The Marrowbone Marble Company by Glenn Taylor Page A

just fine.” Most men took a cigar and stuck it in a coverall pocket, then went back to work. Fishing for conversation, Charlie said to more than one, “I’m not real sure where that middle name comes from, but to each his own, I guess.”
    The name came from the Bible, a book Ledford had read yet again. Ledford arrived at half past noon. It was Tuesday, the last day of the month, and he needed to get a few things done now that Rachel and the baby were home from the hospital. Her aunt, a retired schoolteacher, was helping out.
    Charlie caught him as he walked toward the office door. “There he is,” Charlie said, loud. His hair carried too much Royal Crown at the front. It clumped in spots. “Cigar for the proud papa?” He opened the box with flair.
    â€œThank you Charlie,” Ledford said. He pocketed the thing as the others had.
    â€œHow’s Rachel faring?”
    Charlie spoke about his cousin as if he knew her. Ledford didn’t care for such talk. “She doesn’t complain. Tough as ever,” he said. He moved past the younger man and stepped into his office. Charlie followed.
    Ernestine poked her head in the door. She’d just come back from lunch and carried a doggie bag. “Congratulations Mr. Ledford,” she said.
    â€œThank you Ernestine.”
    Her smile was genuine.
    Charlie watched her hips, and when she was gone, he leaned across the desk and whispered, “How old is that gal?”
    â€œWhat can I do for you Charlie?” Ledford hung his jacket on the back of his desk chair. The air smelled damp and old.
    Charlie straightened back up. “My uncle would like to know when he might stop by and see his new grandson.” Lucius had officially retired. He spent his days drunk at Chief Logan’s Tavern. Nights he was in bed by seven.
    â€œWell, he hadn’t hardly come by for the first one, has he?” Ledford was running short on sleep.
    â€œYou can understand the excitement over a boy child, Ledford.” There was nothing but the sound of his own swallowing. “Can’t you?”
    â€œSure Charlie. Tell him his daughter will phone him.”
    Ernestine poked her head in again. “Mr. Ledford,” she said, “there’s a man here to see you. Says his name is Admiral Dingleberry.”
    Ledford laughed. Ernestine didn’t, and neither did Charlie. It occurred to Ledford that they weren’t familiar with the term. “Well by all means, send in the admiral,” he said.
    Erm stepped through the open door. He spread his arms wide, brown-bagged bottle in the left one nearly knocking Charlie in the head. “Private Leadfoot,” Erm said.
    â€œSquirmy Ermie,” Ledford answered. He couldn’t wipe the smile off his face, and he didn’t know why. The two had not spoken in more than a year, not since their awkward parting at the Chicago diner. “What the hell are you doin here?” Ledford came around the desk and they shook hands, clapped shoulders as if to injure.
    â€œVisiting my old friend is what I’m doing.” Erm hadn’t acknowledged Charlie, who stood by the hat rack and swallowed and smiled wide. “Who’s the broad?” Erm asked, motioning with his head to Ernestine’s desk in the hall. His breath smelled of gin and chewing gum and cigarettes. He wore a new scar across his right eyebrow.
    â€œThat’s Ernestine,” Charlie said.
    Erm looked at him as if he’d insulted his mother.
    â€œHow old would you guess she is?” Charlie’s voice was pinched. Erm squared up on him. He cocked his head and smiled. “Eighty-seven,” he said. “What’s your guess?”
    Charlie laughed, then looked down at the cigar box. He opened it, looked in Erm’s general direction, and said, “Cigar, Mr. Dingleberry?” His voice cracked on the last syllable.
    â€œNo, it’s Admiral Dingleberry, kid. And yes, I wouldn’t