“We all… some of us knew it, but nobody talked about it. Paul was born and bred here, which makes him one of us. He and Paitsel were politely referred to as ‘bachelor gentlemen.’ It was our awkward truth—our dirty secret. And Medgar has a way of trussing up its awkward truths and putting them on a shelf in the attic, never to be spoken of again.”
Lo seemed anxious to change the subject. “I ain’t got a attic,” he said. “Got a basement, though.” Basements were rare in Medgar, and he was boastful of his good fortune.
“A basement’s a fine thing,” Chester allowed.
“Tis,” Pops agreed.
“But Mr. Meadows…” I struggled to put my thoughts to the correct words. “… he seems normal. Like he’s one of us.” I instinctively knew my phrasing was set to the completely wrong pitch. “Do you know what I mean?”
Lo nodded vigorously.
Pops smiled. “Son, the more people I meet, the less good I get at labeling them. That’s a wisdom I hope you acquire.”
Chester brought his hand to his chin; Lo seemed confused.
We all went silent for a moment; then I asked about the story Mr. Paul had told me that morning about my grandmother and the rifle-shot slap. The more I heard of her, the more I wanted to know, if only to attach Pops’ loss to my own. At the mention of Sarah Winthorpe Peebles, Lo and Chester immediately began searching for interesting items in their sour mash. Pops adjusted himself in the chair until he found a position that let the memory of his one true love sit in comfort.
“Your grandmother was quite a lady,” he said quietly, spinning the sour mash and looking off to his left at nothing in particular. “And saving that girl was one of her finer moments.”
No one spoke for a while; we just listened to the night sounds around us. A large figure materialized out of the darkness at the bottom of the porch. It was Bubba Boyd. In the street, just out of the lamplight, Billy Boyd and the frowning man from the town meeting stood, arms crossed.
Bubba took deliberate steps up to the porch and paused in front of us for a moment. “Lo, Chester, Arthur.” He nodded. “How are you boys this evenin?”
“We’re just fine, Bubba,” Chester answered.
“To what do we owe this pleasure?” Pops asked.
“Jus come to talk, Arthur.”
“Okay, let’s talk. Pull up that chair there.” He motioned to an extra green wicker chair on the other side of the porch. “Kevin, can you please get Mr. Boyd a glass of mash. On the rocks, if I recall.”
Bubba walked to the other end of the porch and brought over the chair. As he sat in it, the old legs pushed out several inches under the unaccustomed strain. I went to the bar table, poured mash on ice, and took it to him. “Thanks, son,” he said. He wet his lips, sipped, and toasted Pops. “Arthur, you always did have the good stuff. Clinch Mountain?”
Pops nodded, but said nothing. Chester was staring intently at Bubba Boyd. Lo was digging mud out of the waffle sole of his boot with a pocket knife.
“Do you remember when we was kids? All the crap we used to get into? I’m surprised our families dint disown us or ship us off to the formatory. Those were some good times.” He chuckled, licked his lips, and took a sip of mash. “Good times, indeed.” He brought the glass to eye level and inspected the brew. “This is some fine mash, Arthur. Reminds me a the time we broke into the Company Store to get at the liquor in there. Tenth grade I think we were. This hadta been thirty-three, thirty-four. Me an Bump, an Jesper, one a your brothers, I think it was Hersh, and a few of my boys, even little Gov Budget was taggin along, I think. You were there too, as I recall. Do you remember how we all snuck out an met up at the old trash dump? It was so long ago, I can understand if the memory has faded.”
“I remember it,” Pops said.
“Chester, you weren’t there, as I recall. And, Lo, you was jus a weeun.” He paused and looked up at the porch ceiling. “Whose idea was it to break into that place, anyways?”
“It was yours.”
Bubba chuckled. “I guess it was my idea. I remember we all snuck down there like we was World War One spies. But the place was locked up tightern a drum. How’d we get in there, anyway? I can’t remember.”
“You stole the key from your daddy’s man who ran the store. Wasn’t much of a break-in. More of a door unlocking.”
He chuckled again. “You are right, I did have the key. Made things a whole lot easier. But once I opened up that door, you dint come in. You said somethin like ‘I ain’t doin this’ an went on home. Hersh stayed an helped out, but you went on home.”
“Stealing wasn’t one of my sports.”
“Well it warn’t really stealin since my daddy owned it all, now, was it?” Bubba smiled and licked his lips. He took a sip of mash. “The police thought otherwise, though, dint they? Arrested us all an took us to Glassville. I always wondered how they knew who done it. Cause I know none a my boys woulda tole. You were the only other one who knew. I always wanted to ask you, jus never did—was it you who tole the police what we did? Was it you who ratted out his own brother?” The humor had left Bubba Boyd, edged out by simmering malevolence.
Pops’ mouth was a paper edge. “Hersh lived his own life, made his own mistakes. He didn’t need my help of it. As to you, Bubba. You weren’t worth the ratting. A year or two up juvie wouldn’t have changed a thing about you. That would be like putting new rings on a bad piston.”
Bubba’s neck went red and he drew his tongue into his mouth. “I dint come here to talk engine repair.”
“No doubt.”
“Come here to talk bidness.”
“Business? Your Rotties having trouble? They do have some questionable hips.”
“Not vet bidness, land bidness. Been out to see Hersh last week.”
“He mentioned that.”
“Then you know I come to talk bout Jukes.”
“Okay. Talk.”
“The Company jus bought Bridger Mountain and I want to make you an offer for Jukes. Best way in and outta there is on your old road. You ain’t usin it no more, an I will make you a fair offer.”
“So make it.”
“Fifty thousand dollars for the whole two-twenty.”
Pops nodded and sat back calmly. “Why do you want to buy the whole parcel? A smarter play is to just lease the road from me.”
“I guess I jus like ownin things.”
“Of that we are all well assured. But I suspect you’ll need somewhere to push all that overburden. The other side of Bridger is all Old Blue National Forest. The park boys will never let you hollow fill Blue. Jukes is the only option you’ve got.”
Bubba didn’t react. He just stared intently at Pops. “Got lots a options. Truck it out to Hogsback.”
Pops crossed his legs. “I’m no expert of coal economics, but I do know the cost of dump trucking… you’re not trucking it out. But it’s all moot if Paul gets the feds involved. Says he’s going to shut you down.”
“That ain’t gonna happen.”
“You think he’s gonna back down after tonight?”
Bubba blew out of his nostrils with certainty—the way a whale knows it’s reached the good air. He sucked at a piece of pork barbecue that had lodged in his teeth from dinner.
“I’ve made you a fair price an Hersh wants to sell.”
“Hersh and I have been known to disagree.”
“It ain’t nothin but weeds up there.”
“Bubba, you can be dumb as a stone. How long have you known me? Fifty-five, sixty years? Jukes ain’t for sale. Not for fifty thousand or five hundred thousand. Those weeds up there happen to be quite important to me.”
“Think about your family, Arthur. Think about what you an Hersh could do with all that money.”
Pops regarded him coldly. “Answer is no. Now, kindly leave my porch so I can get back to the important business of enjoying the evening.”
Bubba sat for a moment, staring quietly at Pops. He stood slowly and walked over to the mash serving table and carefully placed the glass down, holding it from the top and lowering it gently so it made no sound when the glass met wood. He turned, heels clicking on the porch, and paused at the top of the steps looking out over Pops’ quarter acre. He picked his head up and sniffed at the air, as if he could read the future in the vagaries of night scent. He adjusted the lay of waistband on hip and strode casually off the porch steps, out to the lamp, and down the street until darkness bled over all the places he had been.