JACK OF DIAMONDS, REDUX

Chapter 3 The edited version...

Photo by Jonny Gios on Unsplash

I apologize for not getting this up earlier. We’re having the kitchen redone and things are a little up in the air over here. The kitchen looks nice, but we have to wait three weeks for the countertop to be installed. (Apparently there’s a long wait for countertops.) So I do what I can, when I can.

Theses are the edits I made…

CHAPTER 3

“What the fuck were you thinking?” Artie asked Claire.

“Artie, it’s okay,” Reggie said.

“No, it’s not!” he said, slamming the truck door closed.

“Everything will work out for the best,” Claire said softly.

“Work out for the best? Do you really think that? You had a position! You don’t toss that off just because you’re pissed at someone! Now what are you going to do?” he asked Reggie, leaning forward in his seat to look at the man.

“We’ve discussed this day,” Reggie said.

“Discussed it? When? I don’t remember hearing you say anything about this.”

“We’ve got a plan.”

“A plan? You got a farm and no place to sell your goods—”

“There are six manor houses here, Artie. Six. They all buy my goods. We’ll be fine as far as that goes.”

“Fools, the both of you. We’ve got a plan. What kind of plan involves walking out of a position like that?”

“The kind where you go into business for yourself.”

The lane had been reduced down to a single rutted track of mud that after three days of hard, constant rain, most of the road was still under water, with huge puddles as large as ponds making it difficult to negotiate. The truck seemed to make its own path, even to the point of traveling at its own pace. Bouncing through bone-jarring holes and sliding down the other side of the uneven ruts, Reggie fought with the steering wheel, often turning it in the opposite direction to no effect. Claire screamed several times feeling the truck sliding uncontrollably down a slope, and Reggie laughed.

“Theses are what the roads were like in France, eh Artie? Remember?”

“I’m trying not to,” Artie smiled. It was a weak smile smile.

Artie looked up at the sun as it came slanting in through the dirty windscreen. It was still early enough in the morning to remind him of just how much he’d rather have been laying in the arms of a beautiful woman—any woman who wanted nothing more than to enjoy the day with him. He looked out at the low rolling hills steaming in the distance as the sun slipped out from behind another low rolling hill. A light mist seemed to catch itself in the trees and hedgerows—desperate in its attempt to escape—making the distant farms and lowlands look like nothing more than a smudge in a Turner painting.

Artie glanced over at Claire sitting beside him. He was holding on to the door frame, trying to stop himself from being thrown about; it did little to help Claire though. He could see she was being tossed about as if she were a toy in a child’s bath. Still, she was pretty enough for him to want to see her naked he thought, and looked away, back out over long fields of green on his left. There were hedgerows everywhere he looked.

Still, that’s what made it interesting when we went out foxing.

He remembered when he was still a boy—before the war, before he left for Cambridge, before his uncle, and before life fell apart. They’d go out riding with the coming dawn. There was usually six of them, with only three dogs between them—one old, one almost blind, and another he thought was a touch rabid, if there was such a thing. There’d been some mornings when there’d been a dozen riders, and three more dogs. Someone would blow a horn and cry out, “Let slip the dogs of war!” But the dogs would usually wander about the yard until his brother Geoffrey would be forced to round them up and they’d finally set off into the countryside.

Artie wondered if the sons and daughters of the surrounding Manor houses would meet for rides together, the way he and his brothers had when he was younger. Or was that simply because it was another time, he wondered? With three brothers and a sister, the size of the riding parties over the years varied. But there’d always be at least one girl— which meant someone’s sister, or their out of town cousins visiting—and it seemed their only interests were the brothers, and sisters of their country cousins. Sometimes, the horses weren’t the only thing being ridden.

He looked over at Reggie hunched low in the seat, fighting to keep the truck on the narrow track, with one hand trying to shield the sun from his eyes. Reggie looked beaten down. He was holding the steering wheel tight, cranked all the way to the left, the wheels locked as the truck slid down a long incline. When the tires finally dug into the mud and held fast, Artie wondered how long his heart would last as he looked down over the edge of the lane. He knew the drop wasn’t a cliff face, and it probably wouldn’t kill them, but even so…

It might as well be the edge of the world. He looked at Claire again, remembering the sort of man Reggie had been when they were still ‘Over There.’ Cold-blooded and ruthless, he was merciless when it came to killing the enemy. But more than that, Artie recounted the times they were in obscure French towns and the whores welcomed them with open thighs. Reggie would drink himself stupid; until he was unable to stand, and finally, unable to sit.