“Consider the subtleness of the sea; how its most dreaded creatures glide under water, unapparent for the most part, and treacherously hidden beneath the loveliest tints of azure.”
― Herman Melville, Moby Dick
~Cletus~
“How can a transmission be so expensive? I don’t got that much money to spend on a new transmission!”
Despite my best intentions, I was going to have to tell Deveron Stokes a falsehood.
“The transmission is only part of the bill. We’ll give you a deal on the transmission, Mr. Stokes. See here? Your muffler needs new bearings. And your tread fluid is running dangerously low, not to mention the undercarriage spark plugs and crank chortle.”
Crank chortle was a new one. I’d just made it up on the spot. Beau was better at this than me, but he wasn’t here. The cretin.
Deveron sighed, blinking rapidly at the bill on the counter between us. His frown intensified. He shook his head. “Well, all right. I mean, I guess the car does need a lot of work. I appreciate the deal on the transmission.”
I nodded somberly. I was good at somber nodding. It was probably my best, most well-received nod. People always felt comforted when I did it, so I employed it liberally.
Mr. Stokes lifted his eyes. “You’re a good friend, Cletus.”
I nodded somberly again, but said nothing. Mr. Stokes wasn’t my friend. Mr. Stokes wasn’t a nice person. He hadn’t paid his child support in six years, but always managed to stay well stocked in whiskey, women, and cigarettes. However, even before I’d discovered this unsavory fact about Mr. Stokes, I hadn’t liked the man.
I don’t like to judge people.
I love it.
Writing people completely off was liberating.
First impressions were typically correct. My first impressions were always correct. This was because I employed a very scientific approach to forming impressions and was born with infallible logic.
I allot ten minutes. If I didn’t have ten minutes, I’d put off forming an impression until such a window of time was available. I never deviated from the ten-minute rule. I once put off forming an opinion about our new pastor for six months because I hadn’t found the ten minutes required.
My momma hadn’t liked that I’d refused to look at the new pastor over those months, but you couldn’t bend or distort the scientific method. It’s sacred. And ten minutes was all I’ve ever needed to sum up the character of any given person.
For the first five minutes, I didn’t look at him or her. I closed my eyes, or studied my feet, or glanced to one side. In this way I delayed forming an opinion based on outward appearance.
I extended my hand—every single time—saw what kind of grip he or she gave me. Was it limp? Too tight? Tentative?
I listened to her voice and his vocabulary, the lexicon of their thoughts. Was she confident? Learned? Pompous? What subjects did he bring up? Was she interested in talking only about herself? Or did he shy from the spotlight?
After the five minutes of passive listening, I interrupted the conversation to ask what kind of car he or she drove. Then (and only then) did I look at the person. It’s not the car that matters. It’s how he talked about the car. You could tell a lot by how a person talked about his car. Proud? Embarrassed? Ambivalent?
The answer to this question typically took anywhere between ten seconds and five minutes. By the end of this motoring monologue I’ve made up my mind.
Of course I loved my neighbor. My momma brought me up right. I certainly saw the wisdom in loving neighbors, and doing unto others, and being nice for the sake of being nice. I just preferred to love my neighbors from afar. I subscribed to long-distance relationships, where speaking and listening didn’t occur with any frequency.
I only had time for twenty-four people (tops) in my life, and I already had six siblings. Twenty-four people was an average of two birthdays a month. Ain’t nobody got time for more than two birthday celebrations a month. That’s a lot of cake, and I’m particular about my cake.
But back to Deveron Stokes and his transmission.
He was rubbing his neck, frowning at the bill. “The thing is, Cletus. I, uh, I don’t have the money at present to pay for all this work.”
I nodded, more thoughtfully than somberly this time. “Well now, Deveron, you have two options. You can tow the car out of the parking lot at your own expense until you do have the money. Or maybe we could work out some sort of agreement.”
I was not surprised. In fact, I was counting on him reneging on payment.
The bell over the door chimed as it opened, announcing the entrance of a new customer. I tilted to the side, looking around Deveron to see who’d entered.
It was Jethro, my oldest brother. Next to him was a tall woman I didn’t recognize. I made a point to avert my eyes before I could comprehend too much of her exterior.
“What kind of agreement?” Deveron asked, looking mighty shifty.
“Oh, nothing untoward, Mr. Stokes.” That was another falsehood.
Mr. Stokes was a presser at the dry cleaners and a waiter at The Front Porch, though he was paid under the table and wasn’t technically on staff—another way to avoid child support. Later, much later, I would explain that the first of my favors would require Mr. Stokes to place itching powder in Jackson James’s starched police uniform. Officer James had made the mistake of pulling me over last week for no reason when I was not in the mood to be pulled over.
A small number of plagues would befall the sheriff’s deputy over the coming weeks. I’d considered leprosy via an armadillo infestation, but decided against it. Maybe next time.
Mr. Stokes swallowed nervously. “Well . . . I guess. I mean, sure. Anything you need, Cletus.”
I grabbed a set of keys from behind the counter along with rental car paperwork, and placed them between us. “Good. I have a few favors in mind. We’ll work out the details later, but I’ll need them done before we start work on your truck. In the meantime, I’ll be happy to offer you one of the shop’s cars as a loaner at the rate of ten dollars a day, paid up front in cash.”
Deveron Stokes nodded nervously. He wasn’t a nice man, but he wasn’t devoid of brain cells either. He withdrew his wallet, handed me over a hundred-dollar bill—like I said, well stocked in whiskey, women, and cigarettes—and grabbed the key and the paperwork. He turned to one of the chairs scattered around the small sitting area and began scribbling on the sheet.
All of our loaner cars were 1990s Dodge Neon sedans. I kept a fleet of them standing by and in good working order for customers like Deveron Stokes. We had a lot of customers like Deveron Stokes.
Without a glance, I motioned my brother and the tall woman forward as I busied myself writing notes on Mr. Stokes’s repair quote. “Greetings, Jethro. What brings you to our humble shop of auto fixery?”
“Hey, Cletus. I wanted to introduce you to Shelly Sullivan. She’s new in town and looking for work as an auto mechanic.”
My frown was automatic—not because I was displeased, but because I was surprised. I barely controlled the urge to take a visual assessment of this woman mechanic. They were a few and far between breed.
“Pleased to meet you, Miss Sullivan,” I said to the counter.
“Mr. Winston.”
My frowned deepened because her voice was . . . well, truth be told, it was odd. Direct, husky, like she wasn’t used to speaking and disliked doing so. She was from up north. I decided Boston. But her accent was light, near imperceptible.
I made a show of checking through the work order in front of me. “Tell me about yourself, Miss Sullivan.”
I didn’t need to glance up to know Jethro was grinning. He was used to my modus operandi, often found it amusing. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d prepared Miss Sullivan for the process because she didn’t seem to be offended by my lack of eye contact.
“I’ve been welding since fourteen and fixing up cars since about the same time. Everything I know is self-taught, based on trial and error, or research. And I’m very good at it.”
I lifted my eyebrows, waiting for her to continue. She did not.
“Anything else?” I prompted.
“Nothing relevant,” she responded.
Despite my tendency to keep a sharp rein on all outward expression, I smiled. I liked her use of the word relevant. It meant she considered relevancy before volunteering information. You can’t teach people how to do that.
Jethro cut in, “Do you remember Quinn Sullivan? Ashley’s friend Janie’s husband? The real pretty redhead?”
“Quinn isn’t a pretty redhead. As I recall he has a real pretty brown head.”
“No, dummy,” Jethro grumbled. “Janie was the pretty redhead, not Quinn. Shelly here is his sister.”
“Ah.” I nodded, my eyes still downcast. I didn’t mind nepotism as long as it was deeply entrenched in meritocracy. Quinn was a practical sort, short on words, big on actions. I liked him just fine. If he’d lived nearby, I might have gone to his birthday party.
Now was the time to shake her hand, so I extended mine and she slid her palm against it. Her hand was big—for a woman—long fingers roughened with callouses. Her grip was firm, succinct, and self-assured. But I only noticed these details peripherally because an enigmatic shock of something passed up my arm as our skin made contact.
I broke my sacred scientific rules because I was startled.
I looked up.
I looked at Miss Shelly Sullivan.
And, by Tesla’s steam oscillator! The woman was beautiful.
***
“Why is your face like that?” Jethro waved his index finger in front of my eyes.
I didn’t like it. I grabbed the finger and twisted it away.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re constipated and angry. I know you’re not constipated. You drink that gross coffee every morning with apple cider vinegar and maple syrup.”
“It’s not maple syrup.”
“Honey then.” He shrugged.
“It’s blackstrap molasses. Nothing similar about honey and blackstrap molasses other than their viscosity.”
“Whatever.” He shrugged again. “Why’re you making that face?”
“Because I’m irritated, obviously,” I grumbled. I didn’t grumble in public if I could help it, only in front of my family because I trusted my family . . . mostly.
“Why’re you irritated?” Jethro continued his poking and I heard the grin in his words. “Don’t you like Ms. Sullivan?”
Against my will, my eyes moved to where the tall woman and my younger brother Duane were bent over the hood of a Ford Focus. I studied her. Her expression was thoughtful as she listened to him, her demeanor confident and unaffected. She was all business.
Yep. Still perfect.
“Course I like Miss. Sullivan.”
“How much do you like her?”
“A lot.” I grimaced. I didn’t grimace in public either.
I’d been grumbling and grimacing since she’d arrived. Now was not a convenient time to have met my life partner. I had too much to do, too many irons in the fire. Some examples:
I had a shuffle board rematch with Judge Payton on Saturday.
I had a talent show in Nashville in October, and I hadn’t yet rehearsed.
I had Jethro and Sienna’s wedding in November.
I had a trip to Texas coming up around Thanksgiving; my wild boar sausage reserves were running precariously low.
I had a criminal organization to dismantle and annihilate by Christmas with the help of the King brothers . . . they just didn’t know they were helping.
I had to make spaghetti sauce on Sunday.
Jethro chuckled and placed an obnoxious hand on my shoulder. “Well, I’ll be.”
“You’ll be a baboon with dysentery.”
He laughed harder. “I never thought I’d see the day. You’re smitten.”
“Yep,” I admitted easily, because it was the truth. I was as smitten as I was capable of being. No use denying it. If one considered the facts, Shelly Sullivan and I were perfectly suited. It was a matter of science.
She was an auto mechanic. She was straightforward. She was smart. She was capable. She didn’t seem to have any feelings to hurt. She was clearly discerning about with whom she associated.
Plus, bonus, when I’d prematurely glanced up earlier upon our first meeting and met her eyes, the next words—so prosaically spoken—out of her mouth were, “This is weird. How can all you Winstons be so good-looking?”
See? Straightforward.
I liked the look of her and she liked the look of me. It was only a matter of time. We would be perfectly pragmatic together.
“If you’re smitten, why’re you irritated?”
“Because I’m never wrong. And that means Shelly Sullivan is the one. And now ain’t a good time for me to be meeting the one.”
Jethro’s smile flattened and he almost rolled his eyes. Almost. But he stopped himself, likely because he knew I didn’t tolerate eye-rolling.
“Oh brother. Can’t you just have a healthy interest in a woman without her being the one?”
“Nope.”
“That’s bull, Cletus. You’ve been with other women and none of them were the one.”
I glared at him, not willing to explain the obvious. Clearly my brother didn’t understand the concept of research: the value of gathering data, the necessity of testing theories, and the importance of post-coital analysis. Not everything could be discovered in a laboratory environment. Knowing something in theory is meaningless if you have no experience with real-life application.
“Maybe she isn’t the one,” he suggested, likely growing weary of my silent glare. “Maybe you’re just attracted to an exceptionally pretty lady. Have you thought of that?”
“Nope. She’s the one.”
“Momma always used to say that you have a fixation problem. You get a thought in your head and you can’t let it go. One of these days, making up your mind too fast is going to land you in a heap of trouble.”
I gave him a non-committal grunt in response. Our mother had frequently said I was a “fixator.” She was right. I was a fixator. I fixated. I focused. It was a good personality trait in that I never had difficulty achieving a goal, once I set my mind to it. But it was a bad personality trait in that sometimes I couldn’t stop focusing on something, even when I wanted to.
“Why does everything have to be black and white?” Jethro continued to press. “Why does every person have to be a zero or a ten on your worthwhile scale? Maybe she’s a seven or a four.”
I shrugged. “I don’t have time for fours and sevens, I have too much to do. If someone isn’t a ten, they’re a zero.”
He sighed loudly, like a deflating inner tube. It was not a healthy sound. “Well, whatever. You do what you want. You always do anyway.”
“I will. Now what is it that you want?”
He lifted an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
“I know you’re not loitering around here for your health. You want to ask me a favor.”
The eyebrow lowered and now he was squinting, which meant I was right.
“How do you know these things?”
“I know everything. So ask. I’m busy.”
“Already planning the wedding?” Jethro teased.
I narrowed my eyes on him, not liking his teasing. “Something like that.”
He took the hint and changed the subject. “Fine. So, Sienna—”
“You mean, your fiancée.”
“Yeah. Sienna—”
“You should call her your fiancée.”
“What? Why?”
“’Cause that’s who she is to you. I’m your brother, you say, ‘My brother.’ Sienna is your fiancée and has earned that title in your life. She puts up with your ugly face and bad manners, the least you can do is address her properly.”
Jethro whistled low before saying, “I guess you really are irritated.”
“Just earning my title as your brother. Now, back to your fiancée.”
“Fine, crusty britches. So, my fiancée and I, we’re moving into the carriage house when she gets home next week.”
“She doesn’t like living with us?” I was disappointed. I liked Sienna. She made me laugh and often surprised me with her shenanigans and tomfooleries. Very few people ever surprised me. “Is it the bathroom schedule? She doesn’t like the idea of it?”
“No. She likes it just fine. In fact, she wanted to add her name to the schedule.”
I grinned. “That’s funny.”
Jethro scowled. “No. It’s not funny. And don’t repeat it either. I don’t like living with Sie—” He broke off, huffing when I lifted my eyebrows at him, and began anew. “I don’t like living with my fiancée and my five brothers—each of whom have more than earned their title in my life. So we’re moving to the carriage house.”
“You’re not living with five brothers. Roscoe is gone, off to horse school.”
“You mean veterinary school.”
I nodded once. “That’s what I said, didn’t I? And Duane and Jessica leave before Thanksgiving for Italy. Who knows when they’ll return? So it would only be three of your brothers.”
He ignored this detail. “Back to the carriage house, I can do the big stuff, finish the framing and such. But I need your help with the details, doing the drywall, running the electrical. I wouldn’t ask if I had more time.”
I waved away his explanation. “Why not move into Claire’s place? Didn’t she offer it to you before she left town?”
Claire McClure was an overall high-quality person, definitely a ten. It took some convincing, but I’d tricked her into performing with me at a talent show in Nashville next month. She’d sing and I’d play the banjo. I didn’t want to win the talent show, but I did want to buy a car from one of the judges.
It was a perfect twin of a car I already owned and I wanted it. The car did not blend, everyone knew it was mine, and therefore owning two would give me the ability to be in two places at once.
Unfortunately, the judge didn’t know she wanted to sell it to me yet.
Claire was also a good friend of Jethro’s, but had recently moved to Nashville to accept a teaching position, but that was only part of the reason. The real reason she left town was to avoid my brother Billy. That story is too long to tell and too depressing.
“Yeah, Claire offered her house. But I don’t like the idea of leaving the homestead completely. After all, it is my home. Momma left it to me. And I want our kids to live there from birth.”
“You planning on having some kids next week?”
Jethro’s eyes cut away and he shifted on his feet, a pleased and guilty looking smile mounting itself on his face.
And I knew.
“Wait a minute . . .”
Jethro pressed a finger to his lips. “Shhh—”
“Sienna is pregnant!”
“Hush!” Jethro clamped his obnoxious hand over my mouth, pairing the action with a stern look. “Shut your mouth.”
“Erfrenmafma,” I said. It was nonsense, of course. His hand covering my mouth meant I could speak.
He squinted a silent warning and dropped his hand. “What was that?”
“It’s about time you impregnated that woman.”
“Cletus. We’ve only been engaged two months.”
“I know. I’ve been counting. Well . . .” I rubbed my hands together; this was great news. This was the best news. “When do we start on the carriage house? Tonight? We’ll add a nursery. Yellow is a nice color. Maybe this’ll get Drew and Ashley moving. I’ll be the godfather, of course. Cletus is a nice name.”
Now he did roll his eyes, but he also smiled. I gave him a free pass on the eye-roll because he’d just created a Winston progeny. “You’re so anxious for babies, why don’t you go make some of your own?”
My good humor deflated. Not a complete annihilation of my happiness, just a slight tempering.
“Oh, I’ll never have kids,” I responded; but before he could think too hard or too long about what I’d said, I added with a meaningful grin, “But that don’t mean I can’t spoil yours.”