Cheryl Reavis - Blackberry Winter

“Now, Bobby Ray, how am I going to tell Tommy Garth? If he comes into Poppy’s store even twice a year, he’s doing good,” Meyer said.

“And don’t you go telling the preacher,” Bobby Ray said, clearly unimpressed by Meyer’s logic. In Bobby Ray’s reality, happenstance was clearly a bona fide and terrible thing.

“Why don’t you want me telling the preacher?”

“I just don’t. He knows too many people.”

“Like who?”

Again, Bobby Ray didn’t answer him. He sat there instead, his face as sad as some old coon dog that got left tied to a front-porch post when its master went off hunting with the rest of the pack.

“Like Estelle?” Meyer asked, and Bobby looked at him with such alarm that he immediately regretted the question.

“Okay, okay,” Meyer said. “I won’t tell Tommy Garth. Or the preacher. Or anybody. But don’t call me up at Lilac Hill anymore—unless it’s something really important.”

Bobby Ray gave another wavering sigh, his downhearted expression still in place. Clearly, this had been “really important.”

“You’re smart, ain’t you, Meyer?” he asked after a moment, and Meyer laughed softly at this brand new topic.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” he said.

“You been places. You been in the army. You been to college. They let you teach school, Meyer.”

“Yeah, but it takes more than that to make a man really smart, Bobby Ray.”

“Tommy, he was in the army like you.”

“Yeah?” Meyer said, trying to remember if he’d known that about the man and realizing that Bobby Ray hadn’t changed the subject after all.

“He didn’t stay in jail, though. He went back in the army anyway. Estelle, she—”

Bobby Ray abruptly stopped and stared through the windshield again—at nothing as far as Meyer could tell.

“Don’t you let nobody hurt her,” Bobby Ray said quietly, more to himself than to Meyer.

“Who are you talking about, Bobby Ray?”

“I hope she ain’t come back,” he said. He looked at Meyer. “And I hope she is, too. Now ain’t that a crazy thing?”

There wasn’t much Meyer could say about that, even if he’d actually understood it. “You better go on to the store before you get into trouble with Poppy—or Estelle sees us.”

“Yeah. I better,” he said. “You ain’t going to forget to try to find out what her name is, are you?”

“I won’t forget, but I’m not promising you anything.”

“You got any candy, Meyer?” Bobby Ray asked.

“Yeah, I got candy,” Meyer said. He reached into his coat pocket and tossed him a couple of pieces. “You’re going to rot your teeth, you know that.”

Bobby Ray already had a peppermint in his mouth. “I ain’t worried,” he said around it. “You ate these when you was in the army, didn’t you, Meyer? Nelda used to send them to you, didn’t she? She’d go to the post office and mail them.”

“That’s right, Bobby Ray.”

Bobby Ray reached to start his truck, then looked at him. “His fingernails was tore off, Meyer.”

Meyer didn’t say anything. He stood back to let the truck labor forward, then stared after it, trying to recall what he knew about Tommy Garth—mainly that he was Estelle Garth’s only public failure. Meyer vaguely remembered something about Garth’s trouble with the army, that he’d gone AWOL one time when he knew he was going to be sent to Vietnam and his mama had been the one who’d turned him in.

That must have been when people knew once and for all that Sister Garth had a tight handle on what was right and what was wrong, and she didn’t turn loose of it for anybody, not even her own son.

Today, the man was little more than a backwoods hermit, living on a piece of land up on one of the ridges most people here had once thought he didn’t even own—until his daddy’s will had been read. Nobody had known he had been letting his boy stay on it. And, now that they did, nobody knew exactly what went on up at the place, how Tommy Garth made his living or what sins he was guilty of. And Tommy clearly didn’t care what went on down here in the valley. He hardly ever showed his face, and when he did, it was only to buy what little he could afford and then go. He never asked after anybody or commented on any of the ongoing topics—the government’s latest doings, the apple crop, the flatlanders, the weather.

Every now and then somebody would see his truck pass through with a load of lumber on the back, and the rarity of that was enough to cause comment in the store and on the church steps on Sunday mornings, precipitating rampant speculation as to what he could be using it for. The more generous of the group thought he was doing carpentry work for the new people moving in—his daddy and his granddaddy both had been good with their hands. Others thought it had to be something illegal, growing marijuana or something like that, which led to a lively discussion about how there wasn’t much money in running a still anymore, and Tommy Garth wasn’t the kind who would do it anyway as a courtesy to his neighbors.

The few times Meyer had seen him, the man had certainly had no intention of staying in what passed for civilization any longer than he could help. He’d been in and out, and if he’d recognized any of the regulars sitting around the stove in Poppy’s store or outside under the shade trees, it hadn’t shown. Even Poppy, who knew every single person born and raised in the valley and everything about them past and present, didn’t presume to be familiar with this man. He took Tommy’s money in silence and skipped the usual “old home week” small talk.

His fingernails was tore off—

Meyer’s thoughts suddenly went to the woman crying on the gazebo steps. Her mother might be mixed up in all this somehow, and if Tommy Garth was in it, then so was Estelle.

And Meyer wouldn’t wish that on his worst enemy.

“M rs. Jenkins is looking for you,” Poppy said when Meyer walked into the store. He could see Bobby Ray intent on dusting probably dust-free soup cans near the front window.

“I just left from up there,” Meyer said.

“Which don’t amount to a hill of beans. There’s still a hour or so of daylight left. I reckon you ain’t done till she says you are. And she says she needs you to take somebody somewhere. Right now.”

“Did she say who?”

“No. She didn’t say where, neither. That woman is way too high-strung for me to go asking her questions. I reckon you’ll find out when you get there. You got some job, boy, you know that?”

“I’ve had worse, Poppy.”

“Yeah, I reckon you have. Is there anything up there you don’t do?”

“She hasn’t got me cooking breakfast yet, so your wife’s job is safe,” he said and Poppy laughed.

“How are you doing these days, Meyer? You look like you dropped a pound or two to me. You sleeping all right?”

“I’m okay.”

“You sound like me when I first got back home. I was as big a liar as you are.”

“Yeah, well, don’t tell Nelda you think I’ve lost weight. She’ll be chasing me around with a big bottle of castor oil and a spoon.”

Poppy laughed. “You better get on out of here. Oh, and Mrs. Jenkins said you don’t need to come inside. Just wait in the parking lot. You ain’t let that truck of yourn get all dirty now, have you?” Poppy called after him.

Meyer waved him off and went outside to get into the truck he kept spotless for just such a summons to the big house. He headed back in the direction he’d come, wondering which guest needed a chauffeur. He hoped it wasn’t the drunk. The man was supposed to be here until the weekend and he hadn’t been sober since he’d arrived. If he made it to the end of his stay without somebody having to set him down hard, it would be a miracle, and, unfortunately, Meyer Conley was apt to be the “somebody.”