The Dead Don't Dance (29 page)

I climbed in. “Man, am I glad to see you. It's getting cold again.”

“Amanda's going home tomorrow,” he said. “Pastor John stopped me in the grocery store and said they were releasing her in the morning.”

He dropped me off at the end of the drive, so I turned up my collar and walked through the pitch black with my hands in my coat pockets. When I got to the porch, somebody with sunglasses was sitting on the front steps, resting her head in her hands. Like the courier service guy, she scared another three years off my life.

“Koy?”

“Sorry, Professor. I couldn't find a light switch.”

“Well, the sun will be up in about eight hours.”

“Yeah. I thought maybe I could get that readmit tonight.”

She looked cold, but not from the temperature, and she sounded as though she'd been crying.

“I'll get it.” I walked inside, turned on the porch light, got the receipt, and walked back out on the porch. I handed it to her, and this time she did not take her glasses off.

“Thanks, Professor.”

“Koy?” I said. “You don't have to answer me, but why do you want it?”

“I j-just want to keep it,” she stammered and walked backwards to her car. “Thank you, Professor.” She closed her door and slowly drove out of the driveway. It was eleven when she left.

I went inside, rubbed Blue between the ears, and poured myself a cup of milk. Standing on the porch, stargazing and sipping some sweet, creamy milk, I watched as a northwest breeze picked up and flapped through my corn.

My dry and very dead corn.

I polished off the milk and grabbed a match from the mantel. At the edge of the cornfield, with the wind blowing behind me, I struck the match and lit the stalk in front of me. It sputtered as the wind caught it and almost went out. I cupped my hands around the dead leaf and gave it another chance. In under two minutes, the fire was raging. I stepped back, crossed my arms, and watched it spread across twenty acres, quickly turning the field into a single, huge, roaring blaze.

Amos saw the flames and came running out of his house. He ran up my drive in his socks and grippers, dodging sparks and flames and breathing hard. He shouted above the crackle and roar, “Ivory, have you lost your mind?”

I stood there watching the glow and lost in the flames.

“No,” I said, as the fire reached the road and began to die. “Actually, I'm just starting to get it back.”

Amos shook his head and started jogging back to his house. I heard him mutter to himself, “Blasted idiot. All that education and he's still dumb as a brick. Burn my house down . . .”

I stood there long enough to watch the fire die and feel the cold return. Then I skipped back inside, lay down on the couch, and for the first time in several months, slept peacefully in my own house.

chapter thirty-one

J
AKE
P
OWERS OWNS
J
AKE'S
J
ALOPY.
A
SIDE FROM
being the only auto repair shop in town, it's also the only car dealership in Digger. You might say he's got a monopoly on a very small market. His selection is a hodgepodge of nearly new and very used cars and trucks . . . mostly very used. Not a single car on the lot is still under extended warranty, much less factory warranty.

The place reminds me of the Island of Misfit Toys. How Jake has managed to stay in business this long is the Eighth Wonder of the World. And it's not as if he can sell. I think people go there because they feel sorry for him, his mealy-mouthed wife, and his four pitiful-looking kids. Actually, the whole pitiful thing is probably a marketing ploy. He's probably a mastermind when it comes to yanking a customer's chain.

I was a perfect case in point. I had made up my mind that I was going to Walterboro to buy a real car, the kind with zero miles, when I remembered the billboard that showed the happy Powers children sitting on Mom and Dad's lap. Underneath, the caption read,
Come to Jake's Jalopy. Your purchase will help me feed my kids.

It's pretty well known that if you want something reliable, something with a warranty, something that won't leave you stranded, you better get to Walterboro. But if you're in a fix, and you're a sucker, a Jake's jalopy will do. I wasn't really in a fix, but I didn't feel like haggling with a Walterboro car salesman, and besides, Jake had my truck. Maybe I could interest him in a trade. To be honest, I had an idea of my own. I also remembered that Jake worked holidays and would be open on New Year's Eve. So I headed out the drive and began walking to Jake's.

After a seven-mile jog-walk with Blue at my side, I turned in the lot.

“Hey, Jake.”

Jake stepped between me and the gate before I could change my mind and leave.

“Hey, Dylan, how are you doing?”

Jake and I graduated high school together, and he's always been a little slow on the uptake. Truth is, he does have a child with some special needs, and he's good to his family. He works all the time, and the lot is always open. During Christmas, many people get their trees there. He'll hold as many trees as your wife wants to look at without batting an eye. Then he'll give you a fresh cut, load it on top of your car, tie it down, and wish you a Merry Christmas, which he genuinely hopes you have.

“I'm fine,” I lied. The truth would take too long. “How's my truck?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Cooked. Engine's burnt slap up. It'd cost you more to put a new engine in it than what the truck is worth.”

This was where Jake usually started trying to sell you something on his lot. But I knew this going in, so I just listened. Besides, he wasn't the only one scheming.

He continued, cocking his head as if he were doing me a favor. “I might could give you more in trade than you'd ever sell it for.”

“Well, what do you have?”

Jake smiled, and behind his eyes I could tell he was doing the math. Old Jake thought he had me. But months ago I had seen a truck in the back of his lot that had piqued my interest. When mine burned up, I had the excuse I was looking for.

He slid a tattered three-by-five card from his shirt pocket and looked through the bottom of his glasses. “Let's see . . . ” He scanned his card. “With a family and all, you probably need something like . . . ” He squeezed his chin between his fingers. “Like this van here.” He pointed to a Chrysler van at the front of the lot, parked beneath the row of flapping red, white, and blue flags.

It would take a bigger sucker than I was to leave there with that thing. I pointed to the back of the lot and said, “Uh, Jake, what about that truck?”

Jake looked up from his card and said, “Oh yeah.
That
truck.”

We both gazed at the faded orange Ford pickup, covered in leaves and parked against the rear fence.

“Wow. You know how to pick 'em, Dylan.” He slapped me on the shoulder as we walked to the back of the lot. “That's a '76 Ford F-150, four-wheel drive, no doubt. It's got about 140,000 miles on it, but the engine was just rebuilt and it's only got eight hundred miles on the new one, transmission, and rear-end.”

Jake took off his glasses and kind of looked around before he continued. “Dylan, I know I sometimes sell some less-than-stellar stuff, but to the right owner, this is some decent transportation. I mean, the bed is rusted and duct tape covers some of the tears in the seats, but as for reliability?” Jake quietly patted the hood of the Ford. “I think this may be one of the more reliable units on the lot.”

In this particular instance, Jake was probably telling the truth.

“It's got a four-sixty with a couple of small modifications. I think it dynos at about four hundred horsepower.” He squinted his eyes in the sun. “Is that too much for your needs?”

“No.” I tried not to smile. “I can probably make do.”

“Okay, um . . . The gauges work pretty well, and the tires . . . ” Jake kicked the tires. “They look pretty good. They're a little big for my taste, but you own a farm, so they might come in handy.” He rested his hand on the top of the tire that came to the middle of his thigh. “How 'bout twenty-five hundred?”

Jake was reaching. He must have been having a tough month. The thing wasn't worth fifteen hundred. Not to anybody.

Except me.

He interrupted me before I could reply. “Nope, I tell you what, I'll give you five hundred for your trade and take fifteen hundred, but that's just 'cause you and me got some history.”

I shook my head. “Jake, you're too good to me.” I rubbed my hands together, as though I were doing the figuring in my head. Good thing Jake couldn't read my mind. I'd have paid ten.

“Will you take three?”

“Well, all right, I can cut it to a thousand, but . . .” Jake scratched his head. “What did you say?”

“I said I'd feel bad if I took her for less than three thousand. This is a classic, and you and I both know it. You're just doing me a favor 'cause we've known each other so long.” I slapped Jake on the back and handed him my driver's license.

His eyes doubled in size, and he looked at me as though I had lost my mind.

“Dylan?” He collected himself. “Umm, yeah, let's go inside and get started on the paperwork.”

While he was sitting at his desk, Jake's smile grew. The smile alone was worth three grand. The truck was just the icing on the cake. Or at least that's what I was going to tell Amos when he gave me a hard time about buying this truck from Jake.

I reassured him. “Yeah, Jake, I really do appreciate your kindness. I know you're an old pro, and you know cars. I also know that you've always been good to the people who come in here. You've done a lot of good in Digger. 'Specially come Christmas, or when folks just need some help.”

Jake squinted again as if he wasn't quite sure what was coming next. “I have?” he asked. “I mean . . .” He cleared his throat. “I have. Thanks for noticing.”

“Listen, we all do,” I lied again.

Jake handed me the key and said, “I'll hold the title, of course, and send it to you in about twenty-four months. If that's okay with you.”

“Sounds good. Hey, tell Liza and the kids I said hello.”

Jake looked as though he'd just seen Elvis. He nodded, and I climbed up in the truck.

Finally, a four-wheel drive. I hit the starter, and it rumbled into a slow idle. Ahhh. It's a truck thing. If you don't understand by now, you might as well quit, because you never will.

As I was putting the stick into first, an older, hunchbacked, black woman pulled into the lot. She opened her squeaky door, climbed out of her car, walked over to Jake, and pulled out a neatly folded wad of bills. I overheard her say, “Mr. Jake, that's my ninth payment. I've got six more to go before it's paid for.”

I waved at Jake. “Hey, good to see you, pal,” I said. “And thanks for taking such good care of all us Digger folks. This beats Walterboro any day.”

Jake scratched his head and turned his attention to the lady. “Miz Parker, you're real good about paying me. You're here every month just as soon as your Social Security check comes in. Let's just call it even. I've earned my money on that car.”

“But Jake,” she protested, bobbing her head, “I still owe you close to three hundred dollars.”

“Yes, ma'am. Two hundred and forty-seven, to be exact.” Jake put his arm around her and led her back to her car. “And maybe you know of some people who might need a car one day.” He smiled. “Don't you have a bunch of kids?”

“Honey.” Mrs. Parker put her hand on her hip. “I've got nine of 'em, and if any of them buys a car anyplace but here, I'll beat them like a redheaded stepchild.” She reached up, clutched Jake to her big sagging bosom, and kissed him square on the mouth.

I pulled out of the lot with Blue sticking his head out the passenger's window to catch the breeze. I switched on the broken, scratchy radio, and Blue and I hummed down the highway to the sound of mud tires in need of alignment. I was in love.

I probably should have driven straight home, but I didn't. Instead, we filled up, something that, were it not for dual fuel tanks, we would have to do often. Then I eased her into first. Jake was right, that vehicle was not underpowered. Someone had modified that thing at some point. We left Digger with the windows down, and I pointed the hood toward Wherever, which is just south of Whocares. Blue and I wanted the wind in our faces. Maggs wouldn't have minded. If she'd been able, she'd have told me to get out of the hospital anyway. The sun disappeared around Charleston, so we turned south and headed down low country roads around Walterboro.

In need of some new boots, I stopped by the Western World in Walterboro and browsed the aisles. It didn't take long. They were on the top shelf and just about jumped off at me when I walked by: Olathe Mule Skinners. Tough brown leather, medium toe, double welt, double-thick leather sole, medium heel, eleven-inch shank. They looked like the boots that Dean Martin wore in
Rio Bravo
, and when I slipped them on my feet, my search was over. I loved them. Maggie would not.

I turned to the attendant. “I'll take them . . . And yes, I'd like to wear them out.”

He picked up my running shoes with two fingers, wrinkling his nose, dropped them into the box, and closed the lid. I paid the cashier, but not before buying two new pairs of Wranglers. Something Maggie would never let me get away with.

I walked out smiling like a cross between an artificial redneck and a wannabe ranch hand. But I was smiling, and that was not something I had done a lot of those last few months. Crossing the parking lot, I stepped in a puddle on purpose, and then Blue and I loaded up and I backed out of the parking lot.

My smile stopped me when I looked in the rearview mirror. I pushed in the clutch and sat there looking in the mirror at my face. After I recognized myself, we headed northwest up toward Columbia, and then south along a bunch of back country roads and some small towns that had grown up around cotton, peanuts, and tobacco.