by Cameron Judd
“I can’t wait to see that!” Eli said. “I’ve heard what a good dancer you are, and I know the Twin Cousins have a great reputation and following, but I’ve never really seen them perform.”
“Have you heard about the press conference the mayor is holding on Tuesday?” Melinda asked.
“Nothing official. But Jim Crowder from the radio station told me on the street that there’s going to be an official announcement about the historical drama, finally. Is that what you heard?”
“That’s it. The whole thing has grown into a joint project between the county, the city, and the state. And the governor’s office was able to make some federal connections and get some funding for site development and stagecrafting costs. In short, it seems like everything is coming into place. And Mr. Darwin may not have to empty his bank account to make it happen, after all.”
“I’m glad it’s going to happen. And I’m even more glad I took your advice not to take the writing job. We’re about to dig hard and heavy into the magazine now … Davy Carl has got a bug up his butt about it all at once. And it’s about time. My problem is that I just realized yesterday that my book deadline is running up closer and closer. And I’ve got a lot of writing to do to get there.”
“It sounds like I’m going to be lucky to get to see you much at all.”
“I sure hope not. You’re about the only thing that gets me through the day sometimes.”
“That’s sweet. Same for me. We’ll make sure we find time to be together. But it’ll be a challenge … the station wants me to really crank out some Kincheloe and Tylerville feature stories for the latter half of summer. So I’m going to be busy, too.”
Megan began begging for the Blazing Fury ride, so there they went. And went again, and then again. When Megan asked for a fourth time, Eli and Melinda both begged off, having had their fill, and with Eli feeling slightly queasy, as such rides tended to make him. They walked away and across the park, Megan griping at the top of her lungs as if three rides weren’t nearly enough.
More shop visits, a ride on the locomotive-drawn train and survival of a fake train robbery by “outlaws,” and suppertime rolled around. They made their way to another cafe and had pancakes and sausage … breakfast for dinner.
“Going to the bathroom,” Megan announced when they were done.
“Don’t vanish again,” Melinda told her, and Megan said she would not.
Alone with Melinda, Eli said, “Tell me about these men Megan said she saw in your yard.”
Melinda described Megan’s claim. “It’s absurd, of course,” she said.
“Maybe not,” replied Eli. “Because when I was in Coleman Caldwell’s office, I saw the same men in a car outside.”
Melinda found no words, but her eyes went wide.
“I doubt there is any cause for worry … though the idea of them looking at your house at night is a little frightening.”
“Especially after what we talked about in that back office today.”
“I know what you mean. But that was then, at Harvestman Lodge. This is now, and there is no Harvestman Lodge anymore.”
“Dad always says, though, that wickedness never really dies.”
“He also says that beer is the devil’s urine.”
Melinda nodded. “Good point.” She sipped her coffee.
“We’ll keep an eye out for that Asian man and the Rawls lookalike,” Eli said. “It all is a little … uncomfortable, I admit.”
“Eli,” Melinda asked. “Did your grandfather have a Super 8 camera?”
“Actually, yes. I remember him filming us opening presents one Christmas morning when we were at his house. And him filming a prize bull he was very proud of. But why did you ask?”
“I’ve got a confession, Eli. I took something from the cellar when we were in your grandparents’ house. I shouldn’t have done it, I know … but I did. It was something hidden down there.”
“What are you talking about?”
Melinda saw Megan coming back. “I’ll have to tell you later. And there’s something you’ll need to see.”
Chapter Forty-Five
THE TYLERVILLE PRESS CONFERENCE was deemed important enough to justify sending an actual station videographer, allowing Melinda to avoid the pressure of “one-man band” video journalism. She merely had to stand among the cluster of regional press folk and take notes, then seek an additional comment or two from the right people afterward.
Standing on the steps of the county courthouse porch were the leading town and county officials, Tylerville Mayor Irwin “Tank” Tankwell in the center of the line, along with Caine Darwin, Benton Sadler, Hadley King (his freshly dyed hair as blue-violet as a morning glory blossom) and various important people from the local college, Chamber of Commerce, major banks, and others Eli could not readily identify. The crowd was made up of press at front, curious townsfolk in behind. Eli was standing next to Melinda, both of them with their notepads and pens at ready. Jake Lundy was moving around the perimeter of the crowd, shooting color this time rather than his usual black-and-white, this being a guaranteed front-pager. He was filling in for the usual photographer, who was out sick for the day. A few other media folk from the region were also on hand.
The announcement about the outdoor drama had been generally anticipated and brought no major surprises. The name of Constance Merkle was frequently spoken, thanks poured out for her making available the land upon which the outdoor theater would be built. Her absence from the press conference was attributed to illness. Elie leaned over and whispered to Melinda, “Yeah, the illness being alcoholism.”
“Quiet, Eli! That’s not at all nice.”
“It’s a known fact.”
“Yeah.”
The playwright for the project, a Virginia-based artsy type (not present) with the memorable name of Rangle Jones and a string of prior outdoor drama credits, was already finished with his first draft, announced Caine Darwin. Darwin noted that Jones had personally told him that he’d been able to work so speedily because of the excellent historical information provided by Hadley King’s history of the town and county. At this, King smiled and waved at the applauding crowd, and assumed that the whispers being passed from ear to ear by the applauding people were praise for his role in the project. In fact they were mostly private comments about his remarkable hair and rumored sexual preference.
The floor was opened to questions, and these came mostly from the press, though a couple of townsfolk asked if parts in the play would be available to locals.
“Lead roles will be played by carefully selected professionals,” the mayor replied. “Beyond that, yes, there will be roles for which local people can audition. And of course there will be a need for stage hands, makeup artists, set builders, soundboard operators … all the usual roles.”
“And there’ll be dancers!”
The speaker was Custer Crosswaite, who appeared as if from nowhere, bounding up the courthouse steps so fast the assembled dignitaries stepped back to give him room in front of them. He turned and beamed at the crowd, which sent up a roar of approval. He launched into a wild, high-kicking dance, the only music for it being whatever tune was playing through his head.
“Think this was planned?” Eli asked Melinda.
“Only in Custer’s mind,” she replied. “He does this kind of thing all the time … sometimes he’s able to convince Buster to go along, but a lot of times it’s just him bombing himself into some public situation or another and stealing all the attention. It makes the public official types furious, and Custer loves that.”
So did the camera-toting press. Shutters snapped and videotape rolled, picking up images of the impromptu entertainment. And Custer was going full-steam, a peak performance all around. He spun in defiance of the laws of balance, turned his bones to jelly and maneuvered his limbs and joints in impossible ways, dived onto his hands and pushed himself back up again, amazingly landing on his feet … then backed up to one end of the porch, surged forward and
leaped Michael Jordan-style almost all the way back to the other end, achieving so much air that his feet passed directly in front of the face of Hadley King with King standing at his full height. The crowd roared its approval.
Eli noticed only then that among the videographers capturing the show was Len Cosner, the “PBS man” from the Flea Plank Grocery parking lot. He was laughing so hard at Custer’s performance that it almost interfered with his ability to run his camera.
“Looks like the documentary filming is going strong,” Eli said, pointing out Cosner.
“Yeah! I hadn’t even noticed he was here,” Melinda replied.
Custer ended his dance by grabbing the hand of Barbara Bell, a citizen who held no title or possessed no official function other than being the most-cited local example of an “engaged citizen.” Bell volunteered for every good cause on the books, refused to let a stray piece of litter go uncollected, and weekly brought in free-roaming animals to the Humane Society shelter … those that she did not adopt herself. Her house, it was said, would still smell of cats centuries hence, when archaeologists of the future dug it out of the ground that was once Tylerville. Eli loved the woman and had enjoyed many a feisty conversation with her when he chanced to encounter her. Custer Crosswaite pulled Bell out onto the center of his courthouse porch dance floor and began kicking his long legs up, barely missing the rather hefty Bell, first on one side, then the other.
“Dance, Barb!” someone in the crowd hollered, and Bell began a shuffling little step that all but disappeared beside the flamboyant showmanship of Custer Crosswaite.
Custer managed to get Bell dancing a bit faster, but she tired quickly and the joke was wearing out at the same time. Mayor Tankwell stepped up and brought Custer’s impromptu act to an end. The crowd gave him a rousing cheer and he reluctantly gave up center stage and let the press conference get back on track.
Questions and answers, more questions and answers, and finally the event was brought to an end with a mayoral reminder that the July 4 parade was coming up on Thursday at noon. “And for those of you who are so enamored of dear old Custer Crosswaite – and, God help us, there’s more of you than I can account for – he and Buster will be doing a new dance they’re calling the ‘Bicentennial Backstep,’ backed up by new music from Mr. Carl Brecht and the Tuesday Picking Club, the “Bicentennial Breakdown”. With them will be some of Tylerville’s most talented young dance students, who’ve been practicing hard for weeks now to make sure they give a good performance. They’ll be on the town’s official ‘Bicentennial Preview’ float. Besides that, there’ll be patriotic-themed floats, a marching band or two, a bunch of Shriners in those crazy little cars, tractors, antique cars, and Lord only knows what else! It’ll be good all-American fun on the most all-American day of the year, and you ain’t gonna want to miss it … I mean, you won’t want to miss it (my apologies to all my old English grammar teachers. I’m afraid it just didn’t ‘take’ with me.) Oh, and rumor has it that old Uncle Sam himself is going to be tossing out candy to young and old all along the parade route, which you’ll find mapped out in Wednesday’s Clarion. Right, Mr. Scudder?”
“Uh … yeah! Right, Mayor!” Eli replied loudly, hoping he was right. He had no idea whether there would be a parade route map in Wednesday’s paper.
“I DIDN’T SEE YOUR FOLKS OUT in the crowd,” Eli said when the press conference broke up.
“They’re in Knoxville, buying some new equipment for the shop,” Melinda said. “They don’t get away much, so they’re making an evening of it, going out to eat, staying at a hotel, all that.”
“Good for them! And if you’re willing to drop those famous defenses of yours, good for us, too.”
“Ain’t gonna happen, dude.”
“I knew that even as I mentioned it. But a boy can dream.”
“Dream on, sailor. I’ll make every dream come true someday. But there is something I want to do tonight, nothing to do with what you can’t quit talking about. I want to show you what I took from your grandfather’s cellar.”
“Yeah … I want to see what it was.”
“Come to the house at seven. I’ll have meatloaf sandwiches ready and waiting. Come to the back door and I’ll let you into the kitchen.”
“Will Meggy be there?”
“Meggy will be at dance practice tonight for that dance with the Crosswaites that the mayor just talked about. After that she’s spending the night at the home of one of her dance class friends. They like to get together and ‘go camping’ in a tent in their backyard. And no doubt they stay up half the night talking about boys and clothes and music.”
“So you’ll be left there in that big, lonely house, all by yourself.”
“The house isn’t all that big, and not particularly lonely. I enjoy the place on those rare chances I get to have it to myself.”
Eli easily could have made one of his trademark naughty boy wisecracks, but he knew that sometimes her annoyance at such was not entirely playful kidding around. “I understand,” he said. “I’ll not even make any lecherous jokes this time.”
“Thanks.” She kissed him on the nose.
“Hey, can I have one of those?” a familiar voice said from nearby.
They turned to see Micah and Nancy Ledford walking toward them. They had been among the curious locals who had joined the press conference audience, unnoticed. Hands were pumped, hugs were given.
“Interesting to see you two on the job side by side,” Micah said. “Print journalism, broadcast … lump you two together and you’ve got the full gamut covered.”
“Everything but radio,” Eli said. “How are you Ledfords doing?”
“Oh, we’ve been listening to gossips and rumor spreaders,” Ledford said. “Telling stories about you two.”
“So is it true, Melinda?” Nancy asked, looking at Melinda’s left hand. Melinda obligingly lifted the hand to display her engagement ring. Nancy admired it, saying not a word, of course, about it’s rather meager stone, instead gushing over its prettiness.
“I’m so pleased for you two!” she said.
“You done good, boy,” Ledford said to Eli, lightly fist-punching his shoulder.
“I did, didn’t I!”
“Are you talking about dates yet?” Ledford asked.
“Not really … just beginning to think about it, that’s all.”
“Will there be alcohol at the reception? That’s my big question.”
Eli started saying, “I kind of doubt – “, but Melinda cut him off. “Yes,” she said. “There will be alcohol.” Seeing Ledford’s look of surprise, she added, “It’s my wedding, not my father’s.”
“Well, friends, let me ask a favor of you. If your wedding is next spring or later, let me provide the beer. I’ll be in the business by then. We’re building my convenience store. Right down the hill, where Granny Essie’s store was. I’m keeping her name on the place: Essie’s Market. And in case you’re wondering, Eli, yes, I’m preserving the ‘standing spot,’ and I’ll have an ice cream freezer chest right where hers was. So you can come in barefoot anytime you want.”
“That’s great, Micah!” Eli said. “I had no idea you’d be moving so fast on your store!”
“I didn’t either. Funny thing: you know who inspired me to bump things along faster?”
“No idea.”
“Great Aunt Erlene. Yeah, the crazy one. Granny Essie’s sister with the ‘Hall of History.’ I took Nancy to see her, just because she’s family, and old Erlene had a better head on her shoulders than I would have given her credit for. She started talking about her departed loved ones, and the subject of Essie came up, and she mentioned how sad she was that the old store is gone, and how Essie would have liked it to go on after her. I told Erlene my dream of resurrecting the place, and the dear old crone cried on me. It meant so much to her to hear it.”
“Don’t call her a ‘crone,’ Micah,” Nancy chided. “That’s rude.”
“Sorry. But she does bear quite a re
semblance to the old witch in the Disney Snow White movie, you got to admit.”
“Well … yeah.”
Ledford grinned subtly at Eli and Melinda. “Facts are facts, and crones are crones. No point in denying what’s right there, plain to see.”
“Well, husband," Nancy said, "all I can tell you is that if I ever get to Erlene’s age, you better think twice before you call me a ‘crone.’ if you do that, I’ll … ”
Ledford was shaking his head already. “It’ll never happen. If I called you that, you’d hand me my own ass to wear for a hat.”
“You know it, ass-hat!”
Ledford shifted topics eagerly “Hey, Eli, how’s the magazine going?”
“Pretty good, though I had hoped we’d move a little faster than we have. Davy Carl – uh, David, I mean – is a bit of a foot-dragger, I’ve learned.”
“Yeah, yeah. I have a cousin who used to deliver papers for the Clarion, and David Brecht was frequently cussed by the carriers, behind his back, of course, because he was always making changes in the paper right up to press time, and running it late. Which of course ran the carriers even later. Not that big a deal most of the time, but if the weather was snowy or stormy, some of the carriers with routes up in the mountains needed every minute they could get, just to get the job done.”
“That’s a fair description from what I’ve seen and heard. David means well, and he wants to be accurate and precise … but I think he forgets the importance of timing sometimes.”
“Hey, listen,” Ledford said. “Has working on that magazine gotten you bored with county history? I hope not, because I have something in the car I was planning to drop off for you at the newspaper, if I didn’t run into you out here.”
“What is it?”
“Another press conference from a few years ago. This one with the U.S. Attorney doing the talking. He happens to say a few things that I think are relevant to something nobody likes to talk about in this county.”
“Harvestman Lodge,” said Melinda.
“Why … yes. How did you know?”
