by Cameron Judd
It was during those boyish private times he keenly felt the presence of God with him, and had begun to ponder the possibility of a ministerial vocation. That kind of life’s work attracted him, seemed right to him, and eventually had called and claimed him.
A noise, a vague, light thumping … Feely moved inside the lodge building and toward the big fireplace and hearth, beyond which lay the old office suite. He heard the sound again, even softer. Some person or animal was back there, in the former office area.
“Hello?” Feely called. If he’d just chanced to catch an intruder with criminal intentions – vandalism, perhaps – he didn’t want to surprise him and provoke a defensive and potentially dangerous reaction. “I’m just checking to make sure everything is okay .. I saw your car parked outside … ”
“I KNOW THAT VOICE,” Eli whispered to Melinda. They were still standing in front of the big wardrobe holding the old robes and hats, the sound of someone entering the building having all but paralyzed them in place. “It doesn’t make sense, but it sounds like Rev. Feely.”
He’d encountered Feely on three occasions in his time in Kincheloe County so far, the first being that day Jake Lundy returned to work after his Alaska vacation. The second time had been a random sidewalk encounter as Eli was returning from checking the day’s arrest records at the Tylerville Police Department filling in for a day for the usual police beat reporter; the third encounter had been during a lunchtime stop at the Cup and Saucer, where Feely, dining alone, had seen Eli come in and waved him over to join him.
“Why would Rev. Feely be here?” Melinda whispered back.
“No idea.”
The knob of the office door began to turn. “Somebody in there?” Feely’s voice called in.
“Just looking around,” Eli said back in as light a tone as he could muster. “That’s all.”
The door opened and Feely looked in at the pair. “Eli Scudder?”
“Hi.”
Feely looked over at Melinda. “Melinda Buckingham? Is that you? You remember me, I hope?”
“Of course, Rev. Feely. Good to see you!” She paused and glanced at Eli. “I confess I was afraid you were some kind of security guard coming in to see what kind of criminals were trespassing here.”
“And if I had been, how would you have answered that question?” Feely asked with a chuckle.
Eli replied for her. “We’re just looking around, like I said. I’ve heard of Harvestman Lodge ever since I got to Kincheloe County, and it has intrigued me to the point I knew I had to see what this place was. Melinda here is just along because she has the poor judgment to keep company with the likes of me.”
“Nonsense! The fact she is with you doesn’t speak against her, but rather speaks in favor of you, Eli! You’re keeping excellent company. Melinda here is one of the most admired young ladies in our community. Intelligent, lovely, articulate, capable … ”
“I’ve looked through enough old newspapers to have some grasp of her fame,” Eli said, glad for the subtle shift of topic away from their undeniable trespassing. “I never saw so many images of one human being accepting scholarship awards.”
“Oh, shut up!” Melinda said, smiling. “I’m just lucky, that’s all. Blessed, I mean.”
“Yeah, yeah, right … throw in some religious-sounding words for the benefit of the parson in the room,” Feely said.
Melinda shrugged. “Sorry. I guess I was kind of doing that.”
“Don’t sweat it, Melinda. I get that a lot. How’d you get inside, Eli?”
For half a moment, Eli was sorely tempted to wink at Feely and say, “Are you kidding? She hasn’t even let me get inside.” He prudently restrained his inclination to rude humor and played it straight. “Part of the back wall has been knocked down by a tree. We just stepped in over the remains of the wall. After that we tried different interior doors until we found our way into this room.”
“Yeah, that wall damage needs to be fixed,” Feely said. “But nobody seems to want to spend the money. Too bad. It’s a great old building, well-made and, except for that wall damage in back, in surprisingly good shape. The roof doesn’t even leak.”
“It is a great old building,” Melinda said. “Too bad it has been in disuse so long.”
“Exactly,” Feely said. “That’s my own thought for many years now. In fact, coming up with a good new use for it was a bit of a personal cause of mine some years ago, and the reason I have a key to the place. I asked for it so I could get personally evaluate the building for a possible use I had in mind.”
“Who owns it now?” Eli asked.
Feely grew hesitant. “Someone who disassociates himself from that ownership as much as possible, to avoid having the old suspicions and local lore surrounding Harvestman Lodge from attaching themselves to him, however indirectly.”
“That’s enough to confirm what I’ve heard through the grapevine, then,” Melinda said. “I’ve heard that Benton Sadler bought this place after the board of the Harvestman group decided to dissolve the organization and divest themselves of the building. And with his political life and ambitions, he’s certainly not someone who needs to be linked in the public mind with a group infamous for … for …” She trailed off, either unable or unwilling to finish the sentence.
“Then why did he buy it, if he didn’t want the association of it?” Eli asked.
“Benton is deeply involved in local economic development, as you know,” Feely said. “At the time the Harvestmen disbanded, there was some talk among county commissioners and such of possible use of the property as a start-up industrial park, so Benton bought it in anticipation of quickly unloading it. That speculation faltered when it was decided by the local powers-that-be that the property access is too limited for industrial application, being on a rather high elevation and not near the railroad. So the county nixed buying the property, and Benton was stuck with it, even though that was the time the darkest rumors about the place were starting to boil up out among the populace. Mindful of that, Benton took legal steps, creating holding companies and legal entities existing only on paper and such maneuverings as that, to make it difficult to readily identify ownership. Most people believed, and still do, that he sold the place to a corporation in Alabama that develops resorts. That was all a legal fiction, purely a public relations move to disguise the fact Benton still owns the building. Benton, of course, has political ambitions that would not be helped by having his name associated very closely with the word ‘Harvestmen’.”
“Interesting,” Eli said.
Feely suddenly seemed on edge. “Eli, Melinda, I just realized I might have spoken too freely. Especially in front of two active journalists. Blast me and my tendency to rattle on without restraint! May I ask the reason for your interest in Harvestman Lodge? Are you here trying to gain information to be used in a news presentation, or is your interest strictly private and personal?”
“Private and personal,” Eli and Melinda said simultaneously.
“In that case, I feel some relief, given the pledge of discretion I made at that time Benton loaned me the key,” said Feely. “I am trusting you for discretion of your own about Benton’s association with this property.”
“Since neither of us is working on a Harvestman story, I don’t think that will even be an issue,” Melinda said.
Eli said, “Same from my perspective. But I’m puzzled about one thing: I’m surprised you’re protective toward Benton Sadler. He’s Mr. Reagan Conservative, family values and keep-your-hands-off-my-guns and let’s bring back 1950s America and all that, and I suspect your own politics might have a somewhat different tilt.”
“That’s true,” Feely replied. “It comes down to this: Benton is part of my church, and we’re personal friends. Those factors, not politics, are the basis of my sense of loyalty to him. And on the flip-side, they are also why he was willing to let me have access to this place despite knowing this place could potentially could become a political albatross around his neck. He tr
usts me, and I am compelled to honor that trust with a certain degree of loyalty to his wishes.” Feely paused. “Besides, our politics aren’t as different as you might think. Between you and me and these cobwebs, Benton Sadler the private man is somewhat different than Benton Sadler the public political figure and stump speaker. When you get close enough to him you learn that he is more thoughtful and temperate man than his staunchest right-wing supporters would like to know.”
“How so?” Melinda asked. She’d heard her father praise Benton Sadler many times as an exemplary conservative who had no business attending a “lefty-liberal church like Feely’s.”
“Well,” Feely said, “I’ll give you an example. I hope Benton wouldn’t mind me sharing this with you. Purely off the record, you understand.”
“Understood. Please go on … this is interesting,” Melinda said.
“All right. Benton told me that if he ever is elected governor, there will be no executions carried out during his time in office. Period. No matter how many knuckle-dragging ‘law-and-order’ types squeal and fling their droppings out of their cages over it.” Feely paused. “Sorry … I probably should have chosen less belligerent words there. Anyway, here’s his thinking: Benton is persuaded that this nation inevitably has executed, and is unwittingly preparing to execute, some who are fully innocent of the crimes that put them on death row. There is enough murkiness and doubt that Benton says he can’t imagine letting an execution happen if ever he possesses the power to stop it. He told me that one thing he will not do, if ever he becomes governor, is go to his grave wondering if he unwittingly let a wrongfully convicted person be killed by the state. Benton’s view is that until human beings, including criminal investigators, district attorneys, jury members, lawyers and judges become infallible, the death penalty should not be on the table, for anyone. Otherwise the state is going to end up, along the way, killing someone who doesn’t deserve it. And that just can’t be allowed to happen. If you wrongfully lock up a man, you can at least hand him back what is left of his life, pay proper recompense for the state’s error, and so on. If you execute a man, there is no remedy available to any involved.”
“I understand that position,” Eli said. “And agree with it.”
Melinda said, “I think I do, too. Though I was raised in the household of one of the knuckle-dragging types you mentioned.”
Feely firmly shook his head. “No, no, Melinda, don’t speak so harshly of your father. I know Ben, and though he and I have some very different viewpoints and personal styles, I find him to be a good and authentically devout man, following and advocating for the public good as he sees it.”
“Just in an overly intense way, maybe,” Melinda suggested.
“I agree he is an intense man. And I’ll add that while over-intensity might be a social sin, it’s no moral one. We are, in terms of temperament, largely what we’re programmed by brain and experience to be. Ben Buckingham included.” Feely paused and chuckled. “Ben just needs to settle back, have a cold beer, and chill out a bit.”
Melinda broke into laughter. “Rev, you have no idea how much I’d love to see that! No idea! To see that fundamentalist, I’ve-got-all-the-answers intensity calmed down, even for a brief time … it would be so wonderful! You can’t imagine what he’s like sometimes.”
“Perhaps I can, Melinda. Remember: I’m one of the local preachers he openly called a ‘denier of God’s word’ in one of his letters to the editor, because I had dared to suggest, during that big creationism-in-schools row a few years ago, that perhaps the geological record and other concurring evidence regarding the antiquity of our earth and universe might be validly looked upon as a divinely-provided biblical commentary, guiding us on how literally we should or should not interpret some portions of the scripture. That seemed and still seems a reasonable, common-sense position to me, but obviously it was heresy to your father. He lambasted me thoroughly in letters. So I’ve got personal experience with the intensity of Ben Buckingham.”
Melinda asked quietly, “How is it, Rev. Feely, that you can be a man of faith but remain so … I don’t know the word I’m looking for … so peaceful, so not intense! I got the impression, growing up in my house, that any person of faith who wasn’t all but foaming at the mouth and raging against sin at every moment, was falling short, displeasing God by having a ‘lukewarm’ faith.”
Feely answered in typically thoughtful fashion. “I honestly believe what I said before: much of our behaviorial style is more or less programmed. There are people of naturally calm temperament, such as I am, and those who are more inclined to ‘foam at the mouth,’ to borrow your phrase. If you want to see good examples of what I’m saying, just go to UT Knoxville on a football Saturday and look around the crowd in Neyland Stadium. You’ll see some people who behave as if they escaped the nearest lunatic asylum, raging and screaming and hating the opposing team and their fans, and so on. Then you’ve got other enthusiasts, just as devoted and supportive of their team, just as emotionally invested in the game, and yet they stay seated and limit their public displays to some dignified clapping and maybe waving a big foam finger around a few times. What’s the difference? Individual temperament. Simply that. The default settings of individual base-level personalities. And if this applies in sports, or in devotion to a popular musician or band, why would we expect it would not apply to the individual ways we reflect our spiritual persuasions? I’ve known so-called ‘holy rollers’ who dance and wave their hands and shout in worship, and others who simply sit quiet and prayerful. Both might be equally sincere and authentic people of God, yet they exhibit radically varying worship attitudes. Just like those fans at the football game. Me, I’m inclined toward the quiet and cognitive approach, doing all things ‘decently and in order,’ as the scripture puts it. Others, such as Ben Buckingham, maybe, are more inclined to ‘strap on the full armor of God’ and charge headlong into battle, slashing and drawing blood. Both approaches have their time and place. And each type, I’ve observed, never fully understands the other.”
Melinda pondered it all a few moments, then said, “Rev. Feely, I’m going to be a visitor in your church tomorrow morning. We have a series of revival services coming up in my own church, and the guest speaker is kicking it off tomorrow in the morning service. He’s a real pulpit-slamming, hell-raising type of preacher, pardon the expression, just the kind Dad likes. I think I’d prefer something a little softer-toned this weekend.” She pointed at Eli. “And I’m bringing that backslider with me, whether he likes it or not.”
“Are you, now?” Eli said. “What if I just decide not to go along?”
“Then I’ll put aside the ‘quiet and cognitive’ approach long enough to break in and drag your lazy, secular ass out of bed and force you to go with me!” she said.
Eli arched his brows and looked at Feely. “See you in church tomorrow, Reverend! Secular ass and all.”
“Well,” Feely said, “I and my ordained clergy ass will welcome you both.”
“SO, WHAT DID YOUR research into Harvestman Lodge show you?” Eli asked Feely as the trio explored the building more fully. Feely had been through the place many times and made for a good tour guide. “What is the great secret nobody wants to talk about? And what does this building have to do with it?”
Feely shrugged. “Every town needs a place to hide its secrets, I suppose,” he said.
“And those secrets are … ”
Feely looked at Eli. “ … Hard to pin down in any specific way, that’s what they are. So many rumors, each with multiple variations … ”
Eli asked, “But what’s the truth? Were you able to find it?”
Feely stared at a cobweb in a ceiling corner. “Enough of it to lose sleep for three nights running.”
Melinda spoke. “Was there a child who died here?”
Feely frowned. “A child was … lost. That’s the way I would put it. A child was lost.”
“Lost? meaning … ”
“Probably dead, yes
, though not at this location. If not dead, surely damaged as a human being.”
“Just what do you know?”
Feely took some deep breaths and paced in a circle a few times, obviously struggling with his own thoughts. “I know broad truths, not narrow. I have suspicions on some specific matters but no certainty as to how to sift through what facts I have.”
“Can you give us the broad truths, then?” Eli asked.
“And your interest is … ”
“Not journalistic. Literary. Not on behalf of the Clarion, just on behalf of myself. Harvestman Lodge seems to me like likely grist for a future novel, set in a fictional place, with fictional people, fictional events. No real names and nothing to link back to any identifiable person or place or situation. No mention of Harvestmen or Sadlers or Kincheloe County.”
“I’m somewhat puzzled,” said the clergyman. “How can you know if there is material for a novel when you know so little about it?”
“Because anything that would cause the dissolution of a community organization, generate endless wild rumors that go on for years, cause entire bureaucracies and even the local media to clam up into silence, and send rising politicians scurrying to disassociate themselves … something with that much impact has to have substance and significance.”
“I … I see your point, Eli. But, quite candidly, I’m not sure I can trust someone else to … I’m, uh, not trying to offend you, be assured … ”
“You’re not sure you can trust me to disguise sufficiently the content to avoid compromising pledges and promises you have made to other people.”
