Free Sweet Jiminy by Kristin Gore

Fayeville history.”
    Jiminy nodded as she settled in opposite him.
    â€œActually, in a very specific time period,” she answered. “The late sixties. And 1966 in particular. Do you remember that year?”
    Walton took a long drag on his cigarette. He nodded slowly, watching Jiminy with an inscrutable expression.
    â€œThat was way before you were born,” he said.
    â€œBut there was another Jiminy alive then. Jiminy Waters. Did you happen to know her? She was young, only seventeen in 1966. And her father Edward. Did you know them?”
    Walton tapped his cigarette against the ashtray. Across the room, Roy shifted his weight on his stool.
    â€œI knew ’em. Edward was a carpenter. Could carve anything outta wood. Anything t’all.”
    Jiminy paused. She hadn’t heard this before, hadn’t even thought to ask anyone what Edward had done for a living. She’d thought of him as Lyn’s husband and Jiminy’s father and a murdered man. Just being these things had seemed occupation enough.
    â€œDid he work with my grandpa then?” Jiminy asked.
    To help pay for their small farm, Henry Hunt had done carpentry jobs all over Fayeville, according to Willa.
    Walton nodded.
    â€œEdward did the woodwork and Henry handled the business side, since he was obviously who folks wanted to deal with.”
    This was also news to Jiminy, who had always pictured her grandfather as a master craftsman. She’d imagined that same talent flowed through her veins, hence her fascination with hardware store catalogues and penchant for buying build-it-yourself furniture.
    The revelation that Henry hadn’t actually possessed that talent came as a bit of a shock. She thought of a doll she’d once found in her grandpa’s workshop closet—an exquisitely carved wooden boy. She’d gone on imaginary safaris with him, engineered elaborate pillow forts with him, told him her deepest, most precious secrets. She’d imagined her grandpa carving him carefully, lovingly for her, before he even knew she was going to exist. That wooden boy had convinced her she belonged in her family. Had he actually been Edward’s handiwork all along?
    â€œSo were my grandpa and Edward friends?” Jiminy asked.
    Walton took another long drag on his cigarette, then exhaled slowly. Jiminy coughed into her hand and turned toward the window.
    â€œThey were close,” Walton answered. “Henry was the boss, but they were close. Edward and Lyn lived just down the hill at that time, in a house by the river that your grandpa owned. So they were tenants as well.”
    Jiminy nodded.
    â€œAnd Lyn worked with my grandmother,” she said.
    â€œFor your grandmother, yes, though Lyn worked the farm alongside Henry and Edward for years before Willa came along. And then Lyn worked for the Brayers for a time, too.”
    Jiminy looked up quickly.
    â€œFor the Brayers? Really?” she asked.
    Grady started coughing from across the room, and Jiminy could see out of the corner of her eye that he wasn’t covering his mouth.
    â€œUh-huh,” Walton answered.
    Jiminy contemplated this for a moment.
    â€œWas Lyn close with the Brayers?” she asked.
    Walton took another drag on his cigarette.
    â€œI wouldn’t say that.”
    Jiminy stared at him expectantly, waiting for more information, but none came.
    â€œDid anyone have a problem with them?” she asked finally.
    â€œWith who?”
    â€œWith Lyn and Edward and my grandparents. With the way they did things, the way they were. With their closeness.”
    Walton regarded her, as sizzling noises escaped from the kitchen.
    â€œPretty much everyone,” he answered.
    Jiminy held his gaze, determined not to blink. She had more questions, but she suddenly felt claustrophobic in this hot, smoky, germy place. She stood abruptly.
    â€œI gotta go,” she said. “Thanks for your time.”
    She needed to get away.