Harvestman Lodge (37 page)

Ruby laughed. “You’re right about that. You’ve never seen the like of how he’s let that lot of his bramble up into a thicket.”

“I’m going to make a point of driving past it. Hey, come outside and let me show you the key scratch on my car.”

They departed, leaving the image of a young Cale Parvin to glare unseeing and unmoving from the photograph on the wall, much as, miles away, the still-living version of the man stared with failing vision at the wall of his lonely room.

Chapter Twenty-One

ELI WAS BEWILDERED AND a little frightened to find Melinda, with red eyes and smudged makeup, still in her office at Hodgepodge. She made no effort to hide the obvious fact she had been crying.

“Eli, I got the saddest news this afternoon … I’m so upset!”

“Are your parents – “

“My parents are fine. I’m fine. It’s Jimbo. He stopped by to see me today and told me he’d been to his doctor. He has cancer, Eli. Prostate. And on top of that, his heart is going bad. He told me that the heart will kill him before the cancer has time to. It’s a slow kind of cancer.”

“No … not Jimbo!”

“I know. I feel the same way. He’s old, but he seems like such a full-of-life person. I can’t think of him as sick, and certainly not as dying.”

“They can’t do anything for him?”

“He wasn’t real clear about that. He says the doctor told him they are ‘looking at options’ and will do the best that can be done for him, whatever that means. The usual generalized medical platitudes.”

“It’s thoughtful that he made a personal visit to tell you.”

“It touched my heart. He truly cares about us, Eli, about you and me. He told me he’s going to come see you, too. If you’d been here this afternoon I think he’d have gotten us together and told us at the same time. And he says he has something to give you.”

“Give me? Did he say what?”

“Not a clue. Be ready for it, but act surprised.”

“Will do. God. I can’t believe it … Jimbo.”

“I hate it. I love that old man!”

“Yeah. Me too.”

THE NEXT BIG LOCAL NEWS EVENT WAS of the fast-breaking variety, and bad: a major truck-car accident just after dawn Monday morning on the Sadler Highway, involving an errant eighteen-wheeler and an aging Volkswagen Beetle occupied by a young family headed for a picnic in the Smoky Mountains. With none left living to describe the actual crash, the exact details proved difficult to pin down. The end result, though, was blatantly, brutally clear: a huge, well-loaded truck and trailer resting atop a thoroughly destroyed tiny car. The Volkswagen had not only been crushed, but literally rolled up beneath the heavy truck, its three occupants crushed together into something unrecognizable and horrible to see.

The trucker himself had suffered no direct physical injury, but even so was discovered dead on the highway, his heart having failed him when he saw what he’d done. Later investigation, including autopsy, would reveal that the heart attack that killed him at only 34 years of age had received contribution from the heavy amount of cocaine coursing through his system. That, combined with the shock of the accident itself, had killed him almost as fast as if he’d taken a bullet through the brain.

Eli had no involvement in the coverage of the accident, but Melinda did, having gone to her office early solely because she’d awakened at four and was atypically unable to go back to sleep. Reaching Hodgepodge as the first glimmer of light filled the east, she was making coffee when the chatter of the police scanner sent her racing to what was obviously a dramatic accident scene, first reporter to respond. She had no videographer with her; any images she obtained she’d have to shoot herself, “one man band” journalism. She was there when the bodies were removed, but shot no footage of that, too horrified to use the camera or even to want to. Only when the torn, misshapen bodies were covered and removed was she able to function, though even then her hands shook and rendered much of her video unusable. She did better when it came time simply to interview the state trooper in charge of the accident scene. He was a young man, almost as shaken as she, this being his first response to a major accident. He was also a young father, as he admitted to Melinda, thus particularly jolted by the fact that one of the crash victims had been a child barely older than his own. When Melinda saw him struggling to hide from her the tears in his eyes, she realized there were tears in her eyes too.

Passing her office building on her way to the television station, she saw Eli’s car in its usual spot and wanted badly to stop. No time. The editing bay was calling and she had exclusive footage. Funny and sad, she thought, how bad news becomes good news for reporters.

She got to the station and, after a brief conversation with her producer, began editing what she had, though the sight of the crushed-and-rolled VW revived the sickened feeling she’d experienced while on the scene. She actually feared she might throw up in the editing room.

For the first time in her fledgling career she found herself wondering if she’d made the right occupational choice.

That was on her mind when she had her only interruption. Her producer came in with a quick question: were either the family killed in the crash or the trucker who caused the accident from the immediate area? No to both questions, Melinda replied. The family came from Middlesboro, Ky., and the trucker was from the Tennessee town of Maynardville. His name had been James Dale Moody.

WHEN HER WORK WAS done and her report turned in and scheduled for midday broadcast, Melinda drove slowly back to Tylerville and Hodgepodge, determined to get her mind off the accident. The closer she got to Tylerville, the more she wanted to maintain her solitary situation as long as possible.

So it was time for the scenic route. She turned off the highway and onto a smaller road, and meandered her way through beautiful farmland and rural communities. In her current state of mind she could have happily driven on for miles, farther and farther into the countryside, forgetting duties and schedules and the horrors that had started her day.

Her escapist fantasy was intruded upon by the undignified reality of a call of nature. She knew this road and the fact that there were no gas stations or convenience markets ahead for miles.

There were, however, churches aplenty, little country churches that seemed to sprout up like weeds along such backroads. The smallest of these churches often kept their doors unlocked around the clock. “Send one my way, Lord,” she whispered.

Just over a mile down the road she spotted the Campbell Mill Tabernacle of Faith and pulled onto the thinly graveled surface that served as a parking lot. She found the door unlocked, as hoped, but inside, no restroom. Muttering a very church-inappropriate word, she went back outside and was glad to see a couple of old-fashioned outhouses in back. She darted for the one marked LADIES.

When she exited the privy, something attracted her eye southeastward. Through the trees she saw what looked like the rear of an old gas station. A sudden soft-drink craving struck and she walked in that direction, finding a footpath through the woods.

It had been a service station at one time, but no longer. The hoped-for soft drink machine was not present, nor were any gas pumps on the concrete island out front. A wooden sign with the words HALL OF HISTORY ONE DOLLAR ENTRANSE FEE painted crookedly on it hung above the open door. Someone was moving about inside.

Curious and hopeful of an indoor vending machine, Melinda went to the door. “Hello?”

A hag of an old woman, stooped by a significant dowager’s hump, shuffled up from a shadowed corner and approached Melinda in the doorway. Seeing the craggy old face with its glittering eyes looking back at her caused Melinda to think that she’d never experienced a more Shakespearean moment. Or at least a more Disney one.

“Are you the one?” the old woman asked. “Are you my angel?” A pause, and a look of sadness. “But no. No. I forget sometimes … my angel has gone. Risen and flown on to the Gloryland.”

“Ma’am, I’m just looking for a soft drink machine. That’s all.”

The crone stared intently at Melinda’s face. “I thought you were my angel. Because yours is an angel’s face if ever I seen one … and I have seen ’em. Angel faces and devil faces alike, in the wakeful world and in dreams. And I’ve seen you before, miss.”

The words and tone were oddly discomfiting. This place, and this bent old woman, left Melinda unsettled. Whatever the Hall of History was, it was a weird place with a weirder occupant. If not for the rudeness of it, she might have turned and run back through the grove of trees to her parked Bronco.

“I thank you for the kind words, ma’am, but I’m not an angel, just a thirsty lady. And if I look familiar, it’s probably because I work in television news. I meet a lot of people who know they’ve seen me but can’t remember where.”

A dry tongue swept over drier lips as the old woman reevaluated her visitor. Then she nodded. “Yes! You are right, child! That’s how I know you … I seen you on my TV!”

“My name is Melinda Buckingham. I grew up in Kincheloe County and am working here now in a news bureau office that has just recently been set up. And you are … ?”

“I was Erlene Ledford in my growing up days. Then I married and was for some years Erlene Parvin.”

Parvin. Melinda experienced a ripple of quiet panic at the mere voicing of the name.

“I’m back to Erlene Ledford now. My old man, sorry old thing that he was, he divorced me years ago, the very day I turned fifty-two. After that I took my girlhood name back again. Got no use for the Parvin name, nor any that wears it. Bad bunch are the Parvins. No loyalty in a Parvin soul. No decency.”

“I … I … yes indeed, ma’am. I avoid the Parvins myself.”

“You’re Ben Buckingham’s gal, if I ain’t mistook.”

“You know my father?”

“We’ve met. Good man. There’s a story that he shot a Parvin once. Others say he didn’t, that the boy just hurt his own self somehow. If Ben Buckingham did shoot him, he’s a hero to me. Parvins can all go to hell, far as I’m concerned.”

This was one bitter old woman, Melinda realized. “I think I know one of your own kin, Miz Ledford. Are you related to Micah Ledford? I know Micah, and his wife, Nancy.”

“My sister Essie’s grandson, Micah is. That boy, though, he don’t come see me. He’s one of them who thinks I’m a crazy woman.”

No surprise there, Melinda thought. All she said was, “Yes. I remember Micah saying the name of Essie.”

The ancient head nodded. “Essie had her a store for years down below the hill Micah lives on. See that bonnet hanging on the wall yonder? That was one of Essie’s. She give it to me for Christmas, 1961. Essie always wore a bonnet and thought I should do the same. I never took to the durn things. Didn’t like how they felt on my noggin. I keep that one to remember Essie by.”

“My boyfriend remembers her from when he used to visit Kincheloe County when he was a boy. His grandfather lived on Harmony Road and was named Will Keller.”

The close-set gray eyes glittering above the hooked, witchy nose seemed to spark. The bent-over head nodded. “I knowed Will Keller. Knowed him well. He was your grandfather, you say?”

“My boyfriend’s grandfather. Not mine.”

“You tell your boyfriend, then, that his grandpa was a fine man in Erlene Ledford’s estimation.”

“I will, ma’am. My boyfriend’s name is Eli. He works for the newspaper here.”

“I’ve got me a fine friend what works for the Brechts and has for many a year. He’s a black man, name of Jimbo.”

“Jimbo Bailey … yes. I know Jimbo. I love that old man … he’s been a good friend to me, and to Eli.” She mentioned nothing of Jimbo’s health condition, unsure whether he would want that information spread.

Melinda looked past Erlene’s stooped form at the odd contents of the room. It was filled with tables that were really just cloth-draped pieces of plywood laid across saw-horses. On top of the tables were what looked like a conglomeration of miniature houses, vehicles, barns, and hills molded of clay and studded with evergreen sprigs representing trees. Looking closer, Melinda saw as well small human figurines, also molded from modeling clay, and like the buildings and landscape features, quite well done. Despite the initial impression of disordered clutter, a closer look revealed artistry.

“Did you make these dioramas, Miz Ledford?”

“I did, child. Would you like to see them? There’s more farther back.”

“I would love to see them. May I come in?”

“Have you a dollar, child? For if you don’t, I’ll give you admittance anyway in memory of your grandfather, old Will Keller.”

“Like I said, ma’am, Will Keller was my boyfriend’s grandfather, not … but thank you for the gesture. As it so happens, I’ve got a dollar.”

Melinda produced a bill and handed it to the old woman, who took it with the eagerness of someone unaccustomed to seeing very many of them. She dropped it in a big, open-topped glass jar standing near the door on an old milking stool. There were only three other bills in the jar, and half a handful of change. The Hall of History obviously did not do much business. Not surprising, given the gloomy witch’s lair atmosphere of the place.

That atmosphere changed some when Erlene Ledford flipped a switch and track lights lined across the ceiling came on. Illuminated nearest to them was a good, and as far as Melinda could tell, largely accurate clay model of an old Cherokee village of small log dwellings with open front doors. The little village was populated with native figures depicted in the common chores of Indian life: two women bent over boiling kettles, a third woman scraping a pelt, babies nearby on spread-out hides, children playing and running, old men crafting native weapons, old women visiting each other. Two tiny clay hunters with a twig pole across their shoulders carried a slain deer into the clearing.