Pursuit Read Online Free

plenty of it.” He probed a large head of lettuce. “So batten down the hatches.”
    â€œWhat’s that mean? Never really put a thought to it.”
    â€œMeans the doors on the cargo hold of a boat or ship should be battened, sealed, ready for foul weather, to make fast.”
    Bits of an overripe cantaloupe spotted the narrow aisle floor between the freezer case and the vegetables. Charles picked up the larger pieces and placed them in his shopping cart.
    Winston wore the same vacant look. “Why would you go out to sea if it were nasty weather?”
    â€œExactly.” He smiled. “Why?”
    â€œYou been buying a right smart load of food lately. Having a weekend bust-out?”
    â€œI’m expectant, Winston. As if with child, ideas, full of yearning, nostalgic for the old days prior to television’s political wrangling and Washington’s backbiting.”
    Winston seemed sorry to have asked, so he checked and bagged the mountain of produce. “They do get heated on the TV. When you gonna move out to the lake full-time, Mr. C? Hells bells, you could fish and carry on til Judgment Day.” He droned on, like a gospel minister, Charles having opened the floodgates to Winnie’s dull world.
    He wondered why Winston spoke of God and that painful day of judgment. Even Jesus had reason to keep his miracles hidden. “You’re not going to charge me for the cantaloupe, are you, Winnie?”
    â€œHeck, no. Been busy trying to get to that mess for an hour.” He took the spoiled chunks of fruit from the cart.
    Yeah, right, Winnie. And the people in the South have forgotten the Civil War.
    The hour-and-a-half drive out to Bait Shack, his country shanty, had been pleasant enough. A soft, steady downpour kept the wipers at their busiest. He kept his reliable 1969 Chevy Nomad in mechanically perfect condition. His other vehicle, the Bronco, he stashed away safely in the garage for special occasions. The hard-packed dirt road danced with the first slanted drops. Charles listened to his oldies-but-goodies station, knowing that the next hour would be stressful. But the familiarity of Elvis doing “Hound Dog” brought a warm anticipation.
    He always pictured himself an entertainer. Given the right circumstances and breaks, he thought a career playingMidwestern bars and roadhouses as a rockabilly revivalist might have been his.
    The early days of guitar picking brought him pleasure, though his small grip refused to wrap comfortably around the neck of his secondhand acoustic Gibson. He would prop his knee against the throat of the instrument, his left hand counterpressing in an attempt to make chords. The few times he tried to play at local amateur nights turned into ultimate failures. One club owner nicknamed him Camaron, which he quite liked. It sounded friendly, like he was the man’s comrade. But it shook him when later at work a fellow toiler at the Drew Box Factory explained that camaron was Spanish for “shrimp.” A questionable five foot six, Charles addressed his vertical challenge with helpful lift-enhanced shoes that still left him wanting.

    The group of foster homes in various counties around the state established twice yearly trips to participating factories in the area. Chuck attended with his foster parent, the other six kids in his foster home, and several other groups of youngsters who arrived expectant and loud at Drew Inc. on a “Way Things Are Made” school trip.
    The box factory vibrated with overhead cranes, forklifts, and long, noisy conveyor belts, like a giant Erector Set, a boyhood dream. Chuck and his best friend, Bink, were told a number of times by Mr. Tucker, his so-called nurturing sire, to “Stay the hell with the group, shitheads.” Tuck had a way with words.
    They wandered. Bink pressed a button on a yellow metal box that controlled an overhead apparatus moving on rails high in the ceiling. A heavy pallet of