Thunder and Barbeque - Part 2

Fortunately, the hospital wasn't far from the park. Valerie drove Corncob to the ER and somehow talked the nurse into letting them see Michael once the doctors were through with him.  Michael lay in bed with the sheets pulled all the way up to his chin. A clear plastic tube ran under his nose, and he stared at the ceiling.

"You okay, Michael?" Corncob said.

"No, Cornelius," Michael said, "I am definitely not okay. If I were okay, I would not be in the hospital with heat stroke now would I?"

"I guess not."

Valerie clucked her tongue. "You look better now than when they put you in the ambulance, if you ask me." Corncob winced as he saw Michael gather a breath for a scathing retort, but Valerie cut him off. "Corncob here is just concerned for you, that's all.

"He's fine," Corncob said. "If he were in trouble, he wouldn't be this ornery."

Michael clenched his jaw and stared back up at the ceiling. "I'm so overjoyed by you both coming in here to offer your well-wishes. I can feel my strength returning, buoyed on by your outpouring of sympathy and understanding."

"Don't mention it," Corncob said.

"How'd your..." Michael's eyes flicked to Valerie, and he swallowed. "How'd your barbeque go?"

"Not well."

Thunder cracked and echoed outside the window. Valerie stepped around the bed to take a look.

"Well boys, on the bright side, you can wait out the storm in here."

"I thought it wasn't supposed to rain today," Corncob said.

Valerie gave him a sad smile. "The weather around here doesn't follow any of the rules I was ever taught. Maybe it's because the town was founded by witches."

"Pardon?" Michael said, sitting up.

Valerie laughed, waving a hand. "Just a joke. Legend has it that the town was founded by a coven of witches who were run out of Appalachia. They danced in circles and sacrificed animals to the local spirits for good weather. I think it was just a rumor started by men jealous of women homesteaders' good luck to happen across a particular microclimate that made farming successful year in and year out."

"Micro-what?" Corncob said.

"She's a weather lady," Michael said.

"Ex-weather lady," Valerie corrected.

"Sorry." Michael said.

"So what are you now?" Corncob said.

Valerie shrugged and looked back at the clouds rolling in.  "I don't know. Today I'm the one who spent months organizing a community event that's about to get swallowed up by a storm. They cut my budget in half and still had the audacity to demand none of their favorite events change. Somehow they'll blame all this on me, I'm sure."

"You organized the events this year?" Michael said

She nodded. "Last year too."

"The barbeque?"

"Well yes."

"The race too?"

"Yes, though it's mostly just following what was done in years past, with a few modifications. Most of my job was planning the logistics. "

Michael leaned forward, and was caught up short by his  oxygen tube. He tore it off in annoyance."So do you know why the race snakes through town the way it does?"

"It's always been that way, as far as I know. It used to be called the Dust Devil Sprint, because it spiraled from the center of the town out.  Last year, I convinced the board to run the course the other way to we wouldn't have to bus the racers back to the park. Saves money that way."

"Was this about the same time you lost your job at the station? When the weather started going all wonky?"

Valerie pursed her lips and folded her arms. "I guess it was, why?"

"First, answer me this: which way do tornadoes spin?"

She shrugged. "Counter-clockwise, normally."

"Wouldn't it be strange that year after year, tornadoes unexpectedly veer away from a town that runs a footrace clockwise through town, but suddenly find themselves attracted to the town the race is run counter-clockwise?" He looked at Corncob.

"I don't follow," Valerie said.

"Oh my god, they reversed the polarity," Corncob said.

"What?" Valerie said, looking between Michael and Corncob.

"Reversed  polarity," Corncob said. "Like winding a wire around a nail to make an electromagnet. Wind it one way, the magnetic field runs north-south. Wind it the other way, and the field will change to south-north. Except instead of electrons, we have humans. And instead of repelling storms..."

"It attracts them," Michael said.

"What are you two talking about?" Valerie said.

"That would explain part of it," Michael said, ignoring Valerie. "but what's acting as the battery?"

Corncob's face screwed up in thought, then went slack. "How about two hundred pounds of burnt meat?"

Michael fell back into the bed. "The barbeque."

"The barbeque," Corncob said.

"The barbeque?" Valerie looked between them and started edging for the door.

"Valerie," Michael said, "we need to stop the barbeque competition."

"Whatever for?"

"Because it's acting as an animal sacrifice of Babylonian proportions."

Valerie ran into the hallway, shouting for a nurse. Corncob shrugged, jammed a chair under the doorknob and helped Michael through the window, turning his head as the skinny man's backside poked through the hospital gown.

"Why didn't we take the car?" Michael said. "You can hotwire one with a thought."

Corncob shook his head and took Valerie's golf cart over a curb into the farm equipment dealer's back lot. "Convincing those new-fangled anti-theft ignitions into giving up takes too long. Besides, all the roads are still closed because of the race course."

"At least we would be dry," Michael said.

The hot rain came down in torrents, plastering their clothes to their bodies while drops ricocheted from the pavement.  Thunder crackled for several seconds before the sky lit up with a flash, like a glacier breaking apart and falling into the sea. Michael squinted at the sky and counted three funnel clouds creeping towards the ground.

"Where are the sirens?" Michael said.

"You think she called the cops on us?"

"Not the police, the ones for tornadoes."

"Maybe they got cut from the budget too."

"Cowboys," Michael spat.

Corncob drove on through parking lots and front yards until they reached the park. What few people remained were already heading out in their cars. The barbeques sat abandoned, though black smoke poured from their chimneys. Michael brought his left hand up and peered at the scene from between his middle and pinky fingers. Lines of mystic energy arced from each smoker, meeting somewhere in the clouds above the park. The sky seemed to twist and pull where the lines came together.

 Corncob brought the cart to a skidding halt at the nearest smoker. He jumped out and jerked on the lid's handle.

"Get that meat out of there!" Michael said.

"It's stuck tight!"

"Can you talk to it?"

Michael concentrated, and his jerked his hand back as if burned. "It's not listening to me, and too stupid to fool."

"Try the next one!"

Corncob ran and slid to the next pit, trying at the handle with no success. He threw his weight behind the effort, only managing to tip the smoker over. Michael looked around, sparing a glance at the approaching funnel clouds.

"Wasn't there a fire truck here?" Michael called out.

"Gone now," Corncob said.

"They have a fire extinguisher at the pavilion?"

"That'd take too long, and anyway the fire box is sealed too."

"What about towing the rigs into a pond or big puddle?"

"With what, a golf cart? The only vehicle around here is that old delivery truck, and I doubt it has a hitch, four-wheel drive, or enough rope to tie all these barbeques together."

Michael squinted at the truck, parked behind the pavilion's kitchen entrance. He turned to Corncob.

"Think you can hotwire it?"

"It's old enough to be a simple ignition. Doesn't look too hard from here."

"Okay, go grab all the condiments, coleslaw, and baked beans from the pavilion and meet me at the truck."

Corncob opened his mouth to argue, but then shut it and nodded.

The truck's windshield wipers needed replacing. No matter how fast they swept the glass, Michael's vision was filled with rain splatter. Country music blared from the radio that didn't seem to have an off switch. In the truck's mirrors, one of the funnel clouds touched down, a long and skinny cone the color of sand. Michael maneuvered the truck to the 5K's finish line then floored the accelerator.

"Start tossing!" Michael called over his shoulder.

Corncob took a five gallon pail of coleslaw and slung the contents out the back of the truck.

"Keep it coming!" Michael said. He squinted through the rain, looking for the race course flags stuck in the ground. "Turning!"

Corncob was thrown to the side, losing his grip on a gallon of mustard, which splattered on the pavement.

"You need to make that last, Corncob!"

"You need to watch your driving!"

"This truck handles like a pig!"

"Don't hurt its feelings."

Michael muttered a 'sorry' at the dashboard, and looked for his next turn.

"Beans away!" Corncob said, ladling beans with an oversized-spoon.

"Turning," Michael called out.

"Ready."

At the drugstore, Corncob tossed macaroni and cheese. Potato chips decorated the bank's drive thru. Florence Chapman's back yard and carport had a trail of mayonnaise leading onto Fourth Street. The high school football field was littered with pickle chips from sideline to sideline. Chopped onions sprinkled the road from the tractor supply store to the outskirts of town. By the time Michael stopped at the 5K starting line, Corncob was down to tossing sugar packets and tea bags.

Michael looked up. The tornado had disappeared, as had the other funnel clouds. The rain had calmed to a mere drizzle. He smiled, then lay on the pavement and closed his eyes.

"Come on Mike," Corncob said. "They'll all be coming out soon. Best we get out before."

"It's 'Michael' as you well know, Cornelius. You'll have to carry me."

"In an open backed hospital gown? Forget it."

Michael opened his eyes and grabbed at Corncob's offered hand. He stood and held onto Corncob's arm for balance.

"What'd I tell you, Corncob? Bunch of cowboys, going around changing what ain't broke."

"Wasn't their fault their town was founded by a coven of witches with a knack for disguising weather control ceremonies as summer festivals. Could have happened to anyone."

"Maybe. Let's hope Mortimer can send someone down to make sure next year's plans are a bit more mundane."

Corncob helped Michael step over a puddle of peach cobbler. "Let's hope it's not us. That weather lady would rat us out to the cops as soon as she sees us."

"Ex-weather lady. I don't know, I think I could win her over."

"That's the heat stroke talking, Michael. Lucky for us, your instincts on countering the spell worked. Who knew the spirits could be vegetarians?"

"I don't know," Michael said as Corncob held the car door open for him, "Maybe after all these years of barbeque, they just had a hankering for salad."

Thunder and Barbeque -- Part 1

Image by M.Minderhoud via Wikimedia commons

If there was one thing Corncob enjoyed, it was pumping gas. The way the gasoline kept the spigot's handle cool in the summer heat, the reassuring throbbing of fuel surging into the tank, and the heady vapors that reminded him of cut grass and, for some reason, licorice. Corncob glanced around the pump to make sure Michael was still inside the store and eased the spigot's latch back a notch. He closed his eyes and leaned against the car. He could fall asleep like this, he thought.

The pump shuddered and came to a stop with an unpleasant jolt.  Corncob sighed as he opened his eyes and put the spigot back in its cradle. He got back behind the wheel and hung onto the last moments of peace until the his partner slid into the passenger seat with his third extra-large coffee of the morning, slamming the door behind him

"What the hell is it with Oklahoma ?" Michael said.

"The heat? The oil wells? I'm sure I have no idea."

"It's the cowboys."

Corncob paused, thinking.

"They play in Texas, not Oklahoma, Michael."

"Not the Cowboys, the cowboys, Corncob. You know, Wyatt Earp, Wild Bill Hickok, High Plains Drifter –"

"Oh, like Lonesome Dove."

"No," Michael said as he slammed his coffee into the cupholder, "Ow!" He sucked some coffee from his thumb. "Not that sentimental claptrap. I mean real manly-man cowboys."

"Brokeback Mountain?' Corncob pretended to check his blindspot so Michael couldn't see his smile.

"Gah! You know what that was? George Lucas."

"George Lucas."

"Yeah, Greedo fires first, and it's all downhill from there."

"You lost me."

"So in the orginal Star Wars..."

"Episode IV."

Michael spit out the window. "Yeah, that one.  Han Solo has the best entrance in the history of film, a classic. He shoots that bounty hunter, Greedo, with a blaster under the table, thereby setting him up as an unscrupulous, sneaky bastard for the rest of the film. So what does Lucas do years later? He messes with the classic and makes Greedo fire first. Totally ruins Han's character, and the guy has the chutzpah  to call it progress."

"What does that have to do with Brokeback Mountain?"

"Well if Lucas can screw up his own classic, what's to stop the rest of Hollywood? And where does Tinseltown start?"

"Cowboys?" Corncob said.

"Damn straight," Michael said.

"Or not, in the case of Brokeback Mountain."

Michael stared at him for a moment, shook his head and turned away to look out his window.

"So what is it about cowboys and Oklahoma that's got your undies in a bunch?" Corncob said, turning onto the street.

"Think Louis L'Amour: tall, tough men on horseback with Stetsons on their heads and pistols on their hips."

"Okay, so?"

"So everyone around here fancies themselves a cowboy. They have the jeans, the boots, the western shirts, and yes, even the Stetsons. But they go around driving pristine diesel pickups, beer guts hanging over gaudy belt buckles, and wearing iPhones clipped to their belts."

"Bursts your bubble, does it?"

"And those are the most convincing. The others are skinny teens in used Hondas faking their way with pathetic mustaches and hats that swallow their heads."

"We could go back home if this is going to distract you," Corncob said.  "We can tell Mister Mortimer that we couldn't find our mage."

"Or witch," Michael added. "Nah, let's just find our marks, deliver the warning, and get out of here before it starts raining."

Corncob looked at the clear sky. "Looks fine to me."

"That's because we have a coven of mages running around, drawing attention to themselves."

"I thought covens were only for witches."

"Whatever. All the brotherhood knows is there's been about five years of subtle stuff, like keeping this town's rainfall right at the state average when all around is drought, a couple tornados veering left or right to miss the town, the kind of stuff that makes the meterologists scratch their heads, but they're never right anyway, so who cares?"

"The brotherhood," Corncob said.

"It makes them wonder, that's for sure. But it could just be coincidence. Weather is a tricky thing, even for mages. So they decide to wait and see what happens, and now something has."

"Yeah?"

"The opposite. Storms intensify, tornados veer towards the town like it's a giant trailer park. "

"Maybe it's God's way of evening things out."

Michael gave Corncob and incredulous stare. "Cornelius, don't go around ascribing the unknown to divine will when it can be explained perfectly well by magic. It makes you look like a superstitious peasant."

Corncob shrugged and drove on.

Corncob pulled up in front of the clubhouse and eyed the shiny Mercedes in the next spot over.

"Don't ding his door," Michael said with a smile. "They'll repossess this clunker and then some."

"That's not funny," Corncob said.

"Hey, we're doing him a favor parking here. It makes his car look that much better."

They got out and walked into a lobby filled with dark oak furniture upholstered in red leather. It reminded Corncob of the supper clubs and midrange steak houses his family visited when he was a kid. At the time, he thought it the height of opulence. Today, it just looked old and sad.  A man in a yellow golf shirt and navy slacks waved at them from behind a counter.

"Help you boys?"

Michael smiled and leaned against the counter.

"Here to sign up for the festivities," he said.

"Sprit of the West Fest? Sure." He rummaged behind the counter and brought out a plastic binder.  "What events?"

Michael hooked a thumb over his shoulder. "He's cooking, I'm racing."

"Right," the man said. He shuffled though some papers and handed a bundle to Michael and fished two golf pencils from a box near the register. "Just fill these out and return them with the entry fees."

"Michael," Corncob said, but was cut off as Michael grabbed his arm and led him to a table.

"They have two events that fit our needs perfectly," Michael said. "A barbeque competition and a five-kilometer race."

"I don't know how to cook much more than nachos and hot dogs," Corncob said.

"Hot dogs? Well there you go!" Michael said. "Can't be all that hard, especially once you convince the equipment to do what you want."

"But we don't have a grill."

"That's the beauty of it! This is a stock smoker competition. They make everyone use the same smoker, which they provide. Probably a business write-off scam, if you ask me. But we don't have to worry about that angle."

"Mm-hmm. And this race? Can you even make it five miles?"

"Kilometers, Corncob, it's a lot shorter. And I used to run track in high school." He slapped his thighs. "I made it to the state finals my senior year in the four hundred. I'm a bit rusty, but I think I'll manage."

"Let's just hope there's not a headwind," Corncob murmured.

Michael filled out their paperwork and handed it back to the man behind the counter.

"Wonderful," the man said. "And your fees?"

Michael elbowed Corncob and jerked his head. Corncob sighed and reached for his wallet.

"So the barbeques are all stock?" Corncob said.

"Yessir, all stick-fed counterflows."

Corcob frowned as he handed over the money. "I see. I've never used one of those before."

The man behind the counter laughed. "Don't worry, fella. I dare say even those that have used counterflow smokers won't have any advantages with these. Tricky buggers, they are."

Corncob winced as Michael 's slap caught him on the shoulder. "No problem, there ain't a contraption on the face of the earth my buddy can't figure out inside of five minutes."

The man shrugged. "Best of luck anyway, fellas. See y'all tomorrow."

"So what do you think? Can you work one of these things?" Michael said the next morning.

"I will in a second," Corncob said.

Corncob pressed a hand to the blackened metal and concentrated. A minute later, he removed the hand with a puzzled look on his face.

"What is it?" Michael said.

"Nothing," Corncob said. "So what should I do?"

"Keep your eyes open for anyone looking like one of our kind. From what I read, these guys have to operate over a large area to make anything happen.  Once you get your barbeque started, roam around and mingle, check out the park for anything odd."

Corncob eyed the smoker. "But what if something happens to my pork roast and brisket while I'm away? Can't you do the recon?"

"I have to race the five-kay," Michael said. "The race winds through most of the town. Between us, we'll have the town covered. We're not here to win anything, understand? If your meat burns, it burns. Call it a sacrifice to the barbeque gods. Who  cares?"

As Michael walked away, Corncob frowned at his back. Michael ate (or drank) whatever was in front of him. Corncob felt that on some level, food was meant to be enjoyed, not wasted or burned. He rubbed his paunch and hoped that he wouldn't embarrass himself.

At the head of the starting line, surrounded by racers, a woman stood with a microphone.

"How y'all doing today?" she said in a warm and confident voice.  The crowd clapped and cheered. "Well that's just fantastic! Now before we can begin, the organizers would like me to go over a few little rules." She rolled her eyes and gave the crowd a wink.

Michael felt a flutter in his chest.  "Who is that?" he asked a runner next to him.

"Valerie Harris," he said. "Used to be on the local news as the weather girl."

Valerie began covering the race instructions, smiling and making eye contact with nearly everyone.

"Used to be?" Michael said.

"Yeah, she held on for over twenty years until they finally replaced her with someone prettier."

Michael didn't see how that could be, he could have stared at Valerie all day. Her movements and gestures were all anchorwoman, yet somehow natural. Flirtatious even.

"Tough break," Michael said.

"Not really. She was wrong most of the time, but no one seemed to mind. I think the boob job and aerobics classes helped. Then the station went high-def and no one could ignore the wrinkles. Now she just does PR and some old-ladies' show before the soap operas."

It was too bad, Michael thought. Valerie had a presence like a single-malt scotch; she deserved better than being underappreciated in the middle of Oklahoma.

"... and best of luck!" Valerie said. She stepped down and disappeared behind the runners gathering at the starting line.

A man in a Stetson took her place and raised a shining six-shooter in the air.

"Runners ready! Three–Two–One..."

The gun went off with a boom rather than the typical starter pistol's crack. Michael wouldn't have been surprised if the yokel was using a live round.

"Cowboys," he muttered . As he passed the starting line, he caught a glimpse of Valerie.

She seemed to be smiling at him.

Corncob hadn't sworn at an inanimate object in years though he was close to ending the streak.

No matter what he did to the smoker, the temperate kept rising. Closing the vents didn't help, opening the lid made flames shoot from the firebox. Corncob couldn't talk to the unit anymore with his gift, the steel sides were too hot to touch with a bare hand. He got the sense that the smoker was angry, but that didn't make sense. Machines as a rule enjoyed their own function. Cars liked to drive, clocks liked to measure the day, egg beaters loved nothing more than spinning around a bowl. It wasn't like an emotional state of giddiness, more like zen assurance that one was doing exactly the right thing in the world. For a smoker to be angry just seemed odd.

Fortunately for him, it seemed that he wasn't the only one having problems, gauging from the faces of his competitors. Furrowed brows, heads gathered in muttered conferences, cursing, and overt threats were all coming from the pits. Corncob cracked open his smoker's lid and stuck a stick near the hinge to keep it from closing all the way. He eyed the firebox, waiting for sparks. Corncob chewed on the inside of his cheek as smoke poured out like a curtain. How much flavor could he afford to lose? How much heat could his pork shoulder tolerate before it turned into a meteorite?

An older couple stopped by his table. The woman wore an oversized t-shirt featuring a pig in a chef's hat. Below the pig, it read 'I'm one smokin' Grandma!'  Her husband removed a straw cowboy hat and wiped at his brow.

"How goes it?" the woman asked.

"I don't know," Corncob said, nodding at the smoker, "this thing is giving me fits."

 "I don't know why they chose those rigs for y'all," she said, "They're probably Chinese counterfeits. My friend Lauren thought she got a great deal on one of those iPhone things, and it fell apart the day after she got it in the mail. Turned out to be a fake, isn't that right, Ronald? Don't you think it was one of those Chinese counterfeits?"

Her husband shrugged as he fanned himself with the cowboy hat. "Did you pick this spot to set up yourself?"

"They assigned me to this spot," Corncob said, "Everything was here this morning when I showed up."

Ronald shook his head. "Well then whoever thought scattering the pits all over hell's half acre like this oughtta be shot."

"Has the competition always been set up this way?" Corncob said.

"No sir," Ronald said, "Last few years they set up near the pavilion over there and had rides for the kids out here. Last year, the city cut the budget and this is what we get. They must think they can fool us into thinking the festival is bigger by spreading everyone out like this. Time to vote the bums out of office, I say."

Politics always made Corncob feel queasy. He didn't know what to say, so he just smiled.

"Come on, Ronald," his wife said. "Turpentine Tom's pit is just over there." She nodded at Corncob. "Happy smoking, son."

Ronald placed the cowboy hat on his head and rubbed at his chest. "Fine. I'll like as not get the big one walking over there, though."

Michael's gums felt like they were bleeding. His lungs couldn't take in enough air. The other racers flowed around him with a mix of too cheerful shouts of encouragement, muttered oaths, and one 'what's wrong with you?' Though he hadn't thought he could run his normal racing pace from high school, he couldn't manage even his old warmup pace. It was disheartening; only a third of the way into the 5K, and his second wind had evaporated.

     He could have blamed his gear: mismatched socks, flat-souled running shoes whose black and white colors had conspired to meld into a dirty gray, or his (newly) cut-off jean shorts. Maybe it was any one of these things or a combination, but deep down Michael knew that it was his body failing him. Maybe he had failed his body. Years of alcohol and cigarettes had burned his muscles away, leaving only enough left to walk across a store parking lot before fatigue set in.

     Michael distracted himself by trying to figure out what madman had designed the race course. He had started at the edge of the city limits, ran down the highway a few hundred feet before taking a sharp left turn into a bank's drive-through lane. They all hopped the curve and continued on weaving between farm machinery on a dealer's back lot. From there they had all followed back streets, alleyways, and across lawns, following blaze-orange flags stuck into the ground every 50 feet. Maybe the intent was to give the community a feeling of participation, but it made no sense.

     Worse, it looked like it was going to rain.He wondered if the rogue mages had something against the race, or knew he and Corncob were in town, because a rising thunderhead thousands of feet high like a cobra with elephantitis was bearing down on the town, seemingly materializing from a clear sky.  Coils of rain swept to the ground, promising a good soaking to anyone caught outside when it reached town. There was big magic at work, but where?

He knew large-scale weather magic needed a lot of area and at least a dozen or more mages, warlocks, or witches depending on their abilities. The average storm threw millions of tons of air and water into chaos over a hundred square miles. Fighting storms required organization, a source of energy, and a focal point large enough to handle the mystic forces but small enough to control. In this town, the signs should have been obvious, but nothing stood out.

Michael would have to think about it more after the race, assuming he was in any condition to do so when he finished. He slowed down to a walk, gulping air. A whirring behind him made him turn, and he found a beaming Valerie Harris riding down the street on a golf cart. He noticed her white tennis shorts showed off legs that looked twenty years younger.

"Keep going there, partner! It's not much farther!" Valerie said.

Michael forced a grin and started running. He would wait until she passed before he slowed down again.

"You're at the back of the pack, partner," she said.

Michael gave a little shrug and kept running. "S'okay...Don't....mind."

If anything, her smile brightened. Michael struggled to keep his pace.

"Well aren't you just filled with the Spirit of the West! You know what? I'll just stay right here . We can finish together!"

"Okay."

Michael groaned to himself and wondered if Valerie knew CPR. He might need it before long.



          Corncob touched the air vent on the smoker a fraction of an inch, then headed over to his table and dumped a bucket of water over his head. Between the reek of smoke in his clothes and standing next to a three-hundred-degree smoker in high humidity, he almost welcomed the dark clouds coming. The only bright spot was that he managed to balance out the temperamental smoker's heat and smoke enough that he might just turn in passable barbeque.

As far as he could tell by looking around, there weren't any mages, warlocks, witches, incantors, or any other sort of magic-user around, just a bunch of barbeque heads, festival goers, and stressed-out barbeque chefs. He wondered how Michael was faring.

A golf cart driven by forty-something woman dressed in a white tennis outfit was weaving her way through the pits. People waved at her as she passed. When she got closer, Corncob adjusted her age to fifty-something. He wondered if she was an actress or someone who had oil money to spend on a plastic surgeon. He bet Michael would have a few snide comments to make, people like her set him off. It was just as well he wasn't around, because she stopped at his pit.

"Are you Mister Corncob?"

"Yes ma'am."

"I'm afraid something terrible has happened to your friend Michael. They just took him to the hospital in an ambulance."

Almost Eustace

Another story in the Johnny Potter series.

By Bettyann Moore

Let me tell you how I come just a whisker short of bein’ christened Eustace Pitts. Now, can you imagine what goin’ through this life bein’ called Eustace Pitts coulda done to a body? Ever’ time I think on it, the hairs in my ears stand straight out.

Now, I knows that these parts is known for what I heard called “colorful” names. An’ when you knows what folks was up to when they give their children them names, it kinda makes sense in a way. Some cotton to the notion that if you calls a body somethin’ pretty they’s gonna be pretty. And it ain’t too hard to figger out what one preacher had in mind when he called his kids DoGood, Sabbath and Salvation. And it ain’t real hard to figger out what that same preacher’s wife were up to when they done had their fourth young’un and named him Judas. But I done heard of growed folks walkin’ round with names like Fanny Teat (folks just calls her Mama Teat), Crawdad Fisher and Lazy Crisp. And to a person, they were an ornery lot. I woulda gone through this life as Eustace Pitts if Ma Ma had gone and married Grady Pitts like her pa wanted her to.

I be borned in nineteen-aught-four, but back in nineteen-aught-two my Ma Ma, Rebecca Jean Simpson, were gettin’ courted right hard by the onliest smithy in this neck o’ the woods, Grady Pitts. Grady’s biggest dream was to sire a son to carry on his trade, a son he’d name Eustace Pitts, after his grandaddy.

My grandpa, Grover Simpson, were right pleased ‘bout these goin’s on. Besides bein’ the only smithy, Grady were a dang good one, too, and Grandpa were all the time needin’ yokes and wagons and shoes for his mules and horses. He figgered to save a heap o’ cash with a smithy as kin.

Ma Ma used to tell me how when Grady come a-callin’, her pa would set out somethin’ to be mended. If Grady took it and had it back good as new when he come callin’ again, Grandpa’d let Ma and Grady set out on the porch all alone. The bigger the job, the longer the spoonin’. Ma Ma said the night Grady come to find Grandpa’s whole team of mules and a plow horse to be shoed, she feared for her virtue. When she seen the gleam in Grady’s eyes, she were right thankful it’d take a heap of time to finish the job – the shoein’ I mean.

Poor Grady must have been chompin’ at the bit ‘cause he done what he swore he’d never do – take on a ‘prentice to see to the other jobs that needed doin’ while Grady put his whole soul into gettin’ them animals shoed for my grandaddy. Now, the reason why Grady were so good were ‘cause he done everything his ownself – from ridin’ into Hendersonville for the iron he’d be needin’, right down to makin’ his own shoe nails. Givin’ a job to Grady meant you’d be gettin’ mighty fine work, but it meant you’d have to wait for it. Grady were makin’ dang sure this’d be the best he ever done. He didn’t want no mess-ups.

His first mistake were takin’ on a ‘prentice. His second were takin’ on Cotton Cooper’s ol’ man, Stu Cooper, to be that ‘prentice. Stu were just a young’un then, maybe 15 or thereabouts, but he were already stuck fast to the jug. His ma used to say he went right from the teat to the bottle and never let up. Oh, there were some skill hidin’ behind them bloodshot eyes and shaky hands. On a sober day – and they was few – ol’ Stu could swing a sledge with the best of ‘em. Grady were pretty hard up, though, and took who he could get and set Stu into makin’ wagon wheels for a farmer outta Caldoon County whilst he worked on gettin’ into Ma Ma’s petticoats.

Round about this time, a young fella named Seth Potter come back home to the mountain. He been livin’ with some old aunties in Tennessee since he were eight or so and come back to live on his daddy’s farm after the old man passed on. Alvin Potter didn’t like young’uns too much and when his wife Lizzie died of the influenza, he sent Seth off to live with his wife’s sisters. Alvin weren’t a bad sort; he done left the farm to Seth and Seth come back a big, strappin’ man of 19 to work that land and cut hisself a notch on this earth.

‘Fore he could do his own work, though, Seth needed some money, or at least some credit to pay for a team and some seed. He set off walkin’ down the road and stopped at the first place he come to, my Ma Ma’s daddy’s house.

Grandaddy liked the looks of Seth standin’ there in the yard. He looked ever’ bit strong as a horse – and as you may recollect, his own horses was off bein’ shoed.

Ma Ma were a shy sort and hid behind her daddy’s back and peeked out at Seth and couldn’t take her eyes off his hands – they was so big and powerful. Grandaddy put Seth to work right off, pullin’ his plow. Seth were right happy for the work. He seen Ma Ma peekin’ out behind her daddy and gettin’ to see her durin’ the day made the work all the sweeter.

Lordy, how that man musta worked! He done had three acres plowed by sundown. Ever so often Ma Ma brung him some sweetwater from the well and Seth always liked sayin’ he wasn’t sure what kept him goin’ – that cool water, or them cool, soft hands carryin’ that water out to him.

Whilst Seth and Rebecca were workin’ on fallin’ for each other, Grady were workin’ like a mad man on them shoes. Stu Cooper stayed pretty much sober while workin on them wheels ‘cept at the very start – it were his birthday and he celebrated for three days. So, when he’s chiseling the mortises for the hub of them wheels, he done forgot to slant ‘em. By the time he sobered up and seen what he done, he didn’t dare tell Grady and he stuck them spokes in anyhow, hopin’ no one’d get wise to it.

Grady’s third mistake were trustin’ Stu to do the job right.

By and by them horses and mules was shod and the wagon wheels done – in their fashion. Grady were so all-fired anxious ‘bout gettin’ them critters to Grandaddy Grover, he didn’t see no problem with them wheels. Him bein’ a fussy type, that’s right surprisin’, but dang lucky for me.

By the time Grady come to see Ma Ma to get his due, she had done forgot ‘bout him, she were so smitten with Seth Potter. Grandaddy seen it comin’, but didn’t do nothin’ to stop it. He liked Seth an’ didn’t see no harm in havin’ two suitors for his Rebecca – ‘long as he got the best farmhand on the mountain and his critters shod to boot.

‘Course I weren’t there, but I reckon when ol’ Grady showed up with them animals and finds some stranger courtin’ his gal on the porch swing, there musta been some sparks a-flyin’. Grandaddy Grover feared both fellas would walk off and leave Rebecca and him high and dry. He figgered the onliest way to work things out was to have some sorta contest ‘twixt the two – a wagon race, he decides – from his place to Hendersonville, the hilliest, rockiest patch of country you ever run across.

“Full wagons,” he says, ‘cause it just so happens he’s got to get a load of hay and corn likker to Hendersonville, “and the first one that gets their wagon over the town line gets the right to ask for my Rebecca’s hand in marriage.”

Ma Ma told me that if it were up to her, she knowed who she’d run off with right then and there. Seth were a righteous man, though, and figgered to have her hand fair and square. Grady didn’t care how he done it, he were feelin’ mighty deflated after shoeing all them critters and comin’ out empty-handed – he didn’t care how he won.

Poor Seth didn’t have no team to pull no wagon and no wagon neither, so Grandaddy Grover loaned him the lot. Everbody thought it right white of Grady to take a look at the team’s shoes aforehand “to make sure they’s up to snuff,” he said.

The race were set for the next day at sun up. Grady had a fine team of horses, of course, but he were hard-pressed to come up with a good wagon. He did have some good wheels, he thought – the very wheels Stu Cooper made – so he worked through the night fixin’ them to an old hay wagon.

That was his fourth mistake.

Grandaddy Grover called the mark and Seth and Grady were off. When they’s finally out of sight, Ma Ma says she were cryin’ buckets ‘cause Grady were out in front.

It were hard goin’. There be only a handful of spots where it were wide enough for one wagon to pass the other. Steep mountain passes made the wagons tilt so far to one side or t’other, they be apt to tip over. Granddaddy Grover had nestled his ‘shine down into the hay to save breakin’, but by the time they was through, there’d be more’n one cow drunk on likkered up hay.

They was runnin’ pretty much neck and tail when they come to the top of the last hill, with Hendersonville spread out below. It’s then that Seth’s horses start to buckin’ and neighin’ like they’s in powerful pain. Seth pulls off and checks their shoes and, sure enough, they ain’t but one nail holdin’ them on – and some come off altogether. Grady done checked them all right.

That devil snickered and slapped his knees as he drove past poor Seth, leavin’ him chokin’ in his dust.

Well, now, this here part be a might hard for a body to swallow, but I tells it like I heard it and my Ma Ma ain’t never lied.

Seth were so crazy with love, he done strapped hisself to that wagon and set off down that hill, fixin’ to win hisself a bride. Grady looked back and cackled mightily to see such a sight and whipped his horses all the more. He weren’t laughin’ for long.

See, if the mortises of a wheel ain’t slanted, the wheels ain’t dished. And if the wheels ain’t dished and the load shifts to the downhill side of the wagon, it are certain them wheels are gonna bow out and split apart – it just be a matter of time. And about a hunnert yards out of Hendersonville, Grady Pitts’ time were up. Them ol’ wheels started to bowing and Grady hears a sickenin’ crack and there she goes, in a dozen pieces.

While Grady’s scratchin’ his head at the side of the road, here come Seth round the corner, sweatin’ and puffin’, and passes him, crossin’ that town line first. He were right grateful Grandaddy Grover never said nothin’ ‘bout gettin’ them horses there, too.

Grady didn’t have no cause to raise a fuss, given what he done to them horses. Seth sure coulda raised a stink, but he were just happy to have his Rebecca.

Truth be told, Ma Ma woulda never married ol’ Grady anyhow. She said she woulda talked Seth into runnin’ off sooner or later. She said she couldn’t wrap her head around the notion of one day havin’ a son named Eustace Pitts.