The Englisher Read Free Page B

piled up the scraps of clothing, along with the wooden structure itself. He carried the whole of it to the refuse pile behind the barn, conscious of a pounding in his temples and heat on his neck.
    The raucous cawing from the backyard willow made him stop and look up as he made his way toward the house. In the moonlight, he saw half a dozen blackbirds perched boldly on the uppermost branches.
    Predators will come no matter. . . .

Chapter 2
    B en Martin had a hankering for a turkey sandwich on toasted rye. He clicked out of the Churchill Downs Web site, having navigated around each location on the site for a solid hour. Stomach growling, he headed to the small galley-style kitchen and opened the fridge and the seethrough vegetable drawer for some lettuce and half a tomato. Then several slices of smoked turkey, the allimportant mayo, and two pieces of dark rye.
    He dropped a handful of ice into the largest glass mug in the cupboard—a gift he’d received for being a groomsman for his good buddy’s wedding last year. Back before everything broke loose. . . .
    When he’d finished making the sandwich, he cut it in half diagonally, as his mother always did. He remembered as a boy lifting the lid on his Aladdin lunch box and finding the sandwiches halved. One of Mom’s trademarks. That and the cored whole apple, wrapped in aluminum foil. Why she didn’t quarter it and cut out the seeds like his classmates’ mothers did, he’d never known.
    While eating his lunch, he flipped through his mail, spying an overnight letter from his mom, which included his Social Security card. Finally, he thought. He was one step closer to acquiring a Pennsylvania driver’s license.
    Weeks ago he’d asked her to mail his birth certificate as well, since due to 9/11 Homeland Security measures, two additional forms of ID, along with his Kentucky license, were required. Unfortunately, his mother hadn’t had time to unearth it, having moved important files to the attic when their basement partially flooded during a severe storm in mid-November last year. Although she was rather apologetic, it didn’t seem she was trying all that hard, most likely hoping Ben would give up this nonsense and return home, upsetting as all this had been to her.
    Not wanting to wait any longer, and tired of asking for it only to realize he was rubbing salt in the wound of his leaving, he had decided to apply directly to the Office of Vital Statistics in Frankfort, Kentucky, for another official copy.
    Finishing off his sandwich, he began to fill out the application, recalling a long-ago exchange between himself and his sisters. And one mouthy cousin.
    He had been trying to get his mom to find some baby pictures for his ‘‘Guess Who?’’ project at school. But his mother had been busy cooking and entertaining their relatives from Iowa at the time. One of the cousins and his sisters had ganged up on him, teasing him mercilessly. ‘‘Well, maybe you’re adopted,’’ his cousin had said, sporting a mischievous grin.
    ‘‘Yeah, ever think of that?’’ said his sister Patrice.
    Yet another sister, Sherri, had joined in on the fun at his expense, holding up a mirror to his face. She made a scrutinizing frown. ‘‘Here, take a look and see.’’
    He had kidded them back. ‘‘Cool! You’re not really my sisters then, right?’’ He eyed the obnoxious cousin, too. ‘‘And . . . you? Well, figure it out, cuz.’’
    ‘‘Wait a minute,’’ Patrice had declared with seeming disappointment, still holding the mirror. ‘‘Your eyebrows have the same arch as Dad’s.’’
    ‘‘Huh?’’
    ‘‘And you have Mom’s nose.’’
    Sherri piped up. ‘‘You inherited Daddy’s funky annoying laugh, too!’’
    ‘‘Don’t forget Mom’s morning breath,’’ Patrice added.
    ‘‘Okay, that does it.’’ He began chasing them around the house, catching Patrice and holding her upside down over the toilet, threatening to douse her, head first.
    ‘‘I’m