Shady stood. “One hundred dollars.”
Burton turned on Shady. “I don’t think you want to do that, Shady.”
“I think I do.”
“Two hundred dollars,” Burton counterbid.
“Three hundred.”
The bidding went back and forth, a hundred dollars at a time, until it reached seven hundred dollars. That was when Lester Burton knew he was getting close.
It was Shady’s bid. “Seven hundred twenty dollars.”
“Seven thirty.”
Shady’s hands were trembling. He looked like he’d have paid seven hundred dollars for one stiff drink, just to take the edge off. “Seven hundred forty dollars.”
The courtroom was silent, as if there was not a breath left. Everyone knew he had done all he could. And everyone knew it wasn’t enough.
“Seven forty-one.” Burton waited for the counterbid that wouldn’t come.
Judge Carlson raised his gavel like a man ready to put a dying animal out of its misery. “Going once. Going twice. Sold.” He rapped his gavel lightly. “Mr. Burton, if you’ll sign the papers with the county clerk, we’ll move on to the rest of the Widow Cane’s property.” Burton whipped out a pen and signed the papers with a smirk.
“Your Honor?” It was Mrs. Larkin again. “About that property …”
“Yes, I know, Mrs. Larkin,” Judge Carlson said. “I assure you we will address your matter in due time. Now please be seated.”
“But, Your Honor …” Mrs. Larkin stepped out of the jury box. “As my husband, the late Eugene Larkin, was the county appraiser, I have access to his maps relating to public and private land use in this county. The land just purchased by Mr. Burton …” Without asking to approach the bench, Mrs. Larkin whipped out a map and unrolled it on Judge Carlson’s desk. “See here? It’s this northeast corner.”
“Yes, I see. However, where Shady makes his alleged concoctions doesn’t change the fact that this land is now up for public sale. So, if you’ll return to your seat …”
“Oh, but it does, Your Honor,” Mrs. Larkin argued. “You see, now that Mr. Burton has purchased that section of land, it reduces the amount of land that has back taxes due. And actually, now Mr. Burton owes an amount in back taxes.”
A host of mystified stares focused on Mrs. Larkin. Even Judge Carlson was at first unable to respond.
Lester Burton recovered first. “What difference does that make? They still don’t have enough, so let’s get on with the sale.” He was clearly rattled by his nearly devastating mistake.
Mrs. Larkin continued. “Actually, Your Honor, there’s more.”
“Of course there is.” Judge Carlson sat back and crossed his arms.
“Mr. Burton’s property includes a spring, which is considered a public resource, therefore it is required that the taxes on that land go to the nearest township. In this case, the township of Manifest.”
“Meaning?” Judge Carlson asked, growing genuinely interested.
“Meaning that if, in fact, the town of Manifest has raised seven hundred and forty dollars—by whatever flagrant and nefarious means”—she looked over her glasses at Shady and Jinx—“due to Mr. Burton’s purchase of the spring, they now have the money to buy the rest of the Widow Cane’s property, with eight dollars to spare. The county clerk can verify.” She handed the map and calculations to the clerk.
“This is preposterous,” Burton spluttered. “They had their chance to buy the property. Now it’s up for public sale.”
Arthur Devlin rose from his seat, his puffy face splotchy with rage. “Sit down, Burton,” he roared. “You’ve done enough to botch this affair. I bid five thousand dollars on the rest of the property, Carlson. Let’s get this thing over with.”
“Mr. Devlin.” Judge Carlson leaned forward, his voice even. “With all this hubbub, I think you may be a bit confused. You see, we are not in your mine. You are in my courtroom and you may refer to me as Judge or Your Honor.”
Arthur Devlin’s eyes narrowed and he plopped himself back into his seat.
“Now”—Judge Carlson lowered his spectacles—“you should recall that the first step of this process is not an auction. The statute clearly states that the township of Manifest has first right to the land in question as long as they can pay the back taxes and land fee by October first. Then and only then is the land put up for public auction. Mr. Devlin, according to my calendar, it is still October first, and if everything Mrs. Larkin said checks out”—he glanced at the county clerk, who gave a nod—“then, since your own Mr. Burton has graciously provided the township of Manifest with some unexpected money, by law they are still allowed to acquire the remaining land, which includes the vein.”
Devlin crushed his cigar to a pulp, but being a businessman through and through, he knew when he was defeated. He mustered three words. “Burton, you’re fired.”
“Fine with me,” Burton said. “You’ll all be coming to me for some of that healing springwater. And you can bet it won’t be cheap.”
The crowd rumbled. What was he talking about? Was that why Shady had bid on the spring?
“That’s right, folks,” said Burton. “Just ask our friendly government visitor from Topeka. He’s got his report all ready about the high metal content in the water and how it has healing properties. Go ahead, son, make your presentation.”
All eyes turned to the young man sitting in the second row of the courtroom.
Finally, Hattie could look at him head-on. She held her pen, poised to take note. The man waved his hand. “I don’t really think this is the time and—”
Burton fumed. “You came all the way to Manifest to deliver some important information, did you not?”
“I did, but—”
“Then I’m sure the judge won’t mind bumping you up on the list.”
The man looked at Judge Carlson.
“Go ahead. Let’s have all the surprises out at once.” Judge Carlson waved him on.
“Very well.” He took the manila envelope from his jacket pocket and handed it to the bailiff, who passed it to Judge Carlson.
Judge Carlson opened it and examined the contents with great interest. “This is fascinating material, young man, but I fail to see how recipes for pumpkin pie and raspberry marmalade can have much bearing on the proceedings of this court. Would you mind clearing up what this is all about, Mr. …”
“Macke. Fred Macke. Those recipes are for my aunt Eudora.”
Hattie Mae, the hardball reporter, dropped her pen, staring up at the man. He grinned at her and winked.
“But,” Burton sputtered in disbelief as he realized something had gone terribly wrong. “This is an outrage, Judge. I retract my bid on the grounds that I have been tricked, manipulated, and lied to. This man is a charlatan. He told me he worked for the government.”
Mrs. Larkin stepped forward. “He does work for the government, Lester. I’ve bragged on him a million times. This is my sister’s boy. He works in the governor’s office … the assistant to the assistant.” She placed her hand proudly on his shoulder.
“But the water …,” Burton continued. “You checked the water, you made it fizz, and then you drank it. It was healing water.”
Fred Macke’s eyebrows went up. “That powder? Oh, that was just some seltzer powder. I’ve got a sensitive stomach.” He gave a sideways glance at Jinx.
Eudora Larkin spoke up in his defense. “My nephew wouldn’t lie. He’s honest as the day is long. Perhaps you just misunderstood, Lester.” She narrowed her eyes. “Or maybe your greed got in the way of good judgment.” She turned her attention back to her nephew. “Now, Fred, you give my best to your mother and tell her thank you for the recipes.”
“I’ll do that, Aunt Eudora. And thank you for inviting me down for the day.” He smiled winningly at Hattie Mae. “I think the sign outside of town is right. Manifest surely does appear to be a town with a bright future.”
Hattie Mae had yet to pick up her pen.
Dumbfou
nded, Burton stared at Eudora Larkin, then sank back into his seat.
Devlin moved into the aisle and spoke directly to Mrs. Larkin. “Like I said, your husband was a chump in high school. You could have had better.”
Mrs. Larkin straightened up tall and proper, narrowed her eyes, and said, “Arthur Devlin, you and my husband may have been in the same grade, but you were never in the same class.”
Arthur Devlin stood alone. Judge Carlson reached for his gavel but both Burton and Devlin were gone from the courtroom before it rapped on the desk.
Shady leaned over to Jinx. “Where in the devil did all that come from? You had a hand in this, didn’t you?”
Jinx smiled. “It was just a little something Mrs. Larkin and I cooked up while having polite conversation. It really gets her dander up when someone insults the late Eugene Larkin.”
“You could have let me in on the secret. It might have made it a little easier on everybody.”
Jinx looked a little shamefaced. “Well, Shady, it’s just that you don’t have the best poker face and we were afraid you might give it away before Burton could bid on the spring.”
“What’s the matter with my poker face—”
Judge Carlson rapped the gavel again and rubbed his temples. “If we ever get through this day, it will be a miracle. What say you, Shady? Still interested in buying the aforementioned land belonging to the late Widow Cane?”
Shady stood, trying to keep his hat steady in his shaking hands. “Your Honor, I can’t say I understand all that just happened here.” He stared at Mrs. Larkin as if she had suddenly become someone else. “But if we have enough money, we’d still like the land.”
“And do you speak for the township of Manifest?”
Shady looked around the room. One by one, they stood. Donal MacGregor, Hadley Gillen, Mama Santoni. The Akkersons and the Cybulskises. Mr. Matenopoulos and Mr. Keufer. Velma T. and Hattie Mae. Mrs. Larkin and the rest of the courtroom.
Finally, Shady answered. “No, Your Honor. I think the township of Manifest speaks for itself.”
HATTIE MAE’S
NEWS AUXILIARY
OCTOBER 2, 1918
What a turn of events we had yesterday at the courthouse. I won’t go into detail summing it up, because I think nearly every citizen of Manifest was there to see it for himself.
However, much has taken place since then. This reporter was present at the first meeting of the newly formed Manifest Township Committee, on which a member of each fraternal organization holds a seat. Their first item of business involved Arthur Devlin, hat in hand, negotiating new working codes and payment arrangements for the mine workers in exchange for access to the vein running under the town’s land. It was a proud and moving day for all present.
I am also pleased to announce the plans for our First Annual Manifest Homecoming Celebration. The festivities will take place on Sunday three weeks hence, on the newly acquired property formerly belonging to the Widow Cane. Springs and all! Some of you may not know that after Lester Burton realized he’d be paying some hefty taxes on plain old springwater, he accepted an offer from the town to buy his spring at a fraction of the price he paid for it.
The various fraternal organizations are working together to beautify the area around the spring with flower beds and benches and are building a special fountain so that all might come and partake. Even though the water has not been proven to contain any special properties, it was used in the elixir that seems to have helped many people overcome the sickness still plaguing so many outside Manifest. Maybe it’s healing water after all.
As for news from abroad, I had tea and cookies yesterday at Koski’s Diner with Mr. Fred Macke, on a purely professional basis, and he said that at the capitol building in Topeka, where he is the assistant to the assistant, there is much talk of armistice and a possible end to the war in Europe.
Who knows, maybe our young men in arms are closer to the homecoming we have all been praying for.
Remember, for all the whos, whats, whys, whens, and wheres you don’t even know you need to know, turn to
HATTIE MAE HARPER
Reporter About Town
PVT. NED GILLEN
MONT BLANC
OCTOBER 4, 1918
Dear Jinx,
What’s doins in Manifest, kid? Big orange harvest moon in your piece of sky yet? Rainy here lately, skies cloudy. With the cold that’s been settling in on us at night, I’m figuring it’s October, though I’ve lost track of the days.
We’ve had a rough go of it lately. Our regiment is down to about half strength. Had our share of casualties because of this awful war. But we’ve had just as many guys taken out with dysentery and influenza. It’s like their bodies are so worn out, once a sickness gets hold of them, it just gets worse and worse till they’re gone. Heck, Holler, and me aren’t sure how we’ve stayed ahead of it so far. Velma T.’s elixirs ran out a lifetime ago. Guess we just run so much no bugs can catch us. That’s what we like to think, anyway.
Right now just being here makes me think of home. We’re stuck in our trenches. Stuck meaning it’s so muddy I’m not sure I could get out if I tried. Rain’s let up for now, but with wet clothes and wet blankets, it’s almost better if it keeps on coming. Better than the wind picking up and chilling our bones.
So, you’re wondering why all this makes me think of home. It’s the farthest thing from it.
Up to my neck in mud,
Ned
P.S. later in October
Was running back to my regiment today from a rendezvous with command. Still had a couple miles to go. Tearing through trees, trying to stay in the shadows, I had a bag loaded with cans of beans for the fellas. A branch caught the bag and yanked it open. My buddies hadn’t eaten in days, and I wasn’t leaving without those rations. I had the bag half full when I saw him: a German foot soldier six feet away, eyeballing me through the sights of his gun. Nothing but our own puffs of frosty air between us. I was as good as dead, and for the life of me, all I could think to say was Ich habe widerlich footen. I knew that wouldn’t help. So, with nothing to lose but those beans, I just kept picking them up, slowly, one after another. Old Jerry lowered his gun and said two words before walking away. Two words, Jinx. “Zuhause gehst.” Go home.
Don’t I wish, buddy. Don’t I wish.
The Jungle
AUGUST 11, 1936
The night air was hot and humid as it hung in my room. The sheets clung to the sweat on my legs, so I threw them off in a crumpled mess at the foot of the bed. Even Ned’s letter curled with the damp as I read it for the umpteenth time. I turned off my lamp and moved aside the limp curtains, thinking of Ned and looking for the big orange harvest moon he’d written of. There was only a sliver of moon to be found.
The mementos had added up on the windowsill. I’d studied them so often they had become private treasures to me. Reminders of the stories they’d come from. The cork, the Wiggle King fishing lure, the Liberty Head silver dollar, even little Eva Cybulskis’s tiny wooden nesting doll.
I took the only remaining item from the Lucky Bill cigar box. The skeleton key. Miss Sadie had revealed nothing about it. What lock did it fit into? I wondered. Or better yet, what skeletons was it hiding?
I felt myself drifting off into sleep, the key conjuring up images of things hidden in my mind. Music flowed in and out of those images. Harmonica music.
I sat up as the music seemed to call me, to invite me. I slipped my shoes on and padded outside in my pajamas, following the sweet, soulful sound. It was dark and tree branches and bramble reached for me. The music grew louder, and as I rounded the bend near the train tracks, I felt the warmth radiating from the bonfire, saw the glow on the rough and ragged faces. I knew exactly where I was. People living on the road call it The Jungle.
Gideon says wandering souls tend to walk the same roads. For a lot of folks all over the country, those roads pass through places like this. Places where people who have no home, no money, no hope gather toget
her of an evening to share a fire and maybe some beans and coffee. Where somebody leaves a mirror and a razor behind in a tree so the next fella can catch a quick shave. Where, for a time, they might not feel quite so alone.
Shady sat among them, playing the harmonica, letting the notes drift around these men like a bedtime song. When he stopped, he said, “Anyone for another cup of coffee? There’s plenty here, gentlemen.” They held out their cups and Shady filled them.
I watched from the bushes for a time, knowing I’d been wrong about Shady and his drinking. He would come back to the house in the morning with bloodshot eyes from the sleepless night and the smoky fire. His whiskers wouldn’t be shaved because ten other men had used his razor. He’d take a lie down for a while, then go back to gathering some extra odds and ends that someone might need along his way.
For some reason, I wasn’t able to look away. Was this what those men considered home? Eventually, I made my way back to Shady’s place and once more looked out at the sliver of moon, thinking again about Ned’s letter. His cold nights in the trenches, wet and lonely. His talk of home. I thought of Gideon and wondered where he was tonight. Was he hunkered down with a few men by a fire? Was he eating a warm meal of beans and coffee? Was he thinking of me?
Don’t I wish, buddy. Don’t I wish.
Remember When
AUGUST 12, 1936
The response to the Remember When contest was better than we’d expected. Folks from all around town turned in their remembrances written out on notepaper, receipts, napkins, even toilet paper. It seemed everyone had a funny anecdote to share or a touching memory of a loved one.
Hattie Mae said that since the contest was our idea, we could help judge the entries. So Lettie, Ruthanne, and I huddled together in the mail room of the Manifest Herald, poring over letter after letter, often so caught up in the stories that we’d forget to study the handwriting and have to look over a stack again.
Moon Over Manifest Page 22
