The Evening Hour Read Online Free PDF Page A

Texas or Florida, someplace where they could get to the ocean. But they were just teenagers, didn’t know anything. The sun disappeared behind sky the color of wet cement; he could smell the oncoming rain. He watched from his truck as Terry Rose and his family came out of the Wigwam. They crossed the street, the boy running ahead. Kathy reached for Terry’s hand. At his wedding, Terry had grabbed Cole’s hand and said he was like a brother, and this was both the truth and a lie. Now he watched his old friend get in his truck and drive away to his house with the big bathroom and double-car garage, his wife next to him, his son with his face pressed to the rear window, waving good-bye.
    Cole punched in the lighter and turned down a street in Stillwell known as Blacklung Block; on bad days, the entire neighborhood turned gray with coal dust. Tonight the streets were quiet. Yellow light shone from a row of old coal camp houses, and through the windows he could see flickering TVs and silhouettes of people who stayed home, who lived happy, good lives. Families in front of the TV, eating popcorn, playing Old Maid. Like Terry Rose and his family, maybe.
    He parked in front of the duplex and lit a cigarette. Knowing all along that this was where he would end up. He stopped by a few times a month on business, and he guessed by now that he also considered Reese Campbell a friend. But he could never shake the underlying feeling of dread that he carried with him whenever he came over here. Not alarm, just a low humming in his gut, like a slight fever he couldn’t shake. At least tonight there were no cars in the driveway, except for the antique ice blue ’61 Cadillac that was always there, like an anchored boat.
    Cigarette butts and crushed beer cans littered a patch of dead roses. Though Reese rarely left his house—living like a shut-in, just like Ruthie, the owner who lived on the other side of the duplex—he was famous for his parties. A three-legged cat was perched on the porch steps, meowing. “Hey Gimp.” Cole lifted it under his arm like a football and rapped on the door. When there was no answer, he let himself in. The house was pitch-black, and he hit the light switch. Nothing happened. He set down the purring cat.
    â€œWho the fuck is in my house?”
    Cole ran into something with a sharp edge and yelled out. Reese’s laughter broke through the shadows.
    â€œIt’s me,” Cole said, massaging his thigh. “What’s wrong with the light?”
    â€œTurn on the one by the chair.”
    Cole stumbled around until his hand touched a slender floor lamp. A dim yellow light fell over the room, and Cole blinked. It looked the way it usually did, Ruthie’s antiquated furniture (pale rose sofa, old-fashioned table lamps) mixed in with what Reese and his friends left behind (overfilled ashtrays, crumpled cigarette packs, empty bottles of Jack Daniel’s).
    â€œThis place is wrecked.”
    â€œHad a few guests last night. Fuckin’ slobs.”
    Reese was sprawled on the sofa with a flimsy throw over his lap. His thick dark hair was matted and slept-on, and there were heavy rings under his eyes.
    â€œWhat were you doing in the dark?”
    â€œTrying to sleep. What in the hell do you think I was doing? Just settin’ here thinking?”
    â€œYou want me to go?”
    â€œI’m up now.” He rubbed his eyes. “I hope to Jesus you got a cigarette for me, blondie.”
    Cole lit two, handed one to Reese. “Got any beer?”
    â€œShould be some left.”
    In the short time it took Cole to walk into the kitchen and back, Reese had already dozed off. His T-shirt hung off him, a couple of sizes too big. Too much speed, Cole thought. He removed the lit cigarette from Reese’s hand. A jagged scar zipped across his cheek, a souvenir from jail, and his nose was permanently crooked after being broken so many times. Still, he was not ugly.