“He’s the type of person who you can tell is getting depressed when he starts making his bed in the morning.” George Samuels rocked gently in his chair, cradling a cup of black coffee. Steam rose and the breeze carried a bitter smell.
“How do you mean?” Terry asked.
“Oh, you know, he’s the type that’ll roll his ankle and start running on it.”
Terry took the cigarette out of his mouth, squinting bewilderedly at his old friend. “Can’t say I would know the man any better from your description of him, George, if I hadn’t known him already.”
“That’s ‘cause you’re the type of man who moans and groans when the rain comes. You don’t make your bed even when you’re happy, do you?”
“Sherryl makes our bed every morning, rain or shine.”
A deep chuckle built in George’s chest and bellowed out until it overwhelmed him with a cough. “You’re no type of man at all then, huh,” he said.
Terry looked away: one hand on the armrest of Old George Samuels’s spare porch chair, the other moving toward his mouth for another deep, calming drag. Wind chimes played a sharp melody nearby, and a bird feeder hosted a hummingbird just beyond the garden. Terry blew out a small cloud of smoke.
“Look at you. Can’t even quit suckin’ on them cancer sticks.” George’s disdain was clear.
“I can’t help it, George.” Terry watched the sunlit corn stalks sway in George’s field. A crow flew in and disappeared in the gold. “That’s why they call it an addiction.”
“That’s what they been tellin’ you, huh?”
“That’s what they been tellin’ me. Wish you woulda told me somethin’. You’re the one who gave me my first cigarette. Don’t you remember?”
“Ah,” George swatted the air like there was a fly, dismissing Terry’s accusation. “My boy would’ve invented cold turkeys if he ever got addicted to drugs. He’s the type —”
“Alright, George. I better get going.” Terry patted George’s shoulder and stood up, walking toward the stairs to get off the porch. “You hang in there, yeah?”
“Yeah, yeah. You quit them things before you come back. And Jeremy?”
Terry froze right before stepping off the porch. He paused for a long moment, shaking his head before he sighed and said, “Yeah?” with his back still turned to George.
“You say hi to your mother next time you come around. You know she misses you terribly.”
Terry put his hand on the post for a second and then stepped off the porch. He walked to where the corn stalks blew in the wind. The tassels swayed at their peaks. That gentle breeze carried the smell of manure and made things grow around this farm, and shake, and fall, and forget. Around the corner, a short granite bench stood sentry at the edge of the cornfield, looking over a little catfish pond scattered with algae and bordered with cattails. In the center of the granite bench, a photo of a young man in uniform smiled forever. An epitaph above it read, “In loving memory, Jeremiah Samuels.”
Terry smoked his last to a stub and put it out under his boot. He took his pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, sat them on the bench, and patted the corner of the stone before he walked away a different type of person.
