Under the Lake

by Stuart Woods

“I knew your father-in-law; damned good man.”

  Howell nodded. “So I hear. He died before I met my wife.” Howell had heard nothing of the kind. Denham White Senior had been a ruthless buccaneer of a businessman; not even his own children had had a kind word to say about him. Howell figured anybody who remembered him as a “damned good man” bore watching himself. “Well, it’s nice to have met you, sir,” he said, starting to turn toward the car. But he had not yet been dismissed.

  “I believe you’re a newspaper reporter,” Sutherland said, staring right through him. “What do you think you might have to report on in these parts?”

  “No sir, I’ve been out of the newspaper business for a couple of years, now. I’m writing free lance; that’s why I’m up here. I’m working on a book.”

  “And what is the subject of your book? Wouldn’t be anything local, would it?”

  Howell was a bit taken aback by Sutherland’s increasing hostility. “Oh, no, sir. It’s a novel. I’m… not quite ready to talk about it just yet. Superstitious, I guess.”

  Sutherland gazed at him in silence for a moment. “We’ve already got too much superstition around here,” the old man said. “Good day.” Abruptly, he turned and walked toward his house.

  As the man walked away, Howell reflected that, in his experience, people who didn’t like reporters usually had something to hide. He tried to shake off the thought. He wasn’t up here to report on anything; he had other work to do.

  He drove slowly through the little town, a neat, prosperous-looking place with the usual assortment of stores and businesses for a small, north Georgia town, but with a difference. The business districts of Georgia towns were not, in general, very pretty. The shops and offices grew up out of necessity rather than by plan, and if one merchant had some sense of taste and style, his next-door neighbor usually didn’t, creating a hodge-podge that averaged out as plain, or sometimes, plain ugly. But Sutherland, Georgia looked as though someone had worked out a uniform architectural plan on main street. The buildings were all consistent in style, and there were no neon or other garish signs. Instead, the name of each business was lettered in the same typeface. There were old-fashioned gas lights here and there and park benches scattered along the street where elderly people took the sun. The effect was pleasing, Howell thought, if a little artificial, and it seemed to have grown out of one mind. He had not much doubt that the mind was Eric Sutherland’s. Still, if Sutherland the man didn’t radiate much charm, Sutherland the town did, and he liked it. Following Denham White’s instructions, he continued through the town and along the mountainous north shore of the lake until he came to a crossroads with a mailbox marked “White”. He turned left and drove downhill through dense woods toward the water. Suddenly, after a few hundred yards, he came around a sharp bend and had to brake hard. The road simply disappeared into the lake. He sat, bemused by this circumstance, thinking it was Denham’s idea of a joke. Then he looked to his right, and there, at the end of a few yards of overgrown drive, was the cabin.

  It sat right at the lake’s edge, seeming to lean into the steep slope of the hillside. A deck reached out over the water, supported by piles; a motorboat covered with canvas rested under it; an open woodshed next to the front door contained three logs. Howell groaned at the thought of chopping wood. He backed the wagon into the drive and got out. The place was certainly ramshackle, but not as bad as he had imagined. He climbed the steps, testing each with his weight. Sturdy enough. The key worked smoothly in the lock. He stepped into a room which ran the length of the cabin, perhaps twenty feet, and was half as wide. A large fieldstone fireplace dominated the wall facing the lake. Light poured in through windows which ran the length of the room, overlooking the deck and the lake. On either side of the fireplace was a door. The first opened into a decently equipped kitchen, the second into a bedroom.

  The whole place was furnished with what looked like remnants of various White households. There were an old, leather Chesterfield couch and a couple of beat-up armchairs in front of the fireplace. A large round table sat near the kitchen door, surrounded by eight chairs, three of which matched. At the far end of the room there was a small rolltop desk and an office chair. Next to the desk was an old-fashioned player piano with a stack of dusty rolls on top. The bedroom contained a double bed, a bureau, and a room-width length of iron pipe concealed by a curtain, making an ample closet. A bathroom led off the bedroom. He tried the bed. Not bad. In fact, the whole place was not bad. Denham White had been too modest about his building skills. Oh, there probably wasn’t a square angle in the place, Howell thought, but it was snug and comfortable. Everything he needed. For a small moment he felt uprooted, forlorn. Quickly, he gathered himself up and went about getting settled. An hour later the wagon was unloaded, his clothing put away, and the word processor sat in its boxes next to the desk. Tomorrow would be soon enough for that. He sat down at the piano and played a few chords. Needed tuning. He had played in a dance band in college, but since, only at the occasional party. He pumped the pedals. Nothing happened.

  He went into the kitchen and opened cupboards. Dishes, jelly glasses, the usual for this sort of place. There was a curtained-off pantry at the end of a counter. Howell brushed it open and found a dismantled outdoor grill, half a sack of charcoal, and a double-barreled shotgun. He stood, looking at the weapon as if it were a deadly snake. There was a sourness in his stomach, a weakness in his knees. He would have to share this place with that thing, that black, shiny, tempting instrument, that key to the Big Door, that way out. He had owned a pistol until recently; he had thrown it off a bridge into the Chattahoochee River, afraid to have it handy. He jerked the curtain back into place and resolved to forget that it was there.

  There was no food in the place, and he needed to go into Sutherland anyway. In town, he found an attractive little shopping center with a large supermarket. He was puzzled by an extremely large display of electric heaters in the hardware department. Ten bags of groceries in the car, he stopped at the post office to tell them who and where he was, then at the locally-owned telephone exchange to ask them to turn on the phone in the cabin. On his way back he stopped at a Sinclair station for gas.

  A wizened little man with snowy hair stopped fixing an inner tube and shuffled out to the car. “Fill ‘er up with the high-test and check the oil and water, please,” Howell said, as he got out of the car to stretch. There was another man tilted back in a chair against the building, whittling.

  “Lotsa groceries, there,” the white-haired man said as he started the gasoline pump. “You staying around?”

  “Yep, up at Denham White’s place on the lake, near the crossroads.”

  The man’s brow furrowed and he shook his head. “Better you than me, friend,” he said.

  “Huh?”

  “I know young Denham,” the man said, seeming not to want to pursue his first remark. “His daddy used to come up here and hunt with Mr. Sutherland. I used to run dogs for ‘em. He’s under the lake, now, Mr. White.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “Under the lake.”

  The other man got up and walked over. “Passed on,” he said. “Local expression. I’m Ed Parker. You staying with us for a while, then?”

  “A few weeks.”

  “I’m Benny Pope,” the little man said. “Hope we’ll have your business while you’re here.” He looked at Ed Parker to see if he’d said the right thing.

  Parker smiled at him. “Benny’s my number one salesman,” he said.

  As Parker spoke, another car pulled into the station, and a man wearing a tan gabardine suit and a Stetson hat got out. “Fill ‘er up, Benny,” he said, then turned and looked at Howell.

  “Aren’t you John Howell?” he asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “Recognized you from your picture in the paper. I’m Bo Scully. I used to read your stuff in the Constitution.” He stuck out his hand. “I liked it,” he grinned, “most of the time.”

  “Most o
f the time ain’t bad,” Howell laughed, taking the man’s hand. “That’s more often than my editors liked it.”

  “How come I don’t see your column any more?”

  “Oh, I left the paper a couple of years ago. I’m staying out at Denham White’s place for a few weeks, working on a book.“

  “Well, that’s a right nice place out there; nice view,” Scully said. “Say, I was just going across the street to Bubba’s for a cup of coffee. Join me? Benny’ll park the car for you.”

  Howell shrugged. “Sure. I could use a sandwich, too. Missed lunch.”

  “Bubba will feed you,” Scully said, starting across the street. He was a big man, six three or four, Howell reckoned, with the musculature of an ex-athlete, fading red hair with a touch of gray; an open, freckled, Irish-looking face; probably in his mid-forties. Howell came up to his shoulder. Scully ushered him into the cafe. “Bubba, this is John Howell, you remember, the columnist for the Constitution?” Bubba waved from behind the counter. “Fix him one of your best cheeseburgers. How you like it, John?”

  “Medium is fine.” Howell heard a loud click and looked toward the back of the place where a couple of men were moving around a pool table. Howell had followed up stories in a hundred places like this in little towns across the south. It smelled of chili and stale cigarette smoke. The church-going people of the town would think it was a fairly disreputable place, but a man could get a cold beer here, and Howell liked it.

  “Medium, Bubba, and two cups… could you use a beer, John?”

  “Sure.”

  “A beer and one cup of coffee and a beer. I’m working this afternoon.” He showed Howell to a booth. “So, what sort of book brings you up this way?”

  Howell told him what he had told Sutherland.

  “A novel, huh? Guess you don’t want to talk about what it’s about.”

  “Not yet, I guess. How many people live in Sutherland, anyway?”

  “Oh, round about four thousand, now, I guess, what with the new hair curler factory that opened up this spring.”

  “Much industry?”

  “Much as Mr. Sutherland wants.”

  “He decides that sort of thing?”

  “He decides pretty much what he wants to. Mr. Sutherland is responsible for the prosperity we’ve got here.”

  “You mean the lake, the tourists it brings?”

  Bo Scully chuckled. “Tourists are just about the last thing Mr. Sutherland wants. They’re noisy, dirty. There’s a public beach way down the other end by the fish camp, but that’s it. The power company owns the whole lake shore and leases lots to those folks Mr. Sutherland feels are all right.”

  “Then what’s the source of the prosperity?”

  “The dam. That was built with Sutherland family money, and it’s owned by Sutherland Power. They wholesale the electricity to the Georgia Power Company, which brings in a bunch of money, you can bet your ass.”

  “I can see how it would,” Howell replied.

  “The nice part for the town is that Sutherland Power sells electricity dirt cheap, locally. With what’s happened to fuel prices since the Arabs got mean, you can imagine what a magnet that would be for industry to come in here.”

  “That must be why the supermarket sells so many electric heaters.”

  “You bet. There’s not a gas stove or furnace in the town. Most folks have got heat pumps and electric furnaces, and those who don’t use electric room heaters. It wouldn’t even pay to chop your own wood around here, unless you’re just a romantic who likes to gaze into a fire.”

  “Speaking of chopping wood, you know anybody I could get to stock up the cabin?”

  “Sure, ol‘ Benny, across at the gas station’ll do it. He’s got a chain saw, picks up a few bucks cutting Wood for the summer folks. Up here, it can get pretty chilly at night, even in July.”

  “Great. So what industries do you have locally?”

  “Well, like I said, there’s the new hair curler factory, and there’s a brassiere factory, and we’ve got a big plant that manufactures plywood, too.”

  “That’s it? With the cheap power, I’d have thought you’d be crawling with industry.”

  “Like I said, Mr. Sutherland makes those decisions. He only lets new business in when he’s ready to develop a new section of town, and he’s pretty choosy about what he lets in. Last year one of the girlie magazines wanted to open up a big printing plant down here, but Mr. Sutherland wouldn’t have it. He’s got a puritan streak, he has, although he’ll take a drink. Throws a big party out at his place every fall and serves booze. We’re a wet town, too; man can get a drink – not a mixed drink, mind you, but a bottle.”

  Thank God for small mercies, Howell thought. “How long has the lake been here?” Howell asked.

  “They started the dam after World War II, as soon as they could get materials again. Filled it up in’52.”

  “Looks older than that.”

  “It does, doesn’t it? But we’ve got clear mountain water feeding it, you know, not your muddy Chattahoochee. I think the mountains help, too. It was a deep little valley before the lake.”

  “What was in the valley before?”

  “Just farms, a few houses, a country school, a church. The town of Sutherland hardly existed. It’s mostly been built since, because of the lake. The lake has been a grand thing for us. We’re grateful to it every day, I can tell you.”

  “Did Sutherland have any problems putting the land together when he built the dam?” Scully’s reaction made Howell think he had hit a nerve.

  Scully looked down into his coffee and took a deep breath. “Oh, there’s always a few malcontents in a case like that, I guess. Folks were well compensated for their land, though. Got better’n market value.” He looked up at Howell. “Don’t let anybody tell you different.”

  Howell wondered if they had been compensated at anything like the rate that Eric Sutherland had been for the use to which he had put their land. Since Scully seemed uncomfortable with the subject, Howell changed it. “You look like you might have played some football, Bo.”

  “Oh, yeah,” the big man replied, smiling again. “I played in high school, and I played two years down at Georgia for old Wally Butts. Made all-conference my sophomore year.”

  “What happened? Get hurt?”

  “Flunked out.” He grinned ruefully. “Not even Wally Butts could save me. That was in ‘50. Korea was happening. They were about to draft me, anyway, so I joined the Marines.”

  “Action?”

  “Oh, sure. There was plenty of that to go around.”

  “You came out in one piece, though.”

  “Well, I got my Purple Heart. Didn’t pay too dearly for it, though. I’ll tell you the truth, it was worth it to get out of there. Police action, my ass. They should’ve sent cops.” Scully glanced at his watch and made to get up.

  Howell suddenly didn’t want him to go. He needed the company, the conversation; he didn’t want to go back to that cabin and be alone. “What do you do with yourself, Bo?” he asked, willing the man to stay a little longer.

  “Oh, I’m the sheriff,” Bo Scully said, laughing and getting to his feet. “Better keep your nose clean, boy, or I’ll put you under the jail.” He punched Howell playfully on the shoulder. “Well, I’ve got half the county to cover. I’ll see you around, I ‘spect. Bubba, put John’s lunch on my tab.” Then he was gone.

  Howell sat there, trying to raise enough energy to move. He wondered if Eric Sutherland ran the sheriff like he ran everything else. Eric Sutherland seemed like the sort of man who, if you got in his way, would put you not just under the jail, but, as Benny Pope would have put it, under the lake.

  Howell went back to collect his car. As he paid for his gas, he asked Benny Pope about the firewood. “Sure,” Benny said. “I’ll run out there on Sunday, if that’s soon enough. I don’t get off here until seven on weekdays, and I ain’t about to get caught out at the cove after dark.”

  Howell was about to as
k why not when Benny almost snapped to attention. “Afternoon to you, Father,” he said over Howell’s shoulder. Howell turned to see a peculiar sight in a small Georgia town; a Catholic priest, and a very old one, at that.

  “God bless you, my son,” the priest said to Benny, making the sign of the cross, then he continued walking down the street, a little unsteadily, Howell thought. Surely there couldn’t be enough Catholics in Sutherland to warrant a full-time priest, and enough for him to worry about to get him looped this early in the day, he thought as he got back into the car.

  It had been clouding up all afternoon, and before he could get back to the cabin it began to rain heavily. He got soaked trying to unload the groceries during a lull in the thunderstorm. That night, he ate a can of spaghetti, staring disconsolately into a fire of his only three logs, and washed his dinner down with a bottle of California burgundy. He sat, listening to the rain on the roof. He felt not just cold, but as if he would never be warm again. He had relentlessly painted himself into this corner, leaving first his work, then his wife and home. He had used up what life had given him, spent his good fortune in a profligate way. He had not been able to preserve anything that was important to him, not even his self respect; he had sold that to Lurton Pitts cheaply. Now he had imprisoned himself here in this shabby place, and he knew no one was coming to get him out. He got well into a bottle of Jack Daniel’s before passing out on the sofa, alone with his terrible self-pity.

  In the middle of the night Howell jerked awake, ran to the bathroom and retched until he was too weak to rise from his knees. He sprawled on the linoleum floor, his cheek pressed against the cold porcelain of the toilet, still drunk, still sick, and shivering with cold. He tried not to think. That was the trick, he said to himself, struggling to his feet and leaning heavily against the wall, no thinking.

  He shuffled out of the bathroom, through the living room, toward the kitchen. Don’t think about the girls you’ve screwed, don’t think about your wife; don’t think about the work and the glory; don’t think back, don’t think forward; don’t think about God or what’s waiting; don’t think at all. He noticed vaguely that it was still raining outside. Don’t think about the rain. He made it to the kitchen and flipped the light switch. Nothing happened. Power failure. He ripped back the curtain and found the cold steel, found the box of fire and lead. He bruised a shoulder on the kitchen door jamb in the darkness, dropped the shotgun, picked it up again, got to the living room.