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STEEL PLATE YOUR HEART

“Gosh almighty,” Irene said with a smile as she climbed into the front seat of my taxi. “It’s still so cold out there!” My regular bus terminal customer was carrying a small knapsack and wearing her one winter coat—a tan sheepskin with fluffy white on all the edges. It looked well-worn, but still clean and serviceable.

I smiled back her. “Well, we’re only a week away from spring.” I considered this astute observation for a moment and added, “Not that that means a whole heckuva lot, of course.”

I backed up the vehicle and swung out onto Pine Street, Irene sitting next to me beaming. Why she always seems so cheerful, I couldn’t say. The little bit I know about her points to a hardscrabble life, always on the move from one substandard apartment to another. On earlier trips, I’ve gotten the impression that her romantic life has been as unstable as her domicile.

“Jeez, Irene, I didn’t even ask. Are you going down to that trailer in Shelburne?”

“Yup, I sure am. I’m lucky I have good friends to help me out, ‘cause it’s wicked hard to find a decent place in Burlington.”

Irene raised her hand up to brush a cascade of blonde hair away from her face. She’s an attractive woman, I noticed, not for the first time, but with a hardness to her features, an innate toughness. I couldn’t tell if she was hanging on by a thread—just about to break—or whether she’d lived so chaotically for so long that she’d somehow made peace with it. For me, such a volatile, touch-and-go lifestyle would be intolerable. Not that I’m living in the Trump Towers with room service, but at least I have the same, steady roof over my head every night.

“I just couldn’t stay in Montpelier,” she continued. “The heat hardly worked in that apartment, and the frickin’ landlord wouldn’t do diddly squat to fix it.”

Irene was crashing at a friend’s trailer on Shelburne Road, just south of the bowling alley. Most people wouldn’t speak of trailer parks and Shelburne—one of the wealthiest towns in the state—in the same breath. But this one’s been around for years, tucked discretely off Route 7 and barely visible from the road.

As we cruised passed the Price Chopper, Whitney Houston came on the radio singing, “I Will Always Love You.” Irene laughed and said, “I kinda liked this song when it first came out, but then they played it to death.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean. Hey, didja know that it was written by Dolly Parton?”

“No—get on!”

“I’m not kidding. Dolly’s a great songwriter. If you can look past all that make-up, the huge hair, the flashy clothes, she’s a great country singer. I don’t know about you, but when I listen to her I can really hear the bluegrass coming through. Dolly’s got soul, doncha think?”

“Oh, God, yes. She’s great. You gotta love Dolly Parton.”

We rolled along listening to Whitney belting out Dolly’s tale of loss and forgiveness. If the story’s true, this song was Dolly’s poignant good-bye to Porter Wagoner, her long-time singing partner. Shelburne Road, it occurred to me, is a perfect thoroughfare for a certain strain of country music, what with all the cheap motels, fast food joints and dislocated people.

“You’re a Vermonter, aren‘t you, Irene? What town did you grow up in?”

“I grew up in Barre, so I guess maybe I’m a Vermonter. My father was a granite cutter. A couple of my uncles, too. My dad died when I was a girl, but I still got his boots. They’re beat up something awful, but covering the toes they still got these steel plates like you wouldn’t believe. Supposed to protect you if one of the stones gets loose and drops on your feet.” Irene paused and gently shook her head. “But like Dad used to say, ‘Don’t count on it.’”

A few construction crew workers were out by the side of the road, signaling the restart of the Shelburne Road widening project. Despite the wintry weather, I took this as a hopeful sign of spring. When we came up on Champlain Lanes, Irene had me pull into the big parking to drop her off.

She paid me the fare and threw in a fat tip, as she always does. It kills me when someone of such limited funds lays a big tip on me. Don’t get me wrong—I’m utterly appreciative of a good tip, no matter the source. But when it comes from someone like Irene, it warms my heart along with my pocket.

“Hey, Irene,” I said, “Did your dad ever tell you any cool stories about the boots?”

“Nope, not really,” she replied, smiling as brightly as ever. “You know what, though? I put ‘em on sometimes.”

“Really?”

“Sounds weird, huh?” Irene stepped out of the cab, and just before she closed the door she added, “It makes me feel safe.”