He waited a moment, then shook his head, dismissing the comment.
“Not that I’d do nothing, really. I just mean he had me roiled up inside a bit. Nothing time won’t mend.”
Prentiss didn’t trust him, Caleb thought. If only he knew those same boys would most likely flip that bucket of paint onto Caleb’s head, too, if given the chance. He let the story pass unremarked and asked instead whether Prentiss had gotten his calendar.
“They say the man with the calendars went north,” Prentiss said. “I missed him by a day.”
Caleb sneezed, and he realized there was something that collected in the barn, some manner of dust. It struck him as odd, for the first time, that someone would live here, among strewn-about farming equipment, skittering mice, and owls that hooted throughout the night and released droppings upon the floor to be stepped in later. How had it not crossed his mind before? he wondered. Of course there would be a man with calendars. Anyone who lived in such conditions would count the days in anticipation, marking off the time until that moment in the future when they could move on. For the man with the calendars, that day had come.
*
He braved town late one weekday afternoon, determined not to be turned back this time. Darkness was still hours distant, but many were already inside for the evening. He tied Ridley off before Ray Bittle’s house. The old man’s hat was very low on his forehead, his face hidden, his body so sunken in his rocking chair that he seemed melded to the wood. The image was troubling. Perhaps his sleep might be read in the manner one studies a palm: that in the peculiarity of such tremendous slouching, in the purposeful concealment of his features, he was passing on some message of a buried truth he could not bear to face in his waking life. Caleb was taken by the sight, but not enough to linger. He had only so long before August returned home, and he meant to catch him at work, as far away from Mrs. Webler as possible.
August and his father worked out of an astonishingly modest building, a little redbrick house of two stories; few passersby ever acknowledged its presence, innocent of the fact that whatever other building they were going to, or coming from, was probably leased by the men inside this one. To its left sat a hotel, and to its right a furniture depot, both of which received far more traffic. Caleb dawdled on the walkway, then took one measured breath and walked to the front door, banishing from his mind any further hesitation.
He found a clerk sitting behind a counter, looking at papers. Caleb had imagined the foyer would be empty and he would charge upstairs and interrupt a meeting, or storm the library at the building’s rear, where clients were being entertained, yet whatever storming was to take place was promptly dashed by the presence of the boy who was now staring at him quizzically.
“Can I help you?” he said. He was no more than a reed, a string of a body, a feather that might get carried off in the wind.
“I’m looking for August Webler.”
“Mr. Webler is in a meeting.”
Mr. Webler. Was that what August was now? So be it: Caleb would not be made to wait to see even a Mr. Webler.
“It will only take a moment,” he said.
“Sir—”
Caleb made for the stairs and did not slow down as the boy called out to him. There was an undeniable rush to the way he climbed to the second floor. He had no idea what he might find there, but knew that August, if he still had any care for him at all, would welcome the imposition. How else might he respond to someone so willing to fight for a friendship, someone who might put all social boundaries aside to risk the chance to say hello?
The main room upstairs was empty. Two offices flanking it both bore the nameplate MR. WEBLER. Caleb had no idea which one might be August’s. The last thing he wished to do was barge in on Wade Webler, but seeing as he had forced his way this far, a precautionary knock felt incongruous with the spirit of his endeavor.
A spasm of panic rippled through him. The day’s heat, having collected on the second floor, fell upon him like a heavy quilt. Finally, he heard murmurs seeping from beneath the door on the right. He followed the sound, and despite his resolution of a moment ago, he knocked. The gruff voice of Wade Webler, without asking who it was, called for him to enter. Only by his initial struggle to grip the doorknob did Caleb realize just how much he was sweating. With effort he managed to turn the knob and show himself in.
“What is this?” Wade Webler was seated behind his large oak desk, leaning back in his chair with an expression of bewilderment.
Beside him, August sat with a pad of paper, a pencil in hand. Caleb knew the man across the desk from the flyers posted around town. This was Brigadier General Glass, standing so upright that he appeared to be in the midst of a presentation.