was looking out the window and sipping his coffee, seemingly ignoring the conversation.
Harry broke the uncomfortable silence. “Louie works for the Brown’s daughter.” Another long pause ensued.
“Just odd jobs,” Louie said in a low voice.
Wow, you’re up to eight words now.
From experience, Noah knew the old men’s tale was half truth and half conjecture. “Are there any ponds on the property?” he asked.
Everyone looked at Louie again. “One,” he said.
Harry took command of the situation and shifted the conversation in a new direction, literally, suggesting Noah should shoot around Milford, to the north, the opposite way from Louie’s suggested course. Everyone agreed and described numerous back roads and shortcuts to wooded areas that might have ponds. Noah scribbled in a small spiral notebook.
Everyone volunteered help except Louie. He sat for a few minutes without speaking, then drained his coffee cup and said his goodbyes. As he left, with the slightest motion of his head, he indicated Noah should follow.
What do you want?
Noah kept one eye on Louie. The old man stopped outside to withdraw a cigarette from his shirt pocket with his left hand, while his right hand dug in his pants pocket for a lighter. He cupped his hands around the cigarette to light it, took a long drag, and peered through the window at Noah. A jerk of his head again signaled Noah to follow. He walked away, passed the corner where he should have turned to go downtown, and instead walked north toward the motel.
Noah listened to advice and wrote down directions for a few minutes, then finished his coffee, bade them all a good day, and left, walking rapidly back toward the motel.
“This better be good, Louie,” he growled. “You just cost me breakfast.”
When Noah reached the motel and approached his red Dakota, he found Louie waiting, with one foot leaning on the back bumper. The old man straightened when Noah approached and waved him over close, as if to share some great secret. He tossed his cigarette to the ground and smashed it with his boot.
Louie was about Noah’s height, but his stoop said he used to be taller. Noah assumed he was in his late sixties. His hair had remained dark brown, though it had thinned. Rough farmer’s skin, toughened by years of hard outdoor labor, was tanned deep brown. He wore thick glasses now and walked with a limp, but Noah suspected this old man could still buck bales with the young guys. Jeans and a checked shirt completed his farmer’s garb.
“I didn’t wanna talk around them guys,” Louie began. “They think I don’t know nothin’. My old dad, years ago, was a groundskeeper for the Joneses. Worked at the Big House. That’s what they call the old mansion in the woods. You met Chester Jones yet?”
Jones again.
“No,” Noah said, “but I’ve seen the Jones name on a few things around here.”
“Yeah. Lots of things. The bank. The new nursing home wing. He’s a big deal on the village board. Thinks he’s hot stuff. Likes to push people around, just like his granddad used to. You’ll meet him if you’re here very long. Sticks his nose in everything. The Jones family’s been here a long time. Come up from the south after the Civil War. Always want to run things, tell people what to do. Uppity.”
“So tell me about this pond in the woods.”
Louie’s expression turned wistful. “I remember the first time I seen it, long time ago, when I was a young man. Goin’ where I wasn’t s’pose to.” He paused, remembering the scene, Noah assumed. “She’s still there, in a little house near the pond. Used to be like a bathhouse for when the Joneses went swimmin’. The Big House, it’s all closed up. Hasn’t been nobody living in it for years.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Just a little wisp of a thing. Livin’ out there in the woods all by herself.”
“Who?” Noah asked. “The hermit?”
Louie jerked back to the present. “She’s not a
Harry broke the uncomfortable silence. “Louie works for the Brown’s daughter.” Another long pause ensued.
“Just odd jobs,” Louie said in a low voice.
Wow, you’re up to eight words now.
From experience, Noah knew the old men’s tale was half truth and half conjecture. “Are there any ponds on the property?” he asked.
Everyone looked at Louie again. “One,” he said.
Harry took command of the situation and shifted the conversation in a new direction, literally, suggesting Noah should shoot around Milford, to the north, the opposite way from Louie’s suggested course. Everyone agreed and described numerous back roads and shortcuts to wooded areas that might have ponds. Noah scribbled in a small spiral notebook.
Everyone volunteered help except Louie. He sat for a few minutes without speaking, then drained his coffee cup and said his goodbyes. As he left, with the slightest motion of his head, he indicated Noah should follow.
What do you want?
Noah kept one eye on Louie. The old man stopped outside to withdraw a cigarette from his shirt pocket with his left hand, while his right hand dug in his pants pocket for a lighter. He cupped his hands around the cigarette to light it, took a long drag, and peered through the window at Noah. A jerk of his head again signaled Noah to follow. He walked away, passed the corner where he should have turned to go downtown, and instead walked north toward the motel.
Noah listened to advice and wrote down directions for a few minutes, then finished his coffee, bade them all a good day, and left, walking rapidly back toward the motel.
“This better be good, Louie,” he growled. “You just cost me breakfast.”
When Noah reached the motel and approached his red Dakota, he found Louie waiting, with one foot leaning on the back bumper. The old man straightened when Noah approached and waved him over close, as if to share some great secret. He tossed his cigarette to the ground and smashed it with his boot.
Louie was about Noah’s height, but his stoop said he used to be taller. Noah assumed he was in his late sixties. His hair had remained dark brown, though it had thinned. Rough farmer’s skin, toughened by years of hard outdoor labor, was tanned deep brown. He wore thick glasses now and walked with a limp, but Noah suspected this old man could still buck bales with the young guys. Jeans and a checked shirt completed his farmer’s garb.
“I didn’t wanna talk around them guys,” Louie began. “They think I don’t know nothin’. My old dad, years ago, was a groundskeeper for the Joneses. Worked at the Big House. That’s what they call the old mansion in the woods. You met Chester Jones yet?”
Jones again.
“No,” Noah said, “but I’ve seen the Jones name on a few things around here.”
“Yeah. Lots of things. The bank. The new nursing home wing. He’s a big deal on the village board. Thinks he’s hot stuff. Likes to push people around, just like his granddad used to. You’ll meet him if you’re here very long. Sticks his nose in everything. The Jones family’s been here a long time. Come up from the south after the Civil War. Always want to run things, tell people what to do. Uppity.”
“So tell me about this pond in the woods.”
Louie’s expression turned wistful. “I remember the first time I seen it, long time ago, when I was a young man. Goin’ where I wasn’t s’pose to.” He paused, remembering the scene, Noah assumed. “She’s still there, in a little house near the pond. Used to be like a bathhouse for when the Joneses went swimmin’. The Big House, it’s all closed up. Hasn’t been nobody living in it for years.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Just a little wisp of a thing. Livin’ out there in the woods all by herself.”
“Who?” Noah asked. “The hermit?”
Louie jerked back to the present. “She’s not a