by Mac Flynn
Chapter 2
The paperwork took a couple of weeks, but in a month I found myself on the road toward my new home. The cabin lay far in the mountains on a particular one named Big Bear Mountain, and the state road went only to the foot of that mountain. At the foot lay a long stretch of beautiful flat meadow land filled with fields of hay and livestock. It was two months into autumn when I went up to inspect and move into my new abode. It wasn't the smartest move to buy a property I hadn't seen in fifteen years, but I figured with enough You-tube self-help videos I could fix the place up.
I know, I'm an optimistic idiot.
I rolled down my window and slowed my car to smell the fresh scent of the newly cut hay. It was like the smell of cut lawn, but sweeter and stronger. The mooing of cows mixed with the neighing of horses, and here and there an old farmhouse dotted the land with their short gravel driveways leading off the paved highway. I was surprised by how little had changed. It was refreshing to see so many familiar sights without the usual intrusion of modernity or change.
The mountain and my home towered in front of me and I was eager to reach the place before mid-afternoon, but I was low on gas and the last chance to get any was at a small general store at the bottom of the mountain. I pulled the car over, shoved the gas nozzle into the tank, and turned to the general store. It was a single-story, wide-and-deep, log-hewn construction. Gray chink filled the gaps between the twenty-inch wooden thick logs, and large windows looked out on the small gravel parking lot and the highway. The store stood on a tall foundation and steps led up to a porch that wrapped clear around the building. Facing the store you could see a tall chimney peeking out the left side of the roof about halfway along the building. Its filling station consisted of one pump with two nozzles, one for gasoline and the other for diesel. The diesel handle looked more used than the gasoline handle.
The click of the nozzle told me my tank had reached its fill on my Subaru and I moved the car to the front of the store beside a truck that looked like it saw better days about twenty years before I was born. The tailgate was missing, there were more dents in its sides than a hockey player after a particularly rough game, and the paint peeled before my eyes. I carefully stepped around the truck, fearing it would fall apart if I brushed against it, and climbed the stairs.
Inside the store a bell rang above the door and I was greeted by the rustic smells of aged wood and dried foodstuff. There were eight aisles filled with canned and dried food, and the walls were covered with shelves of fishing and hunting supplies. Straight ahead opposite the door was the checkout counter, and on the wall behind that was a large collection of antique guns and mounted heads of local animals like black bears and cougars.
Behind the counter stood a woman of about forty, and in front of the counter was a pair of creatures I would describe as woodsman if I wanted to insult woodsman. They were about the same height and each sported a beard that would put Santa to shame. Their long brown hair was slick with grease and pulled into ponytails that ran down their backs. Their clothes were army-gear colored pants with green vests over dark, buttoned shirts. They wore thick, black army boots and were covered in filthy up to their hips.
Their age was hard to figure out, but I guessed they were in their late thirties. Their similar thin-faced, ragged features with narrow, dark eyes told me they were related. Either they were brothers or there was some incest in the family. I figured they were some of my new neighbors, but I couldn't get any closer to them because of their smell. It smelled like they'd made love to a skunk who hadn't appreciated the amorous attention. My experience in the city told me they were hiding something, and the yellowing on their teeth said it wasn't apples and oranges. They dealt in some strong drugs and partook more than they should.
The woman on the other side of the counter was tense and I imagined she didn't appreciate the smell any more than I did. "I'm telling you for the fiftieth time I don't carry that kind of stuff," she told them.
"And ya can't even get it on that internet thingy?" one of the men drawled. The other chewed on something, and by the black color of his teeth I guessed it was tobacco.
If these were my neighbors, my life living alone in the woods suddenly wasn't a very good idea.
"Listen, Clyde. If you want to get some of those hydroponic stuff that's your business, but I won't help you along with it," the woman insisted.
Clyde sneered at her and turned to the other man. "Come on, Clem. Looks like our money ain't wanted."
The woman snorted. "I'd like to see what would happen if either of you two you went into town. I'm pretty sure the sheriff was wanting a word with you about some illegal trapping."
"Maybe we'll come back or maybe we won't," Clyde warned her. The two men turned away from the counter and stomped down the center aisle.
I jumped out of their way into a side aisle and Clyde marched past, but Clem glanced at me and paused. He stopped his chewing and gave me a big, tar-stained grin. "Hello there," he greeted.
"Clem, stop harassing my customers!" the woman yelled.
Clem's grin fell off his face and his eyes flickered over to the woman. They weren't full of sunshine and rainbows. He turned away, cast a rather feral look at me, and followed his relative out the door. I breathed a sigh of relief, and of fresh air. Their odor left with them.
The woman leaned over the counter and smiled at me. "Sorry you had to see me in my tough mood. I don't act like that to all my customers."
A derisive snort came from a far corner of the store. "They got what's coming to them," the voice of an old man argued.
The woman looked to her right and scowled at the speaker. "And you weren't much help."
"You don't need any help," the person argued.
I strode up to the counter and followed the woman's gaze. In the corner stood a large, potbelly wood stove with the pipe I'd seen outside. Beside the stove sat a man of about sixty-five in a wooden chair. He had a grin on his face and a twinkle in his eyes. In his hand was a pipe he occasionally puffed on.
"My name's Agnes Arbuckle, and I'm the manager of this store," the woman introduced herself. She gestured with one hand to the man. "This is my father Abner. He's the owner."
Abner bowed his head to me. "Howdy," he greeted me.
"Hi. I was looking to get some supplies," I replied.
Agnes scrutinized my appearance. "You must be the girl who bought the part of the old Johnson place near the spring."
I sheepishly grinned and glanced down at myself. I wore a pair of old jeans and a simple blouse. "Do I look that city-folkish?" I asked her.
She smiled and shook her head. "Nope, but it's too late in the season for campers and you don't look the type that any of those snooty folks would be inviting to their big places. That, and Mr. Johnson also phoned and told us he'd sold it to a young girl and she'd be coming up soon."
"Snooty people?" I repeated.
The old man took a puff on his pipe and quickly blew a puff of smoke into the air. "Aye. The rich folk couldn't get a hold of the fine land down in the valley here so they bought up most of the forest on Wolf's Mountain."
I furrowed my brow. "Wolf's Mountain? Where's that?"
"That's what the locals call the mountain where your property is. You can tell how long someone's been here by what they call the mountain, Big Bear or Wolf, though there hasn't been a wolf seen up there in a coon's age," Agnes explained.
"Those city-folks put them big cabin houses where there used to be some find woods of trees," Abner continued. "Ruined a lot of good forests making their muddy driveways, too."
"It's their land, Dad," Agnes reminded him.
He sneered, opened the door to the belly, and emptied the contents of his pipe into the burning ashes and logs. "Don't mean they can come in here and put up their No Hunting signs like they've always owned the places. Damn interlopers, I say, and bah to them!" He refilled his pipe and clamped his teeth tight on th
e mouth.
"That attitude is why I'm running the place," Agnes reminded him. He merely turned away and crossed his arms over his chest. She rolled her eyes and turned back to me. "Though speaking of land, what do you plan on doing with the Johnson place?"
I shrugged. "Probably leave it like it is. I was here fifteen years ago with my folks and thought it was perfect then."
Agnes paused and gave me another look-over. "What did you say your name was again?"
"I didn't, but it's Christina Monet," I told her.
Her eyes widened, and so did her smile. "My gosh, are you that little girl that came here for those few weeks and named the pond up there Froggy Pond?"
I blushed and wished I could shrink into my clothes. "That would be me," I reluctantly confirmed.
Agnes slapped the counter and let out a guffaw. "I remember when you were knee-high to me, and now look at you! A pretty young woman and come back to take that pretty place for your own!" She turned to her father who had an eyebrow raised and gave me with the same careful gaze. "You remember her, dad, the young girl who you practically gave all our candy to."
His mouth slip into a wide grin and he nodded. "Yep, she was a sneaky one with them big brown eyes. Is that how you wrestled the property from old Johnson?"
I laughed. "No, but he was pretty glad to hear it was going to someone who liked it just the way it was. I think that's why he sold it to me."
"Well, you might want to do some changes to the house. It could use a little fixing last I saw it a few years ago," Agnes advised me.
I cringed. "That bad?"
She laughed and waved off my concerns. "Not so bad you can't live in it, but the roof is a little leaky and the place could use a woman's touch. Johnson mostly used it as a hunting lodge so it didn't get many women up there."
I turned around at the aisles of stuff. There was a full aisle of cleaning supplies. "So you're saying I need to buy all your cleaning supplies?" I teased.
"At least the basics, and maybe you need to find yourself a handyman for the roof. I know a good one around where you live," she added.
I looked back to her and shook my head. "I'm going to try to do as much as I can on my own and go from there. Otherwise how am I going to learn?"
"You're going to learn the hard way doing that," Agnes scolded me. "That is, unless you're one of the few young folks around who know how to fix up places. Swappers, or whatever they call them. You do stuff like that?"
"No, my line is more in the bullshit variety," I admitted.
She snorted. "You'll find plenty to do with that. Lots of folks still farm around here and there's a lot of selling and buying going on. Of course, there's always the trading of bullshit, but Dad's the one who would know more about that than me."
"You just don't know what's interesting," Abner argued.
"But anyway, if you need a handyman, I know where to find you one," Agnes continued.
I smiled. "If I find it's too much then I'll go see your handyman. Deal?"
Agnes leaned away from me and shook her head. "All right, but it's going to be tough. You'll need all the luck and all the supplies I have here, and then some because I don't carry any boards."
"Then I'll take all the nails you've got and a hammer, and start from there," I told her.
Agnes nodded at an aisle behind me. "Aisle Three, and you got enough food to last you a few weeks?" she asked me.
"Only about three days. I was going to buy more when I got closer to the house," I replied as I wandered to the hardware aisle.
She clacked her tongue. "You'll need at least two weeks. The power goes out up there at least once a year."
Abner chuckled. "And no amount of complaining from them fancy new folks has stopped the trees from falling on them lines."
"Dad, why don't you behave and go get a few boxes from the back for Miss Monet? She's going to need a lot of food," Agnes ordered him.
He stood and bowed his head, but the grin didn't slip from his face. "I'll be back in a jiffy," he promised, and tottered off around the counter and through the door behind the register.
Agnes stepped around the counter and joined me one aisle down in the foodstuff. There was the clank of cans as she took them off the shelf and set them on the ground. I hoped she didn't expect me to buy out the store on my little cash. "I hope you don't mind what Dad's been saying about the new folks," she spoke up.
"No. To be honest, I was kind of glad so little had changed along the highway," I admitted.
"And to be fair not much has changed on the mountain, but Dad doesn't like it that some of those houses stand on the best hunting ground and the owners won't allow anyone to even drive down their driveways without being invited," she explained.
"Well, you two are invited to Froggy Pond whenever you want, no appointment needed," I told her.
"You know, Froggy Pond wouldn't be a bad name for the new place. It's a sight more accurate than some of the other names for those driveways," she mused.
I paused in my nail-gathering and glanced over the shelving at her. "What are those?"
She smiled. "Oh, the usual. Grizzly Falls without a water or grizzly, or Fish Lake when it has neither. Those sorts of names."
I laughed. "Then maybe I should name it Froggy Lake."
She stood and playfully glared at me. "Don't you dare, Miss Monet."
"You can call me Chrissy, and I won't dare," I promised her.
Agnes gave a nod and a grin. "Good. Now let's get you packed and ready for your new home."
Abner returned from the back room with cardboard boxes, and we loaded them full of the nails, food, and my new hammer. Agnes rang me up, the price was right, and in a half hour I was back on the road with my two new friends receding in my rear-view mirror. The mountain and my new future lay ahead of me.
