Down Where My Love Lives

by Charles Martin

  The breeze filtered through the leaves above, bounced off the river, and swirled around my collar and back through the corn. It was gentle, cold, and quiet. And that was good.

  ON DECEMBER 30, THE WEATHER WAS BITTERLY cold and overcast as I walked down the drive to check the mail. It had been unusually cold in Digger this year, but this was getting ridiculous. Amos had borrowed his Expedition from me and driven to town to get some groceries. Since the accident, a bunch of women from his church had cooked him casseroles, pies, meatloaf, roasts, and more pies, but he had eaten all that already, and Amos wasn't one to let himself go hungry. I decided to spend the morning by myself, but when Amos got back with his truck I'd drive in and check on Maggs.

  The chill wind whipped around my boxer shorts, dropping the temperature from real cold to even colder and persuading me to move quickly. I was standing by my mailbox, freezing and stuffing mail under my arms, when a Chevrolet Lumina with the words Mike's Courier Service on the side screeched to a halt behind me. I dropped the mail and turned to see who had just scared three years off my life. A sixteen-year-old kid, with more zits than cream could cure, hopped out.

  "You Dylan Styles?" He was holding an envelope and waving it in my direction.

  "I'm Dylan," I said, jogging in place and wondering if the hole in my boxers was open.

  "You're hard to find. I been driving around these dang boondocks for an hour and a half. How do you live out here? This is Egypt." He shook his head and threw the envelope at me. Without another word he hopped back into the car, gunned the engine, spun the tires, fishtailed, and disappeared.

  I jogged back to the house, dropped the mail on the floor, and took the letter over to the sofa by the fireplace to open it. It was printed on watermarked paper, embossed at the top, and signed by my boss at the college, Mr. Winter.

  December 27

  DearDr Styles,

  Your teaching performance and student evaluations are exemplary. As a result, the DJC Board and I are pleased to offer you a one-year contract extension for this coming school year. We would be delighted to have you join our staff on a more permanent basis. If you so desire, please sign the attached, keep a copy for yourself, and return the other to me at your earliest convenience. I am available at any time if you wish to call.

  Happy New Year.

  Sincerely,

  William T. Winter

  Chair, English Department

  Digger Junior College

  I scratched my head and looked down at Blue, who was studying me and pointing his nose toward the wind.

  "Well, I'll be." I pointed to the letter. "Looks like I might get to teach after all. Go figure."

  Blue hopped up on the sofa, put his head in my lap, and rolled over, sticking his stomach in the air. I leaned back, propped my sockless feet on the coffee table, and thought how much I liked the sight of my drum perched atop the mantel. I thought Maggie would like it too.

  BY MIDAFTERNOON, AMOS HADN'T SHOWED, SO I thumbed a ride to town with the contract in my pocket. I wanted to show it to Maggie. I stood in the cold for forty-five minutes before anyone passed me, but an hour later, the second car stopped. The driver was a young guy making his way to a party. He was eighteen and driving a 1979 Pontiac Trans Am. The same thing Burt Reynolds drove in Smoke), and the Bandit, although my new friend had made a few alterations to the engine.

  "Yup," he said, stroking the gearshift, "this one here's got the small block fo'hundr'd. So I bored it, stroked it, polished it, threw in some angle plug heads, a solid lift cam, couple of eight-sixties, and then I run the exhaust out through some three-inch headers and a couple of glass-packs. She's loud, but she'll dang near fly. I figure I'm pushing a little over fo'hundr'd hos'pow'r. On top of that, I took the rear end out of a seventy-two 'Vette and locked her down pretty tight. Lowered my gears to around fo'eleven."

  I could barely hear him, but I believed him. He hit the accelerator and pinned me so hard against the seat that we were going eighty before I could lift my head up. It was the loudest, fastest car I had ever ridden in. He could burn rubber in all four gears, and he was all too happy to show me. The dashboard was a cockpit of gauges, switches, and flashing lights. I don't know how he saw the road over the thing sticking out of the hood.

  We drove the remaining twelve miles to town in about seven minutes. We were going so fast at one point that when I opened my eyes, the dotted yellow line in the middle of the road looked solid. I tried to thank him when he dropped me off, but he couldn't hear me over the exhaust. He said he was on his way to the gas station, so I gave him the three dollars I had been saving to buy my dinner. I would have given him more, but the only other thing in my pocket was the next year's contract, and I didn't know how that could help him.

  Maggs was serenely beautiful when I walked in. I married above myself. Lord, that is one good-looking woman. I sat down next to the bed and held her hand in mine. A familiar feel. Her fingers had been more active since Christmas. I even think she squeezed me once, but it was hard to tell. Maybe it was only more of that involuntary spinal activity that the doctor told me not to get too excited over.

  I squeezed her hand anyway. Every time I sat down in that chair, I squeezed her hand three times. That meant "I love you." Maggs knew that. Throughout our dating and married life, three squeezes of any kind always meant "I love you." And the person getting squeezed squeezed back either two or four times. Two squeezes meant "Me too" and four, "I love you too."

  When I squeezed her hand that day, Maggs squeezed me once. No, it wasn't two, three, or four squeezes, but it was a squeeze. And don't tell me that was some spinal reaction. That was a soul thing. I told her about the contract, and her eyeballs began rolling back and forth behind her eyelids, and her breathing picked up. I sat there laughing. Laughing at the thought of a college hiring me to teach on a regular basis.

  As I was sitting in Maggs's room, somebody knocked on the door. I kissed Maggie and cracked the door. It was Koy.

  "Hello, Professor. Sorry to bother you, but I wonder if I could talk with you."

  "Sure," I said. "Give me a minute." I covered Maggie's shoulders with the blanket, made sure her socks were pulled up on her feet, turned out the lights, and closed the door behind me. Koy and I walked down to the coffee machine; I poured myself a cup and offered one to her. She shook her head.

  "Um, Professor." She took off her glasses and looked around behind me to see if anyone else was listening. "Do you still have the, um ... the readmit I gave you?"

  "I think so. I think it's in my roll book at home. Why?"

  "Well," she said, fumbling with her glasses. "I was wondering if I could have it back." She looked at the ground and waited for my response.

  "Sure, you can have it back." I paused and looked closer. She looked as though she hadn't slept in a few days. 'Roy, are you all right?"

  "Yeah, I was just wondering if I could have it back. That's all."

  "I'll bring it to school next week. I've got to turn in grades."

  "Well," she stuttered, "I-I was wondering if I could have it sooner."

  "Only if you don't mind coming to get it."

  "I don't mind," she said quickly.

  "I won't be home until late tonight, but if you come by tomorrow, I'll be there most of the day."

  "Thanks, Professor. See you tomorrow."

  Koy left, and after a minute I slipped out a side exit. I didn't want her to see me walking home, and I sure didn't want her to offer me a ride. The sight of a teacher and a student alone in a car has led to more than one accusation. Home wasn't that far away. I'd walked it before.

  I was about three miles from the hospital when Amos came flying up behind me. He pulled alongside. "Thought that was you."

  I climbed in. "Man, am I glad to see you. It's getting cold again. "

  "Amanda's going home tomorrow," he said. "Pastor John stopped me in the grocery store and said they were releasing her in the morning."

  He dropped me off at the end of the driv
e, so I turned up my collar and walked through the pitch black with my hands in my coat pockets. When I got to the porch, somebody with sunglasses was sitting on the front steps, resting her head in her hands. Like the courier service guy, she scared another three years off my life.

  "Koy?"

  "Sorry, Professor. I couldn't find a light switch."

  "Well, the sun will be up in about eight hours."

  "Yeah. I thought maybe I could get that readmit tonight."

  She looked cold, but not from the temperature, and she sounded as though she'd been crying.

  "I'll get it." I walked inside, turned on the porch light, got the receipt, and walked back out on the porch. I handed it to her, and this time she did not take her glasses off.

  "Thanks, Professor."

  "Koy?" I said. "You don't have to answer me, but why do you want it?"

  "I j -just want to keep it," she stammered and walked backwards to her car. "Thank you, Professor." She closed her door and slowly drove out of the driveway. It was eleven when she left.

  I went inside, rubbed Blue between the ears, and poured myself a cup of milk. Standing on the porch, stargazing and sipping some sweet, creamy milk, I watched as a northwest breeze picked up and flapped through my corn.

  My dry and very dead corn.

  I polished off the milk and grabbed a match from the mantel. At the edge of the cornfield, with the wind blowing behind me, I struck the match and lit the stalk in front of me. It sputtered as the wind caught it and almost went out. I cupped my hands around the dead leaf and gave it another chance. In under two minutes, the fire was raging. I stepped back, crossed my arms, and watched it spread across twenty acres, quickly turning the field into a single, huge, roaring blaze.

  Amos saw the flames and came running out of his house. He ran up my drive in his socks and grippers, dodging sparks and flames and breathing hard. He shouted above the crackle and roar, "Ivory, have you lost your mind?"

  I stood there watching the glow and lost in the flames.

  "No," I said, as the fire reached the road and began to die. "Actually, I'm just starting to get it back."

  Amos shook his head and started jogging back to his house. I heard him mutter to himself, "Blasted idiot. All that education and he's still dumb as a brick. Burn my house down ..."

  I stood there long enough to watch the fire die and feel the cold return. Then I skipped back inside, lay down on the couch, and for the first time in several months, slept peacefully in my own house.

  JAKE POWERS OWNS JAKE'S JALOPY. ASIDE FROM being the only auto repair shop in town, it's also the only car dealership in Digger. You might say he's got a monopoly on a very small market. His selection is a hodgepodge of nearly new and very used cars and trucks ... mostly very used. Not a single car on the lot is still under extended warranty, much less factory warranty.

  The place reminds me of the Island of Misfit Toys. How Jake has managed to stay in business this long is the Eighth Wonder of the World. And it's not as if he can sell. I think people go there because they feel sorry for him, his mealymouthed wife, and his four pitiful-looking kids. Actually, the whole pitiful thing is probably a marketing ploy. He's probably a mastermind when it comes to yanking a customer's chain.

  I was a perfect case in point. I had made up my mind that I was going to Walterboro to buy a real car, the kind with zero miles, when I remembered the billboard that showed the happy Powers children sitting on Mom and Dad's lap. Underneath, the caption read, Come to fake's Jalopy. Your purchase will help me feed my kids.

  It's pretty well known that if you want something reliable, something with a warranty, something that won't leave you stranded, you better get to Walterboro. But if you're in a fix, and you're a sucker, a Jake's jalopy will do. I wasn't really in a fix, but I didn't feel like haggling with a Walterboro car salesman, and besides, Jake had my truck. Maybe I could interest him in a trade. To be honest, I had an idea of my own. I also remembered that Jake worked holidays and would be open on New Year's Eve. So I headed out the drive and began walking to Jake's.

  After a seven-mile jog-walk with Blue at my side, I turned in the lot.

  "Hey, Jake."

  Jake stepped between me and the gate before I could change my mind and leave.

  "Hey, Dylan, how are you doing?"

  Jake and I graduated high school together, and he's always been a little slow on the uptake. Truth is, he does have a child with some special needs, and he's good to his family. He works all the time, and the lot is always open. During Christmas, many people get their trees there. He'll hold as many trees as your wife wants to look at without batting an eye. Then he'll give you a fresh cut, load it on top of your car, tie it down, and wish you a Merry Christmas, which he genuinely hopes you have.

  "I'm fine," I lied. The truth would take too long. "How's my truck?" I asked.

  He shook his head. "Cooked. Engine's burnt slap up. It'd cost you more to put a new engine in it than what the truck is worth."

  This was where Jake usually started trying to sell you something on his lot. But I knew this going in, so I just listened. Besides, he wasn't the only one scheming.

  He continued, cocking his head as if he were doing me a favor. "I might could give you more in trade than you'd ever sell it for."

  "Well, what do you have?"

  Jake smiled, and behind his eyes I could tell he was doing the math. Old Jake thought he had me. But months ago I had seen a truck in the back of his lot that had piqued my interest. When mine burned up, I had the excuse I was looking for.

  He slid a tattered three-by-five card from his shirt pocket and looked through the bottom of his glasses. "Let's see ... " He scanned his card. "With a family and all, you probably need something like ... " He squeezed his chin between his fingers. "Like this van here." He pointed to a Chrysler van at the front of the lot, parked beneath the row of flapping red, white, and blue flags.

  It would take a bigger sucker than I was to leave there with that thing. I pointed to the back of the lot and said, "Uh, Jake, what about that truck?"

  Jake looked up from his card and said, "Oh yeah. That truck."

  We both gazed at the faded orange Ford pickup, covered in leaves and parked against the rear fence.

  "Wow. You know how to pick 'em, Dylan." He slapped me on the shoulder as we walked to the back of the lot. "That's a '76 Ford F-150, four-wheel drive, no doubt. It's got about 140,000 miles on it, but the engine was just rebuilt and it's only got eight hundred miles on the new one, transmission, and rear-end."

  Jake took off his glasses and kind of looked around before he continued. "Dylan, I know I sometimes sell some less-thanstellar stuff, but to the right owner, this is some decent transportation. I mean, the bed is rusted and duct tape covers some of the tears in the seats, but as for reliability?" Jake quietly patted the hood of the Ford. "I think this may be one of the more reliable units on the lot."

  In this particular instance, Jake was probably telling the truth.

  "It's got a four-sixty with a couple of small modifications. I think it dynos at about four hundred horsepower." He squinted his eyes in the sun. "Is that too much for your needs?"

  "No." I tried not to smile. "I can probably make do."

  "Okay, um ... The gauges work pretty well, and the tires ... " Jake kicked the tires. "They look pretty good. They're a little big for my taste, but you own a farm, so they might come in handy." He rested his hand on the top of the tire that came to the middle of his thigh. "How 'bout twenty-five hundred?"

  Jake was reaching. He must have been having a tough month. The thing wasn't worth fifteen hundred. Not to anybody.

  Except me.

  He interrupted me before I could reply. "Nope, I tell you what, I'll give you five hundred for your trade and take fifteen hundred, but that's just 'cause you and me got some history."

  I shook my head. `Jake, you're too good to me." I rubbed my hands together, as though I were doing the figuring in my head. Good thing Jake couldn't rea
d my mind. I'd have paid ten.

  "Will you take three?"

  "Well, all right, I can cut it to a thousand, but ..." Jake scratched his head. "What did you say?"

  "I said I'd feel bad if I took her for less than three thousand. This is a classic, and you and I both know it. You're just doing me a favor 'cause we've known each other so long." I slapped Jake on the back and handed him my driver's license.

  His eyes doubled in size, and he looked at me as though I had lost my mind.

  "Dylan?" He collected himself. "Umm, yeah, let's go inside and get started on the paperwork."

  While he was sitting at his desk, Jake's smile grew. The smile alone was worth three grand. The truck was just the icing on the cake. Or at least that's what I was going to tell Amos when he gave me a hard time about buying this truck from Jake.

  I reassured him. "Yeah, Jake, I really do appreciate your kindness. I know you're an old pro, and you know cars. I also know that you've always been good to the people who come in here. You've done a lot of good in Digger. 'Specially come Christmas, or when folks just need some help."

  Jake squinted again as if he wasn't quite sure what was coming next. "I have?" he asked. "I mean .. ." He cleared his throat. "I have. Thanks for noticing."

  "Listen, we all do," I lied again.

  Jake handed me the key and said, "I'll hold the title, of course, and send it to you in about twenty-four months. If that's okay with you."

  "Sounds good. Hey, tell Liza and the kids I said hello."

  Jake looked as though he'd just seen Elvis. He nodded, and I climbed up in the truck.

  Finally, a four-wheel drive. I hit the starter, and it rumbled into a slow idle. Ahhh. It's a truck thing. If you don't understand by now, you might as well quit, because you never will.

  As I was putting the stick into first, an older, hunchbacked, black woman pulled into the lot. She opened her squeaky door, climbed out of her car, walked over to Jake, and pulled out a neatly folded wad of bills. I overheard her say, "Mr. Jake, that's my ninth payment. I've got six more to go before it's paid for."