Read Online Mr. Fahrenheit by T. Michael Martin - Free Book Online

listened and looked close enough, he would be able to truly see Papaw, to know Papaw, to not have the feeling that he slightly misunderstood everything Sheriff Robert Lightman was trying to say.
    It didn’t happen this year? Benji would think, because all he ever experienced was the ever-present feeling of not knowing how to please Papaw, or even if Papaw wanted him to try. That’s . . . well, that’s okay. Just keep that feeling inside you, Benji, like fireflies in a jar. Maybe next year will be the year.
    He stopped believing that, of course. He grew up.
    And so here was the insanity of it all:
    Even now, something about walking with Papaw in this certain slant of predawn light (strong enough to see their shadows, black shapes moving over the lawn kissed silver by the snow) hooked Benji momentarily back into the inescapable gravity of nostalgia. He closed his eyes, exhaling as he opened the door to Papaw’s police cruiser, breathing out his un-pain.
    As the engine growled to life, old rock ’n’ roll blared overthe car speakers. Papaw grimaced and turned off the broadcast.
    â€œI kinda like the quiet of a mornin’. Makes things prettier, ain’t that so?” It wasn’t a request for an answer (Papaw’s questions never were); it was a pause to let you nod in agreement. “I think we’re gonna have a good day, Benjamin. As we always do.” Papaw, who loved to say he found liars for a living, was the tradition’s great pretender.
    The county fairgrounds lay on a few acres of hillside just past the east end of Bedford Falls. To get there, you took these lunar county roads and drove through infinite miles of untended cornfields and granite refineries disintegrating where they stood. Once upon a time, they’d both been the lifeblood and treasure of Bedford Falls, but that was before (according to Papaw) globalization and NAFTA and a historic streak of incompetent presidencies ground their bootheels on the little places of the world. At some point , Papaw would say, people in this country decided they’d rather pay less for their goodies than earn a wage decent enough to buy ’em. Mary and Joseph above! Going through the fields was usually depressing as all hell, like a trip in a semifunctional time machine that would let you glimpse—but not reenter—A Time Many Years Ago When (Trust Us on This, Young People) Everything Was Better.
    Now, Benji caught his reflection in the window smiling as the cornfields flowed by. He was looking at the sky instead.
    By the time Papaw parked the cruiser in the gravel lot in front of the fairgrounds, a dozen big-rig trucks sat idling at the front gate. Their payload was a portable joyland: all the disassembled segments of roller coasters and games and carousels. Daytime would come and make them look cheap, but they were gorgeous in the fine rose of dawn.
    As Benji and Papaw got out of the cruiser, a man whoresembled a mustachioed oval hopped out of the lead big rig. “Young fella, how are you this blessed mornin’?” Papaw smiled, extending his hand. “As for me, I’m better than I deserve. Sheriff Robert Lightman; glad to meet’cha.” His voice was warm, like they were old friends (in fact, they’d never met; the carnival staff was a rotating cast of characters).
    Papaw actually waited for the guy to answer.
    The man ignored the offered handshake. “Tell the truth, we’d be a lot better if you weren’t half an hour late,” he said. Benji winced from his hot breath. The man held up a “hold on a second” finger, turned his head away, and spat a loogie in the gravel. Classy , Benji thought.
    â€œAm I that late?” Papaw replied, sounding slightly horrified. “I’m sure sorry for that. Where abouts y’all drive in from?”
    Of course, Papaw had never been late to anything, and was not late now. (Either way, it wouldn’t really matter: The