Stiffs and Swine (3 page)

“Harris is the only one with enough computer savvy to do that,” Francis said. “He and I have talked shop more than once.”

James looked up and saw a line forming at the reference desk. Patting Francis on his back, he said with more assurance than he felt, “We’ll get to the bottom of all this. Why don’t you help those patrons while Scott handles shelving? I’ve got to make some phone calls to fellow Virginian librarians.”

“Is there a conference coming up?” Scott inquired.

“No.” James rubbed his temples, which had begun to throb. “I’m hoping one of them knows of a nice, fat grant that’s just sitting around waiting to be claimed. Lena’s run her last trip, men, and I can’t do another thing until I figure out a way to get us a new bookmobile.”

After work, James forced himself to visit the YMCA, where he spent forty minutes on the elliptical reading the latest Barry Eisler thriller.

“You know, you’d burn twenty percent more calories if you’d close that book,” Bennett remarked as he stepped onto the machine next to James’s.

“No, I’d burn one hundred percent less, because I wouldn’t be here,” James replied breathlessly. “Everyone thinks librarians just sit around and read all day, but this is one of the few chances I have to catch up on my To Be Read pile.”

Bennett brandished a copy of
The Big Book of American Trivia
and set it on top of his elliptical with a thump. He then used a potato chip bag clip to keep the pages from closing and programmed the machine. Smoothing his toothbrush mustache, he climbed onto the elliptical and began to pump his arms and legs. “I hear you, man. If I’m going to make it onto
Jeopardy!
I’ve gotta read every free second of the day.” He chuckled. “Maybe I’ll get lucky and there’ll be a barbecue category when I get to the tryouts in Philly in August.” His face grew stormy. “If only I was ready when the contestant search was in D.C. last March. I couldn’t pass that damned online test, so I knew there was no sense in goin’ and makin’ a fool out of myself. Shoot,
Alex
might’ve been there.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself,” James panted. “You said it was nearly impossible to pass the written test, right?”

Nodding, Bennett puffed, “Most folks fail. You gotta pass the test and then play a mock game. I’ve been practicing every night for years, so I’m not frettin’ over that bit, and I’ve passed the online test a mess of times this summer, so I feel like I’m gettin’ close to my goal.”

“Well, I’ve seen you push buttons on your TV remote like you were an actual contestant. You’ve got a lightning fast trigger finger,” James complimented his friend. “I know you’re going to make it on the show, Bennett. And when you do, maybe you can win enough money to buy our library a new bookmobile.”

Bennett rolled his eyes. “I’m sure you’ll dream up some crazy scheme to get your hands on some greenbacks. You’ve done it before, my man.” He snorted. “Shoot, just get your girlfriend to put an ad in her paper saying the person who gives the most loot gets the new book bus named after them.”

James considered Bennett’s idea for a moment. “That’s not half bad. I think I will ask Murphy to run an ad on behalf of the library.”

“Things still goin’ strong with you two, then?” Bennett asked, and James wondered whether his friends approved of his relationship with the feisty reporter. Even though Murphy had helped the Flab Five solve a murder case last winter, James suspected that his friends were leery of trusting her. After all, she had run several stories containing intimate and sometimes embarrassing details regarding their weight battles. And while none of the supper club members minded seeing their names in print, they didn’t enjoy seeing their current weight or body mass index listed in black and white.

James pumped his arms and legs rapidly for a few moments and then answered Bennett’s question. “Murphy and I are doing fine, thanks.”

“She comin’ to Hog Fest with you?”

“No,” James replied quickly. “She’ll be busy covering a wine festival, some equestrian event, and a yodeling contest while we’re gone. No time for pork,” he joked and then realized that he was relieved that he would be spending time alone with his friends during their jaunt to Hudsonville. Guilt turned his feet leaden and he had trouble moving the elliptical forward. He pressed the red STOP button, waited for the machine’s momentum to ease to a crawl, and stepped down from the pedals.

“Maybe I’ll take her out for barbecue this week, since she’s going to miss all the fun,” James told Bennett and then gathered his towel, water bottle, and book.

“A woman who will tear meat off a rib bone and get sauce all over her face is a keeper. Now go on home so I can finish this chapter on seventies sitcoms,” Bennett said, wiping sweat from the dark brown skin of his brow.

Driving home, James prayed that today was one of the days Milla had come to call on his father. If the Henrys were lucky, she wouldn’t have booked a cooking class or a catering gig and would be filling their kitchen with tantalizing aromas as pots boiled on the stovetop and dishes bubbled in the oven.

When James saw her minivan parked alongside his father’s old pickup truck, he smiled in expectation.

“Hello, James!” Milla trilled as he walked in the back door. The aroma of garlic immediately assaulted him—a favorable sign that Milla was fixing something scrumptious for dinner. The diminutive woman, who was in her midsixties but had the energy of a young girl, pushed back a clump of pale curls from her forehead and grinned at James.

“You look like a hungry man,” she observed, and she removed a bottle of white wine from the fridge.

James kissed her cheek in greeting and then peered under the lid of a large skillet on the stove’s back burner. “How’s Pop?” he asked.

Milla frowned and shooed James away from the stove. “He’s neck-deep in paint. I swear, he’s gonna start sleepin’ in that shed pretty soon.”

James sat at the kitchen table and ripped the heel off a loaf of crusty homemade bread. Without bothering to butter it, he popped the warm bread in his mouth as he watched Milla move about the kitchen. It struck him that she looked as though she had always been there, cooking for the Henry men, but it was James’s mother who had once filled the room with a similar air of warmth and vitality. James knew that Milla’s ease within his mother’s domain was no cause for sadness and that his mother would be pleased that such a kind-spirited person now cared for the two people she had loved most during her lifetime.

As if sensing the direction of James’s thoughts, Milla turned from the stove and said, “Is this okay with you, James? Me being here and all but takin’ over this kitchen?”

“It’s more than okay,” he replied, pouring out glasses of wine for them both. “You’re a blessing, Milla. To me and to Pop.”

Milla blushed. “Oh thank you, dear.” She sipped her wine, her cheeks pink from her culinary exertions. “I sure do love comin’ here, but it’s gettin’ harder and harder to commute to Quincy’s Gap, take care of my Fix ’n Freeze clients, and make sure Prince Charles is gettin’ enough attention.”

James paused for a moment and then remembered that Prince Charles was the name of Milla’s Corgi. “Pop still doesn’t want to drive to New Market? Even if it means seeing you?” James asked.

“Lord, James. I’ve barely convinced him to run into town for groceries. That’s as much progress as I’ve made. He says he’s gotta paint. Says that he’s got plans and these paintings are the key to those plans. He wants them to sell out real bad, James.”

“I haven’t seen any of the latest ones.”

Milla jumped up. “The veal’s gotta simmer a bit anyhow, so come out and look at the piece he finished yesterday. It’s so incredible, you won’t believe your eyes.”

James hesitated. “He’s not fond of me entering his domain while he’s working.”

“Pffah!” Milla grabbed his arm. “He’s just an old dog with a sharp bark. He’s not gonna bite anyone, though he sure likes to pretend he could.”

Trailing after Milla’s small form, James approached his father’s shed. Jackson had told his son time after time not to bother him while he was working, and for the most part, James had been respectful of his wishes. Jackson tended to be impatient and cross whenever Milla wasn’t present, so James avoided antagonizing him whenever possible.

As Milla called out a hello and rapped on the shed door, James gazed at her in admiration. Milla’s companionship had softened Jackson’s sharp edges so much that he had truly begun to emerge from the reclusive behavior that had gripped him for years. James had heard his father laugh more this summer than he had since the time he moved back into his boyhood room following his mother’s death. James was glad to hear Jackson’s laughter, for it was a rich sound, deep and rumbling like a peal of thunder or a train’s echo inside a long tunnel. The three of them filled the house with pleasant noise the way a family should, and James wished for their present state of harmony to last indefinitely.

Jackson growled upon seeing two people in his shed, but Milla playfully swatted at his shoulder with the potholder she had absentmindedly carried outside with her. “Don’t curl your lip, Jackson. I forced James to come out here against his will. Show him that wonderful diner painting and then we’ll eat.”

When Jackson hesitated, Milla put her hands on her narrow hips. “I made veal with shallots and garlic, and it’ll be tough as your work boots if you don’t show the boy that picture right this second.”

Wordlessly, Jackson gestured to a large canvas hidden beneath a tarp. Grumbling, he ordered, “Cover it up ’fore you leave, ya hear?” Jackson then prodded Milla back out of the shed, but with a lightheartedness that made James grin.

“Lemme sink my teeth into some of that delicious veal,” Jackson pleaded once he and Milla were outside. “I’m starvin’.”

“’Course you are!” Milla chided in return. “You’re turnin’ into a bag of bones. Lord knows what would happen to you if I didn’t show up at your door every now and then.”

“Nothin’ good, Milla.” James could hear the smile in his father’s voice. He tried to ignore the rumblings of his own belly as he reached forward to remove the tarp. When the painting was revealed, it took James several moments to soak in all the details set forth on the canvas.

Jackson had painted a diner scene, but it was different from what James had expected. Instead of a painting depicting the faces of the patrons seated at the counter, Jackson had only portrayed their hands and the breakfasts they had ordered. The row of hands gripped forks, knives, and coffee cups or sprinkled salt or Tabasco sauce on scrambled eggs and hash browns. The hands belonged to workmen. James could guess that much without taking note of the flannel shirt cuffs bordering their wrists or the enormous breakfasts each man had ordered so that he might be fueled for a long morning of physical labor.

The hands drew James’s eye and demanded attention. Each one varied in size and shape. Some had dirt-encrusted nails, others had nicked knuckles, while another had grease stains revealed in a glimpse of palm. The waitress’s hands were more slender than the men’s, but they bore their own scars, lines, burns, and brown age spots acquired from a life of service. One of her hands held a glass coffee carafe while the other was frozen in time, placing several paper napkins next to a plate bearing a tall stack of flapjacks.

James studied the painting a few moments longer, marveling over how Jackson had cleverly manipulated shades of blue and yellow in order to create a feeling of movement in his piece. The two colors, highlighted by touches of black or white, were filled with wonderful contrasts of light and shadow.

Look out, Norman Rockwell, here comes Jackson Henry
, James thought, and he was once again awestruck by his father’s God-given talent.

“It’s fantastic, Pop,” James said when he re-entered the kitchen. “What diner did you go to? I mean … when did you have the chance to study those people and their hands?”

Jackson smirked and tapped his temple. “It’s all right up here, boy. That’s an old memory.” He buttered a piece of bread on both sides and took a bite. “Shoot. That diner’s long gone now. I heard it’s some kind of spa. You can pay a hundred bucks to have someone slop mud on your bare ass.” He chortled. “I’d toss some of ’em in a pigsty for half the price!”

James admired Milla’s beautifully arranged platter of veal cutlets in silent reverence as she chattered away. She brought dish after dish to the table, setting things just so, while Jackson kept his eyes fastened on his son.