Harvestman Lodge (34 page)

“Yeah. It makes me wonder if there’s something about me you think they’ll not like.”

She drew a slow breath and let it out with a sigh. “No, not that. It’s the other way around. I’ve been a little worried about how you might react to them … to Dad, specifically.”

“Because … “

“Because Dad can be very … intense. He has strong opinions and attitudes, and he clings to them. And shares them freely and dogmatically.”

“Well … we all have opinions.”

“Yes, but we all don’t act like we expect the whole world to instantly jump in line behind us and … ” Another sigh. “You’d just have to know him to understand.”

“Not much chance of that if I don’t meet him.”

“Exactly. Which is why it hasn’t happened. I’m sorry if I sent the wrong signals or made you wonder about things. Obviously I’m just going to have to bite the bullet and let the big meeting take place.”

“I’ve also had relatives with ‘intense’ personalities and ways, Melinda. I watched my father handle them when I was a kid, and he taught me an important lesson: There’s not many people you can’t get on with if you just exercise some basic courtesy and keep yourself calm and collected no matter what.”

“I suspect that’s true. I’ve come to the conclusion, though, that my dad has a particular capacity to rile even the rile-proof. I can give you one tip that’ll help you out with him. Just be aware that, in Dad’s vision of things, every problem in the world is created by some or other group of people he doesn’t like: the liberals, the unions, the ‘seklar hoomanists’, the Democrats, the Civil Rights crowd, the ‘Bible disbelievers,’ the ‘Hollywood lefties,’ the women’s libbers, the liquor industry, the evolutionists, the gays … no, wait, I mean, ‘the homa-sekshals.’ That’s his vision of reality: All he finds bad in this world he sees as the fault of somebody else. He can’t function without an enemies list. At least he isn’t anti-Semitic.”

“I’ll try to steer clear of touchy subjects when I meet him.”

“You won’t succeed, because he’ll bring them up if you don’t. He’ll tell you what he believes, then he’ll look at you and say ‘Don’t you think so?’ And if you don’t give full-out assent and agreement right away he’ll frown at you and say, ‘What? You don’t believe that? Boy,
I
sure do!’ Then hang on, because it’s off to the races at that point.”

Eli replied, “My dad always told me to say, ‘You know, you could be right,’ in situations like that. It’s noncommittal and non-challenging. It usually throws water on the fuse before the flare reaches the dynamite.”

Melinda mulled that over a moment. “That’s good advice. I’ll probably use that myself.”

Eli said, “And by the way, just to be fair to your dad: there are a lot of people out there who are a polar opposite to him, but just as knee-jerk in their reactions. And they can be just as strident and inflexible, and just as guilty of thinking from the gut rather than the brain. I encountered plenty of them in my university days, a lot of them young students. Some of them aging professors with far less excuse for being that way.”

“I know. I know. And now I’m wondering if maybe you’ll get on better with Dad than I’ve been thinking you would. You’re not a raging Moral Majority right-winger like he is, are you?”

“Just a bland old moderate. Someone who can’t see why the ‘correct answer’ to every issue necessarily has to lie either to the far left or far right of the spectrum.”

“That makes sense to me, Eli.”

“What’s your mom’s take on the things that stir your father up?”

“Much milder, much easier, much less intense. She tolerates differences better, and in general is not so dogmatic. I think that, if she felt free, she might even let herself enjoy a glass of wine every now and then. Dad, you see, is adamantly against alcohol. Adamantly. It’s his pet topic, a no-compromise issue for him and he attaches far more importance to it than it should actually possess. It’s his identifying cause. He would have fit in well in the Prohibition era, and in fact one of his great-grandfathers worked with Billy Sunday, the anti-liquor evangelist who helped set the stage for Prohibition. On the other side of Dad’s family, his great-grandfather was a drunkard who beat his wife without mercy, to the point she developed a brain aneurysm that eventually killed her. Those two lines of family heritage came together to create alcohol-hating Ben Buckingham, my dear, intense daddy.”

“But you were raised in his household and I know for a fact you enjoy your beer … ”

“That’s for us to know and Dad never to find out. Never ever. Got that?”

“Yes, but this isn’t right, Melinda. You’re a grown woman, old enough to have your own thoughts and opinions, and to make your own independent decisions without having to hide them. You’re past the age of being obliged to require daddy’s approval on everything you think and do. You shouldn’t have to dodge around in hiding like a little girl who sneaked a cookie from the jar.”

“I know that. Dad doesn’t. He thinks he can still dictate the rules of my life, and he always will think that. And even if it shouldn’t be that way, like you say, Dad still has the power to make me miserable, if and when he chooses. He perfected his technique with years of practice, at least where certain hot-button matters are concerned.”

“He’s that uptight, huh?”

“You have no idea.”

Since they were already talking on touchy matters, it seemed the right moment to go ahead and settle a second question Eli had been carrying around with him. “Melinda, may I ask you about another, unrelated thing?”

“Uh … of course.” She sounded wary.

“Your aunt who was killed in the car crash, the one whose face you saw in the crowd in that big photograph on the wall at the newspaper … I wanted to learn more about what happened, so I tried to find the newspaper with the accident story in the archives. I couldn’t find anything, and when I asked people, nobody seemed aware she ever existed, including people who personally know your family.”

Melinda’s face had blanched the moment Eli mentioned her aunt, and she seemed for a moment unable to speak. “Eli, it was … at that point I didn’t want to tell you … I was trying to steer you off-track because … oh Lord, how could I not have realized … ” She realized she was merely stammering and shut up.

“Melinda, what did you really see in that photograph that upset you, and why did you feel like you couldn’t tell me the truth?”

She was silent a few moments. “Did you get a good look at Rawls Parvin when the headlights caught his face last night?”

“Good enough. I’d know him now if I saw him on the street.”

“In that case, look at that old photograph again, closely, and you’ll find your answer as to what upset me.”

“Unless my grandparents are peeping around a corner, I won’t know anybody in a picture that old from a town I wasn’t raised in – ”

“Just look, okay? And now I have something I need to ask you, Eli. Nothing nearly so dramatic and nothing to do with family. Something a lot more comfortable to talk about.”

“Okay … ”

“I’ll be expected to file a brief at the station about the bicentennial meeting. Probably nothing for broadcast, just for the ongoing files, and to demonstrate I’m keeping up with my beat. The whole business about Mr. Darwin’s historical drama and you being buttonholed as the writer … what do you want me to say about that?”

“I hope you’ll say the same thing I’m going to, which is only that a proposal for a local historical drama has been put forward by Caine Darwin, who says he is willing to provide financial backing, and that issues including finding an appropriate outdoor theater location and a writer for the project are to be explored. I see no reason to say anything more specific at this point.”

“Off the record, just you and me: are you interested in writing that play?”

“Melinda, the first thing that came into my mind when he put my name out as a possible writer was a mental image of our dear old Hodgepodge building. That’s a concrete example of what happens when a job is done by an unqualified person. I have no more business trying to create a professional-grade historical drama than Mr. Carl’s grandson did trying to wrap an office complex around an old motel and restaurant. I have no wish to have my name attached to a public embarrassment.”

“I’m actually relieved to hear you say that, and I agree you should turn the offer down. I’m proud that you did a novel good enough to persuade Mr. Darwin that you could write his drama, but maybe what that shows isn’t so much that you would be a good playwright, but that you are already a good novelist.”

“Exactly my thoughts, Melinda. Though I do recall you agreeing with Curtis Stokes when he was saying I’d do a good job of it.”

“Well, I don’t doubt you could do a good job of it. But you’d do it at the expense of the work you really want to do, particularly your novel-writing. When I said that to Curtis, I was just trying to move the conversation along. And speaking of moving along, we have jobs to get to.”

“So we do. On to Hodgepodge, then!”

Chapter Twenty

TO HODGEPODGE THEY WENT, but Eli did not remain there. Though the meeting of the bicentennial committee had run long, what had come out of it was easily summarized, and Eli could write the story as quickly at his workstation in the newspaper archive morgue as he could at his usual off-site office. And working within the newspaper office would give him access to that big election party photograph on the wall, and the chance to do some needed research in the archives.

David Brecht was surprised to see Eli coming into the newsroom. “Eli! I was just about to call you and ask about the committee meeting last night. I didn’t expect to see you in here in the main office.”

“I have some things to look up in the files, and it just made sense to come here this morning.”

“Well, glad to have you so available! I’ll take advantage of the opportunity for us to have a little face-to-face time, once we’re through the morning. In fact, let me take you to lunch today, Eli. On the
Clarion’s
dime. Dad will go with us … we often have lunch together on Fridays. Keith might join us as well.”

Eli had hoped to get back to Hodgepodge for the usual outdoor lunch with Melinda, but what could he say? “Sounds good, David. Thank you.”

David returned to his office and Eli made a quick call to Melinda to tell her his lunch plans had just changed.

THE STORY WAS EASY to write. Eli knocked it out fast. As promised to Caine Darwin, he put in not a word about the old Merkle property as a potential outdoor theater site, and as promised to himself, skirted the issue of who was being considered to write the play. He saved the story to a floppy disk and carried it to David Brecht’s office for editing.

David was in the middle of reading through the day’s Jake Lundy piece and gave Eli only a glance and quick thanks for delivering his story disk. As Eli turned to leave, Brecht said, “Eli, the county planners are meeting next Tuesday at 2 o’clock, and will convene as the beer board right after.”

“I’m aware of it,” Eli said. “It’s already on my calendar for coverage. Part of what I inherited from Jeff Ealey’s beat.”

“Good man, Eli. Good man.”

THE CUP AND SAUCER Caf
é
was located on one side of the ground floor of the Tylerville Arcade building, a ninety-five-year-old arch-roofed structure on Railroad Street downtown. It stood near the vacant store that once housed the jewelry business of the late Henry Spancake. The Spancakes, in their day, had been one of only three Jewish families in all Kincheloe County, and the only one with deep local roots. Much beloved by the community, the kind-hearted Spancakes, perhaps with some religious irony, had been the strongest merchant backers of the local Christmas Children program, a yearly charitable effort that collected toys to be distributed to impoverished children during the holiday season. “I just can’t bear to think of some Kincheloe County children having nothing while others have far more than they require,” Ruth Spancake had often said of her involvement in the program. “It’s something the God I believe in would have me do, whatever religious flag flies over the door.”

Knowing Miz Deb Brecht was a regular diner at the Cup and Saucer, Eli wished he’d worn a tie to work this particular day. A casual mention of that to Keith Brecht before they left the newspaper office had resulted in Keith giving Eli’s clothing a quick evaluation, opening a cabinet in the corner of his office, and bringing forth a tie for Eli to borrow. Eli ducked into the restroom and put it on, praying he’d not splash soup or salad dressing on it at the cafe.

No Miz Deb appeared at the Cup and Saucer. “Deb’s out at the country club with her book group,” Mr. Carl explained as they awaited the approaching waitress. “Every third month they meet out there and have lunch, instead of just sitting around in somebody’s living room like a bunch of hens, pecking at snacks on a tray while they cluck on about the latest piece of pretentious literary nonsense to make the scene.” He paused long enough to say hello to the waitress, a pretty young lady who asked him if he’d be having his “usual.”

“You know me well, Roxanne.”

“Do you gentlemen need menus, or do you already know what you’ll be having?”

“I’ll have a loaded baked potato with a house salad, ranch dressing on the side,” Keith ordered. “And iced tea, unsweetened.”