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Mack pulled off the county road and drove up a half-mile track to a one-story house with a pyramidal roof and weathered boarding. His plan was to feel George Folsom out about buying the duplex next to his mother and aunt. He couldn’t think of a better neighbor and was sure his mother’s animosity would lessen with someone next door that she knew. As icing on the cake, Nonny would visit often, helping to keep an eye on things. The perfect plan.
Climbing from his Bronco, he called out, “Uncle George—”A row of rusted-out farm equipment lined the fencerow around a dilapidated barn, long past usable. The remains of an outhouse sat back of the house, grown over with thick, dead vines. Mack lifted his nose to the air and could have sworn the honey-suckle was still in bloom. The sound of a door opening drew his attention to a figure at the front window, waving him onto the porch.
George Folsom ushered him into a house laid out in a square plan with four rooms, typical of the 1920s and ‘30s when such houses were built. The old man disappeared into the kitchen as Mack took a seat on an old divan covered with a wash-worn quilt. As he waited, he picked up the scent of Bull Durham tobacco, something greasy cooked up recently, and dust.
He was not surprised to see George return with two water glasses and a quart jar of golden-colored liquid. But he was surprised when the thought entered his mind that the color of the homemade brew was the exact same color as Nonny’s eyes. He pushed that thought from his mind, reminding himself of the purpose for the visit, and nodded as the old man held a glass his way. An invitation to sample the wares.
“Might want to take it slow,” George said. “Got a good bite on this jug.”
Mack took a swallow and felt his chest turn warm from his gullet to his stomach. “I’d say you did,” he croaked.
Chuckling, George said, “Not having any luck with finding old Bill and Jack, huh?”
“Not yet,” Mack said. “How’d you know?”
“I figured that’s why you come by, wanted to see if I could remember anything else. I can’t. I tried to place where Grover might’ve put those mules, but it’s just not coming. And I gotta say, that surprises me.”
“Why’s that?”
The old man sipped his glass and stared at the oil heater he’d lit earlier, which now glowed orange. “Me and Grover was always tight. Not like blood kin, I’m saying, but we kept up with what the other was doing. He never said a word about those mules being gone till I asked him one day where they was.”
“Pa never was a talker.”
George sipped some more, continuing to stare at the stove. “Time of year, that’s what I figure. We didn’t see much of each other after growing season was done. Must’ve lost those mules after we stopped working the fields.”
“What’d he say when you asked him?”
“Nothin’, that’s what he said. Just turned his back to me and walked away. Took to himself after that. Course, like you said, he never was one to run off at the mouth. And then . . . Well, that was about the time that woman of his took off. Grover had his hands full, trying to raise up two children on his own.”
“And you never asked him again about those mules?”
The old man eyed Mack. “He wanted me to know, he would’ve told me. Nonny ain’t had no luck finding ‘em neither.”
Mack took a sip, letting it mellow on his tongue before allowing it to trickle down his throat. “So you talked to Nonny today?”
A nod. “Funny thing though, she thinks someone was watching her. She said she covered her tracks pretty well, picking some late persimmons as she walked around to hide what she was up to.”
Mack felt a jolt hit his stomach that did not come from the Mason jar. “Who was it? She recognize who it was?”
“A dark truck’s all she could tell. It hung back though, so she couldn’t get a good look.”
“She call the sheriff?”
“Naw. She figured it was old Turner, that middle one that takes care of the grazing land.”
“That’d be Junior.”
“He’s got on to her before about trespassing. She watches when the wild plums and persimmons come on, you know.”
Mack nodded. “Seems kind of funny he didn’t just drive up and confront her if he’s done it in the past.”
“She thought so, too.” The old man scratched his chin. “Didn’t know what to make of it.”
“You think he’s up to no good? I mean, with Nonny.”
George snorted loudly. “Don’t have to worry about Nonny. That girl don’t take nothin’ off nobody. Besides, that Turner’s not a worry. The old man was meaner than a rattlesnake, but that son of his always kowtowed to everyone. I figure that’s why he left the prison. No backbone.”
My sentiments exactly, Mack thought.
“Better suited to taking care of cows, I figure,” George said. “Cows are stupid creatures. Sheep, too. Or so I heard. Was never around sheep much myself.”
“Doesn’t sound like much of a threat to Nonny then. Wouldn’t want her to get into trouble on our account.”
The old man laughed softly, his eyes taking on a glow as warm as the drink in his hand. “Can’t tell you how glad I am to have that girl back home. Any chance we could get you to move back permanent? Know Ruby and Sister would like that, ‘specially now that Grover’s failing.”
Mack downed the rest of his glass, waited for the burn to subside, and cleared his throat. “Well now, that’s the reason I come by, Uncle George.” Jumping to the point of his visit, he told about his plans to move his mother and aunt into a duplex at the gated community. He intended to feel George out about the other unit next door, but he did not get that far.
“I cannot believe you’d do that to them,” the old man said.
Mack sat still, studying the change that had come over the man.
“It’d kill me, Nonny tried to move me into one of them places.” George turned his eyes away, fixing his gaze on the stove as though Mack was not fit to look upon.
Mack listened to the uncomfortable silence for a minute more, then set his empty glass on the table next to the divan. He had worn out his welcome.
“Well then, I won’t keep you any longer.” He paused at the door. “Sister and Mama haven’t said a word about not wanting to move into town, Uncle George. Just wanted you to know that.”
The old man refilled his glass. “Your grandpap never said a word about not wanting to give up them mules neither.”
Mack stood on the porch looking over dark hills, thinking he had been a fool to think George Folsom would be a likely candidate for the other duplex unit. “Stubbornness runs in that family,” he muttered.
Climbing into his Bronco, he drove back to the county road. Shifting into neutral, he sat for a while, listening to the engine idle and debating which way to turn.
“You got no choice, Barlow. Anybody knows of someone who might be willing to buy that other unit, it would be Nonny.” He turned to the right and stepped on the gas, then wheeled the Bronco into a tight turn the opposite direction, toward home.
“No, I’ll sleep on it. I am not in the mood to eat more crow tonight.”
