of their way to make things special."
It was good, sweet and pungent at the same time, although I preferred my cheeseburger.
We sat at the window a long time, watching the countryside roll by. Once I saw a farmer changing hand line in his alfalfa field. Glancing up from his work, he took off his red cap and waved it at the train. I waved back, even though I doubted he saw anything but the train sliding by sleek as wind.
"I could get used to this," my mother said, pouring herself another cup of tea. Out the window, scenery rushed by and the setting sun lengthened the shadows of tall pines. Farmhouse lights were beginning to wink on.
Now, standing by that remote siding, my mother stared at the Coastal Flyer's brake lights dimming in the distance.
"Better times are coming," I said because I couldn't think of anything else.
After a moment, she said, "I expect they're just around the corner."
***
The third Friday after we'd moved in, my stepfather was away on the speeder, checking on the tie repairs the section crew was making near Barlow. Dwight watched me shooting baskets for a while from his front porch, then came off and challenged me to a game of one-on-one. I figured he'd be easy because he looked slow and clumsy in his usual coveralls and clodhoppers. But today he was wearing tennis shoes, and when he stripped down to a T-shirt and shorts, I saw he was no pushover. He was remarkably quick for a man his size, and I could seldom drive on him, so I had to rely on my outside shot, which was always streaky. If Dwight had the ball, he backed in, using his bulk to keep me away, then put up soft hooks or twisting jump shots. Luckily, he was rusty and soon became winded, or I might have lost.
My mother brought a chair from inside the house and placed it in the yard, first turning on the lawn sprinkler to get a little cool moisture. She'd made sun tea by leaving a pitcher of teabags and water in the sun, and she poured some of this over a tumbler of ice. She sat, sipping her tea and reading Hollywood gossip magazines.
After finishing the game, Dwight approached my mother's chair and tried to make conversation, but he was awkward at it. "This kid is a regular whiz," he said. "All he needs is to pack a few more pounds." He dribbled the ball a couple times and tried to palm it, but it slipped away. "I used to play college ball myself at a Mormon school in Utah. But I'm not Mormon."
"That explains the cigars then, doesn't it," my mother said. "We're not Mormon either."
"No, I didn't think you were," he said. "Not for a minute."
She offered him a glass of tea, but he declined and then unwrapped the cellophane from one of his cigars. "Cuban. I've got a friend who flies down there on business. He tells me these cigars are rolled on the damp thighs of young Cuban girls. Fidel sees to it they're all under sixteen. That's the rule."
I had never heard anyone make such a remark in front of my mother before, and I didn't know how she would react. She placed the glass of iced tea against her cheek and laughed softly. "I imagine that's why you enjoy them so much," she said. "You and your friend must have
extremely
active imaginations."
He seemed pleased that he had impressed her and turned to me. "What do you think, sport? You want to try one of these dusky beauties? Let's see, those girls would be just about your age."
"I don't believe he'd care for one," my mother said. She held the glass of tea against her forehead. "Culver's interests lie in an entirely different direction, don't they, Culver?" Before I could answer she added, "So perhaps you should hang on to the cigars you have."
"You got a point there all right," he said.
It seemed for a minute he was going back to his house, but then he spoke again. "When I see you sitting out in this heat just reading those magazines, it makes me wonder if there isn't something else you might do. Develop some interests."
She ran her finger around the sweaty beaded outside of the glass and