Part 8 (1/2)
Nevin Sorrel, a gaunt-looking, blue-jeaned ranch worker in his thirties, had been waiting by the Rent-a-Vac carpet cleaners, fidgeting and fretting. He hurried forward and spoke in quick, low tones, ”Jack, I can't find those groceries nowhere.”
”Those four sacks you bought?”
”Yeah, they were the ones.”
”Ronny took them out to your truck. I saw that much.”
”But they ain't there!”
”I saw Ronny put 'em in.”
It upset Nevin to have to repeat himself. ”They ain't there!”
Jack stared at him a moment. ”So . . . what am I supposed to do?”
”Have you seen 'em?”
Now Jack was getting impatient. ”Yeah! I saw Ronny put 'em in the back of your truck and that was the last time I saw 'em. Mrs. Macon is wondering where you are. She sent you down here two hours ago and she wants her strawberries.”
That was no comfort to Nevin whatsoever. He started reliving the past two hours. ”I got in the truck, drove out toward the Macon place, I got sleepy . . .”
”Wait. You got sleepy?”
”Yeah. I pulled over and fell asleep, and when I woke up the groceries were gone.”
Jack was amused even as he realized it was rude. ”Well, there you are. You got ripped off.” Nevin stared at him blankly, so Jack expounded. ”Somebody stole the groceries while you were sawing logs.”
Nevin had a hard time getting that to sink in. ”What am I gonna tell Mrs. Macon?”
IT WAS BECOMING a fruitful day for sightings. As the number of pilgrims in town increased, so did the sightings of Jesus; and as more Catholics arrived, so did the Virgin Mary. It reminded me of a large scale, grown-up Easter-egg hunt. Everywhere you looked, folks were scouring the town-searching the sky, the potholes in the roads, the bark of trees, the water stains in ceiling tiles-hoping to see the Savior or his mother looking back. Both Jesus and his earthly mother appeared on the back of the highway sign denoting how many more miles it was to Coulee City and the junction with Highway 174. Mary did a solo appearance in the growth ring pattern where a tree trimmer sawed a rotting limb off the big willow tree next to Sawyer Memorial Playground. The pavement stones on the front steps of the library drew attention, but Catholics and Protestants were divided as to whether it was Jesus or Mary. The most unusual sighting I heard of was the face of Jesus beckoning from the mildew on the shower tiles in Room Five at the Wheatland Motel. Norman didn't know what to do about that one-whether to clean a dirty shower or desecrate a holy shrine.
As for me, I finally managed to catch John Billings at home. It turned out he had been gone most of the week installing a sprinkler system in Missoula, Montana.
”Hey, what happened to my lawn?” he asked me the moment I walked over to talk with him.
It seemed the Mower Man only mowed the lawn until he had his talk with me. Now John had a ring of mown gra.s.s around the outside of his yard and a wide border of s.h.a.ggy lawn closest to his house.
”I saw a guy mowing your gra.s.s on Thursday,” I said, eager to hear his reaction.
John was a tough old bird in his fifties who took great pride in his yard. He was a bit miffed. ”Who?”
”Uh . . .” I almost answered, but then realized I didn't have an answer I could actually use. ”I don't know. He didn't tell me who he was. But he was driving your Snapper around the yard, cutting the gra.s.s. I thought he was working for you.”
”He wasn't working for me.” He looked around his yard in disgust. ”I wouldn't hire a guy who only does half a lawn. Did he think I was going to like this?” Then he jerked his head around to look at me as if something had finally sunk in. ”He was driving my mower?”
I could see the Snapper from where we were standing and I pointed it out. ”That one right there.”
”On Thursday.”
”Yeah.”
”Ever seen him before? What did he look like?”
Well, who he looked like would have made a better question, but I proceeded to tell John what I saw, leaving out the details of the conversation we had. I was feeling an odd mix of triumph and mystification that I tried not to show: I knew that guy was some kind of phony . . . but if that was the case, who was he really?
BY THE TIME Nevin Sorrel got back to the widow Macon's ranch he was an hour late and carrying a whole new order of groceries, paid for out of his own pocket. Being late didn't worry him too much. Mrs. Macon would scold him about it, but she would tolerate it. Losing four sacks of groceries while sleeping was another matter. Mrs. Macon was wealthy, quirky, and very particular about her cash flow.
As he turned the golden brown pickup off the highway and through the ranch gate, he tried to concoct an explanation. A mechanical breakdown wouldn't work. This was the late Cephus Macon's truck, an immaculate Dodge with extended cab, custom running boards, and chrome-plated exhaust stacks, always kept in top condition by the widow out of respect for her husband's memory. He could say he met an old friend, got to talking, and lost track of time, but that would sound irresponsible. A flat tire? No, that would mean exchanging one of the good tires for the spare, and that was too much trouble.
He rehea.r.s.ed some other excuses as he drove the mile-long driveway to the sprawling ranch house atop the rise, but none of them played out very well. By the time he eased the big rig into Mrs. Macon's four-car garage, he settled for no explanation at all. He was late, he was sorry, that was it. He'd bring in the groceries, apologize, and duck if he had to.
He grabbed two sacks from the back of the truck, knocked on the rear entry door, then cracked it open. ”Mrs. Macon? I'm back.”
Her voice came from the kitchen. ”Where have you been?”
He hurried through the laundry room and into the kitchen, a gorgeous, expansive facility with a virtual warehouse of cupboard and counter s.p.a.ce and a vast wall of windows offering a panorama of the Macon ranch lands. The moment he saw the widow sitting at the enormous breakfast table, the first excuse he rejected didn't seem so outlandish. ”You'll never guess what happened! The alternator belt broke and I had one awful time-”
”You don't have to explain,” she said gently. She was a small woman in her late sixties, with a trim figure and white hair tucked into a comb atop her head. She was sipping her afternoon drink of blended fruit juice-a blend that was supposed to include the strawberries she'd needed but he'd lost, bought all over again, and delivered late. He couldn't be sure, but the pink color of her drink sure looked like she'd found some strawberries. As she took another sip and looked out the windows, the expression on her face did not seem harsh, as he expected. It actually seemed peaceful. He began to breathe easier. ”Uh, well, I got the groceries. I'll bring the rest in.”
She gave him a puzzled look. ”What did you do? Buy them again?”
It was tough trying to look innocent while feeling so cornered.
”Uh . . . no, I got the groceries. I got 'em in the truck.”
She set her gla.s.s down and looked at him with her head slightly tilted, her fingers drumming her chin. ”They're already in the house.”
His mind went blank. ”Ma'am?”
”My strawberries, my oranges, my strawberry nonfat yogurt, the porkchops, the flour and my Knox for Nails, all of it. You got it all the first time.”
”The first time?”
”Yes, before you decided to take a snooze by the side of the road, remember?” She went to the double-wide refrigerator and swung the door open. ”Here are all the perishables, safe and sound, no thanks to you.”
It took a few seconds for Nevin to conclude that whatever cover story he'd concocted had already failed. ”I, uh, I didn't want to get into an accident, you know, go off the road in Mr. Macon's truck.”
”You might try sleeping at night,” she responded briskly. ”Lucky for me, someone happened by and saw you sleeping in the truck with my perishables sitting in the back, out in the sun, about to go bad.”
So he'd been caught. Worse than that: snitched on. ”Who?”
She went to the windows and pointed. ”My new hired hand.”
What? Pain and jealousy twisted around inside him, and Nevin hurried to the window.
”He came to the front door with all four sacks in his arms and told me where he'd found you parked, snoring away while my yogurt sat in the sun. He's very sweet and conscientious.”
Nevin saw the big John Deere tractor emerging from behind the horse barn, pulling a trailer of hay. ”What's he doin' on my tractor?”
She cleared her throat. ”On my tractor,” she corrected. ”He's transferring hay to the other barn.”