Lucky Strikes (6 page)

He jolted up from the table and run out the door. From somewhere in the vicinity of the front porch, he was heard to wish me dead.

“Earle's strung tight,” Janey explained.

Hiram give a nod. “Coffee,” he whispered.

“Right here, Daddy Hiram.” I pushed the pot toward him, slid a tin mug his way. “Go ahead now.”

His hands trembled as they poured, and very little of that coffee made it into the cup.

“Apologies,” he said.

I ran to the kitchen for a rag, but when I got back, he was wiping up the spill with his hands.

“I'll clean it, Daddy Hiram. Pour you another one, too, how would that be?”

He watched the brew rise up in the mug. Then he bowed his face over it and give it a good loud sniff. Then another sniff and another.

“He right in the head?” Janey whispered.

“Hey, Daddy Hiram, maybe you'd like a smoke, huh? I rolled one just for you.”

I lit the cig myself, with one of the Zippos from the store. He took a deep drag, then let out a single skull-rattling cough.

“Much appreciated,” he said.

“We got mustard left,” said Janey.

He give his head a shake.

“Sure is nice to see a man smokin' at the table,” she said. “You ever been to California?”

Hiram said nothing.

“You seen an elephant?”

Nothing.

“What's wrong with your eye?”

“It's a little lazy,” he said.

Janey looked at him for a space. Then she carried her plate to the slop bucket.

“These dishes ain't gonna wash themselves,” she said.

Hiram stayed in his room the rest of the day. That night, when I knocked on his door, he was setting on the edge of the tick mattress. Looking out the window, I guess, though there weren't much of a view on that side. Just an old storage shed, falling over on itself, and the lean-to where Earle kept his Great Heap o' Treasure till the junkman come around every month.

“Evening,” I said.

I laid out a pair of scissors, a Gem razor, and a can of Colgate's Rapid-Shave Cream on the root table. A mirror and a washbasin.

“The beard's gotta go, Hiram. It's enough to scare a pack of horses.”

He rested the razor in his palm. “Can't remember the last time I shaved.”

“I reckon it'll come right back.” Though I had no idea if this was so. “After you're done, you should feel free to come on downstairs. I got some Aunt Sally rolled oats, right out of the box. Reckon you're mighty hungry by now.”

His hand curled round the razor handle. Shook a little.

“Listen here,” I said. “You ain't gonna try something dumb, are you?”

“No, ma'am.”

“'Cause if that's what you got in mind, I'll take you to yonder railroad tracks. I got too much on my mind to be cleaning up some fool's blood.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Don't forget about the oats,” I said, and shut the door.

If I'd been the kind, I'd have sent up a prayer that Hiram Watts not take that razor straight across his neck, but all I could do was what I done the last time. Set against his door, listening. Till I heard the squeak of scissors.

He never did come for dinner, but next morning, he showed up at breakfast again, and it was near as shocking. From out that ratty old beard, a face had clawed its way. Half-dark from the elements, half-white from where the whiskers had been. The biggest surprise was his mouth. Not the long full line I expected, but a small crimped thing, loath to unpinch.

“Morning,” growled Hiram.

He tucked into the stewed tomatoes, never mind they'd gone cold. Drank 'em down with Nehi and then went after a pair of old dinner rolls that were so hard, even Earle had given up on 'em.

“I believe it's Sunday,” said Hiram.

“All day,” I said.

“I suppose you'll be going to church.”

Earle and me, we shut up about it, but Janey said, “That's 'bout the funniest thing I ever heard.”

“What's so funny?” muttered Hiram Watts.

Now, Mama got each of her babies baptized—just in case—but from there, she figured, we was on our own.
I got a business to run
, she'd say.
You think I got three hours to listen to some fool tell me I'm going to hell?
Hell's gonna be a lot more fun than church.

Which is when she'd start into her dance. A little Lindy, a little Charleston, dash of hoochie coochie. She did it only for us, but that didn't matter, 'cause the folk of Walnut Ridge had long ago cottoned on that the Hoyle clan was not to be found in the pews of Free Will Baptist nor of Happy Creek Methodist. There was some thought we might be Catholic or Jewish, but since nobody ever saw us observe a single holiday, they drew the conclusion we were not much at all.

One afternoon, Mama was picking up some turnips and potatoes at M&L Produce when she caught sight of two ladies talking in the next aisle. Now, she'd never laid eyes on these ladies in all her life, but as soon as she heard the words “flame-haired hussy,” she knew who they was talking about. So she ducked behind the cucumber barrel and give a listen.

“Three children by
two
different fathers.”

“More like
three
fathers.”

“Weren't married to a one of 'em, probably.”

“Spends her days in men's clothes. Flirts with truck drivers.”

“Uses language'd make a miner blush.”

“I've even seen her working on the Sabbath.”

On and on it went, Mama grinning like a mule eating briars and just about ready to slip out the store when one of them ladies said, “Grace, as a Christian, you just gotta steer clear of them gas station pagans.”

Now there weren't no help for it. Mama come tumbling out from behind the cucumber barrel, a-roaring with laughter. And when she caught a look at those two ladies' faces, she roared even louder. Still laughing an hour on, telling us about it. But later that night—after her and me'd settled into the hickory split chair by the stove—she said, “Know what? Gas Station Pagans is 'bout the best name they could've given us.”

She was scooping her hand through my hair, even though I'd been telling her I was too old.

“We're gonna put that name on a banner,” she said. “Fly it every Thanksgiving and Christmas and Fourth of July.”

We never made us a banner—Mama weren't much for sewing—but the name stuck. Say we'd had a good week at the station. Well, then, Mama would set down the ledger and declare, “Sun shines bright on the Gas Station Pagans.” Or when Janey and Earle took too long getting on their clothes of a winter morning, she'd holler, “Get it in gear, you Gas Station Pagans!”

I started using the name myself before long, then Earle. I knew it had settled in for good when I heard Janey telling one of her schoolmates, “We ain't allowed in church no more on account of we're pagans. The gas station kind.” To my ear, Gas Station Pagan sounded just as good as Pentecostal or Baptist, and we could sleep in of a Sunday.

'Course ours was not a denomination recognized in Walnut Ridge, and that's why the idea of us heading to church—any church—struck Janey as a great amusement. But sitting there at the breakfast table with Hiram Watts, I didn't see the point in going into it.

“We ain't much for churchgoing,” I said.

“Thank Christ,” he said. “Ten hours of hellfire is more than I could stomach.”

Janey and Earle stared at him without a word. Then Earle said, “There's another can of nectar syrup on the shelf.”

Here's where I should say that Mama did for a time consider attending Calvary Episcopal.
'Cause they're done in an hour and a half, Melia, and they don't look all beaten about the head and neck. They look like they went for a nice stroll.

Which is just how Chester Gallagher looked later that morning when he come walking back down Main Street in his one blue blazer. Like he'd met his maker, and it'd all gone down nice. But my eyes kept snagging on the two freakish stone children who sat in the Gallaghers' front yard.

“You reckon them kids is gonna come alive some night, Chester? Kill you in your sleep?”

“I've had worse clients,” he said.

“Don't see Mina nowhere. She must not be feeling holy.”

“Guess it's never occurred to you to call her Mrs. Gallagher. As it happens, she's got a headache.”

“Mrs. Gallagher has got it rough.”

“Let's go round back,” he said.

It was the first time I'd been in his office. I was expecting lots of diplomas on the walls, but he had only the two—both from the University of Virginia—and you barely noticed them between the moth-eaten deer heads. I set on his cane-bottom chair and twisted the gooseneck lamp till it was pointing at the ceiling.

“This father of yours,” said Chester. “Just dropped from the sky, did he?”

“Something like that.”

“That's mighty convenient.”

“The Lord is able.”

“Melia…”

“It happens all the time, don't it? Families coming together again.”

Chester leaned back on his chair casters. Used his hands to make a fort around his nose.

“I don't even know where to begin, Melia. This fella could have a criminal record. He could cut your throats while you're sleeping. I mean, what do you even
know
about him?”

“All I know is he can't pour hisself a damn cup of coffee.”

“Then how're you going to pass him off as your father?”

“Oh.” I flapped my hands at him. “He's just gotta stand and be counted.”

Chester shook his head. “Sometimes you really are a child.”

“Then show me what I'm missing here.”

“How about this? When they come calling—and they
will
—they're going to need proof that he's who you say he is. At the very least, they're going to demand a birth certificate.”

“I don't even know where my birth certificate is. Truly.”

“It's in my safe.”

I confess this caught me unawares.

“Your mama left it in my safekeeping, Melia. And you should know that, under the category of
Father
, it very clearly says
Un. Known
.”

“Well, there you are.”

“No, not there you are. If he's unknown, he could be anybody. Which means you'll need some
other
proof that this particular fellow—what's his name again?”

“Hiram Watts.”

“That he's your real daddy. Absent said proof, you've got no legal case.”

“And they got nothing to say he ain't.”

Chester made a noose of his tie.

“Listen,” I said, “we just gotta come up with some story is all. Tell 'em the birth certificate got lost.”

“It won't
stay
lost. If they don't find it in my safe, they'll find one someplace else. All it takes is someone making inquiries.”

“And who's gonna care enough?” Then I thought of Harley Blevins. “Know what, Chester? I ain't got time for speculation. I got affairs to run. Talkin'
of
. We'd be most tickled if you'd come out to the house tonight. We're holding a wake for Mama.”

His throat give a swallow. “I'll be there.”

“Wake starts at six, you be there at five.”

“Why so early?”

“We need clothes.”

 

Chapter

SEVEN

That very afternoon, I sent Janey into town to spread word.

“You only gotta knock at the three houses,” I said. “Mrs. Hicks. Mrs. Buckner. Minnie-Cora Harper.”

“Why them?”

“'Cause they're the three noisiest jays this town has got. Give 'em ten minutes, and they'll spread it to the hills.”

“What should I say, Melia?”

“Our mama has passed on.”

“Passed on.”

“
Our family
—now be sure you say
family
…”

“Family.”

“… would be most pleased to have you at her wake.”

“Wake.”

“Tonight at six. Don't be late.”

“Tonight at six don't be late.”

“Now, remember, they're gonna try and hug you and cry and slobber on you. You don't let 'em, you keep movin'.”

“I should wear black,” said Janey.

“Well, you ain't got but the one dress, and it's dove gray, or was.”

But Janey's got a bear trap of a mind, so she kept looking for something black—rooting, rooting—till in the back of Service Bay B, behind a stack of secondhand Lee tires, she found an old tarp that was not so far off of black, owing to the things it had soaked up. She wrapped that thing round her, and when I let her off at the north end of First Street, she went forth like Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine, tarp trailing after. Wasn't a soul didn't turn and watch that girl pass by.

She still had it on when she come walking back.

“They was weeping in my hair, Melia. Nearly took the curl out.”

By then I'd already swept the house as clean as I was able. Earle, he'd gone to his Great Heap o' Treasure and found some beaten-up brass candlesticks, and I dug up some candles from the root cellar, and we covered our dining table with a bedsheet of Mama's. It had roses of Sharon on it and no obvious stains.

“Don't it look nice,” I said.

“Says you,” said Earle.

Chester came at five prompt, carrying in his arms a white shirt and duck trousers and a green herringbone tweed vest. “Can't promise any of it will match,” he said. “Or even fit. Now where is the gentleman in question?”

Well, if you're looking for a sign, here's one.
In that same instant
, Hiram Watts come through the front door. Looking like it was his own wake.