by Robert Inman
Down the street, the truck wheezed to a stop with a hissing of its air brakes. Trout looked up at Joe Pike. “Cicero’s Do-It-All,” he said.
“What?”
“You know about it?”
“No.”
“Uncle Cicero’s clearing the vacant lot where the furniture store used to be. He’s gonna put up an auto parts store.”
“Really?”
“And he’s bought out Ezell. He’s going to knock holes in the walls and tie the whole thing together and call it Cicero’s Do-It-All.”
“Alma didn’t mention it.”
“She doesn’t know, unless he told her last night.”
Joe Pike pursed his lips in a silent whistle. “How ‘bout that old Cicero.”
Trout gave Joe Pike a look-over. “That tie doesn’t match.” Joe Pike’s belly cascaded over a pair of dark blue pants. The tie he was wearing with his freshly-starched white shirt was decorated with green and yellow amoebas on an orange background. “Where did you get that thing?”
“Texas,” Joe Pike said, fingering the tie.
Joe Pike had never had the foggiest notion of fashion. Once upon a time, Irene had checked him before he left the house every day to make sure he didn’t have on one brown sock and one black one. Often, he did. Lately, cowboy boots and black robe had covered a multitude of Sunday sins. But this was Thursday.
Joe Pike wiggled the tie and fluttered his eyebrows. “Does it not work for you, sweetie?”
“It depends on what you’re doing today.”
“Visiting the sick and shut-in.”
Trout grabbed his throat, stuck his tongue out. “Gaaaahhhh.”
Joe Pike pretended to be wounded. He let the tie flop against his belly. “Well, if you don’t like the tie, just say so.”
“Maybe the dark blue with the red diamonds.”
Joe Pike checked his watch. “Are you going to see Cicero?”
“I guess so.”
“I’ll drop you off. I want to get a good look at Cicero before Alma beats him up.”
When Trout and Joe Pike got there, the flatbed trailer was pulled up next to the curb by the empty lot and the bulldozer, a hulking orange Allis-Chalmers, was backing down the ramp. Uncle Cicero, in uniform, was standing out in the street, directing traffic around the flatbed, waving his arms and giving directions to the bulldozer operator, who wasn’t paying any attention to him. The operator played the big clanking machine like a church organist, hands and feet moving deftly over levers and pedals. Another man stood by the truck cab watching.
Joe Pike parked his car at the curb and he and Trout walked over to Cicero. A Pepsi-Cola truck approached and slowed. The driver peered out the window at the bulldozer.
“Keep ’er movin’,” Cicero called out.
“What’s going on?” the truck driver asked.
“Progress! New business coming to town.”
“Here?” The bread truck driver gave a snort, moved on down the street and pulled up in front of the Koffee Kup Kafe.
“Morning, Cicero,” Joe Pike said.
“Joe Pike. How y’all?”
“Trout told me about your project.”
Cicero’s eyes danced with excitement. He looked as if he might break into a jig at any moment. “Yessirreebobtail. Profit and progress. Me and Trout are gonna have a busy summer.”
Joe Pike looked at Trout. Trout looked at Joe Pike. Joe Pike shook his head. Tote your own load, Bubba.
The bulldozer cleared the trailer ramp, then did a neat ninety-degree pirouette and clanked up over the curb and onto the sidewalk. The concrete groaned and cracked under its weight. The operator cut the engine back to a deep-throated idle.
“Is that Grady Fulton?” Joe Pike asked Cicero.
“Yep.”
“Hey, Grady!” Joe Pike yelled out.
Grady peered over at Joe Pike, grinned and waved. Then he climbed down from the seat and he and the other man slid the metal ramps onto the back of the flatbed. The other man climbed in the cab of the truck and pulled away, towing the empty flatbed. Cicero, Trout and Joe Pike joined Grady on the sidewalk. Grady stuck out his hand and Joe Pike took it. “Heard you was back,” Grady said, looking Joe Pike up and down. “I believe you’ve growed some.”
“Lord, Grady. It’s been a long time,” Joe Pike said. “This is my son Trout.”
Grady Fulton’s hand was all callous and muscle. He was a little runt of a man, not much bigger than Uncle Phinizy, about sixty years old, with narrow eyes that squinted out from under the bill of an ancient, soiled Atlanta Braves cap with Chief Nok-a-homa on the front. He looked Trout over, then Joe Pike, back to Trout. “You sure y’all kin?”
“I take after my mama,” Trout said.
“Uh-huh.” He gave a backhand to Joe Pike’s belly. “I used to pick your daddy up for work every morning, and it’d take most of the bed of my pickup to carry his lunch.”
“Grady and I worked construction during the summers when I was home from college,” Joe Pike said to Trout.
Grady nodded. “Spent two of them summers four-laning 278 out of Augusta. That was about the time you was courting Alma, wasn’t it Cicero?”
“Yep,” Cicero said, giving a tug on his gun belt. “I remember how Mister Leland used to raise cain every time he’d see that old truck of yours parked out in front of the house waiting for Joe Pike.”
Grady Fulton lifted his cap, ran his hand through gray wavy hair, put the cap back on. “Mister Leland had a burr up his ass about that truck. He sure did.” He clapped Joe Pike on the shoulder. “But then, Mister Leland always had a burr up his ass about something you was up to, didn’t he.”
“Yeah,” Joe Pike said. “I reckon he did.”
“Well,” Grady Fulton said, “I got to get to work here. Clock’s running, Cicero.”
“How long you figure it’ll take?” Cicero asked.
“Depends.” Grady Fulton’s gaze swept the vacant lot. It was waist-high in weeds, flourishing in the summer heat. As he studied it, he pulled a pouch of Red Man chewing tobacco out of a back pocket of his ancient jeans, bit off a plug, worked it expertly into the corner of his jaw and tucked the pouch away. “Ain’t no telling what’s in there. As I remember, they didn’t do no clearing to speak of when the furniture store burned.”
“No,” Cicero said, “we was all just glad it didn’t take the whole block. We just let it grow up and tried to forget about it.”
Grady Fulton gave a short, dry laugh. “You may be digging up some old haints here, Cicero.”
“Yeah, I may be.”
“Okay,” Grady said. “Let’s see what we got. I’ll scrape it all up, then I got a front end loader and a dump truck coming next week to haul it off.”
Cicero frowned. “Next week?”
“Or the week after.”
“I was hoping maybe you could get it all done today.”
“Today? Cicero, I got equipment tied up on two other jobs as it is.” He pointed down the street where the flatbed had gone. “Kyle’s headed over to Norwood now to pick up another dozer so we can do site preparation for a new Wal-Mart in Thomson.”
“I know you’re doing me a favor…”
“What you in such an all-fired hurry for, anyhow?” He waved at the vacant lot. “It’s been like this for ten years.”
Cicero shrugged. And Trout thought, Aunt Alma. He hasn’t told her yet.
Grady Fulton spat a well-aimed stream of Red Man juice into the weeds. He turned toward the rumbling bulldozer. And then Joe Pike spoke up. “Grady, you reckon I could…” he waved his arm toward the bulldozer.
Grady gave him a close look. “Been a long time, Joe Pike. You remember how? I can’t have nobody tearing up my equipment.”
Joe Pike grinned. “I was taught by the best dozer operator in the state of Georgia.”
“At least,” Grady said. “Well, come on.”
Trout looked up at Joe Pike. “What…”
But he was already in motion, grabbing a handh
old on the side of the bulldozer and pulling himself nimbly up onto the seat as Grady climbed up from the other side. Joe Pike settled himself in front of the controls, ran his hands over them, pointing to the black-knobbed levers and foot pedals, talking with Grady, who nodded and gestured. Trout couldn’t hear them over the rumble of the diesel engine. He turned to Cicero. “Is Daddy gonna drive that thing?”
“I ‘speck he is. Never saw him do it myself, but I hear he got pretty good at it when him and Grady was working together.”
The diesel roared, belching black smoke from the stack above the engine. And then Joe Pike hunkered over the controls and pushed a couple of levers and the bulldozer lurched onto the vacant lot, jostling Joe Pike and Grady, who threw up his arms in mock horror. Joe Pike threw his head back, laughing. He pushed another lever and lowered the blade and then the bulldozer eased forward again. Trout stood there transfixed, mouth open in astonishment, as the blade bit into the earth, curling the weeds and laying them aside like a threshing machine, uncovering what the weeds had concealed -- slabs of concrete, twisted lengths of rusty pipe, a fire-blackened water heater, a lot of unrecognizable rubble.
Trout pointed. Cicero smiled, winked. Well, I’ll be damned, Trout thought. Another piece of Joe Pike’s history, and this time something totally out of the blue. The Bear Bryant business -- well, he at least knew a little about that. When Joe Pike went tearing off on the motorcycle in search of a past he had left in the heat and dust of Texas, it was at least a piece of history that Trout had heard about, however obliquely. But this? He hadn’t the faintest idea what it was all about. And it wasn’t so much the thing, It was the surprise of the thing. It was like seeing a rank stranger sitting up there on the high seat of the bulldozer, disguised somehow in Joe Pike Moseley’s big body. Or maybe it was that little man tucked away inside the big one who was pushing and pulling those levers and stomping on the foot pedals as the bulldozer plowed through the weeds and debris toward the back of the lot.
Trout thought about Tilda Huffstutler, bursting out in tears at Wednesday Night Prayer Meeting. No wonder. Joe Pike Moseley kept opening his peddler’s pack and pulling out stuff nobody suspected was there. Everything except what Trout really needed to know.
Down at the back side of the lot, the bulldozer clanked to a halt, then with Joe Pike pushing and pulling on the levers, it made an ungainly turn, wheeling on one churning track and heading back toward the sidewalk, piling up debris and pushing it ahead of the blade. Joe Pike was all concentration. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead and the front of his white shirt was darkening. He had undone the top button of his shirt and slung his loosened tie back over his shoulder. So much for visiting the sick and shut-in.
“Is that Joe Pike yonder?” Trout heard at his back. He turned to see a crowd of gawkers gathering on the sidewalk behind them.
“It’s Joe Pike all right.”
“Good Lord.”
“Who’s that up there with him?”
“Maybe it’s the Bishop.” Laughter.
“Cicero, what’s going on?”
“Progress,” Cicero said forthrightly. “The rebirth of Moseley, Georgia.”
Beyond the crowd, Trout saw a gray Buick ease to a stop out on the street. The tinted passenger side window slid down. Aunt Alma. She stared for a long time, taking it all in. Trout looked over at Cicero. Did he see? Yes. Cicero gave Alma a little wave. She didn’t wave back. The window closed and the car moved on, heading toward the mill.
“Ahhhhh,” he heard Cicero sigh.
“Did you…?” Trout asked.
“Not exactly,” Cicero said.
HEADLINE: SHIT HITS FAN. “I’ve got to go,” he said to Cicero. He turned and started walking quickly down the sidewalk. Cicero caught up with him in front of the hardware store, jangling a fistful of keys. “I’ll open up and you can get started,” Cicero said. “You know how to work the cash register?”
Trout kept walking. “No sir.”
“Well, I’ll show you. Anybody comes in and needs something you can’t find, I’ll be right down yonder at the construction site.” Cicero was at the door of the hardware store, putting the key in the lock.
Trout stopped. “Uncle Cicero…”
“Yeah.”
“I, uh…”
Cicero turned and gave him a long, searching look. And then he knew. His face fell. Trout felt a rush of guilt. “I’m sorry.”
Cicero gave a little weak wave toward the store. “I was…”
“Aunt Alma offered me a job, too,” Trout said. “I appreciate it. Really. But I’m gonna work at the Dairy Queen.”
Cicero looked off down the street where it curved just before it got to the mill building. He looked for a long time, turning things over in his mind. Behind them, at the vacant lot, the bulldozer clanked and rumbled, traffic stopped, the crowd kept growing. It was, Trout figured, the biggest thing that had happened in Moseley in a good little while, at least since the coming of the Dairy Queen. He waited awhile longer. Cicero kept looking down the street, searching for something just beyond the bend in the road. Trout waited. If Cicero wanted to yell at him a little, that would be okay.
Then Cicero turned back and Trout could see something in his eyes that looked very close to desperation. It was there, naked, unconcealed, terribly painful but exquisitely honest -- more so than anything he had seen from Joe Pike Moseley in a long time, perhaps ever. Trout wanted to look away, but he couldn’t do that either. He saw, he knew for dead certain, that what was going on down there on the vacant lot with the bulldozer was this little chunky stump of a man in his terribly earnest police uniform trying to save his own ass. And knowing he might not be able, no matter what.
“You oughta do what’s best for you,” Cicero said. “We all got to get on about our lives, Trout. But,” he gestured again toward the hardware store, “it’s always here if you want it.”
“Thank you, Uncle Cicero,” Trout said. He had a sudden urge to hug Cicero’s neck. But he hesitated a moment too long and Cicero turned and walked back down the sidewalk toward his construction project.
Aunt Alma came up like a shot from behind her desk when Trout told her. “The DAIRY QUEEN?” she cried out.
“Yes ma’am.”
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I ever heard of in my life!”
“Aunt Alma…”
“Out there with trashy people scooping up ice cream!” Alma’s shrill voice shattered the air of the office. She picked up a stack of papers, waved them in the air, smacked them back on the desk. But Trout found himself, to his amazement, staying very calm. He stood before her desk, hands folded in front of him.
Aunt Alma pointed an accusing finger. “You are your father’s son.”
“Yes ma’am. I sure am.”
“Don’t sass me, Trout.”
“I didn’t mean to, Aunt Alma.”
“Your father has been rebellious and defiant since he was in diapers and he has caused this family untold grief and misery! Has and does! And if you keep going like you are, you’re going to turn out the same way!” Her voice kept rising. She waved her arms. Her eyes bulged. Trout thought about what he might do if she popped a blood vessel. Pick up the telephone and call 9-1-1? Did Moseley even have 9-1-1?
“Aunt Alma, it’s just a job.”
“That’s right!” she cried. “It’s just a job! This,” she indicated the mill with a sweep of her hand, “is family! It’s your future! Our future! Don’t you realize that?”
Trout stood there for a long time, thinking about what he might say and do. He felt weariness settle over him. The easiest thing would be to just take the mill job, give himself over to this aging red building with its strange smells and vibrations and its ghosts of Moseleys past. The Dairy Queen, as he had just said, was just a job. It wasn’t, despite what Joe Pike said, a religious experience. The mill, on the other hand, did seem like a Holy Crusade to Aunt Alma. There was a kind of come-to-Jesus fervor about the whole business -- but not th
e abiding joy of a sinner saved. There was about her, as there was about Uncle Cicero, a kind of desperation. In fact, he thought now, the whole damn bunch was more than a little desperate: Joe Pike floundering in religious quicksand; Cicero trying to just be somebody besides Alma’s husband; Alma herself, clutching her Moseley-ness to her breast like a shield against unnamed terror; even Phinizy, hunkered down behind his whiskey and his books, wry and watchful. And yes, he too was beginning to feel a little desperate. All this business about the future was making him a little crazy. He wanted to go away, find a quiet place where he could think and maybe figure out what to do, how to -- as Phinizy had put it -- save his own ass. And that was what finally made up his mind for him.
“I’m just sixteen years old, Aunt Alma,” he said. “I’m going to work at the Dairy Queen. I’m sorry.”
She stared for a moment, eyes narrowing. “Then go,” she said, flipping her hand, dismissing him. “Go! Just go.” She turned away from him with an angry jerk. Then she picked up the telephone receiver and started dialing. As he walked out he heard, “Put Cicero on the phone.” He stopped in the hallway, imagined himself turning back, taking the receiver out of Alma’s hand, replacing it in the cradle and saying, Leave the poor sonofabitch alone. But of course, he didn’t.
* * * * *
The mill village was teeming with mid-morning life -- women shelling peas on front porches, burning trash in backyard barrels, hanging wash from backyard clotheslines; men tinkering with automobiles; a pack of kids playing basketball on a bare-earth vacant lot. Keats was waiting on her front steps when Trout pulled up on the motorcycle. The Alamo Rental car, the one that had been there the day before, was still parked behind Wardell’s old Ford.
“Your company’s still here,” he said as Keats danced toward him across the patch of grass.