The Jealous Kind by James Lee Burke

think of a grin painted on a muskmelon. “I hope I’m not disturbing anyone,” he announced in the middle of the living room. “I like your house. What do you call that overhang on the side?”
    My father put away his book and rose from his chair to shake hands. “I’m James Broussard, Mr. Krauser. In Louisiana it’s called a porte cochere. What can I do for you?”
    â€œI understand we have much in common.”
    â€œOh?” my father said.
    â€œMy tank was the first armored vehicle across Remagen Bridge. In the Great War, you were at—”
    â€œNo place of any import. What’s the nature of your visit, sir?”
    In moments like these I believed my old man was the best guy on earth, although he hated the word “guy.”
    â€œI work as a counselor at one of the summer camps on the GuadalupeRiver, up in the hill country,” Mr. Krauser said. “There’re a couple of slots available for assistant counselors. I had Aaron and his friend Saber in mind.”
    Many high school and junior high school coaches worked at summer vacation camps and received twenty-five dollars for each kid they signed up. I pitied the kid who looked forward to camp all year and arrived only to find out that Mr. Krauser was his cabin supervisor.
    â€œThat’s good of you,” my father said. “Why did you choose my son for such an honor? Not to mention Saber.”
    â€œBoth have leadership potential. Lots of potential. We start the day with reveille at oh-seven-hundred hours. Boys learn discipline up there, Mr. Broussard. Not that Aaron needs it.”
    My father had lean hands that were sun-browned and freckled and webbed on the backs with purplish veins that looked like knotted twine. Whenever he was bothered by an inconsistency in other people’s words, he rubbed the fingers of one hand on the back of the other, his thoughts known only to himself. “If I wanted to start a second American revolution, I’d turn loose ten like Saber Bledsoe in the middle of Boston.”
    â€œSaber isn’t a bad boy. A little imaginative, maybe, but that’s why I’d like to work with him now. Catch things in the bud.”
    â€œWhat did you say to all this, Aaron?” my father asked.
    â€œI’m working at the filling station this summer,” I replied.
    â€œSo there you have it,” my father said to Mr. Krauser.
    â€œOne hundred dollars a month and room and board,” Krauser said.
    He waited. My mother stood in the background, her eyes fixed strangely on the back of his head.
    â€œI say something wrong?” Krauser asked.
    â€œNot a thing. Have a fine evening, sir,” my father replied.
    â€œWhat’s that McDougal boy doing in your car?” my mother said.
    â€œHe helps me with household chores and cutting the lawn,” Krauser said.
    â€œHe’s ill,” my mother said.
    â€œMa’am?”
    â€œThe boy is an outpatient at a clinic.He had a harsh childhood. He needs care.”
    Krauser nodded. “That’s true. That’s why I do what I can for him.”
    She stepped closer to him. “I know your kind.”
    â€œBeg pardon?”
    â€œYour kind of man. I’ve seen you on many occasions. The clothes and the rhetoric are different, but the persona isn’t.”
    â€œI don’t know what you’re saying, Miz Broussard.”
    â€œOh, you certainly do.”
    Krauser’s gaze went from my father to me. He looked through the screen door at our yard and the shadows that fell on our two white cats, Snuggs and Bugs, who each slept in a flower box on the front porch. “I think I shouldn’t have come here,” he said.
    â€œIt’s been a pleasure,” my father said. “Have a grand time at summer camp, and tell us about it sometime.”
    Then Krauser was out the door. His stink hung in the air like a soiled flag.
    â€œY OUR FOLKS EIGHTY-SIXED Krauser?”