by J. J. Murray
“The La Pavoni is broken,” he says.
“Well, fix it.”
“I am waiting on a new safety valve fitting and O-ring.” He looks into my eyes. “Are you all right today?”
“I’m fine.”
“Gio.”
“I’m fine, but thanks for asking.”
“If you wish to talk …”
“I’m fine. Really.”
Louise returns with a watery, ice-filled glass of beige water, a fat hunk of lemon on the lip, two half seeds floating on the bottom. “Here you go, Franco.”
“Thank you, Louise,” Nonno says. He takes a sip. “Just right.”
And I’ll bet there isn’t the slightest taste of tea in that tea.
“It’s such a shame about Mr. Simmons,” Louise says. “Such a shame.”
I nod. I don’t want to talk about any of it, but Louise obviously does. I wish there was some way to stop her. Italians tend to talk a lot.
Louise tends to talk nonstop.
“Franco told me you were fixing up one of Tiny’s rust bucket tractors,” Louise says. “I’m simply amazed Tiny didn’t shoot you for being on his land. He was such an old curmudgeon. And such a giant. When I was young, we used to say he ate his twin. That was when he was only three hundred pounds and he used to attend church. Of course, he didn’t have the most luck in the world. Tiny lost his two older brothers in the war. Right on D-Day on Omaha Beach. They stepped off the boat, and wham-o, Tiny became an only child. They have a plaque with their names on it at the D-Day Memorial in Bedford. Good thing Tiny was still here working that farm.”
I do not wish to talk to this woman, but I can’t help myself. “That sounds lucky to me, Louise. Staying on the farm saved his life.”
“Oh, Tiny wanted to enlist and go avenge his brothers, but his pappy took sick, his mama died, and he had to stay,” Louise says. “And his marriage was no picnic either. He and Blanche had three children, a son and two daughters. His only son Fred died in Vietnam, and his daughters Billie and Bobbie—both are spelled with an I-E—they blamed Tiny for their brother’s death.”
“When did his son die?” I ask.
“Oh, that crazy summer with us going to the moon, those terrible Manson murders, that Woodstock concert with all those hippies, and Hurricane Camille. We could use another hurricane, couldn’t we, Franco?”
“We could indeed, Louise,” Nonno says.
Mr. Simmons’ son died in 1969, the year he said the tractor died. The Farmall Cub might have been his son’s favorite tractor. I might have removed a monument to his son from that spot, or maybe I removed a reminder of his son’s death. Maybe Mr. Simmons was touched that day. I hope he was.
“Tiny didn’t want Fred Junior to go,” Louise says. “He wanted Fred to stay and work the farm, but the government said otherwise. Fred was drafted right out of high school.”
“Why didn’t his daughters work the farm?” I ask.
“Both of them were older, unmarried, and useless around the farm,” Louise says. “Blanche had such a time with them. Both of them ran off to California after Fred Junior died. Probably joined some commune and did drugs. Good riddance, if you asked me.”
No one’s asking you, Louise.
“And don’t you know, Billie and Bobbie showed up in the mid-eighties when the lake idea was floating around.” Louise cackles. “I said floating.”
Nonno laughs. “That was a good one, Louise.”
No it wasn’t!
“Those two prodigal daughters moved into town with their kids by who knows who and tried to get Tiny to sell all of his land for the lake,” Louise says. “They pestered him for two solid years before they moved away. I swear, the strain of all that led to Blanche’s death. It broke her heart to see her daughters fussing so much with their pa. And then in ninety-four when Tiny was seventy-five, those two girls came back to town from somewhere, New Jersey, I think, and they tried to get Tiny declared mentally incompetent so they could become his legal guardians to take the land, sell it, and get rich.”
“Sono lieto che non sono un figliol prodigo figlia,” Nonno says.
I grasp his wrist. “Grazie, Nonno.” I am not nor will I ever be the prodigal daughter.
Louise blinks behind those hideous pointy glasses. “Something wrong?”
“No, Louise,” Nonno says. “Please. Continue your story.”
“That was in probate court,” Louise says. “That’s where they do those kinds of hearings. While Billie and Bobbie had some high-powered lawyer, Tiny represented himself in his overalls. He even wore a big old straw hat. I was a stenographer then.”
“Fastest fingers in the county,” Nonno says.
“Why thank you, Franco,” Louise says.
My goodness! My grandfather is blushing!
“Tiny was magnificent in court,” Louise says. “That man was as clearheaded as a twenty-year-old. And after it was all over, I heard a few of his grandkids badmouthing him, telling him he’d be sorry, he’s a fool, don’t you care about us—that sort of shameful thing. Billie and Bobbie didn’t say a word, didn’t even try to hush them. Those grandkids. Wow. What spoiled rotten brats they were. I hope all children from New Jersey aren’t like them.” Louise shakes her head. “I had hoped Tiny would have lived to be a hundred and fifty.”
“He was almost one hundred years old, Louise,” Nonno says. “It was his time to go.”
“Oh, you know what I mean,” Louise says. “I just know Gray County is going to change because he’s dead. Kingstown is going to change. I like things the way they are. Quiet. Peaceful.” She flutters her eyes at Nonno. “Intimate.”
He’s blushing again! I need to get Nonno’s eyes and his hearing checked.
“I’ve been down to Pine Lake, and it is absolute bedlam, especially on weekends,” Louise says. “Fishermen in those big fancy speedboats, skiers behind even bigger boats, swimmers, party boats, drunks on inner tubes with coolers full of beer between them, girls almost wearing bathing suits—shameful. That kind of noise would echo in these mountains long into the night. Now that Tiny’s dead, Billie and Bobbie will inherit the property and make that lake and all that noise happen.”
“If they are still alive,” Nonno says.
“Oh, they are,” Louise says. “I haven’t heard otherwise.”
Oh, then it must be true.
“Though his oldest grandson, Melville, might be in charge of everything now,” Louise says.
Melville? Who names their child after the author of Moby-Dick?
Louise squints. “Melville … Taylor is his name. No, Tiny wouldn’t leave a thing to Melville Taylor. He was cursing Tiny the loudest at the courthouse that day twenty years ago.”
“Da chi mi fido, mi guardi dio, da chi non mi fido guarderò io,” Nonno says. “A man’s worst enemies are often those of his own house.”
“That is so true, Franco,” Louise says, patting the back of his hand.
Get your wrinkly mitts off my grandfather, Louise.
“I heard Melville sells boats somewhere in New Jersey, you know, the big kinds that go on the ocean,” Louise says. “Oh, let me get you some more iced tea, Franco. I’ll have to make a fresh batch first. Be back in a jiffy.”
“Thank you, Louise.”
I watch Nonno watching Louise go. I have seen enough of these flirtations. “Thank you for lunch.” I stand and kiss him on the forehead. “Lei parla troppo.” She talks too much.
“Proprio come la vostra nonna,” Nonno says.
Just like my grandmother? “Non c’è nessuna come mia nonna!” There is no one like my grandmother!
“Lei ha ragione. Lei non può essere sostituito.”
“I know she can’t be replaced,” I say.
“Io sono sola,” Nonno says softly. “Hai capito la solitudine, non è vero?”
He wants to know if I understand loneliness. “You know I understand loneliness, Nonno. But I still don’t like her.”
“That is fair.” He hands me a folded
up Current. “It is a special edition. Mr. Hanson had to be up all night putting this together.”
The headline—“Tiny Simmons Dies”—overshadows a two-paragraph story with the basics:
Frederick “Tiny” Simmons, the oldest man in Gray County, died at home last night. He was 98.
According to Deputy Sheriff Thomas Bradley, Giovanna Ferrari, who had been repairing one of Mr. Simmons’ tractors at the farm, discovered Mr. Simmons’ body early Wednesday morning. Bradley says Mr. Simmons died sometime during the last two brutally hot days in the old homestead on The Simmons Farm. Dr. Neil Henritze, coroner of the Calhoun District, will do an autopsy later today.
And that’s it. I’m surprised Hanley spelled my name correctly.
“It is foolishness,” Nonno says. “A man dies. It is a story, but it is not this big of a story. The government building a Civilian Conservation Corps camp outside Kingstown during the Depression is a story.”
“Or the Poland China pig that weighed fifteen hundred pounds at Murphy’s Bottoms Farms,” I say.
“That is not a story, Giovanna.”
It’s a big story here. I saw the pig. It was so huge it couldn’t move. They had to use a front-end loader to roll the pig in the mud, and the pig seemed to like it.
“Or the crash of Audie Murphy’s plane on Brushy Mountain in 1971, or the drought of 2011—those are stories. This is not news.”
Mr. Simmons’ life barely created a ripple, but now his death might create ripples on a lake and a big old pile of money for many people. “I wonder if Bobbie and Billie will show up for their father’s funeral.”
“They have not stepped foot in Gray County in over twenty years,” Nonno says, “but I suspect they will be here because they smell money.”
I skip to page two where Hanley Hanson sometimes waxes poetic, as if he is some kind of country poet. “Hanley’s editorial is a hoot. Listen to this: ‘Who will inherit? Will they sell? Who will buy the land? Developers? The state? Will the Commonwealth of Virginia give Mr. Simmons’ heirs a fair price? Or will this be a private lake? This is a boon for jobs and a needed boost to our economy. Happy days are here again.’ A man dies, and it’s cause for celebration. Hanley Hanson is heartless and cold.”
“It is his job,” Nonno says. “He is a journalist.”
Hardly. “This will also be good for Mayor Parsons’ reelection in the fall.”
Nonno shakes his head. “Who would run against him anyway?”
No one. Billy Parsons has been our mayor for the last sixteen years. No one else really wants the job, mainly because it doesn’t pay much. The county commissioners run the county anyway. Billy presides over a Kingstown city council meeting once a month where they eat cake and pie and talk about the weather. It’s open to the public, and Delmer Farley attends regularly and talks about UFOs. The Current dutifully posts the meetings’ actual minutes for all to read. A section of last month’s minutes was a hoot:
Delmer Farley: I seen me a couple UFO’s last night. They was blowing the trees around.
Mayor Parsons: It was windy last night, Delmer.
Delmer Farley: But I saw some lights, too.
Mayor Parsons: Those were probably fireflies, Delmer.
Delmer Farley: Oh. But why do they have to be so dang loud?
I see a number in Hanley’s editorial. “This number can’t be right.”
“The value of the land,” Nonno says. “I thought it was too high, too. No one would pay that much.”
“Five million dollars. In this drought? Though Mr. Simmons let the place grow wild, it’s still going yellow. They’d be lucky to sell it for half a million.” Which is still a lot of money for Mr. Simmons’ heirs.
My phone buzzes. “Hello, Ferrari Repair. This is Gio. How may I help you?”
“Gio, Tina Morse.”
Tina Morse is Janis Joplin plus a hundred pounds and has gray dreadlocks to her waist. Tina is the hippie owner of Peace Goods and one of several dozen Morses in Gray County. Tina isn’t the wildest Morse. Those Morses are incarcerated somewhere. I think they keep them separated from each other in prisons around the state. Tina is more like her brother, Hank.
“AC unit again?” I ask. Which is somewhat ironic since Tina and her workers from Solitude, most likely one of the last communes in Virginia, are generally sweaty people who don’t bathe, shave, or use deodorant.
“Afraid so,” Tina says. “You got a minute to fix it today? We’re burning up.”
It won’t take a minute. “On my way.”
On my walk down Front Street carrying my smallest toolbox, I smell metal in the air. It’s most likely the sizzle of everything metal in this town. It has to be pushing ninety-five, and it’s not even one o’clock. It might hit one hundred degrees by four, the hottest part of the day here.
Peace Goods sells everything the average New Age, Prius-driving, eco-friendly consumer could ever want.
And a lot of stuff no one would ever want.
Interspersed among nature photographs, psychedelic paintings, and crafts and jewelry made from recycled materials, are everything a good country counter-revolutionary needs. One hundred percent beeswax candles. Soy candles you can eat. Incense. Vegan dog bones. Organic catnip. Fruit and vegetables from small local growers. Flax and fish oil. Every legal herb under the sun. Gluten-free potato chips. Organic, flushable, chlorine-free diapers at ten times the price of Pampers. “One hundred percent vegetarian” Vitamins A-Z. Ostrich eggs. Egg-free, gluten-free, peanut-free, dairy-free you-name-it—and definitely not free. The “less is more expensive” argument is alive and well at Peace Goods. They have “fair trade, shade grown” coffee and tea. I have no idea if that makes them tastier. They sell soymilk, dolphin-safe tuna, and free-range chicken breasts. Their refrigerators feature “reverse osmosis filtered water” and “organic water.”
Organic water is such a scam. Water has no carbon in it. It’s H-two-Oh. I don’t see a C in that formula, and yet Peace Goods sells cases of this stuff to city folks at $100 a case.
And out of all these potential aromas and scents, I smell hemp the most.
I go directly to the main wall where a 25,000 BTU Sears Kenmore air-conditioner is supposed to cool over sixteen hundred square feet. It’s barely cooling sixteen square feet today. It chugs and puffs, its filter check reminder light flashing. I turn it off, tilt out the access panel, and see a polypropylene mesh filter clotted with dust, hair, ladybugs, flies, and several wasps. Even bugs are flying to their deaths to get cool.
“How long will it take you?” Tina asks.
“It won’t take long,” I say. Of course, if you had taken a second to see this flashing filter warning light, I wouldn’t be here. “Maybe half an hour.”
“Please hurry,” Tina says.
“I will.”
I remove the filter, take it out back, shake it, pick out the bigger clots and extricate the fresher bugs, wash it, and let it dry in the sun. It shouldn’t take long to dry.
“We can’t let them dam up Gray Creek and Motts Creek, Hen.”
Did Tina just call someone “Hen”?
“It might be a good thing, Tina,” Hen says.
Hen sounds Northeastern. I peek inside and see Hen eating an apple near the cash register. I haven’t seen him around before, and he looks normal for a hippie. Though he wears a fringed leather vest over a green and yellow tie-dyed shirt, Hen is shorthaired and wears Timberland boots from this century.
“Think of the ecosystems that lake will destroy, Hen,” Tina says.
“But Solitude will have lakefront property,” Hen says. “That’s kind of cool, isn’t it?”
“We have to fight it, Hen,” Tina says. “We’d have noise pollution and ruined trout habitats.”
“What do trout have to do with it?” Hen asks.
Duh. You’re damming up two trout streams, Hen. Is Hen short for Henry?
“The trout will swim into the lake instead of into creeks where they belong,” Tina says.
�
��Trout live in lakes, too,” Hen says. “They’re called lake trout.”
“Rainbow and brown trout should live in streams, not lakes,” Tina says.
“As long as they live in water, what’s the difference?” Hen asks.
“They’d be sitting ducks in a lake,” Tina says. “They’d be completely defenseless.”
“And a creek gives them more safety?” Hen asks.
“They’ve already clear-cut most of Gray County,” Tina says. “They’ll strip that beautiful land of every tree and sink it.”
“But it will be good for the local economy and this store, Tina,” Hen says.
“You didn’t grow up here,” Tina says. “I did. No matter how good the economy is in Kingstown, they’ll still be fascists and stay away from this store.”
“You could lower the prices on a few things,” Hen says.
The organic water is a great place to start. Four bucks a liter!
“That’s not the point, Hen,” Tina says. “If they make that lake, what will happen to property values?”
“They’ll go up.”
“And so will the taxes those fascists will make us pay,” Tina says. “They’ll tax us out of existence.”
“So you sell Solitude at a hundred grand an acre and start over somewhere else,” Hen says.
“How can you even suggest such a thing?” Tina yells. “Solitude is my life!”
The Morses yell a lot.
“Solitude would be dead center in that lake, Tina,” Hen says. “It would be the best place for a marina, and we could run it.”
“You want to pump gasoline at the waterline?” Tina howls. “Why don’t you just slaughter some polar bears and baby seals while you’re at it?” Tina storms outside to scream in the general direction of Motts Creek.
Hen follows her. “There are no polar bears or baby seals around here. Tina, be reasonable, baby.”
Baby? Ew. Hen has to be mid-twenties, and Tina is late-fifties.
Though Hen is wrong about Tina being a “baby,” he’s right about the lake. Solitude would be in a central location on that lake, and a lake that size –eventually—would need a marina.