She hopes too that the steel is changing her. God help her for saying so, but that smithy is an ugly man. She despises herself for thinking such a thing, but it’s so. And yet, when he bends to the anvil and plays, he becomes something else. She wants that. But she worries sometimes that she has more anger bound up inside her than the hammers will ever be able to chase away. Anger at herself. Her parents. Eddie Timball. The feds. Margaret Bryan. Maybe even dear, kind Fred.
No wonder my music isn’t beautiful.
Around Christmas that year the smithy looks up from his work when the next round of tourists leave. There’s a light snow falling outside. Framed in the doorway is the young woman dressed in a Carhartt jacket. Two hammers hang from the loops at her hips like sidearms.
“So you’re a cowboy now, is that it?” he says.
She smiles, draws, and flawlessly executes the blacksmith’s own gesture: twirls the hammers like six-guns before catching them. She loves doing this now. Loves feeling the heft of the handles as they swing back home to her grasp.
“Can I show you something?” she says.
He nods his assent. As she comes behind the railing, stripping off her jacket, his eyes take in the muscles along her arms. He sips from his flask.
He is taller than she is, so she has to bend lower to reach his anvil. The second her hammers bite steel, she thinks, My God, his is so much clearer, so much purer. Must be the construction.
But she pushes these thoughts from her mind and plays “And Did Those Feet in Ancient Time.”
The old man stops sipping at his flask.
She plays a good long while. She remembers Blake’s song from childhood, but back then she never thought about the words. In the last month that’s all she has done.
Bring me my Bow of burning gold...
Bring me my Arrows of desire...
Today she tortures herself for not paying better attention when she was younger. How could I have been so thoughtless? The dead poet’s words touch her now.
I will not cease from Mental Fight...
The words speak to every striving instinct she has for something better. She wants to be good. She craves it.
Her eyes are moist when she looks up. But the old man has a smile on his face.
“That’s a churchly hymn now, isn’t it? Well, I’d say you done the good Lord proud today,” he says.
She hears applause and is stunned to see that another round of tourists have come in from out of the cold. A bunch of them in the barn, clapping. Moms, dads, grandmas, kids.
She smiles and twirls the hammer in her right hand. Then the left. And slings them both in the loops of her overalls.
It’s nice. She feels good. Real good. Maybe not beautiful, but close.
Then she notices that three of the dads have video cameras. All of them pointed at her.
She doesn’t notice the truck until the Friday after Christmas, when it seems as if the whole world has descended on the mall to lob returns or cash in gift cards. The black Chevrolet truck following her as she pulls out of the mall looks a lot like the one she saw on the cul-de-sac this morning. She peels out ahead of it at the turn signal and tries to put the vehicle out of her mind. She figures she’s imagining things.
The truth is, the videos have spooked her. For weeks now, ever since she showed off at the farm, she’s been surfing all the amateur video websites in search of them, without any luck. That’s a good thing. Maybe the tourists who filmed her didn’t feel moved to post their videos. Maybe it’s not what they do. Maybe the footage didn’t turn out that well. Or maybe they’ve been distracted by Christmas.
She needs the steel badly tonight. And as soon as she gets into the garage — the space heater throwing out some BTUs, the hammers and chisels arrayed on the concrete to her right — she is able to finally tap out the notes that will bring her to the “Ave Maria.”
She doesn’t know the original words, and that’s part of the problem. If you don’t know how to pronounce the words, you don’t know how the syllables break. She’s translating from some sheet music for drums that sits on a music stand to the left.
Gratia plena. Full of grace.
She never had the chance to study Latin, but now the pings against steel bring her to tears.
Ora... ora pro nobis... peccatoribus.
Pray for us sinners...
She pauses. Drops the hammers. Braces her hands against the anvil and lets the tears come. Behind the garage door she can hear the insistent ringing of her phone. Let it ring. But then it beeps. Message left.
She dries her eyes and goes to check it in the kitchen. MB has called a half-dozen times. Margaret Bryan. Dammit. When she last saw Maggie, Callie hadn’t mentioned the videos to her. No way was she going to give the fed any reason to play the bad cop. The videos were gone. Bullets dodged. End of story.
She listens to the first message.
Anxiety in the woman’s voice: “You have to call me, okay?”
Callie begins to dial, but as she does, Bryan calls again.
“Are you there?” Margaret says. “Where are you?”
Where would I be on a Friday night, Maggie?
“At home, why?”
“I need you to listen to me, okay? You need to get out of there. Get out of the house and get to the police station. Just go inside. Don’t say a word to them. You just sit there. I don’t care who comes in asking for you. You just refuse to leave, you hear me?”
“What is this? Am I in trouble?”
“I’m driving up with another agent, okay? But the roads are bad. We’re hitting some snow outside Atlanta. But I will be there, Callie. You just need to listen to me.”
“Just level with me, okay? Is this because of the videos?”
“What?”
Dammit — she didn’t know. And you just went ahead and told her.
Callie steps to the window of the townhouse and nudges the curtains. At the top of the cul-de-sac, a large shape. The truck?
“I’m going,” she says into the phone. “I’m going right now.”
She hangs up. She turns to get her car keys when the knock comes at the door. She pads back to the living room to look out the window. The large shape is now parked in her driveway.
The knock now more insistent. The knob turning. “Dammit, Callie,” a voice says. “Open the damn door. I know you’re there.”
Relief floods her. She knows that voice. She opens the door to find Marshal Fred standing there. Fred the fed, dressed in street clothes, not the suit. Sneakers on his feet. Dark sweatshirt. As his eyes slide down her overalls, she senses his confusion. She is not the witless child she was months ago. She is not even a girl anymore. And he has changed too. He looks heavier, stressed, exhausted.
“Why didn’t she tell me you were coming?” Callie says.
“Who?” he says, stepping into the room.
“Margaret.”
“Bryan called you?”
She nods. He swears under his breath. Hangs his head. Then he starts to close the door by feel and produces the weapon. Not his service weapon. Another one. Smaller, stubbier, older.
“What’s this all about?”
“I’m sorry, Callie,” he says, and for a moment she buys the hurt in his eyes and voice. “She’s bleeding me dry. I had to do something. I’m sorry,” he says again. “It was the only thing I could think of. It’s just... it’s just a transaction.”