Meadowlarks by Thomas Holladay (novels to improve english TXT) 📗

there was something about these two rooms. Tonight that presence felt stronger, like an angry person looking over her shoulder. It intimidated her and made it hard for her to concentrate on her work, a post Christmas, back to school article about a boy, his dog and their snowman.

Some wild animal killing helpless baby cows on her property didn’t help either. At least she’d taken care of that problem, for now. She'd go in and talk to the sheriff about it, put her foot down and put an end to it.

The feeling of some angry person standing over her in these rooms was different. How could she deal with something like that?

The phone rang and it startled her, that old, loud ring you only hear in old movies. Who could be calling this time of night, Thanksgiving night? Maybe it was Mom. It rang so seldom she might never get used to the loud bell. She picked it up on the second ring. “Hello.”

“Your Christmas article was fun.” Tom Kirby’s voice seemed welcome for once. If nothing else, he sounded rational.

She pushed back in the comfortable leather chair and listened, surprised at being happy to hear his voice.

He sounded more excited than usual. “I can’t wait to get up there and have that guy . . . what’s his name?” He must be scrolling down, scanning the article. “. . . John Crow? I can’t wait to get on a horse and have that guy teach me how to ride. We opened the magazine with your article on page three, right past the content page. That picture of your kid on that great big horse was perfect.”

“You mean Jason?”

“Yeah. Sorry. I always do that, don’t I?”

“It’s still nice to hear. It’s the first time, you know.”

“First time?”

“You’ve never opened with one of my articles before. It feels good.”

“Well, get back down here and we’ll do a lot more of that. Your writing has improved every week, which reminds me . . .  Say, listen, I want you to rework that book you submitted back when Father first hired you. I want you down here so we can work on it together.”

The offer sounded inviting. “Oh, I don’t know. Jason likes the school up here very much. He’s already made some new friends and the school is really very traditional, not like what’s happening in the California education system.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It feels like Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn up here. You know what I mean.”

“You mean they don’t follow the state curriculum? How can they get away with that?”

“They operate on a trust fund from John’s family estate. They don’t take any state funds at all.”

“What about college?”

“Kids from here score very well on the S.A.T. You know the level of education John had.”

Tom’s hesitation meant he was thinking about it, maybe remembering some of John’s intellectual discussions with Tom's father. “Yeah, John was a smart guy. No arguments there. Still, if you’re going to mix in today’s culture, you need a good liberal education. If you want to get ahead . . .”

“You mean like teaching third graders how to put condoms on cucumbers? Or celebrating Cinco de Mayo instead of the Fourth of July? Good grief.”

“Okay, okay. Take it easy. I just want what’s best for the kid. You know that.”

“You mean Jason?” She was already sorry she'd answered the phone.

“Yeah. Sorry. I need to work on that but what I’m talking about . . . I mean, what’s so different about what they teach?”

“For instance, the three Rs are reading, rhetoric and religion.”

“What about math and science?"

“Math and science are taught by the local physician. Nobody ever seems to get sick up here so teaching keeps her busy.”

“Nobody gets sick?”

“Let’s just say, it’s a very healthy lifestyle and I don’t need to worry about Mexican gangsters stabbing Jason on his way home because I’m late picking him up.”

“Okay, okay.” Another hesitation meant he was reorganizing his thoughts. “You sound . . . different. It’s just that, well. . .  I know this makes you feel uncomfortable, but you’re missed, and not just by me. The rest of the staff asks about you all the time.”

“Tell them I said hello and Merry Christmas.”

“Come down for a visit and tell them yourself.”

“I don’t know when that could be. We’re getting into a rhythm up here. Maybe that’s why my writing is flowing so much better. This place feels like home, especially for Jason. His family roots are here. We both feel that.”

Even though I sometimes feel hot breath on the back of my neck.

At least it wasn’t her mother’s hot breath.

“Okay, okay. So, what about your book?”

“Can’t we work it online?”

“If you insist, and it sounds like you do.”

“I do.” No more bug eyes from across the desk.

“Jesus, that sounds final.”

“We have responsibilities up here, a whole community of them.”

“Yeah, I bet. Running a ranch must be a full-time job. I’m surprised you can find time to write at all. Why should you care about your readers or this magazine?”

Why so nasty?

“That’s not fair.”

It felt sweet not to need that job anymore, not to need to be so careful over what she said. His snotty attitude would have frightened her before. Now it irritated her.

“Okay, okay. Sorry.”

“The ranch practically runs itself. We have help for that. It’s the community I’m talking about. Our responsibilities here go back four generations.”

“Maybe we should run an article about that.” He sounded sarcastic. “You know, your kid riding his horse in to save the townsfolk—real John Wayne stuff.”

“You mean Jason growing up in a situation where he can actually do good for others?”

Tom Kirby was such a jerk. “Sorry.” He sounded like he meant it.

She throttled back on her growing anger and listened.

“So, what do you think? Should we run an article about sudden responsibilities, or something along those lines; you know, growing and adjusting?”

“I’ll think about it.” That calf in the barn and what was happening in her upper