Harvestman Lodge (30 page)

That a Parvin had killed even a lower-branch Sadler, if only unintentionally, was so atrocious to local sensibilities that Dalton Parvin earned the dubious distinction of being the last white East Tennessean to suffer a long-outdated punishment, vigilante-style. He was stripped to his tighty-whities, globbed over with roofing tar and chicken feathers, and ridden howling and pleading on a rail down a public lane, specifically a portion of Mountcastle Road that ran through eastern Kincheloe County’s Perkins Creek community. As shamed as he must have felt, he actually had benefited from one crucial modernization of the antique form of punishment: the roofing tar in which he was smeared came from a metal drum, room temperature, unlike the hot tar that had been used upon tarred-and-feathered miscreants of centuries past.

A photograph later surfaced purporting to show the infamous “Perkins Creek rail ride of Dalton Parvin.” Two or three regionally published books of “history” published the photograph, which subsequently proven to be a mere reenactment of the event staged by local pranksters related to the Tate whom Parvin’s bullet had missed. The photographer was one Roy Tate, a local photo hobbyist and talented auto mechanic.

Dalton Parvin never returned to his home county alive, dying in a prison medical ward in winter of 1962 after contracting pneumonia in a drafty and barely heated cell. His body was sent back home to Kincheloe County and buried in a family plot. It was whispered around the community that local lowlife Millard Tate, half-brother to the man Dalton Parvin had shot at and missed, made a journey to the Parvin family plot solely to urinate on Dalton Parvin’s fresh grave while his son, Roy, photographed him doing so … a moment of crude redneck strutting. Rumor had it that a large framed print of the grave-wetting photograph had been among items destroyed, along with Millard himself, when Millard’s house burned to the ground some years afterward.

Despite an official fire marshal’s ruling that the Millard Tate fire originated in a fuse box, many people believed that the fire was caused by arson, because the Parvins didn’t like the Tates, and nobody was handier at arson than a Parvin. The fact that not one shred of evidence connecting the Parvins to that fire existed mattered not at all. Rules of evidence were lax in the trailer court of public opinion.

From this rough family legacy came the young man now standing in the parking lot with Curtis Stokes.

“YOU HAD ANY SUPPER this evening, Curtis?” Rawls Parvin asked.

“Not really. Just some vieenies.”

“I’ll bet you’re hungry, then.”

Curtis thought maybe he could see a hamburger in his immediate future, and his regard for Rawls increased dramatically in a single moment. “Yeah, I’m hungry.”

“Look up there, Curtis. That window. See that? That’s Custer Crosswaite up there, see him?”

Curtis did. Visible in the window was a head-and-shoulders view of the well-known buck dancer, whom Curtis didn’t much like because he sometimes performed a step he called “Curtis and the Shadow” in which he imitated the spastic way Curtis spasmed when he passed through the shadow of a light pole. If the joke had been at someone else’s expense, Curtis might have found some humor in it. As it was, it hurt his feelings.

Custer was not looking out the window, but downward, as if busy with his hands. He lifted a white foam cup to his mouth and sipped.

Rawls patted Curtis’s shoulder. “See that? Custer got himself some coffee. They got refreshments in there, Curtis. And since that’s a meeting open to the public, you could go in there and get yourself a couple of handfuls of cookies, or a piece of cake, or whatever, all for free.”

“Yeah … I admit, Rawls, I’d already thought about that.”

“Well, go on. The key is: move fast, get what you want, and don’t look at anybody. Just get your snacks in hand and hustle out of there. They’ll have forgot all about you half a minute later.”

It sounded good to Curtis … except for one problem. To get from where he was to the door of the power company building would require him to pass through …

“Don’t you worry, Curtis,” said Rawls. “I see you looking at them pole shadows ’tween here and there. I’ll get you through them without so much as a twitch.”

“How?”

“I’ll walk beside you and you can walk to my side inside my shadow, and my shadow will keep the pole shadow off of you if you stay in close enough to me. See?” He walked up to the closest pole shadow and positioned himself in it, left side toward the street lamp whose light caused the shadow, and sure enough, his own shadow stretched out long to his right, covering and obliterating the pole shadow for several yards.

“See, Curtis? You just come over here and step into my shadow, and stay in it, and that pole shadow won’t ever touch you.”

Nervously, Curtis Stokes gave it a try, and sure enough, was able to cover himself fully in the shadow of Rawls’ body. Protected thus from the shadow of the pole itself, he felt none of the jerking and tugging feeling so familiar to him.

“See there? It works! Now, Curtis, let’s you and me move together, toward the street, and you stay in my shadow and we’ll be good all the way across.”

Moving gingerly, Curtis edged along with Rawls, holding his breath and watching his positioning closely as they approached the second pole shadow. Together they passed through it without any ill effect, and Curtis laughed at the joy of the experience.

“You done it, Rawls! You protected me from it!” Curtis declared. Rawls, who never prayed but was praying now that no one he knew could see him, walking shoulder-to-shoulder with the craziest man in town, nodded and said, “The truth is, Curtis, you could have made this walk without me and it would have been no different. The only reason you feel seized by those shadows is that you believe it’s going to happen. It ain’t the shadows that are shaking you, it’s your own mind. You understand what I’m saying?”

“I … uh … yeah, Rawls. I understand.”

“Look, we got just one more shadow to get through before we’re at the door. Want to try that one alone?”

Curtis went weak in the knees at the mere thought of it. The braver and most rational part of him actually told him that, yes, he should try it alone, just like Rawls was saying. The other and dominant part of him, though, the part that had endured more jolts and shadow-shakes than Old Man Darwin had dollars, that part resoundingly told him no, and won.

“All right, then, we’ll go through the last one together,” Rawls said. “Come on.”

“You’re being a good friend to me, Rawls. I appreciate you for helping me here tonight.”

“See? I’ve always told you I was your friend! I was telling you the truth.”

“Yeah, you was. Thank you, Rawls.”

They passed through the final pole shadow and Curtis hurried up onto the concrete steps leading to the side door, Rawls following more slowly because of his limp.

CURTIS WAS JUST OPENING the door to go in when Rawls said, “Hey Curtis, tell me one thing, would you?”

“What?”

“When I parked my truck over at the parking lot earlier this evening, I saw Melinda Buckingham parking her Bronco. But somebody else parked right about the same time. Some wimpy guy driving that old Rambler back there. They went in holding hands. I want to know who that dude is.”

“I can’t remember his name, Rawls. Honest I can’t.” It was a lie. Curtis was good with names and knew it was Eli Scudder whom Rawls had seen. “I met him one time, if he’s who I think he is … he was with Jake Lundy, from the paper. This guy works at the paper, too. Jake bought supper down at Harley’s for him and for me both that day.”

“Works at the paper, huh?” Rawls nodded. “That’s all I have to know. I got a friend in the mailroom at the
Clarion.
I can find out this pant-load’s name easy enough. And you can be sure, Curtis, I’ll find his name. And then I’ll find
him
, and he’ll wish I hadn’t.”

Rawls turned and limped back to the parking lot and his parked pickup. Curtis, still thinking about the refreshment table inside, entered the building and headed for the board room. The double doors leading into the meeting were both propped wide open. As he looked at the committee members seated around the big table, the fellow from the newspaper, Jake Lundy’s friend, looked back at him and instantly Curtis felt a jolt almost as severe as if he’d passed through a shadow.

He’d said too much to Rawls. He never should have revealed where Melinda Buckingham’s friend worked. Rawls would make trouble for him, because that’s just what Rawls, and Parvins in general, were wont to do.

Curtis chided himself as a thoughtless blabbermouth while he edged toward the refreshment table, where three plastic dime-store platters filled with cookies sat on a vinyl tablecloth. He felt the eyes of the committee members upon him as he swept up a handful of commercially-made oatmeal wafers. They were stale to the point that they could have been discs of cardboard, but Curtis Stokes was a hungry man and not at all picky.

He’d planned to head for the door with his allegedly edible stash, but plopped onto a folding chair near the back instead. The lighted room, with its refreshment table, air conditioning, and human activity, was a more pleasant place to be than the dark, shadow-striped parking lot where Rawls Parvin might still linger. Curtis would remain and munch his cookies for now, and hope that Rawls moved on in the meantime. Despite Rawls having helped him get across the parking lot, Curtis wasn’t particularly enamored of the younger man’s company.

He was starting his third cookie before he took heed of the fact that the person doing the talking at the moment was Old Man Caine Darwin himself, richest man in the county. Darwin was standing at a portable podium facing the table where the committee members sat, most wearing earnest expressions obviously intended to let old Darwin know that they were listening hard, and that whatever he had to say was fine with them. Curtis Stokes, observer and analyzer of humanity, had detected one unquestionable reality long ago: Wealth brought respect, and respect brought power.

He’d also detected, uncomfortably, that Old Man Darwin looked down on him. Not once, but twice, the old man had nearly bumped him with his big old Cadillac when Curtis was doing no more than minding his own business, walking on the shoulder of the road. Curtis had persuaded himself it was accidental both times, but still …

Darwin spoke on: “… and in conclusion, let me quickly summarize the points I have just shared with you. One: I have believed for years that Kincheloe County and Tylerville have needed to leverage our local heritage to better advantage; specifically, we have needed to find a way to tap into the potential of heightened tourism. Two: the logical time is now, on the cusp of our bicentennial celebration and the simultaneous statewide heritage emphasis. Three: given that tourists must see our community here as a desirable destination if we are to attract them, we must provide an attraction. Four: the most attainable attraction for us, in my judgment, is the creation of a well-written and produced outdoor historical drama, to be premiered on Bicentennial Day next year, and repeated annually with a cast combining hired professional actors and capable and carefully auditioned local talents. Five: I am willing to personally finance the start-up of this production as part of my legacy to this community and my personal contribution to the celebration of its 200th year. Now, are there any questions?”

INDEED THERE WERE QUESTIONS, but first came standing applause, led by Hadley King, who rose and clapped with emotional vigor. He even threw a soft “Bravo!” into the burst of adulation. Darwin seemed humbled, even embarrassed, by the treatment. Even Curtis Stokes was on his feet and clapping, the town’s craziest man saluting its richest. Custer Crosswaite remained flopped across his chair in his sprawled, languid, can’t-impress-me posture, clapping very lightly and briefly.

“Please,” Darwin said, motioning with flapping fingertips for all to sit down. “Please … that’s enough. We all do what we can, and this is what I’m able to do.”

The chairman brought the applause to a close and motioned his committee to sit again.

King cleared his throat and spoke. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are privileged this evening to see what promises to be the beginning of a new local tradition in local arts, and a new feather in the cap of Kincheloe County and Tylerville.”

“Hadley, that’s ‘caps,’ not ‘cap,’” said Custer Crosswaite, suddenly turning grammar coach. “The county and the town are two different things, so they ain’t going to wear the same cap, y’see. Am I right, or am I right? Tell me, Hadley! Am I right?”

“Custer, you are right. Now, can we please, please,
please
get through the rest of this meeting without further silliness?” King chided.

Custer stared at him. “That depends on my mood, I reckon.”

“Well, tell your mood to get quiet and cooperative, or take it outside and give it a walk around town while the rest of us try to move forward with a bit of maturity and demeanor.”

Custer stood, gave a loud grunt of disdain, then said, “Throwed out of an open-to-the-public meeting! I never heard the like! I ought to hire me a lawyer and sue!”

“You do that. Have a good evening, Custer.”

“Back atcha, Hadley. No hard feelings.” Custer looked over to Caine Darwin, who stood leaning against the podium. “Thank you for having that big fat wallet, Caine. And for being willing to open it. Right kind of you. Will your new play have any dancers in it?”