A Mountainside Story

The house did not belong where Jim and Murray found it. Any house would have surprised them. They didn’t remember a house there.

Sitting on a wooded ledge on the side of the mountain, it was a monstrous house, built to resemble a steamboat, with chimneys like smokestacks, decks with railings, and a huge semi-circular spoked window at ground level. Its size and artistic scope halted their progress.

I never knew this was here, Jim said.

I never knew it either, Murray said.

How long since we were here last? Jim said.

Long time I guess, Murray said.

On the lower porch, which they took for the bottom deck, stood a young woman. She wore a v-neck sweater over a summer dress and had her hair braided into side-tails. She smiled a smile of raw milk and daisy chains.

What are your names? She said. Her voice sounded like fresh cream pouring from a porcelain pitcher onto a dish of strawberries.

I’m Jim, Jim said. And this is Murray.

Hi Jim, she said. Hi Murray.

Hi, Jim said.

Hi, Murray said.

Do either of you know Dave? she said.

We know some Daves, Jim said.

Do you know Dave the Mechanic?

Everyone knows Dave the Mechanic.

Then will you give him these for me? she said, holding up a bouquet of three yellow roses on a bed of baby breath.

The flowers were as surprising as the house.

Jim took the bouquet. Of course, he said.

Thank you, she said.

Jim and Murray went off the mountain the same way they went up, taking the winding dirt road into town. The Observation Trail offered a more direct route, but they were afraid its ruggedness would harm the bouquet, which Jim cradled in his arms as if carrying a baby to safety.

At Dave the Mechanic’s house, Dave took the bouquet and thanked them. These are for my wife, he said.

That’s funny, Jim said.

What’s funny about it? Dave said. His face flushed.

I guess it’s not funny, Jim said.

Dave the Mechanic tipped them each two dollars. They pooled their earnings to purchase an inexpensive apple pie from the bakery section of the anchor store of a large, regional supermarket chain. Then they went back up the mountain to the steamboat house.

It was nearly sunset on their return. Instead of the young woman on the bottom deck there was an old man in a rocking chair. They gave him the pie.

This is for your daughter, Jim said.

Don’t have a daughter, the man said.

Then your wife.

Don’t have a wife.

Your niece.

No niece.

Granddaughter?

No way.

Housekeeper then?

Sure could use one, but nope to that too.

Well then, the pretty girl with the braided side-tails.

Oh her. Okay, she can have it.

The old man inspected the pie, weighing it in his hands, tapping the plastic cover with a yellow fingernail, lifting it to read the ingredient label on the tin bottom.

Not much of a pie, he said. You spend all your tip money on this?

Yes sir, Jim said.

You’ll never last in business that way, he said. All right, I’ll make sure she gets it. Now you two run along.

Jim and Murray reached home after dark. They skipped their dinners, went directly to their bedrooms, sat at their desks, opened their diaries, and penned their separate versions of the day’s events. Jim wrote this version. Murray wrote the other.