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 "Who?" said her daughter, Marcia, while talking on the phone.
"Randy Jones."
"Did he bring the horse today?"
"Of course."
Randy Jones sat his horse in the alley and looked toward the back
of Marcia Fleming's modest house near the edge of town. He had to
admit that it wasn't anything special, really ... the house. It was
just that Marcia lived there. He looked at the unused swing set in
the backyard. Naturally, Marcia wouldn't swing on it anymore, or use
the small slide. But it was special to Randall Jones because she had
used it when she was younger.
He looked up at the back door, with the broken light fixture
above it. Hey, maybe he could fix that light for them. And Marcia
would come out and say, "Randy, what are you doing?" and he'd say,
"Just fixing your light fixture, Marcia." And then Marcia's mouth
would curve into a sensuous smile and she'd say, "If you come around
after dark, I'll have a special thank you for you."
Randy grabbed the saddle horn and straightened himself back up in
the saddle as he felt his body start to slip.
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That back door now. Marcia was now just over 17 years and four
months old, Randy knew. And how many times in those years had her
delicate hand reached for that doorknob ... .
"Marcia, you want to invite Randy in for something cold to
drink?"
"Get real, Mom. If I do that, he'll think I want to have his
children, and he'll come back day and night."
"You shouldn't exaggerate," Sharon Fleming said.
"You don't know Randy."
Randy's horse began to paw anxiously with a front hoof, raising
sparks from the rocks in the alley. He pushed the bit out,
stretching the reins from his hand. Randy ran his hand
affectionately along his horse's neck and turned his head toward
home.
"He's leaving," Sharon said.
"He always does," said Marcia.
Some people attend church ... .
[Text from file received from Slim Randles]
Brought to you by Orvis fly fishing gear.
Visit them at www.orvis.com.
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