Harvestman Lodge (6 page)

“You could be right,” Eli said, employing a phrase his late father had taught him was a nearly foolproof tool for diplomatically and noncommittally ending awkward conversations.

Bufe went on. “But Betty’s right about one thing: there are some good folks who work up at the
Clarion
. I got a nephew there myself. My sister’s boy, Jake Lundy. You heard of him?”

“I haven’t. I’ve not really met anybody yet.”

“Well, you’ll learn him fast enough. He writes a column twice a week of what they call ‘human interest’ stories. And shoots pictures, too. Good ones. And he’s even worse than me for saying things he shouldn’t just to make folks shit their britches.”

Junior glanced over sharply. “Watch that language in here, Bufe!” He gestured with his spatula toward a photocopied sign tacked to the wall, depicting an old woman with a stern face, saying via a cartoon talk balloon, “In this place, always talk like Grandma is listening.”

Bufe read the cartoon and shook his head. “That don’t count for me, Junior. Know what my grandma’s last words were? Right there on her deathbed?”

“Tell me. But maybe not too loud.”

“She kind of halfway sat up from the waist, stiff as a board, glared up toward the ceiling, and said, ‘There’s a light up there, and a tunnel, trying to pull me in … ah, shit, here I go!’ Then she gave a big shiver, flopped back, and died. Honest to God. How’s that for final words? ‘Ah shit, here I go.’ We should have put that on her tombstone, instead of that thing about Jesus … can’t remember exactly what that says, anyway.” He paused, glanced over at Eli and winked. “And Granny was right about one thing, you know. There was a light up there! Nothing fancy … just your basic bedroom ceiling light. I’d installed it myself. No tunnel, though … ’cause why in the ding-dang would anybody put a tunnel in a bedroom ceiling?”

Betty was shaking her head. “Bufe’s full of nonsense, but he’s telling you right about Jake Lundy. He shoots some of the finest pictures you’ll ever see. And he’s sure ’nough a cut-up, just like Bufe. Likes to get folks’ goats. ‘Specially new folks. So you watch out for Jake Lundy, hear?”

“I look forward to meeting him, if he’s like Bufe.” Eli was still grinning at the grandma story.

“It’ll be awhile before you meet him,” Betty said. “Last time he was in here he was about to leave on a long vacation to Alaska. He’s one of those types that don’t vacation much, so he had built up a lot of off time and they told him he had to take it.”

“You feel like you got a good chance at that job, son?” Bufe asked.

“I do. I’ve talked with the editor on the phone, and he’s as much as told me he’s sold on me.” Eli leaned closer to Bufe and privately whispered the next part: “This interview today, I think, is just to make sure I don’t scratch my crotch in public, or anything like that.”

“Well, that’d knock me out of the running! But I hope it all goes good for you.”

“Thank you. I want the job. I’ve been selling shoes in a mall store in Knoxville for most of the time since I’ve been out of school. I’m wanting to get work in what I trained in, and have a real professional job, you know.”

“That’s a fine ambition, son,” Bufe said. “Good luck to you. And don’t let them Brechts ruin you.”

Bufe paid for his meal, said his goodbyes, apologized one more time to Betty for joking about her dead sister, though he didn’t really seem to mean it and Betty didn’t really seem to care, and left. Eli finished his coffee and got up to leave as well.

“I hope you get hired, son,” Junior said from the grill while Eli paid Betty and laid a two-dollar tip beside his emptied plate. He nodded his thanks to Junior.

“Let us know how it turns out,” Betty said, eyes on the tip money and fingers twitching.

“I’ll do that, ma’am.”

“Nice young man,” Betty said to Junior as the door closed behind Eli. She gathered up the tip money. Tips were a rarity in Harley’s Cafe, and two-dollar ones were unheard of except on those rare occasions the cafe was visited by old Mr. Darwin, who filled the requisite role of Rich Old Man in Tylerville just as one Plunker Williams filled the role of Town Drunk. Eli would come to know both over time.

“You were right, honey: Bufe shouldn’t have said them things about Eva,” Junior Harley said as the door closed behind Eli.

“That’s just Bufe being Bufe,” said Betty. “It don’t really matter.”

“You done right to forgive him, darling,” Junior replied. “He never means no harm, y’know.”

“I know. Can you make me a grilled cheese, Junior? Cheddar?”

“Coming right up, sweetheart.”

Chapter Two

BEING ONLY A BLOCK DOWN from the newspaper office, Eli opted to leave his car parked on Railroad Street and walk to his interview. He visited the car long enough to get out a satchel containing a few extra work samples and a five-page proposal outlining his vision of the
Tylerville at 200
magazine he was applying to produce. David Brecht, the editor, had asked him to create such a proposal and Eli had done so, but already had a sense that it, like the coming interview itself, was more formality than substance.

The breeze was up a bit, and by the time Eli reached the newspaper offices, he felt windblown. He entered a small vestibule with green double doors on the opposite side that led into the front lobby. Out of the wind, Eli finger-combed his hair into what he hoped was a presentable state.

The door from the lobby opened abruptly and a man emerged into the vestibule. He was small-framed and thin, in his sixties at least, wearing a cardigan that had been new during the Nixon administration. His hair was of a distinctly violet hue that caught Eli’s eye at once.

“I beg your pardon, young man,” said the man in a voice both delicate and precisely articulated. “It’s not my usual custom to run over others like a freight locomotive.”

“You didn’t even bump me, sir.” Eli smiled and thrust out his hand in case this fellow proved to be one of the Brechts or someone else of importance at the newspaper. “I’m Eli Scudder.”

“Hadley Bartholomew King,” said the older man, accepting Eli’s hand and shaking it gently. “Very pleased to meet you, Mr. Scudder.”

“Likewise, sir. Just call me Eli.” Eli maintained his smile and waited for King to move out of the way. Interesting, Eli thought, that he should happen to run into the very town historian whose name had come up at the diner. He started to mention to King that he’d read his book of local history, but bit his tongue because he didn’t have time for the kind of extended conversation that comment might provoke.

King proved talkative enough anyway. “Intriguing and rare name, Eli is,” he said. “Quite classic, even biblical. I’ve never personally known an Eli, I don’t think. Though I had an ancestor on my mother’s side named Eli Kincheloe. Part of the same Kincheloe family whose name graces our county.” King frowned thoughtfully. “Eli Scudder. Why does that name seem familiar?”

Eli wasn’t about to mention his little paperback historical novel to a man who viewed himself as a historian. He’d learned that historians often hold a jaundiced view of those who mix make-believe with historical fact. “At any rate, pleased to meet you, Mr. Scudder, and again, my apologies for nearly running you over.”

Eli hardly heard him; he was distracted by the violet hair. Despite his best efforts, his eyes kept flicking upward to study the spectacle.

King stepped aside and headed out of the building. Eli went into the lobby.

The woman seated behind the reception desk was in spitting distance of forty, edging toward chunky but not quite there yet, and had a face whose leathery quality spoke of far too many hours of sunbathing in years gone by. Her bushy hair was bottle blonde rooted in natural black. She smiled pleasantly at Eli as he came in and it crossed his mind that she had probably been quite pretty twenty years back.

“Good morning, sir.”

“Good morning. My name is Eli Scudder. I have an appointment with Mr. David Brecht at 10.”

She tapped the calendar on her desk. “Yes! He told me you’d be coming in. Welcome to the
Clarion
! My name is Ruby Wheeler.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Wheeler.”

Ruby put out her hand and he reached across to shake it. “It’s ‘miss,’ not ‘missus,’and you can just call me Ruby. So you’re the one who’s going to help put out our magazine?’

“I hope so, ma’am. If everything works out.”

“Please, no ‘ma’am.’ It makes me feel old. Just plain Ruby.”

“Call me Eli.”

“That’s a nice name.”

“Thank you. I had one professor at UT who never could get it right. Called me Elliot constantly.”

“You were fortunate to get a university education. Me, I didn’t go farther than Kincheloe County High. My parents didn’t have much money and I wasn’t one of those scholarship-winning types. I got this job right after I graduated high school and been hanging in with it ever since. I thought about enrolling in beauty school a time or two, but never did. I guess I like this job too much. I get to meet a lot of people.”

“Persistence and loyalty are good qualities,” Eli said, keeping things positive. “If you’ve been at this for that long, you must be good at your job.”

“’That long,’ you say. Just how old do you think I am, Eli?”

“I’m not going to bite on that hook, Ruby. I’m a smarter fish than that. Suffice it to say, whatever meager age you’ve got on you, you’re hiding it well.” He managed to smile his way through the falsehood.

“You’re a man who knows just what to say, Eli. Thank you. You can have a seat and David will come out to get you in just a minute.” She picked up the phone. “I’ll let him know you’re here.”

Eli seated himself in an imitation-leather chair beneath a large hand-colorized photograph ornately framed on the lobby wall. It showed a distinguished-looking older woman posed on an overstuffed chair before a shelf of books.

Ruby saw him looking. “That’s Mrs. Arelia Finchum Sadler, grandmother to the man you’ll interview with in just a few minutes. Miz Arelia’s daddy, name of Alexander Finchum, founded this newspaper, along with a man named Joseph Surry, who sold out his part to Alexander after just a year. When Alexander died young, Miz Arelia took over in his place. Miz Arelia married one of the local Sadlers, a lawyer. Mr. Carl married Arelia’s daughter, Deborah – Miz Deb, we call her – which is how he got into the newspaper business. Mr. Carl’s in his early seventies now, Miz Deb too. Both of them sharp and active and in fine health. Mr. Carl leaves a lot of the day-to-day newspaper stuff to his boys Davy Carl and Keith, but he keeps his hand in the hopper, always. Every now and then he writes up a few thoughts about something that’s on his mind, and Davy Carl touches it up and runs it as a column called ‘Point of View’ on the editorial page. He puts it on editorial because Mr. Carl throws his opinions into his columns, so you can’t run them as straight news.”

Eli was impressed. Ruby had obviously devoted time to learning the history of the family and their newspaper so she could rattle it off easily to newcomers such as he. Further, she had a grasp of the distinction between news and opinion pieces. Not bad for a non-journalist with only a high school education.

Ruby continued her narrative. “Miz Deb still has a little office of her own up front, but I’ve not seen her in here for several weeks now. She depends a lot on Jimbo Bailey to drive her around, Jimbo being a black fellow who has worked for the Brechts for years and years. Jimbo had some troubles with the law in his younger days – he’s about Mr. Carl’s age – and the Brechts took him under wing and helped him out. A lot of loyalty there now.”

“Remarkable people,” said Eli, eye on the portrait. “Starting with the lady in the picture frame there. It was no common thing in earlier days for a woman to be a newspaper publisher.”

“That’s the truth. That picture was taken the year before she died, by the way. It was a sad passing, from what they tell me … blood poisoning. She loved her flower garden and cut her hand on a rusty trowel in her tool shed, and the infection did her in because she kind of hid it and ignored it. She always despised going to doctors, they say. Miz Arelia wrote a society column for the women’s pages up till she died. Miz Deb, Davy Carl’s mother, writes it now.” Ruby leaned forward a little, glanced around, and assumed the manner of someone about to share a secret. “I’ll let you know something: Miz Deb worships Davy Carl, thinks he’s the finest thing walking, and he gives the same right back to her. When Miz Deb tells Davy Carl to jump … you know the rest.”

“’Davy Carl’? Are you talking about …”

“David Carl Brecht Jr., the editor. The man you’ll interview with here in a minute. His daddy is David Carl Sr., the publisher. Mr. Carl – that’s what everybody calls the old man. By the way, be sure not to call David by the name of Davy Carl. He don’t like being called that at all, thinks it sounds hillbilly, and he’s an educated man. Washington and Lee. And since they called him Davy when he was little, he thinks of that as a boy’s name, not a man’s. So he likes just being David.” She glanced around and lowered her voice. “Of course, we all call him Davy Carl amongst ourselves, when he ain’t listening. Mr. Carl calls him Davy quite a bit. And Jake Lundy, who does most of our human interest stories and columns, he calls him Davy Carl right to his face. Jake don’t care what nobody thinks, y’see, and Davy Carl don’t seem to mind it much from Jake. Jake can get away with about anything.”