No Harm Can Come to a Good Man. James Smythe

of belonging is nice; the community feeling like a part of their lives. As they recovered – as they still recover – from Sean’s death, the support of the town has been incredible. They have all wanted Laurence to pick himself up and, in his parlance, brave the rain. They’re all going to vote for him, they say, whether they’re Republican or Democrat, saying that they’ll plant placards in their lawns and spread the word as much as they can. It’s that sort of town.

      The garage is at the far end of the street, past everything else. Deanna pulls in, driving onto the forecourt, and Ann runs out. She’s a short woman, older than she looks, hair pulled back into a greasy net, and she perpetually leans, Deanna’s noticed. On everything, resting her hands. She leans on the hood of the Walkers’ SUV as Deanna gets out.

      ‘Deanna,’ she says, ‘good to see you.’ She adds a J to her pronunciation of the name that makes Deanna think of I Dream Of Jeannie; a classic sitcom vision of small-town America. ‘She playing up?’

      ‘Not quite,’ Deanna says. ‘There was a clunking coming from under the hood a few weeks back. Thought we should probably get it checked out.’

      ‘I’d say you should for sure. You want me to do it right now?’

      ‘Would you mind?’ Deanna asks. ‘I can go do the shopping then come back?’ Everything is phrased as a question, not wanting to assume or put anybody out. Ann smiles and nods, and takes the keys from Deanna.

      ‘Give me a half hour,’ she says. Deanna thanks her and walks down the road towards Henderson’s: past the diner, past the church, past the gun store (which does the most trade here of anything, given how close they are to one of the North-East’s major hunting spots), past the liquor store. The owners and customers all stop and nod at her as she passes, all smiling. She goes into Henderson’s and Trent and Martha, co-owners, married for fifty years, as they’ll tell anybody whether they ask or not, and the closest thing to figureheads that the town has, come out and kiss her in greeting and tell her how happy they are to see her. They mean it, as well.

      ‘Where’s that husband of yours at today?’ Trent asks.

      ‘Texas,’ Deanna says.

      ‘Oil money?’

      ‘Oil money.’

      ‘That’s politics now,’ Martha says.

      ‘That’s always been politics,’ Trent counters.

      ‘As long as you’re all safe and sound, that’s all that matters,’ Martha replies. She goes to the coffee machine in the corner – they had it installed a few years ago, to offer takeout when they started stocking varieties of different coffee beans as well – and makes Deanna a drink that she didn’t even ask for. It’s the way that they do things here; the way that they always have. They know what you want sometimes before you do, even.

      ‘Not long now until he’ll know, I suppose?’

      ‘No,’ Deanna says. ‘Not long. A couple more months.’

      ‘So maybe this’ll all calm down after that.’

      ‘Maybe. Probably not, the way that Laurence tells it.’

      ‘Oh my word, we’ll be so sad to see you leave,’ Martha says. ‘I mean, of course you’ll come back for your vacations.’

      Deanna thinks about the lake house, how that was the intention of owning it all along. Now, she doesn’t know if she can even go there. It feels wrong to her; as if it’s forever tainted. It will always be associated with Sean, with what happened. No getting past that, and the Hendersons realize that as well, if not too late. Trent and Martha shoot each other looks, not knowing whether to address the faux pas or not. It hangs in the air until Deanna breaks the tension. ‘That’s a long way away,’ Deanna says, meaning in terms of votes and time both.

      ‘I reckon this is a foregone conclusion,’ Trent says. ‘You can’t call these things, but as much as you can, I’d say that it’s a done deal.’ He nods at the television in the corner, behind the counter. There’s Laurence and the other potential nominees, the newscaster talking about their current vote split, the predicted results, and that 3% head start. ‘Makes it easier when the television’s saying he’s the man, I reckon.’

      ‘Maybe,’ Deanna says.

      ‘You got a list?’ Martha asks. Deanna holds it up and Martha snatches it and forces it into Trent’s hand. ‘He’ll do it. Nothing better to do. You can stay here and keep me company.’

      ‘Oh, no,’ Deanna says, but she knows how this goes. It’s always the same.

      Trent looks at the list. ‘What do you need the chain for?’ he asks.

      ‘We had another intruder. They broke the old lock.’

      ‘Again? Somebody’s pushing their luck, you ask me. You know who it was?’

      ‘Laurence thinks it’s the press.’

      Trent nods. ‘I’ll hate to see you leave Staunton, Deanna, you know that; but it’ll be better for you. A house with a bit more security, keep you safe.’

      ‘Maybe,’ Deanna says. He nods and looks at the list, picks up a basket and goes off around the shop. There’s a pain in his movements that Deanna hasn’t noticed before, a slight favoring of one leg over the other.

      ‘I feel terrible making him do this for me,’ Deanna says to Martha.

      ‘Oh, don’t, Martha replies. ‘He needs to work it or it’ll fall off.’ She smiles. They watch him go down the aisles, and they talk about the kids, and they talk about the town, the same conversations that they always have, just moved on in time, like updates to the same old information. When every item has been collected, Trent scans them at the till. The calorie counts and nutrition values tick up on the screen, ClearVista predicting the weight gain and exercise needed to counter the richer, fattier foods; and then he brings up the total before adjusting it. They always do a discount for Deanna.

      By the time she gets back to the car it’s been turned around, now facing the road. Ann comes out of the dark of the garage, holding something in her hand. It’s shiny and golden, a stub of a thing. Deanna thinks that it could be a bullet for a second but then she gets closer and it’s a screw. No: a bolt.

      ‘Found this inside her,’ Ann says. ‘Must’ve come loose, but I’m damned if I can find from where.’

      ‘From the engine?’

      ‘It’s not a car part, best I can tell. Maybe it got kicked up there one day from the road. Happens, you’d be surprised.’

      ‘Okay,’ Deanna says. ‘How much do I owe you?’

      ‘I changed your oil, so just for that. Give me ten and we’re even.’ She leans again on the hood.

      ‘You sure?’

      ‘Ayuh.’

      Deanna pulls a twenty out of her purse and hands it over.

      ‘Consider the rest a tip.’

      ‘Ha! Okay. We’re giving tips, let me give one to you as well. You need to sell this soon, I reckon.’ She puts her hand on the roof of the car. ‘It’s a few years old now, and you’re losing money on it. All the new models, the tech’s much better. That stuff ages a car more’n you’d imagine. You’ll still get a good price for this right now. I ran it for you, if you want to have a look: software says this has got years left in it yet, but that the book value’s gonna plummet.’