Mr. Pennebaker's Tractor

© 2002 Jess Butcher
All rights reserved.

Except for the occasional "Good mornin'" courtesy, I'd never really spoken with Mr. Eldon Pennebaker. I was born in the Mississippi delta town that bore his family name and, like most of the other kids, grew up avoiding direct contact with the imposing man who owned one of the largest farms in the state.

In July of '68, three recent Roosevelt High graduates and a small group of wellwishers stood uneasily beside an idling Greyhound. Lex, Ronnie, and I were on our way to another delta, one located in an unreal black-and-white world we'd seen flashing behind Walter Cronkite. The bus driver was inside Blue's Caf?, and as we waited for him to finish his coffee, my mom clung to me silently. Years earlier, a father I knew only from faded family photos had also taken a Greyhound before melting forever into a snowy Korean-hillside.

The uniformed driver appeared, closing the luggage compartment doors, heralding our imminent departure. I bent and kissed my mom, but before I could promise her I'd be home soon, she slipped away from me, wilting like a tulip in the Mississippi sun. The armor of my teenage bravado cracked at her abrupt withdrawal and cruel intuition whispered to me: I would never see her again.

Turning toward the cafe, I saw Mr. Pennebaker framed in the two-tone gray haze of a scarred screen window. He stood mopping his broad forehead with a bandanna, watching as his man Isaiah approached us. Isaiah was a Negro of indeterminate age, stooped and painfully thin. He removed the green John Deere ball cap covering his salt-and-pepper and reverently extended a hand, first to Lex, then to Ronnie.

Like Isaiah, my two companions were colored, and they greeted the old man respectfully. His warm and ready smile shined in stark contrast to the dour man he constantly accompanied. To this day I'm ashamed to admit I hesitated when Isaiah turned to me and offered his delicate handshake. He must have sensed my awkwardness, but his hand remained extended for the extra instant I needed. It seems a small thing now, but Isaiah's simple gesture forever changed me.

When the bus pulled away that sweltering morning, Mr. Pennebaker's Ford pickup was parked in front of Blue's Cafe. As was his custom, Isaiah had crossed the street to his familiar post, sitting on the curb in the shade of the big willow oak in front of Rebel Tractor Repair.

Thirty months later, a lifetime, the Greyhound returned me to Pennebaker on a blustery February morning. A Chevy pickup had replaced the Ford in front of Blue's Caf?, but little else seemed changed. Isaiah was sitting in the same spot beneath the now-leafless oak tree. Smiling broadly, he rose to his feet, waved, and crossed the street to greet me.

"Mornin' Mr. David," he said.

"Mornin' Isaiah," I replied. He didn't shake my hand but hugged me instead. This time, I welcomed his touch.

"You're all back home now," he whispered, patting my back gently.

"I reckon," I said softly. Lex and Ronnie had preceded me. They were both resting on the hillside south of the Greater Spirit Baptist Church.

"Sorry about your momma," he said.

I nodded but didn't respond. Her death nine days earlier had been sudden. In spite of my best effort, Uncle Sam and twelve thousand miles had prevented me from attending the funeral.

As the two of us stood for a moment, a buffeting north wind slammed the Bunny Bread-adorned screen door of the caf?, signaling the emergence of Eldon Pennebaker. As Pennebaker approached, Isaiah touched my arm and, with a nod, departed for his post across the street. Oddly, Pennebaker looked younger to me than he had nearly three years earlier.

"Good morning, Mr. Coyle," he said, his cadence and tone perfect Mississippi delta.

"Mr. Pennebaker," I said.

"I bought the old Rebel building when it went bust last year," he drawled, tilting his head toward the abandoned repair shop across the street; he didn't pause to acknowledge my mother's death or my two-year absence. "I hear you're a good mechanic," he continued. "I'll rent the old place to you at a good price if you're interested; sell it to you later, fair, if you like."

Pennebaker's small gray eyes weren't as cold as I remembered, but they offered little additional concession. I was barely twenty-one, adrift, and looking for refuge. With a nod and a silent handshake, I accepted his offer on the spot. He and I never discussed the matter again. Four years later, I bought the building, dealing only through Pennebaker's attorney.

Over the course of the next twenty-five years, I seldom spoke to Eldon Pennebaker, returning to my boyhood pattern of the occasional Good mornin' courtesy when I came in contact with him. But last February, he unexpectedly entered my shop.

"Mr. Coyle," he nodded. "I want to purchase a lawn tractor like the one in that photo," he said, pointing at a calendar hanging on the wall behind me. The image of the big green and yellow John Deere mower was flanked by an odd assortment of v-belts, gaskets, and o-rings draped over nails.

I glanced over my shoulder at the colorful calendar my old friend Isaiah frequently studied while he waited for his boss to finish breakfast across the street. When I returned my gaze to Pennebaker, he was staring out the soot-stained window glass at the frail ghost of his lifelong companion. Isaiah was standing outside near the oak, his back arched against the winter wind. As I watched Eldon Pennebaker, I suddenly realized how little I knew about him.

"I'd have to order the tractor from Memphis," I said, interrupting Mr. Pennebaker's momentary trance.

"How long would that take?" he asked, still gazing out the window, his voice as shallow as an August afternoon breeze.

"Four, maybe five days," I said, wondering why he hadn't asked about the price.

"Fine," he nodded, turning back to me. "Deliver it as soon as it arrives."

"Mr. Pennebaker," I said, "Isaiah will be so thrilled. He's been admiring that John Deere for years and—."

"Mind your own business, Coyle," he spat his words.

Stunned, I studied my visitor's weatherworn face as his eyes narrowed to impenetrable cold steel. Without further comment, he turned abruptly and left the shop. Through the murky window glass, I watched as Pennebaker brushed passed Isaiah without a word on the way to a pickup parked across the street.

Isaiah's frail skeleton rattled beneath worn winter clothes as he shuffled along after Pennebaker. Sudden realization shortened my breath, flooding my cheeks with warmth. As I wrestled with the reality of gentle Isaiah's imminent passing, I lowered my gaze and thought about Eldon Pennebaker's treatment of his lifelong companion. Silent, seething hatred consumed me as the truck roared away with Isaiah huddled in the rear bed.

Five days later the mower arrived. The truck driver used a pallet jack to unload the six-hundred-pound crate on the dock of Neal's Seed and Feed. It took me nearly three hours to remove the tractor from the huge container, attach the mower deck, and top off the fluids before I drove it across the street to my shop. Once inside, I set about my special task. Cancer had taken Isaiah the previous day.

I had made the plaque from a brass serial number plate salvaged from an ancient garden tiller. After examining the tractor carefully, I bolted the simple dedication beneath it, secreted on an inner-frame rail. 'FOR MY FRIEND, ISAIAH,' the message read.

I attended Isaiah's funeral the next morning, along with most of the population of Pennebaker, Mississippi. Mr. Pennebaker himself was conspicuously absent from the service, and the blood behind my eyes boiled as I scanned the pews searching for him. That same afternoon, anger seething, I made my decision. Over the course of the next few hours, I painstakingly completed one additional modification on Mr. Pennebaker's tractor and delivered it to his farm.

Over the course of the next six weeks, I waited patiently, biding my time, never laying eyes on Eldon Pennebaker. His daily breakfast ritual at Blue's Cafe had ended abruptly after Isaiah's death and I hadn't seen a glimpse of his pickup around town. One afternoon, Pennebaker's farm foreman dropped by my shop to purchase a set of blades for the mower. "How's Mr. Pennebaker like the tractor?" I asked. "Haven't seen him since he ordered it."

"Okay, I guess," he said. "Never know about him though. I've worked for him for nearly ten years; hardly know the man."

I nodded in response.

"I'm sure you'd hear from him if he had a complaint," he added with a grin. "Since Isaiah ain't around to do the lawn work anymore, Pennebaker's out there mowin' most every day. He's hardly left the place in the last six weeks; mighty odd if you ask me."

"I suppose," I said, realizing the time had come.

The following day, I watched Pennebaker from the tree line along the creek marking the western-edge of his property. Back and forth, the tractor moved silently across the several manicured acres surrounding his stately home.

From this distance, Pennebaker's face was an unfathomable shadow hidden beneath the wide brim of an oversize straw hat. Back and forth, strangely, I could hear the creak of the weathervane atop Pennebaker's barn, but I couldn't hear the rumble of the big tractor engine.

Back and forth, I extended the transmitter antenna. I knew what to expect; I'd seen it before in a place half-a-world away. Back and forth, I pressed the toggle switch.

A bright, silent flash tossed Pennebaker skyward, his left leg severed below the hip, his bowels trailing behind him, a jagged cursive in crimson and gray. I turned away before the muffled boom of the explosion reached me.

Returning to my shop, I waited. Within hours, the Jefferson County sheriff arrived and asked me to accompany him to the scene of Eldon Pennebaker's death. The explosives hidden in the hollow seat frame had blown away most of the rear section of the tractor, along with most of Mr. Pennebaker. The hood and front axle remained mostly intact, as did my composure until I saw the plaque.

In the dim distance, I could hear voices, people asking me questions, but the words were foreign, barely audible. The polished brass plaque glinted under the cruel midday sun. 'FOR MY FRIEND, ISAIAH," it read. Eldon Pennebaker had found my dedication and moved it, mounting it proudly on the hood of the tractor he had belatedly purchased for Isaiah.

More than two years have passed since I executed Mr. Pennebaker, and now my own time draws near. Isaiah tried to teach me about friendship and humanity, but in the end I learned nothing. Neither Eldon Pennebaker nor I deserved what Isaiah had given so unselfishly. Pennebaker wasted a lifetime, never really acknowledging his friend, while I squandered my own life, dishonoring Isaiah's memory in a selfish act of ignorant rage.

So I sit in my cell, fifty-two, adrift, looking for refuge. At first, I see only a long, gray corridor but suddenly Isaiah appears. He is standing in the furthest doorway, his John Deere ball cap atop his salt-and-pepper. Isaiah is flanked by Lex and Ronnie, and finally by Eldon Pennebaker who beckons to me now, smiling. I hesitate, but Mr. Pennebaker senses my awkwardness and his hand remains extended for the extra instant I need. It seems a small thing now, but his simple gesture ... changes me.

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