RAYMER had been working at the housing project for more than a month, and during this time the little old man had consistently moved with the sun. Raymer had begun work during the chill days of a blackberry winter, and the man had shuttled his chair as each day progressed, claiming the thin, watery light as if he drew sustenance from it. Now it was well into June, and at some point the man had shifted into reverse, moving counterclockwise for the shade but always positioning his lawn chair where he could watch Raymer work.
Raymer hardly noticed him, for he was in more pain than he had thought possible. He could scarcely get through the day. He was amazed that hearts could actually ache, actually break. Secretly he suspected that his had been defective, already faulted, a secondhand or rebuilt heart, for it had certainly not held up as well as he had expected it to. Corrie, who had been his childhood sweetheart before she became his wife, had inserted the point of a chisel into the fault line and tapped it once lightly with a hammer, and that was the end of that.
By trade he was a painter, and some days he was conscious only of the aluminum extension ladder through his tennis shoes and the brush at the end of his extended arm, which leaned out, and out, as if gravity were just a bothersome rumor, as if he were leaning to paint the very void that yawned to engulf him.
When Raymer came down to move the ladder, the old man was waiting for him at the foot of it holding a glass of iced tea in his hand. He was a wizened little man who did not even come to Raymer's shoulder. He had washed-out eyes of the palest blue, and the tip of his nose looked as if, sometime long ago, it had been sliced off neatly with a pocket knife. He was wearing a canvas porkpie hat that had half a dozen trout flies hooked through the band, and he was dressed in flip-flops, faded blue jeans, and an old Twisted Sister T-shirt.
"My name's Mayfield. Drink this tea before you get too hot."
Raymer took the glass of tea as you'd take a pill a doctor ordered you to, and stood holding it as if he did not know what to do with it.
"Drink it up before that ice melts. You don't talk much, do you?"
"You don't have much to say."
"Well, I work by myself. Folks might think me peculiar if I was having long conversations."
"I mean you ain't very friendly. You don't exactly invite conversation."
"I just have all this work to do."
"Who do you work for?"
Raymer sipped the tea. It was sweet and strong, and the glass was full of shaved ice. A sprig of mint floated on top, and he crushed it between his teeth. "I work for myself," he said.
"I been watchin' you ever since you come out here. You're right agile on that ladder. Move around like you was on solid ground. How old a feller are you?"
"I'm twenty-four," Raymer said, chewing the mint, its taste as evocative as a hallucinogenic drug, reminding him of something but he could not have said what. "Where'd you get that T-shirt?"
"It was in some stuff that my daughter left when she married," Mayfield said. "You ever do any bluff-climbin'?"
"Bluff-climbin'. Climbin' around over these limestone bluffs down by the Tennessee River."
"I bet you could, though. I used to do it when I was a hell of a lot older than twenty-four. I can't do it now, though -- my joints has got stiff, and my bones are as brittle as glass."
"I'm sorry," Raymer said, feeling an obscure need to apologize for infirmities of age he hadn't caused. He was thinking of Corrie the last time he'd seen her, thinking of her hands pushing against his chest.
"It ain't your fault. Listen, I got somethin' I need a coat of paint on. You stop by when you knock off work this evenin', and I'll show it to you."
"Well, I don't know. I push myself pretty hard. I'm usually about worn out by the end of the day."
"It ain't much, and I ain't lookin' to get it done for nothin'. I'll pay you."
"If I'm not too tired."
"The main thing is I want to talk to you. I've got a business proposition for you."
Raymer drained the glass and handed it to the old man. He began repositioning the ladder. "I'll see at quitting time," he said.
He made it through the day, and when he was behind the apartment building, washing his brushes, he thought he might make it to his truck and escape without painting whatever it was the old man wanted painted. He wanted to go home to the empty house and sit in the dark and think about Corrie. But Mayfield was a wily old man and had anticipated him. He was leaning against the front of Raymer's truck when Raymer came around the building with his brushes in his hand. He had one flip-flop cocked on the bumper and was leaning against the grille with an elbow propped on the hood. He wasn't much taller than the hood of the truck. "I'll show you that thing now," he said. "It's over on the porch of my apartment."