Giles Kirk, son of sharecroppers, rose to power and wealth through greed, guile, and manipulation. But his skillfully fabricated facade collapsed when Spoony Pitt stumbled back into his life. The caller was Giles Kirk, the town's lawyer, dressed, as always, like a Boston Banker. He wore paten leather boots in which were tucked fashionable brown trousers, a charcoal vest over a white shirt, his usual black string tie with silver tips, a dark blue vest and a black cotton coat with four sky blue buttons. On his head sat a broad brimmed leather hat, which he removed and handed to Joseph. His chin seemed to jut more than usual that morning. That and his furrowed brow suggested that he was in a bad mood. He was a forty year-old man of average height, and in demeanor he seemed to be sincere, honest, wealthy, powerful and happily married. But in truth, he was a deeply unhappy man who pretended to be what he wasn't, for he had weaknesses the opposite of what he projected -- dishonesty, miserliness, insecurity and sexual adventurousness. Polly was in her early forties and still a handsome woman. She had a short, lithe body topped with a nest of graying auburn hair. Her eyes were light green and quite attractive. Her face was almost circular and she had smooth, rounded cheeks, expressive lips and even, white teeth. In the shallow part of Giles' mind, he thought her face pretty, but not beautiful. But beneath his shallow thoughts, in the hidden part his mind, the part kept secret from his every-day thoughts, the part that never lied, the part that guided him, Polly's face was powerfully alluring. Geography dictated where he found himself, that bulbous bundle of pretense and misery that called itself Spoony Pitt. The coast was not a straight line between New Orleans and Acton. Ships and boats could sail in a straight line across the sea, but a man afoot, unless he could walk on water, would have to trace a near semicircle from New Orleans to Acton. At the moment, Spoony was sitting at the end of a wagon with his legs dangling down, sharing the wagon bed with lowing, pooping cows, lurching from side to side and fantasizing about his next meal. The soles of his shoes were holey, and the tops were filthy with mud, wagon grease and offal. His face was shaggy with a three day beard. The striped pants he wore, once of finely tailored wool, had holes in their knees, and the thighs bore stains of many foods and spices that never quite reached his cavernous mouth. The top three buttons of his trousers were unbuttoned, and a yards-long black belt held his pants to his massive waistline. He wore a once-white shirt that was gray from lack of washing, and streaked with stains of sauces too thin for a fork, and dribbles of chewing tobacco from his lazy lips. The black wool coat he wore had rumpled tails and was wildly unsuited for the hot, humid climate in which he lived. But to Spoony, it was 'gentleman's apparel, ' the sort that an Englishman would wear, and as Spoony fancied himself a gentleman, he dressed accordingly.
About the Author: Michael Crawford grew up in Houston when barefoot kids played outside all day and rode their bikes to the local swimming pool to cool off. After graduating in Finance from the University of Houston, Mike joined the Navy and saw the world. He soaked up the history and art of Florence and Constantinople; sailed the Straights of Messina, dreaming in the moonlight; marveled at the glow of crimson lava oozing from the maw of Mount Etna. His stint in the Navy over, Mike married and followed a commercial career -- from banking in Boston to educational publishing in Palo Alto and Chicago. His three children have gifted him with four wonderful grandsons. Mike now lives in Denton, Texas, where he writes, reads and enjoys Scottish Country Dancing. His favorite novel is George Eliot's classic, "Middlemarch", and his favorite contemporary fiction is Ann Patchett's "Bel Canto."