J
ackson sat in the rocker on the front porch of his sun-bleached single-wide trailer and reread the letter. He brushed a sleeve across his eyes and took a long pull on his Lone Star bottle. “What is it?” asked Harley. “Aw, damned wind. Got a bit o' sand in my eye is all.” “How long we been partners, Jay Bee?” “I dunno. We started riding and traveling together back around 'eighty-three, or maybe 'eighty-four, I guess. Why?” “I reckon I've knowed you long enough to tell when something’s got you riled. What's in the letter?” “It's nothing, Harley. Just someone wanting a donation is all.” “The hell, you say,” he snatched the letter from Jackson's hand. “Give it back, Harley.” “You gonna tell me about it?” “No. I ain't.” “Then you ain't getting it back, neither. What's the big deal about some old send-us-the-money letter anyway?” He glanced at the envelope. “Hey, this ain't no sales letter. This is from Crissy.”
“Give it, Harley.” “I'd never have took it, if you told me who it’s from.” He handed the letter back. “She hittin’ you up for more child support?” “No.” “Well, what then? Dammit, Jackson. Something's got you all twisted up. When you gonna face-up to it? You’re still in love with her. Always have been.” “That rodeo was last year. I blew it and let myself get throwed. That’s not what this is about.” “Then, what?” “Julie's getting married.” “Your little Julie? She can't be old enough. If you need to kill some sumbitch, I'll alibi you.” “She's nineteen, Harley.” “My God. When did that happen?” “February. Her birthday's in February.” “So, you gonna go?” “I don't know. They didn't exactly invite me.” “Then, why the letter?” “Crissy wants to know if I can help with the dress.” “Aw, hell, Jackson. Crissy knows you ain't got a pot to piss in. Why's she laying it on you?”
