Harvestman Lodge (14 page)

“Of course.”

“That was the end of it for that boy, right on the spot. Davy Carl could see that this little ray of sunshine was going to be looking to make all the trouble he could, for his own notion of fun. Davy Carl bid that fellow goodbye then and there.” Lundy paused. “Davy Carl expects devotion, y’see. Not to himself, but to the newspaper and the community and the business of journalism. Everything we do, he wants it to be for the good. Serious business, this newspaper thing. Downright somber, sometimes, where Davy Carl is concerned. No room for joking around.”

“Well, I guess that’s not a bad thing.”

“Within limits, son. Within limits.”

The conversation lulled a few moments. They reached the two-steepled church and hopped out, Lundy taking with him the camera he habitually kept at hand. Guided by a natural instinct for artful framing of images in a viewfinder and an ability to make most effective use of lighting and shadow, Lundy began snapping pictures of the historic old church building. Eli watched a few moments, then diverted himself by reading the names and epitaphs on tombstones. Some were modern, commercially made polished monuments, others crumbling slabs of ancient rock with old and crudely chiseled words eroding into near-illegibility.

Eli moved about in a section of older gravestones while Lundy continued his photo-taking around the church exterior. Prominent among the names on the older stones was the name “Sadler.” That brought no surprise to Eli. Kincheloe County’s greatest claim to fame derived from its status as the place of origin for the noted Sadler family, a Tennessee clan from whose ranks had emerged, in the 1930s, two state representatives, a governor, and a United States congressman whose long career, and ability to bring home the bacon for his constituents, had become legend statewide.

Congressman Dewey Sadler’s grave, however, was not one of those in the cemetery of Reunion Church. Sadler had been buried in 1971, with much aplomb and honors, in the Old Tylerville Cemetery located between the Kincheloe County Courthouse and the Tylerville Town Hall. As the oldest cemetery within the town limits of Tylerville, the “Old Graveyard,” as locals tended to call it, held the mortal remains of most of the communities historic noted citizens: mayors, sheriffs, police chiefs, county judges, college presidents, military leaders and heroes, and political powerhouses from the local through national levels. The Sadler name was represented no less than six times in the Old Graveyard, most visibly on the tall spire marking the grave of Congressman Dewey Sadler.

Lundy drifted over and joined Eli at length, having filled two full rolls of film with images of Reunion Church.

“I take it that you’re figuring we’ll have a story about this church in the magazine,” Eli said.

“If not that, there’ll at least be something about the history of local churches in general. I know Davy Carl well enough to guarantee that,” Lundy replied. “And since this is one of the oldest and most unusual churches in the region, and a well-known rural landmark in Kincheloe County, I figure we’ll be able to make some good use of these pictures.”

Eli was thinking. He looked at Lundy and said, “Jake, when that fellow asked David what the local sacred cows were, what did David tell him?”

Lundy shook his head. “I think he declined to answer.”

“Well … if he
had
answered, what do you think he’d have said?”

“If he was honest about it, he’d have had to say that right there.” Lundy pointed to a nearby crumbling grave marker dating back to the late 1880s. It bore the name of one Absalom Sadler, who according to his flowery epitaph was now “Asleep in Jesus in Expectation of the Day of Resurrection.”

“Absalom Sadler?” Eli queried. “Why him in particular?”

“Not him in particular. It’s the last name I’m talking about.
There’s
your sacred cow. Anything and anyone bearing the name of Sadler.”

Eli remembered something Ruby Wheeler had said to him. “Mr. Carl’s wife was a Sadler, Ruby told me.”

“She was, and its something best never forgotten. Miz Deb considers herself, and the newspaper, as the chief local ambassadors for and defenders of the Sadler name. She turns an eagle eye on anything that might cast a bad light on the Sadler ‘name, heritage, and reputation’, as she always puts it. That’s something you’d best keep firm in mind while you work on this magazine, my friend.”

“When I was interviewing, David seemed to be on the lookout for me showing any signs of wanting to look for touchy subjects as regards the magazine. Said he would be the one to give the final word on anything that might be controversial. Mentioned slavery as an example.”

“Well,” Lundy said, “would you expect anything different? It’s the Brechts’ paper. Their product, their cost, their risk. He’s got the right to run his own operation.”

“Will he be reasonable, though? I mean, what’s the point of ignoring the fact that people used to own slaves in this country? Including Kincheloe County? For the black people of this county, that’s their heritage. Their history. It would be wrong to ignore it.”

“Did Davy Carl say he planned to ignore it?”

Eli had to admit that Brecht had not.

“Just take a deep breath, son. You’re going to have to keep a cool head while you move forward with this thing, Eli. Davy Carl is one of those who can aggravate the devil out of you … Lord knows he does that to me three-quarters of the time. But like I told you, he’s a straight arrow, and he tries to do the right thing. So give him a chance, and try as much as you can to respect his way of doing things. You’ll get on better that way, and you’ll learn that he’s got his own kind of sense.”

“I’m sorry, Jake. I guess I’ve let the foot-dragging about the assignments get to me little.”

“Just relax. You and me will come up with a good list by the end of this week. And likely Davy Carl won’t mess with it too much. And if it all drives you too crazy, just forget the magazine for awhile and think about what your next book will be. You’ll likely find a lot of ideas poking around in local history for the magazine.”

“That may be the best advice I’m going to get, Jake.”

“Hang in there, buddy. We’re making progress here, and it ain’t going to stop until it’s all done.”

“Just keep telling me that, Jake. Now I have a favor to ask. Since we’re in the vicinity, will you help me find my grandparents’ old place? I’ve been here long enough that I feel like I should have found it by now on my own. Sort of like a family duty, or pilgrimage.”

“Hop in the truck. Let’s go out to Will Keller’s old farm. I know exactly where it is.”

Chapter Seven

“I CAN GUESS WHAT YOU’RE THINKING,” Lundy said. “It looks a lot smaller than you remember.”

“You’re right,” Eli said, studying his grandparents’ crumbling and abandoned old home from the perspective of Lundy’s truck, pulled off for the moment to one side of Harmony Road. “When I was a kid the place seemed huge. But it’s not. It’s just a farmhouse.”

“It’s that way for everybody, my friend. When you’re little, everything is big. Then you get big yourself and everything else shrinks. You want to turn in the driveway and go up to the house? It’s empty, right?”

“Yeah, it’s empty … but no. I’ll come out here sometime and walk around the yard, maybe. Not today.”

Lundy sighed. “I always hate to see these old places go down, especially when you think about all the living that’s been done in them. How many skillets of cornbread you reckon your granny baked in that house, son? How many Christmas trees did old Will drag in from them fields out beyond there? It’ll make you sad to dwell too much about such things, but I do it anyway, just by nature. Am I the only one who does that, you reckon?”

Eli, who was mentally seeing his late grandfather rocking in his old chair on the porch as he had so many years before, shook his head. “No, you’re not the only one. It makes me sentimental to see this old place again.”

“Sure you don’t want to get out and walk around the yard a bit?”

“No. Somebody might see and wonder what business we had there.”

“Who owns it now?”

Eli shrugged. “Somebody outside of the family bought the house and property years ago. The history after that I don’t even know.”

“C’mon. Let’s walk around. If somebody asks, we’ll say we run a lawn service and were out scouting for business to see if somebody might hire us to trim up the grounds.”

“Not today, Jake. I’m thinking supper. I’m ready to get back to town and find a bite to eat.”

“I’m a little hungry myself, now that you mention it,” Lundy said. “Back home, then! We’ll be roaming like this the rest of the week … maybe we can come back a different day, if you want to.”

“Maybe.”

Lundy clicked on the radio and scanned through the dial until an old country song blasted through the speaker. “Porter Wagoner!” Lundy declared. “Remember that TV show of his?”

“I remember,” Eli said. “Flashy suits, sequins …”

“And good music,” Lundy said. “That’s the kind of country I can relate to … not the garbage on the radio these days. It’s getting so you can’t tell country from that pop crap. Give me the old stuff. This is about the only station I’m willing to listen to anymore.”

Eli listened as Wagoner sang about a condemned prisoner dreaming, on the last night of his life, of the green grass of home. “That’s too maudlin for me, Jake. But I like old stuff too. In my case, bluegrass and traditional mountain music like my dad used to sing around the house. He played mandolin in an amateur bluegrass band back in Strawberry Plains. He taught me to play, too.”

“You’re a bluegrasser? That’s good. You’ll enjoy tomorrow, then.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, just wait. I don’t want to spoil the surprise. Said too much already.”

Eli pressed the question, but Lundy was unyielding. They were pulling into the outskirts of Tylerville when Lundy said, “Hey … good timing on our part. You were asking what it meant to say somebody is ‘Curtis crazy?’ There’s your answer … that’s old Curtis himself there. You see him out around this area quite a bit this time of day, so I ain’t surprised he’s here.”

Eli saw a poorly dressed man on foot at the roadside, near a telephone pole whose shadow stretched eastward across the sidewalk and street. With an unshaven face, unkempt hair shagged down over his ears, and tattered jacket, the pedestrian looked like a typical homeless man. But there was an unusually wild desperation in his expression as he stared at the shadow of the telephone pole stretching across his path.

Lundy quietly pulled his truck off into a nearby parking lot. “Just watch him … old Curtis is famous around here for what you’re about to see.”

“That’s Curtis?” Eli asked.

“The man himself, Curtis Stokes … now watch … see him backing up?”

The ragged man was backstepping with his gaze fixed on the shadow of the pole. Going backward about ten feet, he stopped and crouched slightly, as if about to run … then run he did.

Curtis Stokes lunged forward, closing his eyes as he ran headlong toward the shadow of the telephone pole. He leaped as he reached it, hurtling himself across and through the eastward-stretching shadow, his entire body spasming as he passed through it as if he’d been grabbed and shaken in midair by a great and invisible fist. He landed on his feet on the other side of the shadow, and dropped to his knees for a few moments, panting and shaking.

Lundy rolled down his truck window. “You okay, Curtis?”

The man looked up, squinting in their direction, then smiled falteringly and nodded. “I’m fine, Jake. But that was an extra bad one.”

“I could tell! You be careful, Curtis!” Jake called back.

“Always am, Jake!”

They drove on.

“THAT’S ABOUT THE SADDEST thing I’ve seen,” Eli said. “Has nobody given help to that man? He’s obviously mentally ill.”

“He’s Curtis-crazy is what we call it around here. He defines the term. He’s the original.” Lundy drove a few moments chuckling softly, then noticed the way Eli was looking at him. “What? You didn’t think that was funny? Did you see the way he jerked when he went through that shadow? I laugh every time I see it. I can’t help it. Everybody around here laughs at Curtis and his pole shadows.”

“It was pitiful. Can you imagine going through life that way, afraid of every telephone pole or street light in your path? It has to be a hard life for him.”

“Baloney!” Lundy replied. “There’s nothing hard about Curtis Stokes’ life. He’s as cheerful a soul as you’ll find in this town. And yes, there’s been folks, Erma Campbell over at the Senior Adult Center, for one, who’ve tried to get him help of the head-shrinker variety. Curtis just never goes along. And he’s harmless and doesn’t drink, so he never gets arrested and forced into treatment. He just goes along his merry way, dodging telephone pole shadows and being friendly to everybody. He walks everywhere, one end of this county to the next, and even beyond. Folks have seen him walking along in Johnson City and even Kingsport, miles and miles from here. I know what you mean about it being kind of pitiful, him being like he is, but there ain’t a soul in this town who wouldn’t give old Curtis a hand if he really needed it. He ain’t got much, but he’s got friends.”