by J. J. Murray
Nonno pats my hand. “You continue to lie.” He wipes his lips with his sleeve, which is also perfectly acceptable. “One day your prince will come.”
When?
“So Owen wants to start up the mill to make a product that is not as good for you as regular flour.”
“I thought stone-ground flour was good for you.”
“A millstone gets hot, sometimes as high as two hundred degrees, and nutrients cook off in the process. It is hard to keep a millstone cool. The mill is in a naturally cool place with large trees shading it, but it would still get quite warm inside. No. It is another foolish idea by the most foolish man in the county.” He dips all three meats into the giardiniera and slurps them down.
“Owen’s not that foolish.”
“He did not marry you. Therefore, he is a fool.”
“Thank you, Nonno.” I reach for the last slice of salami, but he beats me to it. You have to be quick to eat true muffuletta style.
“But his idea of this mill is not as foolish as damming creeks to make a lake,” he says. “It would have taken many years to fill up that lake, and without a constant flow in and out, that lake would become still as a moss-covered pond. You would be able to smell that lake for many miles in all directions.”
Yuck! “You never liked the idea.”
“Like, not like, it would not change our business.” He offers me the last slice of salami.
I take it. One does not refuse a gift during lunch.
“Anything built falls apart,” he says. “We would have to learn how to fix boat motors. They are high-strung lawnmower engines with more parts.” He removes a printout from his shirt pocket. “I have ordered high-strength brake lining and rivets from McMaster for the Farmall. They will be here in about a week.”
“I didn’t tell you it needed brakes.”
“You did not have to.”
After lunch, I wash up and go into the garage to collect what I’ll need at Mr. Simmons’ barn. Since there’s no electricity up there, I plug four portable DeWalt work lights with lithium-ion batteries into their chargers. I polish a pair of Guard-Dogs Bones safety glasses and put them into my shirt pocket. They’re lightweight, anti-fog, and have a wraparound foam band for comfort and sweat collection. They also make me look tres chic. I add 60-, 120-, and 240-grit sanding bands to my Dremel rotary toolkit and put the Dremel in a charger.
I may be here a while waiting for them all to charge.
Naptime.
I turn on a vintage Dominion box fan and two 1950s Coronado oscillating fans, pull a solid wood rolling banker’s chair closer to a workbench, prop up my feet, and take a snooze.
When I wake, I stretch out my back, put the DeWalt lights into a backpack, and put it and the Dremel toolkit in the Jeep. As the sun descends over Motts Mountain, I drive through Gray Creek, part a few cows, dodge a donkey, and park where I had worked on the tractor. I see lights shining through the front windows of the homestead, and Jack joins me on the long walk up the hill with my backpack and toolkit.
After hanging the lights from ancient nails, I get to work. While moths flutter and Jack makes frequent appearances at the barn door, I use the Dremel to remove rust and the remaining paint from every part of the tractor. I start with a coarse 60-grit sanding band and end with a 240-grit sanding band that leaves surfaces smooth. After two hours of bending, reaching, and squatting, I have a “clean” tractor and an inch of orange-red rust dust mixing with dirt and hay on the barn floor.
The tractor doesn’t look brand new, but it no longer looks like the rusty piece of metal that hid in the field yesterday. Since there’s no rain in the forecast again, I push the tractor out of the barn so night breezes will blow away any remaining rust dust. After placing pieces of wood in front and behind each shredded tire, I walk down the hill, looking back once to see the silhouette of the tractor and the barn against a starry night sky.
Though it’s past ten, Mr. Simmons’ lights are still on. Maybe he stays up late on Tuesdays. I wave at Jack, who snoozes on the porch, and hear crickets providing strings to the bass of a bullfrog groaning at the creek. With all of this peace, quiet, and a natural symphony every night, I can feel why Mr. Simmons wouldn’t sell his land. Fresh air, starry nights, firefly light shows, a trickling creek, lightning—
Yes!
Oh. It’s only heat lightning.
I hate heat lightning. Yes, it’s pretty and provides some exquisite sky art, but seeing heat lightning means that a real thunderstorm is raging somewhere else. A thunderhead looms over Motts Mountain and blots out the stars in the west, and another floats out over Coldwell Mountain to the east. They’ll probably circle us like moths for a few hours before running and colliding like mischievous children on their way to play in Calhoun.
I hope Lovie doesn’t want to play when I get home.
Wednesday, June 7
Chapter 8
I wake up sweaty, the box fan rattling like an old Honda Civic. After releasing Lovie, I throw on a robe and feel tightness in my shoulders from all that sanding.
This would be a good day to sleep in.
But then I hear Lovie barking.
Lovie rarely barks.
She might be hungry.
I fill her bowl and see her barking at ranch hands gathering up the herd.
They’re taking her friends away.
I take my cell phone out to the fence to check my messages and calm my baby down. “It’s okay, Lovie. Big John will be here soon. He’s bigger than all those buffalo combined. You’ll like him.”
I listen to my only message: “If you’re not too busy today, Giovanna, come take a tour of the mill.”
Oh yes, hanging out in a musty, dusty, broken-down mill on a hot, humid day with my first love who married a Japanese woman who may never age and who hates me because I was his first love whether he admits it or not sounds like a smoking good time.
Not today.
Today I need to sleep.
When I wake nine hours later, I take a long bath, dress, make a pot of linguini, and mix in some of my own giardiniera. I eat dinner while Lovie howls at anything that moves.
As the sun begins to set, I go to the garage and search for gray engine enamel to prime the tractor. I find one full and one half-full spray can. I take two full black enamel cans for the tractor’s seat and gearshift, but I don’t have any fire engine red. I throw the cans and two rolls of automotive masking tape into a backpack, kiss Nonno goodbye, get in the Jeep, and go to Deed’s General Store.
I park in front and look through the front windows, which display the trophies Mr. Deed and his sons have won in demolition derbies. He and his sons are notoriously victorious. Other than the old lunch counter, Deed’s has skinny aisles and a little bit of everything on earth.
It’s Amazon.com in a country store.
Mr. Deed greets me at the door in his signature tan coveralls. “What can I help you find?” He is maybe sixty-five with bushy gray eyebrows and big hands.
“I need five cans of fire engine red automotive spray paint and two cans of gray engine enamel.”
“I keep them in the back to deter graffiti artists.”
He leaves the front while I salivate over the candy in front of the counter. I have been satisfying my sweet tooth here since I was young. Mr. Deed stocks horehound, sour apple, rum and butter, root beer, cotton candy, clove, cinnamon, butterscotch, blackberry, blueberry, and banana stick candy. Pecan logs, Virginia peanuts, and butter mints mix it up with Bob’s Pure Sugar Twists, salt-water taffy, and Necco Wafers. I have an urge to eat Bonomo Turkish Banana Taffy, rock candy, some licorice laces, and a Jawlipop Jawbreaker. I will not eat the Squirrel Nut Zippers, though I’m sure they’re good. Who decided on that name?
Mr. Deed returns with the cans of spray paint and two long cardboard boxes. “Anything else?”
“While I’m here, I’ll need to order a—”
“Muffler for a 1950 Farmall Cub,” he interrupts. “I have two that will fit Tiny�
��s tractor.”
This town is so small. When Delmer Farley won $999 in the Virginia Lottery a few years ago, Trula Reed—our only United Way volunteer—solicited a donation from him before he finished scratching off the card.
“You want the loud one or the quiet one?” Mr. Deed asks.
“The loud one.”
“You’ll want the Tisco then,” he says, laying one of the boxes on the counter. “Need any tires?”
“You already ordered them.”
“Firestone Field and Road, two twenty-fours, two twelves,” he says. “They’ll be here soon.”
“Did my grandfather call you?” I ask.
“Yep.” He smiles. “‘If you see Tiny …” He checks his watch. “Nah, you won’t see him. It’s getting dark.”
“If I see him, I’ll give him your regards.”
“I’ll let you know when those tires arrive. Sure am looking forward to seeing that tractor rolling again.”
Once I pay, Mr. Deed follows me to the door, flips the sign to “closed,” and locks the door behind me.
Yep. When the sun starts to go down, Kingstown shuts down.
Chapter 9
I pass Mr. Simmons’ homestead and see lights on in the front rooms again. Cows mill about me as I get out with my backpack, and the heifer moos and crowds me. Both donkeys bray at me in stereo. Do I look like a wolf? At least Jack isn’t harassing me.
I roll the tractor back into the barn where it has to be ninety degrees, too hot to spray paint anything without it bubbling. I roll the tractor back outside where it’s a bearable eighty-five degrees and set up my lights.
After taping around the International Harvester symbol, the steering wheel, gearshift knob, and rims, I paint the hubs and the rest of the tractor with the gray engine enamel. By the time I’m finished with one side, the other side is dry. I put on the first coat of fire engine red, remove some of the tape, and spray the steering wheel and gearshift knobs black. Once I add the new muffler, the tractor looks sharp.
I collect the cans, see gray, red, and black paint on my hands, and zip up my backpack. As I walk down the hill, I hear the donkeys braying loudly, only this time both are rising up and stomping their hooves fifty yard from my Jeep.
Wolves?
Where’s Jack?
As I near the Jeep, I see three wolves circling something near the daisies in the glow thrown from the front window. I open the lift gate as quietly as I can, load the Marlin, and fire once into the air.
The wolves scatter, loping off up the hill.
Did they get a cow? Oh, I hope not.
I pat the donkeys as I pass them and see white fluffy fur.
Oh, no! Jack!
I scramble over to Jack, and as I pet him, he whimpers. I don’t see any blood or torn skin, and he seems to be breathing fine. I put down the rifle and help him stand.
Jack retches several times before vomiting.
I rub his back. “What did you eat, boy?” I hope I didn’t leave a tool behind. “Go eat some grass, buddy.”
Jack weakens and lies on his side.
I look up and expect Mr. Simmons to be standing on the porch with a shotgun, but the porch is empty. He must be a sound sleeper because the donkeys should have awakened him. Since Mr. Simmons might be getting a weapon ready, I put my rifle in the Jeep and approach the front door, knocking loudly.
No answer.
I try the knob and find it locked. Who locks their doors in Gray County? I look through a window to the right of the door and see a black shoe sticking out from an easy chair. Mr. Simmons slept through all that commotion. I return to the front door and knock again.
No response.
“Mr. Simmons!” I yell. “It’s me, Gio Ferrari!” Please don’t wake up and shoot me. I walk around back to try the kitchen door, and it’s locked, too. “Mr. Simmons, are you all right?”
No movement, and other than my heart beating through my chest, no sound.
“Mr. Simmons, I’m coming in!” I use my elbow to break the pane nearest to the doorknob, reach in, and unlock the door. “Mr. Simmons?” I open the door. “It’s me, Gio Ferrari.” I smell fried chicken and Dial soap. “Mr. Simmons?” The floorboards creak as I move through the kitchen into the front room where Mr. Simmons sits sprawled out in an easy chair wearing jeans and a long-sleeved white shirt, his eyes wide open. I touch his arm. “Mr. Simmons?”
He doesn’t move.
Oh, Lord …
I kneel next to him, touch his wrist, and check his pulse.
No pulse and cold skin.
I reach up to check the pulse in his neck.
Nothing.
I almost don’t recognize him. Though he missed a button and the shirt skews upward, he looks ready for church in black socks and black church shoes. It even looks as if he trimmed his beard. Peaceful. Mr. Simmons looks peaceful.
I found my mama this way. She had been lying on her side so she could see Papa’s picture on her nightstand.
What did Mr. Simmons see when he died?
I follow his eyes to the mantel where a series of family pictures rest, none of them dusty. A picture of his son in his Army blue uniform. Fred Junior was a handsome young man. A picture of his daughters on a tire swing when they were little, their faces shining. A panoramic portrait taken at Preston’s Chapel with long rows of people on either side of the bride and groom, a mass of children posing in front of them. Mr. Simmons was certainly thinner then, and folks in Gray County still kind of dress the same way today. I move behind Mr. Simmons to see which picture he might have seen last. He saw the daisy planter, and she’s smiling. Blanche wasn’t fat at all. Such beauty. I hope Mr. Simmons saw her, and I hope he’s seeing her in heaven.
Riposare in pace, Mr. Simmons. Rest in peace. You’ve earned your rest.
I see a wide white band on his deeply tanned left ring finger. He took off his ring. I wonder why. I hope what I said didn’t make him take it off.
I return to the kitchen to call 9-1-1. I find a phone jack on the wall of a faded yellow kitchen but no phone. A rectangular space of wallpaper near the door above the phone jack is a more vibrant yellow. Maybe he disconnected it because he wanted his solitude. I don’t blame him a bit.
I pull out my cell phone and sigh. No service. Kingstown is only ten minutes away. I’ll call on my way to the police station. I’m sure someone is on duty, most likely even Thomas Bradley, my senior prom date.
After finding a whiskbroom and a small dustpan under the kitchen sink, I clean up as much of the window glass as I can see and empty the dustpan into a tall kitchen trashcan. I hear a yip and look out the kitchen window. Jack moves slowly toward the porch, but he’s moving. I open the back door. “Go eat some more grass, Jack.”
Jack doesn’t move.
“Go on.”
Jack drops and lies on his side.
What am I going to do with Jack? I can’t leave Jack here as sick as he is because the wolves might be back. The donkeys will keep the cows safe. I hope. I’ll leave the lights on for the police.
I take one last look at Mr. Simmons. He’s all dressed up and ready to go home. Even his nails are clean.
Mr. Simmons died where he was born. I wonder how often that happens these days.
I walk out, close the kitchen door behind me, and approach Jack. “Come on, Jack. Let’s go for a ride.” He groans, rises, and follows me to the Jeep, and I open the passenger door. “And please don’t puke on my seat.”
Jack crawls in and rests his front paws on the dashboard above the glove box.
I get in and roll down his window, and Jack rests his nose on the windowsill. “I’ll take good care you, Jack.”
The heifer comes up to my window mooing like a foghorn.
I roll down my window. “I’ll bring him back. I promise.”
We drive through the creek, and on the other side, I get one bar on my phone. I dial the police non-emergency number, and no one answers. Really? It figures. When something finally happens around here,
the police aren’t available. They’re probably out getting hunters who are spotlighting deer or catching “city folk” in speed traps on 113. I would dial 9-1-1, but it’s not really an emergency.
I might as well go straight to the station.
To announce something that might change this town and this county forever.
Chapter 10
The police station sits on Front Street across from Trula’s Crafts, which still has Trula’s blaze orange “Grand Opening” sign up even though the store has been open for thirty years. Trula shares space with the Antique Boutique, which seems to sell junk collected from yard sales and the landfill. Across Berry Street is the Kingstown Library run by Mrs. Wilcox, my senior English teacher, who still corrects folks’ bad grammar. She used to measure our skirts with a ruler, and I know her ruler only had eleven inches. Library hours are when Mrs. Wilcox gets there and when she leaves. There’s no set time. I’m certain our library has the largest collection of Zane Grey and Louis L’Amour novels in North America. The Bank of Calloway across the street is Kingstown’s only bank, and it doesn’t have an ATM. We have to go to Pop’s Gas where the machine charges $1.50 per transaction. Most folks cash their checks at IGA when IGA has enough cash.
And why am I thinking about these ordinary things? To keep me from thinking about finding Mr. Simmons’ dead body.
I see Deputy Thomas Bradley smoking outside the main entrance to the police station. Married and divorced twice, Thomas has four kids, all of whom live in Calhoun. He looks thinner than ever. He never could grow a moustache. He still has the same fuzzy wooly worm under his nose and a single curly hair on his chin. I pull up to the curb in front of him and shut off the engine.
“You’re on the wrong side of the street, Gio,” Thomas says. “I’m gonna have to cite you.”
“Right,” I say.
Thomas stubs out his cigarette on the side of the building and approaches my window. “You’re out late.” He rests a skinny hand on my roof. “And that’s not your dog. You find a stray?”
“This is Jack, Mr. Simmons’ dog.”