Page 105 of Love in Riverbend
Kandace laughs loud enough for others to look our direction. I take another drink of the beer.
“Thanks for helping me out,” she says with a wink and a glance at the cup.
“I’ve got your back. Bring me all the beer.”
Soon we’re joined by her husband, Dax. Before I know it, Cory and Judy Sams and Mick and Chloe Reynolds are also here. The conversation goes from the recent rain to the upcoming softball season. Of course, there are mentions of children.
We aren’t the only group talking, laughing, and drinking—well, other than my sister on the last one. Across the open lawn, Mom and Dad are talking with Lynell Jacobs and his wife. This hog roast is truly a Riverbend tradition.
Kandace and Dax move to the stadium chairs they brought.
With the sun below the horizon, there’s a chill to the spring air. The cooling temperature doesn’t stop the fun as more and more cars pull onto the farm, parking near the big barn. Headlights stream across the crowd and go dark. There are three long tables filled to overflowing with dishes everyone brought. Since I live with Mom and Dad, I didn’t need to contribute. Mom brought enough potato salad and green bean casserole for an army. Nevertheless, I’m a grown man.
I brought a bag of potato chips.
A giant bag.
The kind with ridges.
Leaving the married couples to themselves, I make my way over to the keg. While a lot of the men in this cluster are younger than me, some are also older. I pick up on my dad’s discussion.
“Yeah, I know it’s a slow start, but the Cardinals will pull themselves up. I see a pennant in the future.”
“Distant future,” Ricky says. He and my dad have always razzed one another about baseball. Ricky was raised a Red Sox fan. It’s stupid with him living his whole life in Indiana. I’ve heard the story. It’s that Ricky’s dad, Jack, is left-handed. When he was a kid, he was given a Fred Lynn autographed left-handed glove. Fred was a center fielder for the Red Sox. The rest is history. Not only for Jack but for the next generation as well.
Peering over the rim of Dad’s cup, I grin, seeing the pink of the lemonade available near the food table. Dad has had a few health problems and not drinking alcohol is one of the ways he’s working to keep himself healthy.
After a detailed analysis of the Cardinals’ pitching lineup, I decide to take a walk. I’m not sure exactly what’s eating at me. It could be the idea of the Dunns selling. Whatever it is, my skin is too tight and even a cup of beer doesn’t ease my taut nerves.
I know the Gordon property like I know my own. The Gordon farm is bigger, at least by four times. There isn’t a man in Riverbend who hasn’t at one time worked on this farm. Not always for money. That’s the way things are around here. We pitch in. At harvest time, even people who live away come back to help.
Well, it’s tradition.
Like tonight’s party.
My boots slip in the soft mud as I make my path away from the crowd of people and the orange glow of the bonfire. With each step, the voices dull and the sky above me grows blacker, the stars multiply, and the moon shows itself near the horizon.
Big.
Round.
Bright.
Stuffing my hands into the pockets of my jacket, I stand at the top of a ridge. The large barn and party are behind me. Ahead of me is a pond surrounded by what will soon be fields filled with hay. A smile curls my lips as I recall swimming in that murky water of the pond as a kid. Probably everyone did. How we didn’t come out covered in leeches, I’ll never know.
Something catches my eye.
No.
Not something.
Someone.
Up ahead near the pond, I see a slender figure.
Is that person wearing a cape?
What the hell?
