“But those ditches will freeze,” said McCabe. “Cattle need water to stay alive.”
Wagner considered this in the sun-flooded kitchen as he puffed the cigar back to life, then tapped it on the ashtray. “Not if a fella' had horses,” he said, and McCabe got the picture then, Wagner’s horses and his cattle. He waited for Wagner to continue.
“Horses break through the ice with their feet. Horses is different than cattle.”
"And what's this? What kind of eggs are these, poached or hard boiled? Or poached until they're hard boiled."
Hank moves to pick up the plate, saying, "She'll take it back," but Marie pushes his hand away and gives him a burst of Italian which she doesn't think I understand.
"It's not worth the trouble. These people don't know any better." To emphasize the point she holds up her thumb and index finger in a pistol shape and swivels her hand. Forget it, there's nothing there.
This near boasting, as well as an incident from his past, had nicknamed Hurlock The Father of Titanium. He wondered if those who whispered the name behind his back, or who placed dim-witted notes in the leaves of his desk calendar were aware of the irony: there was room for the title. If his latest project bore fruit, he would introduce the sleeping metal to the aerospace industry and not only staunch the flow of company money, but earn himself a permanent niche in the world of metals.
“I threw a picture card, Mom. Do you remember when I told you that any picture card is higher than a number card? Now I’ve got my finger on my picture card, and you’ve got your finger on a number card. It’s a ten. So who wins?”
“This is terrible.”
“Can you make out that the tree's a maple? You can call it a lucky joke. Do you see the five-pointed leaves? That’s my Canada.” She guided his fingers along the scar once again. “You don’t think I’m crazy, do you? After my operation the Oncology nurse showed me some pictures. One woman with both breasts removed had so many birds and butterflies you’d think they were actually flying.”
His cohorts had betrayed him. How many charges of resisting arrest had come across his bench that he never questioned? How many charges of assaulting an officer? How many plaintiffs recanted after a series of postponements when cooler heads and money prevailed. He'd let those cases slide. Still, he had a job to perform, a full docket ahead of him. He ran both hands through the thick, graying hair that fell over his ears like a helmet. He listened to an all too familiar story...
Jason parked at the brook and started his last beer of the day. He thought of all the needy people in the world, then of the the lucky ones like himself, who had beer to drink and a truck to sleep in and friends to work for. Moonlight rippled on the brook. Saint Francis would have received the stigmata on a night like this. Jason shut his eyes and saw the saint in his humble cassock, the back of his head shaved, hands raised to a hologram of the crucifix. Surely he’d been praying for the downtrodden and hadn’t sought his own glory. Jason finished the beer and slid down from the truck. He knelt on the ground. He whispered, Let me be like you, Saint Francis. This wasn’t funny. The tiniest sign, a scratch, even some discoloration, would have presented an overwhelming challenge. He raised his hands to the sky, palms out to receive. He dared himself. Maybe just one of the five? One from the four nails driven through hands and feet, one from the lance cut between the ribs? Another bad joke. The stigmata were bestowed upon the devout, not the half-hearted, not the deluded or deranged who starved their way into visions and willed or faked the wounds. Inside the truck cap he inspected his hands under the dome light. Nothing, naturally.
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