Harvestman Lodge

by Cameron Judd

  Darwin himself nodded as he listened and seemed to like Eli’s words. “I’ll look forward to seeing the final product,” he said when Eli had finished. “And if I can provide any input or aid along the way, Mr. Scudder, just call. Carl Brecht has my number in his Rolodex.”

  “I believe we all can agree that our friends at the Clarion are making an excellent contribution to our two-century birthday,” King said. “And now, Miss Buckingham, may we hear from you from the standpoint of television coverage?”

  Knowing that Melinda’s station had done less planning than had the Clarion, Eli cringed inwardly on his girlfriend’s behalf. Within moments, though, he was marveling at Melinda’s ability to extemporaneously present what sounded like a thoroughly thought-out plan of coverage. This was a young woman who had aced her speech classes in high school and college, and won half a dozen oratory contests. “Most of what we do will, naturally, take place next year when the actual anniversary year is with us,” she said, “but we will, as this year moves on, be steadily increasing our presentation of appropriate human interest materials, profiles of community leaders, examinations of the role of Kincheloe County in Tennessee history with a focus on historic sites conducive to tourism, explorations of the arts and cultural contributions of Kincheloe County and its people, such as the Crosswaite Cousins, the late artist Myra Coley, and the several country, bluegrass, and rock musicians who have ties to this place. There is so much wealth of material to present that I believe the station will be ready to keep a news bureau here in Tylerville not only through the Kincheloe Bicentennial, but indefinitely beyond it. That, at least, is my hope.”

  Custer Crosswaite stretched and yawned in his folding chair, his knee and shoulder joints popping loudly. “Woo-EEEE!” he exclaimed when the long yawn was finished. The yawn spread to several of those who had observed it. “That soothing voice of yours is like a lullaby to these old ears, Miss Buckingham. Got to get to bed a little earlier tonight,” he said, drawing another look of annoyance from Hadley King.

  King cleared his throat. “Again, moving on,” he said. “Does anyone have any questions for our journalists? And thanks to both of you, by the way, for those fine updates.”

  “I got a question!” Custer said. “Mr. Eli, Miss Melinda, are you two sparking each other now?”

  King blustered. “I don’t know, Custer, if that personal question is quite appropriate in the context of … “

  “Aw, shut up, Hadley. I got free speech rights under the United States daily constitutional and I can ask what I want.”

  “While I am chairman of this committee I insist upon retaining the right to moderate the discussions, and will not hesitate to – “

  “Yes,” Melinda cut in. “Yes, Mr. Crosswaite, Eli and I are a couple now. We’re dating, which is what I assume you mean by ‘sparking.’”

  “Well, hot dog! When’s the wedding?”

  Hadley King slammed his palm hard on the tabletop, making the table bounce and several people exclaim in surprise. King’s face reddened and he gave Custer a blistering look. “Custer, that’s it! I’ve reached my limit! That was a rude and intrusive question, and no doubt an uncomfortable one for these two young people! I must insist that, if you wish to sit in on this meeting, you do so in appropriate silence. Respect the dignity of this occasion, sir. I insist upon it!”

  “Whatcha gonna do, Hadley? Hit me with your purse?”

  “Custer Crosswaite, you rude, boorish, pig-headed bigot … “

  Custer leaned forward to stare hard at King while saying, “And you prissy, pantywaist pansy-boy … you light-loafered little – “

  “Custer! Shut that crap up!” The call came loudly from Caine Darwin, and was sufficiently forceful to silence all else and give him the full attention of everyone in the room. The living symbol of wealth and influence in Kincheloe County stood and seemed to loom much taller than his actual modest height. His eyes all but shot lightning in the direction of Custer Crosswaite, who for once found himself intimidated and overwhelmed.

  “Uh, I was just … just … ”

  “Just making a fool of yourself, Custer, that’s what you were doing,” Caine Darwin said. “You just reached a new low, saying what you just said to Hadley! I have been a friend of yours and Hadley’s for too many years to sit back in silence while good men needlessly insult one another. Words, once spoken, can’t be unspoken. So please, Custer, exercise some thought and restraint before you speak. I beg you.” He paused, calmer now that he had had his say. His voice lost its chiding tone and softened. “As a friend who appreciates and respects you, I beg you. C’mon, Custer. C’mon.”

  Custer Crosswaite’s lean face bore as stark a look of chagrin as any face could. He hung his head and seemed unable to find words. Despite Custer’s bad behavior, Eli felt sorry for him. Clearly the man was accustomed to speaking freely and being rewarded by amusement, not scolding.

  Custer Crosswaite swallowed what pride he had left and became humble. “I’m … I’m sorry, Hadley. I shouldn’t have said all that to you. I hope you’ll forgive me for it. Especially the part about you being … uh … you know … ”

  Hadley King’s anger had drained quickly. “Don’t worry about it, Custer. I’m me and you’re you, and we’re both who and what we are. Whatever that may be.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right, Hadley.”

  “We’re good now, as far as I’m concerned, Custer. You loud-mouthed lout, you.” His smile dulled the edge off the insult.

  “Same here …” Custer paused and grinned devilishly. “Funnyboy.”

  Another yell from Darwin. “Custer! Damn and blast, man, are you completely unable to learn?”

  Custer hung his head again. “Sorry. Sorry.” He lowered himself into his chair and, despite his height, managed somehow to look small. “Sorry,” he said a third time.

  “Custer, let’s get this train back on track and have you tell us what brought you to today’s meeting,” said King, choosing simply to ignore the final bit of name-calling.

  Custer Crosswaite seldom lost his composure, and it didn’t stay lost for long when he did. Resuming his usual attitude of hillbilly haughtiness, he stood tall and looked at the committee.

  “I’m here to let you know, first, that Buster and me want to be, and plan to be, part of the parade and celebration on Bicentennial Day next year. We want to dance our way down the full length of the parade route.”

  “That’s the plan, Custer,” King said. “Likely you’ll be on the back of that big flatbed trailer that usually sits parked behind the Farmer’s Co-op. We’ll get Walter Woolsey to pull it slow behind his tractor.”

  “Fine all around! Now the second thing I want to tell you: the public television folks – sorry about that, Melinda, ’cause I know you’re a network gal – are coming up from Knoxville real soon to do a documentary show, a full hour long, about me and Buster and our dancing. Apparently us ‘twin cousins’ ain’t the only ones who think we’re special. Them artsy pencil-necks tell us we’ve ‘contributed greatly and originally to American dance,’ or something like that … I meant to bring the letter to read you, but I forgot. I’ll be sure to throw in a lot of mention of old Kincheloe’s big 200th-year celebration when I talk to the cameras.”

  “Well, Custer, that is big news, and no mistake about that,” said the chairman. “What a grand thing for you and Buster, for us, and for our entire community!”

  “Thank you, Hadley. Thank you.”

  The woman named Wilks, whom Custer had labeled an “uppity old snoot” earlier, was the first to applaud, and it spread to the rest of the committee. Darwin rose from his chair on the front row of the audience area as he clapped and the committee members followed suit. Eli was surprised to see the cocky Custer Crosswaite actually dab a tear from his eye, authentically moved. He thanked the group again and again.

  “When will the program air?” King asked.

  “Don’t know that yet. I’m hoping maybe late this year, early next year, to
tie in real good with the bicentennial things.”

  “Well, congratulations, Custer, and thanks. That program will only increase awareness of our marvelous dancing Cousins, and by extension, of Kincheloe County and Tylerville and our biggest birthday yet.”

  The minister who had given the opening prayer spoke. “Custer, might I make one request of you?”

  “Holler it out, Rev.”

  “Before your Bicentennial Day performance next year, could you and Buster maybe come up with some new stage banter? Some new jokes, stories, and such?”

  Custer looked authentically confused. “New … why, Rev? Why should you fix something that ain’t broke? We get laughs every time we tell them tales, so why change?”

  “It’s just that things aren’t as funny when you’ve heard them seventeen times. I mean, Custer, just for one example: every time I’ve seen you two perform, you’ve told that story about Buster proposing to his wife through the bathroom door while she was … well, you know. And Buster stands up there and makes faces behind you showing how embarrassed he supposedly is because you’re telling that on him. Can you maybe come up with a new story or two to keep things a little fresher?”

  Crosswaite glowered at the minister. “That thing about Buster proposing to Piebird through the bathroom door ain’t just a ‘story’. It’s gospel truth, start to finish. It happened just like I tell it.”

  “Even so, when it’s been told so many times … ”

  “Would you ask Johnny Cash to quit singing “I Walk the Line” in his concerts just because folks have heard him sing it before?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Then you can’t ask Buster and Custer Crosswaite to put on one of their shows without giving folks what they’ve come out to see. And that’s more than just the dancing. They come out to hear the stories, too. Yeah, they’ve heard them, but they want to hear them again.”

  “Maybe you’re right, Custer. It was just a thought.”

  Custer sighed. “Well, Bob, I’m a reasonable man. I try to listen to what folks say, if I know them to have good sense, which you do. So I’ll think it through and maybe there’ll be something I can add to our show.” He paused, his eye gaining a sudden twinkle. “Like how, after Buster got down on one knee and proposed through that bathroom door and Piebird hollered back that yes, she’d marry him, he got so wrought up that he just lunged up and pushed his way right into that bathroom before he thought about what he was doing … and what she was doing. But Piebird, she knew he was just excited by her having said yes to him, so she forgave him. She had a harder time forgiving the next thing he did, though.”

  “What was that, Custer?”

  “He lit a match.”

  The committee members laughed for two full minutes. Custer Crosswaite had never looked so pleased.

  Chapter Seventeen

  CURTIS STOKES HAD HEARD throughout his life that a person who is crazy doesn’t know he is crazy.

  He could have told a thing or two to people who said that. Curtis was fully cognizant that his terror of telephone pole shadows was baseless, yet knowing that did not relieve the fear. Several times he had tried to explain that seeming contradiction to people, but discovered almost no one would really listen to anything he said, much less give it any credence. “Almost” because there were at least two individuals who had shown themselves willing to take anything he said seriously and seemed to consider him a real friend.

  One was the aging former lawyer Coleman Caldwell, the reclusive man who provided him friendship, food, and a free place to live in his vegetation-shrouded dwelling. The other true friend, a woman named Kendra Miller, slightly younger than he, had been immediately present in Curtis’s life for a relatively brief time, then moved on. She lived in a neighboring county now, where she’d gone to take a job. Curtis had made long treks on foot to visit her there, and sometimes he and Coleman Caldwell had gone there together in Caldwell’s creaky Oldsmobile. The distance, though, made it difficult for him to keep in touch with Kendra as well as he wished he could.

  Sometimes he would wake up in the night thinking about Kendra, and wondering if, in some slightly different world of circumstances, she might have become his woman. He’d have liked that. He’d loved Kendra almost since he first met her, and thought maybe she loved him, too, in her own wary way. Kendra was wary about everything. Curtis had mostly accepted that he would never share with her anything more than friendship, and given that, let himself be content to be her friend. She was special. She was good to him. She never mocked him.

  There were other good folks about, too, people Curtis knew would befriend and help him if he needed them. One was Jake Lundy at the newspaper, though Jake sometimes joined in laughing at him behind his back. Mostly Lundy was kind, though, like when he’d bought him that recent meal at Harley’s. Rev. Kyle Feely was another good man, one who was gentle and inclined toward kindness, and whose words were soft and kind, not flaring with the heat of threatening hell, like those of so many preachers. Feely was a kind-spirited preacher, not like some of the others. Curtis hoped that God was more like Rev. Feely than like many of the other ones who claimed to speak for Him. Too many of the latter acted like God was their own subservient pet, tied to a leash they controlled, obeying their vision of how things were, rather than the other way around.

  Even apart from harsh preachers, there were lots of mean-spirited folks around whom Curtis dodged almost as doggedly as he dodged the shadows of telephone poles, but Lundy and Feely and a few others were pleasures to encounter.

  Curtis Stokes was more adept at analyzing human beings, their ways of thinking, motives and behaviors, than most might expect from a “crazy” man. Curtis even substantially understood himself. He had a fair grasp of the extent to which he was not sane, and, just as importantly, the extent to which he was.

  IN THE SAME PARKING LOT where Eli and Melinda had parked their cars for the bicentennial committee meeting, Curtis Stokes was meandering about, bored but not ready just yet to head for the night to his quarters in Coleman Caldwell’s basement. He was pondering the possibility of slipping inside to where the meeting was going on.

  Curtis cared nothing about bicentennial celebrations and planning committee meetings. He did, though, like free cookies and coffee, and sometimes there were tables laden with those items at public meetings. Curtis’s stomach was growling; supper had been a can of Vienna sausages he’d bought with pocket change at the Piggly Wiggly … an insubstantial meal rendered even more so because he had shared it with a stray cat. He was a soft-hearted man where animals were concerned; once he’d even freed a rat he found pitifully stuck in a glue trap behind the old Spancake Jeweler’s location.

  As a fellow rejected creature of the world, Curtis Stokes understood rats, understood being stuck. And how important a rescuer could be when you needed one.

  He looked back toward the power company building and the lighted window beyond which the bicentennial planners were meeting.

  Two things so far had kept him from actually going on in to the meeting: fear of being thrown out and embarrassed, and the fact that lights east of the parking lot were casting pole shadows across the pavement he would have to cross. Shadows that would grab him and jolt him as he passed through them.

  A lot of people had explained to him that pole shadows were just shadows like any other kind and it was absurd to fear them. He believed them, but still felt the dreaded grab-and-shake whenever he passed through. He’d made sincere efforts to shake off his problem. It hadn’t worked. He expected he would go his entire life avoiding pole shadows, with people laughing at him for it, using that “Curtis-crazy” term he despised, and whispering about how liquor or drugs must have damaged his mind.

  That part really made him mad. He used no drugs and certainly was no drunk. He was a lifetime teetotaler, in fact, never touching the stuff. He’d seen what liquor had done to his alcoholic mother, and to his fellow man of the streets and former tent-mate, Plunker Williams. Curtis Sto
kes wanted nothing of the kind of life Plunker Williams lived. Poor old Plunker spent most of his time drunk and the rest wishing he were.

  The liquor would kill Plunker in the end, and Curtis knew it. So no drinking for Curtis. Life was hard enough just being Curtis-crazy and having to suffer the jolting effects of pole shadows.

  “You’re crazy as hell, you know that, don’t you, Curtis?”

  The male voice came from somewhere in the dark recess leading to a rear door of the church building that back-faced this lot. That was the door the church secretary used when she came and went each day, as she had for more than twenty years. She was a kind woman who smiled at Curtis whenever she saw him, told him she prayed for him, and sometimes gave him a twin package of those commercially packaged chocolate cupcakes she brought in every day. The kind with a white squiggle of icing across their tops. Curtis wished he had one right now.

  “Plunker? Is that you back in there?” Curtis said into the darkness. The shadows in the church alley did not threaten him. They were not the stretched-out, long kind that grabbed and shook a man until his bones rattled.

  The man who had spoken from the darkness stepped forward, slightly limping, and became visible. It wasn’t Plunker, but a much younger man whom Curtis would never have expected to see. The last he’d heard, this man was still serving a drug-related prison term. Obviously that was no longer the case.

  “No, it ain’t Plunker, Curtis. Not by a long shot. It’s me, your old buddy Rawls Parvin.”

  “Hello, Rawls. Uh … welcome home, I guess.” The lack of enthusiasm in Curtis’s tone was honest. Rawls Parvin had taken great joy over the years in mocking Curtis in public, then, when he had no audience, pretending to Curtis’s face to be his friend. He’d even tried to fuel the fire of Curtis’s well-known phobia, claiming he’d heard on television that scientists were recognizing the dangers of walking through telephone pole shadows. Curtis was quite sure Rawls was lying to him. His unshakeable fear of pole shadows was a feeling, not a belief. He was crazy, not stupid.