Page 24 of Small Town Beast

Where have I seen her before?Saverin wondered as the old woman made her way up the hill. But in time he would forget ever meeting her, and he would argue with Wilks Johnny years later about what exactly had sent him down the holler road that day with a paper bag in his hand.

It wasthe last house in the holler and the land beyond it was a wilderness. Saverin regretted not taking the truck. He was sweating fearsome in the heat and did not look forward to scaling the hill back up. He hoped this good turn could be over as soon as possible.

There was an old man sitting on the porch.

The old man had no legs.

“Hello,” he called to Saverin, friendly.

The man’s wrinkled skin was a deep brown color. He was clean-shaven except for a mighty gray-flecked moustache. Hiskinky hair was short–no doubt he buzzed it himself. Two lively eyes peered out from pouchy lids.

“Are you Wilks Johnny?” Saverin asked.

“Yes I am.”

“Somebody told me to bring you this.”

“That must have been Julette,” Wilks Johnny nodded. “She makes me a plate every day, rain or shine. But the roads have been messed up ever since that storm. What does my sugar mama have for me today?”

Saverin handed the old man the paper bag, which held a foil-wrapped lunch: fried chicken, rice, cornbread and tossed greens.

“Delicious,” the old man said in happy satisfaction. “And to answer your question, the legs went off in Vietnam, and yes I am the oldest veteran still living in Florin.”

“Did it hurt?” Saverin grunted, eyeing the knotted ends of the man’s pants, which looked a few sizes too big for him.

“I don’t even remember it. Just a bright light.”

Saverin touched his scarred face with the back of his hand.

“I’d rather have no legs than no face,” mused Wilks Johnny.

“I’d rather have my legs, I reckon.”

“Ha!” Wilks Johnny rubbed his mustache, chuckling. “I couldn’t disappoint the ladies, you know.”

He’d delivered the food; it was time to go. But Saverin leaned against the rail and asked, “Have you always lived back here?”

The tiny house was a wreck, the yard nearly waist-high in jimsonweed. The gate had rusted off. Kudzu vines run rampant about the place. It was as if the forest was slowly digesting the cabin and its owner.

“I have always lived here,” the old man said slowly. “Since I came back from the war. When I was a young man, it was only widows up that road. Sometimes they got lonely.” His eyes twinkled. “Their sons used to come bother me, but they didn’t scare me. Ha!”

“You got family?”

“All dead. Every last one. I might have a cousin in Tampa Bay…Nope — she’s dead too.”

Saverin sat on the man’s step and took out a cigarette. Wilks Johnny refused his offer. “I quit all that stuff. Don’t even drink coffee.”

“You mind?”

“Oh, no. Enjoy yourself.”

Saverin lit his Marls red and leaned back against the half-rotted rail of the step. He took care to blow the smoke away from the old man, who was happily tearing into the plate of chicken.

“My Pa fought in ‘Nam,” Saverin mused.

“What was his name?”

“Boothe.”

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