The roadhouse is called Mac’s and is situated at the town limits, just off the pike. There is a baseball field behind the place and on Saturday nights the owner—who’s name isn’t Mac—sets up a makeshift riser at home plate and invites local musicians to come down and play. Spectators either sit in the bleachers or stand in the infield. Some remain in the parking lot, sitting on the hoods and fenders of cars. Given the economic circumstances in Wilkes County, there is no admission charge; the roadhouse does a fair business selling sodas and hot dogs to the crowd.
Walking to the bleachers as Morgan and his band are getting ready to play, Ava hears her name called and looks up to see June Patterson, squealing like a piglet and waving as if she’s hailing a taxicab on State Street. June is gussied up like a china doll, as is her custom, in a frilly pink skirt and a sweater with a kitten embroidered on the breast. She has pink ribbons in her hair. Ava climbs up to join her along the top row of the bleachers.
Morgan’s group begins with “The Wabash Cannonball” and then moves on to “The Ballad of Casey Jones.” Morgan plays guitar and handles the vocals. He has a clear alto voice and has been singing to Ava for as long as she can recall, going back to lullabies and nursery rhymes when they were barely old enough to walk. She’s always been envious of his voice and his musical talent. He’s been telling her since they were children that she couldn’t carry a tune in a washtub and in this he is right.
Around the time that Casey Jones buys the farm, Teddy Rickenboch snaps a string on his bass and they have to take a break while he replaces it.
“In publishing?” June repeats. “How’d you ever land a job like that? You never even finished college.”
June likes to remind Ava that she is the better educated of the two. Ava had gone to college in Charlotte for one year, gotten bored and dropped out. June, on the other hand, had attended Asheville Collegiate for two years and graduated with a degree in the secretarial arts. To date, her diploma has landed her a position as cashier and stock girl at Handy Andy’s Hardware in Hamptonville. The proprietor Andy is June’s uncle on her mother’s side.
“I just applied,” Ava replies. “There was an ad in the paper. Had an interview with a man who smelled like gin and salami and got hired.”
“What did you do there?”
“Well, I would purchase the rough manuscripts, edit them, choose the artwork for the covers and then send them off for printing and binding.”
“You’re kidding!”
“You bet your pearl buttons I’m kidding,” Ava says. “Truth of the matter is, I answered the old boys’ phones, fetched coffee, emptied their garbage cans and lied to their wives when they didn’t go straight home after work. There were times when I thought I might jump out the window. Luckily, I got laid off before I did. Sometimes I think this Depression is the best thing ever happened to me.”
The band begins to play again amid a roar of exhaust. Ava looks over to see several cars from the race earlier pulling into the parking lot beside the field. The drivers shut their engines down and climb out, all acting cock of the walk. Chick Humphries in his Dodge sedan is among them and Bobby Barlow is riding shotgun with Chick. All of them lean against the cars’ front fenders to watch the show. Soon there are pint jars being passed around.
“Oh geez, grease monkeys,” June says. “They always show up. Bet they don’t have them in Chicago.”
“Oh, I’m sure there’s an urban version,” Ava says. She watches the men as Morgan and the band swing into a raucous version of Jimmie Rodgers’s “In The Jailhouse Now.” “Looks like they enjoy their liquor. Or do you figure that’s lemonade they’re passing around?”
June shakes her head in disapproval. “It’s downright scandalous. They drink and smoke and use bad language. You wouldn’t want to get near one of them. They stink of gasoline and grease. A man wants to get close to me, he’d better smell of lilac or bay rum.”
Ava smiles. “When you find a man in this valley who smells of lilac, I suggest you grab him and hold on with both hands.”
Across the way Bobby is still moping over the loss of his roadster, a car he owned for exactly three days. He finds the music to his liking though—especially the rollicking Rodgers song—and it isn’t his nature in any case to stay down. Not only that but upon arriving he’d become immediately aware of three young women, standing in front of the riser where the band played. The girl in the middle has shoulder-length auburn hair and wears a snug summer dress with tiny roses on it. Bobby looks over at Chick, who is tilting a jar to his lips.
“Who’s that in the dress?”
Chick wipes his mouth. “Can’t see from here. Want me to go find out?”
“I do not,” Bobby says. He walks over and stops directly in front of the woman in question, turning his back to her as he claps along with the band.
“Excuse me?” she asks.
Bobby turns and feigns surprise to see her. “Yeah?”
“You’re in the way.” She has to shout above the music.
“Well, I apologize,” Bobby says. “I didn’t see you there.”
“The dickens you didn’t.”
“What’s that?” Bobby points to his ear to indicate he can’t hear. “I said the dickens you didn’t!”
At that instant the band finishes the song. The woman’s voice is loud above the crowd and she is embarrassed.
Bobby smiles. “You’re right. How’s a man supposed to miss the prettiest girl on the premises? What’s your name anyway?”
“Myrna Lee.”
“I’m Bobby Barlow.”
“Oh, I know who you are,” Myrna Lee says. “My brother is Jake Saunders. You used to come by the house.”
“You’re a Saunders?” Bobby says. “Hey, I know you now. Hell, you were still in pigtails last I saw you.”
“For your information, I was never in pigtails, Bobby Barlow.”
Bobby laughs. “Where’s old Jake at these days?”
“Doing a stretch over to Camp Polk for counterfeiting,” Myrna Lee says. “Gets out in the fall.”
“Jake was always one to hang paper.”
“Yeah and look where it gets him.”
“Well, I have to say Myrna Lee Saunders, that you have done a spectacular job growing up.”
Myrna Lee blushes. “Why, thank you, kind sir.”
Bobby grins as he looks out over the spectators in the bleachers. “I wonder if I might stop by—” He stops, hesitates. “Say—is that Ava Flagg over there?”
Myrna Lee turns, slightly miffed that Bobby is looking at other women while wooing her. “The kewpie doll?”
“Beside her, in the dark hair.”
“I couldn’t say,” Myrna Lee replies. “Since I don’t know any Ava Flagg.”
Bobby turns back to her. “As I was saying. I was wondering if I might stop by sometime, take you for a malted.”
“I work part-time at the Rexall in town,” Myrna Lee says. “At the lunch counter. Why don’t you come there and pay me a visit?”
“I’m going to do just that.”
A car horn sounds loudly. Bobby turns to see Edgar pulling up in his father’s Studebaker. He jumps out, looks around until he spots Bobby, then heads over.
“Looks like old Edgar’s about to split a gut,” Bobby says. He waits until the skinny boy comes through the fence. “Don’t tell me you’re here chasing your two dollars. Tell you what—I’ll give you that roadster of mine and we’ll call it even.”
Edgar frowns and shakes off the debt. “I just stopped for gas at Charley Walker’s Texaco. He towed in a wreck while I was at the pumps. I figured it might be of interest to you.” In his excitement Edgar doesn’t notice Myrna Lee standing there until now. “Oh, hi Myrna Lee.”
Bobby sees that she has no idea who Edgar is, but she nods anyway. It figures; Edgar is the sort to worship girls like Myrna Lee from a distance. Edgar is the sort to worship all girls from afar.
“What’s the car?” he asks.
“A ’32 Ford coupe,” Edgar says.
“Four cylinder or V8?”
“She’s an eight.”
Now Bobby is interested. “For sale?”
“Charley says yeah.”
Bobby turns to point a finger at Myrna Lee. “I’ll be catching up to you later, Miss Saunders. Count on it. Let’s go, Edgar.”
When they get to Walker’s Texaco, the wrecked coupe has already been towed around back, but is still hanging off the hook of the tow truck. The entire passenger side is ruined—front fender crushed, running board torn half off, rear fender crumpled against the wheel. Bobby walks around the car while Edgar stands off to the side, pleased as punch to be pleasing Bobby.
Charley Walker comes out the back door of the garage when he hears them pull up. Bobby glances over at him.
“Who owns it?”
“As of tonight, I do,” Charley says. “Belonged to some rich guy’s kid. Kid was drunk, drove into a concrete bridge. The old man showed up, gave the kid five across the snotbox, then sold me the car.”
Bobby tries to open the passenger door but it is jammed from the collision. “How much you give for her?”
“None of your business.”
“None of my business,” Bobby repeats. “Is the car for sale or not, Charley?”
“After a fashion, young Barlow,” the old man says. “Here’s the situation. My mechanic is in the hospital. They took out some shrapnel he’s been carrying around in his back for near twenty years. I need a mechanic for a month or so. You want to work it off, we can make a deal on the car.”
Bobby considers the offer as he makes another circle around the wreck.
“The thought of steady work scare you that much, boy?” Charley says. “Come here and look at this then.” He lifts the hood side and props it open to reveal the engine. “The kid blew the original engine to pieces and the old man had this put in. Brand new V8, eighty-five horsepower, right from Ford Motor Company in Detroit. Hasn’t got but a few hundred miles on it, according to the old man.”
A glance at the engine is all Bobby needs. “I can start on Monday.”
Charley closes the hood. “Be here at eight o’clock. You’re five minutes late, I go looking for another mechanic.”