Harvestman Lodge (8 page)

“Will you want me to work from primary sources? I did gain some experience with that in school.”

“We’re not in academia here. We’re creating something for a wide, general-public audience, many of whom have little or no higher education. There is no reason not to take advantage of the interpretive and investigatory work done by prior historians and scholars. A particularly important source for us, for example, will be Hadley King’s book, our more-or-less official town and county history. He brought me a fresh copy this morning, at my request. That copy will be yours to use, then will go into the office collection. Keep up with it, please. And start reading it. Tonight, even. The book was funded by the government of Tylerville and had a small printing, so it’s hard to come by copies these days. Hadley himself has given away or sold most of his own supply, and the local library copies are pretty thoroughly worn out and falling apart. I had to make a new financial pledge to the Kincheloe County Historical Society to persuade Hadley to give me a new copy this morning.”

“I met him at the front door as I was coming in. Friendly man.” Eli made no mention of King’s hair color.

The interview progressed in meandering fashion. David Brecht was prone to run down rabbit trails in the conversation, but from the start it was obvious that Eli’s hiring offer was a foregone conclusion. Eli, though, would finalize nothing until he knew the details of compensation and benefits and had some idea of what housing costs and so on would be in Tylerville.

At last Eli goaded his prospective employer through to the matters that had to be dealt with, and found what he’d expected: a reasonably good offer, one that at least provided him a chance for some professional pride and use of his education for something other than calculating shoe sizes. The pay was actually slightly higher than he had anticipated, and greatly lessened an earlier worry that he would have difficulty in affording decent rental housing during his time in Tylerville. Insurance and retirement benefits were acceptable, especially considering that his shoe store job offered none.

Officially, his new position, as related to the magazine, would last twenty-four months, enough time to get the thing produced and distributed, and for Eli to be present to help deal with any issues that might rise from it immediately afterward: complaints, corrections, and so on. When the bicentennial project was behind, Brecht said, there almost certainly would be the chance for Eli to move into a permanent editorial post, working as an assistant editor focusing on special publications the paper regularly produced … an edition spotlighting Kincheloe County business and industry, another on local education, one highlighting church and religious life, the inevitable yearly “progress edition” … the usuals of any small-town newspaper.

When the deal was done and hands were shaken and papers signed for Mary Helen Truxton, whose “assistant to the publisher” title included basic human resources duties, Brecht had one further question for Eli. “You told me you are from Knox County, Strawberry Plains … do you have any family heritage in Kincheloe County? I’ve not encountered the Scudder name around here.”

“I do have connections, just not on the Scudder side. My mother’s parents, Will and Sally Keller, lived here. He was a farmer and rural mail carrier.”

“Keller. Yes, now that’s a family name you do find in Kincheloe County. Plenty of Kellers hereabouts. Are your grandparents still living?”

“They’re gone now, but they lived long enough for me to know them when I was little. We visited sometimes for Christmas and so on. The house is still standing, I’ve been told. Empty now, and sold out of the family years ago. I’ll get around to trying to locate it just to see it again.”

Brecht nodded. “Sentimental journeys can be gratifying. But sometimes sad. And revelatory.”

“I suppose.”

Brecht thrust out his hand. “Thoroughly glad to have you joining us, Eli. I look forward to welcoming you back in three weeks to get started.”

“Any recommended places to look for an apartment?”

“I’ll check around over the next couple of days. Unless you are set on finding a place today.”

Eli shook his head. “Getting the job is accomplishment enough for one day. But I’ll come back and go apartment-hunting this next weekend.”

“Umm, hang on a second.” Brecht pulled out a business card and scribbled on the back of it with a ballpoint pen.

“I’ve written down my home number and my cell. You need any reference for a landlord or whatever this weekend, call me. Most likely you’d find me here at the office, though. I’ll be putting together the Sunday edition with a few of the reporters. Saturday duty gets rotated around in the news staff.”

“I’ll see you soon, David. And thanks. Oh, and do you know yet where my desk will be?”

Brecht grimaced and bumped the heel of his hand against his brow. “I’d clean forgotten! Are you expected back at your mall job this evening?”

“No. I took the entire day off in case the interview ran long or got delayed.”

“Good. I want you to go meet someone this afternoon, if you would. Jimbo Bailey, our facilities/maintenance man. He’ll show you where your office will be … he’s been working all morning to get it ready for you to see.”

“Office? So … I won’t be out there with the reporting staff?”

“You won’t even be in this building, Eli … though I might set aside a desk for you in the newsroom in case we need you in here every now and then. In general, though, I prefer you to work away from the newspaper office, so you won’t be trapped in the daily routine. I’ve got Jimbo set to show you your office space at one o’clock this afternoon. I can’t believe I almost forgot all about it. I’ll jot down directions for you.” The editor grabbed a legal pad and began scrawling on it in a wild, tilted hand, still talking while he scribbled. “Frankly, if you were working in the newsroom, I wouldn’t trust myself not to take advantage of your presence when things get in a rush. There are too many mornings when newspaper work is like a race against the clock, with the clock holding a strong and increasing lead.”

“I can imagine.”

His own office, in an entirely separate building! Eli was pleased. He’d assumed that he’d be seated with the reporters and, intentionally or not, be caught in the pell-mell of daily newspaper production. In his own office he could work without distraction, and without someone looking on. Eli knew himself well enough to know he worked best without a boss riding his shoulders. It was part of what had enabled him to write a novel.

This whole Tylerville thing was all starting to feel like a good fit.

Chapter Three

ON THE WAY BACK TO HIS car, Eli dropped in at the nearly empty Harley’s Café to report in to Betty. The breakfast crowd had moved on.

“I got the job. Starts in three weeks. That gives me two weeks to work out my notice at the shoe store and an extra week to get myself situated here.”

“Glory be!” Betty declared, her enthusiasm for a near-stranger’s success seemingly quite authentic. “Did you hear that, Junior? Eli got his job!”

“Good for you, boy,” Junior called from the far end of the café. He was eating a late breakfast of his own: biscuits with fried ham and coffee.

“I hope we’ll be seeing a lot of you down here for your breakfast and lunch,” Betty said. “We’re in easy walking distance from the paper, after all.”

“They’re putting me in a different building, but I’ll be around,” Eli said. “You’re nice folks and the food is tasty.” He promised himself, though, that such visits would be rare. No one’s health could endure too much Harley’s cuisine.

ELI FOLLOWED DAVID BRECHT’S detailed directions and easily found the building where his office was to be. He pulled into the parking lot in front of the place and stared, bewildered, at the strangest-looking building he’d ever seen outside an amusement park. It was a disjointed, rambling structure with no particular design or focal point. It was wide and low and extended back a long distance … a shallow, flat, deep building that looked improvised, seemingly designed in accordance with some alien geometry.

As Eli got out of the car an aging black man in coveralls and a frayed Atlanta Braves baseball cap walked around the side of the building and approached him. He briefly studied the look on Eli’s face and grinned.

“I know what you’re thinking, young sir,” he said. “It’s kind of hard to make sense of the place till you get used to it.”

Eli smiled and put out his hand. “Eli Scudder,” he said. “You must be Mr. Bailey.”

They shook hands as the older man said, “No, sir, I ain’t. I’m Jimbo. Never had no notion to be a ‘mister.’ My mama called me ‘Jimbo’ and everybody else can do the same.”

“And I’m not ‘sir.’ Just Eli. Good to meet you, Jimbo.”

“Likewise, sir … Eli, I mean. You ready to take a look at your new office here? I been working hard getting it ready for you.”

“I appreciate that. Hey, what kind of building is this, anyway? It’s kind of …” Eli trailed off, not wanting to insult the look of the place, which seemed less like a true unified building than an odd assemblage of several random structures linked together in odd ways.

Jimbo chuckled. “Let me tell you ’bout this place, Eli. Ain’t no denying it’s an odd one. There’s a reason for that. Hey, sir, how many of the Brechts you met so far? I’m asking because that ties in with how this place got like it is.”

“Just David. I’m not even sure how many Brechts there are.”

“Well, there’s five Brecht kids, all of them growed up of course, plus the two old folks. Only two of the children live in Tylerville, that being Davy Carl and Keith, Davy Carl being the oldest and Keith the baby of the family. Keith mostly keeps his hand on things having to do with the family’s property. They’ve done a lot of buying and selling over the years, mostly commercial buildings and apartment rentals. Keith has two apartment buildings of his own, and they say he’s a pretty good landlord. He was married once, way too young, but it didn’t last. No kids. Mr. Carl’s and Miz Deb’s other three are all girls: Myrtle, the second-oldest child – and ain’t that a hell of a name to stick on a little girl, Myrtle – and Bobbie, the next in line. Bobbie lives in Atlanta and runs some kind of … whatcha call it? … a big public relations outfit. Belle is next. Both the girls besides Bobbie live over in Nashville, but they visit right often, ’specially Belle. She was the next-to-the-youngest child but the first one to get married and have a baby. Named him Eddie. Born just seven months after Belle’s wedding, but I ain’t supposed to point that out.”

“I didn’t hear a thing,” Eli said. “Besides, who’s to say some babies might not just develop extra fast?”

“Right. Who’s to say? We live in a world of miracles.”

“See ’em every day.”

“Anyway, I told you all that ’cause Eddie’s the reason this place looks like it does.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“Mr. Carl is one of them who brags on his grandchildren much as he can. He’s only got three so far, Eddie and Eddie’s little sister, Nina, and Bobbie’s daughter, Carla. Carla gets bragged on the most by the old man because she’s named after him.”

“Can’t blame him for that.”

“No, you can’t. She’s a cute little thing, too, big old curls spilling off all over her head. Fine little face with roses on her cheeks. Give her ten years and she’ll be breaking the heart of every boy she meets.”

“David’s not married, right? And no kids?”

“Oh, he’s married: married to that newspaper. Never saw a man devote hisself to his job like Davy Carl does. No, he’s got no children. He had him a girlfriend once ’pon a time, and there was talk of a wedding, but she caught herself a bad case of the cancer and died young. It about wrecked Davy Carl, and it was after that he got so wrapped up in his work.”

“That’s sad. But get on with telling me what grandson Eddie has to do with the way this building looks.”

“Let’s walk ’round back while I talk. Let you get a good look at the rump-end of this crazy place. We’ll go in around there.”

DESPITE HIS AGE, JIMBO moved about like a youth. Eli walked at a fast clip just to keep pace. “Let me explain this mess to you, young man. Back when Eddie was in high school, he got a notion that he was going to design buildings one day. Be an architect or whatever it’s called. He talked about it all the time, made models out of cardboard and drew pictures on paper and got so wrapped up in it he didn’t hardly even pay ’tention to girls, even though he was a good-looking boy and the gals chased him.” Jimbo paused. “Just like they do with me.”

“Fighting them off all the time, huh?”

“It’s a curse, young sir, a curse. When my wife died a few years back, every woman in this county decided they were gonna replace her for me. Every kind of woman you ever seen … white, black, Injun, Chinee, Mexican, Eskimo, ugly, pretty, skinny, fat, smart, or stupid … every kind. They was
all
after me. I got stories I could tell …. but I won’t, being a decent man.

“Let me get back on track. Young Mr. Eddie got his hopes set on being an architect, and when his granddaddy heard about it, he about busted wide open from being proud. Eddie was going to be the best architect ever walked, ’cording to his granddaddy. Then Mr. Carl, he remembered that he owned this property here, and it was in bad need of improving before he could do anything with it. So out of the blue he announces that his grandson, Eddie the architect, was going to be the one to figure out how it should be done.”