Harvestman Lodge (10 page)

Those memories prompted Eli to drive out into the countryside to see if anything would revive recollections of his childhood visits to Kincheloe County. Somewhere out there was the former home of his mother’s parents, now dead for years. He had no memory of the name of the road it stood beside. Nor did he remember any landmarks of that area except two: a sign made in the shape of a huge bottle cap and touting a regional soft drink, and a church with two side-by-side steeples on its rooftop. There was a story about those twin steeples, something his grandfather had told him. Forgotten now, along with so much else.

If he could find the church, he might be able to explore its immediate area and find his grandparents’ old homeplace too. So Eli kept an eye out for a double steeple as he drove around, making turns onto new roads upon impulse, deliberately letting himself get lost. He saw plenty of churches, none with a double steeple.

He turned a corner, drove a quarter-mile, and there it was: not a two-steeple church, but the old bottle-cap-shaped soft drink sign, old, wind-warped and badly rusted. For a few seconds Eli made a leap back to young boyhood and his grandfather’s beloved Chevrolet pickup, in which he’d taken Eli on many trips past this distinctive sign on their way to get ice cream sandwiches at … at … what was the place?

Eli struggled to remember. Edna’s, Ellie’s … something like that. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be far away. He and his grandfather had always passed that memorably shaped advertising sign on their way to … Essie’s. That was the name! It had just come back to him.

Essie … a quiet old woman in a faded dress and old-fashioned bonnet. Gray hair pinned up beneath the bonnet with bobby pins. Odd, Eli thought, that he’d even remember her.

The road took a sweeping turn, and Eli’s reviving memories told him he would find Essie’s just around the bend. Not that it was likely it would still be the same … Essie was old when Eli was just a boy; she must have died years ago. If the store existed, it would surely be much changed.

Eli drove around the bend and knew he was at the right spot.

The store should be just to his right. It wasn’t. Only an empty lot, old gravel and broken concrete, weeds growing up through crumbled pavement. Eli parked and walked to where the store’s front door must have been and crossed into what had been the store interior.

Two minutes later he was standing with shoes and socks in hand and eyes closed.

“Funny thing is, I know just what you’re doing.”

The voice came from behind Eli and startled him. He opened his eyes, turned, and saw a man standing on the far edge of the old concrete slab. The man, thirty-five or forty, with hair beginning to mix salt with the pepper, had walked down a paved driveway that led up the nearby hillside to a metal-roofed, kit-styled log home Eli had failed to notice when he first pulled up.

“How are you?” the smiling stranger said, stepping forward and stretching out his hand. “Micah Ledford. That’s my place back up the hill.”

Eli walked over and met the man, wincing as his bare foot stepped on a sharp gravel. Up the indicated hill he noticed an attractive log home, kit variety, with a green metal roof.

“Eli Scudder,” he said, putting out his hand to shake Ledford’s. “About to move to Kincheloe County.”

“Yeah, but you’ve been here before,” Ledford said.

“How do you figure?”

“Because you’re barefoot, and because of where you’re standing. Yeah, you’ve been here before.”

“Years and years ago, yes.”

“Best feeling in the world for a boy on a hot summer day … bare feet, box fan blowing from the back of the store where it was always cooler, and that one special spot on the floor where it was worn down so smooth – I suppose from so many barefoot boys and girls standing there while Granny passed ice cream over the counter.”

Eli grinned. “I know exactly what you mean. Something about that one spot, it was the coolest part of the concrete, and smooth as glass … whenever my granddad brought me here I made sure I was barefoot and sought that spot out … wait. You said ‘granny.’ Essie was your grandmother?”

“Yes sir. Essie Ledford. One of God only knows how many Ledfords in this county.”

“You know, Micah, I walked over there and took off my shoes and socks just to see … sounds silly to say it … I guess just to see how it would feel after so many years. I didn’t actually expect to find the ‘standing spot’ still there. You’d think a smooth spot on a concrete slab would have weathered away after all these years, especially with the building gone.”

“It’s had a little help surviving, to be honest. Living up on the hill, it’s a short walk down here. A little cleaning and polishing every now and then, and that spot feels as smooth against my bare feet as it did when I was eight years old. Sometimes when I get a little sentimental and think of my old granny, I’ll slip down here and stand on that spot and remember her. It’s good to know that some things last. And you must have grown up around here, if you visited Granny Essie’s store.”

“No. I’m from Knox County. My mother’s folks, named Keller, lived in Kincheloe County on Harmony Road, though. We visited and Grandpa brought me to Essie’s when we were here.”

“Keller … Harmony Road. Yeah, I think I might remember your grandfather. Will Keller, maybe?”

“That was him.”

“Good man, as I recall. I was just a boy back when I knew him. I helped Granny in the store here sometimes, just sweeping and errands and carrying groceries for old folks who came in.”

Eli chuckled. “Lord a’mercy, as my granddad would have said, I think I might even remember
you!
I remember a boy carrying a country ham out of the cooler to the truck for Grandpa one time … older than me, dark hair, badly sunburned face at the time.”

“Yeah, that probably was me. I’ve always been prone to sunburn easy. So I guess this isn’t really our first meeting. Is it all right to ask what brings you to back to Kincheloe County after so many years?”

“Going to work for the local paper on a special publication project for the city-county bicentennial.”

“Now, that interests me! I’m a bit of a history buff, you see. Hey, you had lunch yet?”

“Nope.”

“Come up to the house and I’ll ask Nancy to throw together some sandwiches for us. Got some good chips and cold beer, if you’re interested. Or soft drinks if you prefer.”

“Beer sounds good.”

“You can leave your car parked right where it is. I own the lot. Granny Essie left it all to me in her will, her children being all gone, and me the only grandson.”

“What happened to the store building?”

“Damaged by a fire. I had to have it torn down. It had been closed for years by that time, and Granny was dead, but still, it felt like I was betraying her when the place came down. She loved that little store.” He shook his head wistfully. “I miss that old woman to this day.”

“I remember her bonnet,” Eli said.

“You never saw her without it,” Ledford said. “Come on. Let’s take a walk up the hill and talk a little about Kincheloe County and what you’ll be up to here.”

“SO,” SAID LEDFORD, SETTLING back in a nice leather chair in a rustic-styled den with a huge fireplace that would have looked at home in a mountain ski lodge. Above the fireplace hung an oiled and gleaming flintlock rifle, in such fine condition Eli assumed it was a latter-day replica. He asked about it.

Ledford was glad to talk about the rifle, which he described as a hybrid between old and new. The stock was original and carefully preserved, the barrel a later addition. But that barrel was a Hacker Martin creation, Martin having been a legendary Tennessee gunmaker whose works were prized by collectors. Eli, who had never fired a flintlock or even a percussion cap muzzle loader, was, because of his historical novel writing, a moderate student of old firearms and thus familiar with Martin’s legacy and reputation. He stood before the mantlepiece, eying the rifle, and reached up to lightly touch the barrel. “Touching history with my hand,” he said, and Ledford nodded.

“I suspect you and me like some of the same things, Eli,” Ledford said.

“If you’re an absolute fool for history, Eli, yes you do,” threw in Ledford’s pretty, brown-haired wife, Nancy. She was nearby in the kitchen, finishing the construction of some fine-looking ham and cheese sandwiches. Eli’s mouth watered as he studied the food in his peripheral vision. He could have stared openly at it, or for that matter, at the appealing woman putting it all together, but feared neither would be appreciated by his hosts.

Nancy went on. “If it has to do with local and regional history, particularly during the Revolutionary War period or the Civil War, Micah’s right in the middle of it. He’s a reenactor.”

Eli asked Ledford, “Rev or Civ?”

“Mostly Rev. And a little Tennessee long hunter thrown in for good measure. I guess I like it all,” Ledford said.

Nancy laughed. “He calls it ‘living history,’ but I think that he and his friends are just little boys disguised as grown men, playing Davy Crockett and Daniel Boone like they did when they were little, but with real guns in place of hickory stick rifles.”

“Not a thing wrong with that!” Ledford said. “Keeps you young and lively! You ever done any re-enacting, Eli?”

“Thought about it, never done it. I couldn’t justify the cost of the gear on my previous budgets. Probably not my upcoming one, either. I guess I satisfy my urge to play frontiersman by writing about it.” He had told Ledford about his published novel as they walked up from the old store site, and Ledford had been gratifyingly impressed, and vowed to find and read the book. He declared himself astonished that he hadn’t run across it on his own, being a heavy reader of frontier fiction.

He turned quickly back to the subject of reenactment. “Reenacting costs can add up, no doubt about it. But maybe we’ll manage to get you started now that you’re in Kincheloe. I know a lot of folks doing it, and we can round you up some clothes and moccasins and so on without a lot of trouble, I think. Hey Nance, where’s the beer?”

“Coming as soon as I finish these sandwiches, which is right about … now.” Eli heard the welcome sound of corn chips being poured onto sandwich-laden plates, and went back to his seat, a leather chair identical to the one Ledford occupied. Eli then realized he’d probably just taken Nancy’s usual chair.

“Should I move to the kitchen or someplace to eat?” he asked.

“We usually eat right here,” Ledford said. “Comfortable here in the den. You like it?”

“Beautiful home, just great. I love log homes. I’ll try not to spill any chips on the rug. Nancy, is this your chair I’ve commandeered?”

Her voice came from the kitchen. “Stay where you are, if you’re comfortable. We got plenty of places to sit.” Nancy came in with folding wooden TV trays, which she set up in front of each man. The sandwiches came next, complete with corn chips and split dill pickles, then the beer, still canned but already opened and ice cold.

“Just about perfect,” Eli said. “Good place, good people, good food and drink. I thank you for welcoming a stranger.”

“Stranger?” Ledford said in mock surprise. “Why, Eli, we’ve already established we knew each other when we were kids down at the store. We go way back, you and me! Old childhood friends.”

Eli grinned and raised his beer in salute. He reached for a chip but Ledford motioned him to wait. “I want to lead us in a brief bit of grace first,” he said. “I drink more beer than I should and say ‘shit’ more than I should, but I’m a believing man, and I try to thank God for what He’s given me.” He nodded toward his wife. “Especially for her. Can you believe an ugly old coon-hound like me wound up with such a lady? Pretty, smart, twelve years younger than I am … and pretty, too. Oh, and did I mention she was pretty?”

“You did, and rightly so,” Eli said. He bowed his head as Ledford led a brief, simple prayer of gratitude for the day, the food, the company, and the many good things in his life. After the amen he and Eli dived into the sandwiches.

No deli or sandwich house had ever served up anything better, and Eli wondered if he would ever be fortunate enough to find such a lovely and capable lady as Nancy Ledford. He’d not talked to Allison since that edgy phone conversation the day of the interview, and just now he didn’t think he’d much care if they never talked again. It was over, and it would stay that way. Perhaps it didn’t matter. Nancy Ledford was evidence there were not only other fish in the proverbial sea, but better ones.

CONVERSATION REVEALED THAT ELI and Ledford had more in common than just a shared awareness of the smoothest spot on the floor of the old Essie’s Market.

Though he had attended a state university rather than Eli’s Knoxville alma mater, Ledford had pursued a course of study not far removed from Eli’s. He’d pursued public relations and broadcast journalism, and after graduation worked several years in a mediocre job at a Tylerville radio station, where he’d risen to the level of station manager but left to sell television advertising for a station in Bristol. While there, he’d come to believe he would have been better served had he focused his university study on print journalism rather than broadcasting. He lacked the voice and presence needed if one was to thrive in broadcasting, and try as he would, he could not get the Northeast Tennessee drawl out of his speech.