East Texas Proud: What After Pride?

By Gary B. Boyd

This is a story that is raw and real. Fiercely independent, in true Texas fashion, Stark Wiseman struggles to hold his family heritage together against forces that seem bent on destroying what his grandfather and father had created. The unexpected death of his daughter seems to be the final assault on his resolvethe proverbial straw that breaks the camels back. But Stark fights on against insurmountable odds, determined to preserve his family heritage. The only thing that sustains him is his East Texas pride.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 24, 2018
• ISBN: 9781546225317

Gary B. Boyd

Gary B. Boyd is a story teller. Whether at his cabin in the Ozark Mountains, at his desk in his home or on his deck overlooking Beaver Lake near Rogers, Arkansas, he writes his stories. His travels during his business career brought him in touch with a variety of people. Inquisitive, Gary watches and listens to the people he meets. He sees in them the characters that will fill his stories … that will tell their stories. A prolific author with more than a dozen published titles and a head full of tales yet to share, Gary submits to his characters and allows them to tell their own stories in their own way. The joy of completing a novel doesn’t lessen with time. There are more stories to tell, more novels to write. Gary expects to bring new characters to life for years to come. www.garybboyd.com

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© 2018 Gary B. Boyd. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 01/23/2018

ISBN: 978-1-5462-2532-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-2531-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018900762

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CONTENTS

Dedication

Preface

Chapter 1A Stark Meeting

Chapter 2 Merilee Wiseman

Chapter 3 Beverly Johnson

Chapter 4 A New Chapter

Chapter 5 The Turning of a Page

Chapter 6 The Dream House

Chapter 7 Life in Paradise

Chapter 8 A Passing Ship

Chapter 9 The Gathering Storm

Chapter 10 Christmas Eve

Chapter 11 No Reprieve

Chapter 12 Dissolution

Chapter 13 The Hard Row

Chapter 14 Horse Trading

Chapter 15 Moving On

Chapter 16 New Neighbors

Chapter 17 The Law

Chapter 18 Line in the Texas Sand

Chapter 19 Harried Life

Chapter 20 ‘Til the Bitter End

DEDICATION

A book is more than an amalgamation of words fashioned into sentences and woven into the fabric of a tale. It is a labor of love. And love cannot be achieved alone. Every word, every sentence, the very fabric of this tale required the love of others to support me in its writing. My wife, Shirley, provided the most love, the most encouragement, the most of everything necessary to engage in and successfully complete a project of this magnitude. My daughter, Tina, read and re-read every word, occasionally unraveling the fabric and demanding that it be rewoven. My daughter, Angela, guided the tale to conclusion by challenging the pattern of the weave.

PREFACE

A man’s life is his to live. Independent of all else, of anyone else, he can make decisions to further his own interest.

Unless he’s married.

Saying I do changes the concept of absolute freedom to choose. So does having a job. All the misconceptions of freedom are quickly dispelled by reality. A man must fall into step with the world around him, or he will be left behind, left to flounder in a quagmire of his own creation. Societal morality and social convention are the established parameters of freedom, the boundaries that fetter absolute freedom. Politicos will assert that without those two standards, anarchy will prevail. It won’t. Anarchy is the absence of governmental controls, not morality or convention. The parameters can exist without the government. So can pride.

Pride carries more weight than any other emotional state.

Love? Strong. Binding. Enduring. But, pride keeps the love stable and gives it life. The lovers are proud of their bond and one another. They are proud of their commitment and fidelity. Without that pride, the love will eventually erode, eventually fail to provide the emotional satisfaction necessary to exist.

Fear? Survival. Inciteful. Momentary. Fear on its own is nothing more than a catalyst for action – or inaction. Add pride, and that fear becomes a driving force that makes the weakest member of society a force to be reckoned with. Fear needs pride to give it direction, to give it substance. A proud man who feels fear is a formidable foe.

Hate? Unrelenting. Guttural. Primal. Hate is unreasonable in any form. Any connection to survival is tenuous at best, a vestige of some primordial instinct to eschew anything, or anyone, different. Add pride and the hate becomes untenable, even for the one who hates. The pride makes the hate seem real, seem reasonable, seem right.

Most religions, those often-denounced tenets of faith and guidance, comment on pride. None of the comments are good. Pride leads a man to his own destruction. The sage writers of religious books are quick to point out the fallacy of pride, the evils that follow pride. Pride goeth before a fall is stated in one form or another to warn of the dangers associated with pride.

Some will argue admonitions against pride are referencing false pride. Who’s to say which pride is true or false? If a man is proud of his wife as the most beautiful woman in the world, is it false pride because beauty is in the eye of the beholder? Or, is it false pride because he had nothing to do with her beauty?

Posturing is pride. Preening and primping are signs of pride. Bragging is pride; that point no one will argue. But, is it false pride if the words are true? I am the man-in-charge! False boast or spoken truth? If he is President, he is indeed in charge; it is truth. But, it is pride that makes him say the words, to make the boast. If he is President, everyone knows it and it need not be said except to lord it over others, to assert his feelings of self-importance.

Pride hurts anyone who embraces it, even in a small way. That is the reason religions – societal morality and social conventions – warn against pride. Every prideful act is prelude to a fall, or at least a stumble. The luster of pride is quickly supplanted by the blemishes of failure; inevitable and predictable.

Stark Wiseman was proud. It was his nature. He had every reason to be proud. He was a Texan; better yet, he was an East Texan. He was heir to the family heritage, land that was owned by generations of his family. He possessed the gift of persuasion, a valuable asset in life, love and business. Everything he did, he did with pride, bolstered with pride. Pride was his driving force, the fuel that powered the man that was Stark Wiseman. He was East Texas proud – with all that pride portends.

CHAPTER ONE

A STARK MEETING

East Texas can best be described as idyllic and neighborly. Grass grows easily in verdant pastures that spread across the landscape, occasionally interrupted by man-made ponds and shade-yielding native trees. Cattle thrive, grazing grass and flicking flies as they pack on fleshy pounds; every pound provides profit and sustenance to ranchers and their families. Farms’ soils are tilled to produce grain crops and truck gardens. Small towns, mini-cities with hearts, are scattered throughout the region, are umbilically connected to the fertile earth. The towns, the infrastructure they represent, provide support for all the farms and ranches, the engines that power the economy. All that feeds into the neighborly atmosphere of East Texas, where everyone is ready to help when help is needed.

Stark Wiseman was a Texan, and he was a neighbor. His East Texas drawl was less pronounced that it was when he was younger, a concession to his desire to succeed in an international company; just enough accent to prove his birthright but not enough to categorize him as a rube. In his forties, he lived on the same property where he was raised. Even as he branched out in his company, he couldn’t yank out his roots. He was East Texas to the core.

County roads in East Texas aren’t always smooth sailing. The unpaved roads, and there are plenty, are prone to flooding – as are the paved roads; but the thin layer of asphalt protects cars, trucks and wagons from the sandy soil that readily becomes laden with water and converts to a treacherous quagmire. In due course, that same sandy soil becomes dusty and loose during long periods without rain. Both conditions tug mercilessly at automobile tires. Four-wheel-drive is desirable, but not necessary – because, sooner or later, a neighbor will come along to render aid if you get stuck.

Stark stopped behind a stalled car. He had no other option. The car was in the middle of the narrow road. He slapped the steering wheel, muttered an exasperated expletive and shook his head. The small car appeared to be buried to the axles, which wouldn’t take much since most cars had less than six inches of clearance anyway. He didn’t recognize the vehicle; he knew most of the vehicles owned by his neighbors and their frequent visitors. Whoever was driving it sure didn’t know how to drive through the wet, mucky soil that served as a roadway. The driver had entered the rutted stretch of road with too much caution. To even have a chance at barging through the quicksand-like mire, one had to attack the road with a vengeance – with enough speed to maintain forward momentum through the softer areas.

He didn’t want to, but Stark knew he had to render assistance; that’s the way it is in East Texas; the way it had always been. He would have preferred to let the driver sit and stew about the mistake, maybe learn to not repeat it; definitely learn the consequences of stupidity alone in the darkness of an East Texas night with the chill-inducing orchestra of coyote howls. But, if word got out that he ignored someone in distress … well, he couldn’t let that happen. As far as he was concerned, people who didn’t know how to drive under all road conditions should not be allowed to drive, should not have a driver’s license. Whoever the driver was, by the time the car was extricated from the mess it was in, he or she would rue the decision to drive in the mud; he or she would learn a valuable lesson about driving on muddy roads – drive right or stay indoors until the roads dried. Stark was not a forgiving person; he didn’t tolerate stupidity well.

Stark pushed open the door of his four-wheel-drive Dodge. The ground was closer than normal. He muttered an expletive as he felt his boots sink into the muck. His Ram was deep in the mud. He wasn’t worried. He knew his truck had the power and the traction to get out of the slop. He hoped the truck was capable of pulling the light-weight car from its predicament. The car was in deep, the rocker panels level with the mud. The car door opened, lightly scraping against the mud as it swung open a few inches. The driver was a female. Her hair should have been gray, but a good hair dresser covered that for her.

Wait! Don’t get out! Stark barked. He was sure she jerked at the sound of his voice. That reaction made him feel good. She needed someone to jerk some sense into her. He sloughed his way to her car, surveying the situation as he walked. The bottom had fallen out of the road in an area about twenty feet long, a little more than a car length. If the driver had any skills at all, she would have easily shot through the mud hole without more than a rush of adrenaline and wide eyes.

Stark had complained to his County Precinct Commissioner about that very spot when the man came around looking for votes. Stark seldom drove that particular road. It wasn’t on any of his regular routes to his job or to his favorite fishing spots, but it did provide access to a rancher’s field where he had permission to hunt deer, dove and feral hogs. He was scouting the area by driving along the pasture to see if he could see any deer activity in the fresh mud after the recent rain. At that moment, he wished he hadn’t chosen that specific time to be curious. Without greeting, he ordered, Close the door and open your window. Stark knew the woman would do as he said; most women did. He waited until the distressed woman complied with his command, then he snorted, You’ve got this thing in deep. What prompted you to get out in this mess, anyway? Stark was taking no prisoners. He would make her feel as uncomfortable as he could during her rescue. She would remember.

Timidly, almost afraid to respond, the woman replied, My daughter isn’t feeling well, so I came to see about her. I live in Sulphur Springs. It’s up the highway …

Stark shook his head, I know where Sulphur Springs is. Who’s your daughter. Why’d you choose this mud road rather than stay on the pavement? No one lived on that particular county road; which was the reason the county was reluctant to spend money to keep it in good repair. Its only use was for ranchers to access pastures, and they drove vehicles fully capable of traversing the road under any condition without difficulty. The roads throughout the area were generally along section lines, straight and crosshatched if seen from above. Curves were only necessary if past ranchers built their ranch houses on a section line because they owned several sections, or if a creek created a need for a bridge that could be avoided by a bend in the road.

My daughter is Bev Johnson, Beverly. I think I missed my turn.

Stark smiled. His eyes sparkled. His tone changed. Oh. You’re Beverly’s mom? He extended his hand toward the car window. My name’s Stark Wiseman. Beverly goes to the same church I do. I used to work in the same store where she works. A very nice woman. Let’s see if I can’t get your car out of this mess and help you get to Beverly’s before dark. Stark sloughed back to his pickup and pulled a pair of coveralls from a large tool box bolted inside his truck bed. He lowered his tailgate and pulled himself up on it. The big pickup sat high above the ground, even in the mud – especially for a five-foot seven-inch man. He carefully removed his muddy boots and slid the coveralls up his legs, raising the pant legs high enough that he could re-don his boots without getting too much mud inside the legs. He slid from the tailgate into the mud, which was not as deep behind his truck where the road was more solid, and pulled the coveralls over his shoulders. He pulled a nylon strap out of his toolbox and walked back to the mired car. I’m going to drive around you in the ditch over there and hook to your front end. This road’s too narrow to pull you out backwards and then turn around. The county roads in that part of the county were barely wide enough for two vehicles – and then only if both drove with one set of tires on the shoulder. Generally, traffic was light in the country, so light that two vehicles seldom traversed them at the same time. The shoulders were simply sloped from the high center of the roadway to shallow, grassy ditches. Hardy grasses and weeds grew between a pair of wide wheel ruts that defined the road.

Oh dear! But you’ll have to wallow in the mud to hook your rope to my car. Beverly’s mother was truly concerned.

Stark laughed, That’s why I’m wearing these coveralls. It won’t be all that bad if I can find something to tie onto. If Beverly’ll just let me wash up when we get there, I’ll be good.

Oh, I’m sure she will. She’s a good neighbor, the woman stammered.

Stark thought about Beverly Johnson. The woman and her husband, Jackson – called ‘Jack’ by his friends – were younger than Stark. They were about his wife’s age, ten years or so younger than him. The couple attended the Gospel Creek Cowboy Church; the same church Stark and Merilee attended – when he was not fishing or hunting … or something. He admired Beverly. Her auburn hair sparkled with a lively sheen in the sunlight. She used to smile a lot, but when Jack decided to divorce her, she quit smiling as much – and quit attending church. He often wondered if he should try to talk to her, help her ease the transition after a sudden and malicious divorce. He had experience with divorce, with a trusted mate who decided the love was dead. He tried to envision the leggy woman’s figure as he gunned his truck through the ditch. Like most women in the cowboy church, she usually wore denim jeans, the kind with sparkles on the rear pocket seams. He wished Beverly’s mother hadn’t driven in the center of the road. He barely had room to force his big Dodge between the car and the bottom of the ditch; he felt the right-side tires sink as he barged ahead. When he was finally around the stuck car, he backed the truck into alignment with the front of the car without dropping his rear tires into the big mud puddle.

Stark got on his hands and knees and groped beneath the front of the car until he located a piece of the frame that would support the tug of the nylon strap. The plastic bumper might be at risk, but he didn’t see many options available at that moment; even a tow truck would face the same dilemma. Beverly would appreciate his neighborliness. He always tried to help. It didn’t hurt to help neighbors; there could be a time when you needed help in return.

After explaining to Beverly’s mother what she needed to do when he put pressure on the tow strap, Stark climbed into his pickup and slowly applied tension until the strap was taut. With his window down, he used his left hand to signal the woman to press the gas pedal and drive forward. He was surprised at how easily the car slid from its prison. It required minimal pulling by him; it looked more stuck than it really was. As soon as her car was able to get traction on the more solid part of the road, she started gaining fast, closing the distance between the two vehicles and taking all tension off the strap. He nearly panicked, certain that she would crash into the back of his truck. He pressed his gas pedal and frantically drove to keep ahead of her. He signaled her to slow down, carefully judging her reaction, so the strap didn’t jerk tight and snap her plastic bumper. He was relieved when the two vehicles came to a stop without incident.

Stark grinned at Beverly’s mother and told her to put the car in park. He didn’t trust her to hold it still while he was on his knees removing the tow strap. He tossed the muddy strap into the back of his pickup; it would have to be hosed clean. He opened his tailgate again and removed the mud encrusted coveralls without taking off his boots; instead, he used the coveralls to wipe away as much mud from his boots as he could – he didn’t want to track mud into Beverly’s house. The coveralls could be washed. He could leave his boots outside if she didn’t have a mud room. He wished his mobile home had a mud room.

When they arrived at Beverly Johnson’s house, Stark parked his truck in the gravel drive and climbed from the cab. The Johnson house was a typical, one-story ranch-style house. Like many rent houses, it needed some TLC to regain its former glory, but it was serviceable and clean. Jack Johnson worked in town, the town of Mabank, at a Tractor Supply outlet. Jack didn’t make a lot of money, but the two of them managed with Beverly’s paycheck from Wal-Mart in Canton. She was a CSM; she assisted customers and provided supervision to checkers. The rumor mill suggested that Beverly’s odd hours created conflict in the childless marriage, among other reasons for the divorce.

Beverly’s mother got out of her car and gave it a quick once over. She shook her head at the mud splatter that covered the hood and windshield except where her wiper blades had smeared the glass clear enough to see to finish her drive. The only part that seemed untouched by mud was the back glass and the front half of the trunk lid; very little white paint was visible. My poor car. I’m going to have to wash it. It looks so pathetic.

Beverly Johnson heard the vehicles arrive, especially Stark’s Dodge Ram with its rumbling MagnaFlow exhaust system. She stepped through the front door onto the small entry porch to watch the occupants exit the vehicles. She was dressed in a pair of loose fitting gray shorts and a worn Longhorn sweat shirt. She recognized her mother and Stark, though she didn’t immediately realize the car was her mother’s. She was surprised to see Stark; he and Jack were casual friends, mostly because in the country everyone knew everyone within five miles. She knew him as an Assistant Manager in the Canton Wal-Mart, before he promoted and transferred to a Supercenter in Terrell. He and his wife, Merilee, attended the same church as she and Jack did … before the divorce. Jack sometimes called on Stark to get his old truck started.

What happened to your car? Beverly asked as she stepped from the porch onto a gravel walkway that was pocked with clumps of grass. Jack was never concerned about appearances; he let the grass live if it could sprout in the gravel drive – or anywhere else. She needed a lawnmower; the one Jack had bought when they first moved into the little farmhouse was broken. She hadn’t been able to mow for almost three weeks, and the rain was only going to make the grass grow more – and faster.

Beverly’s mother walked to meet Beverly and exchanged a hug while she answered. This nice gentleman had to come to my rescue. I guess I made a wrong turn and I sunk into a mudhole.

Beverly glanced toward Stark and smiled a hello and thank you rolled into one simple gesture. Mom, you didn’t try to go down the dirt road, did you? I’ve told you to stay on the pavement. It’s not a whole lot smoother, but it’s safer – especially right after a rain. She turned to Stark, Thank you, Stark. Mom’s lucky she didn’t have to sit there until some rancher came to check on his cows in a day or two.

Stark grinned. Beverly’s shorts were loose, but they clung to the crease of her hips and jiggled when she moved. He liked what he saw when she danced around, both greeting and scolding her mother. Her body had not been subjected to the rigors of child bearing, though her face appeared gaunt – probably from the stress of her divorce. I just happened down that way to check on my hunting ground. I guess I need to complain louder to Maxwell Cantily about the mudholes on that road. All it needs is one big load of gravel. As our Precinct Commissioner, it’s the least he could do for our votes. Stark laughed and flashed his brightest smile.

In a scolding tone, Beverly continued, I don’t know how many times Jack and I have told Mom to never drive on the dirt roads. Her eyes flickered briefly when she invoked the name of her ex-husband. Her twelve-year marriage to Jackson Johnson had too many good memories to simply forget Jack and I was not one word, even though the divorce had ended all hopes of reconciliation six months earlier. She knew her mother was there to try to talk her into moving to Sulphur Springs, but she didn’t want to run back to mama just because of an upset in her life. She only needed a shoulder to cry on occasionally. Today was one of those days. Seeing Stark, a man, reminded her that she had always relied on Jack, a man, for certain things, things like changing flat tires, mowing the lawn – though Jack wasn’t particularly good at that – and comfort when it was needed. She knew she could make it, would make it, but she was alone for the first time in her life. More critically, if her mother had called for help from the mudhole, she would have been no help extricating the car – except to call a neighbor, maybe Stark.

Stark continued to smile and leer. I’m glad I could help. An invitation didn’t seem to be forthcoming, so he opened the subject. If you have a water hose nearby, I need to wash some of this mud off before I traipse it home … and, maybe I can hose off some of the mud from your mother’s car. He laughed and grinned at the older woman standing next to Beverly. I’d like to see what color it is.

Startled from her own thoughts, Beverly exclaimed, Oh, I’m sorry. Of course, we … I have a hose around back. It can hook to the faucet at the corner there. She almost jumped to walk toward the back of her house.

Stark moved to be close to Beverly as she walked around the house, but far enough back to watch the crease of her rear-end tug at the cotton shorts with every step. He waited until she bent over to pick up a coiled and tangled hose from tall grass next to the house. He leaned and reached, perfectly timing his reach so that his hand fell atop hers. Here, let me get that. No need you getting your clothes dirty. I’m already a mess. He laughed, and his eyes twinkled when Beverly self-consciously – but slowly – withdrew her hand from the hose. His hand gently lingered on top of hers even as she stood upright. You seem tense. It’ll be alright. Your mother’s fine, and the car just needs a good cleaning; probably better than I can do with a water hose, but it’s not damaged. He knew that wasn’t the cause of her reaction to his touch, but he also knew he could sway her thoughts with the comment, by offering the excuse for her behavior.

Stark picked up the wad of hose and half carried, half dragged it to the water faucet that protruded from concrete blocks that made up the perimeter of the pier and beam foundation. Beverly lagged slightly behind him, nervously watching him, wondering why her heart was pounding uncontrollably.

The two women watched as Stark sprayed the mud from the white car. He didn’t scrub it, so it didn’t emerge spotless, but at least it was once again recognizable as white. He grinned when he was finished. He noticed the grass was unmowed. He knew Jack was not a stickler for the yard’s appearance, but at least the man mowed on a semi-regular basis to discourage rats and snakes. Beverly was probably forced to work more hours – if Wal-Mart allowed it – to make ends meet; or she had taken a second job and had no time to mow. In either case, the grass was raggedly tall. He knew the rent for the house was not very high – not for a two-income family – but Beverly was probably struggling. He coiled the hose carefully and carried it back to where he found it. A faded and rusted push mower was shoved against a small shed, a weathered shed that probably once served as its shelter. He glanced to see if Beverly had followed him, hoping but not expecting. Undetected, he walked to the mower and looked it over. Other than the fact that it was needlessly weathered, it appeared to be okay. He grasped the starter cord and pulled on it. He almost tipped himself over; the rope didn’t budge. He braced his foot on the mower deck and tugged again. It was solid. The motor was seized. That explained the yard grass. He smiled to himself. He knew what to do.

Beverly and her mother were standing at the porch steps, waiting for Stark to return. He glanced at his hands, studied them and then acted as though he was going to wipe them clean on his jeans.

Beverly’s mother gasped, Oh my goodness. Don’t do that. You can come inside and wash your hands. Can’t he, Bev?

Beverly was momentarily at a loss for words. Her mind raced, trying to recall whether her house was presentable. Finally, she realized that she had cleaned and straightened everything in advance of her mother’s arrival. Sure. Stark, don’t do that. You can wash up in the bathroom.

Stark smiled. Thank you. He noticed her eyes drop to his muddy boots. I’ll kick my boots off on the porch, so I don’t track mud. He saw Beverly’s nervously appreciative smile.

Stark went into the bathroom. He knew where it was. He had visited Jack a few times over the years that Jack and Beverly had lived in the rent house, usually to help the hapless man with a vehicle issue. As he washed his hands, he overheard Beverly’s mother whisper too loudly, Bev, you need to meet someone nice like him. The only way you can get past what Jack did to you is move on. He couldn’t hear Beverly’s response over the running water, but he smiled. Mothers are always helpful. After he wiped his hands, he checked the medicine cabinet. Few people actually used them for medicine, but he was compelled to peek behind the mirror. Mundane toiletries filled most of the spots. Mascara and lash curlers were squarely in the middle of the middle shelf. Beverly did have pretty eyes, pretty lashes, appealing eyes, sultry eyes, eyes that could make a man swallow his tongue. On the bottom shelf, to the right, he found what he was searching to find – a prescription bottle. Diazepam. The prescription was relatively new, less than six-months old. He opened the bottle. Probably half gone. Apparently, Beverly required something to calm her nerves after the divorce; she was struggling and vulnerable. He could use that information.

Well, I’m all clean again, Stark said to the women with a grin when he exited the bathroom. If y’all don’t need anything else from me, I’ll head out for now. He watched Beverly’s reaction. Her eyes blinked and she feebly smiled. Beverly’s mother gushed appreciation. He wasn’t as angry with her as he was when he first saw her car mired in the mudhole. She impeded his progress on the dirt road, but her actions had opened a new road.

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Stark glowered at the Associate assigned to the fresh produce section. Even though the young man was several inches taller than him, Stark didn’t back down from his demand. He had authority over the man, and the man wasn’t doing the job correctly. Those grapes need to be front and center. They’re almost at the end of their cycle. I don’t want’em set in a corner display where they can rot before someone buys them.

We just got in all these papayas, the young man replied lamely, as he pointed toward the display in question. I thought we should push them this week.

It’s not about what you think. Those papayas will keep, Stark retorted. These grapes won’t. I don’t want to see spoilage. Put the grapes front and center; that’s the only way they’ll sell before they rot. Do you hear me?

Stark worked hard to make sure his store was successful. His performance was based not just on keeping items on the shelves, but also on keeping items in stock that turned fast. If anything sat too long, especially fresh produce, it was money lost that should have been a sale. The retail business was all about inventory turns; especially fresh produce which had a very short shelf-life. That was the lesson he continually pounded into the heads of every Assistant Manager and Associate on his shift.

The Fresh Produce Manager had sent the store an abundance of seedless grapes … and they were cheap. Even though Stark didn’t believe the local market would support that many grapes, it was his job – and the store’s job – to push them, to help them sell. The store could make a nice profit on them – if they didn’t sit too long. The grapes were on the verge of being over-ripe when they were delivered. The reason for the low price. If the fruit went soft before it could be sold, the Store Manager took the hit for inventory loss – or shrinkage, as it was called. That hit translated into lower bonuses and profit sharing, for everyone in the store. Stark made his voice heard to his Store Manager when the grapes arrived. He wanted the man who could affect his career to know that he could do a better job than the current Fresh Produce Manager. If the Fresh Produce Manager knew how to do her job right, the store wouldn’t be faced with the problem of spoilage within days of the grapes’ delivery. Worse, the Associate was being an ass by arguing with his superior. Stark knew fresh produce better than most people; his father had drilled that knowledge into him as a child. It irritated him that people ignored his superior knowledge.

The drive home from Terrell took too long, especially after a trying day. Even in the summer months, Stark didn’t get much daylight time to enjoy the small ranch he called his. His yard – the part of the fifteen-acre tract that was technically deeded to him by his father, the part that served as his lawn – was nearly three acres. He liked to keep the yard looking nice. He took pride in everything he owned. Wednesday was his mowing day. He refused to put that chore onto a weekend and he couldn’t leave it for his dad, who still lived in the old farmhouse, who still farmed the thirty-acre family farm. Stark fished on the weekend; usually beginning before dark on Friday if he could.

The Canton, Texas Wal-Mart was more than half-an-hour out of his way, depending on east-bound traffic on I-20 and traffic through Canton’s town streets. Stark made the trip anyway, casting aspersions on the character, IQ and heritage of every driver who dared to impede his progress along his chosen route. He needed some fishing lures and a new gas can. He could have gotten both in his own store, but he also had another mission.

Stark made a point of looking for Beverly near the check-out area. His heart fluttered slightly, and his expression changed to a smile when he saw her in her yellow CSM vest. The vest couldn’t hide her natural endowments. If anything, it accented her shape. It had only been four days since he last saw her, but he felt like it had been a lifetime. Her face, that had appeared drawn and gaunt when he delivered her mother safely to her doorstep, was brighter; she was more relaxed. Her job was her family, especially after the divorce, and it gave her comfort and security. She needed more than that. Hello, Bev. I didn’t expect to see you here, Stark said with a cheery smile and fake surprise.

Beverly looked at Stark for a moment before erupting into a welcoming grin. The country boy she was accustomed to seeing – hat, jeans and boots, was not there. Stark was dressed in business casual clothing, well fitted to his short frame. She noticed that his once pressed shirt was wrinkled from a day’s work, but it still supported his air of confidence, of control. He still had on his bright blue vest with his name badge that boasted his title of Co-Manager. The vest made his shoulders look even broader than they were. She saw him as a towering figure, even though he was no taller than her. He didn’t have a gut like most men his age. She hadn’t noticed that before that moment, slightly embarrassed that she noticed at all. She seldom noticed him when Jack and Stark would talk man-talk. She politely stayed out of their conversation. Stark’s hair was slightly grayed at the temples. It accentuated his tanned face. His teeth were even and white. She was sure they sparkled under the store’s LED ceiling lights. Well, hello, Stark. I didn’t expect to see you in the store. Don’t you see enough of Wal-Mart as it is? She knew where he worked. The Canton store was out of the way on the route from Terrell to his house.

Stark was pleased that she acknowledged him completely. He held up his plastic bags with his purchased items. I needed some fishing lures and a gas can for my lawn mower. I forgot to get’em while I was in Terrell. By the way, did you get your lawn mower fixed?

Beverly’s eyes dropped. She was ashamed of her tall grass; she wished Stark hadn’t seen it. Depending on the time of day she went to work, she sometimes drove past Stark’s trailer on her way to or from the town of Canton. His yard, and the yard around his parents’ house, was always mowed. I know it’s terrible to say, but I really haven’t had time to do anything with it. I think it’s broken. I just need to buy a new one.

Stark nodded understandingly. They can be a pain. Tell you what, if you don’t mind, I’m hauling my mower in for a tune-up one evening this week. I can stop on my way there or back and mow it for you. It won’t take long.

Beverly blinked nervously. I can’t let you do that.

Stark leaned toward Beverly and smiled warmly as he talked. Why not? It’s not a problem, and I’ll be going that general direction anyway. What evening are you off work? I don’t want to get into something I don’t know about; that grass is pretty high … you know … if you have some lawn ornaments or flower beds I need to avoid.

Reactively, too embarrassed to argue, Beverly responded. I’m off Thursday evening.

Before she could say anything else, Stark replied enthusiastically. There you have it. I’ll be there about five. I should be able to knock it out in an hour or so. He grinned victoriously as he walked toward the exit. He had his foot in the door.

While Stark mowed his yard on Wednesday, his mind was on the yard he’d be mowing on Thursday. He hoped Beverly would be wearing the same loose-fitting, clinging shorts. As soon as he completed his chore, he loaded his mower onto a trailer and hitched it behind his Dodge. He didn’t want to waste time when he got home from work. He normally drove his old Ford Focus back and forth to work; more fuel efficient. He planned his Thursday while he showered and while he ate supper.

The trailer rattled behind the Dodge Ram. The narrow, paved county roads were filled with potholes, some open all the way to the underlying dirt, others mounded with an overfill of asphalt patch. The effect was a continual up and down jolt on the truck’s suspension. The trailer had no suspension, just straight axles that responded with bounces on every pothole and mound. Normally, Stark would have driven slowly, but he was in a hurry. He had a yard to mow, grass to cut.

Beverly stepped out of her house when Stark pulled the truck and trailer into her gravel drive. The rattle of the trailer and the rumble of the engine signaled his approach and arrival. Stark was initially disappointed, Beverly was dressed in jeans, well-worn and shaped by her body. After a studied look, his disappointment faded. Beverly’s expression was somewhere between a smile and worry. Stark grinned and bellowed, The grass cutter has arrived.

Beverly walked to stand close to the trailer while Stark began the task of unloading the riding lawnmower. The deck of the mower was covered with grass cuttings. You really don’t have to do this, Stark. I’m going to buy a mower when I get my next paycheck.

Stark slid into his mower’s seat and smiled, Bev, he decided to use the nickname her mother used, I’ve been in hard times. I’ve gone through what you’re going through. You don’t have to deal with this alone. It’s not hurting one bit for me to help. Besides, as tall as this grass is, a push mower will have a tough time cutting through it. He watched as her eyes filled with tears. She pressed her lips together and her chin quivered. Now, let me get this thing off here. It’s going to be okay. I mean, what are friends for? I’m happy to help.

Stark mowed the yard – twice. It was too tall to cut properly in one pass. Without being obvious, he watched for Beverly who watched his progress as she made trips into and out of her house. He