Mornings in Two Pan Page 9

  Neither man spoke on the drive to town. It had taken years for Jiggs to cultivate the silence. As a teenager he’d ridden, staring out the window, ignoring his dad’s judgments on who’d done a crappy job putting up a fence, or why Charlie Coldwell was a sorry pick for county commissioner. When Pax was alive, they’d quietly elbow each other until their game got rowdy enough for Ox to smack both of them across their heads. Pax always got the shotgun seat next to the window, so Jiggs got more of the blow.

  After Pax died, celebrating his twentieth birthday, it was Jiggs, his dad, and silence in the truck. They’d kept it that way for twenty-eight years.

  Jiggs drove through town and parked at the south end of Main Street in front of a red barn-like building. “Grubbs Mercantile” was painted in fat white cursive letters across the side. A red-haired, ragged-eared dog sat on a bench beside the door. It didn’t look up, but kept licking its butt as the two men got out of the truck.

  “Get offa there.” Ox hissed, holding onto the backrest and nudging the hound from the seat with his boot.

  “You better hope folks don’t treat you like that just ’cause you get old.” Jiggs held the screen door open for his dad.

  “If I start licking my butt in public, you’ve got permission to shoot me.”

  “Good to know.”

  “We Boil At Different Degrees”

  —Ralph Waldo Emerson

  THE FAMILIAR PUNGENT scent of oiled oak floors greeted Jiggs and Ox as they walked into Grubbs Mercantile. Somewhere between the narrow aisles stacked high with merchandise was anything a person needed—if he or she had patience to search for it.

  Augustus Grubbs had rolled his wagon into the Eagle Caps right behind the miners of 1860 and hawked salt, flour, beans and britches. When fires wiped the town off the map, he’d re-constructed his building—until 1920—when folks decided there were better places to be. Places with cars and street lights. That was the last time the old two-story structure had been updated, except to add electricity.

  Fluorescent lights hung from the high ceiling, next to brass-brimmed, coal oil lamps. White enameled deli cases displayed cold cuts and homegrown hamburger. A deer’s head with a broken antler hung high on a wall between boxes of boots which were retrieved via a rolling ladder. The glass front oak display cases showed off earphones for an iPod, piled on top of ropes and riding gloves. There used to be an electric register, but Cleova Klegg, the checker, preferred to use the massive black till that made a ding when the drawer opened. She said there was something more satisfying about hearing your money being spent.

  “I been wanting some marshmallow crème to snack on,” Ox said to the stock boy stuffing boxes of BBs under a shelf. “Where do you hide it?”

  The sixteen-year-old looked as if he’d been asked the square root of pi. “I dunno. Do we carry it?”

  Grumbling, Ox stomped off, the old floor boards creaking under his feet. Jiggs found Andy Grubbs in the back of the store, sitting in one of the armchairs, solving the world’s problems with a few townsfolk.

  “Hey Andy, I need to order a part,” Jiggs said to the proprietor then headed to the side room crowded with fan belts, sparkplugs, and car manuals hanging by strings from the walls.

  For a round-bodied, plump-faced fellow, Andy Grubbs moved surprisingly quickly. He sprang out of the chair, removing the pencil he kept behind his ear. “Now what is it you need? Maybe I’ve got it in stock?”

  When they were out of earshot of the others, Jiggs said quietly, “I don’t actually need a part. I'm just letting Dad think I’m ordering it. It’s for his truck.”

  “Oh. I see.” The shopkeeper nodded, one eyebrow arched. “You want to know how much the part you’re not ordering costs? You know he’ll ask.”

  “Yeah. That’s a good idea. Make it expensive,” Jiggs said.

  Andy pinched his lip between his fingers and thought a moment. “I don’t think so. He’ll bad mouth me all over town, and Slats GasNGo is having a half price sale on Armor All and strut installation. No need to convince any customers to go to him.”

  “All right. It doesn’t matter what you charge for this part that I’m not ordering. But tell him it won’t get here for a couple of weeks.”

  “I see.” He continued pulling his lip. “Well, really, I don’t understand, but when it comes to your dad, I don’t ask questions. Problem is…he’ll cuss me about the delay, too. He’s my worst advertiser.”

  “Okay. Make it cheap enough he’s willing to wait for it.”

  “How about I tell him I may be able to get one for free?”

  “He’ll still—”

  “I’m not an employee here!” Ox’s voice boomed from the front of the store.

  Andy Grubb pushed past Jiggs and a barrel holding windshield wipers. “What seems to be the problem, Mr. Woolsey?” he called as he hurried up the aisle. Jiggs was right behind him. They found Jason, the stock boy, cowering at the till with Ox staring him down.

  “Since your hired hand hides all the stock around here…” Ox shook a plastic canister at the boy. “I figured he could tell me where he buried the marshmallow crème. But he seems surprised that this is a grocery store and asked me if Grubbs carried it. So I went digging through shelves…”

  Andy Grubbs closed his eyes and let out a sigh.

  “I finally found it. On a bottom rack, stuffed behind bags of marshmallows. I brought it up here to pay, and the kid says…” Ox glowered at the young man, who was staring and running his finger across the till’s metal scrollwork. “The kid says, ‘Hey. You found it. Where was it?’ I told him he could find it himself.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Woolsey.” Andy turned to Jason. “I’ll take care of this. You go fix the cooking aisle.” The boy quickly took off.

  “You know how long I’ve been coming here, giving you business?” Ox set the canister at the checkout.

  “Dad…” Jiggs’ voice carried a warning.

  Ox narrowed his stare at Andy Grubbs. “You’d think somebody would say, ‘Hello, Mr. Woolsey’ or ‘Good to see you again’ when I come in. But, no. I’m a nameless old geezer. ‘Buy somethin’ or move along.’ Customers are treated like they’re invisible here. Millie walked in a minute ago.” He waved toward a fuzzy-haired woman. Her gold-rimmed glasses sat crooked on her nose. “Nobody said, ‘Hi’ ‘Whadda ya need?’ or even ‘Go to hell, Millie.’” The woman nodded.

  “Dad…” Jiggs said again, but Andy held up his hand.

  “I apologize, sir.” A pink flush was climbing his neck. The edges of his ears had turned red. He took a breath and let it out. “I assure you that you are important to us. I’ll talk to Jason right now.” He turned and walked away.

  “Dad it’s like you rain down a crap-storm wherever you go.”

  “That’s why I don’t go out much. Nobody’s got the common decency to talk anymore. It’s all about ‘gimme your money.’ Look.” He held up the marshmallow crème. “I’m standing here with my wallet open and nobody cares. Not a soul around to take my money. It’s a damn miracle they’ve stayed in business.”

  Jason jogged to the front of the store and stepped behind the till. “Sorry to make you wait, Mr. Woolsey. I was putting the marshmallow bags back from where you’d scattered them on the floor. Sorry to make you look for this. I should’ve helped you. I’m glad you found what you needed, Mr. Woolsey. That’ll be three dollars and fifteen cents, please, sir.”

  Ox scowled at the boy. He pulled bills out of his wallet one at a time, placing them on the counter. Andy stood nearby, observing and helping Millie free one of the tiny shopping carts nesting inside the next one.

  Jason popped open a paper sack. “Would you like me to bag that for you, Mr. Woolsey?” Ox nodded.

  The boy dropped the small canister in the big sack and held it out. “And how are you feeling today, sir? You doin’ all right?”

  “None of your damn business. Why the hell would you care?” Ox snatched the sack, eyeing the boy up and down.

  “Dad, w
hy don’t you go over to the Bar and Grill and get us a seat?”

  “Why? You think they’re gonna run out of chairs suddenly?” Ox switched his gaze to Andy who was moving packages of cookies to “face out” the shelves. “You got my truck part?”

  “It’ll take about a week, sir.” Andy said, noticing Jiggs shaking his head behind Ox. “Well…maybe more. I’m trying to get one for you for free.”

  “Free?” Ox squinted. “You can’t trust free. Nothing you get for free ever works. Order a Chevy relay and have ’em ship it to the house.”

  “You could get your grandson to do that on the internet for you, sir,” Jason said. “It’s quick and easy—” He stopped, seeing Jiggs violently shake his head. “Oh! Sorry, sir. That’s just foreign models that have internet parts. You don’t drive a rice rocket, do you sir?”

  Ox looked at the boy as though he were a bag of talking hair.

  “Say,” Jiggs’ tone was light, announcing a change in the subject. “Since the Grubbs have been here as long as the Woolseys, what do you know about our early days?” he asked Andy.

  The proprietor straightened cans of insect repellant. “I was told one of your kin took off with Grubbs Mercantile.”

  “That’d be a trick. What’d he do with it?”

  “Bruno Woolsey moved it, along with his establishment, to this spot. My great-granddad helped.” His eyes flitted toward Ox then at the floor. “I think Bruno had uh…an entertainment house.”

  “Saloon.” Ox wore a silencing stare.

  “Okay, I see. And across the street, my relatives had the mercantile. This was the time they had sunset laws.”

  “Oh…yeah.” Jason wagged his finger. “I heard about that in history class. The Chinamen, who worked the mines, couldn’t be above ground after sunset.”

  “So they dug tunnels to live in and to go from store to store. That way they could get food and supplies after dark. Story goes, they dug a big tunnel between the mercantile and the…saloon across the road. So big, it fell in one day, along with a horse and rider going down the street. The horse was standing in a ditch with the rider’s eyeballs even with the surrounding road.”

  “How’d they get the horse out?” Jason asked.

  “They didn’t. They shot him and filled in the tunnel.”

  “That’s bullshit,” Ox said. “Who told you that story? Nobody would kill a good horse. They dug a ramp and walked him out.” Jiggs gave his dad a surprised look.

  “Well, however they fixed the mess,” Andy continued, “it left a mound in the middle of the street. You know you can’t fill in a big gap like that. It either sinks and collects water or humps and jolts the wagons as they cross. So that winter, after everything had iced over and the thermometer hadn’t peeked above zero for a week, Bruno Woolsey hooked teams of horses onto his sporting palace and dragged it across the frozen ground to a flat place. Pretty soon the whole town had been skidded a quarter mile south, to this very spot.”

  Ox scowled. “Those buildings would’ve come apart at the joints.”

  “That makes him Two Pan’s first ‘mover and shaker.” Jason grinned, then noticed Ox’s glare and added, “Sir.”

  “What a buncha hogwash.” Ox turned and left.

  “What’s eating him?” Jason rolled his eyes. “He’s grumpier than usual.”

  Andy Grubb looked at the boy and pointed to a stack of cardboard boxes. Jason shrugged, cut open a carton, and started hanging jerky sticks.

  “Sorry.” Jiggs motioned for Andy to walk outside with him. “Dad’s been in more of a twist than usual, lately. I’ve been digging into family history.”

  “Well, we all boil at different degrees.” Andy tucked his pencil behind his ear. “I heard you found a gold watch on your place. Are you trying to figure out who it belongs to? They say the initials on the fob aren’t legible.”

  Jiggs hesitated, collecting his words. Good thing he hadn’t told the truth and said he’d found a skull, the news would’ve traveled even faster. As it was, the watch story had picked up added details. Creech Walters must’ve asked a few people in an attempt to help out. After all, what would be secretive about finding a watch? “I’m thinking it may belong to some of my early kin. You’ve been around a long time. As I said before, do you know any stories about the Woolseys?”

  “I once saw your dad throw a fella into a truck bed then heave a block of ice on top of him. But don’t tell Ox I said that.” Andy glanced over his shoulder. “That was years ago when we had the ice locker out back. Some guy made a rude comment about your mom.”

  “I’m surprised she didn’t take a horsewhip to the guy. She could take care of herself,” Jiggs said. “Who was it?”

  “Somebody passin’ through. Everybody around here knows that Ox doesn’t brook any talk about his family.” He glanced at Jiggs. “Unless he’s the one doin’ it.”

  “Yeah. Yeah.” Jiggs looked away. “I meant earlier stories. You ever heard anything about my granddad, Brick?”

  “I don’t gossip.” Andy shook his head. “Folks may sit around the stove in my store and tell stories, but I don’t spread them.”

  “Ox isn’t going to find out,” Jiggs said as he waved at Lottie and Zim Lubach driving past.

  Andy bit his lip. “I overheard my granddad say something, but I’ve never repeated it. I swear.” He held up his hand as though giving testimony. “The dentist…” he pointed at a narrow second-story window above the store. “You know how he up and disappeared, a hundred years ago. Left everything lying there?” Jiggs nodded.

  “Well, there’d been a bank robbery and a shootout in Enterprise a couple days before. My granddad believed the robbers holed up at Brick’s ranch and sent him to fetch the closest thing we had to a doctor.”

  “Are you saying my granddad was part of a gang?”

  “No. No.” Andy waved his hands. “My granddad suspected that Brick took in the wounded robbers. Especially if they threatened his wife or kids.”

  “Why Brick?”

  “Granddad saw him in town late at night and thought it was strange. It’s far-fetched, I know. That’s why I’ve never said a word, even though the dentist is the topic of discussion every day. People come in each morning to see if his ghost has moved stuff around during the night.”

  “I bet that’s good for business.” Jiggs gave him a flat stare. “All right. So why would outlaws let Brick go, but not the dentist? Usually, they paid a doc and turned him loose so he could patch them up another day.”

  Andy shrugged. “Only Brick knows.”

  “Now wait a minute.” Jiggs leaned forward.

  “Sorry. My granddad thought that Brick Woolsey was the reason this town lost its only medicine man. You asked. I told you. No need to get mad. I thought the watch you found might’ve been one of the bank robbers’—or the dentist’s.”

  Jiggs let out a long breath, aware Andy was watching him. His list of skull suspects had ballooned to include Violet Spinrad’s missing husband, a tooth puller, and a gang of bank robbers. Each story he’d heard had made his ancestors into rounders, laggards, and idiots.

  If he kept looking into his family, he’d probably find gun runners and slavers, too. Maybe Ox wasn’t as cantankerous as he’d thought; his old man was simply tired of hearing the stories. Thrashing everyone who repeated them didn’t seem so ridiculous anymore.

  “Sorry. You’re right. I did ask.” Jiggs gave Andy a nod. “Well, maybe that’s why the ghost comes back and moves things around. He’s looking for the truth, too. I hope he’s had better luck finding it than I’ve had.”

  If You Can’t Fix It With Duct Tape, You Haven’t Used Enough

  JIGGS WALKED INTO the Bar and Grill. He had great hopes for “burrito night.” His previous strategy to skirt around the subject of the skull had failed. He wasn’t good at it like his mother had been. She could pierce a person with a perceptive look or a smooth-sounding, “If that’s what you think.” She’d let her unspoken questions circle and hover like a storm,
building in the distance, rolling nearer and nearer, until it was a relief to confess and get the lightning strikes over.

  Tonight, Jiggs had a different plan. Ox was usually in the mood to talk after a good meal. He liked to tell stories. With luck, Jiggs could get a piece of the puzzle answered.

  A few Two Pan residents were scattered in the dining area. Several waved as he walked in. The clack of pool balls came from the side room. His usual spot was taken by a family from Minam, celebrating a birthday. A cake sat at Table 2, and gift-wrapped packages lay under their chairs as a pinched-mouth woman asked Misty for more chips and salsa.

  In the corner, a man the size of a small building beckoned Jiggs toward him. Because of his weight, George Jugenmeir was relegated to Table 4. As a former logger, he’d been a hefty man, but years of eating lumberjack breakfasts long after he’d quit bucking timber had tripled George to “hulk” size. After breaking several chairs, Bazz had reinforced the seats at Table 4 so they’d support the man’s mass when he came to eat.

  “Take a load off, neighbor.” George waved a thick hand.

  “Hey. How ya doin’? I’m scouting for Dad. He been in here?”

  George swung his heavy head back and forth. “Join me and wait. Seems we don’t talk over the fence anymore.”

  “Be glad to, but first I need to find him. He’s already chewed up a stock boy. No telling—”

  “I saw him.” Chicken Thief Bob skidded to a stop beside the table. “He’s down the street, sitting on a bale of sawdust, talking to Tracy.” The skinny man had a handle on most things happening in the area. Born in Two Pan, he chose to stay and drive a gravel truck for a living. His jeans hung loose from his waist, as though his belt were the only thing keeping them up. His shirt sleeve flapped as he snapped his fingers. “Hey! You figured out who the watch belongs to yet?”

  Jiggs blinked. “Sometimes I forget how fast news travels. Well…” he hesitated, looking for words. “I figure it belongs to me. I found it.” He hoped that would put a stop to the tale.