The Haunter of the Threshold (12 page)

“Did Frank buy these?” Hazel wondered aloud, but then the date told her that could not be. These items were purchased not only before Frank had arrived, but two days before Henry Wilmarth committed suicide.

Hazel barely knew Wilmarth, though he definitely did
not
strike her as a sport climber or an athlete of any kind.

The last item on the receipt made the discovery all the more dark.

Rope, sisal, 3/4-inch, 20 ft., $10.00

Hazel stared out at nothing.
Why would Henry buy tree-climbing
spikes? Unless...
Unless he originally planned to hang himself from a tree? Then thought the better of it?

It made the most sense, she supposed.

She dropped the rope in the can, then noticed one more thing: a metal can, which at first she thought must be a can of paint until she picked it up for closer inspection. TREE PATCH, it read. It was empty yet the can’s side contained traces of some tarry substance.
Oh, like when you cut a branch off a tree, this is the stuff you smear
on the stub.
She shrugged, then put the can back in the garbage, replaced the lid, and went back to the cabin.

3

Astonished, Sonia said, “This squirrel burger is
wonderful!
” after just one bite. “And to think I had my doubts.”

“The muskrat’s excellent, too,” Hazel complimented the stringy yet aromatic chunks on her sampler platter. “Tastes like smoked duck, and the possum reminds me of turkey drumstick meat.” Then she took a crispy bite of the next selection: deep-fried hognose snake.

“Don’t tell me,” Sonia suspected. “Tastes like chicken?”

“Nope. More like trout, and very good.”

Hazel let her gaze glide over the tavern: wooden tables, wooden walls, and wooden floors. The aromas from the kitchen were delectable. A long bar stretched across the rearmost wall, tenanted by working-class...
Rednecks,
she could find no other word. Most of the tables were occupied by groups of rough-handed and coarse-voiced men. It impressed her, though, that when she and Sonia had entered, the clientele had scarcely taken note of them.
Looks like
we’re the only women here other than the wait staff.
She would’ve at least expected to be ogled a bit, especially considering her scant shorts and top and Sonia’s overspilling bust, but there was really none of that.
I guess I feel out of place if there’re no perverts lusting
after me.

“Waitress?” she asked. “I’d like to order another entree, please.”

Sonia looked surprised. “You just ate an entire Roadkill Platter and now you want more?”

The chuckling waitress was the ultimate cliche: stocky, pear-shaped body; bunned hair; eye makeup that looked applied with a butter knife; and a name tag reading ASENATH. “It must mean she likes our food. Bet they en’t got restaurants like this in the city.”

“It’s such a unique surprise,” Hazel said. “Everything’s even better than I imagined.”

“I’m glad, and by the looks’a yew, ya could
use
a little meat on yew’re bones.” The waitress huffed like Aunt Bee on
Andy Griffith.
“And if ya want
my
recommendation, order the perch. It’s a nine-ounce fillet on a bed of fresh-water mussels and crawfish tails sauteed in garlic butter.”

Hazel nodded resolutely. “I’ll have it.”

“Anything else for you, hon?” Asenath inquired of Sonia. “Seein’ you’se got a young ‘un on the way, don’t’cha forget you gotta eat for two.”

“No, thanks.” Sonia cradled the bulbous belly. “The squirrel burger’s enough for both of us. I’ll be content just watching my 105-pound friend eat more than a football player.”

Hazel shrugged. “I’ve always eaten like a pig, but I never gain an ounce.”

“I was the same way, sweetie,” Asenath assured, then her body fat giggled as she laughed, “so just you remember what they say about gift horses!” and then she left to put in the order, laughing all the way.

“I’ll bet the fish is really frozen,” Sonia whispered. “Places always say it’s fresh, then you find out it’s been in the deep freeze for a year and came from Viet Nam.”

“Ain’t
nuthin’
here not fresh, missy,” a crackly voice surprised them both. “I’se’ll stake my repper-tay-shun on it.”

Hazel and Sonia both suppressed a shock when they turned to see an elderly man in a wheelchair passing between tables. Shrivel-faced and feisty-eyed, he wore a hat that read LUNTVILLE V.F.W. But the feature which stalled both Sonia and Hazel’s tongues was the unfortunate fact that the old man had no hands.

Finally Hazel managed to reply, “That sounds like quite an endorsement, sir.”

“Calls me, Clonner, hon, not sir. Clonner Martin,” he said in an out-of-place southern accent. “When I’se first moved here ten years ago, this dump was just a bar full’a S.S.I. rednecks, so’s I tell the owner, I say, ‘When God were passin’ out brains you must’a been in the butt line. With alls the critters in these woods and alls the fish in Lake Sladder, you could make a killin’ if’n ya turnt this hole in the woods into a restaurant.’”

“Well, I’m glad he took your advice,” Sonia said.

The old man—Clonner—cocked an eye. “Take my advice? Hail, the cocky rube told me to kiss him where the sun don’t shine’n threw me out. So’s I just said the hail with him and up’n bought the place fer, like, next to nuthin’.”

“Oh, so
you’re
the owner,” Hazel remarked. “I must say, I’ve been to some good restaurants in my life, but this is definitely the most unique.”

“Thank ya, thank ya, sweetie. It’s all’s about takin’ advantage of ak-sess-er-bul resources and ident-er-fy-in’ the market. We’se got skiers in the winter and campers in the summer. Why not give ‘em somethin’ they cain’t get nowhere’s else?”

“You’re a true marketeer, Clonner,” Sonia said. “I would never have thought squirrel could be so good.”

“I trap squirrel, possum, muskrat, snake, you name it, since I were a kid, and fished too. Cain’t do it now, a’course,” and he honked a laugh, holding up his stumps. “So’s I got my half-wit nephew and his ex-con buddy doin’ it.” He wheeled the chair around and pointed to an oblong opening in the wall through which the kitchen could be seen. Right up in the opening two rustic-looking men in their thirties busied themselves fileting fish. One was chunky-faced and bearded, with shaggy brown hair; he chewed his lip as he worked. The other—taller and slim—seemed more at ease with the work, whistling as his knife finnicked through slabs of clean white meat.

“See them two losers there? That’s them. ‘Bout all they’se good fer is trappin’ and fishin’, but I guess that’s better than nothin’.”

Hazel looked at them.
Rednecks tried and true.

The old man, next, pointed his stump right at Sonia. “Anyways, missy, if yer friend here say her perch ain’t the freshest fish she ever et, I’ll pay yer whole check.”

“Oh, I’m sure it will be, Clonner,” Sonia replied, embarrassed now that her remark had been overheard. “You’ve convinced us. But...where exactly
are
you from? Your accent is southern but everyone else here has a
New England
accent.”

Clonner nodded confidently, nubbed arms crossed. “I’se from Luntville, West Virginia, missy. Moved up here ten years ago, bought a couple pieces a land cheap. Got sick’a bein’ around rednecks, ya know?”

He paused for effect, then the three of them burst out laughing.

“And lemme guess. You gals? I’ll’se bet yer from Proverdence.”

“How did you know?” Hazel asked, amazed.

“I saw the Brown U. Sticker on yer car,” and then he honked another laugh.

“You really are something, Clonner,” Hazel said.

“And don’t be put off none on account I ain’t got no hands,” he went on. “Some folks are, but, hail, it’s no big deal. First sixty years’a my life, I had hands”—he shrugged—“now I ain’t. I got me a pair’a hooks but don’t like ‘em much.”

Before Hazel could think better of it, she asked, “Clonner, how...how did you lose them?”

“Blammed dye-ur-beet-iss,” he said nonchalantly. “Runs in the fambly’s what the doc tolt me. A Hindu feller, or swami. Older brother Jake had it too, so’s they cut off the poor bastard’s feet. But me? I gots it in the hands, and I guess I must’a pissed God off a time or two ‘cos right after the swami doc cut off my hands, I got a whopper of a case’a arthritis so’s I gotta roll my old butt around in this chair.” He raised a nub as if there were still a hand on it and he wished to raise a finger. “But you know, way I see it is my life’s
still
a blessing. Heart’s still beatin’, sun’s still shinin’, and I’se still drinkin’ beer, so I got a lot ta be thankful fer.”

“That’s a wonderful viewpoint, Clonner,” Hazel said, then felt a twinge of guilt.
Sounds like something my father would say...
It made Hazel more mindful of all she took for granted.

Now Clonner peered curiously at them. “Guess that one slipped by ya, huh?”

“What’s that, Clonner?” Sonia asked.

“I mean, I thought shore you’d be thinkin’ ‘How in tarnations does a fella with no hands even
drink
a beer?’”

Hazel and Sonia looked at each other, duped.

The waitress set a can of Bud on the table next to him. “Here ya go, Clonner.”

“Best thing ‘bout owning yer own bar is ya drink fer free!” he exclaimed, and then he leaned very carefully over, got the rim of the can between his top and bottom front dentures, then tipped his head back and drank.

Hazel and Sonia stared.

“See? Ain’t no big deal,” he said. “I best take a peek in the back’n make sure I ain’t gettin’ ripped off blind. But you girls take care’a yourselfs, and thanks fer stoppin’ by.”

“It’s been a pleasure talking to you, Clonner,” Hazel said. “And we’ll be back for the all-you-can-eat fish-fed pork.”

“Best pork ya ever had, so’s you do that. And if’n ya need anything er got any questions ‘bout the area,” he added, wheeling away, “just you come’n ask me.”

“Thank you, Clonner,” Sonia bid.