Harvestman Lodge

by Cameron Judd

  “‘Hold out,’ you say. I’ll tell you about holding out. Eli, listen: there’s a family story that some early Buckinghams were besieged by Cherokee somewhere north of here, and holed up in a little frontier fort for nearly three weeks, nearly starved, before it was safe to come out. The point being that I come from a line of people who are very skilled at holding out.”

  “Oh well. You can’t blame the Cherokee, or me, for trying to breach the defenses.”

  “I’ve got to get ready for my interview, Eli. And don’t take that story about the early Buckinghams and the Cherokee too much to heart. Despite what I just said, it really isn’t relevant to me.”

  A flicker of hope. “Meaning?”

  “Meaning that a few years back, my parents revealed something to me they’d decided to wait until my eighteenth birthday to tell me. Something about my personal history and background. I’ve been planning to tell you, too, though I didn’t have in mind doing it in such an off-the-cuff way as this.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Just this: I’m not a born Buckingham. I’m adopted, Eli. I grew up in the Buckingham household and was raised from infancy like I was the natural child of Ben and Dot, and I always assumed I was. But the fact is I was adopted by them in Knoxville when Dad was in school there and I was a newborn. Then they brought me back with them to Tylerville, and I was raised as a Buckingham ever since. But I’m not a Buckingham by birth.”

  Eli remembered things Ruby Wheeler had told him in that earlier hallway conversation about the Buckingham family. What Melinda was telling him now meshed perfectly with what Ruby had said.

  “Wow. Did it bother you to learn your history wasn’t what you’d always thought it was?”

  “We’ll talk about it later, Eli. This evening down at the Cup and Saucer, if we find a private enough corner.”

  “Fine. Tell me just one thing, though: are you okay, overall, with being adopted?”

  “I’m okay with it. Keep in mind, they told me the truth when I turned eighteen, so I’ve had time to get used to it. And anyway, I’m still me. I haven’t changed identities. I’m still Melinda.” She shrugged. “And now I know there’s a reason I don’t resemble the parents who raised me.”

  “You’re full of surprises, young woman.”

  “It’s life that’s full of surprises, Eli. Life. I’m just living mine and taking what comes, expected or otherwise. No different than you or anyone else.”

  She kissed him and waved him toward the hallway door.

  As he left her office, he turned back to her, “Hey Melinda, did the Rev come by with that Harvestman manual he promised us?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I guess he’ll show up later.”

  “Probably so.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  REV. FEELY DID SHOW up, twenty minutes after Melinda had departed for the city manager’s office, video camera and notebook in her hand.

  “Bad time to come in, Eli?”

  “Not at all. I was just looking through Hadley King’s county history again, thinking magazine story thoughts.” He declined to mention that he’d also been thinking some about plot details for his Farlow’s Trail sequel, which he’d started but not yet gotten far into. His publisher was asking for a summary/outline so the cover art people could get a jump on things.

  “Here’s the manual I promised,” Feely said, unceremoniously tossing an old and yellowed saddle-stitched publication down onto Eli’s desk. “And, my friend, speaking of the magazine, there’s a story I don’t think you’d want to miss if you want your magazine to have as full a look at possible at the positive side of our local heritage.”

  “‘Positive side of our local heritage.’ You sound like Davy Carl. What are you talking about?”

  “Something I should have thought to mention to you long before now. Come on. Grab your camera, and something to take notes on. I’m going to take you to meet the best man you’ll ever know in your life.”

  Had that statement come from anyone but Feely, Eli probably would have discounted it. But this was Feely, so Eli promptly complied and was out the door in mere moments.

  “Should I just follow you in my car?”

  “Ride with me. I can fill you in a little on the way over.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “To the worst part of town.”

  “Sounds fun.”

  AT ONE TIME A HARDWARE business had operated on the lower level of the corner store building where Feely took Eli. Now the big plate-glass windows were hung around with heavy interior curtains. The painted words on the front window identified the place as the LOWER LIGHTS RESCUE MISSION AT TYLERVILLE.

  “Why have I never noticed this place?” Eli asked as he and Feely crossed the street toward the building.

  “Because it just blends in with its surroundings,” Feely said. “Dingy, run-down, cracks running down the brick wall, the awning sun-faded and drooping and full of holes. This place is as decrepit as most of the people it has served.” Feely paused and scanned the building’s face, top to bottom. “But God is in this place, Eli. I’ve seen what He does here.”

  “You’re surprising me again, Rev. I’ve always associated rescue missions with the very conservative, old-time tent revival and sawdust trail side of religion. I perceived you as a little more, I don’t know … progressive? Non-fundamentalist?”

  “I’m a surprising man, Eli. I say that because I’m constantly told it. People find me impossible to peg. I’m not one to sign up readily for any label except ‘disciple-in-development.’”

  “Is this place as ‘glory hallelujah praise the Lord’ as it looks like it would be?” Eli was reading the big JESUS WELCOMES SINNERS AND SO DO WE line painted beneath the name of the mission.

  “It is, but it’s more. Rev. Cavness is a unique man. I’ve never known one quite like him, or one more the very image of the One he serves. He’s even harder to label than yours truly.”

  “Rev. Cavness … is that the man who runs this place?”

  Feely stopped on the corner of the sidewalk. “He’s the man who founded it. He’s still officially in charge, although age has slowed him and he leaves much of the actual day-to-day activity to others. Still, his approach to this work permeates everything that happens here, and I hope always will.”

  Eli jotted on his notepad. “What’s his first name?”

  “Larry. Well, Lawrence, I suppose. But he’s Brother Larry Cavness to those who know him. Some call him Rev. Cavness, but most of the people who come here are more comfortable with just Brother Larry. And that’s what his personal preference is, too.”

  “How long has the mission been here?”

  “Since 1975. Ten years. Brother Larry started it up entirely on his own, with nothing more than three rented rooms upstairs in this building, a few old army cots, and a cheap stove he stuck in a corner so his wife could cook for the people who came in. And in case you’re wondering, the answer is yes, they were probably in violation of every code on the books. Brother Larry hadn’t given even a thought to permits and licenses and insurance and on-going operational support and all that … he believed God had told him to start a rescue mission in Tylerville, and so he did it. No second thoughts, no questions asked, no delays tolerated.”

  “Obviously they found a way to make it work, since they are still here.”

  “It was surely a miracle that allowed it. It was a nightmare, initially, in terms of being a firetrap and a liability hazard. Thank God that old stove didn’t set off any fuse-box fires, or the worn-out staircase didn’t cave in under somebody’s weight while they trudged up to find a place to sleep out of the cold. Brother Larry welcomed anybody who came to him. He always tells his ‘flock of lambs’, or ‘flockers’, as he calls the people who came here, that he does not have all the answers for their situations, but can introduce them to someone who does. But here’s one of the things I love about Brother Larry: he sees his flockers as much more than souls to be saved
for a life to come. He helps them in the most immediate, earthly ways as well. If they are hungry, or homeless, or in need of medical or mental health care, he tries to connect them up with people and agencies and programs that can provide what they need. Brother Larry is mindful of people as spiritual beings with eternal spiritual needs, and as physical and psychological beings with basic, temporal life needs. The most balanced man I’ve ever known.”

  “Did he finally get insurance and so on for this place?”

  Feely nodded. “I’m happy that, as time went by in those early days, many other local people stepped in to help Brother Larry with the things he wasn’t equipped to handle. Bankers worked with him to set up an operating account and get the mission connected properly with the IRS, the state and local authorities, and so on. The legalities, you know. Some insurance specialists helped him get his liability situation under control. Donations came in to let him rent more and more of this building; now the mission occupies all of it, cellar to rooftop. Brother Larry is the kind of man you just want to help out once you see what he’s doing. Nothing less than a great man. Great, good, and godly.”

  “He must be remarkable.”

  “An understatement. He’s absolutely the best man I’ve ever met in my life. Or that you or anyone else will.”

  “That’s quite an endorsement, especially coming from you, Rev. Is it Brother Larry we’ve come to meet here?”

  “It is. Let’s go on in and find him.”

  THE OLD-FASHIONED BELL ABOVE the door jangled as the preacher and the journalist walked into the rescue mission. On a schoolroom-style desktop record player, a scratchy, ancient recording of a famous revival hymn played. “Let the lower lights be burning … send a beam across the waves … ”

  A thin, prematurely aging woman whose difficult life could be traced in the shadows and contours of her weathered face walked up to Feely and gave him a massive bear hug, strong enough to drive the breath from his lungs despite her frail-looking frame.

  “Wanda, I swear I think you’re out to kill me,” Feely said. “I can’t walk through that door without you nearly crushing the life out of me.”

  “It’s because I love you, Rev,” she said. “You’ve done so much for us here, and so much for me.” Wanda looked at Eli. “I don’t know you, sir, but if you’re with Rev, you’re in the company of holiness, and that speaks well of you.”

  “Holiness?” Feely said. “Far from it, Wanda, if you’re talking about me. So very, very far from it. But nearer to it than last year, or last week, or yesterday, I dare to hope.”

  “That’s right: You got to always keep going forward, a step at a time, or two if you can manage it,” Wanda said. “That’s what Brother Larry and Brother Donald are always telling us.”

  “They’re right, as usual,” Feely replied. “We’ll never become perfect, but we can always become better. Wanda, I want you to meet my friend, Eli Scudder. Eli works for the Clarion and is in charge of a magazine they’re producing for next year’s bicentennial. It will focus on the heritage and identity of our town and county, and I knew it would be incomplete without the story of Lower Lights Mission.”

  “Pleased, ma’am,” Eli said.

  “Same, sir. Reverend here is right, you know: this place has saved many a life in this town. Mine included. So many who are here, or have been here, would be dead and gone to a hopeless grave if not for the work Brother Larry and Brother Donald have done. Why, even Brother Donald wouldn’t be the fine man he is if he hadn’t found Lower Lights Mission.”

  “I know who Brother Larry is, but the Donald name is new to me.”

  “That would be me, sir,” came a voice from Eli’s left. He turned to see a man probably in his fifties, but with an indefinably youthful bearing and demeanor, approaching from what looked likely to be the office area of the rescue mission. The man came to Eli with hand extended. His grip and handshake were firm.

  “Brother Donald New,” he said, his East Tennessee accent noticeable. “Assistant director of this mission. Just call me Brother Donald. And you are … ”

  “Eli Scudder, sir, of the Clarion. Special projects editor, the project being a one-off magazine devoted to the heritage of the town and county, to be published for next year’s bicentennial. My friend here, Rev. Feely, tells me we would be amiss if we fail to include Lower Lights in it.”

  “We’d be proud to be a part of it. Unless it is paid advertising you’re talking about. We got nothing in our budget for advertising. We live by donations here, and whatever we get goes back into the work.”

  “I’m not speaking of advertising, sir. Just a story and a photo or two. No cost to the mission.”

  “Then we’re in business, young man.”

  Feely asked, “Brother Donald, is the big guy in?”

  Donald New flicked his eyes heavenward. “Always,” he said.

  “I meant the other big guy. The one with the size thirteen shoes.”

  “No, Brother Larry isn’t here today. He’s got a cold powerful enough to drop an elephant. Myrtle told him to stay in, and for once he did what she said.”

  “Good for him.”

  “Anything I can help you with?”

  “Yeah. Let’s talk about what Eli’s going to need from you.”

  They followed Brother Donald into his simple, square office with its cheap veneered paneling and fluorescent lighting. Donald sat down behind his small desk while Eli and Feely took the mismatched folding metal chairs across from it. Beside them in a corner were flowers in white plastic holders of the kind seen in discount funeral parlors.

  “Are you preaching a funeral today, Brother Donald?” asked Feely.

  “Hmmm? Oh, the flowers … no. No funeral. But I am visiting the cemetery. Personal trip. The graves of my late wife and daughter. They’ve been too long without flowers. I’ve never been one to focus much on the earthly remains of ones who have gone on … those are just cast-off garments, so to speak. But I do regret it when I see other graves covered with beautiful blossoms and my own loved ones are without. So for the sake of my own peace of mind, sometimes I will place flowers on their graves. That’s what those flowers there are for. I’ll place them on the graves this evening or tomorrow.”

  “I didn’t realize you had family members here, Don,” said Feely. “I’ve never known any other people here with the last name of New.”

  Brother Donald smiled. “There’s a story behind that, Brother Kyle. New isn’t the name I was born with. It’s the name I took for myself when it became just what that word says: new. The old name was of a man who sinned every kind of sin, cared nothing for the God who made him, was unfaithful and unloving to wife and family as well as to the Almighty, and who, after turning his back on the best gifts he had, spent several years in prison. That’s where I met Brother Larry … he visits prisons, you know. He tells prisoners what they need to hear, and what can make them, well, new. With the help of Brother Larry and this mission, I became new, too. A new man deserved a new name. So ‘New’ I became. I even went through the legalities and had it changed officially in a court of law. Kept my first name, changed my last.”

  “I had no idea, Brother Donald,” Feely said. “I didn’t know your story.”

  “May I share that story, briefly, as part of my magazine piece?” Eli asked.

  “You may. I’m always glad to share the story of how I became a ‘New’ man, in more ways that one.”

  “What was your name before?” Eli asked.

  “I’d rather leave that out. That man is gone now, washed clean of his sins. Now, from the inside out, in soul and in body, I’m simply Brother Donald New, servant of the Most High God.”

  Eli nodded and scribbled fast so he wouldn’t lose the words.

  Conversation turned to the history of the mission itself, and of its founder Larry Cavness.

  “Brother Larry’s story wasn’t much different from my own, in some ways,” Brother Donald said. “There was one key difference: he was raised in a devout,
righteous home and knew the truth of the Lord even as a child. But he strayed. As a young man he joined the Navy and ‘saw the world,’ as the saying goes. Like so many, though, the seeing of it changed him and stole away the best parts of his raising. He became as vile a heathen as any man you’d know, as vile, even as I was in the worst days of my former self. Hard to imagine that of Brother Larry, isn’t it, Kyle.”

  “Impossible. The man is so permeated with holiness now I can’t think of him doing even the smallest wrong.”

  “Well, he was a wicked man at one time. He’s told me his story many times, and shared it with our flockers time and again. They connect with it, because it’s the same thing that so many of them are living.”

  “Did Brother Larry have addictions?” Feely asked.

  “Liquor. He was into it deep. In one way it saved him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “One night, dead of winter in Cleveland, Ohio, a drunk former sailor named Larry Cavness passed out cold in an alley beside a church. It started to snow, and he was lucky enough, or sufficiently protected by angels, I prefer to believe, that he woke up and saw he was likely to freeze where he was. He got up and stumbled over to a back door of the church. It was unlocked. He slipped inside and found a corner back behind the baptistry area. He settled down there and realized it was a Sunday evening. Out in the sanctuary, people filed in for the evening service, never knowing there was a drunk tucked away out of sight. But he was there. Brother Larry was able to hear the singing and the preaching as clear as anybody else in that building. He sat back there in the dark, hearing things he’d not heard since his childhood, and hearing at the same time that ‘still, small voice’ that the Bible talks about. The divine voice that whispers to the straying sheep, ‘Come home to the fold.’”

  “Was that his point of change?” Feely asked.