Harvestman Lodge

by Cameron Judd

  But nearly an hour too early, so he drove to the next intersection, made a left, and began to explore the downtown, looking for anything that might prod up a memory from one of his childhood visits. So far, nothing.

  He was on Center Street, the main thoroughfare in the downtown district. It was a pretty avenue, shaded on one side by ornamental pear trees and lined on both sides with storefront shops selling antiques, second-hand furniture, jewelry and books. An old, classic-looking movie theater sported a large marquee that extended over the sidewalk. There was a collection of professional offices (mostly lawyers, a couple of insurance agents, and one father-son surveyor firm), then the white-walled four-story headquarters of Kincheloe County Bank, near the county courthouse. A typical East Tennessee small town, but prettier than some Eli had seen where downtown areas had become decrepit and decayed.

  A block later he turned left onto Railroad Street, passed more lawyers’ offices, a barber shop, and a shoe store, and pulled into a parking spot directly across the street from Harley’s Café. The narrow little diner looked like it had probably been there for decades. Eli locked his car, wondering if such precaution was even necessary in a town this small, and walked across to the café. There was no traffic to dodge. He entered the diner through a plate-glass door festooned with credit card stickers.

  A row of narrow tables, each barely big enough to accommodate two facing diners, lined the left-hand wall front to back. Three of these were taken by blue-collared men dining alone, backs toward the door. Another half-dozen customers were perched on round stools at the long counter to Eli’s right, facing their own reflections in a mirror covering the wall behind the counter.

  The grill, big, black and greasy, stood near the cash register at the front end of the café, its back to the wall and its right side nearly butting the plate-glass front window. A man in his upper fifties, with hair almost as greasy as his cooktop and combed in the same sweeping way he’d worn it since 1956, was flipping sausages, turning bacon, and keeping tabs on three frying eggs. He glanced up and grunted a wordless hello as Eli placed himself atop the stool nearest the cash register. In Tylerville and Harley’s, there were no strangers. Everybody got a greeting.

  A smiling woman in her fifties, her dark-dyed coiffure trapped in place under a black hairnet, positioned herself in front of Eli and asked him what he’d have. He ordered coffee, fried eggs, link sausages, biscuits. Eli was trimly built and health-conscious, but this was a small-town diner, and healthy eating was not a relevant consideration here.

  He watched the man at the grill fry up his order and wondered how many Kincheloe Countians were in early graves because of too many Harley’s Café breakfasts like the one he’d just ordered. The grim thought did nothing to diminish his pleasure when the loaded plate was placed before him. He set in.

  “How is it, hon?” the woman asked when he was halfway through.

  “Very fine,” Eli replied between bites. “These eggs are just right. And the biscuits, wow! Did you make them?”

  She lowered her volume and her eyes flitted from side to side as if looking for eavesdroppers. “Well, love, I put them in the oven, but the fact is we buy ’em frozen. They make frozen biscuits now that you can’t hardly tell from homemade, and it saves a lot of preparation and cleanup not to have to mix them up in bowls, you know.”

  Eli nodded as he lifted the thick, white coffee mug to his lips.

  “Coffee’s best in a heavy mug like that one,” the woman said, glad to shift the subject away from her not-so-homemade biscuits. “You ever noticed that?”

  “You know, I think I have. But I never put the thought into words.”

  “I know just what you mean, honey. I’m that way with a lot of things: think it but don’t say it.”

  “Don’t you believe it, son!” the man at the grill said. “Ain’t much that goes through her mind that don’t come out her mouth. Yammer yammer yammer! All day long!”

  “Honey, don’t you pay Junior a bit of mind. He goes on at me all the time.”

  Honey, she’d called Eli. He hardly noticed. He had grown up in the community of Strawberry Plains, just outside of Knoxville, and was accustomed to the casual endearments that were the mainstays of women young and old in southern life. From boyhood up he and every other male in his world had been called “honey,” “sweetheart,” “sweety” and “darling” by big-haired bank tellers, store clerks, receptionists, secretaries, even metermaids with ticket pads in hand.

  “Let me get you more coffee, hon.”

  “Thank you.”

  Betty warmed up Eli’s cup and headed down the line to provide other customers with coffee and biscuits and blandishments. Two minutes later she was back, smiling and pouring his cup full again while Eli downed his last bite of biscuit.

  “I don’t believe I know you, sweety,” she said. “New to town?”

  “Not entirely. But I haven’t visited Tylerville since I was little. Name’s Eli Scudder.”

  “Welcome back, then. I’m Betty Harley. Call me Betty. Me and Junior there at the grill own this place. Junior’s my husband.”

  Junior Harley glanced over and grunted just like he’d done when Eli walked in. Eli muttered a hello and nodded his head, but Junior’s attention was already back on the sizzling foodstuffs on his broad black grill.

  “So whatcha doing here?” The question came not from Betty but from a big man seated at Eli’s left, one stool down. He’d been listening, unnoticed by Eli.

  Eli was unoffended by the nosiness, sensing no maliciousness in it. The man stuck out a beefy hand, shook Eli’s, and smilingly said, “Buford Fellers. Call me Bufe.”

  “Good to meet you, Bufe. I’m Eli Scudder, here for a job interview up at the Clarion.”

  “Well!” Betty exclaimed. “You going to write stories, take pictures, run the press, or what?”

  “Mostly write stories. And some photography, yes. And page design. All of that, of course, assuming they actually hire me. But I have work I do on my own that I’d still be doing on my own time, regardless. I write novels, commercial category fiction. I sold my first one about two years ago to a paperback publisher up in New York. I’m going to keep on doing that, seeing what kind of career I can build writing fiction, whether I get this job or not.”

  “I’ve never knowed a book writer before!” Betty said. “You hear that, Junior? This fellow wrote a book! Got it published out of New York, no less!”

  Junior asked, “What kind of book?”

  “A historical frontier story about the Revolutionary War in this part of the country. A good deal of it is set in what’s now Kincheloe County. It even had old Colonel Kincheloe in it. You know, the man the county is named for.”

  “Yeah. I’ve heard Hadley King mention the name, and there’s a historical marker at the county line. Hadley King is kind of the local historian. Tylerville paid to publish a history of Kincheloe County back in 1976 that Hadley wrote.”

  “I’ve read it. I found a copy in the university library and used it in researching for my novel.”

  “Got any dirty parts in it?” Bufe asked. “I like books with dirty parts.”

  “No dirty parts, sorry,” Eli said. “It’s dedicated to my late mother, and it wouldn’t have seemed right to dedicate it to her if it had dirty parts. It does have some romance, though. For the female readers.”

  “I’ll have to read your book sometime,” said Betty, smiling. Eli nodded. It was the first thing everyone always said upon discovering he had a published work to his credit. Betty went on, “I’ve always wanted to write a book myself, but I never would have the patience to sit down and do it.” That was the second thing everyone always said. “Did you study book-writing in college?”

  “By education I’m more a graphic designer than a writer, even though the writing is what I enjoy most,” Eli said. “I graduated UT Knoxville about a year ago. Double major in graphic design and journalism, focus on print journalism. Minor in history. I did some work on the side
as a historical researcher for a couple of professors who were writing some scholarly works. It taught me a lot about the process of digging out facts, so it fit well with my journalism focus.”

  “So what would you do at the Clarion?”

  “You know about next year being the Kincheloe County and Tylerville bicentennial, I suppose.”

  “Oh, sure.”

  “Well, the Clarion is going to publish something special for a bicentennial keepsake. It’ll be a big, slick magazine, to come out in July of ‘86. That’s three months ahead of the actual bicentennial date, but that’s by design. The hope is that having an interesting look at our local heritage in the public’s hands well in advance of the actual celebration day will make the official ceremonies and parade and all more meaningful. And they’re looking to me to be the one to head up the project. That is, assuming I make it through the interview this morning. Don’t want to be counting my chickens before they’re – “

  “I wish you luck, darling,” Betty said.

  “I don’t know if I do or not,” Bufe muttered, drawing a sharp look of surprise from Betty.

  “Why would you say such a thing, Bufe?” she asked.

  The man chuckled. “Because this young man seems like a nice fellow, and I hate to see anybody decent get tied in with such a bunch of crooked old tomcats as them Brechts.”

  “Now, just because they got money don’t mean they’re crooked,” Betty said.

  “I ain’t saying they’re crooked ’cause they got money, Betty,” Bufe replied. “I’m saying they’re crooked ’cause … well, they’re crooked.”

  “Don’t pay him mind, hon,” said Betty to Eli. “Bufe talks big but he don’t know squat … and as much as he might talk down the Brecht name, he’s as good a friend with Mr. Carl Brecht, the publisher, as anybody you’ll find in this town. There’s a lot of good and honest folks working for the Brecht family, some of them the kind who wouldn’t linger around if they saw anything crooked going on. My sister Eva, for one. Eva used to sell want ads for the paper before she died a couple of years back …”

  “And after that them heartless Brechts made her quit, just like it was her fault she couldn’t circulate her blood no more,” Bufe said, firing a quick wink at Eli via the mirror facing them from behind the stainless steel food prep counter. “I can see that might have been a problem if she worked in the circulation department, but hell, she was selling want ads.”

  “Bufe, you shut up now!” Betty said. “Just shut up and quit saying hurtful things about my poor departed sister!”

  “Sorry, Betty,” Bufe said. “I oughta be hauled out and whupped.” But over at the grill, Junior, who had not liked the late Eva nearly as well as Betty had, was chuckling quietly while he broke and scrambled eggs.

  The café’s lone female customer came to the cash register with cash in hand, and Betty broke off from conversation to ring her up and ask how her dear old mother was getting along with her chemo treatments because she remembered how hard it was for her own poor Aunt Rose when she was going through that same thing and some days Rose just couldn’t even hardly get out of bed in the morning and was off her food for days, lord lord! When finally Betty completed her ponderous question and drew an overdue breath, the answer came back that dear old mother was handling the chemo quite well, thank you for asking, and did Betty plan to take part in the Lord’s Acre sale up at Caney Field United Methodist next Saturday? Betty did.

  Bufe, meanwhile, was saying to Eli, “Don’t mind me about them Brechts. I admit it: I like to say stuff just to stir people up. I won’t lie to you: I do think they’ve got a crooked streak running through them, even though I am a good friend with Carl, the daddy of the bunch. But hell, lots of people ’round here besides me think the Brechts will do whatever it takes to find the shortest path to the nearest dollar. Betty can say what she wants, but fact is that there ain’t many folk who get rich without forgetting a few Sunday school lessons along the way. Brechts included.”

  “You could be right,” Eli said, employing a phrase his late father had taught him was a nearly foolproof tool for diplomatically and noncommittally ending awkward conversations.

  Bufe went on. “But Betty’s right about one thing: there are some good folks who work up at the Clarion. I got a nephew there myself. My sister’s boy, Jake Lundy. You heard of him?”

  “I haven’t. I’ve not really met anybody yet.”

  “Well, you’ll learn him fast enough. He writes a column twice a week of what they call ‘human interest’ stories. And shoots pictures, too. Good ones. And he’s even worse than me for saying things he shouldn’t just to make folks shit their britches.”

  Junior glanced over sharply. “Watch that language in here, Bufe!” He gestured with his spatula toward a photocopied sign tacked to the wall, depicting an old woman with a stern face, saying via a cartoon talk balloon, “In this place, always talk like Grandma is listening.”

  Bufe read the cartoon and shook his head. “That don’t count for me, Junior. Know what my grandma’s last words were? Right there on her deathbed?”

  “Tell me. But maybe not too loud.”

  “She kind of halfway sat up from the waist, stiff as a board, glared up toward the ceiling, and said, ‘There’s a light up there, and a tunnel, trying to pull me in … ah, shit, here I go!’ Then she gave a big shiver, flopped back, and died. Honest to God. How’s that for final words? ‘Ah shit, here I go.’ We should have put that on her tombstone, instead of that thing about Jesus … can’t remember exactly what that says, anyway.” He paused, glanced over at Eli and winked. “And Granny was right about one thing, you know. There was a light up there! Nothing fancy … just your basic bedroom ceiling light. I’d installed it myself. No tunnel, though … ’cause why in the ding-dang would anybody put a tunnel in a bedroom ceiling?”

  Betty was shaking her head. “Bufe’s full of nonsense, but he’s telling you right about Jake Lundy. He shoots some of the finest pictures you’ll ever see. And he’s sure ’nough a cut-up, just like Bufe. Likes to get folks’ goats. ‘Specially new folks. So you watch out for Jake Lundy, hear?”

  “I look forward to meeting him, if he’s like Bufe.” Eli was still grinning at the grandma story.

  “It’ll be awhile before you meet him,” Betty said. “Last time he was in here he was about to leave on a long vacation to Alaska. He’s one of those types that don’t vacation much, so he had built up a lot of off time and they told him he had to take it.”

  “You feel like you got a good chance at that job, son?” Bufe asked.

  “I do. I’ve talked with the editor on the phone, and he’s as much as told me he’s sold on me.” Eli leaned closer to Bufe and privately whispered the next part: “This interview today, I think, is just to make sure I don’t scratch my crotch in public, or anything like that.”

  “Well, that’d knock me out of the running! But I hope it all goes good for you.”

  “Thank you. I want the job. I’ve been selling shoes in a mall store in Knoxville for most of the time since I’ve been out of school. I’m wanting to get work in what I trained in, and have a real professional job, you know.”

  “That’s a fine ambition, son,” Bufe said. “Good luck to you. And don’t let them Brechts ruin you.”

  Bufe paid for his meal, said his goodbyes, apologized one more time to Betty for joking about her dead sister, though he didn’t really seem to mean it and Betty didn’t really seem to care, and left. Eli finished his coffee and got up to leave as well.

  “I hope you get hired, son,” Junior said from the grill while Eli paid Betty and laid a two-dollar tip beside his emptied plate. He nodded his thanks to Junior.

  “Let us know how it turns out,” Betty said, eyes on the tip money and fingers twitching.

  “I’ll do that, ma’am.”

  “Nice young man,” Betty said to Junior as the door closed behind Eli. She gathered up the tip money. Tips were a rarity in Harley’s Cafe, and two-dollar ones were unhear
d of except on those rare occasions the cafe was visited by old Mr. Darwin, who filled the requisite role of Rich Old Man in Tylerville just as one Plunker Williams filled the role of Town Drunk. Eli would come to know both over time.

  “You were right, honey: Bufe shouldn’t have said them things about Eva,” Junior Harley said as the door closed behind Eli.

  “That’s just Bufe being Bufe,” said Betty. “It don’t really matter.”

  “You done right to forgive him, darling,” Junior replied. “He never means no harm, y’know.”

  “I know. Can you make me a grilled cheese, Junior? Cheddar?”

  “Coming right up, sweetheart.”

  Chapter Two

  BEING ONLY A BLOCK DOWN from the newspaper office, Eli opted to leave his car parked on Railroad Street and walk to his interview. He visited the car long enough to get out a satchel containing a few extra work samples and a five-page proposal outlining his vision of the Tylerville at 200 magazine he was applying to produce. David Brecht, the editor, had asked him to create such a proposal and Eli had done so, but already had a sense that it, like the coming interview itself, was more formality than substance.

  The breeze was up a bit, and by the time Eli reached the newspaper offices, he felt windblown. He entered a small vestibule with green double doors on the opposite side that led into the front lobby. Out of the wind, Eli finger-combed his hair into what he hoped was a presentable state.

  The door from the lobby opened abruptly and a man emerged into the vestibule. He was small-framed and thin, in his sixties at least, wearing a cardigan that had been new during the Nixon administration. His hair was of a distinctly violet hue that caught Eli’s eye at once.

  “I beg your pardon, young man,” said the man in a voice both delicate and precisely articulated. “It’s not my usual custom to run over others like a freight locomotive.”

  “You didn’t even bump me, sir.” Eli smiled and thrust out his hand in case this fellow proved to be one of the Brechts or someone else of importance at the newspaper. “I’m Eli Scudder.”