Fiction by Dwight Hinson

Dwight Hinson says, “My grandfather and my mother were both storytellers. When I was a kid, I used to soak up all that stuff like a sponge. I guess it marinated in me through adulthood. Finally, in retirement, I had the time to get it all out. I’d always wanted to be a writer, but making a living got in the way. Now I had the time. I’ve been at it for twenty years, and I love doing it even more than I would have ever dreamed.”

Propinquity 

The dead man’s brother came in late for the burial in a 49 Hudson Hornet. He drove all the way from Waynesville, Mississippi where he made a life far different from the dead man sandwiching heat element harnesses between layers of wool in one of the nation’s first electric blanket factories. He’d been retrieved from the workers’ cafeteria with news of his brother’s passing during the second shift and had to leave his dime still in the slot of the cake snack machine when it jammed. He stopped at a general merchandise in a swamp near Corinth in the early morning and got gas and a Double Cola with peanuts poured down the neck. He ran off a knucklehead boy from the Hornet’s radio and continued his journey driving a leisurely forty five miles an hour with the thought he’d be late anyway given the haste with which they chunked the dead in the ground back home. In McNairy County he acquired two pints of bootleg whiskey in Canadian whiskey labels and ran them under the seat for eventualities unknown. He played the radio and watched a bird’s wing of light reflect off the concave hood. When he got home he passed the funeral home without even looking though he knew there’d be a host of round cars with bug eyes parked there for the next dead man. He drove down roads familiar to his youth on into the county and wound curves he could close his eyes to, the washboard effects working counter to the striping on the Hornet’s cloth seats. He bothered to turn the rearview mirror to him in preparation for meeting his brother’s gravesite. The gold tooth gave  back in the mirror, and he snapped his chambray collar somewhat smartly. The tires spat red rock as he turned into a lush green grove. 

The dead man’s wife was still there in the cemetery. 

He thought the whiskey might be necessary. She looked a riddle, both too young and penitent dressed in her widow black frock and bonnet. The bonnet had slipped back on her head, and it was fortunate she’d tied the strings loosely for a wind threatened to take the enormous bill and choke her, the long loops fluttering at her temple. He remembered how things were here in the county, all old timey still and rooted deep in the past. Waynesville Mississippi seemed a giant step into the future though he’d had to go all the way to Tupelo to pick out the Hornet and sign a note all under the same roof. He cut the switch and got out and slid one of the Lord Calvert bottles into his back pocket where it fit ill till he turned it around. The heat off the Hornet’s motor popped and snapped the metal hood like a violent, yet irregular Vulcan’s hammer. 

The dead man’s wife looked up white and fragile as fluted porcelain against the freshly spaded red dirt. The dead man’s brother walked to the grave where he pressed two saucers in the soft earth with his knees briefly, bowed his head and got up to approach what was written on the stone. He took in the words and went to prop his back today before yesterday’s date chiseled in the marble deep as harsh wounds. He reached round, extracted and offered the bottle. 

“You know I don’t drink that,” she said.

“I’d offer you a beer if I had it. This is actual more fittin,” he countered. She didn’t answer. 

“What’s that you’re drivin?” she finally spoke. 

He took a swallow, and from where she sat the gold of the whiskey accrued greater wealth to the gold nugget in his mouth. 

“Bought it on time. I make good money. Did he know much?”

“You mean about Jody?”

He nodded.

She arose and went to sit opposite him on the edge of the grass arranging herself as for a portrait taken by him. She pulled the bonnet back into place tight over her hair. The bill trembled meekly. She folded her hands. 

“Which one of you named him?” he inquired.

“I did. No. He didn’t know.”

The dirt settled at the foot of the grave and left a small cavity.

He indicated the hole with the bottle. “I’d have em back if I was you. The ground’s still wet,” he observed.

“Remember how he used to stand so close?” the dead man’s brother said finally.

“Yes.”

“That’s when I used to think he knew. The boy wasn’t born yet. He’d be right up next to me where I could’ve drawn a picture of the veins in his eyes.”

“He’d do that to me too,” she confessed.

Auburn wisps from her temple played against her cheek, and tiny diamonds rode the oval strands.

“Did it bother you?” 

“No. You?”

He took another swallow of whiskey.

“No,” he lied.

“I look at it he’s Jody’s real daddy,” she said.

The dead man’s brother looked away at something interesting in the distance.

“I don’t imagine you’d want to think about bringin the boy and comin back to Waynesville with me?” 

“No.” 

“I make a good livin,” he argued.

“I reckon you do. New car and all,” she smiled.

The wind adjusted direction and fell full on her alabaster face. The bonnet lifted like a hawk’s wing riding a current, and she removed it by the string and let it. His collar swept across his neck like a pair of matched pennants. 

“You wouldn’t have to take in anybody’s wash or mendin,” he pointed out. An irregular tapping took up from somewhere nearby once the wind abated. 

“No.”

“I could do a lot for the boy.” 

“I appreciate it, but I got to stay here.”

He got to his feet and shook off his clothes. “You got to be close?”

“Yes. Close.”

“Are you ready?” 

“Can I get a ride home in your new car?” 

“How’d you get out here?”

“I just stayed from the funeral.”

“Sure.” 

He put the whiskey bottle back in his pocket.

“Do you hear anything?” she asked.

“The motor’s coolin down from the trip,” the dead man’s brother told her pointing, 

“The heat’s causin the hood to pop.”

He offered her his hand to get up. 

She took it, and he lifted her to her feet, the bonnet fluttering at her side like something alive and desperately seeking escape.

From the gravesite they pinballed toward the car where the bird’s wing reflected reversed off the hood. The metal reported in rhythmic snaps, their interval slowly lengthening. The dead man’s brother and the dead man’s wife approached the soundings, and she thought them very like failing heart tracings.