CANDLELIT CHRONICLES: HISTORIC HAUNTS

March 30_update on Writing and free read _7809 word count

Surpassed my MarNoWriMo goal today! and worked on learning to format a stage play, so I'll be ready to start the script on Thursday. Decided on some additional characters, and the initial setting (stage directions) also.





today's free read:





The Phantom Logging Operation

Chapter 31

         As I tumbled into bed, I recalled just before sleep that tomorrow-no, today-was Saturday, and I was expected for the entire weekend at Todd's Garage in Rennald, where the owner-Todd-had dozens of diesel machines lined up for me. Seemed to me that even included a combine, a job usually requiring several hours just by itself, so I would start on that first thing when I arrived. I set the clock for 6 AM, knowing I had to get at least a few hours' sleep, then collapsed into oblivion, where I remained until the alarm sounded. I rolled halfheartedly out of the covers, showered in cold water, too tired yet to imagine hot spray, dressed, and fixed a half-pot of coffee and a batch of biscuits at the wood stove. By the time they were baked and bagged, the twins had rolled in. Yes, apparently I had neglected to mention my weekend of work in Rennald, so I went out to the truck and explained.

“Morning, boys. I forgot yesterday in all the flurry to tell you I've committed to a weekend's work for Mr. Todd at the Garage down in Rennald. I'm a diesel mechanic, you see, by training and trade. So I won't be here to work on the Nursery today or tomorrow.”





Sam leaned across his brother Jackie, who was driving. “Well, Mr. Rory, couldn't we work on in your place, both days? We already brought up more lumber from Uncle's lumber yard, and nails and some extra tools too. Would you mind? We could be a big help.”





I knew he meant they could make more money, but yes, he was correct: both boys had been an enormous help over the past two days.





“But boys, I won't be here to fix meals-although here” (and I handed over the croker sack of fresh hot butter biscuits) you all can eat these I already fixed, and I'll get me somethin' at the diner when I get to Rennald. What about lunch though, and a privy? Oh! Y'all could use the outdoor privy up there on the hill-”


immediately both glanced that way, but not quite, just from the corner of the eye, and shouted, “No!!”





I didn't know how to respond to that, but something internally told me to accept it. The boys were afraid of something on that Hill. (Hill?) “Okay then, I'll tell you what. You all have seemed to prove to be trustworthy boys, so I'm gone leave my back door unlocked. There's an indoor privy, through the kitchen, into the living room, the bedroom's on the right, just go through their. Lemonade pitcher's full in the fridge. Ice is up at the icehouse. Just please don't try to use my wood stove, it's too temperamental. Maybe at lunch you ought to drive down to Rennald to the diner. Here-” and with that I handed over an extra $20 for lunch. “If I'm not back by quittin' time tonight, please stop by Todd's Garage in Rennald on your way home, instead of heading straight for Collins Junction, and I'll pay you then, and extra for working by yourselves today. If you decide to work tomorrow too, just let me know tonight, and I'll make sure to make up a couple of meals and store 'em for you. Okay?”





          Both boys agreed-Jackie was already on his third biscuit-and pulled their pickup out of the way so I could move my Merc down the drive. As I headed out, they were already busily unloading new lumber and tools, boxes of nails, and I saw they had remembered to bring a hand planer.





         The drive into Rennald was uneventful, though a wood-sided box truck passed me at the turn-off. It was headed East toward Knox-no driver again, but the passenger, the hard working fellow from last night, gave me a wide wave across the seat. I responded and considered myself lucky: it hadn't been Mr. Husk nor Ol' Stump-Head.





         At Todd's the combine waited, just as I had expected, and I set to work just as soon as I had picked up a coffee and a biscuit at the diner. I was already beginning to miss the batch I had made this morning to carry along, but I figured my subconscious had instructed me to make those biscuits up for the boys who would surely be arriving to work, since I had neglected-perhaps purposely?-not to tell them not to come today. Well, I could stop for lunch and have a quick meal at the diner; it wasn't like I was out on a farm somewhere and isolated from food. I was doing lucrative mechanic work, my Plant Nursery construction was proceeding this weekend even without my supervision and labor, so what after all did I need to complain about? Well, nothing. So I hushed my wayward thoughts and set to work diligently on the combine's exhaust and engine housing.





         The morning went smoothly, and as I finished the combine about 11 AM, I heard a semi engine roar, and glanced up to see the yellow tow truck I had seen a few days ago in Collins Junction, on Wednesday, from the upstairs window of the Attorney's office. That afternoon it had pulled a burnt shell of a box-container semi, and I had not seen its driver, but apparently that opportunity would soon be granted me, for as I peeked around the end of the combine and watched it hove into sight, I saw its right turn blinker on and knew it was heading into Todd's lot. Sure enough, it was: no room to turn into the apron in front of the bays because of the combine whose repair I had just completed, but Todd kept open a side lot adjacent, plus a vacant lot in the back he kept clear of weeds and debris, just for times like these. The tow truck pulled into that side lot, passing maybe six feet from me, so I had a good view of both the driver and of the logo on the side, which totally threw me for a loop. The white lettering, black-rimmed, on a lemon yellow door, read:

“TESTAMENT Logging Corporation


Towing Division


Madison Mills”


and a phone number below.

The driver was my old buddy from the night's labor at the Greenhouse, the passenger of the wood-sided small farm-style truck I saw just this morning on Knox Road at the turn-off to Reynolds. So now I'd seen him twice in that truck, once as passenger in the semi log truck last night, and now driving for Testament's Towing Division (a mind-boggling topic in itself). He smiled and nodded, raised his left hand, and pulled on to the end of the side lot. Hmm-seemed I was making progress to friendship, or at least courtesy, among some of the local Spooks. I wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not, so I went inside to call Todd, who was out on a tow job himself on a nearby farm, pulling in a tractor for me to repair. I got him on the two-way radio and told him I'd completed the combine; he could write up the bill when he came in and notify the owner. I also let him know a tow had just come in, and what the towed vehicle looked like. “I'm going to run over to Maizie's for a real quick lunch,” I told him. “My breakfast biscuits were handed over to Mr. Oakes' nephews this morning in partial exchange for a good day's work on my Plant Nursery.” Todd chuckled, told me to go ahead, but then interjected-

“Oh, Rory, could you hold on just a minute and get the paperwork first, on that tow? I won't be back into town for another  half-hour or so and I'm sure the boy wants to be gone by then.”

          “Boy”? Clearly bigotry was not confined to the Southlands. Obviously as well, Todd knew exactly what tow truck I meant and knew who would be driving it, so he was much more in tune with the local Testament pulse than was I. Of course, I had been here only three months, but still-according to that Attorney, my Daddy had been an important person in the eyes of Testament, and they were focused on my maintaining my three pieces of property and leasing them two of those. So shouldn't I be of some importance to them as well? What was wrong with me, thinking this kind of thoughts? This wasn't like me. I had always been a reserved, self-possessed type of person. Yes, I was devoted to my mother, and to my Daddy while he still lived, and I had loved my wife. Guess I still did, a little, even though she had left me high and dry for a fast-talking, fast-hand blackjack dealer from out Las Vegas way (where they never had the snow and ice we do here in The Northern Woods). But I had never been a pushy person, not in school, not in my work at Joe's Garage. I've said earlier on that I was content to work my job six days a week, have a beer on the back porch of the row duplex on Saturday eve, and go to Mass of a Sunday morning. I was happy enough with Leill, even though she kept on and on about how we should have more-better home, more clothes, nicer furnishings-how I needed a new and better-paying job, even though I made decent money and was content at Joe's. I guess if Mamma hadn't died of the bone cancer, and then a year later I married Leill, and she hadn't left me after only eight months, I might even have stayed on in that row duplex in Urbana, or moved back to Mamma's home in Champaign, and kept on with my job at Joe's Garage till I finally became just too old to mechanic.





         The point of all this cogitation, while I said good-bye and okay to Todd and hung the mike back on the two-way, was to remind myself that I had not ever been a man who tried to get his own way or to be somebody or something important. I had always been content to make my own way and to take life as it comes. But now, just as I felt impelled to begin on the Plant Nursery, as I felt it essential to construct the Greenhouse at night, on the charred foundation of an older, long-destroyed, homestead, suddenly I felt compelled to be a man of importance in the eyes of Testament Corporation. Now THAT certainly did not make any sense. I gave up on it again and walked around the combine and back past the side of the garage bay to look for the tow truck's driver. Well, he wasn't there. The wooden-sided farm truck had been unhooked and sat kind of askew in the side lot, the tow truck had disappeared. So where were the papers? And how soon could I get my lunch? I walked back up the front, crossed around the combine, and went into the office. As soon as I reached the door, I saw a stapled stack of papers sitting neatly on the blotter on the old scratched-up metal Army-surplus issue desk. Yes, “Testament Corporation/Towing Division” was clearly printed across the top, and at the end of the first paper was a scrawled and very unreadable signature. All right, then, that part of the business was taken care of; how I didn't know, since I had been right here in this office, only two feet away, talking on the two-way radio which Todd kept on the back shelf-and I had seen and heard no one come in. Then I had walked around the front of the building quickly to find the tow truck gone; so when did the driver walk into the office and leave the paperwork? Well, who cared-so I locked up the office, closed the service bay door and locked it (why I was so skittish today I didn't know) and headed down the street to Maizie's Eats, which served better food than the name would suggest. I sat at the counter and ordered a heaping breakfast platter: grits, eggs sunny side up, flapjack stack, but demurred at the biscuits. That was the one think I knew I could make better than Maizie's cook, Jake Gregory. I washed it all down with liberal cups of coffee, then stopped in to borrow the restroom, paid Maizie at the front counter, and headed on back to the Garage, where I found Todd just pulling in. He dropped the tractor he pulled at the side lot, in front of the old farm truck, and then drove around to the street, backing up to hook up the combine, which he would then tow back to the farm. I helped him with the hook-up, then he jumped out of the tow truck and came around to my side, wiping his forehead with a damp rag.

“You get all the paperwork on that farm truck, Rory?” he asked me. “You know Testament is picky about everything being in order, paperwork-wise.”





         I assured him it was all signed and lying on his desk-even though I had known no such thing about Testament's paperwork “pickiness,” and asked what all the tractor needed. Turned out it required an engine overhaul, which would take me the rest of the day and into tomorrow. I handed him the keys to the combine, and he went on inside to write up its bill. I went out to look over the tractor myself, and to check out the old “farm” truck, for I could not begin to work on the tractor till he moved out the combine. Even then, I would not be able to get the tractor into the garage unless it would crank, until Todd returned with the tow truck to move it.





          When he came out, he assured me the tractor would crank sufficient for me to pull it over into the bay, but told me to first work on the farm truck the Testament Tow truck had brought in. I looked at him puzzled, and he turned away, mumbling, “Testament work ALWAYS comes first.” He climbed into the tow truck while I watched, then jumped back out and came back around the front of it, and told me,

“Give me a minute and I'll pull the combine up the street a bit out of the way; then I'll unhook it and come around and get the farm truck and back it in to the bay for you. You can start on that first, Rory-please.”

         This whole time he would not look at me, but kept studying the pavement as if written there was the answer to the meaning of the Universe. I said, “sure, that'll be fine. Ican work on the tractor in the morning,” and he nodded and went off to pull the combine out of the way. I went into the service bay, after unlocking and opening its door, and began sorting and cleaning the tools I had already polished and put up when I'd finished the combine at 11 AM. While I did that, I heard Todd's tow pull around the block and up to the back of the side lot, and the chains when he locked on the hook to the old farm vehicle. I stood out of the way in the corner while he backed the truck in; I guessed the problem must be the motor and he had deliberately placed it so I would have the advantage of sunlight in working on it this afternoon. After he backed it in, I went up the hook and released it. Todd climbed out and said, “Rory, I'll bring the tractor around here to the side of the bay, just in case you get done with this truck.” I thanked him and asked him what the truck needed. He told me and I got on with the job.





Feb. 19—Pretty clearly this was one of the farm trucks I had seen a few days ago, on that Tuesday of Horrors, toting pulp wood castoffs. Surely it could not have been the one driven by the burnt husk? Seemed to me that truck bed had been kind of burnt too, or was it only the hood and fenders? Well, I couldn't remember right now-something else had begun burrowing its way into my consciousness long about the time I started up work on this old truck pulled in by the Testament Tow Division. It was about my Mamma, what she had said to me in the hospital, about two weeks before the cancer took her away. She was still lucid then-the doctors had her on heavy doses of morphine, but only sufficient at that point to moderate the pain. A week later, she was more or less comatose most of the time, and gone a full week after that; but at the point I was remembering, she had been lucid and wanting to talk to me about something she claimed was very important to her and to me. It was a Tuesday, I remember that now, just like it was a Tuesday this week when the Horrors of Knox Road began; I listened carefully because this was my Mamma talking, and then I forgot about it pretty much until after she died-no, until after Leill had left me. I could have been content to stay on in the old row house duplex, working at Joe's Garage, but something came over me a couple of weeks after Leill ran off, something impelled me to go to Hazel, the elderly lady in whose carriage house I stored Mamma's furniture, clothing, and possessions, and endure afternoon tea charming her in order to sort through Mamma's desk drawers later. I shouldn't say “endure,” though; Hazel was a delightful old person, with decades of history stretching far before my birth, and she had befriended my Mamma and myself when we first moved to Champaign, when I was eleven.  Hazel had been one of our first neighbors, and the first to welcome our little household, and Mamma and she had stayed close throughout the intervening 14 years before Mamma passed all too early-if not too sudden.





         Well, Miss Hazel was all too happy to let me examine Mamma's possessions in the carriage house, once I had shared her afternoon tea, and soon enough I found myself sorting through the stacks of furniture and cardboard containers of dishes and knick-knacks, to get to the middle of the building, where I had stored her desk. This was in early February of this very year. Leill had left me just the weekend before, and now on Tuesday Feb. 6, which was my early afternoon off from Joe's (since I worked all day on Saturdays), I had stopped in at Miss Hazel's thinking that maybe now, since I had new fresh grieving to do over the sudden and very unexpected loss of my marriage, it was time to start trying to coming to terms with the persistent grief I still carried over what I considered my Mamma's untimely demise.





         It took me maybe ten minutes to shift around all the boxes (Mamma did love her knick-knacks, and there were threee boxes of perfectly good clothes I really should have donated to Goodwill or Salvation Army shelter, but I just could not bring myself to sort through Mamma's clothes-well, just not yet. So once again I shunted them aside, stacked them carefully so as not to disturb the knick-knacks, and finally reached the desk, which Mamma had so carefully been certain to carry down from our home in Rennald, where we lived while Daddy worked for Testament Logging Corporation, often out of Madison Mills. Mamma had made close friends with several of the town ladies, including the pastor's wife of the First Baptist Church, so there was always someone around to keep watch over us on the times that Daddy had to travel away on Testament business-he was so valued as a Maintenance Manager and mechanic, Mamma always told me at those times, that Testament kept him hoppin'. So Mamma said.





         At any rate, I was now at the desk-Mamma's desk, which had been Daddy's before he up and enlisted in the Canadian Air Force right after them Huns had invaded Polusky in September of 1939, when I was only about 9 and a half. I was not even certain at this point for what I searched-but as I pulled over a half-empty box of file folders, I found in the box an empty manila folder, of the large size that divorce papers come in. I should know, I'd seen them just yesterday at my job, where summons had been served on me. Leill had run off on Saturday-my long day working at Joe's Garage-but she must have planned and filed in advance, for yesterday afternoon-Monday-a summons clerk showed up at the job and served me with divorce papers. I already knew she was gone-no one home when I arrived at 7 pm on Saturday evening-no clothes of hers, no toiletries, left in the house, and her pink fluffies everywhere were gone, even the pink daisy pot holder set-so the divorce papers weren't that unexpected, but I still didn't like receiving them there on the job. I didn't know where this empty envelope had appeared from; the rest of the box contained Mamma's Federal and State tax records from 1940's filing through 1955.  Mamma had not worked as long as Daddy was still there with us; he made good money working for Testament Logging Corporation, or so Mamma always said-I know we were never without food, nor me without school clothes and the shoes I seemed to constantly grow out of. But when Daddy up and enlisted for War, and Mamma moved me to Champaign where she still had an aunt and cousins, she took a day job in a dry cleaners', enrolled me in school there, and took in laundry and seamstressing at night. Mamma was a hard-working woman, and still she kept a spotless home, took great care of me, and always cooked 3 meals a day plus my after-school afternoon snack.





          I pulled the box over next to me, set the empty envelope on top of the desk, and began pulling out the contents of the three drawers. I had in mind a particular set of papers-Mamma had told me in the hospital that they would be found in the wide center drawer-but I had now determined (somehow, unconsciously, unthinkingly) to leave Champaign-Urbana, to leave Southern Illinois, and to return to the land of my birth and early raising, the land of my parents and ancestors-Collingham County in the Northern Woods Territories.





         On that Tuesday afternoon as I sat beside her hospital bed, Mamma had interrupted her own conversation to turn to me and tell me,

“Rory, when I'm gone-I want you to go home-go home to our land-and homestead there again. It's been too long, Rory, too long, without Calhouns on our land. Promise me, Rory, please-promise me you'll go home to our land-and stay. Please, Rory! Promise!”





         Mamma was becoming so overwrought at this point that I would have promised to pull down the Moon for her just to get her to calm. So of course I promised, at once; I was already promising before she continued to ask-it was as if she was so focused on the demand that she could not hear the result. I took both her hands in mine and squeezed them gently, moving around to meet her eyes, till she finally saw me and breathed more slowly.

“Mamma, I promise. I will. I'll do whatever you ask me. But-do you mean go home to Rennald?”

         Wrong question! That clearly started her hysteria up again.

“Not Rennald! To Euphonia, Rory, Euphonia! To Knox Road-on the old homstead. Rory-it's essential-you have got to return!”

         Back in February, as I packed up the contents of Mamma's desk inside the stifling dust motes of Miss Hazel's carriage house, I did not recall the full context of Mamma's conversation. I only remembered she had told me to go home to Knox Road-not to Rennald. But here on this May afternoon, this Saturday, my feet planted on top of the left-side front truck tire pair, leaning on the fender, hands and head deep into the engine repair, I remembered it all: the whole entire conversation, word by word, every statement, every question, every request, every name. I remembered now-Mamma had told me “Euphonia.” She had said, “Rory, go home to Euphonia.” I had told Attorney Squires I had never before heard that name, didn't know then if it was a place or a person, but I had never intentionally lied. Somehow my mind had blocked it out, and I truly had not remembered, until now, with my head stuck down inside the engine compartment of an old farm truck formerly driven by-no one?-and whose used-to-be passenger had pulled it in three hours earlier on a “Testament Logging Corporation-Towing Division” tow truck. Well, it all made me wonder-I think I had not stopped pondering since the very first event on Tuesday afternoon-the semi-log truck with no driver at all, only constantly shifting shadows-but I pondered even harder now. So Mamma insisted I return to “Euphonia” and homestead. Well, I was homesteading, and had been in the process of trying to since February; but where was “Euphonia”?





          I pulled loose the wrench I was using to turn the rusted plugs, continued leaning on the fender while I strived to wipe three layers of grease off my hands, then climbed down to the pavement and headed into the office. I'd take a chance that Attorney Squires would be in his office in Collins Junction, even though it was after all aturday afternoon and many professional people would take the weekend off. He just didn't look to me like some kind of high-living gentleman, and besides, I was beginning to think that employment for the Testament Corporation-or in his case, permanent retainer-pretty much entailed selling oneself into virtual slavery.





         Todd had an office phone attached to the wall, but I wasn't sure that Collins Junction was a local call, so I washed up in the restroom at the back of the office-scrubbed my hands till they burned-and went outside and around to the pay phone at the front corner of the station. I fished Attorney Squires' card out of my wallet-he had given me several as I left the other day-and dialed the office number. He had told me that day that his secretary was out-when he offered to fix us brandy himself-and sure enough, she must not have been in today either, because the man answered his own phone, on the first ring.

“Attorney-at-Law Benton Squires-Estates and Civil Practice,” he intoned.





“Sir, it's Rory Lewes, from-”





“Yes, Mr. Lewes, I expected it would be you. What can I do you for?”

         This little flippancy really struck me oddly, coming from a professional man, but then I decided maybe I had just misheard-or misunderstood.

“Sir, I'm sorry to be bothering you on a weekend-”





“No matter, Mr. Lewes, no matter. What is your question?”





“On Wednesday afternoon, when I was in your office, didn't you”





“I asked you about Euphonia, yes-whether you knew of it, and if so, what you already knew?”





         Was this man an Attorney-or a Mesmerist? Clearly he must have read my mind or somehow anticipated my question!





“Yes sir. And I told you at the time that I did not remember ever hearing of it, and did not know what or who it represented. But-some new information has come to light-and now I do remember hearing that name-in conjunction with our family land-my family's land. So now I need to know-what is it, where is it, or who is it?”





         A lengthy and serious pause ensued, but I could hear his raspy breathing. I didn't know if Attorney Squires was a smoker, but at that moment his respiratory sounds sure put me in mind of a gentleman down the hall from my Mamma, in the hospital, who was dying of lung cancer. Squires had that same raspy, can't quite-catch-my-breath, noise. I kept waiting, and about the moment I decided to hang up and try again on Monday, maybe in person, he finally spoke up.

“Rory-Mr. Lewes- “Euphonia” is the name of the Calhoun Family estate-the ancestral homestead-and all the land that entails.  It is not a continuous plat-rather there are several contiguous and adjacent sections, on one of which you now reside. Adjacent to that is land stretching back behind your new cabin, to the North, and additionally to the West, toward, but veering away from, the Village of Knox. “Euphonia” also includes land to the South of you, on the opposite side of Knox Road from the land you have believed to be yours-when you perceived your ownership to include only a smaller portion-and technically, then, Knox Road itself was constructed to cross your ancestral land. So even though the County of Collingham owns and operates Knox Road, by the right of Eminent Domain, the land below Knox Road is still yours, in a matter of legal right.





“Now the matter of “Euphonia,” specifically, is that it is the proper name of the homestead, as well as of the entire area of Calhoun Family land. Oh, and I omitted to mention that the very most important of the Calhoun Lands lies in the very heart of (choking sound) The Big Forest-and it is that plot which is leased from you by Testament Logging Corporation, in perpetuity.





“But the homestead called “Euphonia” specifically, is of course, the Ancestral Calhoun Family home-which burnt to the foundation on (deep breath) Sunday, May 29, 1932, when you yourself were 2 years old, and your family had just recently moved to a house inside the city limits of Rennald. The house which burnt, killing both your maternal grandparents, is the original “Euphonia,” and THAT house-is the charred ruins and foundation-on which you now have decided to construct your Greenhouse.”

Feb. 20-Silence, then a sudden click, indicated the receiver had been replaced in the cradle. I guess my “two minutes,” or however much time Attorney Squires had allotted me, were now up. I had noticed during Wednesday's afternoon's meeting that he had even more trouble mouthing the words, “The Big Forest,” than I did thinking on the topic. Possibly that meant he knew much more information about the subject than I did, and knew more of which to fear. Hmm-that was not a pretty possibility. I hung up also, and returned to the old farm truck, after making a quick detour to Maizie's Diner for a hot coffee to go. I knew by that time of day the pot would be as black and hot as Louisiana Chicory coffee, about which my Daddy had written Mamma when he did a short spell of temporary duty at Fort Hood in Louisiana in 1940, before he shipped on overseas. Coffee from Maizie's at this time of afternoon wasn't sought out for taste, as the early morning coffee from 5 AM on was; this stuff worked for adrenaline rushes and keeping folks awake and alert, those who needed to concentrate on their business and not allow wandering thoughts about The Big Forest and deceased grandparents to interfere.





         That old sludge coffee sure did its trick; tasting like the diesel oil I had just drained out of the pan, it kept my taste buds and my mind occupied. I worked steadily on the old farm truck, changing plugs, cleaning pistons, draining and replacing oil and trans fluid-Todd would sure have a good bill out of this one, assuming he charged Testament, and they paid up on a timely basis. Periodically I checked my progress against the paperwork someone-I presumed the elusive tow driver-had dropped off on the desk, to ensure I had done all the work requested and required. When I finally finished, it was after 5 o'clock, but I wasn't through for the day. Todd paid me by the hour with a bonus for each job, he paid well, and I was the only diesel-trained mechanic in this area. There may well have been some down in Collins Junction, but if so I didn't know of them, and I assumed neither did Todd, as he had never mentioned any to me. I checked the truck's invoice one final time, then signed off on the work I had done, and drove the truck out into the street and around into the side lot adjacent to the big service bay, backing it in so that the tow could easily hook up and pull it away. I assumed Testament Tow Division would be coming for it, rather than Todd towing it out to them-wherever it was going. Or very possibly, someone would come along to drive it away, since it was now running just perfectly. I left a note on the seat stating the work was complete, and leaving the keys in the ignition, I headed back over to the apron to get the farm tractor. I figured no one would try to steal that old hunk anyway, and besides, I would be right there near it if someone tried. I pulled the tractor into the bay; although there was still plenty of light, I planned to work on it till I finished, and it would be dark in just a couple of hours. Then I thought better about the keys, went out to the truck and took them out. I left the completed notice on the seat, though, and laid the keys on top of the paperwork from the Testament Tow Division, still sitting on Todd's desk. Speaking of which, where was Todd? He had carried the combine out hours ago, and had not returned, nor had he called me on the two-way radio.





         As I turned away and started back out of the office, the radio in question let out a squawk, so I turned back to it and keyed the mike.





“Yeah, Todd's Garage, help you?”





“It's me, Rory! Jest wanted to let you know I'm through for the day, so will ya lock up when you're done? You finish the Testament job?”





“Sure did-parked the truck in the side lot, keys are in here on the desk on top of the invoice, and I signed off on it.”





“Good-I'm sure they'll pick it up tonight. Thanks for finishing it so fast.”





“No problem. Went smoothly. Want me to put the keys back in the truck?”





“No, no, just leave 'em with the paperwork, that's fine. I'll get a check from 'em on Monday-Testament pays good and they pay on time, unlike some of these farmers around here. That combine job? He'll probably pay me around the end of harvest, in the fall.





“Oh, and Rory? Go ahead and count up your hours, when you finish, and pay yourself of the register. Jest leave me a note in the drawer to tell me how many hours so I can keep up on my bookwork, okay? I mean so I can tell Miz Sarah how much to deduct on the books,” he laughed. Guess Todd's Garage's bookkeeper also wasthe Toddley twins mother.





“Will do, Todd, thanks. I'm starting on the farm tractor now.”





“Ya don't have to do all that tonight, now.”


“No, I told you I would finish these three jobs today: the combine, the old farm truck for Testament, and this tractor. It'll be all right. You gone have anything for me in the morning, Todd?”





“Well, I kind of thought you'd have had enough with that combine and the tractor, especially with the Testament job coming in today. But now I guess not, unless Farmer Jerrell brought in his old pickup. If it's not parked behind the garage or in the back lot-it's a dusty old black Chevrolet, a '38, I think-then I guess I got nothing more for you to do tomorrow then, so jest take your Sunday off,” he chuckled, “but can you come in sometime Monday afternoon, say any time after 2 o'clock, and get your bonus for the Testament job? I'll pay you $500 for that 'un.”





($500 bonus for one job? I had not even done $500 worth of work on it, from the Garage's point of view! Testament must pay an awful high rate!) But I said nothing of my thoughts, only agreed to stop in on Monday about 3 PM. I decided then I would also pay yet one more visit to Mr. Attorney Squires after I saw Todd and picked up this extensive bonus pay. I said goodbye, disconnected, and went out of the office, leaving the keys where they lay on top of the paperwork, as Todd had requested. Then I went to work on the farm tractor with a vengeance, and by 8 PM it was finished. I didn't expect it would be picked up tonight, but just in the event, I drove it out of the bay and out front on the apron, and took its keys into the office and left them on the desk next to a note stating the work I had done, and my hours for that job. Then I counted up my total hours, subtracting my lunch time and coffee-run time in the afternoon, wrote out a note for Todd stating the total hours, the hours for each of today's three jobs, and the work I'd done on each. I counted up my pay on his old adding machine, just to check my arithmetic, and stapled the machine tape to my note. Then I paid myself out of the register, leaving my note under the drawer, and kept a copy for myself. Finally I locked up the office and headed around back to use the restroom before driving home to Knox Road. Inside, I heard the sudden roar of a truck engine start up and a vehicle pulling away. Now what? It wasn't the tractor-but I bet to myself it was the Testament farm truck I had labored over this afternoon. I finished up and headed out of the restroom and back to the front of the building. Sure enough, the old farm truck no longer sat where I had parked it in the side lot facing the street. Instead, it was pulling away into the distance, down at the end of the street, but not North toward Knox Road, rather Southbound. At the moment I couldn't remember where that direction led; then I realized that shortly after the last building on the opposite side, an abandoned former auto parts store, there was a turnoff to the left, leading to a road that went straight on to Collins Junction. I think the Toddley twins used that route when they drove up to my house; it reduced the long drive up from Collins Junction by a significant number of miles.  I knew myself that taking the long away around, from Knox Road on down to the Junction, meant driving about 25 miles, one way. So presumably, the old truck would be heading on to the Junction, and not driving down to the city simply to turn around and head back North the long way round to Knox Road and on to The Big Forest-or so I hoped.





         Speaking of Knox Road (but not of The Big Forest), it was well past dark and time for me to be heading home. As it was, it'd be 9 o'clock before I arrived home, and I still had to think about cooking my supper meal, since I had worked on through dinner and ignored the cravings of my stomach. Lunch at 11 o'clock was not going to be enough to sustain me; I didn't require food as frequently as the twins, but I still needed to eat three squares a day. Sighing, I piled into the Merc and headed North away from the Garage. At least by finishing all three jobs today, I wouldn't need to drive down here tomorrow.





         Suddenly I remembered something; the old farm truck had driven away, yet I had locked the keys up on the desk in the Garage office. Wondering now if someone miscreant had come along and hot-wired, I threw the Merc into reverse and backed up alongside the pumps. (Todd's wasn't a full-service station, there was a regular gas station on the east side of town; but he kept two diesel pumps available for his farm customers, who were numerous enough to keep him in business, and well-provided for.)  I hopped out again and went to the big window that fronted the office. Sure enough, the keys were gone, and a check lay atop the paperwork. So I got my keys back out of the Merc, unlocked the door, checked to make sure that really was a check and the keys really were not present (it was and they weren't) and then unlocked the register and used my handkerchief to pick up the check and the paperwork (now signed o ff again with that illegible scribble) and placed those under the cash drawer next to the note I had left for Todd with my hours and pay amount. I dropped the drawer back into place, closed and locked the register, went outside and locked the office behind me without looking back. I deliberately once again shut down my thoughts, and drove through the night back to Knox Road and on to my own house, which from the turnoff on to Knox Road was a scant five miles, and passed, it seemed, in no time. I was by now really too tired for a meal, but I knew my body needed food and that long before morning. Besides, I might be called upon for further construction on the Greenhouse tonight, though I really hoped not. I hoped that the fact that Sunday began at midnight would mean that construction would be postponed until midnight Monday.





         I was almost to the entrance onto Knox Road, when the old farm truck I had earlier today repaired roared by, driven by the former passenger who this morning drove the Testament Tow Division truck-and who last night worked with me on the Greenhouse-or worked with Clyde Jenks, rather. He raised his left arm in a wide wave, then headed on down the road, west toward Knox-and The Big Forest. I drove on up to the junction, which by now had developed a grade of its own, so that I had to climb a low hill to reach Knox Road (I had to wonder exactly when that had developed) and before I could reach it, I heard an engine belch loudly and a cloud of white smoke wafted toward me, preceding yet another old farm truck-this one having suffered some serious burn damage-amazing the wood sides still existed-no, the cab was burnt, the wood bed was intact. Oh no, I knew now who would be-my “old buddy,” Mr. Burnt Husk, who had singlehandedly put up the East wall of the Greenhouse last night while I finished the West wall and began on the South and tried studiously-and successfully-to avoid seeing him.  Yep, here he come, a-grinnin' and a-wavin' across the seat, like we was best friends and bosom buddies. It was dark, at least, full night time now, and the Moon had not yet begun to peek above The Big Forest to the North, and since I was climbing up a low grade, his truck was above me, high-sided and with the windows high in the cab, so basically I got only a glimpse of a waving arm in a black long-sleeved shirt rolled up and curled-not his face (thankfully), just the charred hand and arm (Rory, isn't that sufficient? No supper needed now, thank you very kindly, said my stomach.)  Somehow, and I sure didn't intend it consciously, my own left arm went out the open window and I gave back a big wave. As soon as he passed in front of me, headed East, I pulled out on to Knox Road and roared away myself. Over the sound of the slipstream just before I pulled out of sight around a curve, I heard his engine downshifting. Oh no oh no, he was not coming to have a friendly talk with me in my drive nor over supper-not if I could prevent it. I didn't like to drive fast on Knox Road and usually I never did-but on Tuesday afternoon I had speeded to outrun the thunderstorm and I did so now as well. Pulling into the drive, I started to park in front and run in, then I realized I had left the bolt on, so I backed into the driveway and raced to the back about as fast as Old Mr. Jenks had torn up my drive on Tuesday. Luckily the twins were long gone or I would likely have run over their truck. I skidded onto the back lawn, cut the motor, grabbed the keys, and did not even take time to roll up the window. I raced to the back door and unlocked it, stepped in, then got worried about snakes crawling in (or being dropped in) to the car seat, so I raced back out and rolled the window up. Good thing too, cause I had forgotten to turn off my headlights. No battery charge from a tow truck out this way! Would not have wanted to call one anyway, might have been Testament Tow Division.





         Into the house, slammed, locked, and bolted the back door, pulled the curtains shut on the three kitchen windows, then just stood stock still-and waited. About five minutes passed, then I heard an engine choking along in the road out front, and a husky, charred chuckle; then it passed on-and I fainted.