Free Bone Harvest by Mary Logue Page A

maple syrup into a jug and heated it in the microwave. When the syrup and the waffle were ready, he put them on a plate and took them out to the table on the patio.
    He ate because he knew he should, not because he was hungry. He didn’t seem to be hungry for anything anymore. Fresh sweet corn and ripe tomatoes sounded good to him, but were hard to get in Tucson. Tomatoes didn’t grow well down in the Southwest. All the tomatoes he got at the store were from Mexico, and who knew what they put on them down there.
    Earl looked at the date of his paper—July the fourth. He had seen in the community bulletin that there would be a potluck at the center tonight. Maybe he’d go. Maybe he wouldn’t. There were a lot of older women who gave him the eye, but he wasn’t having any of that anymore. He felt too old.
    After Florence died, he had dated a nice woman who lived two blocks away. She had even stayed over one night, but they hadn’t really done anything except kiss. But she moved back to Atlanta to be closer to her daughter. He understood. Family became important when you got older.
    He stabbed at his waffle a couple of times, then let it be. Maybe he wouldn’t walk today. It was a holiday, after all. He felt tired. Maybe he’d just crawl back in bed and sleep and then start the day all over again.
    Carrying his dishes into the kitchen, he felt exhausted by all he didn’t have to do. No lawn to mow, no gutters to clean, no one to worry about.
    He sat down at the dining room table and buried his head in his hands. He was a lonely old man and he had no one to blame but himself.
    Maybe he should call one of his kids. Maybe he’d catch Andy if he tried now. He wouldn’t be out in the fields yet.
    Before he could change his mind, Earl picked up the phone and dialed his son’s number. Marie, his wife, answered. “Lowman’s.”
    “Hey, Marie. It’s Earl.”
    There was silence on the other end of the line. Then her voice came across strong, worry lacing it. “Earl. My goodness, but it’s been a long time since we heard from you. Are you okay? Is everything all right?”
    “I’m fine. Just thought of calling, holiday and all.” Might as well get right to the point. “Is Andy there?”
    Again there was a pause. Earl knew what was happening. Andy was sitting right there drinking his coffee and shaking his head at Marie, telling his wife to say he was gone. “I’m sorry, Earl. You just missed him.” She stopped for a moment, then asked in a cheery voice, “Are you doing anything for the Fourth?”
    “Not much to do down here. What about you?”
    “Oh, just having hot dogs. Then we’ll take the kids down to see the fireworks. Down to Fort St. Antoine. They’ve got the best, as far as I’m concerned.”
    “That should be fun.”
    “Yeah, we enjoy it.” She cleared her throat. “Warm down there?”
    “Plenty warm. I suppose you’re getting a little warm weather up there, too?”
    “Oh, yeah. It’s summer, you know. Hot and muggy. But a nice breeze today. That makes a difference.” Her voice ran down and then she said, “There was a strange letter in the paper today. Andy figured it was about the Schuler murders. Something about finding out the truth. Had the date—July seventh, 1952. Were you working for the sheriff when that happened?”
    “Oh, yeah. I remember it well.” The Schuler murders—that sure came out of the dark to ambush him. He tried as hard as he could never to think of that time in his life. “I was low man on the totem pole in those days. Didn’t have much to do with it.”
    “Not much else going on.” Marie gave an embarrassed cluck. “Nice to hear from you, Earl.”
    “Well, thanks, Marie. Say hi to the kids and tell Andy I called.”
    “I’ll do that, Earl. You try again.”
    He hated this sham and decided to speak his mind. “Do you really think I should bother?”
    “Yeah, I do. I think you should. Who knows? Glad you called. ’Bye now.”
    When he hung up the phone,