"Member that hail storm that got the best wheat crop ever planted in these parts, Emerson?""Stripped everything in four-and-a-half minutes at four p.m. on the fourteenth of June, in 1974," he’d return in a monotone. "What year, Emerson, was the ground so hard that we broke the plow?"

"In ‘86, we had twenty-two days of over a hundred degree weather and no rain for over seventy-seven days.

But he couldn’t manage the kind of conversation that rose unpredictably out of people. He wondered how they did it--how they talked and joked so. Before the messages could siphon through his system, he’d lose track.

Emerson downed his hamburger with gulps of coffee in his usual methodical manner, hoping he wouldn’t have to talk to the regulars who sat around tables: the city clerk and the city employees, the county extension agent, area farmers, and the women from Phi Kappa Delta. Today, like always, he let their conversations drift around him, rubbing as gritty as sandpaper.

After paying his bill, Emerson lumbered down the sidewalk with an almost unbearable self-consciousness, carrying on his overalls the smells of smoke, greasy fried eggs, and sausage patties.

"At first we thought Emerson was just shy," Mary Alice Johnson told Boomer Patterson, twenty years earlier when Boomer had moved to town to become the new mental health professional.

"But then he came home from college, walked up the stairs, and shut the door," whispered her husband, Henry, who wasn’t aware that his son, Emerson, listened to every word from the waiting room.

"Must have been heck living in that dorm with no social means. That’s when we lose ‘em, about the time they leave college," replied Boomer. Emerson heard a heavy thud, the rustling of pages, and the scratchy sounds of a pen across a pad as he flipped the pages of Field and Stream.

Emerson’s parents never talked about "the diagnosis." The undertows served as a conveyance for all sorts of speculation. With winks and wry grins, the town spoke secrets above Emerson’s head as if he weren’t there. And the relatives, especially those who were Emerson’s age, expressed their regret every Thanksgiving. "Damn shame. So brilliant. Why, he could have been a professor with his double physics and engineering degree."

Eventually, Mr. and Mrs. Johnson moved to town and left Emerson to the farm. There, on endless acres, Emerson created dimensions in a world where all the boundaries had been erased. The farmer lived in his mechanical mind. In that soothing depth of space, he designed his toys.

The first time Emerson displayed his toys at the County Fair, he made a life-long friend. A thin, balding man named Jerry discovered Emerson’s booth at the Open Class exhibition shed. Jerry stood for hours pushing the buttons, watching the intricate movements of each toy. Bound to circular motion, the permanent outpatient of the local mental health center had returned to the fair each day afterward, standing in front of Emerson’s exhibit, eating popcorn and snow cones and chuckling with delight. Jerry had followed Emerson like a puppy ever since.

"Just how do you make them toys work? Just how do you make them go around and around?" Jerry always asked Emerson the same two questions during the winter months when they sat next to the stove and the howling north wind tangled the hedges.

Emerson’s reply never differed. "Like this."

While Emerson’s thick, calloused fingers bent wire or turned in rhythm to gears methodically set to motion, Jerry held the parts in his hands. Mesmerized, Jerry would watch, trying to capture the sound of cogs in harmonious synchronization.

"Whish . . . whooo . . . whish . . . whooo," Jerry whistled as steel marbles rolled backward and forward on wire contraptions, the ball bearings swerving down paths and activating whirligigs.

There were shelves and shelves of mechanical marvels. Wind-powered carvings. Toy machines built out of gears from old clocks, electric meters, and timers. Contraptions held together by gold necklace chains, pinwheels, and tiny screws, all run on magnetic power.

Each project was displayed on a wooden base enclosed with glass panels. When ignited by a switch, viewers could see the working conglomeration of motors, wire, and solder behind the glass. Jerry’s favorite toy, The Whirring Whirligig, had ball bearings rolling through loops and spirals on six different tracks. It was a gadget of such intricate detail. Of such perfect timing. Of such mechanical precision.

In the same exactness as his toys, Emerson lived his days, especially Thursdays. After lunch at the Country Kitchen, he parked as usual behind Highway IGA, then sat on the loading dock. No more than a minute passed before Jerry plunked down beside him, swinging his legs.

"Hey, Emerson." Jerry handed his buddy a cigarette. In the heat shimmers of a muggy June, the two men surveyed semi trucks rolling through town, imposing fumes and overpowering even the occasional breeze. The men played their usual game of describing the load of each semi.

"Feel it hummin’? It’s spinning out of control," stuttered Emerson.

"I don’t feel no hummin’, Emerson. Like I says, it’s just me and my grocery cart. Since I got my drinking under control, I’m gonna climb high. I like them heights, Emerson. I like to see over them there hills. I’m gonna climb them old elevator stairs one of these days. Like I says, Emerson, I’m meant to take risks. Just like the ball bearings rolling down them tracks on those toys of yours. Just like them cars that race around and around at the High Banks. Like I says, I do daring things now that I don’t drink. My brother says, ‘Jerry, you’re up to something no good,’ he says."

Emerson grinned. He could talk with Jerry like he could no other person. He could forget feeling crowded. Today, though, Jerry seemed even more erratic than usual.

"Ain’t this heat a blast from hell, Emerson?" Jerry wiped his forehead with a red bandana and threw his cigarette stub. Pulling a comb from his shirt pocket, he ran it through thinning hair plastered back and felt his pockets for the leather case housing his whetstone and jackknife. Making sure Emerson watched his every move, he proceeded with bold strokes to sharpen the blade. "I’m James Dean, I am," he told Emerson proudly. "Say, Emerson, when are we gonna start fixing them engines and putting them toys together?"

"After I get my wheat planted, and I don’t even have this crop cut yet."

"When them car races at the High Banks are folded up and put away in September, I’ll be out."

"I’ll . . . I’ll . . . I’ll be waiting."

Persistent uncertainties continued to trouble Emerson as the day wore into night. Something was up. The farmer acutely felt the subtleties. After chores, he did something he rarely did. Climbing into his old Ford, he drove back to town to find Jerry. Sometimes, Emerson found himself collecting Jerry. Once, he had found Jerry hitching a ride to Ringville. Another time, Jerry had driven up into Nebraska and gotten lost. It was as if Jerry needed to be put back together now and then.

Emerson didn’t mingle with Jerry’s friends, the other outpatients whom the town referred to as "the assembly." However, he felt a deep-rooted likeness to those who either walked or peddled their three-wheeled bicycles to the downtown stoop every summer night. He arrived at the corner of Broadway and Sixth Street where curving wrought-iron stairs spread below the turret of an old bank. The stoop lay empty. Sifting through the contents of a nearby trash can, Emerson found what he had suspected.

Under the glow of the street lamp, he brought close to the rim of his straw hat each orange pill container, the same type of container he picked up each week at Kramer’s Pharmacy. Using his index finger, he underlined the fine print, "Rocky’s Ritalin, Bernices’s Prozac, Pamena’s lithium, Delbert’s clomipramine, and Jerry Brown’s monoamine oxidase inhibitors."

Except for pinpricks of taillights circling through downtown, he saw no movement. No Pamena McBride, smelling of cold creme, strutting down the sidewalk wearing her latest from Wal-Mart’s Kathy Lee collection. No Rocky baring his chest. No Roger, Kareem, or Delbert, sitting on their three-wheeled bicycles, smoking their cigarettes, bragging and arguing about who did what. No Jerry.

Emerson saw nothing but the occasional flap of an awning and the bank’s flashing time and temperature sign, enough bulbs missing so it read nineteen instead of ninety-nine. Stuffing the orange pill bottles into the pockets of his overalls, Emerson drove north of the tracks to Jerry’s small trailer. When nobody answered the door, Emerson didn’t know what to do. He usually gathered clues from the assembly on the stoop. But tonight even they were missing. After a few agonizing moments, Emerson decided he’d better visit Boomer.

Brenda Patterson, the on-call mental health professional, better known as Boomer to those who needed her services, raised her eyebrows when she finally managed to unlock the deadbolt in her front door.

"Emerson?" Five parakeets chirped in unison as she let him inside. She patted her living room couch indicating where he should sit, just as she did when he visited her office for a prescription renewal. "Is there a problem? Are you ill? Do you need some medication?"

Emerson felt his cheeks grow hot. He tried to manage some words, but he couldn’t relay his suspicions. Boomer’s inquiry made him nervous. For once he fully appreciated her cat, Krinkles, whom she often brought to the office waiting room for therapeutic purposes. The cat muscled into Emerson’s lap as he finally managed to retrieve his supply of empty pill containers.

Boomer’s mouth opened in surprise. "Where did you find these?" She rattled them under the reading lamp just as Emerson had under the street light, grabbed her cell phone and realized she wasn’t properly dressed.

"Good gosh!" she complained into the phone as she pulled on jeans in her bedroom. "Not only is the town losing it, but even the nutties are getting nuttier."

Emerson pretended not to hear, knowing Boomer excited rather quickly. When she had moved to town years ago, she had worried, worried, worried, calling him several times a week. "Now, Emerson, are you taking care of yourself properly? Emerson did you take your full dose of pills?" He was relieved when she finally began to collect antiques and birds because it kept her busy. Sometimes he got tired of being fixed.

Disentangling Krinkles once more, Emerson stood and shuffled toward the door, careful not to knock over Boomer’s porcelain figurines and bowls of rose potpourri. The parakeets chirped loudly.

"Emmmerson!" Boomer hollered from the hall. "Don’t you leave! I may need you!" She ran a comb through her perm, grabbed her purse, shushed the birds and pushed Emerson outside into the hot night.

"Where the heck are they?" asked one of the cops when the squad car pulled alongside Emerson’s truck.

"How should I know, Grady?" hollered Boomer, standing with her hands on her hips and glaring at the cop. "You’re on patrol. You’re suppose to keep an eye on ‘em. Didn’t you notice ‘em missing?"

His partner, Jake Gordon, shrugged. "So quiet tonight and such a scorcher. Never thought to look for a problem." The gray-haired state champion football player from the class of ‘65 had been on the local police force for the last thirty years. "Maybe it’s the moon that’s causing them to be so ornery. Maybe they’re moonstruck." They searched the midnight sky, but the waxing moon barely gave off any light, let alone any pull.

"This heat’ll drive anybody mad," said Grady, mopping his brow. "Right, Emerson?"Emerson gave him an appreciative nod.

"Let’s round ‘em up." Boomer climbed into Emerson’s pickup because she knew Emerson would find them faster than anybody.

The cops followed the farmer’s truck to a graveled lot. Retro from the ‘70's drifted through the open door of Pinkie’s Bar and Grill. Rocky glided between pickups like John Travolta.

"Now that’s a side of Rocky I haven’t seen," said Jake, appreciating the man’s ability to pull off a fine twirl without losing his balance.

Grady watched, amused. "He’s got some moves."

"Oh, will you act like a professional?" Boomer punched Grady’s muscled shoulder. Emerson knew Boomer’s let’s-get-down-to-business attitude really covered up an attraction for the cop. Jake and Grady grabbed Rocky in the middle of a slide.

Just a few blocks from the Our Good Savior group home where they had delivered Rocky, they found Delbert. His red hair flaming, his underarms drenched, he stood at the wooden doors of the Baptist church. He held a Gideon Bible from the Super 8. Dutch elms swayed to his incantations. Teenagers driving by stopped and snickered.

"For they used to call you ‘The Outcast,’ our booty about whom no one cares! But I will restore you to health and heal your wounds. It is Yahweh who speaks," Delbert shouted, pointing upward.

So persuasive his delivery, that Boomer, Grady, and Jake stood for a minute before shooing the heckling teenagers on down the street.

"Why . . . goodness . . . he’s quite good," said Boomer.

Delbert had backed up against the church doors. "Have buckler ready and shield: onward to battle! Harness the horses: into the saddle, horsemen! To your ranks! On with your helmets! Sharpen your spears, put on your breastplates. What do I see?"

The cops stepped back, remembering if startled, Delbert could pack a pretty good punch.

"What do we do?" Jake asked Boomer.

Emerson knew Boomer’s mind was spinning from anxiety with all the syndromes and disorders she was trying to remember.

"Give me room to think," Boomer replied with hostility. "Let’s see . . . he’s been categorized with panic disorders, generalized anxiety disorders, mood disorders, depressive disorders, and expressive language disorders." She shook her head. "Or it could be side effects from medication or the lack of medication. Or he could be in withdrawal." Her brows furrowed even deeper. "Well, he’s certainly showing marked emotional distress," she verified to the cops.

Though the rescue team seemed calm, Emerson could sense their apprehension. He could feel Delbert’s searing agitation, entrapped and not knowing how to get untangled. Emerson didn’t quite know how he went past the hardness, the shell he used to shield himself from encounters and into the vulnerable inside, the part he so seldom used, the part which required everything he had to muster a voice. "It it it . . . it is Yahweh who speaks, Delbert." The big farmer swallowed. "The enemy runs in full retreat. Fleeing headlong."

Delbert shook the Bible, "A curse on the man who puts his trust in man, who relies on things of flesh, whose heart turns from Yahweh."

Taking off his straw hat, Emerson lowered his head. "A blessing on the man who puts his trust in Yahweh. Yah . . . Yah . . . Yahweh is his hope. He is like a tree by the waterside. When the heat comes it feels no alarm, its foliage stays green."

Delbert’s blue eyes hesitated and a smile relieved his rage. "Amen Brother. Amen."

"The ways of the Lo . . . Lo . . . Lord are with you, Delbert." Emerson reached out and took Delbert’s hand.

Boomer, Jake, and Grady looked at each other in disbelief. "First time I ever heard Emerson say more than a word," said Grady.

After delivering Delbert to the group home, they found Pamena McBride and Roger Jones across town, holding hands as they walked toward the highway. Roger, who sometimes sat as rigid as stone, not moving for hours or uttering a sound, sang a baritone that flowed through the open windows of the vehicles that followed him.

"Ohhhhhh, she’s my dear. She’s my dear, my darling one." Roger stopped and gathered Pamena into his arms. "Her eyes are sparkling full of fun."

Pamena giggled hysterically. "Roger. Roger. Roger."

He crooned, "No other. No other. Could match the likes of her, my pretty Irish girl!"

"Oh no!" Boomer was opening the car door even before Emerson had shoved the gearshift into park. "We’ve found them in the bushes before. I hope Pamena didn’t throw away all of her pills." She hurried to disengage the lovers.

"Jerry? What about Jerry?" asked Grady after they had driven Pamena and Roger to separate group homes. "Jerry can be such an instigator." But lights shone from Jerry’s trailer. When Boomer looked inside the window, Jerry was placidly watching late-night television.

After they had collected Bernice, Kareem, Melody, Bea, and Curtis, Boomer concluded, "Enough. Enough. Let’s call it a night. I’ll alert the crisis service just in case."

Jake shook Emerson’s hand, "Maybe we ought to put you on the force, Emerson.""Don’t remember a night like tonight. This’ll go down in the books." Grady sipped a Pepsi from Casey’s convenience store. "Guess we got things under control."

Emerson knew something wasn’t under control. The thought came as he crossed the wooden bridge on his way home. Tonight was probably just the beginning.The sun scoured the sky on the first day of August. Even the cottonwoods seemed to sweat as Emerson sat at the Flywheels Steam Engine and Antique Tractor Show in Gem County. He watched a 1920 Rumley Thresher separate wheat kernels from straw. Today the scratchiness inside his body was not to be endured, and he began to pace back and forth between tractors, hot dog stands, and crowds of people.

Emerson had brought his two finest mechanical toys and placed them in the exhibition shed where all ages gathered. Everybody loved Jerry’s favorite toy, The Whirring Whirligig. Even more were amazed with Emerson’s music machine. Circular cylinders, etched and mathematically calibrated to evoke a tune, rotated congruently, the sound channeling through hollow cedar.

Standing back against the aluminum siding, Emerson listened to the comments of bystanders marveling at the ingenuity and delicacy of his work.

"Look Grandpa! Look what happens when I press the buttons. The balls roll through six different tracks."

"Now, ain’t that a show, boy!"

"That there toy depends on the driving power of the spring. Lots of concealed mechanisms in those toys."

"Tell you what, somebody has an ability to work on a small scale. Never seen anything like that."

"That’s amazing."

"Yeah, that’s one of them there masterpieces. A true mechanical toy does everything without an operator."

Emerson felt no flattery. Earlier that morning his mother had telephoned, "Emerson, your cousins from Lincoln are planning to attend the antique tractor show. Aunt Marlys and Uncle Lib are going to show them your exhibits. Might be nice to have lunch with them." Emerson knew his mother never gave up hope.

Making his way to the tractor arena, Emerson sat on the edge of the portable aluminum risers.

A giant steam engine roared in front of him. Even though the steam engine was encased, Emerson knew its inner workings: steam raised in the boiler, routed by the rotary valve, through a pipe, into the cylinder, driving the piston downward.

In the scope of his peripheral vision, Emerson saw his cousin the architect and his wife. His body tightened.

"Hello, Emerson," said Robert politely. "Sure enjoyed your exhibit."

"Really enjoyed them, Emerson. Just fine work," echoed Tamara.

Emerson nodded.

"So, what are you up to these days, Emerson?" Robert leaned toward him in a friendly way.

"Oh . . ." said Emerson, hating that dreaded question. He shifted uncomfortably before making a habitual nod, and then another nod, followed by yet another, trying to keep his appearance on the upside by focusing on the huge engine. Forcing steam through a pipe and the rotary valve so that when the piston reaches the bottom of the cylinder, the rotary valve turns clockwise ninety degrees.

"Still plowing those same fields?" asked his cousin. "Still fixing those small engines?"

"Still driving that same old pickup, Emerson?" smiled Tamara.

Emerson kept nodding, "Yep. Yep. Still farming. Still fo . . . focusing." He meant he was still focusing on the steam engine. The steam from the boiler entering the bottom of the cylinder in order that the trapped steam can push through the pipe and the rotary valve which raises and lowers the piston rod from which the grasshopper beam resting on the fulcrum can–with its crank and connecting rod–turn the flywheel.

"Still focusing?" asked his cousin Robert in confusion. Both he and Tamara raised their eyebrows.

"Still, still, still . . . focusing." Emerson replied with another series of nods.

Robert winked and gave Emerson an affirmative pat and moved to a seat in the middle of the bleachers. Emerson pretended not to hear their whispers, "Poor guy. So brilliant."

All afternoon, an unending parade of tractors: Oliver Row Crops, Massey-Fergusons, and McCormick Super C’s, showpieces polished to a sheen, stirred enough dust to settle in the salty creases of overalls and denim shirts. Cracked lips sought relief with bottled water. Kids tipped back their heads and sucked cherry ices, sticky juice running down their necks and into their hair. It seemed to Emerson a very long day. Everybody agreed that nobody had invited such overbearing heat.

By evening a pileup of thunderheads in the west rumbled a warning, giving Emerson an excuse to pack up. Taking Highway 36, he headed home while the dark clouds unraveled. Rain pelted the road, asphalt so hot that vapors rose. The cloudburst was over by the time he reached the junction. It was strong enough to cool things by ten degrees and fast enough to push southeast so Emerson could see the tip of a heavy, pink moon ascend on the eastern horizon.

He didn’t drive home. He drove to town. Because at some point during that trip home, Emerson knew Jerry was in trouble. His sweaty palms could barely hold the steering wheel.

There were several cars gathered around the stoop. Standing on the rounded steps that wound up and around like a throne was the assembly, subdued and sober-minded. They all stood watching the frenzied activity of the town cops amid flashing lights.

Delbert had opened his Bible and read gently to his congregation, touching their shoulders ever so carefully. "No words can ever express. No words at all. But you know you, there’s a Gideon in every bunch. One in every bunch. Blessed be the Lord."

Under the moon glaze, Grady drove Emerson across the railroad tracks and showed him where Jerry had fallen from the top of the elevator.

"Did he want to see the kids’ string of red taillights from way up high, Emerson?" asked Grady.It was Boomer who decided a memorial service should be held on the stoop three days later, in the evening after supper, when the air cooled.

"Now, Emerson, he would have wanted you to," she said at the funeral home, trying to convince the farmer to read the eulogy. "Nobody’s going to be there except the gang. I’ll keep it simple. A few facts about his life on an index card."

Two days later in the twilight, the funeral home arranged folding chairs for the assembly. Pamena wore a new dotted-swiss dress, Roger a suit coat buttoned over his large stomach. They all held carnations.

Emerson arrived with his index cards. So did the bank president and all the employees of People’s Exchange; the mayor and his crew from city hall; the Chamber of Commerce secretary; the entire staffs from Koster’s Grocery, Kramer’s Pharmacy, and Highway IGA; the women of Phi Kappa Delta; the insurance people; all the downtown merchants; and even some teenagers.

"Get more folding chairs," Boomer instructed the funeral director. "And a microphone. There must be a least a hundred and fifty out there." She had forgotten that Jerry had sacked groceries in the town for more than twenty years.

"Amazing Grace" played over a speaker. The minister from the Baptist Church read from Psalms. At eulogy time, Emerson stood and swallowed as he looked over the rows of chairs filled with people. The microphone stood waiting. Waiting. No words coming. He stood, his cheeks reddened, shifting back and forth.

"Oh, for crying out loud," murmured Illa Rae. "They should have known better."

The minister and Boomer, somewhat disconcerted, were about ready to rescue Emerson, when they heard a sound. Emerson cleared his throat as he tried to reach way down past the hardness into the soft part. The index card of numbered facts swam in front of his eyes and wouldn’t sit still. Those seven facts about Jerry’s life couldn’t speak his emptiness. They couldn’t tell how it was when he was with Jerry, how he could look from the inside out instead of the outside in.

Focusing on a spot across the street, he tried once, then twice to speak the facts. "J . . . J . . . Jerry. J . . . J . . . Jerry was my bet." Emerson started over for the third time. "Jerry. Jerry was my best friend." He sat down. After a long silence, Boomer nudged the assembly to file to the front and put their carnations in the vase.

The evening was tender with August warmth and tastes of soon-to-be fall. No one left. Highway IGA brought chips and dips and soda pop. Townsfolk from Alma and the surrounding area sat on the stoop or in folding chairs and visited as dark settled. Delbert was pleased. For the first time, he had a microphone and a congregation. Readings from Jeremiah drifted like music in a church with no rooms or doors. Crickets whirred a chorus as summer aged.

Kids ran up and down the stoop stairs, chasing fireflies. Folks put their feet up. Teenagers drove Main.

"Heck, we used to do this all the time when we were kids. Sit and watch the stars come out," said Illa Rae.

"Member, Illa Rae, how we made bracelets with the hind ends of fireflies?" said Jake.

Illa Rae laughed. "Member, Jake, when streaking was the thing and your kid got caught because he ran into my clothesline?"

"I just might get out my old porch swing and put it up for awhile before the cold. Kind of miss its creak," admitted Boomer.

Mutt yelled, "Tristan, are you minding your manners?" Grady, decked in his police uniform, had Tristan, Mutt’s grandson, by the collar. A gang of third-graders followed, wanting Grady’s attention.

"Just making sure, Mutt." Grady gave Tristan a shake. "Just making sure this kid is staying out of trouble." Tristan tried worming his way out of Grady’s grip, then he saw Emerson.

"Hey, my grandpa says that there’s nothing in your head but gears."

Everybody laughed.

"You done all right up there, boy," said Mutt, slapping Emerson on the back. "You done all right. Don’t let anybody tell you otherwise."

Three months later at Thanksgiving when his fast-paced city cousins came to town to hunt pheasants and visit the relatives, they didn’t stop long enough to notice what Alma residents thought a minor miracle. A change, well-rooted, solid, and deep. The shiny window across the street from the Country Kitchen boasted gold lettering: Emerson’s Small Engine Repair and Toy Gallery. On the window sill sat The Whirring Whirligig.

On autumn afternoons, Emerson propped open his front door, waiting for Mutt’s grandson and the third graders. The farmer could always hear Jerry’s questions in the back of his mind, "Just how do make those toys work? Just how do you make them go around and around?"

He would hold the third-graders’ scabby fingers inside his thick, calloused farmer hands so they could feel the rhythm of cog biting cog.

"Whish . . . whooo . . . whish . . . whooo," they’d say. Shoppers and downtown merchants often stopped to watch. Never had they felt such precision of the heart.

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