Hoes and shovels and pickaxes and posthole diggers and adzes hung on the rear wall. He turned and walked back down the middle aisle where red and white and blue bags of Jazz feeds for cows and chickens were stacked high on the sturdy blue metal shelves. He paused and studied on a bag of Red Heart dog food but moved on toward the front of the store where the men played checkers. He turned by them and walked down the last aisle where the seed was kept, its shelves empty except for some unsold bags of turnip seed from the previous growing season. In three months the shelves would fill up with seed for beans, peas, corn, tomatoes, okra, squash, potatoes and all other manner of vegetables, but now the aisle lay in wait for winter to do its cold business.
At the end of the aisle in the far back corner of the store he looked in a locked glass case with a selection of shotguns and pistols for sale, and next to that an open shelf of boxes of ammunition for everything from .410s to .45s. Mr. Worthington was a connoisseur of guns and known for his fine selection of weaponry. Elmer sorted through the boxes, mostly .22 bullets, and picked up a carton of 20-gauge shells, buckshot, and then one of the only two remaining boxes of bullets for a .38. He paused for a minute and set the shells down and looked into his wallet and then took inventory in his mind of what he had at home in the way of firepower. He put the shotgun shells back neatly into place and went up the feed aisle with the overpriced bullets. At the front of the store he walked to the cash register and held the box high so Mr. Worthington could see.
The store owner excused himself from checkers and went around behind the counter and rang up the sale, the bell clanging and the drawer popping open and the numbers 1-5-0 flashing white in the encased glass on the faded brass register. Elmer counted out the last two dollar bills from his wallet.
“I do thank you, Elmer.” Mr. Worthington handed him two quarters. “You need a bag?”
Elmer shook his head no and took the dense box of bullets squarely in his right hand and cocked his fist into his side. He paused to look at the three old men waiting for Mr. Worthington’s return to the checkerboard. He had known all of them his entire life, one-time farmers turned into go-getters. When the day ended and the mill whistle blew and their wives got off work, they would up and go get her.
He nodded a goodbye to them and walked out into the brightening sun, careful not to slam the screen door. He was going down the steps when behind him he heard a thin voice at the checkerboard make a wisecrack, something about a “deputy dawg,” and then high laughter from their dry throats. He paused on the steps and glared down the street but did not turn around. He had half a mind to go back and ask them what was so goddamned funny, but he knew better than to fuss with the old plowboys. He went on down the steps and across the street.
Elmer crossed the intersection of Lyman and Main at the top of the low hill downtown and looked south to where the courthouse stood, the enormous cedar on the lawn decorated with giant gold balls and four-foot candy canes and wide red ribbons. Friday would be the Christmas parade. He would be sure to steer clear of that.
He walked back to his pickup truck, a lightweight Chevrolet 3100 with a silver grille backed by the sloping blue fenders and hood. He’d bought it brand new five years ago, but the once shiny blue paint and chrome had lost its luster and the shifter wasn’t always dependable. He kept an axe handle in the front stanchion hole for prying the linkage loose when it stuck and the three-speed transmission wouldn’t budge. The wooden club was also handy if some farmer’s cows got out in the road and needed a prod.
He got in and slammed the door and slid the bullets under the seat, next to his revolver. He turned the key in the ignition and pressed the starter button on the floorboard. The engine cranked and he sat for a second letting it idle. He looked in the glove compartment and found a fresh pack of Lucky Strikes. He smacked the pack on his palm and ripped it open and pulled a cigarette out and put it in his lips and lit it with the old Zippo that had been his daddy’s, monogrammed W.E.B. He inhaled and laid the pack and the lighter on the gray dashboard.
He thought about running back into the Magnolia for another cup of coffee to go but he didn’t want to have to speak to anyone again, especially Lymanville’s beloved Guvnah. He decided to brew some at home.
He backed out of the parking space and drove toward his house but changed his mind about the coffee. He turned and looped around the main block of the courthouse and the women’s college and headed out toward the dam north of town. He’d heard about all the manmade lakes up along the Tennessee River where women in swimsuits water-skied in packs, sometimes in two-high formations like cheerleaders at high school football games. He had seen pictures of the Miss Guntersville Lake contestants in the newspaper that he had not been able to believe. Sherry was off up that way somewhere he had heard, and even though she had the body for it, he doubted she wore one of those revealing swimsuits. At least he hoped she didn’t.
He pulled away from downtown on the hardtop two-lane Aubrey Terrell had gotten the state to pave all the way to Atlanta. North Highway the new signs called it. Elmer passed the lumberyard and the road off to the sawmill and the footings where the new school was going to go, but the outskirts of town thinned out fast after that, nothing but shacks and fields of dry brown cornstalks and new growths of shortleaf pine from forests that had been clear-cut a few years before. The black road ran sleek under his tires, making a whisking sound on the clean asphalt. The freshly painted center stripe shone a bright yellow.
Up ahead on his right in a long slow curve he saw the Witcher boy at his family’s boiled peanut stand under a pinewood lean-to, the roof pitched with hay. Elmer pulled off to the side of the road and parked on the shoulder about ten yards shy of the boy. He turned off the engine and studied the sootblack kettle hung over a fire of hickory and birch wood. The boy, no more than eight or nine, wore dirty overalls and a work shirt that was too big for him. He was alone, standing on his tiptoes, dipping a big spoon into the boiling water.
Elmer slammed the truck door and walked around the hood of his Chevy but the boy still didn’t look up.
“Hey, son.”
The boy didn’t say anything but gave Elmer a sideways glance, the way a cat turns its head when coming out of a nap. He had a skinny neck and pointed ears and his towhead was shaved down to a thin buzzcut. His eye slits were narrow, almost Chinese-looking.
Elmer asked, “Your name’s Walker, ain’t it? Just like your daddy’s?”
The boy nodded and stared at his feet and spoke a very faint, “Yessir.”
“How’s your daddy doing?”
Walker Witcher Jr. shrugged, his eyes still at his feet, the water boiling before him.
“He’s all right.”
Elmer looked into the kettle, the roiling water letting off steam and the rotation of the wet peanuts jostling like popcorn in a popper.
“How much you get for ’em?”
“Small bags is a quarter, big’uns fifty cent.”
“Gimme a small one.”
The boy got a paper sack and snapped it open with one jerk of his wrist. He dipped a ladle deep down into the kettle, his dark eyes peering into the bubbling surface of the water. He pulled out a full scoop and tilted it over the ground and the excess water poured out and then dribbled until he was satisfied and he dumped the peanuts into the sack. The brown paper soaked through and darkened with water. He held the bag out to Elmer.
“Thank you, son.”
Elmer gave him a quarter and the boy examined it and put it in the bib pouch of his overalls. He looked back at Elmer as though he was going to say something but didn’t.
“You going to be busy out here today, I bet,” Elmer said. “All these people heading up to the dam this evening. Is your daddy out there doing the barbecue?”