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I was fairly average in height, and it still took a boost from Jed to crawl into the cab of his truck. There were moving vans in Ireland that weren’t this large. When had American vehicles become such an . . . overcompensation? Still, the interior smelled pleasantly of pine air freshener and the woodsy aftershave Jed used. The seats had been recently vacuumed, and the dashboard shone. Had he gone out and cleaned the truck because he knew I would be riding in it all day . . . or because Dick had threatened him when he made his “request” and told him to treat me with kid gloves? I wasn’t sure which was the preferable, less invasive alternative.
I slid my sunglasses up on my nose, sipped my coffee, and rested my head against the seat, willing the vague headache located just above my eyebrows to go away. Jed seemed to sense that I needed quiet, so he remained silent as we coasted smoothly out of town, over the Tennessee River, and into central Kentucky. He eventually switched on a country-western station playing old Loretta Lynn songs. He asked about working in Boston, and I had to scramble for an answer. From what I remembered, my dad worked a lot of night shifts, and the morning commutes were a bear.
I repeated stories Dad had told me about working in the hospital where he practiced emergency medicine. Unfortunately, most of these stories had been edited for younger audiences, so they weren’t terribly interesting. But the more I talked, the more I was able to focus on the world rolling past the truck windows. We rolled through towns that were barely towns at all, just a few buildings cobbled together on a street, usually situated around railroad tracks. And then we drove through Nashville, bustling and alive with traffic and noise. And as soon as you adjusted to the urban landscape, boom, back in farm country.
The landscape was so different from the hills and seascape surrounding Kilcairy. Instead of the relentless emerald I was used to, there were dozens of shades of textured green. Instead of rolling, gentle hills that eventually rose into peaks, mountains seemed to spring up from nowhere. There were sections of road that took my breath away, random patches of bright-red poppies growing between the lanes, rushing creeks, and the occasional random monument in the middle of a cow pasture. Throughout this landscape were little neighborhoods of house trailers, long metal boxes with windows.
“Haven’t you ever seen them before?” Jed asked as I stared at another configuration of trailers on a hill.
“On television, maybe, but never up close. They look so small from here.”
“It’s not so bad. I grew up in one.”
“What was that like?”
“Crowded,” he admitted. “I have this huge family: three brothers, a sister, and myself. We played outside just so we could breathe our own air.”
“Did you all get along?”
“For the most part. I’m closest with my oldest brother, Jim. Sometimes the extended family was a different story. We argue over the usual stuff, you know, who borrowed whose lawnmower, who pinched whose wife’s ass at Christmas.”
“Actually, I don’t believe ass pinching comes up in normal family discourse.”
“Well, you’re a Yankee. Who knows what y’all talk about,” he said. “We moved from Louisiana to Tennessee about three generations ago, and my grandpa never quite got over it. He’s still pissed about it, to be honest with you, says he misses the bayou. It’s funny, ’cause he was a baby when the family moved away. He never really lived on the bayou. We’re the only family in Hazeltine with semi-Cajun accents. Anyway, we all settled on this farm in the 1920s. There was a main house, where my great-grandparents lived, and then we built a sort of complex of trailers around it.”
“I can sympathize,” I told him. “My family lives close together, too. Do you miss them?”
“Sometimes,” he admitted. “But there are other times when I appreciate having all those rooms to myself in the Hollow. Not being able to see the inside of my house from one end to the other is a good thing.”
“Gets a little lonely, though,” I mused. “Do you have a young possum enthusiast waiting for you back home? I have noticed the distinct lack of Hollow girls doing the walk of shame from your front door.”
“Why don’t you just ask if I’m seeing someone?”
“Get better answers this way,” I said, smirking at him.
“No, I haven’t dated anyone seriously in years. I haven’t had a real girlfriend since high school.”
“Why not?”
“No reason,” he said, his lips pressed together in a frown. “Why are you asking me all of these questions?”
“Since I’ve arrived, I’ve been subjected to nothing but questions. Now it’s your turn. So why no girlfriend?”
“Just never found someone I thought could handle all of this,” he said, making a broad gesture down to his toes.
“Defensive and secretive, the Southern male deflects the personal question with posturing and a sexual reference intending to make the inquisitor uncomfortable,” I said in my best nature documentary narrator’s voice.
“OK, fine. My family is sort of nuts, right? There are a lot of traits I don’t want to pass along to kids. And most women, if they’re the nice, marrying sort of girl you want to date seriously, are going to want kids. I have learned from experience that if you leave that little detail out in the first couple of dates, it only ends in tears and thrown drinks.”
“That is a refreshingly honest answer,” I told him. “See what happens when you’re forced to keep your shirt on?”
“Smart-ass.”
* * *
We stopped somewhere in northern Georgia so we could eat a late lunch of fried bologna sandwiches at a Huck’s convenience store. I had never before experienced the delicacy of fried bologna, but I can’t say it was anything worse than what Penny came up with for some holiday meals.
After answering several questions about defensive driving and basic auto maintenance, I was “allowed” to take over driving to give Jed a chance to rest. I filled the gas tank, since it was my errand we were running. While I was pumping the gas, he emerged from the convenience store with a bag filled with beef jerky, Corn Nuts, Twizzlers, and other culinary delights.
