DISCLAIMER: I OWN NOTHING!
Harlan's VFW hall had changed, yet remained the same. The doorman checking for membership IDs was new. The wooden signboard that displayed the dates and times of upcoming wedding receptions was gone; Raylan guessed that the facility wasn't available for rental by the general public anymore. The set of steps that led up to the concrete front porch had been divided in half by a railing. A wheelchair ramp had been added on at the far left side of the porch. Parking was still at a premium and Arlo's truck was in one of the spots closest to the hall. The building's facade from front to back was still made to look as though the hall was constructed entirely of large, smooth rocks pulled from the Kentucky River and stacked on top of each other.
Art leaned back on his heels and looked up. "That's some nice stonework," he said admiringly.
Raylan propped his foot against one of the columns. "Not if you're tryin' to bounce a ball off it." Off Art's puzzled look, Raylan added, "I spent my fair share of time out here waitin' for him."
Art knew Raylan was referring to his father.
The doorman came back. "Sorry, gentlemen, I can't help you."
He went into the VFW and shut the door in their faces.
"Now what?" asked Raylan.
Art pulled out his cell phone. "Now we call for back-up. A gen-u-ine war hero might convince our friend to let us in." He dialed Tim's number and raised the phone to his ear. "Yeah, Tim, it's Art. Me and Raylan are down in Harlan and we're fair certain his daddy's in the VFW. Only they won't let us in without a warrant. Think you could come on down here and help us out, maybe show him your Ranger tab? Yes, I know it's a trip but ain't no other way to do it. All right, thanks, Tim."
"He comin'?" asked Raylan.
"Yeah, but it's gonna be a couple hours at best," Art reported. "Maybe we'll get lucky an' Arlo'll come out soon."
Raylan chuckled ruefully and shook his head. "Might as well make myself comfortable."
He lowered himself onto the top concrete step and stretched out his long legs. It wasn't long before it grew dark. His mind drifted back to a time, over 30 years ago, when he'd been in this same place.
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1978
Arlo eased his fairly new red and white pickup truck into its usual curbside parking spot; after engaging the parking brake, he turned to his eight-year-old son Raylan, who was in the passenger seat.
"All right, this ain't gonna take long." Arlo began. He leveled a finger at Raylan and said sternly, "You listen to me, boy. You stay right here. Don't you get up outta this truck to go anywhere other than that porch or I'm gonna whip your ass."
"Yes, sir," Raylan mumbled.
Arlo hopped out of the truck and headed into the VFW. Raylan reached into his backpack and pulled out some Western books; he just didn't feel like doing his homework. He was quickly absorbed in reading about the heroic Marshals in the Wild West. A gentle breeze came through the open window, ruffling his hair, and there wasn't a sound to be heard except for the gentle whoosh of passing traffic.
Raylan didn't have a watch, but he knew Arlo had been gone for quite a spell by the time he finished the first book in his pile. Oh well. Raylan had learned not to believe his father when he said he just had to make a quick stop somewhere.
He rolled his window up a few inches as the wind grew faster and colder. Raylan had just finished his last and favorite book, the one about Wyatt Earp, when he glanced up to see if Arlo was on his way out yet. No such luck. He let out a bored sigh, wondering what Arlo was doing in there. Raylan hoped his daddy would reward him for his patience with an ice cold Coke; he was awful thirsty.
His legs were getting stiff, so he climbed out of the truck and walked up to the porch. He dug his battered Louisville Slugger mitt and a baseball out of his backpack. He put on his mitt and threw the ball at the stone wall as hard as he could, but it didn't bounce off too well. He tried and tried to make the ball come back to him and land in his glove, only succeeding in giving himself a sore arm.
Raylan then decided he was bored enough to start looking over the word list for the spelling test at school on Friday. He had been staring at it for a while before he observed that the sun was beginning to set, meaning it had to be close to suppertime. By now, Raylan was starting to worry about Arlo. Why hadn't he come out yet? He tried not to think too much about it and turned his attention back to the spelling list. The word "delicious" jumped out at Raylan; it put into mind the Hardee's that he and Arlo always drove past on their way to the VFW. Maybe Arlo would take him there later...
The vets starting to trickle in after a hard day in the coal mines paid no mind to the shivering little boy on the steps; they just stepped around him. They knew he was the son of Arlo Givens, a powerful man with a violent temper. The longer Raylan sat on the VFW porch, the harder he had to fight the tears stinging his eyes. The cold from the concrete was seeping through his jeans; his mouth had dried out completely. His thoughts had returned to Hardee's and how they had the best cheeseburgers and French fries in all of Harlan County, which caused his stomach to rumble with hunger. It was starting to ache a little bit too.
Had Arlo forgotten about him, left through the back, and just walked home? That had happened a few times before. Raylan debated with himself about whether he should walk over to Aunt Helen's house on Indian Line. She'd give him supper with ice cream for dessert and then maybe they'd watch some TV. Arlo would give him a good whippin' for taking off, though...
Raylan turned around as the door to the VFW creaked open. He heard rough laughter and a chorus of good-byes, followed by a familiar voice saying, "You all have a good evenin'. I'll see y'all tomorrow and don't lemme forget about that joke."
Arlo stepped through the door, slightly unsteady on his feet. Raylan stood up.
"How's my little man?" asked Arlo, ruffling his son's hair.
Raylan was slightly confused. Arlo had practically been spitting fire when they'd arrived at the VFW. He smelled the Maker's Mark on his dad's breath and began to wonder what the right answer would be. He settled on the truth. "I'm okay, but I'm real hungry, Daddy."
"You are? Well, if the Bennetts' store is still open, I bet Mags can do somethin' about that," said Arlo pleasantly. "A cold Coke-Cola, some homemade biscuits, and all the candy bars you want. How's that sound?"
"Fried chicken too?" asked Raylan.
"If Mags still has some," Arlo agreed. "And if she already closed the store, I'll get ya a big hamburger from Hardee's. Hop in the truck, son."
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"Raylan." Art's voice brought him out of his reverie. "Tim's here."
Raylan pushed himself off the porch back to his full height. He stretched and groaned. Sitting on the cement hadn't done his back any favors. As he approached Tim, he got the impression that the younger Marshal had been drinking a little, which gave him a strange sense of deja vu. The hunger now burning a hole in his gut did too. Hopefully talking to Arlo and Bo Crowder wouldn't take long; he had a powerful craving for some Hardee's.
THE END