Logbook

On the workbench in the basement, Zeke sets the two green card files to his left and the new 1955 Chevy parts catalog, bound in a series of three-ring notebooks, to his right. He sits on a backless stool and locks his feet inside the bottom rung.

He sharpens a pencil with his penknife, then draws out an index card. On each card he copies the description and the part number on the top line, writing in all caps. Below, on the left of the card, he writes INVENTORY. At 10 p.m., he stops. He will do this after dinner for the next several weeks, marking his daily progress with a shim he uses as a bookmark.

Every evening when he gets upstairs and readies for bed, Zeke finds his wife, Vera, already asleep.

Drum

Didn’t really think nothing of it when folks started moving away, since we followed suit, too. Dad had already passed when mamma got a job down south. Sold the house to Mr. Jenkins. Nice enough, I guess, but one of those kind that was snakebit by what I always called refuse.

Over the years, he’d haul all sorts of stuff – sheets of scrap tin, tons of old rims, blistered tractor tires, a couple three sawed-off truck beds, and stacks of 18-foot metal beams. Hell, Jenkins had beams stacked up four or five high in the back yard. Never seen anything like it. Stuff just gathered back there. It sat, and since that property pushes so far south, I guess he thought he had to fill it.

He passed several years back now. It took four flatbeds to haul all that junk. Four. Four trucks of sheer junk. Sure cost his grand-niece a pretty penny to clean that mess up, and all she got was that house you was lookin’ at.

Fridge

Marge sends the four grandkids around to the north side of the pond. She unties the trotline from around the cottonwood sapling that shouldn’t be growing on the west side of the dam. She waits and signals Jerry, the oldest. They lift on three.

She hears the shouts of “Seven, grandma, seven,” but Marge only sees the five treble hooks. The boys walk the line back around the pond, dragging the catfish through the dust. Jerry strings the catch and drops them in a five-gallon bucket. Marge puts great faith in liver, but her husband swears by stinkbait. Marge takes chicken liver from butcher paper and slithers it on the empty hooks. The cousins each grab a bit of the line, careful to keep the bait off of the ground and the dangling hooks out of tanned arms. They walk the line back and set it.

On a table Marge drives a 20 penny nail through the head of each catfish and cleans them as the boys skip rocks and play guns.

Gears, Gaskets, Belts

George allows Joanie to set up her dollhouse on the side of the mechanic’s bay mostly on account that he made the house and the beds, armoires and tables that make it a home. She moves the figurines around the house, and they settle in the kitchen. Joanie instructs her father that this particular family always eats standing up since they can’t really bend their legs. George laughs gently as he pops the hood on the 1954 Ford F100 that Percy says seems to be skipping.

He watches his daughter, nine now with sandy brown pig-tails and lime-green cotton sun-dress, as she stretches out on the cardboard that covers the floor. “Sweetheart, can you help me with something.”  “Sure, papa.”

“Climb up in there and start this puppy up.”

She’s in the cab before he knows it. “Just turn the key to the right,” he says. She does, and the boom from 239 Y-Block V8 rattles the garage. He notices immediately that it’s not purring. George walks to the bench and grabs a stethoscope. He places it on the running engine and moves around. He thinks it’s in the sixth cylinder. A tiny hiss, he thinks. Could be worse. He hollers for Joanie to shut off the engine. She bounces down from the cab. “What’s wrong?”

“Probably just a piston ring or a valve,” he says. “Would you like to stay here while I work, or do you want to head home?” He grabs his box of wrenches.

“I’ll stay.”

He disappears under the hood and works.

“Why do you have this?” Joanie asks. George turns and sees his daughter with the stethoscope in her ears and her hand over her heart. He rips it from her.

“Don’t ever touch my tools. Ever,” he commands. He pauses and looks at his daughter’s puzzled, hurt eyes. He continues in a whisper, “Because that’s how I make my living.”

 

Glendale

Marie rotates her tiny fist, wrapped in a dishtowel, inside the pint glass. As she sets it next to the others, she hears the door open.
Sheriff James Braughton walks into Moody’s Billiard Parlor flanked by Deputy Merrill Bice. They approach Ed, who hits one more shot (15 in corner) and stands.

Marie watches as Ed barely leans on his stick, left hand up, left knee slightly bent and a little sway in those still-skinny hips. Though she can’t see his face, she knows Ed pushes his tongue into his upper lip before he speaks.

“A little early to be lookin’ for a game, Jimmy.”

“I’m not here to socialize, Ed. I come on business.”

“Mind you, I am ears, and mine do like propositions.”

“It’s time to go, Ed. It’s time. This check should be enough to get you gone and the lease’s already canceled. You got til Friday.” He pauses. “You know better than to fleece Nelson’s son.”

“Jimmy, I spotted him 25 a game, 35 in the last one. Not my fault a banker’s son can’t shoot snooker and handles one scotch like four.” Ed pinches the check, scissor-like, from Braughton. He unfolds it, examines the number and pushes his tongue into his upper lip. “I hear, though, there’s a spot up in Glendale. May have to head up that way.”

“You do that.”

Marie moves slowly from behind the bar to the tables, carrying with her a sherbet container filled with soapy water. She wipes methodically. She will leave this place cleaner than she found it.

Green Paint

Kevin is surprised how easily the phone comes off the wall. The red, blue, yellow and green wires float from the wall. At least she can’t call back again to tell him she won’t be back.

He walks to the back room and unlocks his gun cabinet. He takes the Ruger Security Six .357, sheathed in a rust-orange fake-velvet cover. He grabs a box of Federal hollow-points and unzips the case as he walks to the kitchen.

He wants Celinda’s fancy plates, heirlooms she calls them.  Too fancy for them to use unless her sister was visiting. He will prop them up at the bottom of a fence post and blast them from the porch, he thinks.

The only thing Kevin finds in the cupboard is a bag of generic paper plates.

Handles

Elias darts from behind the Downs water tower and tucks his satchel close to him with the base of his left arm. He runs with a slight skip, and he pulls himself into the slow-moving, opened-door freight car. He quickly moves out of sight toward the front of the car, plops down and stretches his legs as the train gathers speed.

The gently rocking vibrations of the car allow Elias to relax after two months of planning. A half-hour later, though, a raspy voice intones, “You aim to get yourself jack-rolled, son?” A match quickly illuminates the spot the voice emanates from. Elias makes out a rumpled hat, squinting eyes a dark, matted beard. “A breshen needs a jocker.”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

“Where you headin’?”

“West. Seattle. My older brother out there told me there was money to be made on fishing boats.”

“Catching the big hole in the sky?”

“Excuse me, sir.”

“That means heading out west. What you running from?”

“I am not running from anything, sir. I am running to something.”

“That’s a might smart answer. I am not fond of spearing biscuits in Denver, so how you fixed for food?”

He hesitates, but Elias slides his satchel across the car.

“Time and rails, kid. Time and rails. That’s what we’ve got now.”

Outbuilding 2

The two pairs of leather gloves on the nails under the hay hooks were too big for either of their hands, and neither one of them could handle a bale alone. But they pull the gloves as taut as they can with their teeth. They each grab a hook.

The brothers pick hay from the second row since the bale would already be higher than the trough. With a windup, they bury the hooks into the middle of each end. Dust billows.

They shuffle step across the floor and use both hands to tumble the hay over the edge of the trough. One breaks up the bale, the other retrieves the wire. After eight bales, they climb the fence at the west end of the barn, unwrap the rusted chain and swing the gate open. The cattle shuffle in to feed.

Grandpa, who watches from the truck, steps out and empties his pipe on his boot heel. He approaches the boys and ruffles their tow heads. “Not bad,” he says. “Now get in the truck. We’ve got more to do.”

Shelves

The cousins, Chad and Steve, attempt to work stealthily, stealing minutes between chores and hours when Grandma thinks they’re hunting birds. Grandpa, of course, watches the whole thing unfold, at one point laughing at the boys as they pound horseshoe nail after horseshoe nail to secure the back axle.

“You think that’ll hold?” he asks as he walks around the scattered pieces of the wooden cart.

“It’ll work,” says Steve.

The boys talk Grandpa into pulling the go-kart on the road behind the Scout. He allows them to ride tandem, but he makes them wear helmets.

After an eighth of a mile, they’re up to 15 miles per hour. Steve takes one hand off the steering rope and puts up his thumb. Grandpa complies. At 20 miles per hour the cart shakes and the back rubber wheels bend in and begin to rub against the butt of Steve’s overalls.

Grandpa slows at Cussin’ Paul’s place, and Steve turns the cart to avoid the Scout. The boys hop off, and immediately check the back axle. Out of more than four dozen nails, only a handful are left. They get in place, and Steve lets Chad give the thumbs up. Grandpa floors it, leaving the boys with a faceful of dust. In less than ten seconds, the entire back section collapses and the back wheels wobble to their respective ditches.

Grandpa slows, but he doesn’t stop.  He drags them all the way back to the driveway, waving his seed hat out the window the entire time.

Station

With the windows down, the morning wind whips through the truck, swirling the bank receipts, wrappers, and plastic cups on the passenger side floor.

He could tell he had too much of a load when he stops to turn onto Iron Street. The rocks grumble at the sides of the truck. Need a bed pad, Randy thinks.

Smoking a Marlboro Red, Terry stands between the abandoned gas pumps at his salvage yard as Randy pulls up.

“I’m thinking about painting these suckers up,” he says through the window, smacking each pump with his palms. Randy squeezes out of the truck, but his door hits one of the pumps. “Shit, son, watch the merchandise.”

“Your pumps need to watch my truck.”

“And you need to learn how to park.” Terry doesn’t hesitate before revving back up. “Now, like I was saying, all I gotta do is shoot clear those hoses, fix up the storage tank or grab a new one, do a little do-si-do with the zoning board and have me a gas station. Put Lester in one of those white suits. Maybe sell Nehi.”

 

Tool Storage

Herbert Patterson sits at the kitchen table, drinks his coffee, pokes at his steak and eggs and worries about his spread. He’s got more acreage and head of cattle than he can handle, not enough money in the bank and a wife not suited for the farming life, even though she cooks like a farm wife. Marjorie manages the chickens and hogs just fine, but she refuses to get on a tractor, and she has made it clear she wants to move back to Ellsworth.

“Why don’t you just sell out to Jarvis? He knows this land better than your daddy, or his daddy, did.”

“What’ll he pay with? No bank’s going to give a hired hand that kind of money.”

“Doesn’t hurt to ask.”

Herbert broaches the deal with Jarvis as they feed the cattle. “I’ve been working this land since before you was born. I’m happy just working, and I don’t want to go fooling with money men and deeds,” Jarvis says.

Herbert coaxes Otis Sanford to buy the section that fall by agreeing to pay Jarvis’s wages for a year. With a handshake, Herbert leaves three generations in another man’s hand.

Window

The regulars only nod as Janitor John walks into Mopsie’s in his Sunday best and his Knox bowler on a Friday night at 10 p.m. They know better than to speak to him today.

John asks Earl for a beer and a shot of whiskey. Earl hesitates. “What’s wrong with your usual?”

“Today ain’t usual. I got the money, please give me what I ask for.”

Earl obliges. On Tuesday, second grade teacher Myrtle Triplett was found unresponsive in the boarding house, and today was her funeral.

Earl can’t tell John that Myrtle never considered John a suitor – she was only acting kindly to someone so clearly affected by the War. And John can’t know that Earl had been with her several times in the last few months, but he couldn’t take her swings and spells. She was a sad soul, Earl thinks, and this is why a 26-year-old woman drinks enough chloral hydrate to knock out a team of horses.

Instead, Earl keeps setting up the pint glasses and shots. After four drinks, John demands the attention of the bar, “Our earthly desires do not always culminate in our satisfaction.” John stumbles into his normal place at the piano, gathers himself, and sings “His Eye is on the Sparrow” in an abounding baritone.

And no one says a word.