"Read a lot—science. Trying to find out what's true about things."
"I'll tell you one truth," Wilson said. "It don't count until it's on the wall." He leaped back on his ladder and attacked peeling paint, banging his scraper on the siding to keep time. Sweat dripped into a bandanna rolled and tied around his forehead. Patrick got to work.
At four-thirty, Wilson gave him a ride home. Patrick washed and walked into town where he had a few beers and talked about the war with a guy named Wendell, a guy named Joe , and Willow, the friend of Amber's. He left early and slept well.
The week passed quickly. On Friday afternoon he cashed his first check at the Bank of Orange and Ulster County and walked over to the Depresso.
"Hey Patrick."
"Sam. Hot one." Sam worked for Parker on another job; he was part of the morning gathering at the News Shop.
"How you getting along with Willy?"
"Good."
"Crazy bastard," Sam said. "He was in Korea; his father or grandfather was a general or something."
"My father's in the Army."