FLANNERY O'CONNOR AT THE CENTER
OF THE EARTH

A Short Story

“It’s all darkness down there,” Betsy said, her eyes swimming and squinting to get a better look inside the Colson family well, spiraling forever and anon into blackness. “All I can see is a whole buncha nothin’.”

“Whole buncha nothing, is right,” Budd said, venturing a swift kick at the mortared circle of stone. “C’mon, it ain’t no big deal. You lost your book. Just think—now we can do actual fun things together like chasin’ frogs, squishin’ ants, watchin’ Spongebob and Patrick Star bein’ best friends and pissin’ off Squidward Tentacles, instead of you just sittin’ around and readin’ all the time.”

Betsy’s blond hair fluttered, the folds in her overalls slackened, as she jerked herself back onto her feet. She stepped away from the well’s edge, swiped a sunburned hand over the clumps of grass staining her knees. “I guess,” she said, softly.

Betsy and Budd padded along the briery path leading from their favorite hangout spot over by the well to the dilapidated house of dangling gutter and peeling white paint that Betsy and her dad called home.

“Dad!” Betsy cried, the porch door swinging on its hinges behind her as she traipsed in. “Guess what? Something kinda bad happened.”

Ron Colson thumbed the volume down on his remote control. “Over here, in the living room,” he yelled. “I ain’t gettin’ up.”

Betsy and Budd made steps out of the kitchen and crossed the threshold into the living room. “It was an accident,” Betsy blurted. “A Good Man…it fell down into our well!”

Ron sat up in his recliner. He reached over a stubby arm to set his beer down on the coffee table. “A man fell into our well?” he said, wide-eyed.

“No, the book you bought me, A Good Man is Hard to Find, written by that old lady author, Flannery O’Conner—”

Ron relaxed back into the recliner, and curved a smile. “Flannery O’Connor was hardly an old lady, Betsybug. She died when she was only thirty-sumptin. This was back in the sixties. Definitely old school, though…is what I think I’d meant when I told ya that she was old-timey. And so, what’s this you say happened?”

“The book—it fell down into the well!” Betsy’s toe petted the well-worn and unvacuumed beige carpet. She cleared her throat. “See, I was sittin’ on the well’s edge readin’, an’ then, Budd came around askin’ if I wanted to go frog-catchin’ in that brook over by the Dawson’s old place. I was so into that book, that he surprised me when he said it, an’ the book slipped outta my hand and fell into the well.”

Ron smoothed his hands over the grease-stained tank top that reeled in his soft and sizable midsection, as he mulled it over. “Ah, no biggie,” he said. “Just a book. Tag sale item. I’ll buy you another.”

_______________________

“Daddy, Daddy!” Betsy came bounding into the kitchen. “I think we should try an’ save the book from the bottom of the well.”

“Tryin’ to save these eggs here from gettin’ all broke and runny-like. First things first, Pajama Bottoms. ‘Scuse me…” Ron sashayed to the other side of the kitchen to grab his beer. He returned to the smoky frying pan on the stove. “Hey, shouldn’t you be gettin’ dressed an’ ready for school?” Ron took a swig of his beer.

“She wants outta the well. Ms. O’Connor does. She told me!”

Budd snorted. “Yeah, right. Next thing you’ll say there’s a for-real author lady down in your well or that Squidward Tentacles is your favoritest cartoon character of all time.”

Rolling his eyes, Ron called to mind those times when he was Betsybug’s age when instead of things like patience and small-talk folks would use cuss words and ultimatums to deal with freeloaders. Gritting his teeth, Ron pushed back the temptation. “Budd,” he said, yolk dripping from the spatula in his hand. “Don’t you have a home of your own you can go eat breakfast at?”

Budd dug his spoon into his bowl of Lucky Charms. “Ma and her new boyfriend, Floyd, said they wanted me outta the trailer, pronto. I said, ‘Ah, c’mon Ma, it’s like five in the mornin’! Floyd said—‘Trailer park’s full of stray cats and drunk drivers, go make friends with one of ‘em. Scram!’” With milk dribbling down his chin, Budd moaned, “Find a friend? Betts is the only friend I got.”

With his spatula, Ron pressed down on one of the slabs of Spam until it began to sizzle loudly. “You’ve been comin’ o’er here quite a lot for breakfast,” he said, an edge in his voice, as he pressed down harder with his spatula. “Yesterday? Two days ago? That time last week?”

Budd dropped his spoon into his bowl.

Turning off the stove, Ron stepped to the table. “What’s all this you be sayin’, Betsybug, ‘bout someone sayin’ sumptin to you?”

Ron pulled up a chair.

Betsy wiped the OJ off of her chin and the smile clear off of her face. “Ms. O’Connor.” She squirmed around in her seat. “The writer lady. It was a dream I had last night. She was at the bottom of the well, see. I couldn’t see her face too good, but, I knew that it was her. She said it was really dark down there and if I didn’t fetch her up soon I might miss my chance at educatin’ myself and goin’ to a university.”

Budd rolled his eyes. “Girls. Go figure.”

Ron winced as if struck. He gulped. With a shake in his voice, he said, “She…said that? Those very words? Get you some educatin’? University?” He shook his head. “Well, I’ll be.”

“Yeah-huh,” Betsy nodded.

“Betts—was the lady in the dream, like, all gross and decayed and waterlogged like in a monster movie?” Budd flashed a toothy grin at Betsy.

Betsy’s eyes stayed on her father. “Can we try an’ fetch Ms. O’Connor outta the well, Dad, please?”

Ron snapped open a can of Natural Light. “T’ain’t the author lady herself that’s down there, Betsybug. Just a copy of one of her books, is all.”

Betsy poked at her eggs. “Remember, Dad,” she said, looking up finally, “that sermon last Sunday? Remember—how Pastor Dan preached ‘bout the Prophet Samuel an’ how he’d got conjured up from the center of the Earth by that witch lady? Bottom of our well’s deep down enough to be at the center of the Earth, right? If the lady in the Bible could find a way to get Samuel up to the surface then couldn’t we find a way to get the lady author up, too?”

Ron chugged his beer then set it down on the table. “Pastor Dan’s a good man,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Knows the Good Book a whole lot better than you an’ I, Betsybug. If he says sumptin’s true, can be no doubtin’ it.”

“Can we try an’ get the book out, then, pleeeeeeeeese.”

Ron shifted around in his seat. “Center of the Earth’s a million miles down, or sumptin. That’s too far. Your lady author—I mean, her book—will just have to make do down there, I’m reckonin’.”

Betsy exclaimed, “But she wants out!”

“Book’s prolly all waterlogged by now,” Budd offered. “Wells have water in ‘em, duh.”

Ron raised an eyebrow. “Ours don’t.” He studied his toast as he slabbed bacon grease over both sides of it. “Dry as a bone down there since ‘67. That well’s been in this lousy family for three whole generations, can you believe that, Betsybug? Your Great-Grandpa Hank,” Ron explained, licking the butter off of his knife, “ringed and mortared the last of those stones way back in the twenties. T’was right ‘afore Hank died in that big bar fight with those navy boys after sayin’ some stuff to ‘em he prolly shouldn’t’ve…”

Smiling, Budd offered, “If we got a flashlight, we could find it.”

Ron shook his head. “Flashlights don’t fetch, Buddy boy, just flicker. Now,” he spoke at his daughter, “you put your school clothes on and run along, or you’ll miss your bus.”

Minutes later, Ron sat gazing at the squeaky porch door as it swung back and forth. Betsy and Budd had just lightning-bolted out of it just in time to catch their bus. Ron scratched at the thinning hair on his head, his thoughts clamoring as they attempted to wrap themselves around a great many things.

The next day a tow truck sat motoring in the Colson’s back yard. At Ron’s cue, it began to roll in reverse, flattening the lush but tangled overgrowth of tall grass and brier that topped the soggy soil. With verbal directions given to the driver such as “to the left,” or “over to the right,” or “look out!” Ron guided the truck through the obstacle course that was the Colson’s backyard. The truck weaved its way across rusty rototiller and engine block, a ’63 Ford set up on cement blocks, that sofa the dog had whizzed on one too many times back in the mid-80s, beer cans, whiskey bottles, here-and-there piles of trash, an old refrigerator, dilapidated old toys…

“Daddy!”

Ron sipped his beer. “Hey there, Betsybug.” He swiped the sweat off his brow. “I’ve decided. We’s gonna get the ol’ gal out.”

Betsy cheered. She jumped up and down.

Ron returned his sights to the truck, as it, beeping, inched its rear bumper to the rim of the well. “My pal Shane here—" Ron pointed, Shane waved “—volunteered to do the job. For free, too, seein’ how I’m no longer workin’ at the Piggly Wiggly and got shorted sumptin awful on that last unemployment check.” Ron cleared his throat. “Shane agreed your education’s just too dang important. Pulley mechanism that Shane jerry-rigged on his truck should be able to fetch that book out.” Ron winced as he looked into the distance, using his hand as a visor to shield the rays of the sun. “An’ if you be wonderin’, Betsybug…we wouldn’t normally need an entire truck to pull out a measly ol’ book, but it’s a brand-new Silverado, and comin’ between a Southern boy and his new truck ain’t the wisest of things to be doin’. Gotta let Shane play with his new toy.”

“I’m gonna go tell Budd!” Betsy said then took off. “He’s watchin’ TV in the living room.”

Ron called out after her. “Hey, Betsybug. Get you back over here for a sec.”

Stopping in her tracks, Betsy walked back to her father.

“Say, don’t you wanna know what made your ol’ dad change his mind?”

Betsy shrugged. “Um, I dunno. I guess.”

Ron scoffed. “She dunno. She guesses.”

Ron flashed the thumbs up sign to Shane over at the truck. This was Shane’s cue to lower the rope-and-catch and begin the excavation. With a flabby pale arm and a calloused hand, Ron guided Betsy to the porch; he sat her down on the porch swing.

Ron plopped down alongside his daughter.

“Just wanna tell you...” he said, chugging his beer then patting her arm. “There be three things in life that ol’ Dad never second guesses.” Ron set his beer down. He cleared his throat. “The Good Book. A good buzz. And a dream that tells it like it is. You see, way back in the day, my momma—”

“Grandma Rose?”

“Yes, Grandma Rose—who wasn’t my birth momma, mind you, one who’d lost both her feet from diabetes and eventually all of her marbles, but Rose, my foster ma. See, Grandma Rose believed in dreams—used to say that the Good Lord knows how to plant seeds in sleepin’ heads.” Smiling, Ron continued, “One day, she had a dream, see. In the dream she saw me pattycakin’ ‘round with some blond-haired girl. Guess what? Later that day who should come moseyin’ up these very steps but Miss Norma Lee Stetson, your own dear ma, sellin’ Girl Scout cookies. It was love at first bite. Coupla times stuff like that happened, and to this day I, too, say dreams mean sumptin.” Ron reached for his beer. “Your pops ain’t fancy for nothin’, and rumor has it he’s even gotta drinkin’ problem—” Ron slurped his beer “—still he’s got brains enough to reckon there be unseen forces that shape the course of happenin’s in this crazy ol’ world, sure enough.”

Betsy looked at her father with an intense gaze. “Ms. O’Connor said if we don’t get her out then I ain’t ever gonna go to a university.” Betsy softened her gaze. “Dad, am I gonna go to a university? I ain’t very smart.”

“Holy kamoly—” Ron slapped at his thigh “—you ain’t kiddin’.” Ron lost his smile. “That’s why we gotta get you smart—by fetchin’ you up that book.” Ron set his beer aside. He sat pondering, his sights far off. “My pops used to say that back in the day Ms. O’Connor was the wittiest gal ‘round these parts. She grew up right here in downtown Savannah, some apartment just a few blocks up from Forsyth Park. ‘Twas a religious lady, too. A good Cat’lic, so all the old timers say. You can’t get smart by Flannery O’Connor, you ain’t gonna get smart by nobody.”

Betsy made the porch swing go higher and higher with little kicks of her legs. “Did Grandpa go to a university?

“Ain’t nobody in our family ever did.” Sighing, Ron pulled a pack of Camels out of his shirt pocket. “Your granddaddy did a shit job fixin’ cars for a livin’, couldn’t stay sober then a Ford Thunderbird fell on ‘im while he was doin’ repairs. Grandad was so dumb he could throw hisself on the ground and miss.” Ron lit up a cigarette. “Your Auntie Tess had this thing for kickin’ dogs. Went through five of ‘em ‘til finally we bought her a Doberman for Mother’s Day—she left that one alone. Tess was what the old timers used to call frustrated. Ten slobberin’ brat kids’ll prolly do that to anyone, I guess.”

Ron grew somber. “‘Course you know ‘bout your own momma.” He shook his head. “Smokin’ and shootin’ up ain’t no way to live then lose a life. She was lucky those first two times. Third overdose…well, not so much.” Ron looked over. “No Colson’s ever amounted to nothin’. That’s why we’re gonna make sure you get to be somebody. You ain’t gonna end up like yer momma, you hear?”

Betsy nodded.

“We’s a gettin’ you that book. Dream said so. Ms. O’Connor wants out. Wants you to get some educatin’, too, from the sounds of it. Author lady’s gonna have her wish.”

“My wish, too, Daddy,” Betsy said.

Ron puffed his cigarette. “Mine three.” He stood. “Welp, glad we got that settled.”

“Got it,” Shane hollered from over by the well. “Up she comes!”

Betsy did not wait for Shane to walk over. She hopped up then ran to where he stood by the well. When Ron neared, moments later, sipping his beer, he saw Betsy hold the book aloft in her outstretched arms like it was an offering to the gods, as she twirled herself around and around in a kind of ballet-inspired victory dance; he didn’t think he had ever seen a smile that big before.

Having to decide between sitting and getting drunk on the porch, or sitting and getting drunk on the recliner in the living room, was usually the biggest decision of Ron’s day, and a major stressor. Finally, Ron decided that orangey sunsets and tolerable humidity-levels presented a better option than Monday night reruns, and this was why, on this particular evening, he decided on the porch. Plus, sitting on the porch swing with a view of the well, backyard litter, the live oaks trees draped in Spanish moss, grassy field, and Budd’s trailer park in the distance, Ron could keep tabs on Betsy and Budd, who were growing up fast.

“Too fast,” Ron said, reaching for the bug repellent. He generously sprayed both of his armpits, recalling his momma’s advice back in the day that the stuff covered foul odors as well as anything, and was a helluva lot easier than showering. “Where the heck’s they at, anyway?”

Here they came, the gently sloped lay of the land revealing only heads and shoulders at first, but as the youngsters chugged their way up from the marshy lowlands towards home, so, too, could swinging arms and running legs be seen, with one of those arms clutching a certain recently rescued book.

“Y’all get lost or sumptin?” Ron said, as Betsy and Budd plodded up the porch steps, all out of breath.

Betsy said, panting, “Budd and I went to check out that tall-grassy area o’er by the marsh. It’s a really good place for readin’ and for sittin’.” She took a deep breath.

“Don’t want you wanderin’ off too far, you hear?” Ron said, as he lit up a cigarette.

“Bye, Dad.”

Betsy took steps toward the porch door.

“Hey, where y’all goin’? Don’t think ol’ Dad’s forgotten that it’s report card day. C’mon, give it here.”

“Oh, yeah.” Betsy thumbed through the pages of her book. “Here it is. Been usin’ it as a bookmark to mark the first page of Ms. O’Connor’s short story A Stroke of Good Fortune. That story’s my favorite.” Betsy handed the report card to her father.

Ron smiled as he took the report card. “That one story really speaks to ya, does it?”

Betsy looked warily at her father. “Noooooo.”

“Ah, c’mon, Mr. Colson,” Budd guffawed. “Stop pullin’ Betts’s leg. Books don’t speak to people, only people speak to people.”

Blinking, Ron took a drag from his cigarette. He said to Betsy, “What I mean to say is, does the story really get your attention? Does it have meanin’ for ya way deep down inside of ya?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Then it be speakin’ to ya, sure enough.” Ron turned the report card right-side-up. “You gettin’ yerself smarter readin’ that book?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“Brains are getting bigger,” Budd offered, “and so’s the rest of her.”

Ron narrowed his eyes at the boy. “Wasn’t askin’ you, Budd.” Ron reviewed the report card.

A moment later he handed the report card back to his daughter.

Ron’s expression was deadpan as he said, flatly, “B grade in English. T’ain’t bad. T’ain’t bad at all.” Ron folded his hands. “Improvement, I guess. I’m proud of ya. I really, really am, Betsybug. Keep up the good work.”

Betsy snuggled the book with its mustard-yellow cover up against her chest as if it were a child. “Ms. O’Connor’s really been helpin’ me out, hasn’t she, Dad?”

Ron forced a smile. “Boy, has she ever.”

“I’m gonna go upstairs and read some more! The third story in the collection’s one I’ve only read twenty-two-and-a-quarter times. I’m really gettin’ behind on that one.” Betsy yanked open the porch door and pattered into the house. Budd followed along after her.

Ron slapped at his neck. “Damn musquiters,” he cursed. “Welp, guess that I need to be takin’ this lil’ house party back into the house.” He grabbed his beer.

Recliner in range, Ron made a beeline for it then plopped down. He groaned, as he turned on the television. Groaning again, he set his beer down on the coffee table.

“What’s the matter, Mr. Colson?” Budd said from his spot at the kitchen table. “Hemorrhoids?”

“Budd…” Ron said, narrowing his eyes at the boy. “Please.”

Budd walked into the living room.

“Mr. Colson, a B won’t get her a scholarship, will it? To get an academic scholarship she’d have to get, like, straight A’s, isn’t that right? That’s why you’re all moanin’ an’ stuff, ain’t it?”

Ron stared straight ahead at the TV screen. “Can’t you see that I’m watchin’ Ice Road Truckers, son? Don’t you have any frogs or snakes to go chase after?”

“Nah. Betsy and me’s gettin’ kinda old for frog chasin’. That was so last week. We’s all grown up now.” Budd turned to face the television. “That’s what I’m gonna be when I for real grow up,” he said, pointing. “A truck driver, just like my old man. Hey, do you think you could turn the volume up a little?”

Ron pressed the mute button. He flipped the channel. “All grown up, he says,” Ron grumbled in the direction of Fox News.

Budd sat down on the ottoman. “Yup. We’s young adults now, Betts and me.” Budd’s smile stretched all the way to his ears.

“Why do I think this is not such a good thing?” Ron mumbled, grimacing.

Budd folded his legs. “Mr. Colson, can I ask you a question, man to man?”

Ron jostled around on the recliner. “No.”

Budd picked at his nose. “Well, see, I was gonna ask Betsy if I could take her to our sixth grade Spring Dance. Would that be ok with you?”

Lowering the remote, Ron looked over. “What am I, your damned uncle? Go ahead, ask her to the dance.” Ron lolled his head against the headrest of the recliner. “God knows y’all are gonna end up dancin’ with each other sooner or later.”

Smirking, Budd reached for the open can of Natural Light on the coffee table.

Ron leveled a stern gaze at the boy’s hand.

“Just kiddin’,” Budd said, his smile faltering as he withdrew it. “Mr. Colson,” Budd said, after a moment’s deliberation, “do you reckon Betsy’ll stay in touch with me after I go off to truck-drivin’ school and she goes off to—” Budd’s shoulders slumped. “Oh, yeah. If she doesn’t get a scholarship then she ain’t goin’ to college, is she?”

“Ten thousand dollars a year, at the very least. That’s what college tuition costs nowadays. You think I can afford that?”

Budd licked his lips upon which tempted a smile. A twinkle shone in his eyes. “Just an idea, Mr. Colson, but maybe if you got off your big lazy butt and worked some overtime hours or sumptin maybe you could…”

Ron was on his feet. “I don’t even work, period, and you know that you lil’ son of a…” Ron calmed himself “…truck driver.”

Chuckling as he traipsed through the kitchen into the hallway, Budd bounded up the stairs to go see Betsy.

“You two be leavin’ that bedroom door open, you hear,” Ron shouted at the ceiling.

Ron’s face fell into frown as the rest of him fell back onto the recliner. “I know his type,” he muttered. “Gets her pregnant then leaves her with the kid while he scours truck stops for lot lizards, crack whores, and whatever other female-sumptin he can lay his hands on. Won’t pay his child support, neither.” Ron downed the last of his beer. Getting up, he ambled his way into the kitchen. The refrigerator. He needed another cold one.

It was not often the Colsons had visitors, especially well-dressed ones at noon on a Sunday. The man was old, but looked well maintained. His bow tie, button-down dress shirt, black leather shoes, and walking cane, painted the very picture of refinement.

Ron flipped off the Miss Georgia Contest on the TV, took a big swig of Jack Daniels then snuck the bottle under a sofa cushion and went to answer the door.

Through the screen of the porch door, Ron asked, “Can I help you, Mister?”

The old man smiled. “I sure hope so.” He looked at Ron. “May I come in?”

Ron flitted a look over his shoulder at the dirty dishes overflowing the sink, empty beer cans on the table, grimy counter-top, mouse droppings and cockroach traps on the floor. “Er, maybe I can come out instead of you comin’ in. We can talk on the porch.”

“Very well.”

Stepping outside, the first thing that met Ron senses, other than the Georgia heat embracing him, was the sound of giggles. His sights were met with flashes of color: the kids playing tag out in the field. Ron flicked a nod in their direction. “That o’er there’s my daughter, Betsy. She’s the apple in my eye.” Ron grimaced. “An’ her lil’ friend there, too. Look at ‘im, runnin’ after her like chasin’ tail’s the one only thing he ever done did.” Ron sighed. “Kinda wish they was still chasin’ frogs ‘stead of each other.”

The old man squinted the sun out of his eyes. “I never had one of those. Kids, I mean. For such small creatures, they sure make a lot of noise, don’t they?” He cleared his throat. “Your daughter, Mr. Colson, is the very thing that I have come to talk with you about.”

Ron gulped. “Betsy? Really? Is she in some kinda trouble?”

“She has a certain book, does she not?”

Ron didn’t like the look in the old man’s eyes as he said this word book. “Mayhap she do, mayhap she don’t. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, I think she has it, alright.” The old man smiled as with slow paces he graced the dusty floorboards of the porch. “Savannah is a city that’s seen civil wars and Forrest Gump, Mr. Colson, but it’s a city not so very big, after all. Word gets around these parts.” The old man gripped his cane. “You see…” Looking over, he paused. “Oh, but might we have a seat on your porch swing? These old legs here…you understand.”

Ron shrugged. “I guess.”

He sat down beside the old man.

“Is this speech or whatever a yours gonna be long?” Ron said. “See, there’s this show I was wantin’ to watch—"

“It will not be a lengthy rendering, I assure you.”

Ron furrowed his brow. “A what?”

“A few months back,” the old man said, setting his cane aside, “I had an estate sale…oh, but I haven’t introduced myself, have I?” The old man extended a hand. “Name’s Jonathan J. Silverman Jr., pleased to meet you. And I know you are Mr. Colson.”

“Helluva name,” Ron snickered as she shook the old man’s hand. “You rich an’ famous, or sumptin, with a name like that?” Ron paused. “Wait, haven’t I heard that name before?”

“Over the past four decades I have owned and operated the Silverman Lumber Company. Big warehouse right off of—”

“Oglethorpe Ave. Yup, that’s where I’d heard of ya. You are rich, then. Famous, too, least ‘round these here parts.”

The old man smiled as he folded his hands over-top his lap. “Oh, but at my age, Mr. Colson, money tends not to mean so much. Things like health, good company, peace and quiet, are the currency of old age.” Silverman reached into his back pocket and removed his wallet. “That is why I have come to offer you—should you prove unwilling to accept a lesser offer—two hundred dollars for your daughter’s book. That’s a very special book, Mr. Colson. To me, it is.”

Ron eyed the pair of hundred-dollar bills held out at him. “Book ain’t for sale,” he said, curtly, tearing his sights away from the money. “Book an’ Betsy’s been through a lot together. We had it fetched up out of a well.”

Silverman withdrew his hand a little. “Yes, I had heard. Three hundred, then.” Silverman pulled another hundred out of his wallet.

Ron sat impassive, looking straight ahead.

Silverman’s lip curled. “Four hundred.”

Ron sighed.

Silverman dug into his wallet. He held out five crisp bills. Sneering, he said in a loud voice, “Five hundred dollars, Mr. Colson.”

Ron shook his head.

Flapping the bills at Ron, Silverman exclaimed, “She is a part of my past, Mr. Colson. A part of me, of my pedigree.” He gritted his teeth. “She speaks to me in my dreams, damn it. In fact, it was she who told me to…” Silverman stopped himself. He pursed his lips. Shaking his head, he leaned back against the porch swing and sighed, deeply.

Ron sat upright. “She speaks to you in your dreams?”

Silverman hung his head. “My apologies for the cuss words. It’s just that, your daughter’s book means so very much to me.”

Ron furrowed his brow. Clearing his throat, he said, “Means a lot to Betsy, too.” His eyes discovering it impossible not to tempt another peek at the bills, he added, “Ya see, originally I’d bought that book for Betsybug thinkin’ it’d get her to appreciate smart stuff an’ so she’d wanna get, you know, smart. An’ she is getting’ smarter, a mite anyway.” Ron leaned back on the porch-swing. “Anyway, little did I realize how attached she’d get to that book. Carries it with her everywhere she goes, read every story in there maybe fifty times over. Betsybug would never, ever part with that book, and I ain’t about to—”

“Mr. Colson, surely you are a reasonable man.” Silverman allowed his sights to wander. “You could put this money towards some home improvement projects, say. Install a flowery trellis or a Renaissance-style fountain over here, put in a nice Japanese garden over yonder there…”

Ron snorted. “Ain’t no garden would ever wanna have anythin’ to do with this place.” He shifted around on the wood seat, his eyes widening in appeal. “That book’s her ticket to a better life, Mr. Silverman Lumber. Her ticket to smartness, to college; it’s her ticket outta this place.” Feeling deep down inside himself his angry-drunk side stir around like a pregnancy, Ron donned his happy face as he quickly changed the subject. “So, you’re the one I’d bought that book from at that tag sale. Who’d ‘a known, the Silverman Lumber guy himself.”

Silverman leaned back. “No doubt it was my associate you had bought it from. I was busy at the time trying to sell off the mansion, and so I wasn’t around to give the specific instruction to under no circumstance sell that book.” Silverman rocked the chair a little. “No heir to pass along the company to so I had to sell that off, as well. Big, empty, lonely, old warehouse now. As for myself? I’ve relocated to the hospice. Loaded, and lonely as a hermit.” Silverman stopped rocking. He looked at Ron. “That book holds great sentimental value for me, Mr. Colson. I have a special connection to the author of that book. Flan O’Connor and I were childhood friends; later on we were high school sweethearts. Flan grew up right here in Savannah, if you didn’t know.”

“Everyone knows that,” Ron said. He scratched at the stubble on his chin. “Well, I’ll be darned. Sweethearts.” He sided a glance at the kids playing by the well. “Mr. Silverman…” he said, “if you don’t mind indulgin’ a curiosity I’ve got…I was wonderin’ if, er, over the time y’all were growin’ up, did you and your author friend ever engage in the ol’, he he…Jack and Diane?”

Silverman grinned. “Ah, Mr. Colson. You are a Southern gentleman of the rarest sort, a true master of the arts of subtlety, gentle reference, and solicitude.”

Ron blinked, repeatedly. “Sounds ‘bout right,” he said. “Whatever ‘twas you just said right there.”

“The answer to your question is no.”

“No? Really?”

“Well, to be frank, Mr. Colson, Flan and I were far too occupied in what would turn out to be our future career paths to engage in the usual high school antics, fooling around and such.”

Ron lowered his chin into his hand. “Hmm. So—gettin’ focused an’ all successful-like is what keeps young folk from fallin’ into mischief an’ havin’ a whole buncha kids they can’t take care of?”

Silverman smirked. “I suppose you could say that. It did for Flan and I.”

Ron crossed his arms. “Then, the book ain’t for sale. At any price. That book might just be enough to give my Betsy some Budd Protection.”

“Budd…protection?”

“That lil’ devil over there.” Ron turned and pointed. “See him? Wavin’ that branch around like he was Darth Vader or sumptin?”

Silverman curved a smile. “Oh, but Mr. Colson, I was quite the lil’ devil, too, at that age.” His dress shirt lost its creases as the old man straightened. “But, of course, I grew up. Have to, in the lumber business. Actually…” Silverman pursed his lips in concentration, “one might even say it was Flan who helped me to grow up and get right. You see, it was in seeing her dedication, determination, and devotion to her craft that I finally decided that I, too, wanted to be dedicated, devoted, and determined in something. I stopped all of the tom-cattin’ around—flirtin’, fussin’, hustlin’, road-ragin’, and got busy, well, you know, selling two-by-fours and plywood sheets.”

“Ms. O’Connor did that, helped you grow up and become all responsible-like?”

Silverman reached for his cane. “You’d be surprised how much the behaviors of others around us can influence our own behaviors. Just as bad habits can be contagious, so too can good ones.”

His cane clenched between his bony knees, Silverman said, “Now, listen, there’s more. And look here, your swimsuit models on the TV can wait. You may not rush off on me. I want you to hear me out.”

Ron’s cheeks took on a blush of crimson; his sheepish smile made known that he was not going anywhere.

Silverman folded one leg over-top the other. “Flan and I had gone our separate ways after high school. She, off to the Georgia State College for Women, and I, to carry on my father’s lumber business. It wasn’t until two decades later that we would get back together again. That was when she handed me this first edition copy of her short story collection, A Good Man is Hard to Find. Strange title, eh? She told me the inspiration behind that title was a certain—” Silverman grinned “—best friend she had known back in high school. She never told anyone else. It was our little secret. Now, as for the book itself—her very heart and soul was imprinted into it. Believe me, I knew her. Well. That book is Flannery O’Connor as much as the woman herself ever was.” Silverman’s smile faded. “Flan died not too long after that. From lupus. Awful, awful, like you cannot even begin to imagine, Mr. Colson, that disease is.”

Silverman granted himself a moment. Finally, he continued, “Looking back, I still believe things could’ve worked out between us. Indeed, they would’ve, had she lived longer. Flan never married. Nor did I. Couldn’t bring myself to. No woman ever had the grace, wit, and individuality as did Ms. Flannery O’Connor.”

Silverman returned Ron’s studied gaze. “Your daughter’s book, Mr. Colson, is, you see, the fulfillment of a kind of promise I’d made to Ms. O’Connor on that day long ago—the promise that I would forever keep her in my heart by keeping that book of hers forever by my side. Having it with me is like having her with me. It speaks to me, she speaks to me. Not so much a book as it is a memorial. More than that, a veritable presence. It is Flan herself, living, and breathing, resurrected, brought to life by the timelessness of both the words she wrote and those words she’d spoken to me that one day. It is—”

“Daddy?” a voice said. With wide eyes, Silverman turned. Ron looked over, and smiled. It was Betsy, the in-question mustard-colored volume clasped in her folded arms. “Daddy, why does this man want my book?”

Silverman made a low, strangled noise.

Ron exhaled, long and slow. “Sweety,” he said, “listen to me. Gotta tell ya sumptin. With all due respect to Mr. Silverman here, who’s good peoples an’s got a fine an’ interestin’ story—I’ve decided. It’s my final decision. No one is ever gonna take that book away from—”

“No,” Betsy said, with soft steps to the porch swing. “Here,” she placed the book on Silverman’s lap. “I don’t need it anymore. It spoke to me. I got it. I got the message.” Betsy turned to her father. Her face reddened, eyes shimmered, brow twitched, as she tried in vain to fight back the tears, even as one began to trickle down her cheek.

Ron cocked his head. “What’s the matter, honey?”

Betsy sniffled. “I’m no good,” she said. “I can’t do anything right. I’m a failure!” Betsy hung her head. “I know it. It’s for sure, now. Budd just told me. That I’ll never go to college ‘cause I ain’t ever gonna be able to get a scholarship. I tried, and failed. I failed her. I failed Ms. O’Connor.” Betsy wiped her wettened cheek with the back of her hand. “I can’t do it. I’ll never be able to get A grades. I’m too…” shuddering, Betsy clenched her teeth “…dumb.” And with that, the tears came full on.

“Ah, c’mon, stop yer hissy fittin’,” Ron chided. “You’re all grown up now, ‘member? An’ you ain’t that dumb.”

Through her sobs, Betsy struggled to force the words out. “In my…” she sputtered “…in that dream I had ‘bout Ms. O’Connor…when she told me…when she said that…”

Silverman stood. “You had a dream, child? About Ms. O’Connor? You saw her? She…spoke to you?” Silverman turned and said to Ron, “I hadn’t heard that part of the story.”

Upon this sudden reminder that guests were present, and fancy-looking ones at that, and the realization that she was probably acting like the child she no longer was, Betsy tried to pull herself together. She sniffled back her nasal secretions, wiped at her eyes. “She…was at the bottom of our well, Ms. O’Connor was. She said that if I didn’t fetch her out then…I wouldn’t get the chance to go to a university to get an education. I’ve failed her, though. Now I’ll never go to a university, will I, Daddy? Will I!”

Ron dabbed at the moisture collecting in the corner of his own eye. “Ah, hell,” he said, sniffling then rubbing his eyes. “Got me a gnat or sumptin in my eye here, sorry.” Ron took a deep breath. “Your book, Mr. Silverman,” he said, “see, it’d fallen down into our well.” Ron pointed at the well. “Friend of mine who works o’er at the Sunoco down the road helped us fetch it—I mean, her. I mean, it—out. That book, like Betsy told ya, spoke to her in that dream she’d had, but it’s been speakin’ to her ever since, encouragin’ her to get right by gettin’ an education.” Sighing, Ron said, “Never afore, Mr. Silverman, have I seen a dead author lady and her book speakin’ to someone like Ms. O’Connor’s been speakin’ to my Betsy here. Betsybug’s not only convinced that she needs to get herself right, she’s full-on passionate about it!” Ron swallowed. “Bottom line, I can’t ever afford a college education for Betsy. Readin’ that book is makin’ her smarter, but just not smart enough to get a scholarship.”

Silverman breathed, heavily. “Why didn’t you tell me,” he exclaimed. He turned on his heels, slowly, to face the girl. Standing stock still, he stared at her with a widening of his eyes that was to suggest the youngster might be something from another world.

Silverman pursed his lips. “You…saved her, then, didn’t you, my dear?” He touched the rubber tip of his cane against the floorboards. “You rescued Ms. O’Connor from that dark, lonely place where she was being held prisoner, as it were. You responded to Flan’s cries for help. You helped out a good, dear old friend of mine.” With his chin in hand, and with slow, measured paces, Silverman traced a path back and forth across the creaky floorboards, as he thought it over. He stopped. He looked at Ron. Then, at Betsy. Raising an eyebrow, he said to her, “That is why I am going to help you…”

* * *

With a string of impassioned sighs, Ron Colson lowered his vanilla latte onto the dusty floorboards of the porch. Stopping the back-and-forth oscillations of the porch swing, he pulled a pen and wire notepad out of his shirt-pocket. Setting pen to paper, he began to write:

Dear diary…

God, how I hate this writing crap. Wanna write this all down, though, so that Betsybug and her future young’uns can see just how far Betsy’s come along, and so that they can take some sort of lesson from it, or sumptin. I dunno.

Yeah, I’m keepin a diary. It’s all Betsybug’s fault. Wonderful world of words, or whatever it was she called it. She kept encouragin’ me to.

Welp, it’s been six months since my last entry. That was when Betsy first started school at the University of Georgia, English major, with a minor in Education. All expenses paid, courtesy of our good friend, Mr. Jonathan J. Silverman Jr, of Silverman Lumber Company. Betsy never did get those high enough grades in high school she was s’ppose to get to qualify her for a scholarship, but it ended up not matteren. Betsybug tells me she wants to become a teacher so that she can share with young peoples the world over ‘bout the wonderful world of words, or whatever it was she called it.

Betsy says weekends on campus are all lonely-like, and so that’s why she drives down here to Savannah to come visit me, and Mr. Silverman, at that Shady Oaks place over on 52nd; and visit Budd, too, at the truck maintenance center he owns and operates insida that big warehouse right offa Oglethorpe Ave.

Silverman called earlier this week. Said that the first edition copy of A Good Man is Hard to Find is sumptin he’s gonna bequeeth (I think that’s how it’s spelled) in his will to Betsy. Silverman says he keeps the book by his bedside at the hospice. He says that it speaks to him.

Speaking of…had me another one of those dreams last night. This time, she didn’t say anything. She just sorta waved, and smiled, as if to say “thank you” to me. I tried to say thank you back but the words just wouldn’t come out. The smile that dimpled her cheeks, and the sparkle that shone in her eyes, said “you’re welcome” about as well as the words themselves ever coulda said, though, I’m thinkin’.

Not too bad lookin’, either, that author lady, with that light brown hair of hers all flutterin’ in the shady shadows like it done did.

Who’d a knew that things like dreams could be contagious? Ma, God rest her soul, was right when she said to take those kinda things seriously.

Welp, that’s all for now. Gotta get dressed and ready for work. Truck maintenance is a helluva good gig, and word around the plant is that Big Boss Budd, as they refer to him now, really likes the work that I do, and that he’s looking forward to calling me Dad. Whole lotta fussin’ on his part, but with the encouragement of Betsybug, and the help of Silverman, that boy finally did get his apples all in a row, and in a big way. Betsybug drew a hard line of no Spring Dance, no Junior Prom, no Senior Prom, no chasin’, no wild thingin’, and the boy, I guess, just wasn’t ready to lose his best and only friend for the sake of shenanigans. I’m reckonin’ that things will work out between him and Betsy. Everything has so far.

Shaking his head, Ron sighed. “An’ all of it because of some author lady who was appearin’ in all of our dreams an’ so who we decided to pull outta the center of the Earth. Go figure.” He set the pen and notepad down on the bench.

While sipping his coffee, he allowed his sights to wander the junk-laden, overgrown vista of natural beauty that was his backyard—then froze.

If it hadn’t been for the stray shaft of sunlight streaming in through the dense cluster of live oaks that sided the house, landing like a spotlight on the dirt patch beside the well, he probably wouldn’t even have seen her. Dressed in a baby-blue cardigan with a white fold-collar, and black slacks, she stood glaring at him. Her face was expressionless; her body was as still as dangling branch-moss on a wind-less day.

It was her. The brown hair. The glasses!

Ron squinted into the distance.

Or was it? Did ghost ladies wear cardigans? Did ghosts even exist, outside of dreams? He thought about it. Damned creditors, maybe that’s who this was. A census taker, maybe? The stranger reminded Ron of a librarian. Did he have any overdue books?

For seconds on end, Ron and his backyard visitor held each other’s gaze.

Ron’s heart pounded; his body trembled—not because he was afraid, necessarily, but because of the million or so considerations that were suddenly jostling in his mind and lobbying for his attention. What should he do? He could walk over and introduce himself; he could offer her the rest of his latte; he could say something like “Afternoon, Miss. How y’all doing? Is that really you?” His mind still processing, his arm shot up as if by impulse. He waved to her—

Just as the woman, curving a smile that dimpled her cheeks and put a sparkle in her eye, faded into the cloudless Southern sky.