Spring 2007 • Vol. XXIX No. 2 FictionApril 1, 2007 |

Harold Carlisle

He's gone into a nursing home is what I've heard, from his mother first and then from Bobby Allgood, who used to work for him. He was forty-three when I met him and I was sixteen; he was hired by my mother and grandmother to turn the tin-roofed shed behind our small house into a beauty shop so that my mother could go into business for herself and not have to drive up and back Highway 79 to Rapid City. Harold and Bobby started in May when the wild flowers were in bloom and finished in early September. Many days only Bobby showed up, which was why it took longer than Harold had told my mother it would. That summer I was a water-safety counselor at the Black Hills Girl Scout Camp in Custer, and driving home in the afternoons on the steep winding roads that were dark with shade I would picture Harold's blue pickup shining in our gravel driveway. And when it was there I would walk into the house for Cokes and straight out the back door, my long hair still wet and my bathing suit damp

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He's gone into a nursing home is what I've heard, from his mother first and then from Bobby Allgood, who used to work for him. He was forty-three when I […]

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