Heat

Chapter 15

Jesse barely made it to work on time. He’d overslept, then had to make his own breakfast. Jenny still hadn’t surfaced by the time he left for work.

He faced the first of the day’s many truckloads of scrap lumber and branches, and occasionally he got a tree limb so big he had to trim it with a brancher, a hooked steel cutting implement fixed to a long handle. He looked upon that work as a welcome break from the monotony of feeding the hopper.

He got through the morning, then at lunchtime discovered that he had nothing to eat; he’d forgotten to fix himself a sandwich. He sat down on a bench in the locker room, too tired and numb to do anything about it.

Harley Waters came in and sat down beside him. “Aren’t you eating anything, Jesse?”

Jesse shook his head. “Forgot to bring something. In a minute, when I get up the strength, I’ll ride into town and pick up a burger.”

Harley handed him a thick, carefully wrapped sandwich. “Take this; my wife always makes me too much.”

“You sure? I can pick up something in town.”

“I’m sure; I still have to deal with a piece of pie.”

Jesse got a cold drink from the machine and sat back down next to Harley.

“Where you from, Jesse?”

Jesse told his story yet again. It came so naturally now that he hardly remembered his real background. “How about you?”

“Been here all my life,” Harley replied. “My grandad worked for Herman Muller’s old man, on his farm. That was a long time ago.”

“You’ve known Herman a long time, then?”

“Oh, sure; I went to work for him right out of high school.”

“Has the business changed much since then?”

“It’s gotten bigger, I guess; Herman’s built it up practically with his own hands. Once in a while he gets an offer from one of the big companies, like Georgia Pacific, but he’s hung onto it. Tell you the truth, after that boy died, I thought he’d sell out.”

“His boy?”

“James, his name was; his grandson, really. Car accident.”

“That’s bad.”

“It was a mess, I’ll tell you. Nobody’s ever figured out who killed him.”

Jesse looked up from his sandwich. “Somebody killed him? An accident, you mean?”

“Well, Pat Casey said it was an accident, but I didn’t like the look of it. He ran off the road coming down the mountain.”

“The one that sort of hangs over Main Street?”

“That’s the one. Kill Hill, they call it; Herman’s boy wasn’t the only one to run off that road. Real steep.”

“This happen recently?” Careful, don’t ask too many questions, he told himself.

“Four, five months ago. Herman was real broke up about it. I thought he’d sell.”

“He’s had a lot of offers, huh?”

“Three or four. Latest one was...” Harley looked up to see another workman walk in. “Well,” he said, standing up. “I’ll see you.”

“Thanks for the sandwich,” Jesse said. He watched as the other man sat down on a bench across the room. He was a big one, six-four, maybe six-five, heavy-set.

“You’re the new fella,” the man said.

“That’s right. Name’s Jesse Barron.”

“Good for you.”

What the hell did that mean? Jesse wondered. He munched on his sandwich and sipped his drink.

“How you like it on the hopper?”

“’Bout the most fun I ever had,” Jesse replied.

“First time I ever heard anybody say that.”

“It was kind of a joke,” Jesse said.

“I guess I don’t have much of a sense of humor,” the man said.

Jesse knew this man, in a way; there had been one in every schoolyard in every town his father had preached in. Big guy, bad attitude, didn’t like newcomers, especially preachers’ boys. “I didn’t get your name,” Jesse said.

“Phil Partain,” the man said, lighting a cigarette. “Cigarette smoke bother you?”

“It’s your lungs,” Jesse said.

“That’s lucky for you,” Partain said, blowing a cloud in Jesse’s direction, “’cause I’m not putting it out. So if you’re one of them antismoking types, I guess you’ll just have to put up with it.”

Jesse was one of those antismoking types, he guessed, and he had learned in every one of a dozen schoolyards how to put a stop to this. He got up, walked over to where Partain sat, plucked the cigarette from his fingers, dropped it on the floor and stepped on it.

Partain looked astonished for about a second, then anger flashed across his face and he started to stand up.

Jesse, who was standing no more than a foot from Partain, reached out, put a hand on his shoulder and sat him back down. “Listen to me, Phil,” he said before the man could try again to get up. “Let’s you and me concentrate on safety in the workplace. Neither one of us wants to get fired for fighting in the locker room; I know I don’t, and that’s just what Mr. Muller would do to both of us, don’t you reckon?”

“Fuck Muller,” Partain said, starting to rise again.

Jesse pushed him back down onto the bench. “Let me give you some good advice, Phil,” he said quietly. “Never pick a fight with a stranger. You never know what you’re getting into.”

“That’s advice you might take yourself,” Partain said, looking up at him.

“Oh, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea,” Jesse replied, smiling. “I’m not picking a fight, I’m nipping one in the bud. In fact, I’m going to make a real effort to get along with you, just as long as you don’t blow cigarette smoke at me, and I hope you’ll make an effort to get along with me. Life’s going to be a whole lot sweeter that way.”

“Oh, yeah? Sweeter for who?” Partain asked.

“Why for both of us, Phil,” Jesse said in the friendliest tone he could muster. “We’re both all grown up now, and when grown men get into fights, somebody gets hurt, likely as not, and I don’t want it to be me. I mean, you’re a big fella.”

“You noticed that, did you?”

“Couldn’t miss it,” Jesse laughed, slapping Partain solidly on the shoulder. He looked at his watch. “Well, I’d better get back to work.” He turned and strolled out of the locker room, back toward the waiting hopper. Phil Partain remained seated on the bench.

Jesse took a deep breath and thought about his pulse. Back in the schoolyard, his heart would have been hammering after an encounter like that, but now it beat right along, just the way it was supposed to. In the yard at Atlanta Federal Prison he had learned to fight without being angry and to avoid fights when he was angry, and the experience was serving him well. He hadn’t felt the need to prove anything to Phil Partain; he’d done all his proving back in Atlanta.

He faced the hopper once more.