About Tired Clichés (From: The Mere Valley)

Post 1687:

The Mere Valley: A Novel

Chapter One:

            It was the end of an era, Tim supposed. People in town would talk about it, but they’d been watching the story play out a long time. Not much left to say. Big happenings in small towns tended toward anti-climaxes, idle eyes ever-open and tight mouths ever-whispering. When did the downfall start? Tracing origins was tricky. Best to move forward. Look ahead. Consider the future. Advice of his remaining true friends. Verbal pats on the back. Comforting nudges out the door, soft injunctions to get on with it.  

Tim Semple was a grown man, after all. Thirty-five next week. Where had it gone? How did he get here? Had he always thought in tired clichés?

            Herm Burns placed a roll of bills into Tim’s reluctant hand and said something about it being hot. Yes, Herm, it’s much hotter down here in town. Up on the mountain where you live, the wind blows cooler. The air is spread nice and thin and rare, up where you live. “It is, Herm. It’s hot.”

            Herm Burns was an okay guy, pudgy and polite. Some folks in town didn’t like him at all and probably never could. Some thought he was fantastic. Tim thought he was okay. Watching Herm and his translucent son Rory fighting to hoist his grandfather’s work bench into the bed of their pickup would’ve been funny on another occasion. But that was the last of it. Semple’s Hardware was empty space.

            “That thing is really heavy,” Herm said, squinting at the sky and stretching his sweaty back. Tim smiled a little. He remembered moving the bench just a few feet with his dad when he was a kid younger than Rory. Herm wasn’t lying.

            “Are we done here?” asked the teenager, sliding off the tailgate to begin playing with his phone and his bangs in a sudden parallel reality.

            “I’m sorry, Tim.” Herm looked at sidewalk, stretching his back differently.

            “Nothing to be sorry about, man.” He gave a casual salute with the money roll still in his hand. A wink and a smile. Father and son were gone a few seconds later, leaving Tim under the Semple’s Hardware sign to wonder what exactly Herm was sorry about. Having to sell the work bench, maybe. Losing the family business, more likely. Could’ve even been a simple acknowledgement that the son he’d raised was a flimsy little asshole.

            Tim stuffed the cash in his pocket and went back toward the store to lock up. It was on the corner, nothing fancy. Built solid out of red brick, just before the Great Depression. His great grandfather had some tools and figured on selling them to make a living. The store survived The Depression, The War, all the highs and lows. The times he wasn’t around.

Not knowing how it would feel, Tim sat down in the middle of the empty space, letting memories surround him. He saw old timers wagging long wrinkled fingers, arguing about trifles when things were good, issues when things were bad. As soon as he could walk Tim learned to love the regulars, ones who’d proudly mosey in smelling of chewing tobacco to buy a single washer or nut; pretexts to wile away daylight telling the same stories with different embellishments. He felt it now, looking down at the indestructible hardwood floor. No more supposing. Truly.

The end of an era.

            “Are you Timothy Semple?” He blinked away the fog to see a young woman struggling with a box by the door.

            “That’s me,” he said, standing up quickly, eager to hide any lingering emotions on exhibit. 

            “I’m Reny Davies. Dru Davies’ niece.”

            “Of course.”

            “Okay,” she said, grunting to set down her belongings. “You’re confused, and I can’t explain with all this—ah, better. Stuff in my hands.”

            As she sprang upright, unburdened with a smile, Tim returned the expression and opened his eyes accidentally too wide. He’d been abducted from sentimental reveries and set down before a remarkable beauty. Maybe it was the somber situation and the shabbiness of the store making her stand out in contrast. No, he thought, his breath catching. She’s something else, alright. Almost as tall as him, and he was a little over six feet. Golden-haired, cheeks full with a little red. A face so pretty you just sort of end up standing there.

            “I guess I’ll just keep, talking.” Tim realized he was being inscrutable and weird by the time she continued. “Dru Davies is the painter that’s going to be using this space for the next six months. Until they—”

“Tear it down,” Tim said, the delivery too firm. She winced a bit. “Sorry. Damn. I wasn’t even planning on being here. Met a guy to sell the last of the—last.”

            She made a kind face and said, “It’s not your fault, Mr. Semple.”

            It was the phrase Tim probably wanted to hear more than any other in English or any other language. But not the way she meant it. How did she mean it? “How’s that, ma’am?”

            “Tomorrow’s the first of the month. I popped in before getting to the hotel. Thought I’d take a chance, give the space an early look and drop a few things off.”

            Finally, he understood. A just-arrived transplant. Someone who made more sense in the New Mere Valley. “Tim,” he said, holding out a hand and slowly stepping her way. “Good to meet you, Ms. Davies.”

            Moving beyond their clunky introductions, he helped her with some more boxes as she talked freely about finishing up art degrees in London, England, how this was the perfect situation, how lucky she was to be able to have an aunt as commercially and critically revered as Dru Davies.

            “What happens in six months?” Tim asked.

            “What happens—oh, I get it. The new studio is still under construction. This is sort of a place to get established in the area while it gets finished.”

            It made sense. Smart. With all the money moving into the area, expensive paintings would be in serious demand. Miles of fresh walls to decorate. “That sounds like a good plan. I should’ve been an artist.”                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     

            “Feels like you’re being way too nice. And that I’m horrible.”

            Tim didn’t know exactly how well informed she was. How long he had struggled against the inevitable closing of the store. It would be impossible to explain in a short conversation and things were growing more and more pleasant. He’d always have sadness and regret.

Later.

Did they have rapport? A spark, even? No way. She was simply a nice person who happened to know zero other people in town, and he could carry boxes as well as the next guy.

            “I’m glad we met,” she said. “I hope everyone in Mere Valley is as cool as you. I might never leave.”

            Reny’s eyes were deep green and slightly downturned, a hint of sadness shading her singular appearance. Tim wanted to keep talking, but he figured on doing the polite thing. “Good luck setting up shop. I hope things will go well.”

            He was surprised by a hug. It didn’t last long, but it was enough to fully lift him from the epochal melancholy of the day.

            “Well,” he said. “Ok. Thanks for that.”

            They stared at each other for a few quiet seconds, faces still close after the hug. She didn’t seem to mind the silence. Experience told him interrupting the moment with words would be counterproductive at best and ruinous at worst.

            “Come back and see me if you have time.”

            Tim would make time. He couldn’t remember an encounter accelerating to pleasant so quickly. He started to assure her that she’d see him soon, but he was interrupted by a loud sound outside. Rushing out the door, he squinted at two men pointing fingers and speaking over each other, standing next to their vehicles. One vehicle was fancy and had a front end that would need serious work. The other was a weathered Bronco with a slight scratch on its back bumper.

            The owner of the Bronco saw Tim and disengaged in the middle of the argument.

            “Don’t walk away, Alonso,” insisted the owner of the fancy car. Smoke was now billowing from under the crumpled hood. “This is your fault, damn you.”

            “Hey buddy,” Tim said, though he found himself completely ignored. Reny Davies had slipped outside to witness the commotion and was by far the greater draw.

            “My name is Hoyt Alonso, Mr. Semple’s best buddy.” He calmly and confidently shook Reny’s hand with his back to the belligerent Merritt Lennox Jr.

            Tim stepped to the edge of the sidewalk. Something like a buffer, if it came to that. He’d try to be a calming influence. In a way, this was his fault. “Merritt, you should call the police. Maybe make sure they bring the fire guys. Those electric cars…”

            “You call them, Semple. I’m not done with your buddy over there.”

            Life hadn’t exactly been predictable lately. Clinging onto and ultimately losing the family business, relationship difficulties, potential opportunities, etc. That said, this was an afternoon for the books. He thought about how he would tell the story to Gable. She loved a good story.

            Tim tried to relay the details of the situation to Mary Lee at the police station. It wasn’t easy. Merritt had pushed by him to resume shouting at his friend. He hoped Hoyt would be the bigger man and deescalate.

            “They’re on the way,” he said, walking back next to Reny and giving her a slight tap on the shoulder. “We should probably move back.”

            She reluctantly took Tim’s advice, appearing to be completely unintimidated.