by Ronald Kelly
“Well, I suppose that’s because, in his eyes, you still are a stranger,” said Edwin. “Give it some time. He’s only been here a few days. You’ve still got the rest of the summer to do your best at winning him over.”
Jasper’s gray eyes were laden with doubt. “But what if that never happens?”
Edwin took a couple of Snickers from the candy counter out front and tossed them in a brown grocery bag, along with the bologna and cornmeal. Then he turned and regarded his checker-playing partner seriously. “Well, I won’t lie to you, Jasper. You two might never grow any closer than you are right now. Take it from someone who knows.”
Jasper’s expression softened a little. “You’re talking about Aaron, ain’t you?”
The storekeeper nodded solemnly. “Yep. I reckon I’ll always regret losing that closeness with my only son. Never knew why we didn’t get along, either. Whenever we were together, we mixed about as well as oil and water.”
Jasper said nothing. He knew the pain that his friend had carried around for years. Aaron Hill had been a strapping young man when he was drafted into the Army back in 1968; someone with his whole life before him. But that life had been cut tragically short by a Viet Cong mortar at Khe Sanh. As a result, Edwin had always blamed himself for not being as close to his son as he thought he should have been.
Edwin leaned against the counter, supporting himself with an elbow. “When they sent Aaron back home, sealed in that plastic coffin, I knew I’d lost my last chance to make amends with him.” The old man’s lips trembled. “Dammit, Jasper, I don’t believe I ever even told him that I loved him.”
Suddenly, the owner of the general store lapsed into a fit of coughing and gasping. His face turned alarmingly gray in color and his knees sagged a little. Luckily, Jasper was there to support him before he could lose his balance entirely.
“Is your heart acting up on you again?” he asked with concern.
Edwin nodded. “Just help me over to that chair yonder and let me sit down for a spell.”
Jasper did as he requested. Soon, Edwin was sitting in a rocking chair next to the potbelly stove. A minute passed, but he didn’t seem to improve any. “Where’s your medicine?” asked the farmer.
“It’s in my shirt pocket,” said Edwin. He lifted his right hand, but it seemed listless, unable to rise more than a few inches.
Jasper took the amber vial from the breast pocket of Edwin’s long-sleeved shirt and grappled with the childproof cap for a frantic moment. Finally, he got it open, exposing the tiny pills inside. He laid the proper dosage of medication beneath his friend’s tongue. “Just settle back and relax,” he said soothingly. “Drive that old guilt out of your mind and think of something pleasant.”
Edwin nodded and breathed deeply. A few minutes later, the color slowly seeped back into his wrinkled face. He opened his eyes and managed a little grin. “That was a bad one.”
“Want me to call an ambulance?” asked Jasper, placing a liver-spotted hand on his friend’s shoulder.
“Hell, no!” snapped Edwin. “I’ll be all right in a minute.” The heart medicine was already taking effect. He could feel his pulse slowing and the tightness in his chest beginning to ease.
“One of these days I’m gonna walk in here and find you dead on the floor, harder than a carp,” said Jasper, shaking his head. “You know you upset yourself something awful whenever the subject of Aaron comes up.”
Edwin smiled feebly. “More than likely, it was God paying me back for giving you such a hard time about Felicia the other night.”
Jasper handed him the bottle of Sun Drop. “Here take a swallow of this. Maybe it’ll make you feel better.”
The old man accepted the drink without protest. He took a couple of small swallows, then handed it back to his best friend.
“Aw, I feel like some old fool, letting myself get wound up like that,” he muttered, looking a little embarrassed.
“Don’t worry about it. I’m just glad I was here to get that medicine out for you.”
“I know you’ve got better things to do than nursemaid me,” said Edwin. “Why don’t you ring up your sale and be on your way. I’ll just sit here for a spell and regain my bearings.”
“I can stick around a little longer,” offered Jasper.
“Naw, you go on. I’ll be just fine.”
Jasper knew that the elderly man was too proud to show his weakness. The greatest respect he could show Edwin would be to just leave him alone and not fuss over him too much. “Okay, but I aim to call and check up on you later this afternoon.”
“You do that,” Edwin replied. He looked much better than he had ten minutes before, although he still appeared uncommonly pale.
Jasper McLeod rang up his groceries on the antique cash register at the center of the long, wooden counter, put a twenty dollar bill in the till, then counted out the change that was due him.
As he headed for the door, sack in hand, he turned to study his friend once again. “You be sure to give me a ring if you need me, okay?”
Edwin smiled wearily. “Stop your nagging, Jasper. I’ll be alright.”
Jasper nodded and left the store. When he reached his pickup truck, he sat in the cab for a few minutes, finishing his drink and letting his nerves settle. Edwin’s episode had scared the hell out of him. After Gladys had passed away, the country merchant had become the closest person in Jasper’s lonely life. He knew if Edwin kicked the bucket, that would leave him all alone with absolutely no one to lean on. And, if that was the case, Jasper knew he would follow soon afterwards. Those weekly checker games were much more than a pleasant form of recreation. In a sad way, they were almost a reason for living from one week to the next. Without companionship of some form, Jasper knew he had very little to live for.
The old farmer shook off the melancholy mood that threatened to overtake him. With a sigh, he tossed the empty pop bottle on the truck’s cluttered floorboard, cranked up the engine, and then started back through Harmony toward home.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Rusty thought the idea was terrific.
A big grin split his freckled face as he stared at Keith in amazement. “You know, you ain’t half as dumb as I first thought,” he said.
Keith knew his cousin was paying him a compliment, but he wasn’t sure exactly how to take it. “Thanks. I think.”
“And it’s right nice of you, to boot. I know Chuck’ll sure get a kick out of it… if we can make it work.”
Keith reached into the back pocket of his denim shorts and handed Rusty a folded sheet of notebook paper. “I fooled around with it last night,” he said. “What do you think?”
Rusty studied a detailed drawing that Keith had sketched. “Sure looks possible to me. In fact, I’d go as far as to say it’ll work just fine.”
“The only thing that’s stumped me so far is where we’re going to find the materials to build it.”
“You just leave that to me,” said Rusty. He jumped on Cyclone and steered it toward town. “Come on and I’ll show you.”
Keith hopped aboard Blue Fury and, together, the two boys coasted down the McLeod driveway, then headed up Sycamore Road for town.
They reached Harmony twenty minutes later. The town square with its family-owned businesses and tall, brick courthouse seemed as lazy and laid-back as usual. There were only a few cars and pickup trucks parked along the main street, and the only movement Keith could detect on the sunbaked sidewalks was a couple of little girls playing hopscotch and a stray dog licking at a wad of bubble gum some kid had stuck to the side of a telephone pole. Other than that, Harmony looked more like a well-kempt ghost town than anything else.
They rode past the grassy yard of the courthouse with its tall oak trees and white gazebo, heading in the direction of a narrow side street that ran along the town’s western side. They crossed a line of railroad tracks that possessed only warning signs and no caution lights. The intense heat of the August sun had already infected the polished rails. Sh
immering waves radiated up from the steel tracks, blurring the landscape to north and south. Riding past them, Keith felt as if he were pedaling through the middle of a desert mirage.
The two boys headed down a dusty backroad, past a couple of weedy vacant lots. To their right loomed the Harmony water tower. It stood a good eighty feet in height; a huge sea-green sphere on three support-pole legs. A single pipe led from the belly of the reservoir to the ground underneath, hooking into a network of pips and spigots that linked into the community’s water supply. Keith’s gaze rose skyward, following a single steel ladder that traveled along one of the tower’s foremost supports. A narrow catwalk surrounded the big water tank and, as far as he could tell, the only access to the inside was a single trapdoor on the very top, secured with a circular locking handle, sort of like the kind you find on submarine doors.
Rusty noticed his cousin’s interest. “Kinda looks like one of them Martian spaceships in that War of the Worlds movie, doesn’t it?”
Keith knew the film Rusty was referring to. “Yeah, it does. Have you ever climbed up there?”
The farm boy grinned. “Sure have. But don’t tell my mama. If she ever found out, she’d whale the tar plumb outta me!”
It wasn’t long before they reached their destination. “Here we are,” called Rusty. “If anybody can help us, Big Jake can.”
They coasted past a twelve-acre lot surrounded by a tall, chain-link fence and scrubby stands of tall weeds and thistle. As they rode through an open gate, Keith read the sign overhead: JAKE ABERNATHY – AUTO PARTS, COLLECTIBLES, & SALVAGE – WE BUY, SELL, OR TRADE.
Once inside the boundaries of the junkyard, Keith understood why Rusty had brought him there. If they were to find the materials to turn his idea into a reality, it would be here. To one side of the junkyard stood tall stacks of wrecked vehicles; cars, vans, jeeps, and pickup trucks, even an old rusty school bus or two. On the other side were mounds of garbage and scrap metal – everything from limbless baby dolls to copper tubing and cracked porcelain toilets. The ground underfoot was dusty clay earth with a few patches of crabgrass and ragweed sprouting up in spots.
“Come on,” said Rusty, heading toward a barn-like structure at the rear of the property. “I’ll introduce you to Big Jake.”
As the boys came to a halt a few yards from the weathered building, a huge black dog with a bright pink patch around one eye, lunged from where he had been lying on the ground. He barked and snarled viciously, his fangs flashing milky yellow teeth in the mid-morning sunlight. The only thing that separated them from the fury of the junkyard dog was a sturdy length of logging chain. One end was secured to the bumper of an old ’72 El Camino, while the other was fastened to the back of the animal’s thick leather collar.
“Don’t worry about old Loco there,” assured Rusty. “He’s just showing off, that’s all.”
“He sure is a big one,” said Keith, keeping his distance. “Looks like a cross between a Rottweiler and Greyhound bus.”
“If you think Loco’s an eyeful, wait till you get a load of Jake,” said Rusty.
A moment later, Loco’s owner appeared, drawn out of the shade of the building by the commotion his dog was making. Even after Rusty’s warning, Keith was still surprised by the man who stepped into the sunshine. He was a good six foot six in height and probably weighed well over three hundred pounds. All in all, with his shaggy blond hair and beard, Jake Abernathy resembled a Viking warrior dressed in grungy camouflage overalls and a white and orange UT Volunteers cap.
“Well, howdy there, Rusty!” he said with a tobacco-stained grin. “Whatcha doing way out here bright and early this morning?”
“Came to see if you could help us with something,” said Rusty. He nodded toward the boy on the blue bike. “This here’s my cousin from Atlanta, Keith Bishop.”
“Nice meeting you, Keith,” rumbled Big Jake in a thunderous voice.
“Same here,” said Keith as the junkman’s huge hand swallowed his own. He kept a friendly smile on his face, fighting against the impulse to gag at the horrendous odor the big man emitted. He smelled strongly of unwashed clothing and perspiration, but that wasn’t the worse of it. Jake’s breath was the most repulsive Keith had ever encountered. It was a sickening mixture of raw onions, sardines, and beer.
The black dog continued to snap and snarl, thick runners of white saliva dripping from his toothy jaws.
“He isn’t rabid, is he?” asked Keith.
The junk dealer laughed. “Well, he might be a little screwy in the head, but he don’t have the hydrophoby. He just slobbers a lot when he gets excited, that’s all.”
“Is he dangerous?”
Big Jake nodded. “Sure is. If it wasn’t for that there chain, you boys would likely be in three or four pieces right about now.”
Keith swallowed nervously, praying that the logging chain didn’t have any weak links in it.
“So, how can I be of assistance?” Jake asked, turning back to Rusty.
The lanky farm boy handed the man Keith’s drawing. “We’re aiming to build that contraption. We were wondering if you might have the parts in stock.”
Jake’s sunburned brow creased in concentration. “I believe so.” He glanced over at Keith with a grin of admiration. “You come up with this?”
“That’s right.”
“Pure genius, that’s what it is!” said Jake with a hearty laugh. “You boys wouldn’t mind if I helped you put this thing together, would you?”
Rusty grinned from ear to ear. “I was hoping you’d make the offer.”
“Which bike are you figuring on attaching it to?” asked the junkman.
“Mine,” said Rusty. “I don’t think that old bike I fixed up for Keith would hold up.”
Jake studied Blue Fury, his eyes lingering on the patched and bald tires. “You’re probably right. What do you say we take a stroll around the yard and see what we can find?”
A matter suddenly came to Keith’s mind; one he figured they ought to discuss beforehand. “Uh, what are you going to charge us for the parts to build this thing?”
Jake laughed. “Charge? Hell, I ain’t figuring to charge you nothing. Just the challenge of helping ya’ll build this thing and seeing if it’ll actually work… that’s payment enough for me.”
As the junkman led the way, Rusty turned and gave his cousin a wink. “Just you wait and see. If anybody can help us make this invention come to life, it’s Big Jake here.”
Keith simply nodded. Anxious to get to work, he followed Rusty and Jake into the cluttered maze of trash and debris.
~ * ~
Later that afternoon, Keith, Rusty, and Maggie showed up at the Adkins residence. Chuck was sitting in his wheelchair on the porch, reading a war novel, while his mother occupied a rocking chair nearby, snapping green beans into a large Tupperware bowl.
When Chuck looked up from his book and saw the grins on the faces of his three friends, he immediately knew they were up to something. “What’s going on?” he asked.
“We kinda got a surprise for you,” said Rusty, looking fit to bust.
“What sort of surprise?” asked the handicapped boy with suspicion.
“It’s down by the road,” said Keith. “Why don’t you come and take a look?”
Chuck strained forward in his chair, trying to see what they had brought to show him. He could only see the handlebars of the three bikes past the white picket fence at the far edge of the front yard.
“You can’t see it from here,” said Maggie. She jumped up on the porch and stepped behind the wheelchair, taking a handle in each hand. “Come on and we’ll show you.”
“But what is it?” demanded Chuck with a puzzled frown.
Mrs. Adkins laughed. “Why don’t you just go down and see what your friends have brought you? If nothing else, it’ll do my heart good to see you out yonder in the yard. You haven’t been off the front porch in a couple of weeks.”
“Okay,” agreed Chuck, releasing the brake on
his chair. “Let’s go.”
Maggie steered him down a ramp at the far end of the porch, then along the sidewalk that led to the gate of the picket fence. When they reached the edge of Sycamore Road, Chuck stared at the three bikes that were parked next to the mailbox. Keith’s and Maggie’s bicycles looked the same as usual, but the right side of Rusty’s ten-speed was obscured by a threadbare horse blanket. There seemed to be something large and bulky hidden underneath.
“So what’s the big surprise?” he asked.
Rusty looked over at Keith. “It’s your baby, cuz. You do the honors.”
Keith smiled. “Okay.” He walked over and, taking a corner of the blanket in hand, yanked the cover away with a dramatic flourish. “Ta-daaaa!”
Chuck couldn’t believe his eyes. Rusty’s bike had a strange-looking contraption bolted to its frame. To put it simply, it was a modified metal trash can with the lid riveted securely in place. A hole had been cut in the uppermost side and, in its hollow, was a padded seat from a fishing boat. A bicycle wheel was connected to an axle at the side of the can opposite the ten-speed. Chuck had seen similar vehicles in his history books, mostly affixed to the sides of German motorcycles. This was a crude imitation, but theoretically practical.
“Is this what I think it is?” he asked in amazement.
“It sure is,” said Rusty.
“A sidecar. You built a freaking sidecar.” Stunned, Chuck looked around at his friends. “For me?”
“That’s right,” said Maggie. She regarded the boy from Atlanta with undisguised admiration. “You’ve got Keith to thank for it. He was the one who came up with the idea.”
“Is that right?” asked Chuck.
“Yeah,” said Keith. He felt his face grow hot and red with sudden embarrassment. “Anybody could’ve done it.”
“But you hardly even know me,” said the boy in the wheelchair. “Why would you want to do something nice for me?”
