Rainbow’s End

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It was the same old Saturday night Mom and I had been having off and on since my father died — or at least the man I had thought was my father. Here lately, the evening got started earlier than it had been starting, as the filling station where I worked was closed, with the sign hung on the pump: “Sorry, No Gas.” So there I’d be, home with Mom. But don’t get the idea that things were slow or that time dragged. Plenty was going on, a little too much, for my taste, and too lively. The first part — in the early evening — wasn’t too bad, just screwy, which, of course, there’s no law against. She’d begin talking about how rich we would be by and by, pretty soon, one of these days, and tonight was extra special on account of the rainbow she’d seen late in the afternoon, after the rain when the sun came out.

“And you know, Dave,” she whispered, “what’s under the end of that bow — a pot of gold, that’s what. It’s waiting for us, I can feel it — if we just show some gump. If we take the car next week, go out there and get it.”

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