Keeping the Fires Warm (excerpt)
Like a clap of unexpected thunder, the screen door of the post office thumped as Johnnie Moore yanked it open, causing hospital-green paint to fleck off the frame when it hit the wall. Without a pause or a greeting she demanded, “My railroad check here yet?”
Bea clenched her jaw, refusing to glance at her young co-worker, Ann, fearing the giggle that was sure to ensue. The split second of anger at Johnnie was replaced by bubbling hysteria, the same as every time Johnnie came buffaloing in. Afterwards, when they were alone, Bea and Ann would compare notes and laugh like drunks. “Yes, it’s here.” You crazy ole bat, I told you it was here when you called me an hour ago. But she didn’t say what she was thinking, just took the brown envelope, slid it on to the counter and waited for Johnnie to stroll on her merry way.
“I’m gonna cash it.”
Bea nodded. You told me that an hour ago, same as you tell me every time you get your check. But she didn’t say that either. Johnnie always cashed her check and never deposited a cent; Bea’s friend at the bank had shared that bit of juicy gossip. “You don’t wanna wait too late ’til the bank closes.”
On Johnnie’s face, plain, small-eyed, and slightly piggish-looking, a frown appeared. “I’d like to sell Mama’s house so’s I wouldn’t have to depend on this thing.” Only she said “thang.” Waving the envelope, she barely missed hitting Ann in her usual melodramatic fashion .
Ann was captivated, as usual, watching Johnnie’s coarse, grey moustache dance on the woman’s top lip. “Just the two bedrooms, isn’t it?” she asked absently. Little Eva sang about locomotion and that’s what the moustache was doing with Johnnie’s exaggerated speaking; it was doing a locomotion.
With a choking sound, Ann turned away to pretend to cough as Bea gave her a warning look. Oh please don’t start laughing cause we’ll never stop.
“Two bedrooms. Yep. It’s a fine place…Jim Walters style.”
Style? “Well. Maybe you can get a buyer.” Bea said.
Johnnie had one of her blank-stare moments, then nodded. “It’ll have to be moved cuz that’s our land.”
“How much do you think to get, Johnnie?”
“I reckon at least a hundred thousand.”
Bea blinked. A hundred thousand ? She would have to tell her friend, a realtor, that one; it would be worth an hour of giggles.
Johnnie slid a worn dollar bill across the counter, pulled from the pocket of her baggy jeans. “I need a stamp. I didn’t wash my hands this morning.”
Bea paused. “Oh?” With Johnnie, the train of her thought was generally derailed.
“Electricity is out. Been out since yesterday but Gene Mitchell is gonna come out and look at it.” Theatrically, she looked around, saw no one else in the building, and used a low voice, “You know about him, do ya?”
“About Gene?” Ann had been dating him fairly steady for going on a year.
Sour breath proceeding her, Johnnie leaned closer, “He was arrested last Tuesday.”
“What?”
“He was. He went into the grocery and took a box of that sweet cereal right off the shelf, opened it, and started eating it while he walked out the door.”
Ann’s eyes went wide but then she and Bea saw that it was one of those times when Johnnie just checked out of the motel again and left a vacancy. When she was this way (Bea called it having a BAD SPELL) , she was likely to make up anything about anyone. With concern, Bea said maybe Johnnie should head home to make sure she was there when Gene arrived to check the electricity (which might or might not really be working now that they knew it was a BAD SPELL).
“Yep. I need to get going. And you know the gov’ner might be stopping in.”
“Governor Clinton?” Bea asked, knowing that Johnnie might mean someone from a movie or any governor from any state in history.
But Johnnie’s face was blank as paper, mouth gone slack. For a second, no one spoke or moved, then Johnnie’s features became animated once more. “He might. I have to go and thank you Bea and have a good day, Ann.” All without pause. Turning, she slammed back through the door, more paint flecked away, and she was gone.
Bea looked at Ann.
Ann looked at Bea. “Ummm. She shaves her moustache sometimes.”
“Yep. Sometimes she does.”
(Continued in the book)
Bea clenched her jaw, refusing to glance at her young co-worker, Ann, fearing the giggle that was sure to ensue. The split second of anger at Johnnie was replaced by bubbling hysteria, the same as every time Johnnie came buffaloing in. Afterwards, when they were alone, Bea and Ann would compare notes and laugh like drunks. “Yes, it’s here.” You crazy ole bat, I told you it was here when you called me an hour ago. But she didn’t say what she was thinking, just took the brown envelope, slid it on to the counter and waited for Johnnie to stroll on her merry way.
“I’m gonna cash it.”
Bea nodded. You told me that an hour ago, same as you tell me every time you get your check. But she didn’t say that either. Johnnie always cashed her check and never deposited a cent; Bea’s friend at the bank had shared that bit of juicy gossip. “You don’t wanna wait too late ’til the bank closes.”
On Johnnie’s face, plain, small-eyed, and slightly piggish-looking, a frown appeared. “I’d like to sell Mama’s house so’s I wouldn’t have to depend on this thing.” Only she said “thang.” Waving the envelope, she barely missed hitting Ann in her usual melodramatic fashion .
Ann was captivated, as usual, watching Johnnie’s coarse, grey moustache dance on the woman’s top lip. “Just the two bedrooms, isn’t it?” she asked absently. Little Eva sang about locomotion and that’s what the moustache was doing with Johnnie’s exaggerated speaking; it was doing a locomotion.
With a choking sound, Ann turned away to pretend to cough as Bea gave her a warning look. Oh please don’t start laughing cause we’ll never stop.
“Two bedrooms. Yep. It’s a fine place…Jim Walters style.”
Style? “Well. Maybe you can get a buyer.” Bea said.
Johnnie had one of her blank-stare moments, then nodded. “It’ll have to be moved cuz that’s our land.”
“How much do you think to get, Johnnie?”
“I reckon at least a hundred thousand.”
Bea blinked. A hundred thousand ? She would have to tell her friend, a realtor, that one; it would be worth an hour of giggles.
Johnnie slid a worn dollar bill across the counter, pulled from the pocket of her baggy jeans. “I need a stamp. I didn’t wash my hands this morning.”
Bea paused. “Oh?” With Johnnie, the train of her thought was generally derailed.
“Electricity is out. Been out since yesterday but Gene Mitchell is gonna come out and look at it.” Theatrically, she looked around, saw no one else in the building, and used a low voice, “You know about him, do ya?”
“About Gene?” Ann had been dating him fairly steady for going on a year.
Sour breath proceeding her, Johnnie leaned closer, “He was arrested last Tuesday.”
“What?”
“He was. He went into the grocery and took a box of that sweet cereal right off the shelf, opened it, and started eating it while he walked out the door.”
Ann’s eyes went wide but then she and Bea saw that it was one of those times when Johnnie just checked out of the motel again and left a vacancy. When she was this way (Bea called it having a BAD SPELL) , she was likely to make up anything about anyone. With concern, Bea said maybe Johnnie should head home to make sure she was there when Gene arrived to check the electricity (which might or might not really be working now that they knew it was a BAD SPELL).
“Yep. I need to get going. And you know the gov’ner might be stopping in.”
“Governor Clinton?” Bea asked, knowing that Johnnie might mean someone from a movie or any governor from any state in history.
But Johnnie’s face was blank as paper, mouth gone slack. For a second, no one spoke or moved, then Johnnie’s features became animated once more. “He might. I have to go and thank you Bea and have a good day, Ann.” All without pause. Turning, she slammed back through the door, more paint flecked away, and she was gone.
Bea looked at Ann.
Ann looked at Bea. “Ummm. She shaves her moustache sometimes.”
“Yep. Sometimes she does.”
(Continued in the book)
Snipe Hunting
In Laws Chapel, things begin to happen when the sun kisses the horizon, when crickets begin to chirp, katydids chorus, and screen doors snap closed. Fathers shut off the lawn mowers and toss beer cans into the garbage before closing the garage doors, and mothers go about, closing the windows of the house for the evening.
If it is Thursday, a women’s group meets at eight o’clock in the evening to play bridge, drink cups of herbal tea, gossip, and share the town’s collective grief about anything from the new deputy’s uniforms to possums in the trash. At one of these gatherings, you’d see Marietta Knight, née Smithers with her too-tight slacks and homemade toll house cookies and vivid complaints about her simpering, lazy students and their ridiculously stupid parents who she swear are all out to get her. There would be Ellen Moore with her delicate finger sandwiches and racist and homophobic jokes that she tells with glee. Leisa Wells brings veggies and dip and a side dish of juicy information on all the patients who go to see the doctor she works for. Cami Norwood likes to bring desert and complain about the disgusting Catholic perverts, and the Godless Jews, and the dreadful Methodists who are one step from demon worship. And finally, you find, at these female gatherings, Theresa Gant, with her cheese plates and details from the police scanner she listens to day and night.
They are widows, who if you ask how their husbands died, will stop chattering with happy smiles and go cold as a witch’s teat. You might guess it was an accident, or a wild bear that had torn them apart, a gas leak, or a maniac on a rampage, but you would be wrong. No one said a thing, but when dusk came, doors closed, windows shut, and everyone went inside.
If you asked Emery McCollough why everyone feared the night, you’d get the truth about the little spit-and-ya-miss-it town, though you’d shake your head in disbelief. He would tell it all, although he would periodically laugh like a hyena and go blank as he told.
He would say that in the last of a lovely spring, as he kicked a can down the main street, he had run across a few of the local men who stood outside the local watering hole. They were more drunk than sober.
“Hi, Emery.” Ned Norwood called happily. He liked Emery pretty well, despite the fact the boy was some Bible thumping religion.
Emery said hello and laughed right along with them. His mama said they laughed at him, but he didn’t know that for sure, so he simply laughed when they did. “What are you doing?”
Jim Moore, careful to never act like a sissy or hold a hand shake too long for fear of catching an effeminate nature said, “We are having us one heated argument here.”
“You are?” Emery asked, “About what?”
Carl Wells covered a cough that he feared might be something serious and vowed he’d see the town doctor as soon as he could, “We’re arguing about who gets to go collect snipes.”
“Snipes?” Where are they?”
Ben Knight looked sad, “We’re awfully selfish. Emery…have you never caught a snipe?” he thought absently about how Emery was no-doubt a lazy student with few manners.
“We should be horse-whipped for being so greedy with the snipes.” Donny Gant wondered what kinds of crime were on tap for the night and was ready to head home soon. But his friends were on a bender now; he would have to wait.
“It’s my turn.” Ben said.
“I want to go.” Carl stated.
“Can I? Please let me.” Emery asked. He was almost jumping up and down in excitement.
“I guess we could let Emery have a turn.” Jim said.
Ned explained that Emery would have to go home and get an old feed sack, go out into the woods, sing the National Anthem as loudly as he could, and watch for the snipes, bagging them.
Emery repeated each step and ran away to snipe hunt. He was going to be a real-life snipe hunter too! The five men decided to have a few more beers in the tavern before they went to the woods to spy on Emery in the moonlight.
They saw him on the bank of the small stream, a stuffed feedbag beside him. Emery had a second feedbag he was holding open while he sang. The moon darted behind clouds before they could see anything but shapes, but there was something thrashing in the woods, coming right towards them.
All five men screamed a very long time.
But if you visit Laws Chapel, be sure to be off the streets at dusk, stay out of the woods, and pay Emery a visit if you get the time; if you’re very lucky, he will give you a rare treat and take you snipe hunting.
If it is Thursday, a women’s group meets at eight o’clock in the evening to play bridge, drink cups of herbal tea, gossip, and share the town’s collective grief about anything from the new deputy’s uniforms to possums in the trash. At one of these gatherings, you’d see Marietta Knight, née Smithers with her too-tight slacks and homemade toll house cookies and vivid complaints about her simpering, lazy students and their ridiculously stupid parents who she swear are all out to get her. There would be Ellen Moore with her delicate finger sandwiches and racist and homophobic jokes that she tells with glee. Leisa Wells brings veggies and dip and a side dish of juicy information on all the patients who go to see the doctor she works for. Cami Norwood likes to bring desert and complain about the disgusting Catholic perverts, and the Godless Jews, and the dreadful Methodists who are one step from demon worship. And finally, you find, at these female gatherings, Theresa Gant, with her cheese plates and details from the police scanner she listens to day and night.
They are widows, who if you ask how their husbands died, will stop chattering with happy smiles and go cold as a witch’s teat. You might guess it was an accident, or a wild bear that had torn them apart, a gas leak, or a maniac on a rampage, but you would be wrong. No one said a thing, but when dusk came, doors closed, windows shut, and everyone went inside.
If you asked Emery McCollough why everyone feared the night, you’d get the truth about the little spit-and-ya-miss-it town, though you’d shake your head in disbelief. He would tell it all, although he would periodically laugh like a hyena and go blank as he told.
He would say that in the last of a lovely spring, as he kicked a can down the main street, he had run across a few of the local men who stood outside the local watering hole. They were more drunk than sober.
“Hi, Emery.” Ned Norwood called happily. He liked Emery pretty well, despite the fact the boy was some Bible thumping religion.
Emery said hello and laughed right along with them. His mama said they laughed at him, but he didn’t know that for sure, so he simply laughed when they did. “What are you doing?”
Jim Moore, careful to never act like a sissy or hold a hand shake too long for fear of catching an effeminate nature said, “We are having us one heated argument here.”
“You are?” Emery asked, “About what?”
Carl Wells covered a cough that he feared might be something serious and vowed he’d see the town doctor as soon as he could, “We’re arguing about who gets to go collect snipes.”
“Snipes?” Where are they?”
Ben Knight looked sad, “We’re awfully selfish. Emery…have you never caught a snipe?” he thought absently about how Emery was no-doubt a lazy student with few manners.
“We should be horse-whipped for being so greedy with the snipes.” Donny Gant wondered what kinds of crime were on tap for the night and was ready to head home soon. But his friends were on a bender now; he would have to wait.
“It’s my turn.” Ben said.
“I want to go.” Carl stated.
“Can I? Please let me.” Emery asked. He was almost jumping up and down in excitement.
“I guess we could let Emery have a turn.” Jim said.
Ned explained that Emery would have to go home and get an old feed sack, go out into the woods, sing the National Anthem as loudly as he could, and watch for the snipes, bagging them.
Emery repeated each step and ran away to snipe hunt. He was going to be a real-life snipe hunter too! The five men decided to have a few more beers in the tavern before they went to the woods to spy on Emery in the moonlight.
They saw him on the bank of the small stream, a stuffed feedbag beside him. Emery had a second feedbag he was holding open while he sang. The moon darted behind clouds before they could see anything but shapes, but there was something thrashing in the woods, coming right towards them.
All five men screamed a very long time.
But if you visit Laws Chapel, be sure to be off the streets at dusk, stay out of the woods, and pay Emery a visit if you get the time; if you’re very lucky, he will give you a rare treat and take you snipe hunting.
