The Deal

"Kill any jackrabbits lately, young man?" the voice behind me asked.

I'd just unwrapped a piece of strawberry bubblegum from T.A. Grant's Five & Dime and was right upset I wouldn't get to chew it yet. It was his newest flavor and had just come in that morning. I stuck the red square back into its wrapper and spun around to face whoever had spoken.

It's been almost 81 years now and I can still remember the mixture of awe and trepidation I felt when a saw a man wearing a jet black suit, his leg hiked up on the wooden bench that sat along the front edge of the store. A brown cigar hung from his lips, unlit.

I'd never seen a suit like that before, nor any piece of clothing so clean. The dust storms that blew through Kansas in those days made it so you'd have a thin layer of dust covering every part of you before you ever stepped out the front door. It hung thick in the air like — well, like the air itself. You couldn't help but breathe it in. My little brother was sick because of it — my Ma called his illness the brown plague. And yet, not a single speck of dust stuck to that black suit of his.

"Well, one just this morning, Mister," I answered. "Caught 'im in the chicken coop and bashed his 'ead in."

The man leaned down and fetched a matchbook out of the black boot that rested on the bench. There was no dust there, either — not even on the bottom. He stood up and brought one of the matches to the tip of the cigar. I never saw him strike it, but it fired just the same. He held it to the cigar and puffed on it several times until the end looked like the inside of a coal stove.

"Lot of 'em 'round here?" he asked again, shaking the match and exhaling the thick smoke into the air above my head.

"Yes, sir. All over. They eat what's left of the crops, even the roots. My Pa says that's the real plague."

"Does he now?" The man looked amused.

"He says we won't ne'er grow a crop again until God sees fit. No rain either."

He turned his head and scanned the street like he was looking for someone. "You ever see God here in Junction City?"

I looked up at him, squinting, but didn't know how to answer. I'd never seen God anywhere.

"My name's Lee," he said, holding out his hand. "Lee Cutter. What's yours?"

"Matthew," I said, holding mine out like Pa had taught me. I noticed how smooth Mr. Cutter's hands were as soon we shook. They were nothing like my Pa's.

He crouched down on his haunches and propped his elbows on his knees. "Matthew, tell me something. How do you like living here in Junction City?"

I shrugged. "It's fine, I guess." The truth was: it was all I'd ever known.

"What would you say if the dust was gone?" He waved his arm towards the barren fields south of town. Towards my house. "And the jackrabbits. If the crops started growing again?"

"My Pa would be happy." My little brother could breathe again, too, I thought.

"Well, what about you Matthew? Don't you deserve to be happy?"

"I guess." I kicked a pebble towards the street.

He tussled my hair with his hand and then stood up again. "You're a good boy, Matthew. You'll do your parents proud one day." He paused. "Would you believe me if I told you I was never a kid like you?"

He was trying to pull a fast one on me. "Everyone's a kid at first," I said, laughing.

"Is that right?" he said, trying to force a smile. "I don't seem to recall it. I'm pretty sure I was always what I am now."