usually over a flannel shirt and worn-out jeans. Those jeans are too long when they’re new. He just grinds them away with the heels of his boots. He stopped getting haircuts years ago. One of his women friends showed him how to make pigtails. And he wears this big old felt hat with a couple of eagle feathers in it. In the summer he’s got these old moccasins that run to his knees with some beadwork on them. In the winter he wears a pair of Bean hunting boots, the kind with the rubber bottoms and leather tops.” Barton smiled across the table at Ray. “Now you know who I’m talking about?”
    “Yes, from your description, I know who you are talking about.”
    “Did you think he was a member of the band?”
    “No, I just remember the costume,” said Ray. “Is he? A member of the band?”
    “Not a drop of Indian blood.” Barton grimaced. “My mother had some, not much, maybe a 16 th from her mother’s side, way back in lumbering days. What my father is, is a storyteller. He has been for as long as I remember. When we were kids—my sister and me—he would read us stories at bedtime, but he would change them; he put himself in the story as a knight, or prince, or pirate. It was terrific. We loved it. As I grew up, I could see that his stories were just part of his life, that he didn’t separate fact and fiction very much. I mean, nothing malicious or bad, like he didn’t cheat anyone in his business or anything, but he was always telling stories.”
    “What kind of business was he in?”
    “He was a mechanic, a really gifted mechanic. For years he ran Vinnie’s Import Auto Repair in Traverse City. Back in the day he was the only one in town that worked on the exotics. You know, for the summer people who would bring their Jaguars, Porsches and Mercedes up north. When they had problems, he was the only one around who could fix them. Dad was in the Army Air Force during World War II. That’s where he learned mechanics. He was stationed in England.” Barton paused and frowned across the table at Ray. “And here’s a perfect example of what I’m talking about, the storytelling. When we were growing up, he always told us that he had been a bomber pilot, that he had flown dozens of missions over Germany. A number of years ago, his old unit had a reunion, it was down in Florida. I told him that I would drive him there—he doesn’t like to fly anymore. He said he wasn’t interested, but I sensed that he wanted to go. So I called the organizers to get some more details, thinking that I could persuade him. I knew he’d like it once he got there.” Barton shifted in her chair, but kept her eyes on Ray. “But when I was talking to one of the organizers, I found out that my father had been a mechanic. The guy went on and on about how he was the best mechanic in the