Mississippi night hummed by outside his windows, bug, bird, frog, the wind on his face. His elbow hurt but otherwise he felt alert, clearheaded. He passed the hospital going east and slowed, Larry would’ve come this way, heading home.
And there he was, limping along, his shadow tethered to his feet and elongated by the streetlights.
Silas slowed and leaned across the seat and cranked down the window. Larry’s face was pale and covered in sweat.
“Need a ride?” He opened the door.
Without an answer, Larry climbed in, nearly panting. He leaned back and closed his eyes.
“You want to go to the hospital?”
Larry shook his head. “Home?” he whispered.
“That might not be exactly legal,” Silas said, “but home it is.”
They rode awhile, Larry’s breath slowing. Silas offered the water bottle and Larry took it. After a while he opened it and drank most of it.
They passed through the quiet Fulsom town square, the hardware store now a tanning salon slash manicure- pedicure joint. The drugstore a video rental place with a going-out-of-business sign in the window. Two closed barbershops, their poles plastered with stickers and graffiti. A block east, centered in a streetlight, a bent dog was eating something in the middle of the road and backed up as they passed. A box of chicken.
Then they were passing strip mall after strip mall. Larry seemed content to ride, his eyes shut, as the buildings fell behind and the night closed them in, though both knew that outside the windows were acre after acre of loblolly pine, fenced off and waiting for the saws.
After a while Larry’s breathing had slowed. He opened his eyes, finished his water, then looked around the Jeep. “What model’s this? Seventy-five?”
“Six.”
“Four cylinder.”
“Yeah.”
Silas had been driving slowly, he realized, like he used to with Cindy, not wanting to let her go, say good night. On those nights he’d wanted to hold on to her forever.
“Your carburetor,” Larry said, cocking his head. “Sounds like it needs rebuilding.”
“So I been told.”
After a few more minutes, Silas signaled and turned and bumped by Larry’s mailbox where the familiar gravel ground beneath them and the familiar trees slid from the gloom of the headlights into passing night. A deer flashed across the road in front of them, gone so quickly Silas had barely raised his foot from the pedal. He slowed anyway. One meant two or three and yep, here came the second, bouncing over the gravel.
They passed the old Walker place a moment later, the overgrown driveway. You couldn’t see it, but if you could all you’d see was privet and kudzu. The land had a way of covering the wrongs of people.
“You reckon,” Silas said, “if I was to bring this old Jeep in, you might look at that carburetor for me?”
Larry took a moment to answer. “I don’t know how long it’ll be fore I open,” he said. “They told me I need to take it easy awhile.”
“I reckon that’s true.”
Silas stopped in front of Larry’s house, the old Ford truck waiting where Larry had left it. Larry opened the door and climbed out with his water bottle and stood a moment, the only light the light from the headlights. “I thank you for the ride.”
“You welcome,” Silas said. “But wait. I near bout forgot.” He handed Larry the plastic bag, his wallet, keys, cell phone.
“Thanks, Silas.” Larry closed the door.
Silas waited as he made his way slowly up the walk. Halfway to the house, he turned over his shoulder. “Silas? I suppose you could bring the Jeep by here tomorrow. I got tools in my truck yonder.”
“I’ll do that,” Silas said.
They looked at each other for another moment, and then Larry turned and went on, laboring up the steps, opening the bag, letting himself in, flicking on the light. Through the pane, Silas watched his back stiffen in surprise, seeing before him his house made ready, washed of blood and smelling like Angie. Silas thought of the lilies she had left on the table, the gift basket filled with fruit. The cinnamon candles. Larry didn’t know it yet but his refrigerator was stocked (a couple of the beers gone, replaced by Marla’s hot dogs). He didn’t know that Silas had had satellite television installed. He didn’t know Silas had taught himself to drive the tractor in a one-armed way, and that he’d been pulling the chickens to fresh grass and that there were two dozen eggs waiting.
Silas put the Jeep into first and eased off the clutch and began to roll. It was country dark, as Alice Jones had called these nights, the absence of any light but what you brought to the table. He sped up, his eyes focused on what was before him, and drove toward home.
And not too long after the Jeep’s lights had faded and the night grown darker yet, after a dog had barked somewhere far away and another answered, Larry rose from his chair on the porch and went in and walked down the hall and stood staring at the rifle. Shaking his head. Then, one by one, he passed through the rooms of his house and clicked off the lights, the last lamp the one by his bed. What he thought before falling asleep was that he needed to call Silas in the morning, tell him to stop at the auto parts house, get a carburetor kit for the Jeep. He, Silas, knew the model.
Acknowledgments
THANKS TO BETH ANN, Nat, Judith, Dream Team of readers: Judith, patient voice of reason, best heard in your living room, holding a cat; Nat, blessed uncle, cut man of all cut men, I’m so thankful you’re in my corner; and B.A., first reader, immaculate editor, best friend: we’ve got to stop kissing in public. Thanks to David Highfill, who asked good questions from the start; to Michael Morrison, who still calls; to Gabe Robinson, who is owed many beers; and to Sharyn Rosenblum, my dear friend and publicist. Michael Knight and Jack Pendarvis read this book early; Joey Lauren Adams, Audrey Petty, and David Wright read it later; Lucky Tucker read it all along: thanks, all of you, for your criticism, insight, ideas, and time. Thanks to Ron Baggette, chief investigator for the Clarke County, Alabama, Sheriff’s Department, who was generous with his time, patient in his explaining, full of great stories. If this man ever runs for sheriff, we should all take up residence in his county. Thanks to Robert Israel, M.D., who helped with medical details. This man keeps my father healthy, and for that I owe him thanks as well. Thanks to my oldest writing friends, Barbara Spafford, Tammy Thompson, Winston Williams, Wayne Coates, and Gary Cunningham for your early support and friendship. Thanks to Dennis Lehane, for always sending the elevator back down. Thanks to my father, Gerald Franklin, who read this manuscript many times, and to my uncle, D Bradford: I watched these two mechanics work hour after hour in my childhood, hearing their stories and handing them wrenches. And finally, a last good-bye to family and friends taken much too early: Monica Bradford, Barry Hannah, Harold Norman “Skip” Holliday Jr., Jim Larrimore, Graham Lewis, Jay Prefontaine, and Julie Fennelly Trudo.
Tom Franklin
