Page 79 of The Fed Sex Man

I looked at Jarod, and then at John. “If you’d like, we can look at it. Maybe see if we can fix it.”

John smiled and gave a sharp nod. “Alrighty.”

I pushed myself away from the table and glanced at Jackie. “Ma’am, if you’ll excuse me--”

“Absolutely,” she said. “But, don’t waste any time on that old thing. You’ll want the cobbler while it’s still warm.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

I offered Jo a smile and followed John and Jarod to the overstuffed – but very tidy – garage.

Jarod was a typical Texan. Wearing boots, tight-fitting Wrangler jeans, and a button-down long-sleeved shirt, his belt was fitted with a buckle large enough to catch the attention of passersby at one hundred yards.

He was lean and lanky with closely-cropped hair that he wore just long enough to comb. Like his mother, he appeared much younger than his thirty-five years.

John may have been striving to lose ten pounds, but he didn’t look overweight in appearance. Still a barrel-chested man with massive biceps, he lacked the beer belly that most men his age had obtained much earlier in life.

He wore his gray hair in a crew cut. The photos I’d seen of him in his athletic years bore such a resemblance that recognizing him came easily.

He removed a dusty the tarp from the ice cream maker and set it aside. “Here she is. Made many a bowl of ice cream with this thing. Hell, my parents made me ice cream with this SOB when I was a kid.” He looked at Jarod. “Remember your thirteenth birthday? You demanded we make blueberry ice cream. Worst tastin’ shit I’ve ever eaten. Looked like hell, too.”

Jarod laughed. “It did taste pretty bad.”

“Don’t think there’s much you’ll be able to do to fix it,” John said, pushing the wooden bucketed contraption aside. “Worm gears are messed up.”

I bent down and looked the churn over. After just a moment of trying to get it to work, I realized the threads on the handle’s shaft were worn to a point that repair – short of re-threading the shaft – would be impossible.

“It’s not the gears. The shaft’s worn smooth,” I said. “I can probably re-thread it if it’s not stainless steel.”

John laughed. “It might look shiny, but my guess is that shaft’s carbon steel. They didn’t use much stainless back then. Hell, that thing’s a hundred years old. That thing’s so worn out that someone’s gotta sit on top of it to hold down the churn while someone else cranks their arm off. Tastes like heaven when you’re done, though.”

I stood and turned toward the open garage door. “If it’s cold-rolled carbon steel, we might be in luck.”

“Be in luck if someone had a tap and die set,” John mumbled.

“I’ve got one in my car.”

“Who in the hell keeps a tap and die set in their car?”

“A thousand horsepower tends to break bolts off from time to time.” I glanced over my shoulder. “I keep one for such occasions.”

“Well, hot damn!” He rubbed his palms together briskly. “Run out there and get that SOB.”

After retrieving the tap and die set, I re-threaded the entire shaft one size smaller. After removing the die, I wiped the newly cut threads clean. “All we need is a nut and washer, and we should be good for another hundred years.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” John said flippantly. “What size nut? I’ve got a bolt bin full of options.”

“Three-quarter inch. Sixteen threads per inch,” I said.

He turned toward the far wall and returned in an instant. He extended his arm in my direction, holding his clenched fist even with my chest. It was the same way my father used to give me special coins, and small trinkets.

I placed my open hand beneath his. He dropped a nut and washer into my palm.

“See if that works,” he said.

A few seconds later, the nut was in place and tightened. I stood, placed my hands on my hips, and admired my work. “Give it a try.”

John bent down and cranked the handle. As the paddles began to spin, he clapped his hands together. “Hot damn. We’re back in business.” He alternated glances between Jarod and me. “Jackie’s gonna have a conniption fit.”

“Why’s that?” I asked.

“Hell, we used this contraption to make ice cream after we got married, right on this very farm.” He picked up the churn and admired it. After a moment, his eyes went into a glassy-eyed stare. “That was a mighty long time ago,” he murmured.

I gestured toward the door. “Let’s take it inside and see what she has to say.”

Clutching the wooden bucket, John looked up and met my gaze. His eyes were welled with tears. He swallowed heavily, and then cleared his throat. “Thank you, Son.”

A lump rose in my throat, all but blocking my ability to breathe. I hadn’t heard those words in eighteen years. After a lengthy struggle, I stepped to John’s side and patted him on the back. “Let’s see if we can get some made before the cobbler gets cold.”

Still holding the bucket in his arms, he looked at me and grinned. “You crank, I’ll sit.”

I smiled in return. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”