The Country Duet

by HJ Bellus

  “No, it’s dust.”

  I peer around the room and then lean in on her desk. “Ain’t no dust in here.”

  “Allergies.”

  I crook up an eyebrow, asking her to expand.

  “I’m allergic to emotions.” She grins slightly.

  “I’ve heard that can be the real shits,” I reply before laying my paperwork on her desk and going out to the shop.

  Chapter 3

  Hunter

  “Inside that book, it's my life-all the places where I'm hurting or I laughed or I cried or I prayed. And I've had to pray a lot!” –June Carter Cash

  I had a lingering feeling that the job at Dave’s wouldn’t pay shit as far as bills and my truck payment. The job at Frank’s really saved my ass. He’s been keeping me busy and impressed with my work.

  I’ve spent five Saturdays out at Dave’s now. The man grows more complicated each day. If it’s too windy, he doesn’t work. He doesn't like it too hot either. I’m learning Dave doesn’t care for much. If I’m honest, I hate it at Dave’s. It’s miserable.

  “Get those parts put up on that shelf,” he growls across the shop.

  I’m just thankful he doesn’t have me out in his damn truck, stopping every ten yards. The work he has me doing I could have done in a matter of minutes, but the man strings me along every step of the way making sure it’s done his way.

  “Not like that. Told you to stack them, boy.”

  I look at the boxes of rusty bolts and screws, and then over to him, gritting my teeth, hating the way he refers to me as a piece of trash. “They all fit up here and this way you can see the labels and know what’s in the box.”

  “Is this your farm, boy?” He stands from his bench. “Didn’t fucking think so. Stack ‘em.”

  This isn’t the first time Dave’s made it a point that things go his way, period. It’s not that I’m trying to test him; it’s my common sense I battle with. Everything Dave does is backward to me. The first lesson learned at this job was it’s Dave’s way or no way, end of story.

  “Thanks, Hunter,” he growls once the boxes are stacked in a fucking mess on the shelf.

  It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask him to repeat himself, but I only nod. Dave hasn’t learned that I’m just as hard-headed as him. It takes all of my self-control not to lose it with him. It’s the whole respecting elders, even if they are an asshole, that keeps me grounded.

  “You know I had a son.”

  I look up at him, shocked by his words.

  “Not paying you to stand there.”

  I continue sorting more scrap metal for Dave while he talks about his past.

  “Died when he was twenty-two years old in a boating accident. You know one of those fast ones. It was a jet boat race. Wife left me when I was in my thirties. Woke up one morning and she was gone. Lost touch with my son for several years, then had a good few years with him before he died. My brother died a few years ago. Ain’t got no one around here.”

  I don’t dare stop working. Dave is serious about getting my work in and often reminds me he’s paying me a hell of a lot of money. In his book, four hundred dollars is the magic number and well above what he should be paying me for the work I do. I haven't seen a paycheck yet. None of that really matters right now, not even his cranky ass attitude. This man is all alone, dying on the farm he loves. This may be junk in my hands, but it’s his treasure.

  “I’m real sorry about that, Dave.”

  “Ain’t much of a people person.”

  “No shit,” I reply, smiling, hoping it doesn’t piss him off.

  “No shit.” He smirks. “Seems I kind of like you.”

  I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from making a smartass comment. I keep focused on sorting, but can hear Dave walking around. It’s hard not to hear his bones grind against each other with each step. The sound is very unsettling.

  “You paying attention, Hunter?” Dave slaps my shoulder. “Move that box there and just toss them in. It would be a lot faster.”

  Our warm, fuzzy moment didn’t last long, and I didn’t miss the fact he’s called me by my name and not boy a few times now. Baby steps with this man might be the only way. He stays over my shoulder for the next couple of hours, critiquing every single one of my moves, shredding my last ounce of patience. It’s sorting shit for God sakes, we’re not building a damn space rocket.

  I’m not used to having someone over my shoulder dictating each move. Dad, Grandpa, and Uncle taught me once back home and then expected I’d follow through. Mistakes weren’t an option, and their respect is all I ever craved. Hell, I was thrown on horseback at five years old and was told to keep up, and I did.

  “Next week we will start working on those babies.” He points over to a line of tractors. “Got some work to do to get them back together.”

  That’s an understatement if I’ve heard one.

  I do perk up at the suggestion though. “Have my own metal art company back home. Love welding on the ranch.”

  “Well, you won’t be welding here. I need perfection and no one knows how to use my welder.”

  My tongue should be bleeding with how many times I’ve had to bite down on it today. I’m not about to get into a pissing match with him over welding.

  Two men walk into the shop, startling the shit out of me. Dave’s hearing is so bad he doesn’t hear them approach. I look past them to spot a vehicle since I never heard one pull in.

  “Excuse me,” one of them speaks first.

  Dave still doesn’t hear them.

  “Dave.” I reach over and tap his shoulder.

  He looks up at the two men, then turns back to whatever he was doing.

  “Dave,” I repeat, getting his attention.

  “Got our truck stuck in the mud. Any way we could get some help?”

  “What?” Dave hollers.

  They step further into the shop. The other man tries his luck at talking.

  “Our truck is stuck and needs help,” he says, louder this time.

  Dave cranes his neck to me. “What the fuck they say?”

  Before I have a chance to translate, one of them begins talking to me.

  “You know where the motorcycle jumps are?”

  “Yes,” I reply.

  “Buried our truck down there.”

  “Shit.” I grab the back of my neck. “That’s a good three miles out.”

  “Yeah, we’ve tried everything and can’t get it out.”

  Dave slams the top of a table. “Get the fuck out!”

  “We just need some help.”

  “You’re trespassing, and it’s fucking illegal. Get the fuck out!”

  The two men turn and leave, not asking another question. I remain shocked in place. The pieces slowly falling together. Dave does not care for people. But the million-dollar question still lingers…why me?

  “Could’ve been a bit nicer,” I tell him.

  “Bastards are trespassing, trying to steal my stuff.”

  “They needed help, Dave.”

  “They can fuck off.”

  We walk back to the house. The urge to bend over and pick him up hits me hard. The sound his body makes is too much to take and is starting to make me nauseous.

  “Dave, don’t punch me.”

  “Uh?” He keeps his eyes on the dirt path, his neck not having much range of motion.

  I bend over and scoop him up. I tense, waiting for his fists or at least a good assault with his nasty words. The sound of his body not creaking and cracking with each step is immediate relief. The sound is way worse than sharp nails down a chalkboard.

  “Thank you, Hunter.”

  Kind words coming out of Dave are enough to knock the air out of my lungs. I thought I had a tongue-lashing coming my way. Once I set him down on the porch and make sure he has his legs underneath him, I swear he growls at me before going into his house.

  I haven’t been back in there since that first day. The putrid smell is still walloping me from m
y stance on the porch.

  “Hunter, anyway you can change a light bulb for me?”

  I’m not thrilled about the idea of going into his house, but knowing for damn sure there’s no way Dave could manage changing a light bulb on his own.

  “Sure,” I agree, stepping in and trying not to gag. “Any reason you’ve got eight trash cans all pushed together, Dave?”

  “Old. Can’t get around well.”

  “You could go down to one, and I’d take out your trash.”

  “Ain’t nothing wrong with it.” He waves at the mess of overflowing, rotting garbage. “Light bulb that needs fixin’ is down the hall in my bedroom. Over on the counter is a new one.”

  There’s shit everywhere, just like in his shop. The counter is piled high with junk. It takes me a bit to find the light bulb, and when I do, there’s at least thirty of them. Then I spot a stack of soda. Not any stack of twelve packs, but a display you’d find in a store, except his is covered in dust with the colors on the box faded. Every item he has he owns multiples of, like he’s afraid he’ll run out. He catches me staring.

  “Don’t much like going to town. Not a real people person, so I buy shit in bulk.”

  “Next you’re going to tell me you have fifty pairs of black sweatpants somewhere.” I point to his pants. I’ve only seen him dressed from head to toe in black.

  “Don’t think about stealing a pair.” Dave creaks his way down the hall behind me.

  Why he didn’t just sit in his recliner is beyond me. Oh ,wait, I know he’s probably going to make sure I screw the damn light bulb in his way. There’s a tiny path to his bed, and I’m careful not to knock over stacks on my way to the lamp he pointed out. Soda bottles surround the lamp. There are at least a dozen soda bottles surrounding the lamp. Some are filled and others are not.

  I reach down to move a bottle to get to the lamp.

  “No.” Dave’s booming voice startles me. “Careful with those piss bottles.”

  “Piss bottles?” I turn and look at him with one in my hand.

  “Can’t get up and make it to the bathroom in time at night.”

  “Okay,” I reply.

  “Roll over and piss in them.”

  I set down the bottle of piss, struggling to tamp down the anger raging inside of me. How does someone get to this point in life and why in the hell hasn’t the community reached out to help him? I know he’s hard to get along with, but no one should live in these conditions. Shit, don’t they have nursing homes for these types of situations?

  I reach over the dusty lampshade that’s speckled with holes and change the light bulb, being careful to not knock over a bottle or even think about what’s in them. Dave must approve of my work since he turns and creaks back to his chair. By the time I catch up with him, he’s steadying himself to fall back in his recliner. Without thinking, I reach down and help him ease in.

  Lifting up my ball cap, I scratch my head, wondering when the last time he had a bath was or even a decent meal at that.

  “Mind if I clean up your trash, Dave?”

  He peers up at me with a confused look.

  “Wouldn’t be any problem,” I offer.

  He shrugs and picks up an old tractor magazine. “Ain’t gonna be paying you more for that.”

  That comment pisses off the man inside of me. I’m not here to take away the fortune he seems to think he has. Jesus, no one deserves these conditions. I know damn well, just from the little bit I know of Dave, if his body was still healthy he’d be doing better for himself.

  “I wouldn’t take your money anyway.” I stroll over into the kitchen.

  Where in the hell do I start? Rotting food and trash flow over the eight bins and is nestled between them.

  “Just burn that stuff in the burn pit,” Dave hollers from his recliner.

  I’m shocked when there’s only burnable trash everywhere. There must be a hoard of plastic somewhere on this farm. I run to my truck and grab a pair of gloves and begin the job. After several trips out to his burn pit, I throw a few gallons of gasoline on the putrid mess and light it on fire.

  Once the flames roar a beautiful red, I toss my gloves in along with the trash. I’m shocked Dave hasn’t died from something in his house. Mold or bacteria or some shit like that.

  “All cleaned up, and you’re ready to go, Dave.”

  Dave looks up to me with gratitude in his eyes, even if he’s unable to communicate it, it’s there. I’m sure there haven’t been many who’ve reached out to this man. He chooses not to make it an easy task. That’s on him. A hard pill to swallow.

  “You’ve got dinner or food to eat?” I ask.

  He points to a box of Kirkland protein shakes at the side of his chair. “Yep.”

  I clasp my hands together with an overwhelming sensation of sadness washing over me. “See you next Saturday.”

  I walk through the kitchen staring at the eight garbage cans, feeling like a little victory was won here today. When my hand grips the doorknob, a thought strikes me. I only come out here every Saturday. Yes, Dave has survived this long, but how many more days does he have before he dies in his own filth?

  I walk back to the living room where Dave is already dozing off. “Hey, Dave.”

  He looks up to me through groggy, heavy-lidded eyes.

  “Um, not sure how to ask this, but what happens when you need help and can’t get to a phone?” My throat tightens, bringing up such a sensitive subject.

  “The mail lady knows if my mail isn’t picked up to call the police.”

  “How do you get your mail?”

  “My fucking truck,” he growls, done for the day.

  The man has it all figured out. I massage the back of my neck and turn to leave, feeling a bit better knowing he has a backup plan. No matter how cruel and set in his ways the man is, I’d hate to know he might die one day without anyone knowing.

  Chapter 4

  Hunter

  “Talk low, talk slow, and don't talk too much.” –John Wayne

  “Give me ten minutes, and I’ll be there, Frank.”

  “Thanks, Hunter.”

  I end the call and toss the phone on my dash. There was no way in hell I was going to explain to another man that I needed to go home to shower and change into clean clothes to go work at a damn mechanic shop to help with engine work.

  Shit, I’ve apologized to my truck at least twenty times driving down the rocky, dirt road back to town. I hate working at Dave’s; it’s downright miserable, but I keep going back. I kept the information on the down low while home on Thanksgiving break, even though my mom was like a hound dog wanting details about Dave and the job at Frank’s. Let’s just say she got lots of information about Frank’s.

  Dave did finally pay me for work, and it did come with a speech about how it was too much money. My job has morphed from the tedious and worthless time out on the farm to taking care of him. His trash no longer overflows and his piss bottles are cleaned out more often. It doesn’t matter if I was going to pull a calf right now, I’d still go home and shower after work at Dave’s.

  Showered and in clean work clothes to just get dirty again, I rip open the door of the shop and tumble into another body. A loud oomph escapes the body I crashed into, then a flash of the perfect hue of auburn invades my vision.

  Teale jolts backward, flying to the floor with her arms and legs flailing for something to latch on to. I move fast, looping one arm around her waist, catching her right before she crashes into the concrete floor. I pull her up quickly, her arms looping around my neck while her feet scramble to meet the floor. Before they grace the unforgiving floor, the tip of her Chucks connects with my balls.

  “Shit!” I hunch over, making sure she’s on her feet before I do and moan out in misery.

  She squeaks, barely breaking through my pain-induced fog.

  “Hunter, so sorry.” She bends down, peering up in my face. “Was it your tally whacker?”

  I shake my head side-to-side, still unab
le to talk.

  “The begonias?” She cringes, asking the question.

  This time I nod and somehow chuckle.

  “Oh, shit, not the begonias. Want an ice pack or something?” Her voice is growing frantic.

  I stand up slowly, still cupping the family jewels. “No, I’ll be fine.”

  “Sorry, but it was kind of your fault for busting in here like your ass was on fire.” She twirls a strand of hair around her finger.

  This girl makes me smile. Our paths haven’t crossed much with my school and work schedule, but when they do, I’m always finding myself happy.

  “That hair twirling thing won’t work on me, Darlin’. Watch where you’re going.” I stride past her.

  “If you watched where you were going and weren’t swinging your tally whacker out in the open, you wouldn’t have aching baguettes right now.”

  I freeze in place and turn to her. “You know what, Teale?”

  She throws a hand on her hip and sasses right back. “What?”

  “I’ll take that ice pack.”

  She arches an eyebrow, knowing there’s more coming her way.

  “To cool down that hot head of yours,” I say.

  She huffs then walks out the door, slamming it behind her. I grin when she turns her head, letting her wild curls fly in the chilly air, just to see if I’m watching her. And I’m looking at her until she climbs into her car and speeds off like the Jeff Gordon she is. Any man with a pumping heart would’ve stared at that beautiful ass. It’s a given.

  “What do we have going on here?” I ask, walking into the shop.

  There’s car parts scattered everywhere surrounding a Dodge Ram truck. It’s a 1999 and known to be full of problems. I didn’t realize how damn tired and hungry I was until the mess in front of me stares right back at me.

  Frank tosses down a grease rag, then wipes his brow with the back of his arm. “Towed this piece of shit in this morning. Some passerby broke down out on the highway. Have all the parts to fix it, but need an extra pair of hands.”

  I waste no time rolling up my sleeves and working next to Frank. Hours pass by before the truck is put back together. The level of exhaustion right now out powers my need for food. Thank God, I don’t need to study for my test in English tomorrow. I’ve always been able to knock out an essay without blinking. Dad always told me it was because of my art of bullshitting.