They all nodded.
A green convertible driven by a fat woman came around the bend,
trailing dust, and rattled across the bridge.
"New York license plates," Luke said, squinting.
"Yep," said Charley.
"Maybe she'll bite."
"If she stops," Charley said, "maybe she will."
* * * * *
The green convertible swerved off the road and pulled to a halt beside
the store. The fat lady got out and looked around for a moment,
blinking in the sun. She saw the three old men up on the porch and
seemed to hesitate. Then she went around the back of the car and headed
for the outhouse, walking a little defiantly, head up, her steps steady
and deliberate.
The men exchanged glances. Luke handed Charley a dollar bill.
"Do her some good, maybe," Charley said. "Shy type."
"Like we didn't know how it was," Sam said, shaking his head.
"Or maybe," Charley said, "because we do. Funny."
Luke sat down on the bottom-most step and scuffed the dirt of the yard
with a toe. They watched the cowbell atop the outhouse, and listened to
the murmur of the creek, and heard a bird sing in the big elm out back
of the store, and waited.
The chain that came up through the outhouse roof yanked down.