I warmed up one
of Elva's casseroles, the one she makes with beef, beans and
tomatoes. I zapped it in the microwave. I washed it down
with a quart of fresh, cold milk. After I ate I washed the dishes
instead of throwing them into the dishwasher and sat on the porch to
watch the sky while God painted it. I reckon the show is
sometimes better than any television program. I sipped my nightly
glass of bourbon real slow as I enjoyed the beautiful sunset.
The lights at
Jerry and Elva's place went on just before the sunset. I can see
their house through the trees. Jerry's pickup lights came on, and
it moved down the driveway, turning east towards town. I figured
he was coming over, but it would take another ten minutes.
Jerry's pickup pulled into my drive in no more than a couple of
minutes. He must have taken the dirt fence line as a
shortcut. He does that sometimes.
“Darn!” I
thought out loud. "Don't know if I can stand it if he makes fun
of me losing my job." I almost went inside and shut the
door. I didn’t want to face Jerry and talk about me getting
fired. I was still kind of raw and not ready to discuss it.
Nobody ever got fired in our family before. Here I was the black
sheep, but damn it, it wasn’t my fault. I couldn’t leave the
porch. That would be downright unneighborly of me. Besides,
Jerry’s more than my neighbor, he’s my buddy. I think of him like
he’s my little brother. He’s family.
Jerry got out of
his old Ford F-150 pickemup truck and walked up the steps, not saying
anything, just looking at me until he sat in the old wicker chair next
to the table.
"Hey,
Graham." he said as he looked off toward the red horizon.
"Got my jar, brother?"
"Ayuh." I
said, and reached under the table for the extra jelly jar I always keep
for him. He pulled a fresh bottle of whisky out of his
jacket. Elva didn't let him drink at home, but she said what he
did at my place was his own affair. Jerry poured himself a couple
of fingers in his glass, and topped me off a finger or two, sat the
bottle on the table, then leaned back in his chair and sipped a little.
"You okay,
bubba?" he asked softly.
"Hurts a little,
Jer, — no,” I confessed, “it hurts a lot.”
"What chu’ gonna
do?"
"Dunno.
Too old to get another job, I reckon."
"Bull!" he
said to me across the table. "You know more `bout engines’n
anybody these parts. Ron'll take ya’ back when he figures out
Will don't do nothing but watch no more, and his boy Cal's got no more
idea how to fix an engine than fly hisself to the Moon."
"Ain't goin'
back." I said after a sip or two. "Afters’ many years as I
worked for ‘em bastards and them treat’n me that a’ way. Ain't no
way in hell I’m gonna’ go back."
"So what chu’
gonna’ do, bubba?"
"Dunno,
Jer. Ain’t really had time to think on it."
We sat and
shared for another hour or more; not talking, just setting, listening
to the sounds of a beautiful May evening as the horizon went from hot
orange, to ochre, to blue-black, as the stars began to blaze ever
brighter. We watched a couple of shooters, but they were just little
ones. Jerry finished his bourbon. He left the bottle he
brought on the table.
"You gonna’ be
all right, Graham?" he asked as he got up to go.
"Yeah." I
said, "H’it’s gonna’ take me a few days to get use to the idea,
but chu’ never know. Maybe it’s a blessing in disguise. I
ain’t a’ gonna’ give up my faith and sure as hell ain’t gonna’ lose no
sleep over it.” I smiled at Jerry, “The Old Man works in
mysterious ways, brother."
"He does,
indeed, bubba,— he does indeed. We’s worried about chu.’
Elva sent me over to check on you." he called to me over his
shoulder as he went to his truck. "Elva and me love ya,
Graham. You been damn good to us over the years,— more’n just a
neighbor, and you know it. We don't like seein' ya hurt.
Take care of yourself, bubba, ya’ hear."
Two people in
the same day told me they loved me. World record. I felt
tight in my chest, got a big lump in my throat, and almost got all
teary-eyed for a minute. Been doing that a lot recently for some
reason. Maybe, it’s because I’m just getting older and it means
more to me when I hear those words.
‘I love you’n
Elva, too.’ I thought to myself. I did, too, but I couldn't
get the words to come out. All I said was, "Give Elva a
kiss for me, brother."
He drove off and
I wandered back into the house just as the old mantle clock chimed
ten. I washed the glasses and dried them, then put them back
under the porch table. I moved the chairs around a little, and
expected my left hand to hurt like always when I move heavy
stuff. I have arthritis real bad in my left knuckles. Doc
Andy said it was probably from when I smashed my hand under an engine
block in sixty-three. For some reason, it didn't hurt as bad as it
usually did, but there was a dull ache in my chest, arms, my mouth, my
head, and even my legs.
I was going to
write some more in my journal, but I was tired. So, I just went
upstairs, scrubbed my teeth before I dropped them into a glass, put on
my pajamas, and climbed into bed. I fell asleep at once.
I dreamed about
Groth. He was telling me stuff about the engine, how the fuel
went into the gyrovanothic chamber at hyperspeed, where the lasers and
phasers did their thing in the magnetic bottle, converting the matter
directly into heavy elements and power. Most of all, I dreamed of
how nice he looked, peaceful, how comfortable he made me feel, and how
it felt to be held by him, strong, loving. He was kissing my
chin, my chest, his hands moved to take off my pants when I woke up
to,— Chester.
Chester's my
rooster. The old fart starts crowing just as the dew stops
forming and never shuts up. Once he's started his day there's no
going back to sleep. Chester takes is job a mite too seriously.
When I rolled on
my side to get out of bed, I was surprised to see Roger sticking
straight out of my pajamas. The fly of my pjs were wet from
smegma, a lubricating fluid mature males produce when sexually aroused.
"Ain't done that
in ten years or more. I can’t remember the last time I woke up
with a morning hard." I thought with glee. It felt somehow
reassuring seeing my dick like that. Maybe I wasn't so close to
meeting my Maker, after all. Roger was soft by the time I got to
the hall toilet, so I figured it was one of those aberrations life
throws at you.
After I flushed
the bowl I went into the bathroom we put in after our first really good
harvest. We ripped out the smallest of the seven bedrooms in the
old farmhouse for the space. The room we sacrificed was the
nursery off the main front bedroom. My face still felt
smooth. I never did need to shave more than three times a
week. Mary made me shave every day and somehow it made me feel a
little unfaithful not to. Old habits die hard.
I looked for a
minute at the razor and Barbasol then decided to let it be. All I
did was put in my teeth and take a quick shower. Something didn't
feel right, but I didn't know what. My scalp itched real
bad. I told myself to wear a hat when I went out. My gums
ached with a dull pain, I felt a little sore in all my muscles, and in
my gut and chest.
"Men get old,
pain gets bold," I recited a line from a poem I once heard.
I threw on a
pair of jeans and a clean shirt. I had to cinch the damned belt a
extra notch.
‘Must a’ lost a
lot of water last night.’ I thought. ‘Too much bourbon and
not enough water.’
I automatically
fed the chickens, went to slop the hogs, even though I gave them over a
couple of years back. I backtracked to gather the new eggs from
the coop leaving two clutches under two of the largest hens, and let
another hen start a new clutch. On average I hatch a clutch a
week because I’m eating more chicken these days. Sometimes I eat
two a week. I've built up the flock a lot lately. They’re
mostly reds because they have a better flavor.
I don’t keep as
many as Mary used to. She used to keep eight dozen laying
hens. She’d take the eggs she didn't take to the motel on the
interstate into Gove and sell them every morning but Sunday. The
male chicks she raised to be fryers. What we didn't eat she took
to the Saturday Farmers' Market in Gove to sell. She talked about
how her chicken and egg money made buying her dress fabric easier and
paid for her little van.
I candled the
eggs, fetched my Stetson from the front rack, got into Jeep, and headed
to Charlene's for breakfast. I don't do breakfast I just eat it.
Charlene's is as
close to a diner as we have in our town. Most everyone in town
has breakfast there. Well, not everybody, that's not fair,— but
my buddies, the movers and shakers of our little town, they all eat
there. She opened her little coffee shop in her folks' old
notions store on the corner across from the gas station after her
husband, Bill, got crisped on his tractor. He never saw the
thunder heads behind him until it was too late, everyone reckoned, and
a bolt of lightening struck him in the middle of the field. He
didn’t even have a chance to get off his tractor much less get into his
truck.
I was a little
early, so I took the northern route driving by my farm that Gil and
Greta Carver lease from me. They’re planning on buying it from me
as soon as their next season's done. Young Gil has done a swell
job of farming. He brings in top yields and quality. I
reckon he's going to make a top-rate farmer just like his dad and his
older brother, Gordon. His older brother owns a double he farms
to the West of Gove.
Greta's gonna
have a boy in six months, but I can't say anything to anyone yet
because she hasn’t told anyone but her husband Gil and her mother in
Totteville. Gordon, Gil’s brother, told me when I went visiting
to see how the plowing was coming along. He saw me look at
Greta's tummy then at her creamy-white complexion. When I winked
at him he knew I figured out Greta was carrying.
I turned right
on Post Road. The lush farmland to the South contrasted vividly
with the rocky flats to the north. I thought about Charlene
Taggart, how pretty she was for a mature woman as I jounced along in
Jeep. I've known Charlene since she came to meet Bill's
dad, Cor Taggart. I was working on Cor's bailer when Bill brought
her home to introduce her as his girlfriend. They were still in
high school. He was so proud of her his nerves were on edge as he
introduced her to his dad and then to me.
I knew Bill
Taggart from the day he was born in Cor's house we went back so
far. Cor brought him to the porch to show me and Mary when we
brought over a meal to heat on their stove. I watched him grow
into a mischievous, funny, but sincere boy and young man. I was
at his christening, his baptism, his homecoming, his wedding, and his
funeral. I loved that boy like a nephew, just like he was my
own. It was one of the saddest days of my life when we carried
his coffin out of the church, loaded it in the wagon, and escorted it
to the cemetery. I cried like I did at Mary's service,— deep,
quiet, but no tears.
I chawed over it
as I turned towards town. I began thinking about young Bill
Taggert. He was as handsome as could be with a smile as wide as
the river. He was an active member of 4-H club and won a blue
ribbon for his calf the year before he got out of school. He
married Charlene the day after he graduated high school. He got
called up for the draft and shipped to Vietnam by the Army only to get
an early discharge a few months later when Nixon got us out
there. When he got back his dad Cor helped him buy the old Carver
farm right next to mine. Bill plunged into the soil like a real
farmer, but something changed in him while he was away. It was
something I could never figure out, but he was different. He
seemed distant, preoccupied, less available somehow. He used to
go to Kansas City once every month to visit his maiden aunt Hildegaard
his mom's sister, after she got laid up. That took up a lot of his
spare time, but he got to be a loner to most of the town folk.
Doc Andy said
something a couple of years after Bill’s funeral that scared me a
little. He reckoned as how if a man was bent on killing himself
to get out of debt and a marriage he wasn't comfortable with, there
wasn't a much better way to go than on your tractor in a July
thunderstorm.
"Quick and
painless." he allowed, "Dead before you see what hits ya."
I didn't know
Bill was unhappy. We're all in hock to the banks up to our ears
when we start out, and having twins when your first crop failed isn't
the greatest shock. Bill always seemed like a stable enough kid
when he was growing up. If there was a shred of truth to Doc
Andy’s musing it was hard for me to understand. Why would a man
who has it all, youth, good looks, a pretty wife, two gorgeous kids,
his own farm, and a bright future,— why would a guy like that sit on
his tractor in the middle of his field knowing a thunderstorm was
coming right at him? He couldn't have missed it! His
tractor was facing due West when they found him, Doc Andy told
me. The damnedest thing was the ignition was turned off. It
was almost like he was sitting there waiting for it to happen.
I never knew his
marriage wasn't (how did Andy put it?) comfortable. Of course in
a small town people don’t talk much about their personal lives if they
don’t want the whole town to know. It was another of life's
mysteries to most of us.
I drove past the
old hangar that used to be part of Harry's crop-dusting company.
It’s a huge eyesore big enough for a blimp which was what it was
originally built for. Harry Boyce bought it from the Navy as
surplus after World War two and put the thing up for his three
biplanes. His crop dusting company went bust in
seventy-three. Gary Boyce has owned the land since his dad died,
but he won't consider tearing the old thing down. He keeps
talking about one day having a small airport, but no one really
believes that’ll ever happen. I figure he's just too cheap to pay
for having it dismantled.
It's gotten dull
over the years. It used to be shiny and reflective. Now
it's a dull gray color, the color of February skies. We all
thought it would probably get blown down when we had that big storm in
ninety-six, but it must have been built more solid than we
thought,— not even the big doors got damaged. Gary was
pissed. I think he was hoping to make an insurance claim, or
asking for FEMA assistance in carting the twisted remains away;
however, the only damage he sustained was the old silo he stopped using
after they built a new one on his farm. The old one toppled
over. The insurance wouldn't cover it.
I stopped for a
minute and watched the sun raise the first heat waves on the dark clay
and tarmac parking area in front of the hangar, making the weeds look
like they were waving in wind when there wasn’t any. With all the
shale out-croppings just below the surface the land on the northwest
corner of town isn’t much good for farming. It might a’ made a
pretty good airport, except Grainfield has a black-topped runway where
all the dusters in these parts are based. Besides, there’s nobody
in town who needs a private plane. I watched a hawk circle slowly
overhead, waiting to pounce on any snake or furry that might venture
out of its hole.
A big jet went
overhead, a tiny cross of silver in front of its long white vapor cloud
trail. I could hear the sound coming towards me from ten miles
behind it. I watched it follow the trails of previous flights
gradually dissipating in the heat of the morning. I wondered what
it would be like to be looking down at myself, less than a speck on the
great plains of central Kansas, or suddenly finding myself looking down
on me in Jeep from just a few feet, then whooshing upwards, seeing the
great hangar, the town, then all the farms as I moved ever higher, up
and up. I flashed above the plane, and saw the dark horizon to
the West, the curve of the horizon. . .
I snapped my
head and came out of it. I was trembling a little. I never
experienced anything like that before, stepped out of myself and
looked. I put Jeep into gear and started for town. It
stalled in first, and I had to restart the engine. By the time I
got to town, I'd stopped feeling Jittery, and my stomach was growling
for food. Most folks wouldn’t call us a ‘town.’ There’s
just a little cluster of houses, the ag-office, Terry's service
station, Charlie's garage, Greta's grocery shop, and Charlene's.
The usual bunch
was there when I rolled in around half past six. I recognized all
their trucks parked out front. The place was quiet when I went
in. Usually it's pretty noisy with a lot of chatter. Folks
talking usual gossip about whose getting his sowing done the earliest
this year, whose dickering with whom about selling his crop on
spec,— all that, but today, it was quiet, and I knew why. They
were all waiting for me, the old dick head who got himself fired
chasing off after a weather balloon. It was so quite you could’ve
heard a mouse fart.
"Bacon or
sausage?" called Charlene from the far end of the counter where
she was cutting a piece of bundt cake for Pete. I put the basket
of eggs I brought her on the little table by the coffee maker. I
give her the extra eggs from my brood, the ones I don't leave under the
hens. It saves her buying from somebody out of town.
"Sausage!"
I said as I swung onto my stool next to Dan Sofer. Dan picked up
the coffee pot next to him and poured me a cup.
"Damned shitty
thing to do," he grumbled under his breath softly for only me to
hear, "Who's gonna do the real work for him now?"
I almost spilled
my coffee getting it to my lips.
"Yeah,"
said Pete Pulaski, from down the counter, "Son of a bitch ought
a’ jus' shut down. I ain’t takin’ my stuff to him no more.
What,— and have that no nothing Will and Ron’s idiot son make it
worse? No thanks! Do it myself first!"
I wondered to
myself why they didn't seem to think it was my fault?
"Ah, well,— I
shouldn' a’ took off after that damn balloon," I said, "I
did wrong, thinkin' it was a plane goin' down an' runnin' off like
that."
"Bullshit!"
said Carney Loft, "If'n it'd had a’ been a crash and you didn'
go, then what? S’a man’s Christian duty to see if’n he can offer
help."
“Yeah!
Right on, brother!” added several of the other men.
Ralph Dreesson
sauntered in, his gut preceding him by a foot or so. Ralph's been
a buddy since we were in high school. There’s not many of us
left,— everyone who didn't drift out of the area after high school
seemed to be dying off. Ralph and Cary have a double parcel to
Southeast of Jerry's spread.
"Hey," he
said as he slumped onto his stool next to me. I poured him some
brew.
"Hey," I
said, "Where's Cary?" Cary and Ralph have been married
since right after grade school, when she and him played doctor one time
too many and she got pregnant. She was only fourteen, but
looked a lot older for her age. Ralph was always ahead of us in
physical things. He got hair under his arms and around his
privates when he was eleven,— long before the rest of us. Hell,—
he started having to shave when he was thirteen. They have nine
grand-kids now, and two great-grand kids in California and New
Jersey. His son Ron and Ron's wife, Beth, are taking over the
main farm next year when Ralph retires. Cary usually comes to
Charlene's and talks women-talk with Charlene on Wednesdays.
"She's having
breakfast with the kids," he said just before his first sip,
"Stayed over to their place last night to help with the girls'
back-to-school sewing. Can you take a look at my Deere?" he
said, "It's choking up on me."
"I ain't,... I
mean,.... I don't work for Ron no more," I mumbled into my
coffee, not looking at him.
"Don't give a
shit!" he said after a slurp, "What’s ‘at got to do with
you looking at my Deere for me? You’re the only man in town what
knows farm equipment and engines. You been my mechanic for’s long
as I can remember. Don't wanna’ change now. Don't figure
Ron or his current crew can do it. Don’t even care to give ‘em a
chance."
I felt a surge
of my manhood coming back. He didn't seem to care I got fired by
Ron. Didn’t make him no never mind.
"Yeah,"
said Pete, “‘At asshole Ron couldn't pour piss out of a
boot with the instructions written on the heel, much less find a frayed
wire."
He got a laugh
out of everyone there. They all remembered the time Ron called me
at Charlene's to come look at Andy Trothwell's cruiser. Andy’s
the law in our town. His patrol car died out on the road from the
Interstate. I hauled ass all the way up there, didn't even eat a
biscuit, and found Ron, all sweaty and full of grease, swearing like a
drunken sailor because he'd skinned a knuckle on the block. Andy
was leaning on the fender sucking on his first cigar of the day, his
uniform crumpled after his night shift on the Interstate. It took
me only a second to find a wire arcing to the battery mount. I
patched it with electric tape, and closed the hood. I was back at
Charlene's before my coffee got cold.
"Graham,—
honey,— whyn't you open your own garage?" asked Charlene,
bringing me the big oval plate of eggs, sausage, flaps and browns, the
eggs done just like I like, crispy and yolky. She put a couple of
strips of bacon on the edge, like always. "Folks ‘round here rely
on you; more’n you might think." She looked a little tired, the
crinkles around her eyes deeper than usual, her brown hair a little
grayer than I remembered.
Charlene Taggert
lost her husband, Bill, only four or five years after they married,
back in seventy-eight. She was so beautiful when she married her
high school sweetheart. Her Bill was a football star, the town
clown, but the nicest kid you’d ever wanted to meet. She bore him
two beautiful boys, helped him build a house in town,— well, rebuilt
it, is more like it. They seemed to be the perfect couple.
Then Bill got himself incinerated on his tractor. Afterwards, she
proved how strong she was. She made all the arrangements,
buried him up the hill in our churchyard, and even sang in the choir at
the service. There were tears everywhere but on her face,— but
you could see the pain deep in her eyes for years after that.
Charlene never
got married again. She just did her best to raise the twins on
her own, Bill Junior and Barry. She kept the farm going by hiring
Gil Carver on as a hand and had four good harvests. Her boy,
Barry, got Leukemia a year after Bill died. He was only three,
and died just before his fifth birthday. That's when she sold the
farm to Ralph. He paid her a fair price at about two hundred an
acre. Gil wanted to buy the farm, but couldn't come up with the
money even with his family's help. Charlene opened her diner
after paying off the bank. I don't think she had much left by
then, seeing as how the medical bills she was left with for Barry’s
illness were so high. Her brothers in Gove and Totteville helped
her out, and we had a yard auction to help pay the hospital in
Salina. Most everybody donated, and we made sure everything got
sold. I wasn't the only one who bought back something I'd put up
for sale then decided I couldn't do without.
Bill Taggart
Junior looks just like his dad when he was younger, slim and handsome
as all get out. He’s his father’s son all right and he was
fortunate enough to inherit the best looks from both parents.
He’s as good or better athlete than his old man and active in 4-H just
like his dad. He’s really a stunningly handsome young man.
He's
share-cropping for Hal Cooper, next to Ralph's second parcel. Hal
lost his son in Nam, and his daughter Manda lives in Atlanta with her
lawyer husband. Ralph hates lawyers, especially the one Manda
married. He doesn’t have anyone to leave the farm to. I
reckon Bill Junior will get it as a bequeath when Hal goes to join his
wife, Lynn, who died two years ago. Hal's been in poor health
since then.
Rumor has it
Bill Junior's getting tail from Terry 's girl, Beth. Terry is
Ron's stepbrother who lives out on Post Road three miles past my
farm. Beth is a sweet-looking kid, but I can't see Bill with
her. I mean, she's only sixteen, and he's at least twenty.
Besides, he's too good, too handsome to,. . . well, never mind, that’s
not important.
"I ain't got the
tools I'd be needin'," I said as I tapped the bottle of Heinz 57
over my eggs. Besides, there ain’t no place to set up shop."
"Fiddle-faddle,"
she said. "If’n you wanted to, you could do it. I know you
Graham Baker. Know’d ju’ all my life and know you can do anything
you set your mind to. You just ain't had enough time to think on
it. Ever’ person in this here diner would love to see you give
Ron a run for his money. Right folks?"
“You tell ‘em,
Charlene!” Several of the men yelled at her.
“‘At’s right,
Charlene! Maybe, he’ll listen to you.” They all
cheered Charlene on.
"See, I ain’t
the only one what feels that way. Y'oughta think on it,
Graham." said Ralph, eyeing my platter like he wished he was
having the same thing. I have a fairly high tolerance for
food. Ralph doesn’t eat a proper breakfast, just Raisin Bran,
milk and juice. The man's been on a diet since he was twelve, and
seems to put on five pounds a year, no matter what. I reckon it
must be in his genes, but he has a full head of hair. Ralph has
six kids, two sons and four daughters, all married, all except Ron
living out of state. I don’t have any kids.
Ralph’s not a
real farmer. His dad was a carpenter in Kansas City. My
dad's great-grandfather, Chester Baker, came to Katy in 1888 from
Glocestershire, where his family had been farming for generations, and
bought our farm on credit when he married, in 1891. Ralph doesn’t
have a son who wants to take over his farm, so he'll probably sell the
old Taggert farm to the guy whose sharecropping now; Tad Barret from
Grainfield. Tad's family has been farming for four
generations. He's the youngest of several boys so he won't get
the family farm. A family farm usually goes to the oldest son but
not always. His dad will help him buy Ralph’s farm plus some
other silent investors who have faith in the kid. That’s the way
it’s done around here. Kinda like when Ralph helped out when
Charlene had to sell.
"Yeah,"
called Pete through a mouthful of flaps. "You'd get my business
for sure. Old Will's past it, and Cal can't tell a gas tank from
a water can.”
We laughed at
the reference to the time Cal poured gasoline on his momma's rose
garden and damn near burned down the house when Ron threw his cigar in
the rose bed when he got home. Cal never knew it was gasoline.
Leastwise, that was the story he told everybody. I think
he's too short in the head department to invent a fool story like that.
"Maybe I'll
think on it," I mumbled forking a hunk of egg and home fries. I was
already figuring in my head what it would cost me to get a shop set up.
The biggest expense would be the diagnostic gizmo John Deere introduced
last year. Damn thing goes for more than thirty grand.
"Y'ought a’ talk
to Gary," hollered Charlene from over the top of the grill where
she was starting Gary's eggs. She saw his pickup park across the
street, right on time, and knew he’d be on his way in. Gary's
struggling with his bills since his dad kicked three years ago.
He got taken to the cleaners by the IRS, because they assessed his
dad's estate at over the one million mark. He couldn't sell the
hangar parcel for love, much less money, and he couldn't part with the
farm. It’s been in the Boyce family since the town was founded in
1868. He managed to cut some deal with the IRS and the
bank. He pays the taxes over ten years, but he and his wife Diane
don't have enough to buy much after their kids get fed and clothed.
And the damned
soft-palmed big-city liberal Democrats wonder why we vote Republican
every year. They take our money and gives it to people who ain't
worked a honest day in their lives, all in the name of 'fighting for
working families.' Who the hell do they think we are?
"Talk to me
‘bout what?" said Gary through the screen door as he walked up
the stairs. Charlene's voice would carry a whisper across the
street, I swear. She’s not loud, her voice just carries.
"We're all
trying to convince Graham to open up his own garage service," piped up
Pete from down at the end of the counter. "Give Charlie's mongrel
Ronnie a run for his money." Ron hated to be called Ronnie.
He also hated to be reminded that his mother ran off after he was
born. He was no more than three months old. He was raised
by his aunt Teresa until he was five when Charlie married Bobbie Olsen.
"Hiya,
Darlin'," said Charlene, dishing up Gary's eggs and home fries.
"How's bachelorhood?"
"The pits,
two-bit," said Gary with a grin, sitting at the leg of the
counter on the other side of the walkway. There used to be a
piece of counter top over it, but the hinges were too weak, and
Charlene figured it wasn't worth the effort to replace it after the
segment shattered under the weight of somebody. "My hand's got too many
calluses for comfort." Gary grinned at Charlene. Charlene put the
plate down in front of him, a blank expression at first, then a flush
as she realized what he meant. Most of us managed to keep a
straight face despite the cramps of holding back a laugh; however, Pete
couldn't keep a laugh under control at a funeral, and did his donkey
bray.
We all lost it
as a result, and had a communal roar. This threw Charlene into
the scarlet phase, and she slammed through the kitchen door without
another word. I couldn't see if it was to keep from laughing with
us, or to keep from lashing out at her brother-in-law's crude
joke. (Gary married Charlene's kid sister, Diane, just before
Bill died.)
"She'll get over
it," Gary said as he salted his eggs, "Hand me the sauce,
will you Ralph?"
Ralph dutifully
passed the "57" over the counter trap to Gary.
"So what's this
about a garage?" he said to me, as he tried to pound a little
sauce out.
"Ronnie canned
me yesterday," I said, suddenly feeling no guilt in saying
it. "He's hirin' Cal to replace me. We’s just talking idle." "Y'ought a’
think on it," Gary said as the sauce finally started to flow.
Ralph passed him the ketchup for his home fries. "They's a couple
of guys ‘round these here parts what would trust Cal to wash their
equipment, but none of us would trust him to lift the hood more'n an
inch."
"I hear
Sweeney's is shuttin' down after the fire," said Andy Trothwell's
voice from behind me.
I hadn't seen
him come in. I spun around a little to see him. He was in
the first booth, the high one, so he was hidden from the door when I
came in; however, I didn’t see his cruiser in front.
"Hey,
Andy," I said, "Didn't see ya' come in. Chasin'
somebody down?" Andy didn't usually come to town, except to pass
through on his way to Gove after pinching somebody who turned off the
interstate to flee a speeding ticket.
"Maybe,"
he said, grinning. "You feeling guilty, Graham?"
"Me? My
old pickupemup won't get up to the speed limit without a steep hill and
a tailwind," I joked back at him.
"Not growing any
illegal drugs or nothing on your farm, are ya’?" he said with a
wink. I used to grow marijuana for Mary who smoked it to lessen
the pain of her Cancer. I gave some away for others in the same
situation for local consumption, but I never sold it. Andy got
his from me for his dad who had arthritis something awful. I grew
it until Mary and his dad passed. I only smoke the stuff once in
a while. I prefer Bourbon so I stopped growing it. I have a
some stashed away I smoke from time to time.
"Why, Sheriff,—
Graham ain't one a them hippies," Pete said in an almost falsetto
voice. "He's so straight you could use him as a yardstick."
I had to stifle
a guffaw. Pete had been one of my best customers, and not for a
sick relative. He doesn't drink at all, so I guess he needs
something. He keeps a few dozen plants scattered in his white
corn patch since I stopped growing and supplies a few friends. He
won't give any to the kids, though. They have to make do with the
lower-grade stuff that grows down by the creek, semi-wild, probably the
result of somebody smoking a joint and spilling a few seeds.
(During WWII hemp was grown throughout the mid-west and Texas for
making rope for war time production. It still grows wild today in
the back road drainage ditches.)
I saw Charlene
come back through the swinging door, and I saw the look she gave
Andy. He wasn't here on an official visit. She was the
reason he was here. ‘Why not?’ I thought to myself.
‘Andy's in his prime, no more'n forty-five, and his wife has been gone
nearly five years.’ I felt a little twinge of jalousie, not
because he was courting Charlene, but because he was young enough to do
it. He was young enough to think she might one day say ‘yes’ when
he asked for her hand. Andy wasn’t a bad looking man
either. He kept himself in great physical shape for his
job. I thought they’d make a great couple.
Something
snapped in my head. ‘What was that they said about
Sweeneys?’ They were the biggest Deere, IH, Cat service center
west of Salina, and there's nothing West as far as the state line.
“Did I hear
someone say Sweeney’s going out of business, Andy, on account of fire?”
"They got burned
out last night." Andy said softly, but the room was all of a
sudden so quiet he might as well of been shouting. "My sister
Elaine whose husband is the Mayor of Oakley, told me they were having
troubles keeping mechanics, and Deere was talking about pulling their
franchise anyway."
I knew they were
having troubles. Bill Sweeney even called me to ask if I'd be
willing to come work for him. I was flattered he thought enough
of me to ask, but I thought about the seventy-five mile drive each way
every day to Oakley and ‘no-thanked’ him very kindly. I wouldn’t
even consider it, not for a hundred dollars a day. There was a
general buzz in the room, like no one was really talking, but sort of
murmuring just the same.
"Looks like we
need us a mechanic pretty bad." Gary Boyce said to me as I turned
back to my sausages. They’re so good I always save them for last.
Charlene grinds her own pork and grows her own spices out back in her
truck garden. I just looked at him content to chew my cud.
"They's still a
lot a’ tools and stuff in the workshop next to the hangar," he
said as if to himself. "Place is big enough for a few good-sized
engine bays, I reckon."
It was all
downhill from there. I don't remember all the details, but Gary
and I eventually signed a contract together that said I would rent his
place for one dollar per month, two and a half percent of billings, all
utilities and taxes of six hundred eighty dollars a year on the whole
one thousand two hundred eighty acres. It was taxed at the lowest
rate in the county, since it wasn’t considered farmable.
He gave me a
ten-year lease plus a ten-year option renewable twice. I laughed
to myself thinking whether I'd still be around in forty years. He
gave me a one-year buyout option if I didn't want to continue, so my
maximum risk was only one year of taxes. This was all happening
way too fast but everyone was urging me on. My hand shook as I
signed the contract, which we wrote on a sheet of Charlene’s white
butcher paper she used to wrap pastry, sandwiches and stuff to take out
in the fields for dinner. Everyone cheered after we signed our
contract and Gary waved it about for all to see. He announced to
everyone that Graham Baker was now in business. Charlene came out
from behind the counter and gave me a big hug and peck on the cheek.
Pete said he'd
bring his tractors in for major servicing as soon as I was ready.
Gary told me his four tractors were coming due in a few weeks, plus he
had a combine and a bailer needed looking at. Of course I knew
I'd have to go out to his place to do the looking. Charlene said
she figured her brothers' equipment was up for grabs, as they didn't
like Sweeney's anyhow, and the Salina dealer was already swamped with
work so they couldn't send anybody out to West Gove.
By the time I
drove back up to the house, I was wondering how long it would be before
I'd have to hire another mechanic to handle the extra work. My gums
still hurt like crazy for some reason. It was like a dull
toothache, but all around, top and bottom. I took half an
aspirin, then started the process of starting up my business.
I called the
telephone company, the Power & Light people, the Yellow Pages, John
Deere, International Harvester, Caterpillar, my insurance agent in
Hays, and about fifteen prospective customers. I got nothing but
encouragement from Deere and IH, cautious support from Cat, promises of
all their business from most of the prospects, and the runaround from
the utility people. The yellow pages just closed, the telephone
company had no record of any wires going into the building, and the
power and light people wanted a qualified electrician to certify the
wiring was up to code.
I quit around
six, and set the feather-pot on to boil while I fed the chickens,
selecting one for the block and plying it with extra food to calm it
down. Keeps the meat more tender because they're not as nervous when
you snap their neck. I almost scalded myself throwing the bird
into the feather-pot before it was done flapping.
By the time I'd
cooked up the chicken and some greens for supper and ate, it was too
late for the sunset. I still went out on the porch and sipped a
small bourbon. Jerry called while I was eating and said he was
feeling kinda poorly, he was going to make an early night of it.
Elva told me he's been doing that a lot lately. She thinks she's
going to lose him in a couple of years or so. I said a little
prayer to Mary and thanked Him for giving me a project I could get my
teeth into.
That reminded me
my gums were hurting again. I went upstairs and took another half
an aspirin then got ready for bed. My scalp itched like I had
lice even after I showered and scrubbed my dome with Ivory. I was
too tired to pay it much mind. I crawled under the down comforter
savoring the chill, wondering if I would dream again of Groth,
seeing him in my mind's eye. I was asleep almost at once, but not
before feeling Roger tingling a little, not before I had a vague
thought that maybe I ought to take him for a little stroll, masturbate
him a little, even though I knew I wouldn’t come,— just for the
pleasure. I don't think my hand had time to find Roger before I
fell asleep.