(no subject)

[seymoure]

11.
“Dust”

By the time he had worked through the third folder (Hunnicut, Finley) and fourth folder (Manchester, Aaron) Pappy was noticing two things. His eyes were burning, but not nearly so badly as his nose. It was the dust.

Layer upon layer of dust filtered the light that wanted to come into the room and made everything look more like a pencil and ink drawing than a photograph.

He found himself rubbing his eyes and wiping his nose almost constantly. By the time Tooley arrived with the food he had decided to eat outside.

Perhaps he could think better out there too.

In front of the building was a bench that had been put there at one of those times that hoped the town was going to make something of itself. That was before it sank back into the blankness of a wide spot in the road with delusions of being slightly wider.

The “special” on this day was meat loaf and fried potatoes, with a side of green beans that had been picked by Ethan Allen and the Green Mountain boys.

Once again the old man was reminded of what a wonderful cook his wife was, and how amazing it was that the diner had been open for so long.

“That new waitress,” He said as he wiped the ketchup off his chin with the paper napkin that came with the food, “What was her name again?”

“Shelley,” Tooley jumped in without the least bit of hesitation.

“You kinda’ like her, don’t you boy?” He smiled up at the Deputy.

“She is pretty,” He said as he radiated shyness through the red of his cheeks.

Tooley Davis had been in love with at least every other young woman who had come to town in the last 3 years. There was “Honey” Elders, the blond who worked for 6 weeks checking groceries at the Save Mart. Then there was Louise Black who was a secretary for the Mayor until the Mayor took too much attention too her, and his wife requested she find a new position.

“What was that Red-Headed girl’s name?” Pappy asked.

“Fiona.” He answered with just a hint of heartbreak in his voice.

Fiona Duotch was a firery spirit who tried to open a bookstore over where the hardware store had been. Pappy had liked her, but everything about her that he liked was just the kind of personality trait that would make her unpopular among the average folk here in Setonville. She was over-educated, over-liberated and far too straight forward for small town life. It was probably best she moved to Europe or where ever she ended up, right about now she would have been under investigation by one Congressional group or another.

The real sadness was how much Mehitabel had liked her. She was the kind of engaging mind his lady needed to have more of around her. He had more “education” than his wife, but she was the brains of the outfit.

He found that he was delaying the end of the “meal” because that meant he would have to decide on going back to those stacks of files.

“Find anything new in there?” Tooley asked, pointing inside the building, but inferring the inside of the files.

“Nothing in there but a whole lot of old. We won’t find anything
new,” He told his young friend, “We just have to find a new way to look at all those old pieces of evidence.”

He could tell by his reflection in Tooley’s eyes that he might as well have been reciting Homer in Greek to the man. Sometimes he hoped for just a glimmer, but he never got it from the man. Not even a hint of a tiny bit of a glimmer.

He handed his friend the plate, aware that he would have to take it back to the diner, along with the silverware.

“Say hello to Shelley for me,” Pappy told him, “And next time . . .” He waited for the Deputy to turn and look at him, “Get the chicken fried steak.”

“Gotcha.”

Pappy reached out his hand and brushed the collar on Tooley’s uniform.

“Got a little lipstick . . .”

“Naw,” The young man denied, “That’s ketchup.”

He knew it was, but it made his friend smile.

Pappy turned to walk back into the building. When he glanced back, he caught Tooley checking out his collar in his car’s side mirror.

That gave Pappy his first smile of the day.

And he thanked God he could still do that.

 

© 2005 by C. Wayne Owens