Dirt in the Lord's Vineyard
by Ed Lynskey

The bedraggled girl refused the offer of my coat. Shivering under a chinaberry tree, she hugged herself for a little warmth. Sweat soaked through my grimy clothes. The house fire, now only a pile of embers, gave off a savage heat. Breathless, I scrubbed knuckles across my forehead. We'd busted our tails to save their house. And failed. Badly.

“Hannah, are you cold?” Jock asked.

She ignored him. Her trancelike stare fixed on the glowing ruins.

“She's had a bad shock,” I said, then added, “In more ways than one.”

Impulsive, Jock snapped a bright beam on her face. It didn't flinch. “Who did that to you?” he asked. “Huh, Hannah? Who?”

“Douse the light,” I told Jock. “Ms. Kennedy from the shelter is on her way.”

Jock lowered the lit flashlight, whispering, “You'd better call a doctor, Pops.”

“Ms. Kennedy handles that end of things,” I said. “Who's on night watch?”

“Sheriff Wigglesworth,” said Jock. “God help us.”

“Amen to that. Kermit is at work,” I said. “I love telling a man his house burned down. At least his wife is safe.”

“Uh-uh. Kermit ain't at work,” said Hannah in a grim voice. “I shot the sorry S.O.B. He's out of my life. For good.”

My jaw dropped. “Kermit wasn't still inside the house, was he?” I asked Hannah.

“Sure. I shot the sorry S.O.B.,” she said, the eerie edge to her voice freezing the blood in my veins to ice.

“If Hannah is saying what I think she's saying,” said Jock, “we've got a big problem.”

* * *

Earlier that evening, we'd sat in the firehouse office. At a month shy of age fifty, I was the senior guy. Younger VFD members took to calling me “Pops.” At first resentful, I grew to understand it wasn't to disrespect me. Nicknames helped tell a man's story. As the most mature male, I was known affectionately as “Pops.”

“Why don't they just beep us on our cell phones?” asked Jock. In the recent past, he'd been a defensive captain on the high school football team. Blonde and now bulky, he got the same adrenaline rush from firefighting that I had at his age.

“Because blowing the whistle brings the crew running,” I said.

Leaning back on the old orange sofa, Jock stretched his long legs. “Boy, I'd love to fire an RPG into that whistle,” he said.

Frowning, I peered up from working on next week's roster. “Duly noted,” I said. “Tell you what. How about if I check your the cell phone notification idea?”

Jock grinned. “Fine,” he said. “That's all I'm asking.”

Sure Jock, I thought, You're ideas are 14-karat gold.

“What happened on last night's run?” asked Jock.

“Chimney fire,” I replied. “First cold snap and folks heat up their woodstoves. Next thing you know, their house is engulfed in flames.”

Jock cracked the knuckles on one hand. “I could get rich around here working as a chimney sweep.” When he snapped the next set of knuckles, I winced again.

Eyeing his ten-ton physique, I said, “Jock, somehow I can't picture you climbing over rooftops.”

“Well, naturally I'd first shed a few pounds.” Grinning, he gripped the inner tube around his middle. “It'd be a cinch for me. Just like being at football training camp again.”

“Yeah. Are you available Monday?” I asked him.

“I could be. Who else is on call that night?”

Trying to get a rise out of him, I answered in a perfect deadpan delivery, “Denny.”

“Hell no,” said Jock. “Don't you pair me up with that moron.”

“But Denny has been to firemen's college,” I said. “He's certified.”

“He's a certified nut case,” said Jock. “Why are you grinning? Yeah, okay you got me. That was a good one. Who's really on duty?”

“Me.”

“Okay, that sounds better,” Jock said. “Sure, sign me up for Monday. We make a good team.”

A sharp rap on the doorframe drew our attention. A whiplike man with a fierce case of face acne cleared his throat. “Hey guys,” he said, the mountain twang crisp as a plucked dobro string. “Got a minute?”

The dark scowl came on Jock's face. “Yeah Kermit? What's up?”

Without invitation, Kermit flumped down on the opposite end of the couch from Jock. “I'm broke,” he said. “I need work. You know, a job.”

“What, do we look like an employment agency?” asked Jock. “We put out fires in our spare time. Nothing is paid here. It's all volunteer.”

“Simmer down, Jock,” I said. “Turley over at the concrete plant has a call out for help. It's dirty but steady work.”

His grin thin, Kermit nodded. “Thanks, Pops. I'll go give that one a whirl. What will it hurt, right?”

“How's your old lady?” asked Jock offhandedly.

“Fine. Hannah is good,” said Kermit. “She's trying to get on as a bank teller.” He shot me a meaningful glance. I nodded my acknowledgement.

“Yeah, Hannah always had a head for figures,” said Jock. “Too bad she went and married -- ”

“Jock,” I cut in. “Careful. Kermit, why don't you try your luck at the concrete plant.”

Getting up to his feet, Kermit glared at Jock before breaking it off and giving me another curt nod. “All right then, I'll be going now. Thanks for the tip, Pops.”

We listened at Kermit's loose-jointed tread over the concrete, then his slam out of the firehouse door. Fending off a yellow jacket with a rolled up newspaper, Jock snorted. “Kermit is a drunk and wifebeater,” he said. “Nobody will hire him beyond an odd joe job or two.”

“Come on,” I said. “Jock is trying to change so cut him a little slack.”

“If Hannah walks into any more doors,” said Jock, “I'll make Kermit walk into one of mine.”

“As long as he lays off the sauce, Kermit will do okay,” I said but only halfway believing it.

“Pops, it must be your age talking,” said Jock. “You're far more willing than me to give folks the benefit of a doubt.”

“It's the easiest thing to do,” I told him. “There's some measure of good in every man's heart.”

“Skip the sermonizing,” said Jock. “If I want an earful of that, I'll show up at your church. Suppose Kermit reverts to old habits? What then?”

“Well then, I guess it's not so easy,” was my vague reply.

* * *

It was a simple, plain church on the outskirts of our town. In a different age, the clapboard structure had been a school for African-American children. Along the rear wall, chalk marks of arithmetic still scored the blackboard. Having always felt a soulful yearning to preach, I'd bought it from Turley for a song.

Two days before while I'd been hammering and sawing to build an altar, Hannah had poked through the open double doors. Out of the corner of my eye, I'd spotted her sleek figure glide up the center aisle. She wore a sack dress as blue as her eyes.

Belted at the waist, it accented Hannah's best curves. One top button beyond the usual, I noted, she'd left undone. Toes on her bare feet curled to lift her an extra inch made the blonde Hannah seem taller. She smiled with natural ease. Only then did I catch myself gawking.

“Pops, are you drawing any flock to your church?” Her lilt sounded creamy smooth. I liked it.

Trembling on the inside, I set down the claw hammer. “Last Sunday I preached to only empty pews but as a praying man, I remain ever hopeful. Can I help you, Hannah?”

“Maybe. Do you have some place we can talk in private?”

Puzzled, I swept my eyes around us, the only people in the church. “Sorry but I don't have a regular office. We're pretty much by ourselves in here. Let's sit in the front pew and chat.”

She accepted my gesturing hand's invitation. I hitched at my pants and sat down a safe fifteen inches from her. A light perfume -- sandalwood? -- flirted with my nose. My mind wandering back to when I'd last bedded a woman drew a blank. I startled. Had it been that long?

“What I'm after is a paying job,” said Hannah. “We're having a tough time making ends meet. Money is tight.”

“H'm. I don't have a line on any place hiring,” I said. “Have you tried the diners?”

“They're feeling the pinch, too. Fewer folks go out to eat,” she said. “So, no luck there.”

“Is Kermit still out of work?” I asked already knowing he was unemployed.

Hannah shrugged her elegant shoulders under that blue sack dress. “Yep, we're in the same boat,” she said in a pained voice. “Anyway, thanks for taking time with me.” She stood.

“Sorry I couldn't be more help to you,” I said, feeling genuine disappointment.

After she pivoted on one foot to turn, I watched her every step until she disappeared out my church door. Lord, give me strength, I prayed. Then I had an idea. Using the cell phone from my carpenter apron, I punched in a number from memory. Three buzzes later Mayhugh picked up and barked a greeting.

“Yeah, this is Pops,” I said. “Remember that big favor you owed me?”

In the long and tense pause, I could picture Mayhugh squirm in his chair. “Let me guess -- you're calling in the chit.”

“Bingo,” I said. “Hannah Barrows came to me looking for a job. Now I'm a lowly paid preacher of the gospel. On the other hand, you're a powerful, rich bank president who has a sudden itch to hire on a teller.”

“But Pops, I can't -- ”

“You can and will,” I said. “Otherwise I'll place a call to tip off certain authorities about you know what.”

“All right, all right,” said Mayhugh. “Send Hannah over.”

“And I'm thinking Hannah should start at a mid-level salary.”

“Pops, this squares it between us,” he said.

“Mid-level bank teller. Yep, it has a ring to it. That's Hannah's new job title. Make it happen, Mayhugh. Then we're all squared.”

I thumbed off our connection before he could cuss me out. Somehow it didn't feel sinful or wrong to lean on the banker. Toil in the Lord's vineyard has its dirt, too.

* * *

Ms. Kennedy was a squat, square lady who could yak your ear off, then sew it back on. I liked her. The three of us now convened in her office, a small room in back of a ramshackle house our area had converted into a battered women's shelter. I smelled potpourri and sneezed.

“Bless you, Pops. Now Hannah dear,” said Ms. Kennedy. “You want to tell us what happened tonight out at your house? Before the fire broke out, I mean.”

Pale-knuckled hands gripping the chair arms, I squirmed. My head buzzed with a silent prayer. A dark pall gathering over us suggested this conversation was headed in a bad direction.

“I already told Pops,” said Hannah. Her tear-stained, bruised face fixed to stare at me.

“Hannah,” I said, keeping my voice gentle and sympathetic. “You have to tell us where Kermit is right now. What did you mean by saying ‘you'd shot him'? Were you just upset and angry at him?”

“Maybe I was,” she said.

“Was Kermit still in the house?” asked Ms. Kennedy. “Don't hold back, dear. We have to get your story set straight before phoning the sheriff.”

As if on cue, the ominous growl to a cruiser's siren grew out along the main road. “Speak of the devil,” I said under my breath.

“We better get Hannah a lawyer PDQ,” Ms. Kennedy said.

“No time for that,” I said. “Hannah, if you don't stick up for yourself, the sheriff will pin Kermit's murder on you. Law and order is a big deal in this town.”

Chin up, Hannah steeled her voice. “I'm ready to take my lumps,” she said. “I did what I had to do.”

* * *

Sheriff Wigglesworth had a goofy sounding name but you didn't make fun of it to his face. I knew him to be a strict but honest peace officer. There was no love lost between us, however. A few years back, I'd run against him for the county sheriff job and lost by three measly votes. All the other times, he'd run unopposed and my candidacy hurt his pride or something. Ms. Kennedy came around her desk when his hammering knocks sounded on her door.

“I better let him in before he pounds down the door,” she said.

My headful of prayers cleared as I came up with a plan. I reached out and touched the back of Hannah's slim hand. “You'd better follow my lead,” I said. “This is the twenty-first century but the mentality of our local law enforcement still lags in the 1950s. You're guilty of murder, no matter if Kermit was an abusive ape. I thought he'd quit all that. He made me a promise but I've learned a bitter lesson. You can't change a leopard's spots.”

“I shot the sorry S.O.B.,” said Hannah in a wooden voice.

“Yeah, I already got that part from you,” I said. “Only don't bring that up. A confession in this situation isn't smart.”

“Whatever you say, Pops. I trust you. You'll fix it right.”

A heavy trod brought Sheriff Wigglesworth into the small office with Ms. Kennedy hot on his heels. No chair available for him to take, I slipped up out of mine. “Sheriff,” I said, pumping his reluctant hand. “How are you, sir?”

“Okay Pops, give me back my hand,” said the Sheriff.

“Sit down, please.” I pointed at him, then my vacant chair. “Have a seat.”

Parking his haunches in the chair, he gave us each a cold-eyed glare. “Let's have it from A to Z. What went down tonight? Hannah, you go first.”

“She's in shock,” I said.

The sheriff waved me off. “I'm questioning Hannah first. Butt out, Pops.”

“I'm thinking Hannah needs to invoke her right to counsel,” I said to Ms. Kennedy who nodded in agreement.

“Here's my phone, Pops,” Ms. Kennedy said pushing the instrument toward me. “Make the call.”

“Hold on here,” said Sheriff Wigglesworth. “Let's not get rambunctious. We can work this out without any attorneys mudding the waters. Look, I'm not charging Hannah with any crime, just getting down her side of the story.”

“Hannah smelled smoke,” I said, speaking fast. “Alarmed, she raced outdoors. That old, sappy pine timber in their house went up fast. Kermit didn't make it out. That's the gospel truth, Sheriff.”

“Yeah, I reckon. Is that right, Hannah? Is that your version of events tonight?”

“Yes Sheriff, it happened just like Pops told it.”

The sheriff knew when he'd been beaten. Maybe our numbers not stacked in his favor flustered him. Maybe he didn't give a flying fig about what became of Kermit. Maybe he didn't have the stomach for conducting a messy homicide investigation. I don't know what thoughts tracked through his head. He didn't like what we gave him, but it was too tidy and neat to refuse.

“Fine, that's how I'll proceed for now,” said the sheriff.

On the way out of the office, he tipped his head to signal at me. I followed him into the parking area. Across the night sky I saw a spatter of stars glimmer like the dying embers to a house fire. I coughed, still tasting the residual ash and char. It left a bitter aftertaste in my mouth but I swallowed anyway.

“Pops, I know damn well you're running a con on me,” the sheriff said. “Hannah left her husband inside that burning house on purpose. Now, isn't that the gospel truth?”

“The gospel comes in many flavors,” I said.

“This gospel has a stink about it,” he said before stomping back to the cruiser. I watched the red-blue roof light strobe as its siren wailed into the murky distance.

* * *

“Pops, you wanna run this backhoe?” asked Jock.

“No,” I said. “You're the more experienced hand.”

Tipping his baseball cap to scratch at his balding spot, Jock spat. “This was a nice clapboard house in its heyday,” he said. “My Aunt Thelma lived in it for a time.”

I also spat. “Yeah but now it's only an eyesore that needs burying.”

“Has the sheriff finished his investigation?” asked Jock.

“It's a done deal,” I said. “Ruled an accident, the case is now closed. No doubt Kermit's DNA lies somewhere in these ruins but he, like all men, deserves a Christian burial.”

“That's why we're here, huh?” Jock asked me.

“You said it.”

Jock squinted at me. “Kermit didn't leave behind many friends. You were
closest to him, I'd say.”

“Then that isn't saying much,” I said. “You wanna get that backhoe going?”

“Let me lay something on you first,” said Jock. “I saw Hannah tooling around in Mayhugh's big, fancy Cadillac. There wasn't any daylight between them, either.”

I shrugged saying, “Maybe they had some someplace to go.”

END