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THINGUMABOB by Russ McCarty Ira Coombs drew deeply on his pipe, and blew the smoke out in big aromatic clouds that hung in tight wreaths around his head until they were carried away by a random breeze. Tobacco smoke kept the bugs away. Ira had decided that many years ago. Through the screen door, he could hear the sounds of pans and dishes being shuffled around in the kitchen. It was a good sound, relaxing, one of those sounds that meant the day's work was over, and signaled the beginning of another ritual. Pearl would be finished clearing supper away any minute, and come out to join Ira on the porch swing, as she did every night in the summer. Ira closed his eyes and let himself sink deeper into the worn cushions. The lines on his thin mountain face were carved a little deeper than last summer's. His wispy gray hair was a little thinner, and the tiredness he felt in his aching limbs told him again what he already knew—that Ira Coombs was getting old. The screen door opened and shut with a slam. A woman in a faded print housecoat came out carrying a glass in each hand. The swing gave a low-pitched creak as she sat down next to the man. Ira opened his eyes. "You know, Pearl," he said affectionately , "if you was to get any heavier, 24 I swear it would pull those hooks right outta the roof." "Not, if you get any skinnier. We'd just balance out then," she said, handing him a glass of lemonade. They sat without speaking for a while, swinging back and forth with a slow creaking rhythm, sipping lemonade and surveying the view from the porch with all the concentration of newcomers. For thirty years they had memorized the hollow that descended steeply in front of them, had followed its sinuous windings until it ended, or was hidden by another ridge. They knew the course and turnings of the creek, and every contour of the odd-shaped, patchwork garden plots that flanked its sides. They knew it all, and from their perch on the ridge top where Ira had built this house, they could see other ridges, and beyond them the lights of Cheatham, the county seat. Ira and Pearl visibly relaxed, secure again in their knowledge that everything was just as it had always been. "Ira! Looky there!. . .down by the shed. The lightnin' bugs is back. It surely must be summer now." Pearl craned her neck for a better look. "Umm. . . huh," Ira responded mechanically , taking a puff on his pipe. "They's sure purty, Ira. Dancin' around in the dark just like they's candles. When I was a youngun' we used to catch 'em in jars an' keep 'em in our room all the night long. Then we'd take the lightnin' part from off the bug an' smear it round into a magical ring that glowed, and glowed, and glowed. . ." "Umm. . . huh," Ira nodded, knowing that she expected no other response. "Sometimes," Pearl continued, "if ever we saw a shootin' star, we'd make a wish on it. And course it'd come true." Ira leaned forward abruptly. "Well, you best make a wish, Pearl." "Oh. . .why's that?" "Looky there yonder. To west. D' you see it?" Ira directed her gaze. "Lordy! if I don't. It's a long one." "That's a mite peculiar," said Ira getting up from the swing and moving to the front steps for a better view. "Appears to be it's gettin' brighter." They both heard the sound, a faint hissing at first, like steam boiling from an unwatched teakettle, that got louder and louder each second till it seemed like a tornado about to touch down. In a flash of terror, Ira realized it was going to land somewhere close—if not on top of them. "Get inside Pearl! Quick!" Ira commanded hoarsely. Pearl seemed hypnotized by the fiery object that was bearing down on them. Ira grabbed her roughly and dragged her into the house, onto the floor of the front room, making a futile attempt to shield...

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