“So why did you have this note by your phone saying ASS TURD?”
“Where?” she asked, a frown crossing her face. “That’s not exactly my style of swearing, you know; I’m a little more traditional. Let me see that.” She took the paper from me and turned it over. “Oh, for heaven’s sake.”
“What?”
“A little girl named Astrid was in here earlier, and she didn’t want to tell me what the bullies at school called her. She skipped out while I was upstairs and left me a THANK YOU on this side of the paper, but I hadn’t realized she’d written something on the back. Those bullies must have skewed her name to ASS TURD.”
Oh, man, I knew what Laurel Falls bullies were like. Probably the same everywhere. And a name like Astrid was just different enough to whet their appetites. A dozen year back, they were mean about my names. As if sharing Daddy’s name of Vester (with Junior tacked on to make matters worse) weren’t bad enough, the nickname of Abit made them downright giddy. A bit slow. A bit stupid. Or a bit retarded when they really wanted to pile on. But who could blame them when my own daddy called me that? Not long after I was born, he told everyone, “He’s a bit slow” to make him feel better, letting folks know he knew his kid wasn’t as smart as most. Turned out, I learned a lot at The Hicks, and while I wasn’t much good at math and such, I’d found my groove, you might say, in wood. That was about the same time I started telling people my name was V.J. (a nickname Della came up with).
“Laurel Falls Elementary is missing a bet,” I said after thinking about ASS TURD. “You know how schools are always doing bake sales for new books or uniforms? Well, our school should set up a panel of 10-year-olds to judge the names parents wanted to give their newborn babies.” I started laughing, imagining all them kids in striped T-shirts sitting at a table, discussing the merits of any given name, all serious-like.
I could tell Della didn’t get what I was saying, so I went on. “Take the name Astrid. Her parents could’ve come to the school, paid $5 and asked the panel what would happen to the name Astrid on the playground. Those kids wouldn’t even have to think about it—ASS and TURD would’ve come to them in the blink of an eye. Or remember that guy—head of the Forest Service—Richard Everhardt? I mean, what were his parents thinking? No wonder he was so grumpy, given what he likely put up with on the playground. No question they called him Dick Neverhard. And poor Mr. Peterson, the science teacher. The kids all said …”
“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” Della interrupted, but she was laughing. “I think you’re onto something, Mister.”
“So who is she? Surely not a customer?”
“Well, in a way she is. She came in by herself holding an old can of beans, long expired after Cleva gave it to her years ago from the Rolling Store.”
I’d ridden shotgun on the Rollin’ Store for Duane Dockery back in 1985, taking food and supplies into the backwoods for folks who couldn’t make the trek into town, a long tradition that went back a good fifty year to when the Rollin’ Store started as an open-bed truck. But that big ol’ bus got to be a drag on Della’s business after a while, and by 1990, Duane parked it for the last time behind the store. Della used it for storage after that. Too good to take to the scrap yard, she said, especially with Duane’s fine paintings of flowers and vines on the side of the bus, which still looked good after all these year.
“Okay, but why was she in here all alone?” I asked.
Della filled me in on what she knew about Astrid and her ailing mama—news she’d gotten when she called her best friend, Cleva Hall, after the little girl left. Cleva’d retired from being a teacher and principal in the county, but she still knew everything going on. “She said Astrid’s mother and father moved here some fifteen years ago to homestead, but neither one of them knew much about the land or living in the country.”
“Sounds like you,” I added, taking a big sip of the coffee she’d poured me.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, pal.” She smacked my hand as I reached for one of her chocolate chip cookies, but I knew she was just kiddin’ around. Besides, I hadn’t meant to sound mean. Della’d struggled a lot when she first bought Daddy’s store, but she’d made her way better than most—outsiders or locals.
“Anyway, Cleva said her mother wasn’t well; she got the impression it was not so much physical as mental. She’s sad all the time, won’t eat, and spends much of her time in her bedroom. The father is smart enough, according to Cleva, but there aren’t that many places to work around here; he takes what odd jobs he can find. Cleva didn’t know how they made enough money to live on, though the father may have some kind of trust fund.”
“Next time ASS TURD comes in, let me know. I’d like to meet her,” I said. “Maybe tell her how I used to be bullied—and that it gets better.”
Within a couple of days, Della called. Astrid was back for more cooking ideas. As I walked down to the store, Millie in tow, I thought about how hard Mama had worked making our meals; that was a lot to put on a little girl.
Della introduced us, and oncet we’d said our howdy-dos, we started in like a house a fire. She petted Millie while I gave her some ideas about outsmarting them bullies and getting on with her life, though given she was only eight year old, I wasn’t sure how much “getting on” she could manage. It felt good to share my woeful tales in the hopes of helping someone else, though at some point, I started worrying all this might be too much for a little girl to carry. But she was drinking in every word, looking up at me like Millie did when I’d tell her she was a good dog.
When I was leaving, I heard Astrid tell Della to be sure to let “that boy” know next time she stopped by and added, “He has some valuable information to share.” I looked back and saw Della smiling. You couldn’t help but.
A week later, I checked with Della to see when Astrid might be coming over because I wanted to talk with her again. She had a funny look on her face when she asked, “Aren’t you a little behind in your work?”
At first I couldn’t imagine why she was talking to me that way. Then it hit. “Has Shiloh been over here telling you jokes?”
She kinda snorted. “Just left. Funny guy, that Shiloh. But he’s sure fond of patchouli, isn’t he?”
“Yeah, he loves the stuff. It took me a year to get the old cow smell out of the barn—now I’ve got that to deal with.”
“Well, I believe I’d take eau de cow to this,” she said, fanning the air with her hand. “Which reminds me—I haven’t seen your work lately, and there’s something I want to order. When’s a good time to stop by?”
“Shiloh’s off tomorrow, so anytime. I’ll air out the place.”
I went over to Coburn’s a few more times when Astrid was there, just to see how things were going for her. I was trying to live up to that revelation I’d had while on my trip through Virginia: be kind. Something I figured came to me from Jesus, from the way he lived his life. It wasn’t that easy to do, though it was easy round Astrid. And Jake and Millie liked her, too. She was as crazy about dogs as me and Della.
It was a nice time in all our lives. I wished it could’ve stayed like that.
3
Della
Astrid came by the store several more times. She’d wave and toss out a quick hi before walking the aisles or looking through cookbooks. When I’d ask what she’d cooked the night before, she’d stop to think for a moment before judiciously recapping every step in her meal-making. I bet she was doing a good job because if a cook was pleased with her creations, her family or guests often enjoyed them even more.
Early on, we established that she could help herself to any drink or snack in the store (or “refreshments” as she called them). I wanted her to feel welcome. She wouldn’t take anything when she first got there—she’d dig right in and get to work. In a while, though, she’d wipe her brow after so much exhausting work, like only a kid can pull off, and take a much-needed pull from a can of soda.
I got a kick out of her precociousness, and yet I’d�
��ve been happier watching her play softball or jump rope or whatever kids did for fun. But I consoled myself that she seemed to be enjoying herself, and I liked having her around.
One afternoon I needed to go to the SuperMart out on the highway. I didn’t like to patronize that place—the father of our former sheriff owned it, and he’d always disliked me because I’d beaten him on the bid for Coburn’s. (I guessed he’d had his heart set on a grocery monopoly in the metropolis of Laurel Falls.) Anyway, I asked Astrid if she’d like to go along so I could show her different cuts of meat (something I didn’t carry), especially the cheaper ones that needed to be braised or slow cooked to make them tender. We had fun together—Astrid checked out every aisle, marveling at institutional-sized cans of tomatoes and all the glass jars of penny candy that rivaled anything from my youth. When I bought her an ice cream cone, you’d have thought I’d knit her a sweater.
When we got back to Coburn’s, Astrid took off on her old bike, which I could just make out had once been pink and festooned with colorful tassels (faded and brittle now). She’d told me she knew it looked “bedraggled,” but it got her where she wanted to go. Which that day, I presumed, was home. She’d never mentioned where she lived, but I didn’t think it could be too far from the store. I doubted she was strong enough to ride a long way over steep dirt roads.
A few days later, following one of our afternoon sessions (school had let out for summer), a thunderstorm rolled through just as Astrid was ready to cycle home. I offered to give her a ride. She seemed nervous about accepting, but the rain looked steady and flashes of lightening concerned me. We loaded her small bike into the back of the Jeep, and I said, “Where to?”
“Not far. Do you know where Hanging Dog is?”
I nodded and turned right out of the parking lot. We rode along in comfortable silence until I asked, “What did you say your father and mother’s names were?”
“I didn’t.” She crossed her arms over her chest.
I’d’ve chuckled if she hadn’t looked so serious. “Okay, what are your father and mother’s names?”
“Daddy and Mama.” When I laughed, she did, too. A beat later, she said, “Enoch and Lilah. Enoch and Lilah Holt.”
“Those are good names around these parts.”
She stayed quiet after that. When I turned onto her road, she said in a low voice, “I’m not supposed to bring anyone home.”
“Why not?” I asked, lapsing into my nosy self.
“It’s tawdry.” I loved that kid’s vocabulary, particularly when she misused bigger words in a way that had its own logic. “But maybe Daddy won’t be home.”
No such luck.
Enoch Holt stood on the front porch as we made our way up their rutted driveway. As he loomed over us, Astrid became agitated. “I usually walk my bike from here. You can let me out now.” I was determined to meet her parents, so I ignored her. “Really. Just let me out now,” she said, her little sneaker stomping the footwell.
I parked close to the house and told her to run on to the porch; I’d bring her bike. It was pouring rain now, and I had on a raincoat. But she headed to the back of the Jeep and took her bike as soon as I got it close to the ground. She was already drenched as she pushed it under the overhang and hit the kickstand with her foot.
“Get inside and change, Astrid,” her father said as she stepped up on the porch. He put his hand on her back and practically pushed her toward the front door. She turned and looked at me over her shoulder, then disappeared behind a closed door.
“Who are you?” her father asked. He gave the impression of being scrawny, not so much by stature as posture and attitude. His light brown hair curled down around the collar of a wrinkled linen shirt hanging over loose black pants. “Oh, wait,” he added, “you must be that person who took my daughter to the SuperMart without ever asking me or her mother if that was okay.”
For once, I was speechless. I could well imagine that any number of people could have told Enoch they’d seen Astrid with that woman from Coburn’s—maybe when he was out on one of his odd jobs. And I got it that parents had the right to know who was driving their kid around, but they also had an obligation to feed her well and care for her. As I saw it, we weren’t even close in the wrongdoing department.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “You’re right. I should have checked first to see if I could take her to that store. She came to me looking for cooking ideas, and I just thought of it as a fun trip to see different ingredients for dinner. But as long as you brought that up, maybe you can explain why a little girl is saddled with so much responsibility for her family’s meals.”
He pulled on his beard. “I don’t see how that’s any of your concern,” he said before turning and going inside. I heard the lock click into place.
The rain had let up, so I stood there a moment, hoping the door would fly open and Astrid would run out to play. I was surprised by how nice the house looked—a good-sized, hand-built cabin from one of those kits popular a decade or two ago. It had aged well, though it needed work around the deck and windows. When she didn’t come out, I worried I’d gotten her in serious trouble with her father. Sure, I’d been reaching out to someone who’d come asking for help, but I knew I hadn’t handled things well.
As I put the Jeep in reverse, I saw the curtain on one of the windows twitch. I looked closer as a hand opened the curtain wider and a woman’s face pressed against the glass. We locked eyes and stared at each other for a few seconds. Then she let the curtain fall back into place.
That was the last time I laid eyes on Lilah Holt.
4
Abit
Evening was coming on, but I decided to do a little more work. I was still building my business, and I wanted to get some orders out as soon as possible. Shiloh came wandering in from the back. “Working late?” he asked, scratching his back against a rough-hewn post. “I could stay and help for a bit, seeing as how you’re a little behind in your work.”
“Okay, thanks,” I said, “though it’s time you came up with some fresh material.”
He laughed and went back to work. Shiloh was easy enough to be round, and I’d given him his own key so he could come and go as needed, what with his meditations and who knew what else. I didn’t know much about his life outside the shop—he never shared anything—but then again, I didn’t really want to. He just did his work and told his jokes, especially when people talked about something serious. At The Hicks, one of my counselors told me people could use humor to hide from others. But the way I saw it, that was his business.
Shiloh started putting the finishing touches on my latest hoosier. On the front of the flour bin, I’d set an enameled inlay with a scene that reminded me of the grassy slopes at The Hicks, dotted with wildflowers and a couple of them gorgeous Jersey cows. I thought the cabinet was one of my best so far, and I wanted to get a photograph for my sample book.
I’d bought a good camera offa Cleva Hall. She’d taken up photography when she quit working, but after a while, she found she didn’t get out to shoot much. She gave me a few lessons, and I taught myself a good bit on my own, especially about lighting.
As I was pulling lights outta the back room, I heard, “Hey, Rabbit.” That would be Fiona. Standing in the doorway, her red hair backlit by the late sun and glowing like a halo.
“Hey, yourself,” I said. She walked over and gave me a big hug. We were both still shy about showing affection with other people round, but Fiona must not’ve seen Shiloh working on the backside of the hoosier. She laid a big kiss on me, and shy or not, I wasn’t gonna pass that up.
Fiona O’Donnell had a way about her—confidant but not stuck up—that won my heart the first time I saw her. I’d met her at a storytelling festival in Virginia. (That’s where she got the mistaken notion my name was Rabbit. When she’d asked my name, I was so dumbstruck by how pretty she was with her red hair and freckles and big green eyes that I answered, “er, Abit.” It stuck, but just between us. No one else would dare ca
ll me Rabbit, but then again I didn’t reckon anyone else wanted to.)
She’d come over from Ireland, visiting her Auntie Chloe, who was one of the finest storytellers I’d ever heard (and I’d heard plenty, over time). Fiona went home that summer to finish her nursing school, but she came back for a visit a time or two between semesters. When she moved to America two year ago, she settled first near Galax, Virginia, where her aunt lived. Even so, we managed to see a good bit of one another. Just about a year ago, she got herself a job at the hospital in Newland and a garage apartment nearby behind an old lady’s house. We’d been seeing each other regular-like ever since. And playing in a bluegrass band. I think me and Bessie (my bass fiddle) were invited to join the band because of Fiona. Man, she played the best fiddle this side of Ireland and told stories almost as good as her aunt. And sang!
“I thought you had to work tonight,” I said when we came up for air.
“I caught a break—Sharyn wanted to swap shifts with me. So I was hoping we could go to dinner ...” She kinda flinched and the color started rising up her neck. She’d noticed Shiloh. “Hello, Shiloh. I didn’t see you,” she said, straightening her uniform, as though it had been messed with. (We hadn’t had time for that.)
“Apparently not,” he said unhelpfully, that smirk of his cutting across his face. “Say, while I’ve got a medical professional here, I wonder if you could answer a question for me.” Fiona looked cautious but nodded for him to go ahead. “What is the difference between an oral thermometer and a rectal thermometer?”
Fiona seemed to know he weren’t serious and played along. “I don’t know, Shiloh, what is the difference?”
“The taste.”
She threw her head back and gave a big belly laugh. I didn’t find his joke all that funny, but I’d always found laughter contagious, so I joined in. I wasn’t much good at telling jokes myself, but I thought it was a skill to keep after. I’d’ve loved to make Fiona laugh like that. I hoped maybe if I paid close attention, found some kinda rhythm, I could come up with witty, funny things to say to make her happy.
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