Harvestman Lodge

by Cameron Judd

  “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 Café 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.”

  David Brecht ordered a baked chicken breast with garlic potatoes and green beans, and Eli liked the sound of that well enough to echo it. Roxanne left to fetch tea and rolls.

  “Well, Eli, are you going to do it?” Keith cheerfully asked across the table. Keith Brecht almost always was cheerful.

  “Do what?”

  “The play! The historical drama Caine Darwin wants you to write.”

  “Whoa!” David Brecht exclaimed. “That’s a twist I didn’t know about! I don’t recall your story this morning mentioning that you were being tagged as the playwright, Eli!”

  Mr. Carl spoke before Eli could answer. “Well, here’s how Keith knows about that. I walked to work this morning, and ran into Hadley King, and according to Hadley, that’s the plan. I happened to mention it to Keith when I got to the office.”

  “It was just an idea from Mr. Darwin,” Eli said. “And an idea is as far as it went, and as far as it will ever go. Not having any kind of training and experience at writing plays, I’m not the right man for it.”

  “Well, we were wrong in any case to make no mention of it in our coverage,” David said, staring at Eli, eyes full of reprimand.

  “I didn’t include it because I was uniquely positioned to know it was a dead-end road. I’ll not be the playwright.”

  “Don’t be too hasty in saying that,” David said. “It would be a feather in the Clarion’s cap to have a staff member making such a key contribution to the bicentennial celebration.”

  “I’m not qualified,” Eli said slowly, quietly and firmly, suspecting that David was about to outright order him to take on the job. “You don’t want such an important task handled by someone with no experience or specific training. It would be no ‘feather in the Clarion’s cap’ if one of its staffers produced an inept piece of work. I mean, look what happened to the office building where I’m … “ He cut off as he remembered Mr. Carl’s fundamental role in that architectural atrocity. “Uh … what I mean is, I’m aware that I’m not the right man for a play-writing assignment. Let’s leave it at that.”

  “Have you officially turned it down?” David asked.

  “It hasn’t been officially offered … Mr. Darwin is putting together a proposal for me to look at. And I will look at it when it comes. Then I’ll turn it down, for the reasons I’ve already stated.”

  David Brecht glowered. “Eli, don’t misunderstand me when I say this, because I do appreciate the difference between personal and professional life … ”

  “I’m glad to hear that.” Eli couldn’t believe he’d dared to speak so to his boss.

  David Brecht ignored the edge in Eli’s words. “Eli, I’m going out on a limb here. But I think I must ask you to make your consideration of Caine Darwin’s offer from the point of view of your status as a representative of our newspaper. It could be a part of the Clarion’s participation in the bicentennial recognitions, even beyond our magazine. In short, you should react to his offer
not only in regard to your own interests, but in the Clarion’s interest as a corporate citizen. As such, before you turn away such an opportunity – ”

  Mr. Carl gave a derisive snort, shaking his head. “Davy, Davy, Davy!” he said, loudly enough that it drew glances from other tables, and a wince from David. “If you’re about to tell this young man he has no option but to agree to write Caine’s play for him, I suggest you put the quietus on that here and now. Sure it would be a fine thing for the Clarion if a staff member, on his own steam, wrote a historical drama for the community, just as it’s already a fine thing that he has written an excellent and nationally published novel … which I’m reading right now, Eli, and enjoying. But we can’t dictate to our staff regarding outside projects, David!”

  “My point, Dad, is that maybe this offering of Caine’s should not be thought of as an ‘outside project’ at all, but something that Eli could do within the context of his newspaper work.”

  “Hell, son, you just want to control the world and everyone in it, that’s what your ‘point’ is. You been that way since you were a boy. This young man has achieved a reputation as a good writer, on his own and before he ever joined us, and you’re trying to steal his glory on behalf of the newspaper. Hell, if he wrote that play on the terms you appear to be thinking of, you’d probably be insisting that the newspaper own the rights and royalties.”

  David cut his eyes toward Eli as if to remind his father his words were being spoken in front of an employee. Mr. Carl clearly didn’t notice, or if he did, didn’t care.

  The publisher looked directly at Eli and brought the issue to a firm close. “Eli, here’s the bottom line on this thing: if you want to write that play for Caine, you write it, and you’ll have the support and pride of all of us at this table. If you don’t choose to write it, that’s a hundred percent your business. David’s notions to the contrary, that play is an outside project, just like your novel-writing, and as long as you don’t work on it on company time, or don’t let it get in the way of what you were hired to do, the Brechts have nothing more to say about it. Nothing that carries any weight, anyway.” The look he gave to David might as well have been a barbed lash.

  Eli said softly, “Thank you, sir.” Then, as a diplomatic move, to David he said: “And thank you, too, David, for having such an interest in this that you’d want to associate the newspaper’s name with it. I much appreciate that, just like I appreciated Mr. Darwin thinking of me in the first place.”

  David mumbled something meaningless, chagrined at having been publicly taken to the woodshed by his father. It was clear that the dynamic that had just played out around the table had nothing to do with lines of official authority in the newspaper hierarchy, and all to do with those unofficial and unchangeable ones within a family.

  “So, how’s picking, Eli?” Mr. Carl asked, and Eli could have hugged the man for the change of subject.

  “I haven’t been doing much of it, lately. I’m getting out of practice. With me working all day and spending a lot of my off hours getting rolling on my next novel, the mandolin spends most of its time in its case. Are you and Bufe and the others still having your Tuesday picking parties?”

  “Without fail, son, without fail. One of these days I’m going to find a way to sneak you away from Davy here long enough to let you join us. Maybe we’ll just move the party down to your office building every now and then. If Mohammed can’t come to the mountain, and all that.”

  “You’re a very good banjo player, Mr. Carl, and I’m not just saying it because I work for you. You really are quite a picker … Lundy tells me his uncle Bufe is jealous of what you can do on a five-string.”

  “I know Bufe feels that way … I’ve detected it. But he’s mixing up apples and oranges. Bufe is a fine old-style clawhammer picker, and he adds a lot to our sound. There’s room for all styles of banjo in the music we play. Except for four-string tenor banjo plectrum crap. We leave that to Jerry Van Dyke and the ragtime and Dixieland crowd. We’re strictly a five-string banjo kind of group, old-time and bluegrass. Which, as you know, Eli, are not the same thing despite half the world thinking they are.”

  “Absolutely, sir.”

  The conversation, happily steered away now from its original focus on the historical drama, stayed mostly centered on music for the rest of the meal. Mr. Carl was a talkative man and had much to say, and Eli knew the subject well enough to keep up his end of the conversation. David and Keith were mostly left to eat and listen.

  “Does your band ever perform publicly?” Eli asked. “Festivals and so on? Or is it just for your own entertainment?”

  “Mostly for ourselves, but every now and then we’ll put on a show, usually just here in town, if there’s a festival or special event going on. We’re hoping that the bicentennial events next year will give us a chance to put ourselves out there a little more than we usually do. The Crosswaite boys have already asked us to provide some backing for their dancing next year.”

  “Custer and Buster?” Eli said.

  “You’ve met those two?”

  “Just Custer. He showed up at the committee meeting to make sure he and his cousin are included in some of the Bicentennial plans. He’s … quite a character.”

  “Ha! Damned idiot is more like it,” Mr. Carl said, lowering his voice volume. “But he can dance, oh, he can dance! And Buster too.”

  “I’ve never even seen Buster. I’m told they look like twins.”

  “Absolutely. But they come by it naturally … their mothers were twin sisters married to twin brothers. A lot of people around here can’t tell the ‘twin cousins’ apart.”

  “Unique situation, or at least very rare.”

  “Yes. But for two men with so much in common, they’re as different as can be in personality.”

  Keith, who had been mostly silent and had secretly enjoyed seeing his brother suffer the patriarchal wrath that more often came to him, jumped in. “Dad’s right. I should know. I dated Buster’s daughter, Jill, when we were in high school, so I got to know Buster quite well from visiting their home. Buster is as kind and humble and gentle a man as you’ll ever know. Not a trace of nonsense in him. The absolute polar opposite of Custer.”

  “Yeah, Custer put on quite a display at the meeting,” Eli said.

  “He revels in that kind of thing,” said Mr. Carl. “Custer drives Hadley King up the wall, and loves doing it.”

  “I noticed that. And Custer said something to Hadley King that I didn’t quite follow, so I didn’t quote it in my story. Something about how the bicentennial celebrations aren’t likely to include anything about ‘that spider lodge.’ I didn’t quote it because I could make no sense of it. What in the world does that even mean?”

  Mr. Carl lost all joviality abruptly and fully. “Nothing worth even a mention. Just forget about it. You were right to leave it out of the story. It was only Custer Crosswaite making another asinine comment.”

  “I think he might have been referring to that Harvestman Lodge business,” Keith said brightly, clearly not reading his father’s signals. “You know, because in some parts of the country ‘harvestman’ is what people call a Daddy Longlegs spider.”

  “No more talk about that, Keith. Just clam up.”

  “Oh … sorry.”

  They finished their lunch with little talk and, for Eli, a prevailing sense of awkwardness and mounting curiosity about the town secret no one seemed willing to speak of.

  AS MR. CARL AND HIS company credit card were settling up the bill for lunch, a man with prematurely graying hair styled in what would in later years be called a “mullet” was pulling into the parking lot of the newest motel in Kincheloe County, a two-level rectangular box called the Proud Cherokee Inn because the man who had built it possessed the tiniest fraction of Cherokee blood and thought of himself as a latter-day embodiment of the best of Native America because of it. His dominant genetic background, like his name, came from Irish roots, though. His name was Hank O’Toole, and h
e had built his motel in 1981 in anticipation of cashing in on the 1982 World’s Fair in Knoxville. Ever impulsive, he’d not thought it through well enough to realize he wasn’t close enough to Knoxville to catch anything but the farthest edge of the short-term housing demand created by six month’s worth of World’s Fair tourists. The Proud Cherokee had done sufficient business to survive, though, and O’Toole had gotten past his initial regrets.

  He was behind the front desk, evaluating his newly arrived customer as the man got out of his Accord and came around to the lobby door bearing one duffel and a hanging bag. Light traveler. O’Toole studied the man’s face and wondered if he knew him. Something about his rather glaring eyes seemed familiar. Other than that, though, nothing about him rang a bell.

  The man gave his name as Bennie Neven. Irish name. That gave O’Toole a connecting point for some meaningless small talk, and a chance to drift into mention of his Cherokee ancestry, which O’Toole declared was more “meaningful” to him than any other part of his ancestral makeup. Neven didn’t seem to mind this mild insult to Irish bloodlines. He rented a room with cash, buying a week up front and letting O’Toole know he’d likely extend the stay beyond that, if sales went well in Kincheloe County. What do you sell? Insurance.

  O’Toole couldn’t get past the feeling that Neven’s eyes were familiar. Got kinfolk here, mister? You remind me of somebody. Yeah, I get that a lot. Nope, no local ties. Not a one. No sirree. There a continental breakfast in this place? No sir. But we’ve got a vending machine with honeybuns and such over there, and there’s a little coffeemaker in your room.

  Neven went to his upper-level room and O’Toole turned on the lobby television to watch afternoon reruns.