Killer Smile

the night sky. Its bay doors hung open, and light poured from within. There were no animals inside; it was a barn converted to a garage, and under a bright panel of fluorescent lights sat a vintage pickup truck.

Mary walked toward it and got a closer look. The bed of the truck had shiny sides of varnished wood, and its green back door read HARVESTER in gleaming yellow paint. A large blue machine sat next to the truck, which looked like a compressor or something equally foreign, and the walls of the tiny garage were blanketed with white Peg-Board, displaying tools hung in graduated order. Mary reached the doorway and stood there a minute, not seeing anyone around the truck.

“Hello? Mr. Nyquist?” she called out, but there was no answer. She stepped inside the garage, which smelled of grease but was cleaner than her apartment. Plywood workbenches built into both walls on either side of the garage looked like they’d been wiped down, and even the cloth rags hanging on the handles of the homemade base cabinets underneath were white and fluffy. “Mr. Nyquist?” she said, louder.

“Wha?” came a voice from underneath the truck, and Mary peered around the front. A pair of wrinkled jeans stuck out from under the chassis, ending in a scuffed pair of Nikes. The Nikes walked themselves out on their thick rubbery heels, and the bottom half of a man in jeans was lying on his back on a dolly. The face hadn’t emerged, but a voice from underneath said, “Grandma?”

Mr. Nyquist’s grandson. He’d be about the right age. “No, I’m Mary DiNunzio,” she called back, leaning over.

“Who?” The man rolled himself out from under the truck, and from the bottom up appeared a gray T-shirt too faded to read, a handsome, if grease-streaked face, brown eyes that wore a puzzled expression, topped by a green baseball cap that read AGRO. The young man did a sit-up with ease, boosted himself off the dolly, and rose, wiping his hand on his jeans before he extended it. “I’m Will Nyquist. What did you say your name was?”

Mary reintroduced herself. “Nice to meet you, and sorry to bother you so late. I was looking for Aaron Nyquist. I was told he lives here.”

“That would be my grandfather.”

“Great! I was hoping it wasn’t too late at night to see him.”

“I’m sorry, he passed away about six months ago,” the young man answered, without evident emotion, and Mary’s heart sank. She was too late.

“I’m sorry.”

“Thanks, but it was a blessing, for him. For my grandma, too. He’d been sick a long time. Why’d you want to see him?”

“I had some questions, about Fort Missoula. He was on the officers’ staff there, wasn’t he, during the war?”

“World War II?” Will flashed Mary a familiar ancient-history look. “I don’t know, he worked for the government during the war, I think. He didn’t like to talk about it a lot.” Will glanced toward the house. “Grandma would know. I’ll take you in, and you can ask her. She reads upstairs until late. Says she’s more comfy, readin’ in bed.”

Mary felt a guilty twinge. “But I don’t need to bother her. It was him, really, who would know.”

“She’d enjoy the company. She’s been so bummed since Gramps died.” Will took off his baseball cap, revealing a thick mess of brown hair and a severe case of hat head. He slapped the cap against his jeans and dust flew out. “I’ll take you in to meet her. It’ll make her night to have a guest. And she’s got some wicked pie, made fresh tonight.”

“Pie?” Mary asked, hiding her interest.

Mary had barely introduced herself when she was shown to a cushioned seat at a kitchen table of knotty pine. Mrs. Nyquist was about five four, still trim, and she wore a gray sweatsuit outfit and bifocals in no-nonsense plastic frames. Her pale blonde hair had been clipped into a practical, short cut, gone gray at the temples, and deep wrinkles creased the corners of her blue eyes and her mouth. Her nose was tiny and her smile sweet. She was probably in her early eighties, and her manner was warm, friendly, and fragile with fresh grief. Mary wanted to grab and cuddle her, but Mrs. Nyquist was fortunately oblivious to her secret love attack.

“You’ve never had huckleberry pie?” Mrs. Nyquist asked, incredulous. She set in front of Mary a large wedge of pie, its golden crust dusted with grainy sugar. Thick purple goop oozed from the side, encroaching on the plate like lava. If lava contained fructose.

“No, I’ve never even seen a huckleberry. What’s a huckleberry? I thought it was a book by Mark Twain.”

Mrs. Nyquist smiled, which made Mary happy. She was enjoying going around Montana, making old people happy. She was a roving ambassador of codependency.

Mrs. Nyquist said, “Huckleberry, especially wild huckleberry, tastes a lot like gooseberry.”

“I never tasted a gooseberry, either. I’ve tasted gnocchi, and that’s all that grows in Philadelphia.”

“That where you’re from? I was wondering with your accent, and you talk so fast.”

Accent? “Yes.” Mary tried to talk slower. Ye-es.

“Would you like some tea with your pie, dear?”

“Only if you’re making it already.”

“I am. We’re not much for coffee in this house. My husband can’t – couldn’t – tolerate it. His stomach.”

“Tea’s great, thanks. May I help you?”

“No, thanks. It’s good for me to move around. This is exercise, for me.”

“Thanks, then.” Mary couldn’t remember the last time she’d drunk tea, but she wasn’t about to put Mrs. Nyquist to further trouble. The older woman was placing a white teapot on a burner at the stove and she could have been Mary’s mother, except for her perfect command of English and nonviolent nature in general.

“My goodness, I sit all day nowadays, except when I’m cleaning.” Mrs. Nyquist bustled around the gleaming kitchen, an Early American type with red-and-white cushions tied to the backs of the wood chairs. The counters and appliances were a spotless white, and the air smelled vaguely of orange-scented Fantastik. On a side table next to some old photos stood a grouping of brownish figurines, which Mary thought might be Hummels, but wasn’t sure. In South Philly, statuary was restricted to a dashboard St. Christopher or a bobblehead Donovan McNabb.

Mrs. Nyquist was shaking her head. “I even cleaned the garage last week, it gave me something to do. Aaron was so disabled by his stroke in those last years, and taking care of him was a full-time job. Now I have all this free time.” She waved her hand in the air, as if shooing away a bumblebee. “Please, taste your pie.”

“Wow, this is great!” Mary said, scooping a forkful. It tasted like blueberry pie, only sweeter. She took another bite and hadn’t realized how hungry she was. “It’s so nice of you, to feed me so late.”

“It’s my pleasure.” Mrs. Nyquist bowed her head graciously. “Will’s right about one thing, I do like the company. He’s worried about me, thinks I’m getting blue. He even wants to set me up with a man from church, on a date!”

“You, too?” Mary laughed, and so did Mrs. Nyquist. “What is it with the blind dates? I’d rather watch TV.”

“Me, too.” Mrs. Nyquist returned to the table and set a steaming mug in front of Mary, with a fragrant triangle of a Lipton tea bag inside. “How do you take your tea?”

“How should I take my tea?”

“I take it plain.”

“Then so do I,” Mary said, making Mrs. Nyquist smile again as she went back to the stove and poured herself a mug of tea, then came back to the table with it and sat down. An oversize men’s Timex slipped down from her wrist, undoubtedly her husband’s, and she still wore her wedding band. I’m a widow, too, Mary thought, but for some reason, couldn’t say. She settled for, “You must miss your husband.”

“Every minute.” Mrs. Nyquist sighed. “You know, they say everything happens for a reason, but I’m not sure I believe that anymore.” Behind her glasses, the older woman’s blue-eyed gaze was direct and even, and it struck Mary that this was going to be a real conversation and not just small talk. It was hard to bullshit an old lady, which was only one of the things she liked about them.

“Honestly, I never thought that everything happened for a reason. I still don’t. It’s just something we say to each other to get us over it, whatever it is. The hard part.”

“Maybe. I used to believe that God has a plan for us, each of us. The longer I live, the less sure I am of that, too. What do you think?”

“I believe in God, but I think he’s a lousy planner.”

Mrs. Nyquist smiled over her steaming tea. “So is there a plan, at all?”

“Not unless you have one.”