Free Clay's Quilt by Silas House Page B

untamed tangles of Crow County.
    He danced two or three songs straight through before falling heavily onto the couch beside Cake. Cake had been watchinghim with a half-grin on his face, and only now did he cackle out in his wild madman’s laugh.
    â€œI believe you drunk,” Cake said.
    â€œNaw, just high on life,” Clay replied, and patted his shirt pocket for his cigarettes. “I was wild until we went through that roadblock. That sobered me up right quick. You still drunk, though.”
    Cake laughed again, that high, piercing laugh that people either found charming or annoying. “That’s right.”
    Goody had dropped them off at Clay’s house but wouldn’t come in because Geneva was so drunk that he had had to pack her out of the Hilltop with her mouth lolled open and her skirt hiked up to show her panties. Clay had hoped for a big party to develop after they left the club, as it usually did, but it seemed that everybody had gone their own way tonight. It was just him and Cake.
    â€œI got
you
knee-walking drunk, son,” Clay said. “You ought to go lay down.”
    â€œNaw, I’m fixing to go over there and make us some breakfast.” Cake stood up and unbuttoned his jeans, letting them drop down about his ankles. He kicked his leg furiously until the jeans glided across the hardwood floor and into the middle of the living room. He stood in his long shirt and boxer shorts. “Them damn Levi’s come one ace of killing me tonight,” he said. “Too frigging tight.”
    Clay lay back on the couch and watched Cake as he made his way into the kitchen to cook them some breakfast. Cake put on a pot of coffee, opened a can of biscuits, and slid them into the oven, then fried baloney and eggs.
    â€œYou want to make gravy?” Cake asked with his back to Clay. “You always say mine is like mush.”
    â€œNaw, we can do without it tonight.”
    Cake got the biscuits out of the oven and let the pan slap onto the counter. They fished some beer from the refrigerator and went out onto the porch to eat. They ate silently, listening to the music that came out of the house and mingled with the song of the river below. The night had turned cool and damp.
    â€œBest part of the meal,” Cake said, lighting a cigarette after he had placed his emptied plate on the floor beside his chair. His voice echoed out across the river.
    â€œI can’t get that fiddler out of my head,” Clay said suddenly.
    â€œWhat fiddler?”
    â€œThat girl that played up the Hilltop tonight. Evangeline’s sister. I know you ain’t too drunk to remember her.”
    â€œCan’t get her out of your head?” Cake laughed sarcastically. “Lately you been wanting to get a woman so bad that you’d be crazy over the first one you come into contact with.”
    Clay thought Cake might be right, but he didn’t say so. “She could play that fiddle, couldn’t she?”
    â€œThat’s for damn sure. She could play that thing like Charlie Daniels or somebody.”
    â€œNo, it was more than that. It wasn’t just the music, but that look on her face. You could tell she felt that music. You know, like when some people sing a song, you can see right on them that they feel ever word of it,” Clay said. “I don’t know. They was just something about her. She just killed me.”
    â€œYou danced with her, didn’t you?” Cake asked. “Why didn’t you ask her out?”
    â€œI tried to, but she didn’t seem that interested.”
    â€œWell, all I can tell you is that if she made that big an impression on you, you ought to try and get her. That sounds like something real to me. Nobody ain’t never made me feel that-away.”
    â€œLet’s go lay down,” Clay said. “I’m killed.”
    â€œI ain’t nary bit sleepy,” Cake said, “but I’ll lay down and talk to you