Hey Johnny

Fall 1951

Dale County, Alabama

"Hey, Johnny."

Johnny nearly dropped his wrench into the engine of his old '37 Chevy pickup. Slowly he pulled himself out from under the hood, hoping his ears hadn't heard what they just did. Sure enough. There she was.

Greta Mansfield. Lord girl, you should not be here.

The afternoon sun outside the barn's open doors cast her in a warm glow as dust particles danced around her. She was wearing a white and red polka dot dress that clung to more curves than a country road. And then there was that amazing, thick chestnut hair. Goddamn her. She simply should not be here.

Johnny was so spellbound that for a moment he hadn't noticed the toddler on her hip. Snot dripped out of the child's nose. Another child, a boy about four years old, hung onto Greta's fingers and stooped down to pull some straw off the barn floor.

Not mine, he thought grimly. Someone else's.

Johnny reached for a cigarette as Hank Williams' hound dog wail came winding out of the cab radio and drifted through the barn's rafters.

_'Today I passed you on the street

And my heart fell at your feet

I can't help it if I'm still in love with you.'_

An awkwardness built in the air as she stood there, as if waiting for him to say something.

"Bob's gotten really sick," Greta finally said.

Yeah, Johnny had heard a tick had bitten him and he could barely walk and speak now. Goddamned sonofabitch. It was the least he deserved.

"There's something wrong with the sawmill's engine," she said. "We need someone to fix it."

"Blaine Wilson can fix it," Johnny offered. Blaine was the town's mechanic. A pervert for sure, but Johnny had seen him fix everything from a bicycle to an airplane.

She cast about for a moment. "I won't pay Mr. Wilson's price."

It didn't take much of an imagination to figure out what Blaine had demanded. He seemed to think every woman in the county owed him a fuck some way or another.

"A man over in Dothan said he could fix it," she said. "But he won't be able to get to it for a couple of weeks. We - I thought you could come look at it."

Johnny took a drag on his cigarette.

It tore at him to have to say this, and he felt like a coward for it, but he just couldn't do this again.

"Sorry, Greta. Best you wait on that man from Dothan."

He forced himself to turn away from her and focus his attention back on the truck.

"Jackass," he heard her mutter before she walked out of the barn.

Her words were like a broken glass bottle in his chest.

He looked back over his shoulder in time to watch her put the kids into the back of her green Oldsmobile before heading on down the red clay road.

He was a jackass. And every bit the coward. He hurled his wrench against the barn wall. It bounced and shattered an old lamp leaning against a stall. He ran his hands through his hair, shaking. He needed a drink bad.

Not her fault, he thought. It's mine.

He looked at the truck. For a moment, he was back years ago. She was standing in the truck bed, her arms on the top of the cab, smiling down at him, pretty as the Spring...

Hank was just finishing up his song:

_'It's hard to know another's lips will kiss you

And hold you just the way I used to do

Oh, heaven only knows how much I miss you

I can't help it if I'm still in love with you'_

Johnny reached into the cab and turned the radio off.

******

It was close to sunset by the time Johnny made his way home to the rundown farmhouse beside the road. In his family for three generations, the house leaned slightly to the side on its brick pylons. The smell of freshly baked egg custard greeted him as he mounted the porch's creaking floorboards. The screen door's spring whined as it opened then slammed shut behind him as he entered the dimly lit house.

Momma was in the kitchen washing some dishes. She had laid out some leftover chicken, greens, and boiled potatoes for him. Johnny took a seat at the table, in the chair next to the pie safe. Seeing the freshly baked egg custard siting in there, all golden and warm, lifted his spirits some.

He picked up his fork and dove into his potatoes, still eying the custard.

"That was Greta Mansfield out there wasn't it?" Momma asked.

"Sure was."

She remained quiet for a while as she dried a plate with a towel. Finally she said, "What did she want?"

Johnny really didn't want to talk about it. "Something's wrong with their sawmill engine. She wants me to look at it."

"Bob's been real sick," Momma said.

Johnny hoped the bastard would die. He had it a long time coming. And what if he did die? Then what? Johnny shook his head. He'd had his chance and had lost it. Best not even to consider it.

"You gonna fix it?" she asked.

"I don't want to talk about it, Momma."

She picked up another plate and wiped it dry.

"A lot of folks rely on that mill."

Of course, Momma wasn't going to let a thing like this go. She was the only one in the family who had any lick of sense. Daddy had always called her his rock.

Johnny picked up a chicken thigh. "She said some fella from Dothan would come out and fix it in a couple of weeks. Folks can wait awhile."

"Think you could fix it?"

"How the hell should I know, Momma? I haven't even looked at it."

She put the plate in the cupboard and picked up another.

"I think you should," she said.

He shook his head in disbelief. "Really Momma? You really think that's a good idea? You remember the last time Greta was in my life?"

"She never left, Johnny," she said.

Johnny tossed the chicken onto his plate and turned away. He stared at the painting of Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane hanging in the hallway.

Dammit. She shouldn't have come.

******

Later that night, Johnny sat on the porch, rolling his cigarettes and draining a bottle of Jim Beam. As his mind grew cloudier, his thoughts turned back to another time.

There was that little girl with ugly ribbons in her hair whom he had fallen for the first time he laid eyes on her. She'd have nothing to do with him, though. That soon changed. There they were, he and Greta, teenagers in the front seat of that old truck. They were fishtailing down the dusty back roads. He was laying on the horn and whooping. She was bouncing all over the seat, against the windows, into him, laughing.

There was that time at Thomas Mill Creek. She stripped down- the first and only time he had seen her naked. Lord. Those full young breasts and that mound of hair between her legs! He swam after her, aching like he had never ached before, but she hadn't let him come near her no matter how much he begged.

Good times.

Then one day he got in his head he was going to join the war.

She had grabbed hold of his arm and squeezed it so tight it hurt. Her face was a mask of terror.

"Don't Johnny! Please don't! The Japs will fight to the last man and take as many Americans with them as they can! You'll never come back, Johnny! I just know it!"

"Its my right as a man, Greta. Don't start carrying on, now."

She clung to him and bawled. He pried her off.

"You're acting like such a baby. Why don't you grow up some? You should be proud of me."

Her face darkened and she pointed a finger in his face.

"You leave Johnny, and I'll never go back to you. Ever. Even if you do come back. Ya hear me?"

He batted her hand away and bore down on her, his spit flying. "I wouldn't take you back even if you begged!"

She had fled in tears.

Johnny picked up the bottle of Beam, tilted it straight up and poured the remainder down his throat.

******

Johnny drove over to the sawmill in the morning, his toolbox in the back of his truck. His head pounded.

The mill was set back from the road, in a grove of trees down the hill from the nearby Mansfield farmhouse. He hadn't been there in years. The last time, he had been just a boy with his daddy.

As he pulled up next to the mill, a black-mouthed cur came bounding out of the kicked-up road dust and bellowed at him. Johnny winced from the piercing noise as he opened the door. Stupid mutt. As if realizing his pain, the dog let out a long, low whine.

He held out a hand. "Easy now, boy. Just here to help. Quiet now."

The dog sat down, and eyed him warily as Johnny reached in and pulled a thermos out of the truck. Hair of the dog. He had filled it with coffee and Jim Beam that morning.

He poured himself a cup and downed it.

Damn, what am I doing here?

Johnny walked over to the mill. The dog followed him, no longer barking, but intent on keeping a close eye on him.

The place smelled of freshly cut logs and oil. A yellow pine log sat on the carriage, ready to be sacrificed upon the jagged teeth of the mill's half-rusted circular saw. A trailer filled with logs rested near a shelter piled with finished planks.

He rested his hand on the mill's head-block, eyed the track, then wiped the sawdust off his hands as he remembered the last time he'd been here. The mill had been powered by a steam engine back then. It had sounded like a train, and he had been fascinated by it. What had happened to it? There it was - rusting under an oak.

He got out his toolbox; best go ahead and get on with it. Chances were he could just fix the damned thing and leave without ever seeing Greta.

No such luck: there she was, coming down the hill from the house.

Bless me, Jesus.

He was rooted to the spot as she came toward him. She looked so pretty in a white blouse and jeans rolled up at the ankles, her hair tied up with a blue handkerchief. She was carrying her little one and encouraging the older to keep up behind her.

"Hey, Johnny."

"Hey."

He tried his best not to look at her; instead he made his way to a little shed next to the track where he figured the engine would be. The door opened after a couple of hard tugs. Inside, there it was: a green Briggs and Stratton 40-horsepower engine.

"It was working fine," Greta told him. He could feel her near him, just behind his shoulder. As she spoke, he'd felt her breath on the back of his neck. Why did she have to stand so close?

"It started to smoke one day and then just quit working. Matt Kellerman said it might be the carburetor."

Matt Kellerman? Johnny snorted. Johnny had chickens that knew more about engines then that ignoramus.

He cranked it, but the engine wouldn't turn over. He checked the battery cables. They seemed fine. He checked the fuel.

Hold on ... he gave the tank a sniff.

He rubbed his chin for a moment. He found the portable fuel tank in the corner of the shed, unscrewed the cap, and took a whiff. Yep.

"What's the matter?" Greta asked.

"Some fool put diesel in the engine."

"You sure?"

He splashed a little of the fuel on the ground and took a match from his pocket. Greta stepped back as he lit it and dropped it on the puddle. The match flickered for just a moment then went out.

"That's your problem, see? Diesel doesn't burn. You need fuel to burn to make the engine run. This here is a gasoline engine, not a diesel."

Her face had turned the color of a tomato. Johnny didn't say anything. It was quite clear to him who the fool had been.

"So, is the engine ruined?" she asked.

"Nah. It just has to be flushed is all. I'll go over to the filling station and get some more gas, drain what's in it, and get it working in a bit. Should be running fine by noon, I suspect."

Her body went limp as she grabbed his arm. "Oh, thank you, Johnny. You have no idea how thankful I am. I thought we were ruined. Thank you so much."

The touch of her hand on his skin sent shock waves through his body. Oh Lord, it had been so long.

"No problem," he muttered, looking away from her and hating it when she took her hand away.

"How much for all this?" she asked.

He didn't want to charge her anything, but that probably wouldn't be right. "A dollar for the gas and a couple of dollars for the labor ought to cover it."

She nodded. "I'll make you a lunch too."

"Don't worry yourself, now."

"Please." She gave him that big smile of hers. "It's the least I can do."

Dammit. Why did she have to be so damned beautiful? He didn't need to stay here, but he so badly wanted to. He hadn't been this close to her in so long. It almost felt like old times.

"Fine."

When he got in his truck to go get the gas, the black-mouthed cur jumped up in the bed. The animal wagged its tail as they took off down the road.

******

"You kill him and they'll come for you."

Johnny could hear his Momma's words echoing in his mind as he drove the winding red clay road back to the saw mill.

All his time in the army, a day didn't go by he didn't think of Greta. But the argument they had steeled his heart. He returned home in the Spring of '46. Momma had delivered the news. Greta married Bob Mansfield only a few months before. A widower without children and near thirty years Greta's senior, Bob owned the county's only sawmill.

Johnny was either too stupid to believe it or simply refused it to be true, but when he saw Greta at church the following Sunday for the first time in nearly a year, it all came crashing down on him.

She was sitting in the sixth pew, wearing a black-and-white-checkered dress with a matching jacket, a black hat cocked to the side, with a veil, so he couldn't see her face very well, but he knew it was she. With the dark colors and the veil, he figured a loved one must have recently died and she was in mourning.

She never looked in his direction. Her eyes stayed forward, and she sat almost statue-like. His insides were doing somersaults to see her again. He wanted to rush over to her, but Bob was sitting next to her.

Johnny's Daddy had told him one time Bob had been a hell raiser in his younger days. He still had a reputation as a tough old cob. Bob leveled his gaze at Johnny, who realized he'd been staring at another man's wife in church. He turned away, but he cursed Bob's name to hell as he did.

After the service, Johnny spotted Greta off by herself. He moved to intercept.

His mother caught him, concern written all over her face. Johnny ignored her. He had to see Greta again.

His heart was beating so fast as he'd neared her.

She gave him a small smile. "Hey, Johnny."

She had greeted him like that all the time he had known her. 'Hey, Johnny.' The way she said it always made his knees melt.

"Hey," he said softly.

He found himself staring at her, dumb as a stump. She was so damned beautiful. What was he supposed to say, 'Good to see you again'? Or 'Congratulations'? That would be stupid. He sure as hell wasn't going to congratulate her for marrying someone else. Then he'd suddenly felt angry and had wanted to demand, 'Why did you marry that old man?' More than anything, he wanted to grab her and kiss those lips. To feel her against him again. He wanted to tell her he had thought of her every single day he had been away.

"I heard you were home," she had said. "I'm glad."

What did that mean, he wondered. Had she missed him, too?

"Greta, I -"

That's when he spotted the bruise under her eye. The veil hid most of it, and she had put some make up over it, but he saw it plain as day. A small flame of disbelief kindled in his chest, which turned into a bonfire of rage.

She'd read it in his eyes. "I fell, Johnny," she had said quickly.

"Bullshit."

He was going to kill him. Plain and simple. And he was going to do it right now. He had a wrench in the back of the truck that would do just fine.

"Johnny!" she'd grabbed him by the arm. "Johnny, don't you dare. I fell Johnny. I fell. Johnny! Don't you dare."

He looked back at her lovely face. It was full of fear. He winced when he looked at her bruise again. She shook her head and whispered, "Don't. . ."

Bob called for her. Greta dutifully returned to his side.

Week after week, Johnny caught sight of her but never had a chance to talk. Soon, she had a visible bulge growing in her belly. Another knife in his heart; that child should have been his. He couldn't think of her being with another man ... Bob, lying on top of her, rutting at her like some oversized hog. She missed church a lot. The churchwomen talked behind their hands that Greta was being beaten. It was all too much for Johnny.

One afternoon, a rumor circulated that Bob had broken Greta's nose. Johnny headed right for his Daddy's 12-gauge in the hall closet. Momma barred his way.

"You'll be in jail before sundown!" Momma pushed him back with all her strength. "And what's gonna happen to Greta and her kids? What's gonna happen to me, Johnny? What do I do without you? And then what happens to you? Locked away forever? Executed for murder? Don't throw your life away, boy!"

Johnny turned and pounded the wall. The hallway pictures fell and crashed to the floor. "I can't let him do this, I can't!"

He tore through the house overturning chairs and shelves. He smashed his fists against the walls and screamed, his vision blinded by hot tears. Finally, he sunk to the floor and cried, his hands bleeding, sliced by broken glass.

His momma put an arm around him. "You ain't no murderer," she had said. "Johnny, you got to let this go. There ain't anything you can do."

He got in his truck, intent on draining all the whiskey in Dale county. Momma found him passed out, three days later, head-first in the old cattle trough. To this day he wasn't quite sure how come he hadn't drowned ... she must have found him in the nick of time.

All his fault.

******

The engine took a little longer to fix then Johnny had thought. Draining the engine of the diesel had been easy enough, but getting all the lines cleaned out took a little while. He was in no rush to finish. God help him. He wanted to see Greta again.

Finally, Johnny cranked the engine. It smoked for a moment, sputtered, then ran just fine. He checked it over and tuned it up a bit, feeling proud he had fixed it so easily.

A few minutes later, Greta came hurrying down the trail from the house. "You fixed it!"

She was all smiles as she came to him, a picnic basket in her hand. Neither of the kids was with her this time.

He sucked in a deep breath when she wrapped her arms around him and gave him a squeeze. "Thank you! You have no idea how much this means to me."

Johnny's heart started pounding at the scent of her hair and clothes ... so fresh and sweet. Just like he had remembered. His body ached as her soft breasts pushed against his arm. He felt he might die when she let him go.

"Momma's come to help with the kids," she told him. "We can have lunch together."

She made her way to a nearby log and sat down, patting the place next to her, for him to come and sit.

As she unwrapped a pair of sandwiches, he asked, "How's Bob doing?"

"Still sick," she said. She offered him a ham sandwich with lettuce and tomato. "He went out hunting a few weeks ago and got covered in ticks. We thought we got them all, but then he got real sick. Doc came in and found one in his hair. Said he would get better after that, but he didn't. Few days latter, the doc pulled another off him. He still hasn't gotten better."

"He got another one on him somewhere?"

She shrugged. "Maybe. Doc had all his hair cut off just to make sure. If it's on him, he can't find it."

"He must be in a bad way."

She shrugged again and took a bite of her sandwich. She seemed about as interested in talking about it as discussing the harvesting of green beans.

At first, Johnny felt confused by her lack of concern. Ticks could paralyze and kill a man. If Bob continued on this road, he'd be dead in a couple of weeks, if not sooner. Sonofabitch. Good riddance. Did Greta feel the same way? It seemed too harsh for the girl he used to know. Then again, she wasn't the same innocent girl he had known as a boy and young man. She was a grownup woman, tempered by cruel life.