Butcher

By Reid Matthias

Butcher is a work of fiction describing the travails of a wandering butcher who has the gift of reading people. Throughout the course of the novel, the reader will find herself or himself immersed in the idiosyncrasies of American small town life and the immensity of emotions that come as worlds collide. Butcher, the book, is f

• Language: English
• Publisher: Reid Matthias
• Release date: Dec 8, 2020
• ISBN: 9780645047219

Reid Matthias

Reid Matthias is a keen observer of human nature and enjoys studying the finer details of humanity's response to life and putting it in stories. Reid and his wife, Christine, live in South Australia with their three amazing daughters, Elsa, Josephine and Greta.

Book preview

Prologue

Dearest Reader,

In your hands you hold both page and word, spine and cover, the meandering verbal paintings that create another life not so different than this, except that it will appear only in your mind. The images you conjure will be nothing like the colors and shapes in my mind or of anyone else. For that, be thankful. In your ability to create a mental picture from printed word, you are the author of this story as much as I.

Now, as you sit in your favorite reading chair, or lie in your glorious bed, maybe you have taken this book on your summer (or winter) vacation and are looking forward to a few hours, or days, of uninterrupted creation, you are ready for a story. I hope you haven’t chosen this book in hopes that it would be the memoirs of a sociopath reminiscing about his various diabolical conquests, blood and gore splattered across the pages. This is not that kind of book. I hope you forgive me, for the title that may be somewhat misleading. This story is not one of murderer and victim, viscera and blood, (well, not intentionally) but of a wonderful man named Leopold Jensen who just happens to be a butcher. You know, the kind that works in a meat locker.

Leopold will be a different character than many you will ever encounter, not just because this is a different book and a different story, but that very few call him by his given name.

They simply know him as Butcher.

My dearest reader, I hope that you enter Leopold’s town with sympathetic heart and empathetic eyes to see that in the midst of life, there is something immensely beautiful about living life together. When we share our sorrows and joys, we recognize that the only true disease is loneliness.

Those who are sick can find healing in the embrace of a spouse.

Those who are sad can find comfort in the whisper of shared sorrow between brothers.

Those who are joyful can find completion in sharing the raucous laughter of a neighbor.

Those who are terrified can stand behind the hero.

To be inoculated against loneliness is to live life as it was meant to be lived.

Chapter 1.

Penny Reynolds’ footwear - comfortable and practical, white tennis shoes with blue laces, just a hint of color, very much like her life - made no noise as she purposefully strode down First Street East. As she passed by the shops, she did her very best not to let her gaze be drawn by her moving reflection, but the mirrored glass allowed her to take advantage of what she believed to be a very attractive middle-aged woman reflected in the shop windows. Penny knew that with each shop she passed, whether hardware, bakery, bank or grocery store, she would be noticed if she were to stare at her appearance. The patrons inside the stores would smirk at the townswoman in a floral print blouse and blue jeans (ubiquitous uniform among the denizens of the town) and think to themselves, That’s a bit vain for Penny to be staring at her reflection in the glass. Which is exactly why Penny kept up her brisk pace. She did not want anyone to judge her as guilty of the venial sin of vanity.

She was faster than most of the residents of the town of Amicable, not that that was saying much. The town’s slowest resident, George Hendriks, who also happened to be its oldest citizen, topped out at one or two miles per hour. That was walking or driving. George had steadfastly refused to give up his driver's license even when Louise Nelson, the town police officer, requested with Amicable politeness that he cede his plastic identification card. No one was going to tell the nonagenarian when and where he could go with his 1981 Dodge Omni, burnt orange with ribbed Naugahyde seat cushions. No sirree, George would be taking his good, sweet time making his way to the post office to pick up his mail, even if it took the entire morning for him to drive there. Other residents of Amicable would smile patronizingly at the old man as he puttered up the street hunched over the steering wheel, grimly staring at the road through thick bifocaled glasses.

Penny greeted other pedestrians with a cheery good morning, because that’s how it happens in Amicable, Iowa. The town itself, population 1,056 (largely dependent on how long George kept kicking) was a carbon copy of many of the other small towns in the Midwest. Amicable’s Main Street, three blocks long, a true thoroughfare with neither stop sign nor stop light to impede the progress of Mr. Hendriks or any other motorist regardless of speed, was lined with not-so-thriving businesses. These included the aforementioned bakery, cafe and grocery or the Hogard’s Shoe House. The Traveler’s Choice Restaurant and Wilson’s Body Shop, owned and operated by Liam Wilson, an oil stained mechanic who seemed to have a perpetual five o’clock shadow and a chronic disdain for anything urban or foreign, were stationed like blood valves on the aorta of Amicable – Highway 10. These businesses brought modest amounts of business from surrounding agrarian communities.

Niceness seemed to be in the DNA of all small towns in the Midwest. The gene, passed on from generations of farmers known for piety and piquancy, a true irony, was carried by anyone who had lived in Amicable for more than twenty years. The locals would have said this was the determinative number of years one must live in the town before one could take on the term ‘local,’ although many ‘foreigners’ from other states would have said that one would need generations of relatives to gain acceptance as a ‘local.’

Amicable was known for its niceness, or at least that of the external kind. The streets lined with elms, maples and oak trees laden with acorns squished underfoot, were straight and true. Blue sky seemed to infuse the town with a perpetual sense of comfortable niceness, except in the winter when the stubborn winter clouds hurled endless amounts of frozen precipitation on the town causing Amicableans (Am-ih-CAH-blee-ans: stress the third syllable, thank you very much) to grumble under their breaths at the thought of hefting one more shovelful from their driveways. Swearing was limited to true hardship (or card playing for some) not for casual conversation. For those who were unable to control their tongues, they were met with frowns of disfavor and tsk tsks of disappointment in their uncouth-ness. The profaners were left dispirited with a sense of I need to try better. That would be the nicer thing to do.

Amicable’s public school was a nice, big, blocky edifice at the heart of the town, which pumped out nice, educated children who could read, write and excel at good sportsmanship while suffering through decades of losing seasons in every conceivable arena of athletics. Although the number of children in Amicable had gradually been diminishing in the last two or three decades due mainly to the lack of career opportunities afforded in Amicable for young families, it didn’t seem to bother Amicableans that much. Sooner or later, the young people would all come back with nice young families, not like these immigrant families who were so different than everyone else. This was the predominant thought for many of the upper crust elites of the Amicable township. Immigration is what had begun to unravel the niceness of the community. These people who came from different countries, not even different states! Bringing their non-Amicable cultures and traditions. Some of them didn’t even go to church!

How could they not see that the citizenry of Amicable were friendly and open hearted as long as the foreigners worked hard for a living and spoke English?

Penny turned right at the corner of Second Avenue and almost ran into Donna Humphries, a similarly clad matron who was meandering too close to the center of the sidewalk.

Oh, Penny said, perturbed but far too nice to show it, I’m so sorry, Donna.

Donna’s face registered similar irritation momentarily, but she was quick to hide it. Penny, heavens! You must be in a hurry.

Penny held up her hands to squelch that kind of urban talk. No, no no, Donna, just out for a brisk walk to pick up my pork chops this morning. On sale.

Sure, sure. Good idea. Unsure of how long to continue the meaningless conversation, Donna put her hands on her hips giving the impression of permanence and patience allowing Penny to make the first move away. A moment of awkward silence ensued before Donna looked up at the sky and started down the conversational highway that all nice Amicableans would travel. It’s a beautiful day today, isn’t it?

Penny followed Donna’s eyes to the sky, not needing to, but it was proper to give one’s own meteorological assessment of the day. Yes, a nice day, although we may get some rain next week.

Donna frowned.

Okay, then, Donna, I’m going to get going. You have a good day, now.

Donna nodded and unhitched her hands from her hips signaling her intent to keep moving also. Penny turned and Donna watched her retreating form, her blue jeans devoid of wrinkles and her floral print flashing in the sun. Somewhat jealous of Penny’s appropriately colored hair, the same hue as a copper cent coin, Donna frowned momentarily and then turned to go her own way down First Street East.

Something had been niggling in the back of Penny’s mind, a small worm of discontent pushing through the coral-like membranes of her brain. Everything should have been fine: a beautiful late summer day, sun shining, blue sky glinting, birds singing. It was as if Amicable was humming its own tune, but Penny was fixated on something her daughter Naida had said the night before. Something disquieting, like a dripping tap at night. Naida, named after Penny’s great grandmother Diana but with letters rearranged, (and a source of consternation to Amicableans who were used to ‘normal’ names like Jane, Joy and Jenny) had dropped in for a visit. Unannounced, Naida had dropped by and after a brief ‘hello’ had moved to the kitchen and reached into the cupboard for a sachet of tea. (It was inappropriate to have a beer on a weeknight. That would have been frowned upon by even the most liberal of Amicableans.) Naida proceeded to wreak havoc on Penny’s contentedness. Naida and her husband (a very respectably named James) were having ‘difficulties,’ which Naida metaphorically captured by using her fingers as faux quotation marks. When Penny pressed her about what ‘difficulties’ meant, mirroring the same use of fingers, Naida sighed deeply and said they were having a failure to communicate.

You need to figure that out.

Naida put her chin on her hands, which were resting on the table staring morosely at the untouched steaming cup of tea in front of her eyes. I know, Mom, I don’t need a lecture. A tear formed in the corner of her left eye, a gentle pool of emotion that rarely appeared. But it’s really hard. I think he wants a…

Naida could not bring herself to speak of the ‘D’ word, which in Amicable was as damaging as death. Divorce meant death of a relationship, whereas death was, in the minds of the gentle people of Amicable, an inevitability where nice Amicablean lives passed on to the pleasant confines of heaven which, in the imagination of the populace, would be almost identical to the earthly town of Amicable replete with bakery, cafe and grocery store. Divorce was not nice. Divorce had no place in Amicable.

As Penny journeyed to the butcher’s shop, she noticed an incredibly tall man standing in front of the door of the bowling alley looking at a piece of paper in his hands. Glancing up and down, as if making dreadfully sure that this was the right place and knowing that it wasn’t, but looking dreadfully out of place because no one ever got lost in Amicable, the man turned to his left to see Penny approaching. A warm smile, gentle and broad, welcomed her close to him, and almost instantaneously, Penny was drawn to ask him the inevitable Amicable question.

Can I help you? Whenever an Amicablean produced these words, there was a surety, a heartfelt knowing, that the receiver of the question would respond No, thank you. I’ll be fine.

But the man crushed the paper up in his large hand (Penny had noticed this already) and put it in his pocket. Yes. Could you?

Taken aback by the positive response, but feeling slightly warmed by the opportunity to actually help someone in need, (thankfully not an immigrant) Penny stood next to the tall man. Looking up into his brown eyes, deep, intense pools of concentration and, Penny noticed with a slight hiccup of breath, kindness, Penny smiled back at him. Certainly.

I’m looking for Peterson’s Butcher Shop. Is this it? He was staring at the address on the wall which had seemed to match the one on the recently crumpled piece of paper. 13 First Avenue, Amicable?

Penny shook her head. You’ve got the right number, but wrong road. This is First Street. First Avenue is just around the corner. Fortunately for you (good Amicableans would never have registered their fate to luck - only fortune) I’m going there too. Would you like me to take you?

That would be wonderful, the man responded. He waited for Penny to make the next move.

Aware now of the slight conundrum that had presented itself, that of walking the streets of Amicable with a strange man, who was not her husband, Penny had a decision to make. Penny’s husband, Tony, was what Amicableans would call an ‘old fashioned’ man. His instincts for matrimonial protection were not about jealousy but how things would look. What would Tony say if he saw her walking with this tall man? What would Amicableans say? Shrugging her shoulders slightly, Penny decided she was happy to be helping him and if people around town wanted to talk, let them talk. Amicable needed shaking up every once in a while.

Walking together in silence, Penny felt an excitement, not physical, but a stirring, a new feeling of something different occurring. Amicable didn’t get many strangers, and this man with his certain tallness, would stand out as a stranger even if he was just going to pick up discounted pork chops from Peterson’s.

Breaking the silence, the man stopped and turned towards Penny. My name is Leopold. Leopold Jensen. He stuck his hand out and down to her.

Penny looked down at his hand and studied it before shaking. Small tufts of blond hair sprouted from the skin between his knuckles. She was surprised to see a variety of cuts, some scabbed others already morphed into white scars. Taking his hand in hers and shaking it firmly (that’s how it was done in Amicable - two shakes and drop, especially between men and women), Penny introduced herself.

Mrs. Penny Reynolds. It was proper for her to give her marital status so as not to give any ideas. His hand was warm. She was surprised when he reached up with his other hand for the somewhat inappropriate two-handed shake reserved for close friends, or Reverend Deakins on Sunday mornings, as he stood appropriately spaced apart from his flock in his white alb at the back of the church. Penny had forgotten what it felt like to be pleased and uncomfortable at the same time.

Nice to meet you, Mrs. Reynolds.

After his admission of her marital status, it was perfectly acceptable to drop pretenses. Penny, please.

Okay, then. You can call me Leo.

They began walking again. His long strides outpaced hers. He slowed to accommodate her steps. She noticed. Where are you from, Leo?

Leo shrugged. Here and there. I’ve been on the road for a while looking for work. He didn’t seem embarrassed to be without a job. This would have been a rarity in Amicable.

Penny’s heart raced at this interesting morsel of information. She flicked her hair over her shoulder consciously aware that she was living in the tension of opposing forces: she was hoping that no one was watching her walk with the strange man, and yet she was secretly desiring everyone in Amicable to notice her. As much as gossip was outwardly frowned upon, it was the gasoline which kept the engine of the town running. If they didn’t talk about each other, nothing exciting would ever happen.

Penny had forgotten what it was like to flirt. Her heart raced as she walked with the stranger. Inwardly, she knew that there was assuredly no chance of anything transpiring from this interaction, but imaginations could be strong. A little sliver can become infected quickly.

Stranger danger. Briefly, Penny’s thoughts were drawn to Tony and his limited movement from the lounge chair towards the kitchen, but she squashed them. Nothing wrong with a little bit of dangerous liaising. You’re not so talkative, are you?

What would you like to talk about?

Unfortunately, they were within thirty footsteps of Peterson’s Locker. Penny slowed slightly, shortening her steps even further to stretch the time out, but she knew it would be short lived.

I don’t know. I guess we most often talk about the weather.

Leo’s face turned slightly to her. Okay. The weather is nice. Next topic.

Well, that was kind of rude, Penny thought. We should be discussing the threat of rain, or the speed of the wind, perhaps the cloud cover before we get into deeper topics like car types, farming or (gulp) politics. Right, she said slowly, We could talk about why you’re here in Amicable. Her voice formed the statement into a sentence as if asking permission first.

Ah, Leo said looking up at the white and blue striped awning with the name Peterson’s Locker stenciled across the front in large, block blue letters. Here it is - Peterson’s. Thank you very much, Penny, for bringing me here safely. Looking up at the brown stone building built almost one hundred years ago, birthed at very much the same time as George Hendriks and almost identical to all the other edifices in Amicable, Leo smiled as he stopped just short of the two steps up.

Penny looked into his brown eyes while ignoring the posters proclaiming the pork chop sale and the stenciled lettering on the window pointing to This week’s specials – Hamburger: ONLY FIVE DOLLARS PER POUND! YOU WANT PORK CHOPS? WE GOT ‘EM. IOWA CHOPS. SO GOOD FOR GRILLING!

You’re very welcome, Leo, she said somewhat disappointedly.

The tall man ascended the cement stairs freshly swept of dirt and loose stone and opened the door. A small bell suspended above the door tinkled as he opened it. With a smile he looked back towards Penny who followed him upwards.

As he held the door open, Penny nodded in thanks for his consideration and then moved through the carnage of recently slaughtered farm animals to select from raw cuts of loin, chop and shoulder, all the while keeping an ear open for the conversation, which she knew was going to occur behind her.

Leopold glanced around the butchery. Like most other butcheries, Peterson’s was long, narrow and white. Display cases holding cuts of beef, pork and chicken were decorated with links of sausage and rashers of bacon. The tiled floor sparkled from the polishing given earlier that morning. A saw buzzed in the background. All noises echoed, resonating back and forth through the front of the shop. As Leopold approached the weary looking butcher, a young man in his twenties who was stifling his seventeenth yawn for the day, he was aware of the dismal sense of drudgery that filled the room. This young man had a sense of hopelessness about him, a future that was so clear, but so unenviable, it was written all over his face.

Leo cleared his throat and the young man looked up. Can I help you?

Nodding, Leo moved towards the display case and leaned on it. I’m looking for Nash Peterson.

The young man, Derek, as was written in gold stenciling on his blood-stained apron, looked back over his shoulder. Nash! he shouted just as the saw started up again. Waiting for the sound to stop, Derek smiled and shrugged. Leo returned the smile and waited with him. When the saw quit, Derek repeated his shout.

Nash!

What! The voice called from the back.

You’ve got a visitor.

Who is it? Obviously, Nash was busy with other things, but it was uncommon for a shop owner to neglect a patron. That wasn’t nice.

What’s your name? Derek asked quietly.

Leopold. Leopold Jensen.

LEOPOLD JENSEN! Leo smirked at the exchange.

Who is that? Nash called out.

I don’t know, Nash. Maybe you should COME OUT HERE AND FIND OUT! Derek shrugged apologizing with his hands.

As the newborn silence reigned, Derek moved away from Leo and towards Penny. Is there anything I can get for you, Mrs. Reynolds?

Yes, Derek, but give me a few more moments. I haven’t decided what I’m going to take home with me. Penny’s hands were pushed into the back pockets of her blue jeans as she stared into the glass display.

Okay, Mrs. Reynolds.

At that moment, Nash Peterson walked around the corner. Wiping his hands on his apron, he approached the counter and lifted the bench which folded up and over. Nash Peterson was Derek Peterson’s identical twin. As Derek smiled, Leo was disconcerted by the sameness of the two butchers. Nash extended his hand and Leo’s first response, because of the gore, was to refrain, but he was used to the accoutrements of the abattoir. Shaking his hand, Leo reintroduced himself.

Ah, yes, Nash crossed his arms and leaned back slightly. The young butcher had a full head of dark hair, sparkling white teeth and milky brown eyes. He exuded both a sense of restlessness and confidence, a comfort in his own skin somewhat dissimilar to his identical twin brother. You’re the one who applied for the job.

Penny’s ears perked up. So, this could be a new resident of Amicable? How exciting!

Yes, I read about the opening on your website. Is the position still available?

Nash nodded. We’re looking to add one more set of hands to cut meat. Do you want to come back to the office to talk?

Leo shook his head. Whatever is on the paper is just words. I can show you what I can do, if you’d like. That might be better than any resume, right?

Nash and Derek both laughed at the same time. Leo smiled.

Sure, sure. Why don’t you come on behind the counter, we’ll get you an apron and break this side of pork.

Leo moved past Nash and walked over to the wall smelling familiarly of blood and lard. The cool air of the butchery bought instantaneous goosebumps to his arms. For the first time, he noticed the sound of a radio playing in the background. Throwback music to the 1980’s. The music seemed to be the rage around the Midwest, or maybe it had never not been the rage. Madonna was singing about all the possessions that she would like her man to give her. Putting his head through the apron strap, Leo then tied it behind his back.

Do you want a mesh glove? Nash asked.

No thank you, Leo said.

Suit yourself. Knife?

Leo laughed. It’s harder to cut with my teeth, but if that’s what you want… Nash smiled broadly, already liking this man.

So, how would you like this? Leo asked.

How about you cut it up and tell me what you’re doing. Nash crossed his arms wondering how the ‘interview’ would play out, but then, just seconds later, he watched with awe as Leo’s knife flashed with a speed he had never seen.

Loin cuts, roasts and chops, Mr. Peterson. Within minutes, Leo had trimmed the meat out and set the cuts into piles. Derek, who had left his post as salesman, watched mouth open also. It seemed as if Leo had not even broken a sweat. Not only did it appear as if he had not broken a sweat, Nash wasn’t sure if he even had his eyes open.

Impressive, Nash said and turned towards his brother who shrugged and smirked. But please don’t call me Mr. Peterson.

Yeah, Derek called from his position in the doorway. I’m Mr. Peterson.

Nash rolled his eyes. You can call me Nash. This is our father’s shop; he and our mom are on vacation for the next few months.

How old are you two? Leo asked.

Nash tilted his head back, laughed and looked at his brother before answering. I’ll be asking the questions here, Mr. Jensen.

Leopold grinned, but waited for an answer.

We’re twenty-one years old. How about yourself?

The tall man paused before answering and then clasped his hands in front of him. I’m old enough to be your… uncle, at least.

And are you married?

Is it a prerequisite?

Penny’s ears were straining to hear the answer to the last question. She was disappointed that the stranger had not answered it. Why the mystery?

Just curious. If you’re going to work in Amicable, you’ll recognize that everyone has… what’s the right phrase, Derek?

Derek scratched his wavy head of hair. Guarded inquisitiveness.

Nash’s gaze returned to Leopold. Yeah, that’s a good way to put it. People want to know your business without actually wanting to know you.

What do you mean?

Nash shrugged. It’s like any other kind of information - there’s power in it. If I know your data, your statistics, if you’re married, have kids, for instance, then I can formulate some patterns and ideas about how you operate.

And then what? Leopold smirked and raised an eyebrow.

"Then what what?"

What happens when you get to know the person rather than just their information? It would seem that eventually by asking questions, one might start to… what’s the phrase I’m looking for?

Derek was ready to fill in. You might adhere to them?

Leo nodded. I like that. That’s good - adhere to them.

Nah, Nash responded crossing his arms. People don’t stick here in Amicable. We’re kind of like a big town made out of Teflon. Everything just slides on and off.

Penny, silent and listening, wanted to disagree and interject, but she couldn’t. Spending time in the eaves listening to the droppings of conversation was not considered a nice way to interact socially. Amicableans, though, were incredibly good at finding out the details of their neighbor’s lives. Sounds lonely.

All three butchers shrugged simultaneously. Penny, Derek and Nash were unconcerned with the loneliness factor as long as the people of Amicable had no dirt. Trust was the most precious commodity in the town and very few people attempted to mine for it. The outer crust, years of detritus packed by pressure and circumstances, apathy and fear, broke the bits of friendship causing the small town to simply float into the future. The bedrock of trust was left largely untouched because prospecting for it would be far too emotionally expensive and painful.

Penny tugged at her shirt pulling the tuck out from her jeans just a little further to unconsciously cover her middle, but the core of her existence was to protect herself. If pressed, she would say that she trusted Tony, although that would probably be an exaggeration. Verbally she would express her confidence in Naida, but if she was honest with herself, she would recognize how little of her own mind and heart she shared with her daughter because of her fear that Naida’s willingness to share with others in the community would have negative consequences in Penny’s life.

No, Nash said, It’s just the reality of where we live.

So, what you’re saying is, Leopold said, If I want to have a job without relational attachments, Amicable is the place to be?

Exactly, the twins responded at the same time.

And if I want relational attachments?

There’s always online dating. Derek thought this incredibly witty and began to slap the glass in front of him.

Leopold sighed. Okay.

Okay, what? Nash responded.

I’ll take the job.

I haven’t offered it to you yet.

So…?

Nash looked at his brother who shrugged and raised his eyes. Do we have the authority to hire someone when Dad isn’t here?

Derek’s face flashed dark for a moment. Something deeper stung inside of him, a memory, or a pain of the past. It’s Dad’s fault if a great butcher shows up and wants a job. I say, welcome to Peterson’s butchery, Mr. Jensen.

Agreed. Nash stuck out his hand over the counter, extending the greeting. Do you want to sign the papers now?

Leo shook his head. No, I’ll come back tomorrow. I’d like to spend some time today finding a place to live.

Suit yourself, Nash said. We’ll see you tomorrow at 7:30 a.m. How does that sound?

Leo nodded. I’ll see you then.

The tall man left and moments after the doorbell tinkled signaling his departure, Nash, Derek and Penny looked at each other. That was interesting, Derek said.

Interesting indeed, Nash responded. Now, Mrs. Reynolds. Have you decided yet?

Penny’s thoughts were still trailing at a polite distance behind the stranger walking down the street. She shook her head and fixed her eyes back on Nash. Honestly, I don’t remember. But, as long as I’m here, I’ll get some steaks.

Good choice, Mrs. Reynolds. Good choice.

Chapter 2.

Liam Wilson heard the phone ring, but, after a full day of working, he felt that he was unavailable for interruptions at, he checked his watch, 8:47 p.m. It was traditional, if not considerate, to never call after eight o’clock p.m. and only then if an emergency. If such a moment arose, the caller must first apologize for the lateness of the hour and then, with as much haste as possible, state one’s business and get on with it. Liam was hoping this was not an emergency, and it usually wasn’t. Almost always, when someone called at this time of night, they were stuck on County Road 72, out of gas, a blown tire, or maybe even a radiator that was screaming. Tonight, though, Liam was ready to put his feet up and not worry one bit about the rest of the automotive world outside of Amicable.

It had been a normal day of oil changes, disc repair and a few tire alignments. Sometimes he wished someone would really blow a gasket, or at the very least, drop the transmission. Those kinds of things rarely happened in Amicable as the residents were prompt about their oil changes, lube jobs and engine services. A blown engine was about as likely as the moon to fall out of the sky into Lake Ikmakota. Though Liam lived in perpetual hope, if someone really messed up their car, they were much more likely to take it into Clancy imagining that a big city mechanic would know so much better with his big city computer and big city tools.

Rolling his eyes, Liam leaned over the arm rest of his chair to where his cell phone was dancing on the lamp stand. Because there was no illuminated name, this usually meant an emergency. Sighing deeply, Liam pushed the green button and spoke into the phone.

Yup. Liam Wilson here.

A low voice greeted him through the speaker. Good evening.

Yes, I said ‘hello.’ How can I help you?

Mr. Wilson, I read the ad in the paper that you have a room to rent.

No apology for the late hour? Strange. Yes, Liam responded slowly. My name is Liam. No ‘Mr.’ is necessary. And yes, I do have a room for rent. Actually, it’s an entire house. Who’s speaking?

My name is Jensen. Leopold Jensen. I just moved to Amicable and I’m looking for accommodation.

Looking for accommodation? Who talks like that in Amicable? Is this a prank call? Ethan, is that you? Ethan Ellsworth worked at the Amicable Elevator as a grain intake man. Ethan and Liam had been friends since elementary school. Now that they were adults, though neither married, they still spent a great deal of time together. Often, pulling pranks on each other.

No, Mis… Liam. I’ve just been hired by Peterson’s butchery and I need to find a place to stay. There are no available rooms anywhere in Amicable.

No kidding, Liam mumbled, his eyes finally opening, it was then, and not for the first time, that Liam Wilson noticed that the ceiling fan needed to be cleaned. Dust bunnies hung from the end of every blade and mold, black and speckled, dotted the latticed blades. I guess you shouldn’t be that surprised. I suppose you could head up the road to Clancy - that’s about fifteen miles away. I think there is a Motel 6 or 8 or whatever the number is. I would guess…

I don’t mean to be rude, Liam, but there is a reason I chose your rental in the advertisements. I actually want to rent your room, or house. Would that be possible?

Liam checked his watch. It’s awfully late. We’d have to get the paperwork ready, and finding the keys might be a task right now.

Silence on the other end of the phone. All of Liam’s excuses seemed to be swallowed in a silent exasperation. I would really appreciate it, Leopold said with as much patience as possible.

Oh, I suppose. Grunting, Liam pressured the foot of the reclining chair and it snapped shut with a creak and groan. Planting his bare feet on the carpet, Liam padded across the brown shag carpet so full of dust and forgotten food it seemed to almost crunch like bare earth. Give me a few minutes. After I find the keys, I’ll meet you at the house. Do you know where it is?

Yes, 184 Peppertree Lane.

Yeah, okay, but do you know how to get there.

I’m sure that I can find it.

Don’t bet on it, Liam mumbled again acknowledging the sketchiness of cell phone reception in and around Amicable city limits. I’ll see in you in about fifteen minutes, okay?

Good. Jensen disconnected the phone without so much as a goodbye, which, from Liam Wilson’s perspective, was completely out of touch with proper manners, but he let it go. Now that he was up and around the house, even though late, there seemed to be a chance he would make some money. All funds would go well into his investment for traveling south this winter. Last year he went to Texas, maybe this year the roads would lead to Florida, or maybe even Arizona. Anything to get out of the snow.

It was a warm summer’s night, so Liam didn’t take his coat. As he exited the house, he looked up at the wide expanse of stars and planets above Amicable. Mars glittered like a ruby in the inky black sky, while Venus thrust her pulsing eerie light towards her male counterpart. Not much one for astronomy, Liam could put names to a few constellations, certainly Orion’s belt and maybe Cassiopeia, but other than that, they were just Litebrites into heaven. That’s what he thought when he was little.

Six minutes later, keys in hand, Liam killed the ignition of his car. Not seeing another vehicle in the vicinity, Liam waited for a few minutes. Then, with growing frustration, thinking that Ethan had really messed with him, he was about to turn the ignition when a form appeared at the driver’s side and tapped on the window.

Liam jumped. Holy crap! He exclaimed. Rolling down his window, the old knob of his pride and joy, a 1976 Ford Mustang, pine green, creaked. Liam was shouting at the man before the window was halfway down.

What in the heck are you doing?

Did I frighten you? The man asked.

Of course, you did, you maniac! Jeepers Pete, what are you doing wandering out here in the dark?

I was waiting for you.

For the first time, Liam noticed the man, not so much his physical appearance, but his physical presence. He was wide at the shoulder, strong, probably; it seemed like his jacket could barely contain his chest. He was tall, must be well over six feet, maybe even six-five. He was wearing dark clothing, jeans and a button-down shirt, which was weird because male Amicableans only wore tshirts depicting the state university team logo, the local high school mascot or any form of car racing emblem.

Where’s your car? Why didn’t you park in front of the house?

The man took a step back from the Mustang allowing Liam to swing open the door. When he did, Liam was