“How about you, Sonny?” I ask. “Been here a long time?”
“Born and raised, yup.”
“What keeps the town going way out here?”
“Well, the town got started back in the 1890’s when a fella named Jacob Cutter found silver near here. That’s who the place was named after. Old Jacob had a love of oranges and he planted a grove of ’em not far from where the town is now. Hence the name. He spent a fortune keepin’ them oranges irrigated for years, but after he died the grove died out o’ course. But the name stuck anyways. There was an operating silver mine here for about fifty years. Nothin’ huge, but enough to employ a few people and support the local businesses. By the time the mine petered out the town had been around long enough so there was enough other stuff goin’ on for it to survive. Just barely, mind ya.”
The click of her heels announces Beth’s return. She puts our plates, containing two of the biggest, thickest steaks I’ve ever seen, in front of us and refills our coffee cups. “Holler if you need anything else,” she says, and turns away.
Once again, I admire the view. This time, however, I’m caught in the act as she glances back over her shoulder and nails me with a knowing smile.
Damn.
Sonny chuckles to himself as he starts carving up his steak. “Thinkin’ a doin’ a little knockin’ of yer own are ya, Lucas?”
“I think she’s outa my league, Sonny,” I lament.
Conversation between us dwindles as we go about the business of devouring our food. Sonny’s a slow eater and it’s fifteen minutes after I’ve wiped my plate clean that he’s finally pushing his plate away and easing back to a comfortable position. “So, Lucas, you’ve got my curiosity worked up,” he says. “Mind tellin' me what brought y’all out this way?”
My first inclination is to fabricate some bullshit to appease his curiosity. The truth, after all, isn’t particularly pretty and does nothing to make me look in the least bit impressive. But I figure Sonny has shown himself to be a standup guy and the least I can do is be honest with him. “I left Seattle under rather depressing circumstances,” I tell him. “A few days ago I lost my job with the computer chip manufacturer I’d been with for four years. Not terribly surprising considering the state of the economy but painful just the same. Anyway, I’m feeling really low so I phone my fiancée at work to give her the news. We’d been living together for about a year; we were planning our wedding for this summer. The receptionist at the bank she works at tells me Karen has gone home sick. So I head home to our apartment. The door is locked when I get there and I let myself in quietly, thinking she’s probably asleep. When I open the bedroom door to check on her I’m greeted to the splendid spectacle of my true love making enthusiastic whoopee with one of her co-workers.”
“Shit,” Sonny hisses, shaking his head sadly.
“Yeah. That little surprise coming within half an hour of losing my job … well, it was enough to ruin a guy’s day. I threw my clothes into the Jeep, cleared out what little there was in my bank account, and blew town.”
“That had ta hurt,“ Sonny commiserates.
“I’d be a liar if I said it didn’t,” I admit.
“So where ya headin’?”
“No place in particular,” I tell him. “Just putting distance between myself and Seattle.”
“How the devil did ya end up where I found ya?” he wonders.
"Good question. I don't really know. I'd been driving for about nineteen hours without a break and I guess my mind wasn’t working right. The last time I got gas was in Sacramento and I didn’t even think to check it when I went through Bakersfield. When the storm hit, the sand was flying so thick I somehow took a turn off Highway 58 without even knowing it.”
“Yeah,” he says, “that was some storm all right.”
“Then,” I continue, “I hit that bad stretch of road with all the potholes. I caught one pretty hard and veered off the road, hit my head on the rearview mirror. That's when the gas ran out. But the weirdest thing happened right then. I don’t know if it was the bump I took or what but …”
Sonny’s looking at me expectantly, waiting for me to finish, but I quickly decide the details of my visit by ghost girl are a little too bizarre even for a hallucination.
“But what?” he asks
“Nothing,” I say.
Sonny frowns and then shrugs, polite enough not to push the matter. He looks lost in thought as he ponders something. “You know,” he says, “I’s just thinkin’. I been havin’ a lot a trouble lately with my back. Gettin’ harder an’ harder to do engine work. If ya got nothin’ better to do, why don’t ya consider stayin’ on here for awhile. Bein’ as handy as ya are around cars I could give ya enough work to keep ya reasonably busy. Tendin’ the gas pumps’d give me enough to do.”
I can't help but be flattered by Sonny's proposal but the prospect of life in Cutter’s Grove somehow lacks tremendous appeal. “Oh, I don’t know, Sonny, I---”
“I got a room back a the garage I’ll throw into the bargain,” he says before I can fully vent my reservations. “What with free rent and what ya could make as my mechanic it’d give ya a chance to get a nice little nest egg put aside.”
The more Sonny talks the more I realize I have nothing pressing to rush away to. I don’t even have a destination in mind at this point. And spending a little time holed up here might not be such a bad idea. If nothing else it’ll give me a chance to get my head straight without much in the way of distractions. With little hesitation I find myself saying, “Okay, I’ll give it a shot. For a while.”
Sonny’s face breaks into a dazzling grin. “Fantastic,” he says. “Fan-frickin-tastic.”
We get up to leave and, as we’re passing the cash register, Sonny stops to give Beth a report on my newfound employment.
She smiles prettily at the news. “Wonderful to hear, Lucas,” she says, looking at me with hooded eyes. “Don’t be a stranger now.”
My heart does a little flip flop as I scramble desperately to respond with something intelligent. But for some miserable reason my tongue remains firmly tethered to my teeth. I nod moronically and make my escape.
4
Fat and happy after our free lunch, Sonny and I take a can of gas and head out to rescue the Jeep.
After I dump the contents of the jerry can into the gas tank and climb behind the wheel, my mind is immediately flooded once again with a vivid image of ghost girl. Not only a mental picture of her recurs but the feelings of terror that I experienced, too. The image and the feelings are so intense, in fact, I’m forced, once more, to reconsider whether or not the encounter really was just something I conjured up in my mind. It creeps me out. But as I drive off toward Cutter’s Grove, following Sonny, my trepidation starts to fade and I’m again left feeling foolish for letting my imagination and my emotions get the better of me.
When we get back to the garage, Sonny takes me to see the room he’s offered me. It’s accessed from a door off the shop. It’s actually comprised of two rooms - one a little kitchenette with a living room area off of it, and the other a small bedroom. There's also a tiny three-piece bathroom. But the place is chock full of litter, discarded furniture, broken appliances, and generalized junk. “Tell you what, Sonny,” I say, “I’ll get a room at the hotel for a day or two while I work on getting this place cleaned out.”
“Not a bad idea, I reckon, “Sonny concedes.
I head off to arrange my temporary lodgings at the hotel while Sonny goes to the office for his afternoon nap.
The hotel provides me with a room boasting a double bed and a hotplate. The bathroom is down the hall and is shared by three other full-time occupants of the hotel.
After I’ve brought in a few clothes from the Jeep I head back to the garage and begin the task of cleaning out the rooms that will soon serve as my new home.
Within an hour Sonny’s pickup is piled to maximum capacity with my first load but I’ve barely made a dent in the junk occupying my room. I
catch sight of Sonny surreptitiously off-loading some of his stuff before I head off to the dump. He looks sad as I drive away. It’s clear he’s a born hoarder and he’s finding it hard to part with his treasures from a bygone era. The old adage: ‘one man’s junk is another man’s treasure’ has never rung so true.
A day and five trips to the dump later, the rooms are barren of all but the few items I’ve salvaged with which to furnish them. It takes another day to scrub the place from floor to ceiling with warm soapy water and disinfectant. After that I pick up some bedding and dishes at the general store and I’m all set. Home sweet home.
I’m cleaning myself up when Sonny arrives with the news that Mel Hocking, owner of the Circle H Ranch - the biggest spread in the area and Sonny’s best customer - needs a little work done on his pickup. “Bit of a panic job, Lucas,” Sonny laments.
I go out to the shop where Sonny introduces me to Hocking. He’s a solidly built guy with a slightly pock-marked face and receding gray hair cut close to the wood. “She keeps cutting out on me,” he says. “I know it's a lot to ask but I’d really like to have it by early tomorrow if at all possible.” Although he’s polite enough, it's not hard to tell he's accustomed to giving orders and getting respect.
The pickup is a new Dodge Ram so it’ll be full of computer chips and all the latest technology. Sonny’s shop is not exactly outfitted with the best in diagnostic equipment and I’m not too comfortable making any promises. But I’m also very conscious of Sonny’s worried expression. “I’ll see what I can do,” I tell Hocking.
Sonny and Hocking disappear and I get to work. I begin by taking the Dodge for a run. It starts acting up immediately and I have some ideas about what the problem might be. Back at the garage, however, I’m a little intimidated by what I find under the hood. It looks like four hundred and fifty cubic inches of motor encased in four hundred and ten cubic inches of engine cavity and it is, indeed, chock full of impressive looking technology. Some of this shit I don’t even recognize as engine parts.
By midnight I’ve discovered the problem is nothing more than a loose electrical connection but I’ve got three more hours of work left just to get this thing back together.
When Hocking arrives just after 9 a.m. to check on my progress I’m sacked out. I’ve left a note for Sonny telling him I had to pull an all-nighter so he should sock it to Hocking real good.
It turns out the rancher has had this problem with the Dodge for quite a while and has had it back to the dealer in Bakersfield several times, always without satisfactory results. He’s so impressed with the Dodge’s performance now he pays the bill and adds a tip - an occurrence, Sonny tells me later, that is unheard of in the annals of Cutter’s Grove.
The result of Hocking’s contentment turns out to be more rewarding than the receipt of a simple tip. The next morning, when I exit my room, Sonny greets me in the office with one of his big-assed grins. “Look out the window,” he says. When I do, I see four vehicles lined up outside the bay doors.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“More work than I’ve seen at one time in the last twenty years,” he answers. He’s barely able to contain his glee.
****
After a week, I’ve pretty much got the rhythm of this place down pat. The pace of life here alternates somewhere between slow and stop, with occasional episodes of reverse.
Sonny, of course, is overjoyed with the increase in the garage’s business. We’ve settled on a fair split of revenues from the repair end of things and he spends most of his time napping in his office, coffeeing with his cronies, and ogling Beth at the diner. Most of his customers know better than to disturb him so he’s rarely called upon to actually pump any gas.
As I’m wrapping up for the day, Beth arrives at the shop in her old Ford. I’ve had little opportunity my first week here to visit the diner and she’s a very welcome sight. I’d almost forgotten what a looker she is.
Okay, that’s a disgusting, filthy lie; I hadn’t forgotten at all.
I walk out to greet her, wiping my hands on a gasoline-soaked rag. “Having trouble again?” I ask.
"Nope," she says, “the old bucket’s running fine, thanks. I was just wondering if there was anybody around here who might like to join a lady for a drink."
“Just a minute,” I say, “I’ll see if Sonny’s busy.”
“Smart ass,” she says, but with a friendly grin.
I’m almost afraid to say anything else. Things are looking so promising at this point I figure they can only go downhill from here. But silence, of course, is not an option. “I’m not going to pretend I’m the brightest bulb in the chandelier,” I say, “but don’t tell me a woman who looks like you has trouble finding a date, cuz I ain’t gonna believe it.”
She smiles wistfully. "Thanks for the compliment, Lucas. But the truth is,
availability of male companionship isn’t the problem. It’s more an issue of quality.”
Never argue with a lady. “Give me a few minutes to clean up,” I say. “I’d invite you in but the place is a little messy. How about I meet you at the hotel?” Saying my place is a little messy is like saying Warren Buffet is financially comfortable. It understates the reality just a smidge.
She tips her head to the side and looks skyward with raised eyebrows and pursed lips. It’s a thoughtful gesture that suggests, ‘Yeah, that could work.’ Then she surprises me by saying, “Don’t worry about the mess. You never know, I might even be able to help you clean up.”
I’m not absolutely clear on whether she means to help clean up me or the mess I live in. Either way it sounds pretty good. So as not to appear overly eager, though, I ponder this offer, weighing the pros and cons, deliberating with intense fervor.
The pondering, weighing, and deliberating lasts for approximately four one-thousandth of a nanosecond.
5
One glimpse of the interior of my little palace is apparently all it takes to squelch whatever ardor Beth may have been harboring. She gives an involuntary shudder as she looks around - like what you might do if you were entering an underground root cellar whose last known occupant was a pregnant tarantula - then insists on washing the sink full of dirty dishes I've skillfully ignored for a week. I take a shower. Fifteen minutes later, when I emerge from the bathroom, I see she has also tidied up the rest of the place. It isn't exactly what I had interpreted her offer to help me clean up to mean but, hey, I'm not about to complain.
It’s amazing what a wonderful effect a woman’s touch can have on a pitiful bachelor’s pad. Now that the joint has benefited from Beth's labors it doesn't seem like such a bad place to be. "I've got a frozen pizza I can throw into the oven if you're interested," I tell her.
"Sounds perfect," she says.
Wow. She cleans, does dishes, and is willing to eat the same junk I do. I think I'm in love already.
For a beautiful woman, Beth is uncommonly disinclined to talk about herself. Encouraged by her, in fact, I do most of the talking. She proves to be a great listener and, for me, this is no small deal. Although I was in love with Karen - or thought I was before she ripped my heart out - one of the things I found most perturbing about her was her complete lack of interest in anything that didn't concern her directly. Oh, she'd pretend to listen when I spoke about my day or my work or whatever, but I always knew she was suffering through it, waiting to turn the conversation in a direction she could dominate. Beth, on the other hand, seems truly fascinated with even the most mundane, trivial details of my life. Maybe she's been too long without meaningful companionship, or maybe she's just a good actress. But I'd rather believe it's her nature to be caring, that she's a cut above ordinary in every respect.
After dinner we get comfortably situated on the sofa, Beth with another glass of wine, me with a beer. One thing leads to another. Our first kiss is tentative. Beth seems unexpectedly shy but, at the same time, starved for affection. When it becomes pretty obvious where I'm hoping things will go, she takes my face in her
hands and looks deep into my eyes. "Lucas, I really like you," she tells me. "You're the first decent thing that's happened to me in a long time, but ... "
She seems really torn by indecision. "What is it, Beth? What's wrong?"
"I'm ... well, I’m nervous about this going any further right now. I’m just not comfortable at the thought of jumping into bed after knowing you for so little time. I'm sorry."
Is that all? I thought maybe I had some Cajun chicken or smoked gouda dangling from my teeth. “Don’t give it another thought,” I tell her. “I mean it. I’m perfectly happy just the way things are.”
She seems amazed that I'm not terribly disappointed by her declaration. The truth is, from what I've seen of her so far, I'm more than happy to take it slow.
This turns out to be exactly the right attitude because, once she realizes she's under no pressure, she begins to relax and things move along more comfortably. We talk for hours about a lot of inconsequential stuff. We find we share a love of junk food, gangster movies from the forties, and rock and roll music. Most of the women I've dated before this had tastes that ran more to Limp Bizkit than Chuck Barry. None shared my long held opinion that Humphrey Bogart was a great actor. And as far as my controversial views on the merits of barbequed potato chips go ... well, forget about it.
Beth, although anxious to hear all about my life, seems oddly reluctant to share details of her own life before arriving in Cutter's Grove, so I don't press it. Once again, this seems to be a good call on my part.
I'm very pleasantly surprised later when she stands up, takes my hand, and slowly and quietly leads me into the bedroom.
Unfortunately the bedroom did not form part of the cleanup scenario performed earlier by Beth. It resembles what I imagine Kurt Cobain’s place probably looked like after a weekend of sex, drugs, and grunge with Courtney. Fortunately for me, Beth’s attention is diverted with other items of interest.
CUTTER'S GROVE Page 3