Gran’s house was like a living museum of Southern domesticity. Being here made him feel like he’d stepped back in time, everything in the same place it had been in when Gran lived here, even though she hadn’t been here in years. Matt had continued to pay Bess Shively, his grandmother’s housekeeper, to come in once a week and clean. He didn’t know what else to do except keep hoping that eventually she would improve and come back home. When it became clear that she would never return, he didn’t have the heart to do anything but leave the house as it was.
Matt grabbed a file from his briefcase, poured himself a cup of coffee, careful to strain the excess coffee grounds with a paper towel. He took a seat at the kitchen table and forced his eyes to follow the words across the document, its meaning hovering at the rim of comprehension.
He realized that he was tired, and not just from the restless night or the weight of Gran’s funeral. He was tired in general. Worn down, actually. All those years of school, and no one had told him about the part where the career he’d once used as a place to sink his energy lost its fizz the way the glass bottle Cokes he used to drink as a kid went flat after sitting out with the cap off. Eighteen years. Where had it all gone?
In his senior year of college, Matt had put away his major league baseball aspirations, the decision not the difficult one it had been perceived to be. The papers had written it up as the ultimate curiosity. A star college player with no debilitating injuries, a future bright with possibility, and he had left it all on the table. He’d offered no explanations, other than that he’d decided to follow the family tradition of law school. Time to move on to other things.
The truth was that after that last summer in Ballard County, the game had never been the same for him. As a kid, baseball had been something that just came to him naturally. Something he’d been born with the ability to do and not something he’d ever had to work at. He’d loved everything about it, the challenge of besting his own number of hits, of improving his fastball, the roar of the fans when a ball sailed over the center field wall. “It’s outta here, folks!” He could still hear the announcer’s exuberant call, still remembered the rush of adrenaline that propelled him from first base to second to third and then home plate.
And now it seemed the same thing had happened with his law career. He worked for a corporate firm in D.C., fifty attorneys plus, all hustling hours like aging prostitutes.
Lawyers went back several generations in the Griffith line. Before Matt was born, his grandfather had been a small town attorney in Ballard. As a boy, Matt had heard dozens of stories about him. Everybody knew Henry Griffith, attorney to the underdog. Sometimes, he got paid with real cash, others in whatever currency the client could afford, a dozen jars of apple butter, even, once, a white goose that was supposed to be Christmas dinner but ended up living in their backyard as a pet.
Whenever Gran used to speak of his grandfather and what he did for a living, there was a pride in her voice that Matt actually envied now. He’d always thought of his grandfather’s profession as an honorable one, thought he would carry on the tradition with the same kind of purpose.
But he’d taken the big-city, big-firm route, and somewhere along the way, he’d sold out to the concept of quantity. More clients equaled more hours equaled more money, and he’d gone along with it all just fine, not questioning where that road would take him. Until now. Until he came home. With that sobering thought, he took one last sip of his coffee, put the file back in his briefcase and headed out the front door without bothering to lock it.
It was just after six, and the sun was coming up full force now, an enormous pink ball ascending the Blue Ridge skyline.
He headed down Marshall Avenue, took a right on Taper and stretched out his stride going down the steep hill. He put himself to the test this morning, the run opening something up inside him the way a yawn popped his ears at the end of a long flight.
Ballard had changed. A Hardee’s and a movie theater now sat next to the high school. The school itself wasn’t all that different, and he was glad. It looked pretty much the same as it had when he’d gone there, classic brick architecture, tall, white paned windows. The football stadium was in the same place, but bigger.
Down from the high school, he glimpsed many of the same names seen in other small towns, Roses, CVS, McDonald’s. He remembered when the only fast food place anywhere near the school was Bert’s—where almost everything inside had been painted light blue—now long since gone.
He ran on down Taper, spotting the Kroger and Wal-mart up on the hill where the Star-Gazer drive-in used to be. He remembered summer nights when he was seven or eight, and Gran would load up her car with him and his friends and take them to a drive-in movie where they would stuff themselves with popcorn and Milk Duds and argue over who got to sit closest to the speaker.
Matt took a left now into Franklin Hills, admiring the steeple on the Baptist church on Martin Drive. He looped through the residential area and hit the backside of town, passing the Comfort Inn and the YMCA, both new additions since he’d moved away.
Another mile and a half, and he was back in the heart of town, passing the old Simpson’s Grocery, now an office supply store. He ran by the hospital, turned left and headed up the steep hill toward the courthouse.
A few cars were parked along the street, people going in to work. Just ahead on the right was the old law office where his granddad had practiced. A man stood at the front door, trying to get a key in the lock. A little closer, and he recognized Tom Williams, the attorney handling Gran’s estate.
Tom looked up, straightened. “Well, hey, Matt,” he said, setting down his briefcase and sticking out his hand.
Matt stopped just short of him, wiped his own hand across the bottom of his t-shirt. They shook.
“I was planning to call you today,” he said.
Matt nodded.
“I’m real sorry about your grandmother,” he said. “Didn’t get to speak to you at the funeral yesterday.”
“Thanks, Tom.”
“When’s a good time for us to meet?” he asked.
“I’ll be here for a week or so.”
“Would this afternoon work for you?”
“Sure.”
“It shouldn’t take long,” he said. “With just the two of you.”
“Two?” Matt asked. When Gran made up her will years ago, he remembered her saying that except for the most distant of relatives, there wasn’t anyone other than him to leave anything to.
“You and Becca Brubaker,” he said.
The name hit Matt like a mallet at the back of the knees. “Becca?”
“Yeah.” Tom faltered, as if unsure what to say. “Apparently, Mrs. Griffith was pretty fond of her.”
Matt remained silent, trying to process what he’d just heard. “What makes you say that?”
“Well, it’s my understanding that Becca visited her every week over at the nursing home.”
He rested a hand against the brick front of the law office, giving himself a moment. “You mean just recently?”
“No,” Tom said, shaking his head. “My niece is a nurse there. She mentioned several times over the years how Becca came regularly. Seemed she always brought something with her, a pie or a cake for your grandmother and the other residents. Becca got to be pretty well known around there.”
Matt nodded as if this was all old news to him, when the opposite couldn’t have been more true.
“Well,” Tom said. “I better get to work. Three o’clock okay with you?”
“Fine,” he said. “I’ll see you then.”
Tom unlocked the door and stepped inside.
Matt started up the hill, pushing himself into a jog and then a run. But his legs felt like they’d been infused with concrete now, and he gave it up for a walk, his heart pounding.
All these years, Becca had been making time to see Gran. Bringing her food. Talking with her.
All these years, there had still been a connection between t
hem.
Between Gran and Becca. Between him and Becca. How could he not have known?
∞
Then
FIRST MONDAY OF summer vacation, a high school graduate, and the alarm went off at four a.m.
Matt gave the snooze a good whack and pulled the pillow over his head, refusing to believe that he actually had to get up now. This was worse than punishment. It was torture.
Judge Anderson had called the previous Saturday and told him to report to Daniel Miller’s dairy farm Monday morning at four forty-five.
“Four forty-five?” he’d repeated, thinking surely the judge must mean p.m.
“Cows don’t much care about people’s need for beauty sleep,” the judge said in a tone that made it clear he wasn’t expecting any protests. “When they need to be milked, they need to be milked.”
Matt managed to suppress a groan. “Yes, sir.”
“And by the way, Mr. Miller is willing to let you work twelve hour days. They milk at five and again at four in the afternoon. That should allow you to get your sentence completed before training camp starts in August. I assume that’s what you’d like to do.”
“I guess so.”
“Or,” Judge Anderson said with a heavy pause that clearly conveyed its meaning through the telephone line, “you could just miss the first couple weeks of practice.”
“No, sir. That’ll be fine,” he said, recognizing when he’d been beaten.
By the time he dragged himself out of the shower and pulled on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, it was four-twenty. A.M.
Downstairs in the kitchen, Gran had made breakfast. She wrapped a couple of biscuits in aluminum foil, dropped them into a paper bag, then handed it to him with a look of disapproval. “I thought you weren’t going to be out late last night.”
“I meant to get in earlier,” he said, pulling a can of Coke out of the refrigerator and popping the tab.
“Hm,” she said, exasperation in her voice, “get going now, or you’ll be late.”
He aimed a kiss at her cheek and bolted out the door, tossing the bag in the back of his Jeep and climbing in. It took just over fifteen minutes to reach the place, speeding and no traffic. He turned into the driveway and bounced over a couple of potholes, the jolt sending up a fresh pounding in his head that made him wonder why he’d ever taken the first hit off that beer bong out at Wilks’s place.
He pulled up at the side of the barn, radio blasting classic AC-DC through the floorboard speakers.
A man with a long white beard stepped outside. Dressed in a straw hat, what looked like homemade denim pants and a plain white shirt buttoned at the throat, he looked directly at Matt. Matt turned off the radio, the sudden silence jarring. The man waved him inside and then disappeared. Matt got out and walked in behind him, newly pissed off at his fate.
The man stood waiting for him just inside the barn door. “You’re Matt?”
He nodded. “Yeah.”
“I’m Daniel Miller,” he said. He held Matt’s gaze for a long moment, as if he’d already figured him out and wasn’t too sure he liked his conclusion. Matt looked away first, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans.
“This way,” Mr. Miller said.
Matt followed him down a short aisle and through a set of double doors. “This is the milking parlor,” he said.
A row of black and white cows stood side by side on the right and left of the aisle. The floors were concrete, hosed clean enough to eat off.
“Jacob? Becca? Emmy?”
Half-way down the aisle, a guy and two girls popped up like a triple jack-in-the-box from behind the heifers they’d been milking. To have gotten that far already, Matt wondered what time they’d started.
Mr. Miller beckoned them over.
“Matt, this is my son, Jacob.”
Jacob dropped him a polite nod, wiping his hands on a pair of pants nearly identical to his father’s. Matt nodded back, recognizing him as a year or two older than he was.
“My daughters Becca and Emmy.”
“Hello,” they said in unison, Becca without looking directly at him, the younger sister sizing him up as if he’d just arrived from another planet. Becca, he knew, of course, from the deliveries she and her Mama had been making to his grandmother for years. She wore a light green cotton dress this morning, her long blonde hair hanging in a braid down her back. Matt had never seen the sister before. She looked to be around fifteen or so, and unlike Becca and Jacob, she wore the Old Order clothing—a white bonnet that fit close to her head and tied under her chin, a mid-calf length dress with a cape over the shoulders that buttoned at her throat.
“Bet your ears are ringing,” she said.
He stared at her for a second and then realized she was talking about the music. “Next time, son,” Mr. Miller said, “would you be kind enough to turn the music down before you get here?”
“No problem,” he said, shrugging and thinking what a pain in the butt this summer was going to be. Could he possibly have ended up at a squarer place than this?
Mr. Miller looked at Jacob. “Why don’t you show Matt our morning routine, son?”
“Sure,” Jacob said. “Come on, Matt.”
Matt stepped past Becca just as she turned to go back to work, and they bumped sides, mumbling simultaneous excuse-me’s. As he followed Jacob down the aisle, he heard Becca speak in a soft voice to the cow she’d been milking. When he glanced back over his shoulder, he saw her sit down on a wooden stool and go back to work.
All his life, he had walked past these people in the grocery store. Stared at them in Agee Hardware. On the school bus. And always, they were the ones who were different. Strange, even.
He realized that for the first time in his life, here on this farm, he was the one who was different.
He spent the rest of the first morning helping Jacob hose out the milking room and shoveling manure off the concrete walkway where the cows went in and out of the barn. Halfway through it all, his shoulders ached in a way they never had from baseball practice, and by lunchtime, he’d already eaten everything Gran had packed for him. And still, he was starving.
Jacob invited him to eat with the family at the two-story white farmhouse, but Matt declined, thinking he’d feel like a sideshow in their kitchen. He whiled away the half hour at the back of the barn, wishing he had time to run to the store a few miles away and get something.
Shortly after Jacob came back from lunch, a toothpick in the corner of his mouth, a big Southern States truck rumbled down the driveway, stopping at one end of the barn. The two of them unloaded several dozen fifty pound bags of feed and carried them into the grain room. When they’d finished, they stood outside for a minute, sweating and taking a breather. Jacob turned on a nearby water hose and took a long swig, then passed it to Matt.
As Matt drank his fill, he spotted Becca walking down from the house, carrying what looked like a laundry basket full of folded towels. She slipped into the barn without glancing his way.
Once the Southern States man left, Mr. Miller walked over and said, “We need to pick up a load of sawdust this afternoon. Jacob, take Matt with you and show him where to go in case I need him to handle it by himself sometime.”
Becca came out of the barn just then, brushing something from the front of her dress.
“Bec, you want to go with us to get sawdust?” Jacob asked.
Becca looked at her father. “Is it all right, Daddy?”
Mr. Miller glanced at Matt, then Jacob, before saying, “I reckon so. Don’t dawdle now. We’ll need to get some of it spread before milking time.”
“Yes, sir,” Jacob said.
The three of them headed for the other side of the barn where a dump truck sat parked under a shed. Jacob got in the driver’s side. Matt walked around, Becca behind him. He opened the door, then stepped back and let her climb up first. She slid across to the middle and sat with her hands in her lap, staring straight ahead, as if they’d made a pact not to ever meet eyes wit
h each other. Matt closed the door. When it didn’t catch, he opened it and slammed it again.
Jacob started the truck, the old engine groaning as if offended by what was being asked of it. Through his side mirror, Matt could see smoke rolling out of the back. The seat beneath shook under the engine’s congested rumble.
“How far’s the sawmill?” he asked, skeptical.
“Don’t worry,” Jacob said, smiling. “Her bark’s a lot worse than her bite.”
The driveway going out was a fairly steep grade, and it seemed as if it took forever to reach the main road. Once they got there, Jacob pulled out and opened the truck up, fifty-five feeling more like ninety, the trees on the side of the road whipping by in a blur of green. Seriously hungry now, Matt thought he might pass out if he didn’t get something to eat soon.
They drove for a few minutes without saying anything, Matt conscious all the while of Becca sitting straight as a light pole a few inches away, her elbows tucked in at her sides in an obvious effort to prevent any chance of brushing up against him.
Jacob reached under the seat, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, lit one with the lighter from the truck. He took a deep pull, exhaling out of the left corner of his mouth.
Becca glanced at him, shook her head, then looked back at the road. “If you’re going to smoke that thing,” she said, “at least roll down the window.”
Matt raised his eyebrows. Now this was interesting. Jacob Miller smoking.
In Ballard County, the people of the Old Order Brethren Church stood out from everyone else because of the plain clothes they wore, the plain cars they drove, radios removed, and their rejection of worldly things. Matt was pretty sure smoking cigarettes fell somewhere under worldly things.
“So what are you in for, Matt?” Jacob asked, releasing a stream of smoke through the left side of his mouth and blowing it out the window.
He hesitated, not sure how to answer, his stomach rumbling so loud now that it was getting embarrassing.
Crossing Tinker's Knob Page 6
