by Louis Bayard
So I kept it small. Cleaning brushes. Carrying paint buckets. Pouring water and sweeping up mess and sending up pulley buckets of nails and screws. Sometimes, I’d just set and watch. Astonished that all this was going on round me without no plan nor blueprint, no supervisor nor foreman. Bubbling up like a spring.
Oh, I knew a brand-new gas station didn’t come for free. Someone’d have to pay for all this hardware and lumber and labor. But as the afternoon wore down and the air got prickly with the thought of rain, it begun to come home to me that there would be neither bill nor reckoning. The citizens of Walnut Ridge had done the one thing I never would’ve expected in a million Sundays. They had gathered round their Gas Station Pagans and raised them up.
Round about four thirty, a car come rolling in. A car that, from a distance, looked very like Harley Blevins’s butternut Chevy Eagle. In fact, it was. It shuddered to a stop three yards shy of me, set there for a spell in the heat. Then, inch by squeaking inch, the driver’s window rolled down, and a man leaned toward me. A man I never seen before, with a scrub of mustache and a trail of scab and scar winding down his forearm.
“Afternoon,” he drawled.
“Hey, sorry, mister. We don’t have no gas today, but if you—”
“I’m Tom Goggins. I suspicion my name is known to you.”
We was quiet a spell.
“It is,” I said.
“Well,” he said, “that’s a grief to me.” His hands clenched the steering wheel, then unclenched. “Miss Melia, I would like you to know I didn’t have nothing to do with this last business.”
“I know that, Mr. Goggins.”
He nodded. Breathed in and breathed out. “I’ve also been asked to hand something over to you.”
He reached toward the passenger seat and brought up a brown kraft envelope. Next thing I knew, it was resting in my hands.
“You may want to check,” he said, “just to be on the safe side.”
Sure enough, every last mug shot of Hiram Watts was there. In a neat stack, fastened with a paper clip.
“They’re yours,” I heard Tom Goggins say. “Courtesy of Mrs. Blevins. To do with as you will.”
I started to speak, but something stuck in my throat. So I took a breather and tried again.
“You be sure to thank Mrs. Blevins for me, will you?”
“I will.”
“Tell her to stop by anytime she likes.”
“She said the same ’bout you. She happened to notice you enjoyed her lemonade.”
“That I did,” I said.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a Zippo lighter. Set it in my palm and closed my fingers round it. “I reckon there needs to be another fire,” he said.
“You may be right.”
“I won’t never call us even.”
“We’re even.”
I give him half of a wave, he give me the other half. The car pulled away, slow as a milk wagon.
In the end, the only hard part was finding someplace I wouldn’t be seen. I had to cross the road and then head east for a spell. I set the envelope on the gravel, and then I lit each corner. The day was humid, but the envelope caught straight off. In less than minute, it was a pile of ash. I give a kick, and the ash scattered in soggy clumps.
We never saw the sun set—the clouds had it too wrapped up. Bit by bit, though, the heat lifted off, and the hammers rang quieter, and a hum rose as people set down their tools and made their homeward plans. Minnie-Cora’s new beau (who turned out to be her old beau) picked up his guitar and began to strum. From out in the dusk, a voice picked up the tune, and some other voice joined in, and before long, there was a ragged choir.
Show me the way to go home
I’m tired and I want to go to bed
I had a little drink about an hour ago
And it’s gone right to my head
Even with a normal voice, I ain’t never been the singing kind, but I set down on a pallet of two-by-fours and listened. After a couple choruses, I felt a knee nudging mine. It was Chester.
“Move over,” he said.
So we set there, the both of us, the voices ribboning round us.
Wherever I may roam
On land or sea or foam
You can always hear me singing this song
Show me the way to go home
And as the voices started dying out and folks gathered up their belongings, Chester said, “Not such a bad day’s work.”
Through the thickening air, I saw four freestanding walls, webbed together by joists. Three new barrels, a new icebox. A stack of oak floorboards. A stack of cherrywood shelves. And a whitewashed porte cochere, looking like it was new sprung from Hiram Watts’s mind.
“Not half bad,” I allowed.
“They’ll be back tomorrow.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
Chester stretched out his legs. “It’s too damn bad about the pumps,” he said. “I mean, your underground tanks are intact, but without anything to pump the gas out…”
“Everything in due time.”
Chester nodded.
“Oh, hey,” he said. “I went home and picked up my mail and … cripes, my eyes aren’t what they used to be. Can you read this for me?”
He brought something letter-sized out of his pocket. Soft and cream-colored.
“You getting a better class of client, Chester?”
“This one isn’t a client.”
Even in the dying light, I could make out the Standard Oil watermark.
Dear Mr. Gallagher,
In response to the unfortunate incident at Brenda’s Oasis in Walnut Ridge, Virginia, we at Standard Oil of New Jersey have been authorized to donate two (2) mint-condition calculating pumps—free of charge—for use by the station’s past and current owner.
We hope that, despite recent unfortunate calamities, Brenda’s Oasis and Standard Oil will continue to enjoy a long and mutually fruitful business relationship.
Please contact us soonest in order to discuss delivery of aforementioned pumps.
Yours most sincerely,
Ralph Blore
Vice President, Affiliate Operations
I read it three times through.
“This your doing?” I asked.
“Word travels fast in the hills, Melia.”
Greatly to my surprise, I commenced to laugh.
“Explain yourself,” he said.
“Oh, it’s just … Harley Blevins was always saying we had substandard pumps.”
Chester had himself a laugh, too.
“Well, then,” he said. “It was decent of him to get you some new ones.”
“Nothing decent about it. Standard Oil’s just covering its ass. They know what he was up to.”
“Be that as it may”—Chester wiggled the letter out of my hand—“there’s a saying somewhere about gift horses. And their mouths.” He refolded the letter, stuck it back in his jacket. “Now, I already phoned Mr. Blore. Pumps should be here by Monday. I also called your suppliers, and they’re ready to kick back in starting tomorrow. If everything comes together, Brenda’s Oasis could be back in business by middle of next week.” He eyed me. “Guess I thought that would make you happy, Melia.”
My gaze drifted from west to east.
“Kinda hard to think on the future,” I said.
“It’ll be here before you know it,” he said. “And hey, now, while we’re on that subject, I’ve got something else needs discussing. I have taken inventory of that house of yours, and it’ll be two or three weeks before it’s fit for humans.”
“Where you going with this, Chester?”
“Well, now.” He stood up, squared his shoulders. “You may not know it, but the Maison Gallagher, as I now prefer to call it, is a hell of a lot bigger than it looks. Why, at this very moment, it is hosting an aspiring nine-year-old nurse, an eleven-year-old hoarder of trash—I’m sorry, treasure—and an emaciated mutt of highly dubious ancestry. Who will never eat steak again. But here’s
the wonder! There’s room for one more.”
And lo and behold, here was Mina Gallagher. Sidling up to us like she was answering a signal from on high.
“What Chester means to say, Melia, is would you do us both the kindness of staying in our home? Till you get back on your feet.”
As she spoke, I couldn’t help but see her hand curve itself round Chester’s elbow. They stood there, the two of them, making one front.
“It’s just for now,” I said.
“’Course,” said Chester. “You think we could stand you for longer than that?”
Chapter
THIRTY-TWO
There was but one person that didn’t have no intention of staying at the Gallagher house, and that was Hiram. Oh, he didn’t have nothing against Mina and Chester, but soon as he knew he was leaving the hospital, he told anybody who’d listen that he wanted to go home.
“It’s a mess,” I told him. “Reeks of smoke half a mile away. The floors and beds are soaked through. There’s scum on the walls and nothing in the larder.”
“As long as it’s got a roof,” he’d say.
Well, it turned out the mattress to his old bed weren’t too badly off—at least it didn’t squish when you laid on it. I dug a ratty quilt out of the closet, and Mina brought over a pillow and a fitted sheet, and Earle, he brought Gus, who was longing so bad for the old homestead he come near to tearing down what was left of the front door.
Hiram was walking with a cane now, but he took the last few steps to bed by himself, and Gus jumped in.
“Looks like we’re good to go,” he said, thumbing down his lids.
When I pulled up next morning, he was already standing in front of the store. Staring at it with God-fearing eyes.
“What you waiting for?” I asked.
“Guess I lost my key.”
He shuffled from aisle to aisle, taking in every improvement. The oak floors, still smelling of Murphy Oil Soap. The track ladders and the new hardware cabinet—eight-sided and revolving—and the icebox. The pickle barrel, even stouter than the last, with its handsome iron hoops. The pea, rice, and bean bins, each with their own glass front.
He saved the best for last. The cherrywood store counter, planed down to the smoothness of new skin, shiny with mineral oil and beeswax. And sitting atop it a spanking new National cash register, courtesy of Venable’s Drug.
“I’ll be,” he said softly. Using his cane for balance, he propped himself on his brand-new stool. “Don’t know that I deserve all this.”
“You’ll get used to it,” I said.
We hadn’t put out word on when Hiram was coming back, so every customer who walked in the store that morning give a little shout of surprise at seeing him there. From outside, listening to all the greetings and pleasantries, you’d have figured the old times had marched right back into town without missing a step.
But your eyes would’ve told you different.
Like you’d hear Joe Bob call out, “Hiram, what you got in this here blend? It’s your best joe yet.” Then you’d watch him pause in the doorway on his way out and give his head a hard shake. Minnie-Cora Harper, she brought in her new (old) beau, chatted up a storm, then left with an ugly crease on her forehead. Dutch went in noisy as an osprey, then staggered out with a face grave as winter. Mrs. Goolsby run back to her car like Old Scratch was on her tail.
And here’s the thing, not a one of ’em would look me in the eye as they left. Even Warner! It made me wonder what all them folks was seeing that I couldn’t. So I went in the store myself, but all I found was Hiram fast asleep.
An hour before his usual nap time. And instead of being tipped back in his stool, he’d just gone and laid his head on the counter. When I come back half an hour later, he was just sputtering back to life. When closing time come, he shuffled out toward the pumps, beckoned Dudley over, and leaned into his ear.
Now, I couldn’t hear what was being said, but when I got to the station next morning, Dudley was getting the lay of the store. Item by item, Hiram walked him through the inventory. Told him which shelf placements worked best. How to keep the coffee from turning bitter. Little tricks to make the ice last longer in the icebox. Where to order pickles from, where not to. When to go with the Heinz supplier over the Campbell’s supplier.
“Now listen, Dudley, some lady tourist comes in looking for a Nestlé bar, what do you do?”
“Sell it to her?”
“Then what?”
“Don’t know.”
“You say, ‘How ’bout some film for that Beau Brownie camera of yours? Say now, is your husband a fisherman? Well, now, there’s a lure that drives Shenandoah trout wild with desire, and it’s right over here.…’”
“I don’t think I can do all that, Hiram.”
“There’s no trick to it. You’re just showing them all the things they’d be buying if they only knew.…”
Again, if you was just to listen to him, you’d have thought he was back in business. Only he fell asleep even earlier than usual and slept for longer, and when two o’clock rolled round, he tapped Dudley on the shoulder and said, “Packing it in, my friend.”
He slept the rest of the day. Woke a little after seven in a fever, his breath coming in quick hard gasps, his heart pecking like a bird. He was able to swallow down some aspirin, though, and when I left him at nine, he was fast asleep with Gus curled up at his feet.
Next morning, he was still asleep, but all the sheets and linens and quilts had been thrown off, and Gus was running round the bed, barking up something fierce and giving a specially nasty look at Hiram’s feet, which had swollen to near half again their size.
I put in a call to Doc Whitworth, who was there inside an hour, clutching the same bag he’d brought to see Janey. This time I didn’t have no front porch to wait him out, so I hung over by the garage, finding new ways to arrange socket wrenches. Can’t rightly say if the time passed quick or slow. All I know is I looked up at some point and Doc Whitworth was there, the bag still in his hand.
“Want to go for a walk?” he said.
“Can’t you just—”
“Let’s walk,” he said.
We didn’t go far, maybe fifty yards west, before his head lowered a grain.
“It’s not looking good, Melia.”
“They got the bullet out,” I said.
“I know.”
“They got it out. They sewed him up.”
“The infection’s spreading all the same, and there’s nothing we can do to stop it. His organs are shutting down.”
I don’t know why, but I thought of the organs they used to have in movie theaters—before the talkies come. Shutting down and nothing left but pictures flickering on a screen.
“How long we looking at?” I said.
His hands circled by his side. “Maybe a couple days. Maybe a week.”
“And there ain’t nothing else you can give him?”
“We can set him up with some morphine. To ease the pain.”
“Pain.” I snorted, half turned away. “We got Emmett Tolliver’s moonshine for that.”
“I could find you a nurse, too, if you like.”
“You’re looking at her.”
“Melia…”
“Oh, what?” I said, turning on him. “You think it’s too big a job for a little girl? You think I don’t got enough experience in this line of work?”
“I’d say you’ve altogether too much.” With sad eyes, he watched a produce truck trundle down the road. “Do me the one favor,” he said.
“What?”
“If you’re going to stay with him, at least don’t sleep here. Give yourself that much. Spend your nights with the Gallaghers.”
“How can I do that?”
“You won’t do him any good if you’re dead on your feet, Melia. Sleep in a real bed and come back the next morning. Will you promise me that?”
I started walking back toward the station. Long, twitchy strides. Then I stopped and waited for him to
catch up.
“Only if Hiram’s okay with it,” I said.
He nodded. Swung his bag to his other hand. “Wife’s holding supper.”
“’Course.”
“I’ll check in tomorrow, shall I?”
“Sure.”
“Can’t tell you how sorry.”
I closed early that evening. Looked in on Hiram to make sure he was sleeping. Then sent Dudley home with a message for Chester and Mina. Ate a dinner of Kraft Caramels and Sugar Daddies.
The night come on slow, and in the space of time just before the sun snuffed itself out, I found myself staring at the branches of the crape myrtles. Wondering how it was they could carve themselves out of the sky like that.
“Jesus, what time is it?” Hiram stood wobbling in the front doorway.
“You shouldn’t be up,” I said.
“I can’t just lie around all day. I’m not a fungus.” He give his head a long scratch. “Any chance you can rassle up a cig for an old man?”
I got him a pack of Lucky Strikes from the store. Lit one for him and one for me.
“Where the hell’s the porch?” he said.
“It went away in the fire.”
“Huh.” He stared at the ramp beneath his bare feet. “Where are we going to sit, I wonder?”
So I fetched a couple of saggy-ass cane-bottom chairs from the house. It took him a few seconds of writhing before he could get anywhere close to comfort. We was quiet awhile. Then, from nowhere, he said, “I’ll miss this place.”
“Hell,” I said. “It’s not like you got anyplace else to be.”
“I have many places to be. I only said no one was—”
“—expecting you at any of them. Yeah, I remember.”
Five and a half months ago.
“What I mean,” he said, “is this is probably the most beautiful place I’ve ever been.”
“Go on.”
“No, I mean it.”
“What about Hong Kong?”
“Bah.”
“New York. San Francisco. What about Hollywood?”
“Just a big ashtray with palm trees stuck in the middle. It doesn’t have this,” he said.
