Page 38 of Snow in Texas

“But I don’t know what kind of game we’re playing here. I’m a prospect, yeah. But I like your sister. Ilikeher. And I respect her. If that’s not allowed, then you can have this now.” He grabbed for the cut he wasn’t wearing, but Candy seemed to read the gesture.

Candy’s head tipped back, expression turning thoughtful. “Riley killed my father, you know.”

Colin felt a sudden grab in his stomach, another urge to do violence for his girl. Shit…yeah, that was Jenny, at this point. She was his girl, until she insisted otherwise. “No. I didn’t know.”

Another long, blue stare. Then Candy nodded. “Finish getting dressed and meet me out front. It’s time you met Crockett.”

~*~

They rode for several miles, the dark landscape a blur around them. Finally they turned down a road cornered by two dueling gas stations – Jamie’s and Swafford’s, by their signs – and dotted with modest homes dressed in wood siding. Candy turned his bike in at the driveway of a small rust-colored place with cream trim, and dainty lace curtains in the windows. “His daughter’s old place,” he said as they dismounted and doffed their helmets. “He moved in here after she died.”

Shit.

Colin nodded, taking note of the man’s solemn mood.

“A service does the lawn,” Candy explained as they went up the front walk. “And a girl comes to cook and clean for him. He don’t do much.”

Candy hadn’t figured a single man had maintained the porch swing, flower pots, and front door wreath himself, but didn’t say so.

Candy plucked a key from the center of the wreath, unlocked the door, and let them in. They stepped right into a living room that smelled faintly of sweat and air freshener. He could see the efforts of the cleaning girl: tidy stack of magazines on the coffee table, surfaces dusted, carpet recently vacuumed. But signs of slob had started to creep in: dirty dishes and glasses stacked up on the end table beside the recliner, a pair of abandoned boots in the middle of the room.

“Wait here,” Candy instructed, and disappeared deeper into the house.

Colin did as told, but decided not to test the ancient recliner with his weight.

While he waited, he checked his phone. Not that he was expecting any word from Jenny. Nope. Not expecting. What was she doing back at the clubhouse? he wondered. Had she dressed and started her day early? Gone back to sleep? Was she lying beneath the covers, naked and waiting for him?

The last was the least likely option, but it was his favorite, so he put that image up at the front of his mind while he waited.

Candy was gone a while, and when he returned, he walked behind a man he appeared to be steering with a hand on each shoulder. There was a light on in another room, the kitchen probably, and its dim glow had enabled them to see the room upon entry. It wasn’t enough illumination now, though, as Colin struggled to get a read on the shuffling figure in front of Candy.

“Prospect, turn on some lights.”

He found two lamps that he clicked on, over by the TV, and by that time Candy had the man settled in the recliner. The lamplight shone full on his face, and it was a study of echoes.

Firm, blunt features, broad forehead, thick headful of white hair and a jaw that retained some semblance of youthful definition. He was elderly, that was obvious, but not in a shriveled, liver-spotted way; a big, strong, vital man, painted over with age.

That was Colin’s first impression. And then that impression tipped sideways and began to slide, as if melting.

There was something wrong with this man. Something in his dark eyes, his expression – disconnected. A strong man’s face pulled at a weak man’s soft and uncertain angles.

He’d seen this phenomenon before, in his mother’s mother, and it had been as unsettling and sad as it was to behold now: dementia.

Candy kept one hand on the man’s shoulder. “Crockett,” he said in a loud, clear voice. “This is our new prospect, Colin. He’s Felix’s brother, from NOLA. You remember Felix?”

Crockett’s smile came on slowly, and he nodded. “Felix. A big boy, that one.”

“Yeah, so’s his little brother.”

Colin felt his skin tighten and prickle as Crockett’s gaze passed over him. “He don’t look so little to me.”

Candy laughed; it was an indulgent laugh. “Nah, he doesn’t. Colin, this is David Dandridge. Crockett. Our president.”

If someone had told him this was a dream sequence, he would have believed it. Of all his nebulous theories on the absentee president, this had never been one of them.

“Good to meet you, sir,” he said, and didn’t know whether to shake his hand, or not. He decided he had to, and stepped up, extending an awkward hand.

Crockett looked at it a long time before accepting. His hand squeezed Colin’s once – strong, bone-crushing – and then went limp and fell back into his lap.

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