Harvestman Lodge

by Cameron Judd

  “Seriously, though, congratulations to both of you!” he said. “You two are, to my mind, the perfect couple. Beauty and sharpness of mind on the one hand … ” – he waved his hand toward Melinda – “and creativity and diligence on the other.” He indicated Eli. “I am pleased you’ve chosen one another.”

  “Yes,” said Melinda, smiling at Feely. The smile faltered. “Oh, Rev, it’s such a sad day!”

  Feely looked befuddled, and sidespoke to Eli: “Eli, I’m not sure this thing is off to as promising a start as you might want.”

  “She’s talking about Jimbo Bailey, who used to maintain our building here,” Eli said. “Jimbo passed away this morning.”

  Feely was stunned, having met Jimbo before. “Heart?”

  “What else?”

  “I’m so sorry to hear it … he was quite a good friend of yours?”

  “A very good friend. He even gave me the engagement ring I put on Melinda’s finger a few minutes ago. He never did tell me where it came from.”

  Melinda displayed the silver ring with its tiny diamond for Feely.

  “Nice.”

  “Not nearly as nice as Melinda deserves,” Eli said. “I think it is probably the ring Jimbo gave his own wife. I’m no jeweler, but I suspect it’s on the cheap side.”

  “Hey, don’t put down my ring!” Melinda said. “This is the most valuable engagement ring on the planet. Because of what it means, because of who gave it to me … and who gave it to you.” She gazed at the humble stone. “And I think it’s beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.”

  “Amen,” said Feely.

  Eli said, “Uh, Melinda, is it any problem I didn’t ask your father about this first? The old ‘ask for the blessing’ thing?”

  “Why? You intended to propose to him instead of me?”

  “I’ll take that to mean it’s okay I haven’t followed hallowed tradition.”

  “It’s okay. And as far as I’m concerned that tradition is not at all hallowed. It’s my life, my marriage. Not my father’s.”

  Feely was all smiles. “It makes me very happy to see this happening for you two, honestly. But I am so sorry about Jimbo. The very definition of a bittersweet morning, this one is.”

  “What brought you in to see us, Kyle?”

  “Looking for a little Harvestman conversation, as you might have guessed.”

  “Well, it so happens that over the weekend I read an entire manuscript by Coleman Caldwell, giving his version, admittedly fictionalized and to some degree speculative, about what happened there. In addition, I was able to see the notes and documents he developed when he was researching the novel.”

  “I’ll be interested in hearing it. Though I understand, now that I know the circumstances, that this morning may not be the best time for that.”

  Melinda said, “I’m glad you said that, because at the moment I’ve got too much on my mind to even much care about that stupid lodge business. Besides, I’ve got some phone calls to make now.” She pointed at her engagement ring.

  “We’ll get together another time, then,” Feely said. “Besides, I’ve got a visit I need to make. One of my church members has a serious medical condition, a brain tumor, and he took a turn for the worse over the weekend. I need to go see him.”

  “Later then, Rev,” Eli said.

  “Later.”

  JIMBO’S FUNERAL WAS SCHEDULED at the AME Zion church for Thursday at six, to give travel time to out-of-towners and accommodate local ones whose workday ended at five. It was to feature one special touch: after the burial that would immediately follow the service, a huge pot-luck meal would be served in the roofed pavilion behind the AME churchhouse. The food would be needed by that point; with the service beginning at suppertime, and likely to run long as was the custom in the Tylerville black community, every belly would be empty by the time Jimbo’s grave was full.

  Eli and Melinda intended to be among the first to arrive, but it wasn’t to be, the church already milling with mourners more than an hour before the funeral. The Rev. Cecil Wellington, pastor of Jimbo’s church, would deliver the funeral sermon. No one doubted he would do it in classic style.

  Emotions were running strong in the funeral parlor, no one making any attempt to hide them. Eli and Melinda worked their way forward to where Jimbo lay, suit-and-tie clad, in a varnished casket, lid up. His sister Flora and a few other relatives received those who filed by, each seeming to want to outdo the last in loudly declaring their sympathy and grief. Flora was all but knocked down by would-be comforters who threw themselves upon her, hugging her crushingly, smothering her weary face with kisses and whispering (at top volume) condolences into her ear. She took it all in stride, though sometimes she had to literally hold up those who became so overwrought they fainted.

  Melinda almost fainted herself at the sight of Jimbo in his coffin. It was impossible to conceive of this utterly still, mortician’s-makeup-doctored figure lying on plush padding as being the full-of-life man who had so faithfully spread covers on the picnic table behind Hodgepodge and beamed with joy each time he saw his young friends together.

  Melinda was oddly conscious of the engagement ring on her finger as she stared disbelievingly at Jimbo’s face.

  “I want him to get up,” she told Eli, softly. “I want him to quit fooling around here like this.”

  Eli could have told her to quit being absurd and silly. Instead he told her the truth. “I feel exactly the same way.”

  The pair found their seats near the back of the sanctuary. They couldn’t help but note that they were among the few white faces on their side of the church, though across the aisle, the senior Brechts, as well as David, Keith, and apparent siblings of theirs whom Eli had not yet met. Also there were a few of the older Clarion employees, and a few random townsfolk, also were on hand. Melinda whispered in Eli’s ear, “Did we violate some tradition by sitting on this side?” Eli told her he was sure they were fine where they were, and would only create a distraction if they tried to move now.

  The service was just what was expected: comforting words from the preacher mixed with others seemingly designed to heighten the intensity of grief and wails of emotion: mentions of the “empty chair at the table”, the “bed no longer slept in”, the “shoes with feet no longer to fill them,” and so on. Most of the men present remained emotionally restrained, though some called out loud vocalizations of their agreement with various points Rev. Wellington made. On the whole, the women present were the most demonstrative and vocal.

  When he was going at full steam, Wellington fell into a traditional sing-song style of delivery, much interspersed with “uh” sounds put in at just the right spots to give the funeral sermon a cadence. “I say that Jimbo Bailey knew pain and suffering in his life-uh, he knew illness and loss-uh, he knew the burden of sin-uh, the pain of bereavement and loneliness-uh – but I declare unto you, sisters and brothers, Brother Jimbo knew as well-uh the love of friends and family-uh, for many years the cherished affection of a dear wife-uh, the dignity of honest labor-uh, the security of a good home-uh, and most of all the joy of salvation-uh, through his trust in Christ Jesus-uh, the same Jesus who has taken our brother home-uh, to be bestowed with-uh his eternal reward-uh … ”

  The preacher waxed downright poetic when he began to talk of Jimbo’s passing in terms of “homecoming.” The exclamations of the crowd heightened as Wellington described vividly Jimbo’s heavenly reunion with his long-gone mother, how she had surely thrown her arms around her son’s shoulders after he’d strode through the “jeweled Gates of Glory-uh, clad in a robe of purest white, singing at the top of his voice the great and high praise of Almighty God-uh, his beloved friend and rescuer … ” And on it went.

  Notably absent was any talk of celestial reunion with his late father. Jackson “Jambone” Bailey had been well-known for his hard-drinking, womanizing ways, a man who, it was commonly said, had “lived the life of a tomcat” until his liver finally had shut down in protest and took him down with
it. Thanks to “Daddy Jambone’s” wild living, Jimbo had been reputed to have a truckload of officially unrecognized half-siblings throughout Tylerville.

  When the funeral sermon was seemingly done, or at least in intermission, several “sisters of the church” delivered musical “specials,” singing a number of beloved spirituals, sometimes with more gusto than talent. Several of the renderings, though, were excellent. Eli, with an ear for music well-presented, was impressed. Many in the crowd joined in on the songs they knew.

  No one seemed in a rush to end the funeral, the only real time pressure being the approach of sundown. The interment needed to be done before dark.

  THE GRAVESIDE GATHERING BROUGHT more songs, more cries of grief, and another sermon from the minister, shorter than the first but just as impassioned. When it came time to crank the casket down into the grave, an entire crowd of wailing mourners crowded in, some seemingly intent on stopping the burial altogether, as if they could force a reversal of all that was going on and find their way back to when Jimbo was still among them. Flora was not part of the wild press; she mourned quietly, a statuesque figure at her brother’s graveside, her thoughts lost in the memories that were all she had left of him now.

  Melinda wept as the coffin went below ground. Eli glanced around and saw the Brecht delegation: Mr. Carl stood with head high, but with tears on his solemn face. Keith was a quaking wreck, and David wept as well, but with restraint. The matriarch of the Brecht family was absent.

  The overall mood changed dramatically when the time for eating came. Eli truly had never seen such a spread: tables under the pavilion cover were laden nearly to the breaking point with platters of beef, pork, chicken, and even venison proudly provided by some of the better hunters of the congregation. Bowls steamed with buttered corn, green beans, pintos, limas, potatoes both mashed and whole, carrots, assorted squashes, and okra skillet-fried in oil and cornmeal until it bore a deliciously crispy coating. There were baked beans with bacon criss-crossed over the brown-sugared top layer. There were cold dishes, too: platefuls of sliced garden tomatoes, both red and yellow, potato salad, cole slaw, cantaloupe.

  “Jimbo would have loved this,” Melinda said as they found their place in line.

  “I wonder if, in some way, he’s here?” Eli said.

  “I don’t doubt it,” Melinda said. “These are the people who loved him. Including us.”

  Eli ate until he thought he’d never want food again, and didn’t regret one moment or one bite.

  THE COMING OF THE WEEKEND was particularly welcome to Eli and Melinda after the sorrowful loss of their friend. Needing an escape and distraction, they impulsively decided to journey to Sevier County and the tourist haven of Pigeon Forge, there to visit the Silver Dollar City theme park, where admission could be had for the price of flashing a valid press card.

  Equally impulsive was the decision to take along young Megan with them. The girl had expressed a wish to visit the park several times, but had yet to go. Though she, underage and sans a press card, would require a purchased ticket, Eli didn’t mind paying her way. This little girl was his future sister-in-law, after all.

  The day was hot, Independence Day less than a week away. They traveled in Melinda’s Bronco and gave the air conditioner a workout. When they opened the doors in the parking lot, heat slammed them like an invisible wall.

  “I’m going to want to get a really cold soft drink when we get in,” Megan said.

  “You and me both,” said Melinda.

  Once in the gates, they began an immediate search for the coldest refreshment they could find. It did not take them long to find it. Overpriced, naturally, but by that point Eli would have forked over a dollar bill for no more than a swig of cold water. The heavily iced soft drinks were heavenly.

  BY EARLY AFTERNOON THE SKY had become slightly overcast, easing the searing heat of direct sun, and the temperature declined a bit. Eli and the two Buckingham females wandered idly, feeling no sense of rush or necessity to see or do any particular thing except enjoy the day.

  The theme of the park was American rural life in the late 1800s, so there were lots of rustic crafts to be seen, and several active craftsmen doing their work like beard-wearing beasts on display in a human zoo. Megan was enthralled by the glass-blower, and marveled at the hellish glow inside the firing oven when he opened its door.

  Most of all, though, Megan enjoyed the dancers who performed on some of the entertainment stages around the park. “I’m going to work here someday,” she announced to her big sister. “I’ll be able to dance as good as that when I’m old enough.”

  “I don’t doubt you will,” Melinda told her. “Whether you’ll work here or not may be less assured. There are rumors this park is being bought by a successful country singer and may not be Silver Dollar City much longer.”

  “Who?” Eli asked.

  “Native of the county, big blonde wig, big chest … “

  “Her?”

  “That’s the rumor.”

  “Let’s go find some lunch,” Eli said as the fiddle and banjo music faded and the smiling, gingham-clad dancers heel-and-toed their way off the little stage.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  RAWLS PARVIN ENCOUNTERED ROLLY FLATT on Center Street and found him in a serious frame of mind. As always, the faint essence of barbecue scent clung to his clothing. “I’m worried about something,” he said. “I saw Lukey today, going by in a car. He wasn’t driving it, though. Some Japanese guy, it looked like to me.”

  All at once Rawls had something to be worried about, too. He remembered Lukey’s fear someone was following him with bad intent. The “Japanese” man, maybe?

  “Another thing, too,” said Rolly. “Lukey was looking over in my direction and I nodded hello at him with him staring right at me. And it was like he didn’t see me at all. Or that maybe something was wrong with him. Real drunk, maybe, or drugged out. But I know he’d have at least give a nod to me if he’d been able. He didn’t even blink.”

  Rawls thought of a third possible cause for Lukey’s blank-eyed unresponsiveness. He hoped he was wrong.

  “Yeah, he would have nodded or wiggled a finger or something,” Rawls said. “But I know he’s trying to lie real low while he’s here. Maybe he didn’t want to draw any attention. Hell, he told me I shouldn’t even tell my daddy he was in town … and Daddy is Lukey’s own brother.”

  “Why’s he lying so low?”

  “Got his reasons. He isn’t one to tell his business much.”

  “Considering the business he’s in, I can understand that, I reckon.”

  If you only knew, thought Rawls.

  MEGAN DROPPED THE BOMBSHELL INSIDE a small park cafe, where they’d stopped to eat roast beef and cheese sandwiches with corn chips. What prompted her was the entrance into the cafe of an Asian family. As the father of the family led the way through the door, Megan gave an audible gasp and dropped a chip.

  “What’s wrong?” Melinda asked. Eli was not present at the moment, having headed back to the men’s room, leaving the females alone at their corner table.

  “That man … he scared me. He gave me a chill.”

  Melinda looked around and saw the man sitting down with his family at a wall booth. “He looks harmless enough to me,” she said, making sure her voice was low enough for the family not to hear her. “Just a typical family man. What scared you?”

  “I thought for a minute he was the same man I saw watching our house last night.”

  It was Melinda’s turn to be chilled.

  “Somebody was … watching our house?”

  “Yes. Somebody like that man.”

  “Like that man … you mean an Asian man?”

  “Yeah. He was out at the edge of the backyard, and there was another man with him. It was Rawls.”

  Melinda gaped at her little sister. “So … in the night, in the dark, you saw an Asian man and Rawls. In our backyard.”

  “Yeah.”

  Melinda couldn’t squelc
h a chuckle. She almost asked if there were any dancing elephants out there, too. Instead she said, “Meggy, you had a dream. There are no Asian people living in Tylerville, not that I’ve ever heard of, and Rawls isn’t likely to come around our house at night, not after what happened with Dad and his gun.”

  “It wasn’t a dream,” Megan insisted.

  “Then it was a trick of the dark. Just shadow shapes.”

  “It wasn’t that. either. Remember that lightning last night? The kind Daddy calls heat lightning? That was when I saw them. It was bright as daylight for a second or two. There wasn’t any darkness. They were there.”

  Melinda was growing ever more uneasy. Megan seemed quite sure of what she was saying, and she’d never been the kind of child to confuse imagination with reality. Melinda couldn’t believe Megan had actually seen what she was claiming, because it simply made no sense, but neither could she believe that Megan wasn’t telling the truth as she thought it to be.

  “Why would Rawls have been out there in the night?” Melinda asked.

  Megan looked down at her plastic plate, which was shaped like a Gold Rush miner’s pan, and all at once seemed less sure of herself.

  “Well … it looked like Rawls, in the face. But his hair was kinda different, maybe.”

  Now we’re getting somewhere, thought Melinda.

  Megan went on. “His hair looked gray. And it was cut kinda funny … short around his ears, but it hung down long over his back collar.”

  “I saw Rawls not very long ago, Meggy, and his hair is as dark as ever. And it’s not cut that way at all. So if you saw somebody out in the yard, it wasn’t Rawls.”

  “But his face was the same.”

  “Sweety, it was probably just somebody who resembled him. Or maybe it wasn’t anybody at all. If what you saw wasn’t a trick of the dark or the shadows, maybe it was a trick of the lightning.”