Jim Brewer spent the entire summer with us. At first, I resented his intrusion on our close-knit, yet loosely bound, family. I didn't understand why my father had brought him into our home but I determined to make the best of it—by ignoring him.

And this plan worked really, really well…for at least a week or so. After that, I realized he was the one ignoring me, and, honestly, that didn't set well with me. He showered his attention and his charm (which were considerable in my estimation) on my mother and father at every opportunity, all the while pretending that I didn't exist.

When I finally realized that he wasn't going to be annihilated by my ignoring him, it just plain infuriated me. So I became determined to make him notice me, one way or another. Probably not my greatest plan ever, now that I think about it, but what did I know…I was fifteen.

So, whether he liked it or not, we spent the rest of the summer together; me following him more than the other way around. I have to say, he definitely livened things up around the old homestead. Where I had, in previous summers, spent a healthy portion of my time alone, wandering the countryside in search of interesting things to do, now I had something interesting to watch every day, even when we were doing nothing but sitting in the meadow or down by the stream on the other side of the woods. No matter what we were doing, it was more fun doing it with him than doing it alone. At least that was my feeling…I'm not sure what he thought of the whole thing. I never asked.

One hot, sultry day in mid-July, after he had been with us for about three weeks, we, the two of us, shared a picnic lunch on a blanket in our meadow. The air, laden with late summer moisture, weighed on us, heavy and damp, making our movements feel lazily slow. Neither one of us was interested in moving so we laid there, squinting up into the hazy sun-washed sky. Finally, when the heat of the sun got to be too much for my eyes, I rolled over onto my stomach and cradled my face in my arms. When I spoke, my voice came out muffled and indistinct, but he had no trouble in understanding my question.

"You rob banks too?" I asked, without preface.

If he was surprised by my nosiness (I prefer to think of it as forth-rightness), I couldn't tell it from the tone of his voice when he answered. I couldn't see his face since mine was wedged into my own bent elbow, but his voice was even and relaxed when he replied, "A few…I've hit more trains than banks so far, but I have nothing against banks."

Raising my head, I looked at him; curious to see his expression. He was still lying flat on his back, his own arms crossed underneath his head, pillowing it from the ground. His eyes were closed; his breathing soft and regular. If it weren't for the fact that he had just spoken, I might have thought he had dozed off in the afternoon heat.

"If you have nothing against banks, then why do you rob them?" I asked, aware of the double meaning in our words.

"I have nothing for them either, I guess," he said, lying still as a statue.

Thoughtfully, I picked at a few strands of grass that grew near the hem of our blanket, pulling them loose from the ground one piece at a time. "How does a man get into that line of work," I wondered aloud. Having only recently found out about my own father's vocation, I'd entertained this question in my mind many times but never voiced it.

He inhaled deeply, sucking air in through his nose and expelling it through his slightly parted lips. It seemed as though he was going to ignore my question, but finally he said, "It wasn't really something I decided to do." He opened his eyes and turned to look at me, his eyes squinted against the bright haze. He didn't look happy. He didn't look particularly unhappy either; there was just something there in his eyes that made me sad for him. "It just worked out that way."

"Wasn't there other work you could have gotten? Honest work?"

He laughed at that—but the laugh didn't have a happy sound to it either. It was more angry than joyful, and my sadness for him widened. I wished I had never asked. "Oh sure…lots of honest work out there for someone like me. Why, I could have worked as a stable boy, or a farmhand, or maybe I could have gotten a job at one of the shops in town, sweeping up the floors and whatnot."

"At least it's honest. At least you wouldn't be stealing money that don't belong to you."

"Who are you to tell me that, Calista? Your pa is the one who…" he stopped, not wanting to finish, but I had a feeling I knew what he had been about to say. "Anyway, it's not just about me. I've got family that I'm responsible for. I need to earn more than the few dollars that 'honest work' was able to give me."

"Family? You got a ma and pa? How come you don't live with them?"

"No. No ma and pa. No sisters and brothers. They all died a long time ago." Staring up into the clouds once again, his voice grew hard. Finally, I heard anger, pure and dark, in his words. I wanted to ask him more about his family, but I was almost afraid to press him.

Against my better judgment, I pressed, "Who, then?"

"A friend," he said simply.

"A friend? You rob banks and trains for a friend? You're kidding, right?"

"You know something, Calista? You ask too many questions. I'm tired. I'm going to take a nap right here. You think you can find something to do to occupy yourself for a while," he said teasingly, the anger melted away.

Sighing loudly, with false exasperation, I allowed my head to flop back down into the nest formed between my crossed arms. Muffled, my words teased him in return, "Must be some friend."

Hearing his warm laugh, I smiled into the blanket.

"He is. He really is," he said, rolling over and closing his eyes again.