Lucky Strikes (18 page)

“You too hungover to talk?” I asked.

His hands made a web round his face. “Stop shining that damn thing.”

I laid the flashlight on the ground, but I set it at an angle so I could still pick him out of the shadows.

“Got any cigarettes?” he asked.

“Naw.”

“That's too bad.”

With his face still covered, he leaned his elbows on his knees and set to rocking.

“Christ,” he said.

“I'll bet,” I said. “Must've tasted right awful.”

“I'm not so used to it as I was.…”

The whip-poor-will was quiet now, but the frogs was twanging their hearts out. First streaks of purple was stealing out of the black.

“Listen here,” I said. “I know we didn't put nothing down in writing, but I could swear we agreed on no drinking. If I weren't clear on nothing else, I believe I was tolerable clear on that.”

“I believe I was still a little drunk when I agreed.”

“You think this is funny.”

“No,” he said. “I don't.”

I looked at him.

“Honestly, Hiram, it ain't even me I'm thinking of, it's Earle. He ain't had a lot of menfolk to look up to. If you gotta know, you're kind of
it
in that department, so…” I stared down at my feet. “So I guess I don't want him ever finding you like this.”

“I'm grateful he didn't.”

He stopped rocking and started in to rubbing at his face, but that just seemed to make things worse, so he let his hands drop to his sides and rested his face on his knees.

You won't believe this, but in that moment, I was really wishing I could sew. Oh, I know that sounds crazy, but I'm telling you it takes the awkwardness out of things. I've seen more than one woman pour her terrors into a piece of calico.

“Funny thing about that moonshine,” I said. “I always tell Janey and Earle it's been sitting in yonder cellar since—well, since the night Emmett Tolliver brung it. Ain't nobody's ever touched it, that's what I always say, but that ain't true.”

His face cut a little my way.

“Toward the end there,” I said. “With Mama, I mean. Well, you know there ain't much space 'tween her bed and ours—just a curtain to block out the sound. So when the pain come grabbing at her, I don't know, it was like she was right there in bed with us. I couldn't sleep through it. Neither could the kids.”

He watched me through the slits of his eyes.

“There was one night,” I said, “the sound got so bad, I figured I'd best do something about it. So I went down to that there root cellar and drug up Emmett Tolliver's moonshine. Lord, it's heavy! I don't rightly know how you carried it as far as you did. But I managed to pour some in a milk glass, and I mixed it with some flat Dr Pepper. Mama's mouth was already kinda
swung
open, so all I had to do was pour a little inside. She didn't gag or nothing, so I poured in a little more, then a little more, and she swallowed the whole damn brew.

“Well, sure enough, the groaning stopped, and her breathing got easy and, a few minutes later, she was down. Slept straight through till morning, too, which was a miracle. I 'member I woke in a fright, thinking something was wrong, but she was just sleeping.

“So that's how it took. Every night I'd give her some of Emmett Tolliver's medicine and some Dr Pepper, and she was glad to have it. And what with the jug doing its work—well, Janey and Earle could go stretches not even pondering on things, 'cause I'd pack 'em off to school at dawn, and when they come back, I'd just load 'em down with chores, and after supper I'd send 'em out to play and only bring 'em in when Mama was dosed up but good.

“Won't deny I felt guilty some nights. Owing to that she'd sworn off the booze and all. But I reckoned this was a special case.”

Slow as he could, he raised his head. “Why are you telling me all this?”

“'Cause the only other person who needed Emmett Tolliver's medicine as bad as you? She was in the business of dying. So whatever pain
you're
in, I'm guessing it's rough.”

He closed his eyes, dragged the skin back from his face.

“Listen,” I said. “If this is any way my doing—”

“It isn't.”

“Then what?”

“I guess”—he opened his eyes halfway—“I guess it's what comes of thinking on things.”

“What kinda things?”

“Mortal things.”

“Like death, you mean?”

“Like love,” he said.

“Love?” I said.

He curled his arms round his chest.

“That first flutter, Amelia. It's like nothing else in the world. Never even knew how much I missed it.”

“That what you felt with Ida?”

“Mm.” One shoulder shrugged up. “No more than an echo, probably. What it
is
, you see, it's looking in someone's eyes and having them look back. Oh, I know, you're thinking a fellow as ugly as me, he won't ever know that.”

“Don't go putting—”

“Well, I'm here to tell you I do know, and it beats any liquor I've ever tasted. Only it goes away.”

Couldn't help but think of Dudley. Me watching him watch me.

“I was wrong,” I said. “Going and poking my nose in your life. You can see Ida all you want, I don't care. Hell, you can marry her tomorrow. I'll throw Rice Krispies.”

Half smiling, he lowered his head. “I believe that would be a waste of store inventory.”

“And if you're feared of townsfolk wagging their fool tongues, well, you oughtn't be. They's been wagging since we got here, and we don't pay 'em no never mind.”

“Well, now. If I were to concern myself with local gossip, I'd be an even poorer excuse for a man than I already am.”

I picked up the flashlight, turned it off.

“You ain't the worst excuse I seen,” I said.

He give that some study.

“Tell you what,” I said. “I'll get us some coffee going.”

“Would you?”

“Hiram.”

“Yeah.”

“What if I went and proposed something? Like in the way of a business arrangement?”

“Yeah?”

“Thing is, here it is getting on high summer, and I reckon that room of yours will get to roasting before long.”

“Already has.”

“So it occurred to me you might, you know, think about coming on down and sleeping in the house. In Mama's bed, I mean. Like, from now on.”

My two eyes met his one good one, then sidled off.

“'Cause think about it,” I said. “Nobody's using her bed, it's just going to waste. And it's gotta be a hell of a lot easier on the body than that nasty ol' tick mattress. God knows what's crawling inside it. I mean, it's just plain common sense.”

He was quiet. “You make a good case, Amelia.”

“'Course I do.”

“Consider me sold.”

“Well, okay, then.”

I bent down, give the bruise on my shin a light rub, then stood up again. To the east of us, red was piling on top of the purple. I could hear goldfinches.

“Coffee in ten,” I said.

“I'll be there.”

I was nearly out of his sight when he called after me. “Amelia…”

He was standing now, but just barely.

“Did you empty the whole jug?” he said.

“No.”

“Then I'll carry it back. And we'll save what's left for the next poor sap who needs it.”

 

Chapter

SEVENTEEN

All things considered, I was ready to give Hiram the day off. But a few hours later, he come trudging down the steps from his room—his breath clean, his face and hair washed—carrying what few belongings he had. The comb and the razor, the shaving cream, and I'd clear forgot about the root table, which was just small enough to fit over his right shoulder. He carried them all into the house, arranged them round Mama's bed. Then he come out again and set himself behind the store counter. Other than taking a longer nap than was customary, he didn't treat that day as different to any other, and neither did I. Even that crazy old redbird was back at work, hammering on the store window.

But that night, Hiram did something that hadn't been done in our house in a very long time. He cooked dinner.

I didn't even know what he was up to. First he lit the stove. Then, from the pie safe, he pulled out a big old cast-iron skillet, scabby with old food. He scraped it down and then rubbed it with some shortening. Then he opened up some old pork-and-beans cans, scooped out the pork pieces, threw them into the pan, and set the flame to high.

It was the sound drew us as much as the smell. The sound of food cooking. Had a far-off note to it, like a train crossing a trestle. Silently we stood round him as he cut up an onion and a stalk of celery and threw them in the pan, too, and then tossed some salt and pepper after.

“Janey,” he said, “hand me that wooden bowl, would you?”

He mixed up some water and a little cornstarch and sugar, then he threw that in the skillet, and he stirred and stirred. No more than five minutes later, it was done.

Janey frowned. “What is it?”

“Chop suey,” said Hiram. “Or as close as I can get.”

He set a trivet in the middle of the table and put the skillet on top, and then he ladled the stuff onto each of our plates. Earle took one forkful and closed his eyes.

“Sweet Jesus.”

“Where'd you learn this?” Janey said.

“When I was not much older than Earle over there, I met a man named Yan Sing in Hong Kong. Best cook I ever knew.”

“What the hell were you doing in Hong Kong?” I asked.

“Machinist's mate,” he said. “With the navy.”

“U.S. Navy?” said Earle.

“Some other kind.”

Well, that's how Hiram worked—throwing you off the moment you'd picked up his scent. When I look back on that summer, I remember him moving as little as a human can move, but in his accounts of himself, he was always on the go. Hong Kong, Chicago, Los Angeles, New York.

It gave me some disquiet, honestly, to see how built for speed he was. Everything he owned was in arm's reach. He could go hours without moving, then slip away the next minute like a cat. Many's the time he'd push a yawn back with his fist and wish us a good night and close Mama's curtain after him, and you'd roll right off to sleep and wake up next morning and find him long gone—the clothes never shed, the bed never slept in. Ten minutes later, he'd come strolling back down the south shoulder of Route 55, calm and easy, like the iceman pulling his wagon.

He'd never tell me where he'd been, but there was no denying the smell on him. Talcum and dried apricots and orrisroot. If you could've peeled the paper lining out of some lady's chifforobe, it'd have smelled like that.

Ida.

Only Hiram never looked like he'd been hugging and rubbing on some gal. More like he'd spent the whole night pushing something through his brain—till at last he'd be rolling a cig or shining his shoes or brushing his teeth in front of the washstand mirror, and the idea would come dropping out of him, quiet as a mitten.

“Hot dogs,” he'd say.

Which meant, what better way to lure back the kiddies of Warren County for another Saturday outing than with hot dogs?

“Popcorn…”

Which meant next Saturday, let's offer free popcorn.

“Compasses…” And the following Saturday, it was compasses. And after that board games and cutout kites stamped with
BRENDA
'
S OASIS
, and why stop there? Free matchbooks and spinning tops. Harmonicas and dice and bingo cards and Swedish yo-yos and Blue Eagle decals from the National Recovery Administration. Whatever could be got cheap and snapped up quick, Hiram would turn it into a premium and advertise it every Sunday in the
Warren County Register
, where, for seventy-five cents more, we could put our ad right on top of Harley Blevins's.

“I want him to
feel
us,” Hiram said. “Squatting on top.”

So if you're asking why I never squawked when Hiram went sneaking out of a night, it's 'cause I knew he'd be back the next morning with some new idea for the place. Maybe ten.
Let's get us a bigger Coca-Cola sign … rearrange the hunting-knife display … offer free iced tea for first-time customers … use a squeegee to clean the car windows.…

“Oh, and let me tell you where we're losing money, Amelia. That air pump. From now on, unless you're a customer, it's going to cost you a nickel. The Lord's air is free, ours isn't.”

Some of his dreams was easy to make true—taking down written orders, say, for every repair. Some, like the row of ten billboards he visioned between Walnut Ridge and Strasburg, well, they'd never come to pass in a million Julys. But whenever one notion fell away, another rose to take its place.

“Janey,” he said one evening, “how many wildflowers can you pick and bring home in one trip?”

“Queen Anne's lace or lily of the valley?”

“Either. Both.”

She stretched out her arms like a cross.

“That's fine,” he said. “That's how many I want you to bring home tomorrow morning. And then I want you to strew them all around. Alongside the road, in front of the store. Whatever looks gray and beaten down, lay some flowers on it.”

“What happens when they die off?”

“Get new ones. Now, Earle, you know a thing or two about planting, don't you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Gonna grow your own crops someday?”

“Maybe.”

“I want a dozen flowerpots. Petunias, geraniums, marigolds—whatever the car exhaust won't kill. I know the heat's getting fierce, but do you think you could manage it?”

“Easy.”

“We're going to put them all around the store, maybe a couple by the pumps. And when fall comes, I want some pansies along the walkway to the house. They'll pop up next spring, just when we'll be wanting them. Oh, and let's dig up that nasty forsythia bush. It only blooms three days of the year.…”