She was short and very heavy, a fireplug of a woman. Huffs appeared between her words as she struggled to talk and climb stairs simultaneously. Emil had it right, Tyree thought. Her house was massive and empty. The winding stair seemed endless. Her face reddened until sweat coursed down her round cheeks to plop like rain on her heaving bosom. When they finally gained the top landing of the wide, curving stairs, painted white but carpeted thickly in plush deep maroon, she abruptly finished with, “Breakfast is extra, how do you like your eggs?” The sudden cessation of sound as she waited for his answer woke Tyree from the mesmerizing flow of words. He’d almost fallen asleep on the stairway behind her.
He blinked, then registered the question. “Four eggs, easy over medium. You got whole wheat toast?”
“Muffins are better.”
“Toast,” he said firmly. “Whole wheat. No butter. And fresh juice?”
“Well sure, fresh!” she bristled. “Seven sharp.”
Tyree nodded, then handed her the agreed in-advance fee in cash. One shrewd glance at the interior of his wallet, and she wheeled smartly to leave him standing before the open door of a room more appropriate for a debutante than Tyree Garcia. The bed was a double, with an overlarge white lace coverlet that drifted to the varnished wood floor all around, the corners puddled like piles of snowflakes. It felt scratchy to his skin. He bundled it onto an overstuffed boudoir chair and dropped onto the crisp sheets, careful to let his feet hang off the side, too tired to remove his sneakers. The two corner windows were open, but no breeze stirred the sheer white curtains to cool the stagnant air.
The next hour passed in a luxurious haze of drifting between sleep and a blissful physical consciousness of the soft mattress cradling his weary body. When his conscience demanded he pull himself erect to get to work, it was a wrench. He wasn’t here to laze away the day after driving eighteen straight hours, racing newspaper or TV reports that might complicate his errand.
An early dinner, he decided. Coffee with sugar for the jolt, although he rarely drank coffee. Then get to it.
With little trouble he found a diner, the only source of food within sight, which helped narrow his choice, slid into the red plastic-covered bench seat, and just avoided propping his elbows in a pool of syrup left by a former customer. A battered window AC unit manfully refrigerated the air, although it hampered conversation with its metallic death rattles. Tyree basked in the chill.
After an agonizing attempt to swallow the larded slab of meatloaf floating in a lake of ketchup, he gave it up and asked for the freshest pic in the place. The waitress, a moon-faced teen, studied him like a science specimen, then brought him a large plate of banana cream pic. It was fresh, fragrant, and tasted like heaven. He got a second piece, making a mental note to ask for her recommendations if his job lasted long enough to force him to eat here again, swilled down the burnt coffee, and left her a 50 percent tip.
He strolled back toward the main part of town, suddenly aware that he, like the others he’d watched, was walking down the middle of the dirt-covered asphalt. After a small laugh at himself, he focused on looking for more conversationalists like Emil and Ms. Zendall. A small group had gathered in front of Edna’s Gift Shop, so he shifted his direction to end up there, but he moved slowly.
Give them all a chance to look him over, take in the details, like Ms. Zendall. He hoped his color would again be judged green. Helped a hell of a lot.
Again a good omen: Emil was there, holding court, telling the saga of Tyree’s arrival. Tyree stepped up on the sidewalk and smiled warmly at Emil, nodded hello. Bristling with pride. Emil greeted Tyree like a cousin, made introductions. Told his name and that he had come from Chicago, and didn’t have any interest in hunting. Just liked the peace of the area, “That right, Tyree?” he asked. Tyree nodded.
The nervous sidewalk sweeper was there, head bobbing. Again he declared in a booming voice, “Ho, what’s up!” then shyly backed away, tangling his broom between his own legs, nearly falling. His head hung as if ashamed of himself.
Emil said, “That’s Frankie. Says that to everybody. Sweeps sidewalks for the town. Gotta do something. ’Sides, it’s awful dusty this time o’ year. Good thing to do.”
Tyree nodded. Close up, he could see that Frankie was much younger than his wizened features indicated. An impaired young man who looked sixty. “Good job, Frankie,” he said. He held out his hand to him. Frankie went totally still. Despite his lowered head, his eyes went up to Tyree’s, holding there for a second. Then he grasped Tyree’s hand and squeezed, grinning. “Hey!” he said.
“Hey,” Tyree answered. Frankie’s hand was bony and fragile, with skin like leather. Then Emil introduced him to an older woman, nearly as fat as Ms. Zendall but taller. “This is Mrs. Barstow. Lisle. And her beautiful Wendy-girl. Wendy married Rudy Stern a whiles back. Rudy’s on late duty today. At the hotel,” he confided. “Desk clerk. Good future!”
Tyree nodded, smiling. “Congratulations,” he said. The girl could not possibly be older than seventeen or eighteen and looked many months pregnant, although Tyree was careful not to mention this in case he was wrong. The women he’d met so far in this town had a tendency to corpulence, and he couldn’t afford to offend quite yet.
He turned to the girl’s mother and tipped his head. “You couldn’t possibly be old enough to be this young lady’s mother!” An oldie but goodie, he sighed to himself. Women. But to his surprise, Mrs. Barstow didn’t do the normal simper and denial that usually followed the compliment. She just gazed at him with a puzzled look on her face.
She blurted. “You rent that car? Don’t look like no rental. Rentals don’t normally black out their windows like that. But it’s got a West Virginia plate on it.”
Tyree nodded. “Yeah, I thought that odd myself, the dark windows. But I’m fond of vans. Roomy. I’m a big guy, long legs.” He shrugged at the mysteries of rental car companies, put an earnest but puzzled expression on his face. But Mrs. Barstow’s eyes chilled as she took in his explanation, studied his face. Calculating. Shit, he thought. He habitually changed the plates every time he crossed slate lines to stay inconspicuous, but weariness had led him to reveal to the town crier, Emil, that he’d come from Chicago. Might as well’ve put a blue chicken on the roof for Mrs. Barstow to point out.
“You drive here from the airport?” she asked.
He nodded.
“Which one?”
“Well, hell, Lisle. Give the man a vacation, will ya?” Emil rescued Tyree, who silently blessed the man. “Obviously he drove in from the capital. Look at the dust on the thing.”
“He could’ve flown in to the Greenville airport,” she said defensively. “It’s closer. And lotsa straight flights come there from big cities, ’cause of the hotel.”
“C’mon, Lisle. Then he woulda driv in from the opposite direction. I saw him myself hit town back thataway,” Emil exclaimed in exasperation, pointing toward the Mobil station. “Obviously he came by way of Charleston!”
“Well his car’s so filthy looks like he drove here all the way from Chicago!” she demanded. “And where’s the rental car sticker?”
Tyree rapidly reassessed the intelligence of Rushing River’s population. No detail too small to notice. “They don’t mark rental cars anymore, since the tourist shootings in Florida,” he said, crossing mental fingers that West Virginia had subscribed to that policy, too. He groaned, wondering what else he’d screwed up. Better get in, do it, get out. This is what allowing himself too little sleep got him.
“There now, happy, Lisle?” started Emil, gathering wind to begin a good long rebuke.
“You know what made me think of coming here?” Tyree said to divert attention from his car. “I had a buddy. Moved to this area, around, oh, twenty years ago.”
“Colored like you?” asked Mrs. Barstow innocently.