Rock Island Line. David Rhodes
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wooden door opening into his warehouse-size garage, rented the late Dr. Bokin’s house across the street, joined a group called the Society for the Observation of Birds and begun reading the Bible at the rate of two chapters a day, interested, but not industrious enough to look up the word references along the middle of the page—he was convinced his life could become more wonderful if only there were not that uncontrollable center of emotional rampage. He began to resent it because of the feelings of shame it brought him later. And from that time on he was careful to live his life in such a way that when those times came—and they were less frequent as he grew older—he could keep it to himself without reaching out and including others. But he could not deceive, and everyone knew from his shyness and gray eyes that nothing was changed, and he was expected for years to be building up for a gigantic outburst.
But then everyone forgot. Because they didn’t see any evidence of his sensuality. After five or six years they forgot about it.
Remington Hodge’s father used to call on the name of the Lord to verify that John Montgomery could fix anything, and that it was common knowledge clear into Iowa City and through to Solon (which to him was tantamount to universal knowledge) that there’s a guy in Sharon who can really weld. To those old farmers there were three things: family, food and machinery. So here it is, the family belongs to Della, and Wilson is there for food, and what happens then but John is the best welder on earth and as long as he’s alive and either there’s a light on in the house across the street or the garage door is open it’s as good as a promise that everything will be all right. It’s impossible to say what a good mechanic means to people who have nothing to depend on but what they can touch.
John was by no means the first in Sharon Center to get an automobile for himself. Actually there were already so many by then that there was no reason for any notice at all, except everyone knew how Wilson felt about them, and the concern was to see how he would take it.
“If he wants to, that’s his business,” was all that he said.
One afternoon five or six farmers were at John’s, sitting on the machinery and talking and spitting, a little too far along into fall to be without jackets, when Sy Bontrager came up in his tractor and sat down with them. John had his hood and gloves on, and sparks flew like a roman candle. Corn-picking season had nearly arrived, and in the fields black scar marks showed on the tops of the plants where the skin had frozen. Naturally, they talked about weather and the approaching winter.
Sy had a piece of iron he wanted straightened, and when John tipped up his hood in order to see what he was working on in full light, Sy asked him where he kept the anvil. John told him in the back somewhere and closed down the hood and resumed welding. Sy went back to look, and because one man could spend all day looking back there, three or four of the others went to help. They found it behind two oil drums and a short block.
“Here, I’ll get back in there and hand it out,” said Brenneman.
“Just lift it on out,” said Henry Yoder, “from there.”
“No thanks.” Brenneman got back between the drums and set it up on the block.
Marion took it out and set it on the floor. “I heard,” he said, “that there was a fella in Clinton who could pick one of these up with one hand, by grabbin’ ahold of it by the horn.”
“I could do that,” said Sy.
“Come on.”
“I could. Bring it on out here where there’s plenty of air.”
Brenneman carried it out into a clearing beside the lane. “OK, go ahead.”
“Wait a minute. Now, just exactly what did this fella in Clinton do?”
“He’s hedging!”
“No. Just what did he do exactly?”
John had taken off his hood and come back. Marion told him that Sy was about to try to pick up the anvil by the horn.
“. . . . so he just lifted it off the ground. No further. Just off the ground.”
“Come on, Bontrager.”
But for all the joking it was noticed that Sy was nearly a giant, and that his hands were bigger than a normal head. But still it seemed impossible. Then he bent down and wrapped his sausage fingers around the end of the horn, tilted it up so that it pointed straight in the air and lifted. At first nothing, but it didn’t slip either; and then Marion, who had his face on the ground, shouted, “It’s off. Drop it, Sy, it’s off.” And he dropped it.
They congratulated him and he went off to find a hand sledge to straighten his piece of metal. Marion grabbed ahold of the horn, gave a little tug and shook his head. No one else wanted to know exactly how hard it would be. “In all your life you’ll never see that done again,” said Brenneman. “It’s incredible anyone could be that strong.”
“He always was big,” said Henry Yoder.
Then everything settled down. Brenneman got a set of leathers for his pump and left. Henry Yoder left with Marion in his car toward Marion’s place. Sy straightened his hitch and put it up behind his tractor seat and drove away. John worked on a small one-cylinder motor, taking off the flywheel to get at the points. Marion and Henry Yoder came back, parked across the street and went into the store.
“I tell you, he did,” they told Wilson. “He picked it right up off the ground, as easy as you please.”
“It’s impossible. Sy Bontrager?”
“ Yes.”
“Well, he’s big . . . No, it’s impossible. There’s a fly in the soup somewhere.”
“He did it.”
“It’s physically impossible,” and Wilson went over to the window next to the street and looked out. No one over there but John, walking around and looking into the street. Wilson looked absently out at him, thinking privately to himself about all the things he had to do before winter, the windows, the rain gutters, some of the roof, get bales around the foundation, install ... John walked across the garage again and looked out, oddly enough, Wilson thought, as though he wanted to be sure he was alone. Then he bent over, and from the store window and in a line clear down an aisle of tools and oil drums Wilson saw him lift his anvil with one hand by grasping the horn, straight up until it was several inches above the ground, behind which he could see the red Riley oil drum, then set it down and hurry back to the small engine.
Wilson’s mind raced. For the first time in his life, he thought: What can possibly be inside him? What is he made of to be able to do that when he’s no bigger than I am? There’s never been any indication of that. Muscles are muscles, and bones are bones; what could make someone so different?
“He did it, I tell you. He said he could and then he did it,” said Marion.
Yes, he probably did, thought Wilson. It’s possible. It’s not that strange if a big man can do it. But still he wondered; and after his store was empty, he closed the door and went over to the garage, thinking that he would have a better look at both the anvil and his son. He watched John putting tiny brass jets and springs into the carburetor of the Briggs and Stratton, and there was no indication there of anything. “Hello,” he said when John looked up, and tried to look casual and uninterested as he went over to where the anvil sat on its back, pointed straight up into the air. When John turned around he grabbed ahold of it with both hands and lifted. And stopped. He felt sure he could, if he really wanted to, with both hands, but one hand! It seemed impossible.
“I was sorry to hear about your dog,” said John, and blushed as he looked at his father.
“So was I,” he answered. “It’s been three days so far and I still can’t keep from thinking about her running around in the front yard the way she did, and the sound of her digging under the porch.”
“I think,” John began, very shyly, “that you shouldn’t get any more dogs. They’re not worth it. Something always happens—”
“They’re