Sweet Jiminy (2 page)

Peering into it, Jiminy found a translucent snail shell perched atop a book. She picked up the book and carefully dusted it off. The black leather cover was painfully cracked. It claimed to be
The Holy Bible,
but the inside pages were homemade and filled with firm, slanted handwriting that Jiminy assumed did not belong to God. The inscription on the first page confirmed this.

Henry Esau Hunt—Recollections and Resolutions

Her grandfather's name, her grandfather's writing. Her grandfather's diary? Jiminy thumbed through the roughly bound pages. The handwriting was very precise, but faded and difficult to read. The first entry was dated January 1, 1954, and titled “Our Wedding Day.”

It contained a brief description of the event, really just a record of the fact that Henry Esau Hunt had married Willa Calamity Peal in the presence of their parents and a minister at noon on that New Year's Day. The entry seemed dispassionate enough, though Jiminy supposed it had meant enough to Henry to warrant beginning this book.

From that day forward, it appeared that Henry had made an entry every six months or so, only to record a happening deemed significant. As the years wore on, he began adding slightly to the entries—just bare-boned commentary that hinted at what he might have been feeling at the time. On January 6, 1959, Henry noted that Margaret Peal Hunt was born at eight thirty-five in the morning. Henry had written: “A long, hard night. A joyous day.” Jiminy smiled ruefully, reflecting that her mother continued to be known for such extremes.

She flipped to the last entry, which occurred about two-thirds of the way through the book, with plenty of blank pages left to be filled. It was dated January 1, 1967, and it read: “Hard year, hopeless. Poor Lyn, poor us.” And then, nothing more.

Jiminy knew that her grandfather had died suddenly and unexpectedly when her mother was eight years old. She was less certain that he'd been killed by a lost tribe of Indians hiding in the surrounding hills, or a roving band of land pirates, or a swarm of killer vampire bats up from the Louisiana swamps. All of these explanations had been offered to Jiminy by her mother, with considerable flourishes, but Jiminy had instead accepted a cousin's report that her mother's father had succumbed to a massive, sudden pulmonary embolism, and died very prematurely at the age of thirty-two, leaving his wife and daughter to fend for themselves as best they could.

Since Jiminy's mother had been born in 1959, she would have turned eight years old in 1967, the year of Henry's final entry. It seemed he'd died before he could make another one. Had the hardness and hopelessness he'd written about brought on the embolism? Was that just a medical term for an unfixable broken heart?

Poor Lyn, poor us. Jiminy assumed the Lyn he referred to was the Lyn she knew. The Lyn who had worked for her grandmother for over fifty years, and in whose indifferent disregard Jiminy had always found a special solace. The most anyone could hope for from Lyn was a gruff affection that could be easily mistaken for dislike. Still, Jiminy had always gravitated toward her, because as shy as Jiminy was, there was something about Lyn that drew her out. Now that she thought about it, Jiminy felt an intense gratitude for Lyn that she'd never adequately expressed. Why hadn't she? She decided she would. That was something she could do.

Poor Lyn, poor us. What had happened to Lyn? What had happened to all of them?

Jiminy moved backwards through the pages, looking for answers. Her hand paused on an entry that read: “Edward and Jiminy found, buried. Awful.”

For a moment, she felt like she couldn't breathe, like she'd stumbled across a hidden portal into the future and was illicitly reading about her own demise. She'd been found and buried, but how had she died? She shivered. The date of the entry was June 24, 1966. There had obviously been another Jiminy. She'd never in her entire life heard of her, not even in her mother's crazier stories. Who was she?

“Scarin' up the devil in here?”

Jiminy leapt up, slamming the book shut as she whirled around in surprise. Lyn was standing in the doorway, her shoulders stooped with age. She was taken aback by Jiminy's sudden fright. It made her clutch her own heart in solidarity.

“Lord child, what's wrong with you?”

“Sorry,” Jiminy replied, somewhat breathlessly.

She wondered if Lyn recognized the book clasped in her hands. Lyn was looking at her strangely.

“Your grandma just wanted to make sure you were still alive since we hadn't heard a peep outta you all mornin',” Lyn said flatly, before turning to leave.

Jiminy stared after her, stricken. She wanted to stop her. She had things to say. She had things to ask.

“Wait,” she said, but it came out a whisper that Lyn didn't appear to hear.

“Wait,” Jiminy repeated. “Thank you.”

She'd meant to say this loudly, and meaningfully, but again the words barely escaped her throat, and they drifted ineffectually toward Lyn's hunched, retreating back, too weak to possibly be heard.

Chapter 3

B
o Waters's back hurt
from pushing a lawnmower over Willa Hunt's endless yard. When he had done this chore for her years ago, there'd been a tractor-mower he could sit and ride on, turning the task into a relatively painless journey in the hot sun. But now he was stuck with some contraption from the last century, without an engine in sight. It was a hand-powered rotary mower meant for a much smaller lawn than Willa's. Bo was sweating and grunting, and not even done with a sixth of his task. He'd better get paid considerably more for this. He tried to succumb to the rough pleasure of physical exertion—he'd been a decent athlete in high school but hadn't done much since. It occurred to him that perhaps this was his first step back into shape; that maybe he should be grateful for the immense inconvenience of this stupid machine.

As he was distracting himself from his throbbing muscles by cursing the lawn mower, Bo was suddenly stopped by a timid sneeze. He looked toward the sound and saw a movement by the woodpile. Expecting a cat or a groundhog, Bo was startled to see a human form rise slowly from the other side. A female human form.

“Hi,” Jiminy said, sneezing again.

“Hi,” Bo replied, aware of the pollens floating in the air between them. He wondered how many of his curses had been overheard.

“I'm allergic to grass,” Jiminy said, by way of explanation.

“That's a tough one to avoid,” Bo replied.

Didn't Jiminy know it. She was allergic to dust also, and wheat, and easy human interaction, or at least it frequently seemed so to her.

“Do I know you? You look familiar,” she said, with her head cocked to the side in an inquisitive way that didn't feel totally natural to her, but that she hoped was fitting for the moment. Her neck hurt from how she'd been sitting against the woodpile.

“You do, too,” Bo replied. “I'm kin to Lyn. I'm Bo.”

“I'm Jiminy. Willa's my grandmother.”

They'd made their introductions, declared their affiliations. Jiminy stood waiting for some inspiration about how to continue this conversation. She wanted it to go forward, she liked the look of this guy. It wasn't just that he was the first person younger than seventy that she'd encountered in the past week, though that probably was part of the attraction. But there was more. He had a smooth assurance to his features that made Jiminy feel calm.

“How old are you?” she blurted.

Bo stared back at her.

“Twenty-one,” he replied. “Is that old enough?”

Jiminy blushed.

“I guess so,” she replied. “Except for renting cars.”

“Who needs a rental car when I've got these hot wheels?” Bo replied, lifting up the lawn mower he longed to fling into the nearby river.

Jiminy laughed.

“Are you doing the whole lawn?” she asked.

Bo nodded wearily.

“I should be finished in a couple months. Do you know what happened to your grandmother's tractor-mower? I'll pay you a thousand dollars if you tell me where it is.”

Jiminy laughed again.

“Sorry, I don't know where much of anything is. I haven't been here in years.”

“What brings you back?”

Jiminy looked down, unsure of how to answer. Could she say she was running away? Should she tell Bo about her restlessness, and desperation, and how her unsatisfactory world had abruptly folded in on her? Should she mention her mother, and her nervous breakdown destiny? Or admit how random it was that she'd chosen this spot for refuge? She opened her mouth to let all of this out, then closed it again.

“Just getting a break from city life,” she managed to say at last.

Bo nodded, unperturbed by Jiminy's awkwardness. He could tell she had plenty more to say, but he felt no urge to pry. Like anyone who wasn't actually from here, Jiminy assumed Fayeville represented a relaxing respite from busier places, but Bo knew there was as much turmoil here as anywhere. If she stuck around, she'd find that out for herself.

“How long you staying?” he asked.

“Just taking it day by day,” she answered with a shrug. “How are you related to Lyn?”

“She's my great-aunt. I lived with her some growing up.”

Jiminy glanced down at the book in her hand, then snapped her gaze back up to meet Bo's.

“Do you happen to know . . . I mean, I guess you probably would . . . but maybe not, who knows how much families communicate . . . Um, was Lyn ever married, by any chance?”

Bo felt sorry for Jiminy that she had to expend so much effort to ask a simple question. What a difficult way to go through life. He had his challenges, but most of them felt imposed from the outside, not created within. And now Jiminy was looking at him fearfully, like she was worried she'd overstepped her bounds somehow.

“Aunt Lyn was married to my grandma's brother, Edward Waters. And they had a daughter, but she died. He died, too—both a long time ago. Aunt Lyn never hooked up with anyone else, as far as I know.”

Jiminy nodded.

“She doesn't talk about it,” Bo continued. “No one else does either, to keep from upsetting her. What I know, I heard from a drunk old uncle talking outta school.”

Jiminy nodded again. She considered showing Bo her grandfather's diary, but decided to keep it to herself for the time being.

“Is that a Polaroid camera?” Bo asked.

He was pointing to the camera dangling from her neck. Jiminy had brought it with her from Chicago, to document her decline. She touched it now, and nodded.

“I didn't even know they made them anymore,” Bo remarked. “I used to love those things. Such instant gratification.”

Jiminy nodded again, in complete agreement. She resisted the urge to snap a photo of Bo right that second.

“So what do people do for fun around here?” she asked instead.

“Oh, we go cow-tipping, throw crab apples at the Hardee's billboard, make crank calls,” Bo answered.

Jiminy tried to imagine herself doing these things with any amount of enthusiasm. Maybe the crab apple thing, if she actually managed to hit the billboard.

“I'm kidding,” Bo continued. “We're not that bad off. Though I have been known to spend rainy days in the sports aisle of HushMart. You can get a pretty good basketball game going before they ask you to move on.”

“I'm the queen of HORSE,” Jiminy replied.

It was true. She wasn't athletic in general, but she had a preternatural talent for making basketball shots. Not while on the move, and she couldn't dribble or pass or be sure of many rules of the game, but she could get that ball through the hoop from practically any standing position, no matter the distance.

“The queen, huh?” Bo replied.

His tone wasn't skeptical; it was more amused. Still, Jiminy found herself resenting it. She wasn't good at many things. She felt she proved this nearly every day.

“I'm not kidding,” she insisted, with uncharacteristic fire. “I've never lost a game. I've never been anything more than a HOR.”

Bo raised his eyebrows.

“H-O-R,” she clarified, feeling her face flush.

Bo grinned and put his hands up in surrender.

“Do you coach lesser players?” he asked.

“Anytime,” Jiminy answered, surprised at her confidence.

“I'm gonna come find you when I finish this,” Bo said, motioning to the vast expanse of unmown lawn around him. “If I live that long.”

Jiminy smiled, happy to realize she still could.

 

Inside, Lyn had been watching them through the window for the past ten minutes, thinking about when they'd first met as children. She doubted either one of them remembered it.

Jiminy had been only six years old, dropped off by her quarreling parents for an impromptu visit. She was a silent, reserved child, and she'd quickly become Lyn's little shadow, sitting for hours on the stool in the corner of the kitchen, shyly watching her every move. Lyn had gone about her business as usual, but every once in a while she'd stuck out her tongue without warning and waggled it around, causing Jiminy to erupt into paroxysms of giggles. Just as suddenly, Lyn would resume her poker face and reabsorb herself in her task. Jiminy would giggle a little longer to herself, then wait patiently for the next show.

That was also the trip that Jiminy had taken to drinking buttermilk. Lyn had never known a child to actually enjoy the taste. She watched Jiminy first sip some by accident, assuming it was regular milk. Lyn had waited for her grimace, but the girl simply cocked her head in surprise and took a longer sip. Not realizing that she wasn't supposed to like it, she'd started drinking it regularly.

Lyn had been watching little Jiminy pour herself another tall glass of buttermilk, and wondering if there'd be enough left for the biscuits she was supposed to make, when an unfamiliar car turned down the long gravel lane. The sight of a strange vehicle made Lyn anxious, and she reflexively reached for the big butcher knife, not entirely sure what she planned to do with it. Lyn was relieved when she recognized her late husband's niece climbing out of the car. She watched her unstrap a toddler from the backseat—a toddler whom Lyn had previously only heard jabbering and squealing in the background of a phone conversation. A toddler who turned out to look very much like her beloved Edward: the same eyes, those same steady features. The kind of face you wanted to drink up to calm yourself down. Lyn loved Bo as soon as she saw him, even from that distance; even through a window that needed cleaning.

She had hurried out the kitchen door, wondering whether Willa would mind this unexpected visit, considering she wasn't particularly partial to children or interruptions. But to Lyn's relief, Willa had looked up from the science labs she'd been grading on the porch and calmly introduced herself to Edward's niece and her toddler. And then Jiminy had appeared, glass of buttermilk in hand.

“Who's that?” she asked, pointing her little finger at him.

“His name is Bo, Jiminy,” Willa said.

Edward's niece had flashed a look Lyn's way, which Lyn ignored. Yes, the girl was named Jiminy. No, Lyn didn't want to talk about it.

“Oh,” Jiminy said. “Would he like some buttermilk?”

And she had sat down beside Bo on the grass in the sun. She tried to teach him patty-cake. Bo laughed and grabbed at her fingers and made her shriek. Lyn hadn't known how to feel, watching them. She'd looked to Willa to break them up, or let them play. But Willa had returned to grading her papers, forfeiting her prerogative to pass judgment.

Edward's niece hadn't stayed long—not at Willa's farm, not even in Fayeville. She'd already decided that her destiny lay elsewhere, and no amount of disappointment could sway her from its pursuit. No amount of responsibility, either. She simply shrugged it off, the way happiness had shrugged her.

Bo, on the other hand, had remained right there in Fayeville from then on, passed around from relative to relative, looked after by the group of them. His mother and grandmother had kept “Waters” as their last name, instead of giving any credence to the men who had dipped into and out of their lives, so Bo blended right in with the family. But he and Jiminy had never crossed paths again. Jiminy had traveled from her home in southern Illinois to visit Willa a few more times, but Lyn hadn't had charge of Bo during those visits. And then Jiminy had stopped coming altogether once she'd become preoccupied with trying to be an adult.

But here she was now, walking into the kitchen, all grown. Lyn handed her a glass of buttermilk that she'd absentmindedly poured as she'd reminisced. Jiminy looked understandably confused. Realizing what she'd done, Lyn almost snatched the glass back, but Jiminy was already raising it to her lips.

“Thanks,” she said quizzically, taking a sip.

Just as she had when she was a child, she drank with her eyes wide open. And she still didn't wince at the sourness.

 

Two hours later, as Lyn sat folding pillowcases by the window, she watched Bo cross the freshly mown lawn to the house. She heard him let himself in the front door, cross the entryway, and knock on Jiminy's door. Lyn stayed in the kitchen, quiet and still.

“Sorry, didn't mean to interrupt,” she heard Bo say.

“I'm glad you did,” Jiminy answered, so light and free.

“Have you recovered from your allergy attack?”

“Nearly.”

“Well, I got revenge for you,” Bo assured. “That grass won't be bothering anyone for a while.”

“Thanks, I owe you one. Are you taking off now?”

“I was gonna go see a superstore about a HORSE. Wanna come?”

“Definitely,” Jiminy replied.

Lyn heard them make their way to the door, where they must have run into an unsuspecting Willa.

“What's going on? Is everything okay?” she heard Willa exclaim, her voice mildly alarmed.

“Everything's fine,” Jiminy replied. “I'm headed into town with Bo.”

“Oh,” Willa answered.

And Lyn knew the exact O her mouth was making.

“Do you need anything?” Jiminy asked.

“I don't know,” Willa replied uncertainly. “I don't suppose so.”

“Okay, see you later then!” Jiminy replied sunnily.

Then the door closed, and Lyn heard Willa sigh deeply.

“Shit,” Willa said, thinking she was saying it to herself.

In the other room, Lyn closed her eyes and slowly shook her head.

 

A few weeks later, Willa sat anxiously by the kitchen window, shuffling Jiminy's stack of Polaroids and peering out into the darkness every few minutes. Willa had been surprised that Jiminy just left her photos around for anyone to look at, for anyone to judge. She flipped through them again, quickly enough that she created a moving picture of her granddaughter's last few weeks—a cascading waterfall of captured moments.

There was Bo holding a basketball at HushMart, and Bo pointing to a diagram of the human heart with a mock-serious expression, and Bo lying on his back in the field behind the barn. There were a lot of Bo. There were a few of Willa, too—looking up from her crossword with a questioning expression, coming in the door with an armful of azaleas, sitting in her porch chair smiling. And there was Lyn baking biscuits, and carrying a stack of towels, and gazing out the kitchen window. But mainly the Polaroids were of Bo. Willa looked up from them and out into the night again, willing headlights to appear.