EIGHT

On Monday morning Junior Grimes stood outside Elijah Murphy’s shack surveying his junk collection. “Four cars, right?”

“Four.”

“Give you fifty bucks for each of them, except for that Ford there—it’s worth a hundred—and I’ll buy the rest of this stuff by the pound. But you got to help me load it on my truck.”

“How much per pound?”

“Penny.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll be back tomorrow with the roll-back,” Junior said.

When Elijah Murphy had walked into Doolin’s an hour ago, he went by the beer display without even a glance.

“You’re looking mighty fine this morning, Mr. Murphy,” said a very surprised Lula Grimes. She had never seen the man scrubbed, without a stubble of beard.

“Thank you. Is Junior around?”

“In the garage.”

Junior was busy on a transmission. He glanced at Murphy, then looked again. Even Murphy’s clothes were clean.

“Whatcha doin’, Murph?”

“Nothin’ much, Junior.”

“Goin’ to a funeral?”

This oblique reference to Murphy’s extraordinary toilet didn’t cause him to flinch. “Nope. Came to do some business. Want to sell all that junk around my shack, get it hauled out of there.”

Now, standing in Murphy’s yard, with their business concluded, Junior decided to broach a matter that had caused him much grief. “I got a question, Murph. Don’t think that I’m bein’ smart, but whatcha gonna do with the money?”

“Don’t know that that’s any of your business, Grimes.”

“You’re right. It ain’t, really. But you owe near to a hundred dollars down at the store, so you do. Remember all those times I let you have beer on credit?”

Each time his mother had been infuriated. She only let Junior mind the store on rare occasions, such as when she and Moses celebrated an anniversary or attended a viewing at a funeral home. Alas, Junior was unable to say no when confronted by a hard-luck story. And he liked everybody, including Elijah Murphy.

“Won’t be any more of that, I hope,” Murphy said solemnly.

Junior gaped. “You mean you’re givin’ up drinkin’?”

“Ain’t saying that. I’m just trying to stay sober from one minute to the next.”

“I gave up drinkin’ one time,” Junior said, trying to lighten the mood. It made him feel bad seeing Murph suffering so. “Twenty minutes later I was so thirsty I couldn’t stand it.”

Elijah Murphy was not amused. “I’m drier than a desert turd,” he said forlornly. “I don’t know if I can stand not drinkin’. All I can say is I’m tryin’. If I come into Doolin’s wantin’ beer, don’t sell me any.” Murphy’s mouth worked some more, but no sound came out. God, he had been bold! Emotion overcame him and made his tongue too thick to speak.

“Want me to tell Mom that?”

Murphy took a ragged breath as the implications of that question sank in. If he fell off the wagon, Junior would still sell him beer on those rare occasions when he was behind the counter. Lula Grimes, never. Not even if he had cash to pay for it. While still trying to comprehend the ramifications of his first brush with glory, Elijah Murphy was being asked to commit himself further, to make his commitment absolutely irrevocable.

He had to struggle to get it out, but even then it didn’t sound like his own voice: “Might as well.”

There! He had done it! He had crossed the river of fire and burned the bridge behind him.

“Mom don’t much care for drinkin’,” Junior mused. “Only carries beer in the store because so many folks want it, but she don’t hold with swillin’ it.”

Murphy pumped his lungs three or four times to clear his head, then remarked, “Women are like that, I reckon.”

“Yeah. But what I’m askin’ is, since you’re coming into a little money here, what say you use some of it to pay your bill down at the store?”

“Don’t know if I’ll have enough.”

Junior waited expectantly.

Murphy had to say it, finally. “I’m gonna build a bathroom in my shack. Gonna buy pipes and stuff and plumb it from the well. Already got an old pump on the back porch that I got some while back, and I think it works. Just need some pipe and taps and a john and a bathtub.”

Junior received this extraordinary news without turning a hair. He merely nodded, then said, “Why don’t you come over to the junkyard tomorrow and root through my stuff? I have a bathtub over there and a lot of water pipes. As I recollect, there’s even a commode—just a little stained and chipped, perfectly serviceable—that you can have and it won’t cost you nothin’. But I would sure take it as a personal favor if you could pay something on that bill at the store.”

“Okay,” said Elijah Murphy. The morning breeze swirled around him and played with his hair. He felt as desiccated as an autumn leaf, light, insubstantial, as if at any moment the wind might pick him up and carry him away.

Modern women have dropped screams from their repertoire. Those relics of a bygone era when men were men and women were women and everyone was happy with that arrangement are rarely heard these days. Consequently it had been quite a while since Lula Grimes savored a really good, first-class ear-splitter. She had hoped that someday fortune might allow her to enjoy another, so when a muffled, half-choked sob-scream—a sad effort, sort of pathetic, really—came floating through Doolin’s, she sighed forlornly. Too short. Too spur-of-the-moment. Poor volume.

The sound came from the direction of the restrooms, just off the restaurant. Lula was at the cash register in the store. She automatically locked the cash drawer and pocketed the key, then came around the counter and headed for the restrooms.

She had covered about four steps in that direction when one of the best screams she had ever heard split the air like the whistle of a steam locomotive. It rose in volume and pitch simultaneously, quavered at the top three times, then dropped slightly and ended abruptly, leaving the listener stunned and gasping.

There are very few incidents short of a scalping that can induce a scream like that, so Lula broke into a trot.

The screamer was someone Lula didn’t recognize, which made her a tourist. She was middle-aged and nicely dressed, and her face was white as a sheet. “The ladies’—” she gasped when she saw Lula hustling toward her. “A man—looking in the window.”

Lula Grimes heard heavy footsteps behind her.

“Junior!”

“Yeah, Mom.”

“The window of the ladies’. A man peeping.”

“Yo,” Junior acknowledged. He wheeled and headed out through the store.

Lula Grimes took the tourist’s arm and steered her toward the restaurant. “There, there. That must have been a horrible shock.”

“Oh, my God! I was washing my hands when I saw that face…leering…”

Junior circled the building. Goofy was still standing on his cinder blocks, looking in.

Junior slowed his pace. When he arrived he asked, “Whatcha doin’, Goofy?”

The retarded man turned toward Junior. A moment passed before he got it out. “Nothin’.”

“Nothin’ much, you mean?”

“Yeah.”

“Nothin’ much,” Junior repeated, helping Goofy with his social duties. “Why don’t you get down offa there and come inside?”

Reluctantly Goofy stepped down and picked up his cinder blocks, one in each hand. Junior put an arm across his shoulders. “That was a hell of a scream, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“You just out doin’ some travelin’ today, are you?”

“Didn’t mean…make her scream,” Goofy said, on the verge of tears. At least that’s what it sounded like to Junior.

“Some of ’em do that sometimes,” Junior said with a frown. He was a little peeved at the female tourist for traumatizing Goofy. “Don’t let it worry you none.”

Goofy snuffled a few times and swabbed at his eyes.

“Hey,” Junior said. “How about an ice cream?”

Goofy was sitting on his cinder blocks near the counter eating an Eskimo Pie when Lula Grimes marched into the store from the restaurant. Her finger shot out, pointing at Goofy. “That’s the third time this summer, Goofy.”

“Mom, he don’t—” Junior began.

“Quiet, you. I’m not in the mood for any of your lip.” She sighted along her digit at Goofy. “Peeping in windows at women going to the bathroom isn’t right, Goofy, and you’re smart enough to know that. You scared that woman in there half to death. I won’t have it. You understand?”

Goofy cringed and kept chomping on the Eskimo Pie.

“I think you’re a whole lot smarter than some of these geniuses around here,” Lula told him as she glanced ominously at Junior. “You’re smart enough to know better. And Junior always brings you in here and gives you ice cream. Does it every time. Won’t you ever learn, Junior?”

“Mom, I—”

“I’m sick of looking at both of you. Junior, take Goofy home. And find something to do somewhere else. I don’t want you around here for a while.”

“Hey, I didn’t peek in any window. And I got Lyle Samples’ tractor in the garage and he wants—”

“Out! Get out! Lyle Samples can just wait. Get out of my sight. Both of you. Now!”

Goofy crammed the rest of the confection into his mouth, picked up his cinder blocks, and followed Junior out the door.

 

When Junior went by Richard Hudson’s house, he slowed down. Someone was plowing the low ridge that ran parallel to the creek. It was a large field, perhaps ten acres. Someone else, it looked like Hudson, was trotting along behind the tractor looking down.

Junior whipped into the driveway. “Goof, let’s stop and visit a while. That looks like ol’ man Kane on that big John Deere tractor.”

Goofy was, of course, agreeable. He had never been in a hurry in his life. As he got his cinder blocks from the bed of the pickup, Junior said, “We’ll run you home after a bit. You won’t need them blocks out in this field.”

Hudson didn’t look overjoyed to see them coming across the furrows, but that didn’t bother Junior, who greeted Hudson with a hardy “Whatcha lookin’ for?”

“Arrowheads.”

Junior fell into formation two or three feet away and put his eyes on the ground. Goofy trailed along behind them and lowered his head, too.

“Found any?”

“A few.”

“Today?”

“Yes.”

“What do they look like? I never seen one.”

Hudson looked wistfully at the tractor pulling away, then stopped and brought out several from his pocket. Junior took them in his hand and looked them over while Goofy watched over his shoulder.

Finally Junior brandished one and said, “Goof, what’s this one?”

“Benton.”

“What did he say?” Hudson demanded.

“I think he said ‘Benton.’ Did you say ‘Benton’?”

“Benton.”

Hudson didn’t believe it. “You mean to tell me that Goofy knows arrowheads?”

“What’s this here one, Goofy?”

“Adena.”

“Ain’t that a marvel?” Junior asked Hudson as he returned the artifacts. “I wouldn’t know an arrowhead from a crick rock, but last summer ol’ Goofy worked with some perfesser on some kinda archo—archaeologic dig, and they say he got real good at figurin’ out arrowheads. I guess the perfesser found arrowheads that went clear back to Adam and Eve. Goofy knows which is which and all that stuff, so he does. Don’t you, Goofy?”

Goofy smiled vacantly.

Staring at Goofy, Richard Hudson decided that it might be possible. He knew from his research on the brain that some retarded people have normal capabilities in some fields, or even unusually well developed capabilities. Perhaps…

“Well, I swear, if this ain’t one here.” Junior bent down and came up with a point. “I found one! How about that!”

He rubbed it clean, looked it over, then passed it to Hudson.

Richard Hudson found himself on the horns of a dilemma. He wanted it, yet Junior saw it first. Courtesy won over greed. He held it out to Junior, who refused it.

“Wouldn’t know what to do with it. Just another rock to me. You keep it.”

Hudson pocketed the point before Junior had time to change his mind.

In a few moments Jared Kane brought his tractor to a stop and got off for a smoke. Junior passed the time of day while Jared puffed his pipe, then he and Goofy walked back toward the pickup. Kane dug in his pocket and held out a half dozen points to Hudson.

“I picked these up when it looked like they might get covered up on the next pass. This looks like a village site to me. There are lots of flakes, everywhere. And lots of points. Water right there in the stream, which runs all year. The Indians must have lived here occasionally for long periods.”

“Don’t you want to keep one of these points?”

“No. I found my arrowhead years and years ago. One’s enough.”

“Not for me.”

“You haven’t found the right one yet. You will, sooner or later.”

Kane got back on the tractor and got it under way. The polished steel plow blades turned the earth as Richard Hudson followed along behind watching for flint treasures.

 

Diamond Ice was sitting on the porch swing reading when Junior turned the pickup into the yard. He got out and stretched and gave her a big “Whatcha doin’ there, honey pot?”

“Nothing much,” she said, putting down the book. She sashayed down the stairs and stopped with her feet apart and her hands on her hips. “Did you come calling today to propose?”

“Brought ol’ Goofy here”—Junior jerked a thumb—“back from the restaurant. He was peeking again. Gave some woman tourist a heck of a scare, so he did.”

“Won’t do you any good trying to change the subject, Junior Grimes. I want to talk about marriage.”

“You shoulda heard that woman scream. Like to curled my blood, so it did.”

“Holy matrimony,” the object of his past affections reminded him primly.

“That ain’t exactly a new subject for you, Di. But I ain’t in a marryin’ mood this morning.”

“Or any morning.”

“Well, that’s true so far. Just ain’t ever got the itch to tie the knot.” He reached out and took Diamond in his arms, picking her up as if she didn’t weigh ten pounds. “On the other hand, I could do with a little lovin’. Would you happen to be in the mood for that?”

“Why buy a cow when milk’s free?”

“Now, honey. You know how much I love you. But marriage is a big step. Just now I ain’t in a financial position to afford a wife. I’m down in the barrel scrapin’ goo off the bottom.”

“Maybe you ought to be working instead of loving this fine morning. Then we’d be a few dollars closer.”

“A few dollars one way or the other won’t make no difference. And it’s a fine, crisp mornin’. The feel of a real hunk of woman like you makes it finer, so it does. What say we stroll over to the barn and crawl up in the loft?”

“Well…,” Diamond Ice murmured, her resolve melting away. Junior was so big and strong, so darn male.

They were comfortably ensconced on a bed of hay when Diamond said, “Goofy may crawl up for a peek.”

“He won’t see nothin’ he hasn’t seen before.”

Diamond giggled.

“It ain’t like we’re corruptin’ the poor boy’s morals, Di. What we oughta do is get that boy a gal.”

“Hmm,” Diamond said.

“Arch and me are workin’ on it,” Junior informed his lady love. “We figure that if he gets to do it for real, watchin’ other folks will lose its attraction. What do you think?”

He never got an answer, and before very long, he forgot the question.

Goofy did indeed climb into the loft to watch, but Junior and Diamond never noticed.

 

Late that afternoon at Doolin’s store Junior made a telephone call to one of the tire recyclers that advertised in a mechanic’s trade magazine to which he subscribed. The call was long distance; Junior reminded himself to keep it short. So when the man at the recycling company answered, Junior skipped the social courtesies and got right to it.

“Hey, this is Junior Grimes over here in Eden. Twelve miles south of Indian River. I seen your ad that says you recycle tires and I got a bunch.”

“How many do you have, Mr. Grimes?”

“I got eight thousand of the darn things piled in my junkyard, near as I can figure. Might be a few hundred either way. The gover’ment is after me to get rid of ’em.”

“That many, we would need three tractor-trailers to haul the lot. We could send rigs next week. I’m looking at the schedule…next Wednesday. You load the tires, and we’ll pay for the hauling. It’s a dollar and a half a tire.”

Junior was ecstatic. The tire problem was solved! He was going to be rolling in it. Wait until Diamond heard the news! She wanted so badly to get married. “Tell you what,” he said expansively, “you come get ’em before that gover’ment man comes back, I’ll let you have everything over seventy-five hundred tires free.”

The man on the other end of the line chuckled. “I don’t think you understand, Mr. Grimes. You pay us a dollar and a half a tire. Twelve thousand dollars. We’ll need a certified or cashier’s check for that amount when we arrive.”

It took several seconds for the implications of that remark to sink in. When it did, Junior roared into his instrument, “Are you out of your mind? I ain’t got no twelve thousand dollars! I run a junkyard, for Christ’s sake, not a damn bank.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Grimes. But you pay us.”

“You need a brain transplant, and you’re goin’ to have to finance it yourself,” thundered Junior Grimes, and he slammed down the telephone.

Junior was so disappointed he felt half sick. He had to get rid of those tires. He tried the telephone number in another advertisement, only to be told that it would cost him $1.60 per tire plus freight to have his tires recycled by the experts at that company.

Disgusted, he threw the mechanic’s trade magazine into a corner. Twelve thousand dollars! He had never had that much money at one time in his life. And Ed Harris at the bank was not going to loan him money to have tires hauled away. The bankers always said they needed “security” when Junior went into their quiet, decorated, carpeted offices to discuss the nuances of his balance sheet.

Was he ever going to have the money to marry Diamond Ice?

 

Arch Stehlik came into the restaurant for dinner that evening. Junior ate with him, then suggested they go see Benny Modesso. Arch was agreeable.

In the pickup on the way to Indian River, Junior told Arch about his conversations with the tire recyclers. “Arch, I don’t have no twelve thousand dollars. And I ain’t ever gonna get twelve thousand dollars unless I win the lottery, which ain’t too likely since I never have money to buy lottery tickets.”

“You’re going to have to burn them,” Arch said. That was Arch; he always went right to the heart of a matter and latched on to the only practical solution.

Not that Junior always liked Arch’s solutions. “Dang, Arch, that’s against the law,” he pointed out now.

“I know it is. And there’s no way to do it so no one knows about it. Eight thousand tires will make a pretty big fire.”

“That new trooper will catch me,” Junior protested. “Sam Neely is young and green, but he’s not stupid. And Arleigh Tate is an ol’ hound dog who’s been around the mountain three or four times after the fox. Arleigh will be chasin’ me ten seconds after he smells the smoke.”

“Leave it to me,” Arch said, the soul of confidence.

Junior needed more assurance than that. “I sure as hell don’t want to wind up in front of Lester Storm again,” Junior informed his friend. “Mom got mighty put out at me the last time.”

“You worry too much,” Arch said. “I’ll take care of it. The less you know the better.”

Benny Modesso’s drugstore sat on a corner across the square from the courthouse. Junior paused at the door and inhaled the aroma of the place. He always thought he could smell the delicious odors of chocolate and the syrups they used to put in the sodas back when Junior was in grade school.

Benny was still making up prescriptions at the counter at the far end of the room. “Whatcha doin’?” Junior said.

“Nothing much, Junior. Arch.”

“Your dad never shoulda taken the soda fountain out, Benny.”

“We were losing money on it. People wouldn’t buy sodas and malts when they could buy pop in a can for half the price.”

“I guess,” Junior agreed, looking around at the old fixtures and mirrors that adorned the walls. “Still, it was a shame.”

“That it was,” Arch echoed. One of the things he liked about Junior was his sentimentality, but the fellow could sure waste a lot of time mooning about what used to be. Before Junior could work up to a maudlin moment this evening, Arch said, “We came to see you tonight about some pictures, Benny.”

“Oh,” said the pharmacist, obviously perplexed.

“Yeah,” Junior said, and leaned his hip against the counter. “Did Delmar Clay bring in a roll of film today to be developed?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t come in until noon. Why?”

“What time does the lab pick up and deliver?”

“Nine in the morning. Right after we open.”

“Mind if we look at the stuff you’ve taken in today?”

“Well…”

“Look, Benny. We’ve been friends since the seventh grade. Have I ever done anything that caused you trouble?”

“Now that you mention it, Junior, yes, you did. I recall that time you told the girl I was dating that I had the clap. Judy Somerville. Remember that little incident?”

Junior chuckled. “About forgot. Truth is, I was sorta soft on Judy myself. I mean other than that?”

“Other than that? Jesus, Junior! You ruined my social life in high school. I couldn’t get a date in this county until I was twenty-two years old, for Christ’s sake.”

Junior looked stunned, as if he had just taken a punch. “I’m sorry, Benny,” he muttered. “I didn’t know.”

“I know you’re sorry and you didn’t mean to hurt me. That’s the thing about you, Junior. You wouldn’t intentionally hurt any living thing; everyone knows that. But all your projects don’t turn out the way you think they will. You have all the best of intentions and still people get crushed under the wheels.”

Junior didn’t know what to say.

Arch Stehlik saw that Junior was done for the evening. He took over the conversation. “Delmar took some pictures of Billy Joe Elkins on Friday night after the game. Billy Joe and a girl were naked in a car, and Delmar caught them. He had a camera with a flash unit.”

Without another word Benny Modesso got out the canvas bag that held the outgoing film envelopes. He dumped them on the counter. He and Arch sorted through them while Junior walked around the store with his hands in his pockets, his head down.

Benny found it. “Here it is,” he said, holding it out to Arch.

Delmar Clay, one roll, twenty-four exposures. To be picked up Thursday.

Arch pried up the sticky flap that sealed the envelope and dumped the film capsule into his hand. The film was completely contained within the round metal housing, and he had no way to get it out without destroying the housing. He pocketed the roll and pointed to the boxes of new film that hung on the display behind the counter. “Give me one of those rolls, Benny. Thirty-five millimeter, twenty-four exposures.”

Benny rang up the sale. Arch paid him, then opened the box. He pulled the celluloid completely from the housing, exposing it, then wound it back into the housing using a pencil. He dropped the roll into Delmar’s envelope, sealed it, and tossed the envelope back into the bag.

“Thanks, Benny.”

“Sure.”

“Delmar come in here often with film?”

“One or two rolls a month.”

“Why don’t you talk to the folks at the film lab? Ask if they’ve developed any photos of naked people for Delmar.”

“It’s a Capitol City outfit, Arch. They think they’re sophisticated moderns. Privacy and all that crap.”

“Maybe they’ll tell you something. I’d be curious to know if this is the first time Delmar pulled this stunt.”

“Delmar Clay is a first-class son of a bitch,” Benny Modesso admitted. “Okay, I’ll ask.”

Arch nodded. He turned to look for Junior. “Hey, amigo. Let’s go.”

Junior came over to the counter. “I’m sorry, Benny. I shouldn’t have done that to you and Judy.”

“It was years ago, Junior. We were kids then. I shouldn’t have mentioned it. Forget it.”

Junior lifted his big, meaty hands, looked at Benny and Arch with tears in his eyes, then turned and tromped for the door.

“Good night, Benny,” Arch Stehlik said, and walked after him.