Fall 1951
Dale County, Alabama
"Hey, Johnny."
Johnny nearly dropped his wrench into the engine of his old '37 Chevy pickup. Slowly he pulled himself out from under the hood, hoping his ears hadn't heard what they just did. Sure enough. There she was.
Greta Mansfield. Lord girl, you should not be here.
The afternoon sun outside the barn's open doors cast her in a warm glow as dust particles danced around her. She was wearing a white and red polka dot dress that clung to more curves than a country road. And then there was that amazing, thick chestnut hair. Goddamn her. She simply should not be here.
Johnny was so spellbound that for a moment he hadn't noticed the toddler on her hip. Snot dripped out of the child's nose. Another child, a boy about four years old, hung onto Greta's fingers and stooped down to pull some straw off the barn floor.
Not mine, he thought grimly. Someone else's.
Johnny reached for a cigarette as Hank Williams' hound dog wail came winding out of the cab radio and drifted through the barn's rafters.
_'Today I passed you on the street
And my heart fell at your feet
I can't help it if I'm still in love with you.'_
An awkwardness built in the air as she stood there, as if waiting for him to say something.
"Bob's gotten really sick," Greta finally said.
Yeah, Johnny had heard a tick had bitten him and he could barely walk and speak now. Goddamned sonofabitch. It was the least he deserved.
"There's something wrong with the sawmill's engine," she said. "We need someone to fix it."
"Blaine Wilson can fix it," Johnny offered. Blaine was the town's mechanic. A pervert for sure, but Johnny had seen him fix everything from a bicycle to an airplane.
She cast about for a moment. "I won't pay Mr. Wilson's price."
It didn't take much of an imagination to figure out what Blaine had demanded. He seemed to think every woman in the county owed him a fuck some way or another.
"A man over in Dothan said he could fix it," she said. "But he won't be able to get to it for a couple of weeks. We - I thought you could come look at it."
Johnny took a drag on his cigarette.
It tore at him to have to say this, and he felt like a coward for it, but he just couldn't do this again.
"Sorry, Greta. Best you wait on that man from Dothan."
He forced himself to turn away from her and focus his attention back on the truck.
"Jackass," he heard her mutter before she walked out of the barn.
Her words were like a broken glass bottle in his chest.
He looked back over his shoulder in time to watch her put the kids into the back of her green Oldsmobile before heading on down the red clay road.
He was a jackass. And every bit the coward. He hurled his wrench against the barn wall. It bounced and shattered an old lamp leaning against a stall. He ran his hands through his hair, shaking. He needed a drink bad.
Not her fault, he thought. It's mine.
He looked at the truck. For a moment, he was back years ago. She was standing in the truck bed, her arms on the top of the cab, smiling down at him, pretty as the Spring...
Hank was just finishing up his song:
_'It's hard to know another's lips will kiss you
And hold you just the way I used to do
Oh, heaven only knows how much I miss you
I can't help it if I'm still in love with you'_
Johnny reached into the cab and turned the radio off.
******
It was close to sunset by the time Johnny made his way home to the rundown farmhouse beside the road. In his family for three generations, the house leaned slightly to the side on its brick pylons. The smell of freshly baked egg custard greeted him as he mounted the porch's creaking floorboards. The screen door's spring whined as it opened then slammed shut behind him as he entered the dimly lit house.
Momma was in the kitchen washing some dishes. She had laid out some leftover chicken, greens, and boiled potatoes for him. Johnny took a seat at the table, in the chair next to the pie safe. Seeing the freshly baked egg custard siting in there, all golden and warm, lifted his spirits some.
He picked up his fork and dove into his potatoes, still eying the custard.
"That was Greta Mansfield out there wasn't it?" Momma asked.
"Sure was."
She remained quiet for a while as she dried a plate with a towel. Finally she said, "What did she want?"
Johnny really didn't want to talk about it. "Something's wrong with their sawmill engine. She wants me to look at it."
"Bob's been real sick," Momma said.
Johnny hoped the bastard would die. He had it a long time coming. And what if he did die? Then what? Johnny shook his head. He'd had his chance and had lost it. Best not even to consider it.
"You gonna fix it?" she asked.
"I don't want to talk about it, Momma."
She picked up another plate and wiped it dry.
"A lot of folks rely on that mill."
Of course, Momma wasn't going to let a thing like this go. She was the only one in the family who had any lick of sense. Daddy had always called her his rock.
Johnny picked up a chicken thigh. "She said some fella from Dothan would come out and fix it in a couple of weeks. Folks can wait awhile."
"Think you could fix it?"
"How the hell should I know, Momma? I haven't even looked at it."
She put the plate in the cupboard and picked up another.
"I think you should," she said.
