About Burdens On Display (From: The Mere Valley)

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The Mere Valley: A Novel

Chapter One: Welcome

            It was the end of an era, Tim figured. People would talk about it some more, but they’d been watching the story play out a long time. Not a bunch left to say. Big happenings in small towns tended toward anticlimaxes, idle eyes ever-open and tight mouths ever-whispering. When did the downfall start? Tracing exact origins was tricky. Best to move forward. Look ahead. Consider the future. This was the advice of his remaining true friends. Their verbal pats on the back. Their comforting nudges out the door, soft injunctions to get on with it.  

            And so, he had plans.

Tim Semple was a grown man, after all. Time to change trajectories. Thirty-five next week. Where had it gone? How did he get here? Had he always asked himself such tired questions?        

            Herm Bronson placed a roll of bills into Tim’s reluctant hand and said something about the weather being too hot. Yes, Herm, it’s much hotter down here in town. Up on the mountain where you live, the wind blows cooler. The air is spread nice and thin and rare, up where you live. “It is, Herm. It’s too hot.”

            Bronson was fairly new to the area, pudgy and polite. Some folks in town didn’t like him at all and probably never could. Some thought he was fantastic, matter closed. Tim figured he was okay. Witnessing Herm and his translucent son Rory spit and struggle to hoist his grandpa’s work bench into the unscratched bed of their blinding white pickup would’ve been funny on another occasion. But that was the last of it. Semple’s Hardware was all empty space.

            “That thing is really heavy,” Herm said, squinting at the sky and stretching the suffering bones holding up his sweaty back. Tim smiled a little, forcing his thin eyes closer to closed. He recalled moving the bench just a few feet with his dad when he was a kid younger than Rory. Herm wasn’t lying. It was dense and sturdy, the way old things can be.  

            “Are we done here?” asked the teenager, snaking off the tailgate to play with his phone and bangs in a parallel reality.

            “I’m sorry, Tim.”

            “Nothing to be sorry about, man.” He gave a casual salute with the money still in his hand. A wink and another smile. Father and son were gone a few seconds later, leaving Tim under the Semple’s Hardware sign wondering what exactly Herm was sorry about. Having to sell the work bench, maybe. Losing the family business, more likely. Could’ve even been a roundabout acknowledgement that the son he’d raised was an unpleasant, flimsy caricature.

            Tim stuffed the cash in the pocket of his jeans and went back into the store. It was on the corner, nothing fancy. Built solid out of red brick, just before The Crash of 1929. His great grandfather loved tools and figured on selling them to make a living. It survived The Depression, The War, time’s rough-and-tumble. The times he wasn’t around.

Not knowing the effect it would have, Tim sat down in the middle of the empty space, letting memories surround him. He saw old timers wagging long wrinkled fingers, arguing about trifles when things were good, issues when things were bad. As soon as he was walking, Tim learned to love the regulars, ones who’d proudly mosey in smelling of chewing tobacco to buy a single washer or nut; pretexts to wile away daylight telling the same stories with different embellishments. He felt it now, looking down at the indestructible hardwood floor.

The end of an era.

            “Are you Timothy Semple?” He blinked away the fog to see a young woman struggling with a box by the door.

            “That’s me,” he said, rising quickly, eager to hide any lingering emotions on display. 

            “I’m Reny Davies. Dru Davies’ niece.”

            “Sure,” he managed, adjusting his t-shirt, like it might compensate for the holes in the cotton or the lack of sleeves. “Of course.”

            “Okay,” she said, grunting to park her belongings on the vacant front counter. “You’re confused, and I can’t explain with all this—ah, better. Stuff in my hands.”

             After shaking out her arms she did a cute little wave, mostly fingers. Tim returned the gesture in almost the same dainty fashion. He’d been abducted from himself, from sentimental reveries, set back down in the company of a remarkable beauty. Maybe it was the somber situation and the shabbiness of the store making her stand out in contrast. No, he thought, catching his breath. She’s something else, alright. Almost as tall as him, and he was a little over six feet. Golden-haired, cheeks full with a little red. A face and figure so pretty, a guy can sort of get stuck standing there.

            “I suppose I’ll keep talking,” she said. Tim became fully aware of his sudden paralysis as she continued. “Dru Davies is the painter that will be using this space for the next six months. Until they—”

“Tear it down,” Tim interjected, the delivery too firm. He saw a slight wince and knew she’d read agitation in his tone. “Sorry. Damn. I wasn’t even planning on being here. Met a guy. Selling off the last of the—last.”

            She relaxed her angelic face to exude uncut kindness and said, “It’s really not your fault, Mr. Semple.”

            Not your fault. Probably the phrase Tim wanted to hear more than any other. But not the way she meant it. How did she mean it? “How’s that, ma’am?”

            “Tomorrow’s the first of the month. And here I am, popping in unannounced before going to the hotel. I hadn’t meant to be rude,” she said, just about under her breath. “But I was rude. Thought I’d take a chance and have an early look. Saw you walk in a minute ago.”

            Finally, he started to understand. A just-arrived Transplant. One who made more sense in the New Mere Valley. “Tim,” he said, holding out a hand and slowly stepping her way. “Good to meet you, Ms. Davies.”

            Moving beyond their clunky introductions, he helped with more boxes as she talked freely about finishing up art degrees in her hometown of London, how this was the perfect situation, how lucky she was to have an American aunt as commercially and critically revered as Dru Davies. Tim did his best to follow along with names of schools and painters he’d never heard of and did his best to ignore her lovely long legs and bright city smile.

            “What happens in six months?” Tim asked, removing his frayed ballcap to shove it halfway down a back pocket. He brushed aside a mane of brown hair and wiped sweat from his forehead.

            “What happens—oh. The new studio will be finished by then. This is sort of a spot to get things sorted until the move.”

            Smart. With all the money moving into the area, expensive paintings would be in serious demand. Miles of fresh walls to adorn. Getting a jump on a long, bright future. “Sounds like good thinking. I should’ve been an artist.”                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     

            “Feels like you’re being way too nice. I’m just horrible for barging.”

            Tim didn’t know if her coming a day early represented bad manners, but he wasn’t about to fret. Not when things were growing more and more pleasant. It was hard to stop himself from grinning like a fool.

            Did they have rapport? A spark, even? Nah. She was a nice person who knew zero other people in town, and he was a guy who could lift heavy objects.

            “It’s so lovely we met,” she said. “I hope everyone in Mere Valley proves as charming. I might never leave.”

            Reny’s eyes were deep green and slightly downturned, a hint of sadness shading her singular appearance. Tim wanted to keep talking, but he figured it best to get on. “Good luck setting up. Sure it will go well for you and your aunt.”

            He was surprised by a sudden hug. It didn’t last long, but it was enough to lift him entirely from the deep melancholy of the day.

            “Well,” he said, something catching in his throat. “Ok. Thanks for that.”

            They came apart and looked at each other for a few quiet seconds, faces still close after the hug. Tim wondered how badly he was losing in the looks competition. The little scar on his chin, the bigger one on his left cheek interrupting dense stubble—lines starting to find permanent residence—he wasn’t a monster, but there were flaws. Reny Davies was not so burdened.

The silence lingered. She didn’t seem to mind it. Experience told him additional words would be counterproductive at best and ruinous at worst, so he waited.

            “Come back, Tim. If you ever have time.”

            Tim would make time. He couldn’t remember a better first encounter. He started to assure her that she’d see him soon, but he was interrupted by something loud outside. Excusing himself and rushing through the front door, he squinted at two men at the beginning of a robust exchange, pointing fingers and speaking over each other on the sidewalk next to their vehicles. One car was European and fancy and had a folded front needing serious work. The other was a weathered original two-door Bronco with a slight scratch on its steel back bumper that blended in with decades of other scratches.

            The man with the Bronco saw Tim and disengaged from the argument as if it wasn’t ongoing.

            “Don’t walk off, Alonso,” insisted the rage-faced driver of the sporty car. Smoke was now billowing from under the chassis. He was forced to step away as flames threatened to lick his bootheels. “This is your fault, damn you.”

            Alonso, a fit man with a square jaw and soft eyes smiled widely at Tim as he casually approached the door of Semple’s Hardware where Reny was now standing. Nearing her, his stride evolved into a swagger, as if unlaced hiking boots and tattered tan army shorts were too good not to show off. “Lovely to meet you,” he said. “I’m Hoyt. Hoyt Alonso. Mr. Semple’s brother.” He calmly and confidently shook Reny’s hand with his back turned toward the seething man with the crumpled car. His name was Merritt Lennox Jr.  

            Tim interrupted Lennox’s progress toward Hoyt with a notion of somehow calming him down. In a way, he felt, this was his fault. “Merritt, you should call the police. Maybe make sure they bring the fire guys. Those electric cars can go on burning for…”

            “You call them, Semple. I’m not done with your pretend brother over there. Who the hell’s he talking to? I’m trying to kick his holy ass and he drifts away on me.”

            Keeping an eye on Lennox, Tim pulled out his phone with a sigh. Life hadn’t exactly been predictable lately. Clinging on to and ultimately losing the family business, relationship difficulties, certain opportunities, etc. That said, this was turning into quite the afternoon. He thought about how he’d tell the story to Gable. She liked a story.

            Tim tried relaying the details of the situation to Mary Lee at the police station. It wasn’t easy, far as summaries go. Merritt smacked away his hand and pushed by to continue shouting at Hoyt.

            “Police and fire are on the way,” Tim announced, unsure if anyone heard or cared. As Hoyt and Merritt reignited their fracas, Reny fixed on the rising flames. “We should probably move,” he said to her. “Over here.”

            Getting separation from the scene, Tim still managed to hear some of the ongoing argument. Lennox contended that he was unequivocally blameless in the rearending of Hoyt’s parked Bronco. His voice was husky and loud. His neck, usually veiny from lifting weights, was veinier. Hoyt’s counterarguments were comparatively gentle. He only hinted at Lennox’s character flaws, offering general tips for better living and conflict resolution. Tim came close to laughing, knowing thought-for-the-day consideration would piss Merritt off all the more. 

            It went on like that for a minute or two. Guys who really didn’t like each other, now with a fresh reason for the pile. “Sorry about this,” Tim said to Reny as things got louder. Police cars pulled up. The fire truck, too. Good thing. Thick smoke was billowing up from underneath Lennox’s car. The broken machine cracked and hissed. Plastics and rare-earth elements suffered equally.

            A tall black police officer with useful muscles to shame Lennox’s gym bulk approached after instructing the other cops to stay put. “What’s going here, fellas?” he asked, planting himself in the personal space of both men. His voice was strong and even, out of place and welcome. He looked over at Tim and tilted his head down to scan and judge Reny. Semple imagined the officer immediately recognized her as new and therefore possibly the only unbiased witness present.

            “Hey, Sheriff,” Tim said, as nonchalant as he could pretend. “So, I came by earlier to meet Herm Bronson over that work bench…”

            “Hold up,” said the lawman, rubbing his perfect goatee and getting a better sense of the argument while hoses blasted jets of water at Lennox’s erupting vehicle. “That’s enough,” he said, tugging Hoyt away hard by the neck of his short-sleeved cardigan. “Reverend Alonso. How about taking it easy. An arrest won’t go over well with your flock. May start running off for one of those new outfits. There’s the new guy, in from the city last month. Looks fifty, dresses twenty. Claims salvation goes with getting rich.”

            “Not a very funny joke, Nathaniel.”

Tim stifled a grin. He’d watched those two square up and tussle more times than he could remember. Almost a whole life of it. On playgrounds, in backyards, playing sports. The three of them were separated by mere months, thicker than thieves from first grade on.

            “I know what you’re doing, Sheriff Jacobs,” Lennox said. Spit escaped his overripe lips and landed on the baking pavement. “This act doesn’t fool me.”

            “Just let him be, Merritt,” Tim interjected.  

            “Shut up, Semp,” ordered the sheriff.

            “Roger that,” Tim answered, retreating to his little place in the world.  

            One of the fire guys, Freddie Simon, came over and advised they move even farther away. The fumes were nasty, he said. “We’ll contain it, keep it from your store, Tim. Got the Bronco to a safe distance, Rev.” He took off his clunky helmet to wipe sweaty soot from his blonde beard. His eyes were watery and red from the fight and he blinked rapidly as he spoke. “Sorry about that car, Merritt. Damn shame, you know. A beauty.”

            “This frigging place,” Lennox said, walking away to make a call. He was a formidable character, meticulous about his appearance. Not one of those rich guys going around in the same shirt and sneakers every day. Lennox loved trodding his many domains in beautiful Lucchese boots and a one-of-a-kind Stetson cowboy hat. Tim couldn’t help being jealous of his sport coats. Wore a new one every day and they all conformed perfectly to his build. More than a few times Tim overheard Townie girls, ones who really hated Lennox, concede he was a gorgeous man.

            “Likely calling his legion of lawyers to litigate me,” Hoyt observed. The sheriff guided him in a different direction than Lennox, leaving Tim and Reny alone for a few moments. They walked up the street into the warm wind to avoid the smoke and toxic air.

            “What was all that?” she asked. A reasonable question with a thousand truthful answers.

            “Uhhh,” Tim said, scratching his head as he ran through some highlights. Merritt Lennox Jr. was one of the richest Transplants to come to town in the last ten years and the leader of a faction of new residents making convulsive moves in Mere Valley. He was the owner of several large national companies, one being Lennox’s Home and Garden. A company Tim tried and ultimately failed to compete with.

            “Was he stopping by to gloat?” she asked.

            “Hard to be sure, but that’s a good guess. Could’ve been passing, saw my truck. Hoyt must’ve just pulled up to say hello.” Tim looked away. “Anyway, Lennox owns the property now. Or his bank does. Can visit when he wants.”

            “And your brother,” she said, casting a curious glance toward Hoyt and the sheriff. They were arguing, but their body language hinted at a lighthearted undertone. “Is he really the preacher?”

            Tim smiled and returned to her lovely green eyes, seeing bits of gold. “He is. Doctorates in Theology and Philosophy, big hit on Sundays. Pretty impressive guy. I’m biased, of course. Apologies for his appearance. Dresses like he escaped from somewhere.”

            “I’m fairly certain he was hitting on me before your Mr. Lennox stole back his attention.”

            She was trying to downplay her quick affinity, but it wasn’t working. Hoyt’s dark eyes and high cheekbones were enough to capture most women—his other features kept them fixed. The preacher had smooth, light-brown skin and an irresistibly bright smile and everything else they seemed to go weak for. He wore his dark hair long, but it never seemed unkempt. Tim couldn’t help but contend with a little good-natured jealousy. “And he was such an ugly kid,” Tim joked. “Far as flirting, guessing Hoyt thought meeting you was a pleasant alternative to mixing with Merritt. Sound thinking.”

            The twenty-something turned and squinted at the fire while the usually quiet street filled up with customers and employees from other businesses on the square. “What about the lovely sheriff?” she asked.

            “We’ve been through it, us three. He’d be the rock. Just trying to keep the peace.”

            “I think I understand. He seemed to go out of his way to specifically chastise your brother. A dash of diplomacy.”

            “Got a feeling not much gets by you.”

            The crowd went on gathering, strength and numbers. He heard his name spoken by different voices. Hard to condemn their curiosity, him standing with a statuesque beauty of unknown origins, flames dying and rising and dying and rising fifty yards away, marking his Great Failure. One of the firetrucks was blasting its horn to keep people away whenever Freddie Simon paused from the megaphone.

            As the people bunched and pushed Tim and Reny closer together, comments and questions unceasing, she strained to say, “Seems I chose quite a time for my town initiation.”

            “Yeah… yeah.”

            He hoped things simmered down. It was the last thing Nate needed. Every damn thing was a battle these days, seemed like.

            “Did Merritt go burning up in the fire?” asked Mrs. Rosalin Dunn from the edge of the crowd. She owned the liquor store up the street and was about as old as Mere Valley itself. Anyone who knew her true age was long gone.

            “No immolations today, Mrs. Dunn. You stay over there.” Tim guided Reny in Mrs. Dunn’s direction. He watched Mere Valley’s newest Transplant and its most senior Townie shake hands as he made introductions.

            Mrs. Dunn crossed her bony arms and with her sandpaper voice said, “Saw a pile of smoke and the ass of that stupid car. Thought you might’ve caught yourself a break, Timothy. Prick bastard shouldn’t be breathing for his bad behavior.” She gave him a wink and smiled at Reny, paying no mind to the extra wrinkles and worn teeth accompanying the expression. “It was nice to meet you, sweetheart.”

            Mrs. Dunn was something like ninety pounds and still got around well. She slid away like a card through a deck before Reny or Tim could say goodbye. “Ok, what else?” asked the young beauty.

Tim selected a few additional headlines. Merritt Lennox hadn’t just put him out of business. He was married to his ex-wife. They were barely divorced when Shayna traded up.

            “Wow,” Reny said. “That’s a bitter pill.”

            “Maybe,” Tim answered. “Or maybe just what I deserved.”

            “Quite the drama—forgive me, I don’t mean to make light.”

            “Quite the drama,” Tim said, acknowledging the truth, appreciating the good manners. “And it’s not over.”

            “Seems I’ve stumbled into it,” she said, inching away.

            “Welcome to Mere Valley, Ms. Davies.”

Chapter Two: Gable’s

            Gable had chosen a wise location for her bistro. A few years back, when Tim helped her convert a little old warehouse into something resembling its present form, he expressed doubts. It was too far north of the town square, he said. She all but guaranteed that loads of new developments would spring up around her place in the coming months and years. Perfect roads. Gleaming shops and offices. It came to pass like she had a crystal ball. “Hello,” Tim said, dodging a pair of leggy women wearing strange angular clothing as they kept to their pace on the sidewalk, oblivious to his simple greeting, going to or coming from one of the fancy shops surrounding the bistro.

            “Hey there, Semple,” Gable said, holding open the front door. Holding back a smile.

            “Hi, Gabes,” he said, looking over his shoulder.

            She laughed and said, “They certainly weren’t getting out of the way.”

            “You saw that?” he asked, hands up to signal his puzzlement.

            “See it every day, buddy. Rich women take no detours, suffer no delays. Not even for cute boys.”

            He kissed an offered cheek as she welcomed him in and locked the door behind. It was mostly dark, but Tim knew the place down to the square foot. “How’s your day going?” he asked as she turned up the main dining room lights.

            “Uneventful, I’d say,” she answered, stopping to adjust a chair an inch back to its place. “Compared to you, that is, Mr. Semple. I am but a simple, humble restaurateur, preparing once again for another ravenous host.”

            He rubbed his brow with a hand that shrouded cinched eyes. His body and mind were preparing for whatever Gable had in store, be it prosecution or light peppering.

            “So, was she up on you like this?”

            Their faces were almost touching when he blinked open. Close enough to follow her breathing. He thought about a real kiss, arms wrapped tight around her. It wouldn’t take much. Just an inch, then nature would steer. He’d have to put his hands through, with her arms on her hips like that. Not much of a chore for a red-blooded man.

            “Something you want to say directly?” he inquired, forcing himself still, attempting to match her unshakable air.

            She leaned forward without making contact, close enough so he felt her in his bones. “I don’t know, Timothy. A nice girl would like to rise above the gossip—”

            “A nice girl would?”

            Gable sighed. “She would. But when half of Mere Valley texts me about you gallivanting about with some pretty young thing, a nice girl grows a little concerned.”

            “Gallivanting,” he said. “This town hasn’t changed as much as some people think.”

            “I know,” she soothed, the way one quells a despondent child. Her hands came up to hold both sides of his scruffy face. “She must be hot though, if people are that eager to raise the alarm. Hotter than me?”

            “Not possible.”

            “You squint when you lie, Semple. Those icy blues take cover. I’m going to kiss you proper now so you don’t have to keep dodging.”

            For a minute or two, Tim was free. No longer imprisoned by what he had to do or couldn’t do or expectations or relationship management. Her body. Her lips. The smell of her skin and hair. Gable was intoxicating. Every new moment was further confirmation. She knew her power and only hinted at abusing it.

            Fair enough.

            “When are you going to marry me?” he asked, immediately regretting the question. It was desperate, lacking proper thought. Proper set-up. “Ah, crap. Just an expression. Words—eh—jumped the tracks.”

            “Okay buddy.”

            “Gabes…”

“No really, the marriage inquiry followed up by the takeback was some of your best romancing yet.” He knew immediately that Gable wasn’t truly holding him to account. She brushed things off. Maybe because she knew him so well, that he wasn’t a brilliant scholar like Hoyt or an instinctually sharp investigator like Nate.

He was overthinking.

            “I’m really sorry about today,” Gable said, turning her head and placing it on his chest.  “You won’t complain, but there’s no way it doesn’t suck to say a final goodbye to the store. Even if it was a burden lots of times.” She ran her fingers slowly through his messy hair. He closed his eyes tight and allowed himself the comfort.

            “How are things here?” he asked, knowing she’d grudgingly allow the sudden spotlight shift.

            “Nothing’s broken, which is a miracle. Booked up. Yeah, thinking it’ll be a good Friday.”

            He held up his hand for a high five. She winced. “You’re a dork, Semple.”

            “Let me know if you need any help. Seriously. Not like I have a job. Yet.”

            A quick kiss and wink and Gable had her earbuds in, back to work in the kitchen. Tim looked at the bar to his left and pictured himself with a drink. That really good stuff the bartender needed a stool to reach.

            “Mr. Semple?” He turned to see the man he was there to meet. He was an inch or two shorter than Tim, in great shape. Thin for the cameras, Tim thought.

            “Hey there, Mr. Varga.” Three o’clock exactly, as they’d agreed.

            “Gable told me to come through the back. I didn’t mean to startle.”

            “Please. You’re right on time, just like last time.” He looked over at the bar once more and decided to confess. “I was thinking whiskey. A little early, right?”

            He was nervous, though it made sense to be overwhelmed. Baz Varga was the type who radiated overwhelming success because he was bred to it and because he seemed to truly enjoy it. Tim wondered what that was like, if it ever got old. No way it got old the way losing did.

            Tim watched the new arrival pick two glasses and a bottle of whiskey from a shelf halfway up. They silently decided on a table and sat. Varga looked comfortable pouring drinks. Tim tried forcing himself to be comfortable in the quiet, watching. “Maybe it was a bad idea. Should keep my head.”

            “A day like yours, you deserve at least one.”

            “Okay.” Varga was right. A hell of a day. He hoped Hoyt was okay and Nate was managing the fire and the drama. “That’s not bad,” he said, setting down the empty glass.

            “Did you think I’d go for the fancy stuff?”

            “Perhaps I’m not worthy of it yet.”

            He laughed slightly, revealing a few perfect teeth. “That’s funny. No, I simply can’t tell the difference. Why fake it?”

            “Didn’t grab the cheapest, either.”

            “I’m not an animal, Mr. Semple.”

            “That’s funny.” Tim was having a hard time figuring Varga. He wore Savile Row suits and owned jets but his spirit seemed man-of-the-people. It was Gable who first recommended they talk. He’d been coming into the bistro for months and made a good impression on her and the staff. A guy like that, money like that, and nobody knew for sure what he was doing in Mere Valley. “You still feeling good about our arrangement?” Tim asked.

            “I do, Mr. Semple. The more I learn, the happier I am you’ll be working for me.”

            “Hope I have enough to offer,” he observed, wishing he could find a setting nearer to humble than self-flagellating.  

            Varga sat back and smiled big enough to flash some more teeth. “Do you think business should be personal, Tim?”

            It was the first time the CEO didn’t address him as Mr. Semple. He wondered what it meant, if anything. Tim started to give his honest answer, which was maybe, then stopped himself and thought about what Varga wanted to hear. It didn’t have much effect. “Maybe.”

            “You’re too careful, Tim.”

            “That’s—yes, that is probably true.”

            He came close to boasting that only moments before he’d haphazardly half-proposed to Gable, but that was an outlier. Over the years, Tim had indeed allowed himself to drift more and more into apprehension. His mind worked differently than it did growing up or back in the military. That Tim Semple wasn’t afraid of much. People used to say he was fearless, even reckless, and it was basically true. True, pre-rocky divorce. True, pre-dad’s cancer and unceasing, impossible bills. If he was skittish or lacking Baz Varga’s intrepidity, there were reasons, if not justifications. 

            “Of course business is personal. That’s why you’re my guy. I want to make this valley and the resort we build on those mountains THE place. THE one everybody talks about. Worldwide. But there are people involved. Your people. I need you, and if the stories are true, you need me.”

            “Makes sense.” It did, in many ways.

            “And it’s personal for me, Tim. Ever since my uncle passed and I became CEO, everyone has been looking at me to fail. The rest of my family are vultures, riding the wind, prodding for weakness. This development could finally get me respect. Respect from my own ranks. I’d love to say I don’t care what’s said about me, but I’d be lying. Let’s do this, Tim.”

            The rush of it took over. A six-figure job, with benefits. He’d been living off scraps for years, trying to keep the store open against Lennox and Transplants just like him. Now here he was… on the verge of working for another Transplant.

            Some Townies were bound to turn on Tim. People he loved. They’d call him traitor, say that no good intent could justify getting in bed with a bigshot. Betraying his wonderful father’s memory, they’d say.

            “And you promise,” Tim said, offering his hand to shake, “Merritt Lennox doesn’t win.”

            “It’s him our us,” Varga nodded. He didn’t flinch, even in his eyes.

            Tim felt good.

Chapter Three: Healthy

            In the back room of a dive bar in Old Mere Valley, Tim sat smiling wide at a card table. The player next to him insisted he call or fold and made fun of his face, calling it the worst in all the poker-playing universe.

            “He’s been like that all night,” said his brother Hoyt, sitting at his ten o’clock. “It’s that new job. And all these years I’ve been teaching money can’t buy happiness.”

            “Could just have good cards,” Nate said. The sheriff had folded his hand moments before, freeing himself to down another shot and open another beer. He wasn’t much of a drinker, usually, but it had been a day.

            It was their bi-monthly Friday Night Game. Five regulars and occasionally a guest or two. A constant, ever since Tim, Hoyt and Nate returned from Afghanistan. Originally, there were six regulars.

Tim’s father loved to play. No wonder. It was a special kind of sanctuary, cluttered and wood-paneled and dimly lit, vibrating slightly from the sound of the jukebox out front, filled with unceasing jokes and complaints and challenges. They never locked the door. Didn’t need to. Everyone in town knew not to disturb The Game at Lou’s Bar. The occasional drunk might forget himself and where he was and stumble in, but that was rare. Most patrons, drunk or drinking, had reverence enough for the Friday Night Game to know the bathroom from the back.

            “I’m gonna fold,” Tim said, reluctantly laying down a low pocket pair.

            “No balls,” observed the man on his left, taking two loud puffs from a bog oak pipe. Everyone called him Pop, but he was born James Adams seventy-six years ago. Pop had been best friends with his dad and served as a second father-figure to Tim, Hoyt and Nate. “Far as the fancy gig, if you’re happy, I’m happy.” The old man raised twenty dollars and put an encouraging hand on Tim’s shoulder while in the background, Hoyt and Nate argued passionately about something trivial.  

            “Thanks, Pop. What do you think, Phil?” Phil was the final regular at the table, a man around the same age as Pop. He was also the longtime mayor of Mere Valley.

            “Think of what?” he snapped, loud enough to put every other sound and action in the room on hold. “Sorry. Uh—I guess I’ll fold.”

            “I was talking about working for Varga,” Tim said.

            “You okay, Phil?” Pop followed. “Seem a little wound up over there.”

            That was putting it lightly. He’d been quiet all night, fidgeting and folding. Phil wasn’t one for loose banter, but he was never short of polite, never irritable. The thirty minutes of cards had done nothing to reset Phil back to normal settings like the others hoped it would. “Fine,” he said, addressing Pop and rubbing down the remaining hairs on his head, taking heavy breaths. “I’m fine. But deal me out of the next hand.”

            He was up and moving toward the door to the bathrooms, too fast for his age. Pop snapped at Nate and moved a thick finger in Phil’s direction, a clear order to check on him.

            They were all standing when Nate came back into the room holding the mayor in his arms. “Here,” he said, handing the limp old man to Tim and ordering Hoyt to call ahead to the hospital. “Keep him breathing,” he said, running out the back to get his police SUV from down the street.

            “What the hell?” Tim said, wanting to help but not knowing how.

            “Keep his head up propped up against your shoulder and his mouth open,” Pop said.

            “Is that what you do?”

            “Doesn’t sound like a bad idea,” Hoyt said with a voice calmer than Pop’s and a hell of a lot calmer than his. “Walk him gently. Nate went for his car so he can flip the lights and speed. He’ll be pulling up any second.”

            Tim felt shame for not being as sharp or as level-headed as his brother or best friend. “That makes sense,” he said, stepping carefully around the card table to the bar’s rear exit, trying to jostle Phil as little as possible. “You’re gonna be okay. Here comes Nate.”

            The sheriff was already out of his black SUV, taking Phil from Tim and placing him in the backseat. “Who driving?” he asked as Hoyt got off the phone with the hospital.

            “What are you talking about?” Tim asked.

            “I drank too much,” said the lawman.

            “I had a couple,” said the preacher.

            “Don’t look at me,” Pop said. He liked a little weed when he drank.

            Tim hadn’t had a drop. He started for the driver’s seat. “I’m gonna go like hell. “Y’all grab hold of him.”

            It was fourteen minutes to Mere Valley Hospital, straight through the old part of town. Tim’s blood pumped like it hadn’t in years. He clenched his jaw and clenched the steering wheel as they dodged cars and ran lights. In the back, Nate talked to Phil and Hoyt said some prayers. In the passenger seat, Pop was looking out for obstacles and trying to keep it together. He’d known Phil longer than any of them had been alive.

            Fourteen minutes to Mere Valley Hospital, but they made it in six. A team of doctors and nurses were waiting outside the new emergency entrance. The moment Tim stopped, Nate and Hoyt went to work guiding Phil into the arms of the staff and onto a gurney. “He’s breathing,” Nate called out as they rushed inside, “but it’s all over the place.”

            Standing at the entrance, they each tried to manage their own breathing. “You think he’s gonna be okay?” Tim asked, and before anyone could answer, he looked at Nate. “What happened?”

            “Soon as I got through the bathroom door, he collapsed. Went down in a heap before I could catch him. No idea.”

            “At our age, could be anything,” Pop said, rubbing his puffy beard. “Best guess, heart attack. Had two myself, but they weren’t as rough as that.”

            “So you think he’ll be okay?” Tim asked.

            “How the hell do I know?” Pop asked back. “I’m old and senile.” He reached into his pocket for a metal joint case and started walking away from the building.

            “Drugs in the hospital parking lot,” said the sheriff. “Really?” Hoyt had a mouth over his hand, trying not to laugh.

Tim let out his first full breath and gave Nate a hug while the sheriff shook his head in half-hearted judgment of their elder. “He needs a minute, buddy.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“We’ll meet you inside,” Hoyt said. “Take your time.”

Tim wondered if Pop needed a moment to shed a tear. If so, so be it. He’d earned the right to react however he needed, and he’d earned the right to be alone, to take the edge off.

“You boys did good,” said the old man, lighting up, still walking away. “Proud of you.”

“Y’all ready?” Hoyt asked.

“She might be in there,” Tim said, wishing he hadn’t.  

“She might,” Hoyt responded.

“Best doctor they got,” Nate added. “Hope she is.”

Tim cleared his throat and complimented his brother and friend on their thoughtful calm during the crisis. They said the same to him. Hoyt commented on his driving, saying it was some of the best he’d ever seen, minus the bus of schoolchildren he ran off the road and the nuns he mowed down. “The way you plowed over that gaggle of elderly ladies was particularly bold.”

It had been about ninety seconds since they saw Phil being wheeled away to an uncertain fate. Since then, almost every silly, stupid word had been an attempt at a time-out.

Avoidance.

Deflection.

“Let’s get in there,” Nate said firmly.

Tim put an arm each of them as they went inside. He saw the chief of surgery speaking and nodding with the doctor running the ER. She looked calm, calm and beautiful, the way she always did, no matter how many long hours or tough cases. It was an almost otherworldly gift. Tim used to admire it. Right now, he found himself judging it. Why the hell wasn’t she in there with Phil, checking and rechecking, looking over shoulders, jumping in to lend a guiding hand? As Nate observed, she was the best they had. So good they basically built a whole new section of hospital around her and her talent. They being her current husband and his cronies.

It was didn’t even seem like a hospital. The place was almost inviting. Exactly the opposite of the original portion of the building where they were all born, built by people inspired by the architecture of the Communist Bloc.

            When she saw them standing there, she smiled at the ER doc and excused herself before coming their way. Tim watched her hug her brother and best friend, saw her hold their hands. Heard her say they’d already gotten Phil stable and that his wife daughter was on their way. He was getting tested and scanned and soon she’d they’d know if he needed surgery. Pop was right. A heart attack.

            “We’re going to take care of him,” she said. “He was lucky it happened when it did, that you guys were around. The Friday Night Game?”

            “Yes indeed,” Hoyt said.

            “Guy’s hanging on fresh from a heart attack and she says he’s lucky. Nice.”

            “She is being nice,” Nate interjected. “Thanks Shayna. Keep us updated if you can.”

            “I will. Hi Tim,” she said, turning to get back to work.

            “Doctor Lennox.”

Chapter Four: After Midnight

            Tim decided to leave the hospital around two in the morning, an hour after the blurry-eyed ER doc came out to tell them Phil was going to be “okay.” A few days for observation, the usual complete change of every habit he’d ever made in his life, a list of medications long enough to be darkly comical, and weekly examinations. Nate and Hoyt passed out before he left, but Tim figured he’d do better getting a few hours at home. Sleep never came easy, not like it did for those two. More than once he’d caught them snoring on the edge of a firefight.

            Phil’s wife Linda caught him on the way out, just a few steps outside the entrance. She looked bad in the bright light, but that was to be expected. Her husband of fifty years was sick. That’s why Tim didn’t notice the fear under her sadness right off.

            “He’s not doing this anymore,” she said. “We talked about it. He agreed. Though I didn’t give him much choice. I could kill him,” she said, letting out a single laugh through her tears.

            “Not doing what, Linda?” Tim asked.

            “He’s not the mayor anymore.”

            “Okay,” he said, placing his arms gently around her thin frame to stop the shaking. “Whatever you guys need to do. And whatever we can do.”

            “It’s not the job it used to be. Not what he signed up for.”

            No argument there. Decades ago when Phil took the job, Mere Valley was downright sleepy. The mayor thing was a side gig, a way to help the community when he wasn’t running his plumbing company. When the big shots started moving in, it became a full-time headache. Not that he complained. Ever. Poker was the first time Tim had seen him irritated. “Oh,” he said.

            “If he asks, don’t say yes.”

            “Asks what, Linda?”

            “I told him not to, but he’s stubborn.”

            “I’m sorry,” he said scratching his forehead. “Maybe I’m tired…”

            “Mayor. Stay away from it.”

            Tim wanted to laugh, but it was a moment devoid of humor. Under the buzzing emergency sign, he could see the seriousness in Linda’s pale brown eyes. “Understood,” he smiled. “Anyway, I got a new job today. A good one. Couldn’t be mayor if I wanted to. And I don’t want to.”

            She put her dry hands on the sides of his face. “Handsome, like your father.”

            He was about to offer a polite thanks, but she already started back inside and wasn’t wasting any time about it. He had things to say. Questions. But she was through the sliding door. Best to leave her be.

            His truck was still back at Lou’s Bar, but he looked forward to a long walk. The heat had given way to crisp breeze coming down from the mountains. The air immediately woke him up, and for the first time all day, he felt his mind was free of clutter, of immediate things to do or worry about. For half a mile, he was possessed by almost euphoric blankness. The gentle air, everything around him too familiar to be surprising or thought-provoking in the slightest.

            As he kept to a leisurely pace, he eventually ran into main street and a site that ripped the calm right out. Abel Saunders had a for sale sign up in the window of his tailor shop. Abel was in his twenties with a young wife and a new kid. Son of a bitch. The only suit Tim ever owned was the one he threw out the day after his dad’s funeral, but everyone in town swore up and down that Abel was a true craftsman, same as his father and his father before him.

            Son of a bitch. He could already picture the conversation he’d be having with the young tailor; he’d had it too many times before. Tim would ask until it sounded like pleading, offering to help but not knowing how. Abel would say that taxes were too high and the Transplants wouldn’t do business with him. They only shopped at the new stores with nonsense names, places where they did half the job for twice the money.

            That’s how it would go. That terrible, familiar story. One he’d lived and was reliving as he gritted his teeth, a lifetime from his half-mile vacation.

            He considered calling Gable but thought better of it. She was probably just getting home, done with a grueling day and needing rest for another one to come. No one worked harder. Except maybe Abel Saunders. Son of a bitch.

            Continuing on at a quicker pace, he thought back on the hospital and Linda’s warning. There was a lot more going on there. He wondered, how many months, how many years was Phil just holding on in that job? Were there days when the mayor considered stopping into the hardware store to ask Tim if he’d consider taking over?

            He wasn’t going to find out tonight.

            A few miles later, he finally got back to his truck, parked behind Lou’s. The owner was finishing up with the trash. He lit a cigarette and asked about Phil.

            “He’s stable. Gonna be okay, but he’ll need to take it easy.”

            “Time takes its toll,” he said, turning to close up. Tim nodded at the barman’s observation said goodnight before driving home with the window down. A little whiskey and a couple hours sleep and maybe he’d stop wanting to do exactly the thing he was warned against. If she hadn’t said something, he might never have thought it. Now he couldn’t get rid of it. Mayor Semple.

Chapter Five: Fair

            “You had that look all day at the hospital,” Hoyt said.

            “What look?” Tim asked.

            “Weight of the world.”

            “Nah.”

            “Is this where I say I believe you and we move on?”

            “Yep.”

            “Solid.”

            Tim didn’t know how he looked. Didn’t want to. A half-hour of sleep, maybe. That’s all his mind would give him.

            Being the last Saturday of the month, the fairgrounds were alive and buzzing. There had to be a couple thousand people out, friends and families, young and old, listening to local musicians, riding dodgy rides. For the teenagers it was a cheap date. For the adults, a place to let the kids run until their batteries went out.

            Though he was exhausted, Tim tried to enjoy the sights and smells. This was the last year for the Saturday Fair, unless they found another location. The land had been purchased and marked for development. Too valuable to sit idle for much of the year.

            They sat on a park bench, watching a group of pot-bellied former classmates go for glory at tug-of-war. It ended with three men rolling in mud while the victors drank sloppily from large mugs. “Nice to see the Viking spirit lives on,” Hoyt commented.

            “Huh. Hard to imagine that bunch conducting a raid,” Tim said.

            “Well, you’ve always lacked imagination. One of your many limitations.”

            “What are you going to talk about at church tomorrow?”

            “Haven’t really thought about it. Something from the Bible, maybe.”

            “Innovative.”

            “If it ain’t broke,” he smiled. “Does that mean you’re coming?”

            Hoyt’s question was meant to be a slight rebuke. Tim didn’t always show up. “I’ll be there.”

            Tim sometimes wished for the extra faith his brother had; it gave him a spiritual engine that kept him going, kept him serving. He’d ministered to Phil and Phil’s family and friends all day, and tomorrow morning everyone in the pews would look up and see the charming face of a man of leisure. There were no burdens on display.