Divine Evil

the work through touch and texture.”
    “You look great.”
    “I sound like a geek. Once a nerd, always a nerd.”
    “No, you sound great, too. I'm impressed. Is that me?”
    She peeked out between his fingers and saw the wood carving. “Yeah.”
    “It's not so bad,” he said, pleased.
    “It's brilliant.” She widened the space of his fingers to get a better look.
    “A sculpture,” her television image went on, “is often a tangible piece of the artist's feelings, memories, hopes, disappointments, dreams. It's away of liberating reality, expanding it, or duplicating it, with a live model or your own imagination.”
    “Can we at least turn off the sound?”
    “Shh!”
    “Whether the mood is violent or romanticized or stark depends on the artist's mood and the medium employed. My work is a part of me, sometimes the best part, sometimes the darkest. But it always reflects what I see or feel or believe.”
    They switched back to the studio.
    “Happy now? I sounded so frigging pompous.”
    “No, you sounded honest. Do you sculpt from dreams, Slim?”
    “Sure, sometimes. Look, I've already done one interview today.” She slid her arms around him, danced her fingers up the nape of his neck. “I thought we were going to make out.”
    “In a minute. The nightmare piece that was stolen, did it come out of the dream about your father?”
    “Maybe. I don't know.”
    “You could sketch what you saw that night, couldn't you?”
    “God, Cam.”
    “You could.”
    She closed her eyes. “Yes, I could.”

Chapter 26
    C HIP DOPPER WOULD RATHER have been working under a tractor than riding on one. He'd never cared for haying, even his own fields. And here he was, at six-goddamn-thirty in the morning, cutting hay for Mrs. Stokey But his ma had laid down the law—the one about good neighbors and Samaritans. And when Ma laid down the law, everyone jumped.
    The worst part, as far as Chip was concerned, was that it was boring. Acre after acre, cutting and baling, with that half-wit July Crampton riding behind him on the big baler.
    July was third or fourth cousin to Alice, the result of some fevered inbreeding. He was somewhere near thirty, irritating as hell, from Chip's viewpoint, but harmless, with a solid bantam rooster body and a slack, permanently sunburned face. Right now he was happy as a frog with a bellyful of flies, riding and stacking and singing. He sang dumb songs from the fifties, before either of them had been born. Chip figured he might have handled the whole thing better if July had picked up some Roy Clark, butthere he was, grinning like an asshole and singing about taking out the papers and the trash.
    Jesus.
    “Christ Almighty, July, what the hell kind of song is that?”
    “ 'Yakety-Yak,′ ” July sang, grinning.
    “You always was a dick,” Chip muttered.
    It wouldn't be so bad, Chip thought, riding along with the baler humming under him—'cept the engine could use some work. It was warm and sunny, and the hay smelled sweet. July might've been three bricks shy of a load, but he was doing the dirty work, hauling and stacking. He'd be the one with hay splinters.
    The idea gave Chip some satisfaction.
    No, it wouldn't be so bad, he mused, circling back to his original thought, if he'd've thought to bring his radio with him. Then he could've drowned July's sissy voice right out.
    Anyway, he was making a little extra money. Just a little, he thought, with just a shade of resentment. Ma wouldn't let him charge Mrs. Stokey more than half the usual price. But still, with the extra he could relax some. The baby needed those damn corrective shoes. Christ, babies needed every damn thing. But he smiled, thinking of his little girl with her mama's curly hair and his eyes.
    It sure was something, being a father. After eleven and a half months, Chip felt like a veteran. He'd been through sleepless nights, roseola, teething, muddy diapers, and inoculations. Now his little girl was walking. It made him glow with pleasure and pride when she held out her arms and toddled toward him. Even if she was a bit pigeon-toed.
    His slightly foolish smile changed to a look of curiosity, then disgust.
    “What the hell is that smell?”
    “I thought you cut one,” July said and giggled.
    “Christ!” In defense, Chip began breathing through his teeth. “It's making my eyes water.”
    “Something dead.” July pulled out a bandanna and held it over his mouth. “Woo-ee. Something
real
dead.”
    “Sonofabitch.