The Madhatter's Guide To Chocolate

by Rhett DeVane

  The monologue continued until I grew hoarse and couldn’t dredge up even one more silly Chattahoochee anecdote.

  By 4:00 PM, the room was quiet except for the low drone of the overhead mounted television. Jake slept peacefully, though he twitched and moaned a few times. To pass the time, I imagined the community of my hometown as a living organism—perhaps, one big cell. Elvina was the cell wall. Everything coming in or leaving had to pass by her. The nucleus consisted of the older generation, such as Piddie, who protected the history of the community. The younger people were in charge of the future: cell division and the movement of the group forward. All the workers supplied the organism with energy, protected it, helped it communicate, repaired the tears, and removed waste: firefighters, police, city utility workers, sanitation, phone service, health workers, food service, and government.

  I drifted off to sleep.

  “Am I in heaven?” Jake mumbled.

  I jerked awake and lunged toward the bed. “Jake?”

  He opened his eyes and struggled to focus. “I must be in heaven, ’cause Oprah’s on, and I love me some Oprah!”

  Relief washed over me, and I laughed.

  Jake reached for my hand. “Dorothy, we’re not in Oz anymore, are we?” He looked around the room. “If we are, then I must be the Wicked Witch and someone just dropped a farmhouse on my head.” He tried to reach up to touch his face.

  “Easy, Jake. You’ve got all these IVs and monitor wires attached.”

  “How long…?”

  “Two days, close to three. Jake, do you recall what happened to you?”

  He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. “Last thing I remember, I was going into the back of the shop. Something hit me from behind.” His brow furrowed.

  “Jake, I’ve got to go let someone know you’re awake.” I stepped outside long enough to tell Kelly to call the nurse and contact the FDLE investigator.

  The shift-charge nurse bustled into the room, checked Jake’s vital signs, chirped as if she had just won the lottery, and hustled away to inform the doctor. In a matter of minutes, Investigator Tom Watkins bustled into the room with an assistant carrying a video camera bag. We waited for half an hour for Lt. Harrison from Chattahoochee PD to arrive.

  The local investigator’s temple pulsed as he alternately clenched and relaxed his jaw. A nondescript black suit, white shirt, and dark gray tie, along with his stern demeanor added to the air of authority he wore like a tight-fitting second skin. “Mr. Witherspoon. I must apologize for having to question you so soon after your return to consciousness. However, it is important for us to get a statement from you as soon as possible.”

  “I’m starting to remember a little bit. It’s kind of fuzzy.”

  When the video camera and microphones were in place, the investigator began. “I am Lt. Bill Harrison of Chattahoochee Police Department, along with Florida Department of Law Enforcement Investigator Tom Watkins. It is 5:45 PM, July 7th. I am speaking with Jake Witherspoon from Tallahassee Memorial Hospital Room 4411. Mr. Witherspoon, please tell in your own words what you recall of the events of the evening of July 4th, 1997.”

  “I was taking some flower stands out to the delivery van behind the shop. I came back in through the alley door and something hit me over the head.” Jake’s brow furrowed. He closed his eyes. “The smell of water…I remember the smell of water...” He was silent for a minute. “Some kind of gun blast or, like, cannon fire close-by.”

  Jake opened his eyes. “I couldn’t focus.” He squinted as if trying to see into the darkness of his memory. “My hands were tied. It was hard to breathe…they were fastened to something above my head.”

  He shook his head and wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Some kind of fishy, foul rag was stuffed in my mouth.” He took a deep breath and swallowed. “There was a figure in front of me.” He pointed toward the wall. “There, just a few feet ahead of me. Pacing back and forth…stumbling.”

  He looked down. “The person was muttering…a word I could catch every now and then.”

  Jake shook his head. “Daddy…he kept saying daddy over and over.”

  He pursed his swollen lips. “He was talking as if someone else was there…I strained to see another person.”

  Jake breathed faster. I held his hand. “He had a stick…or bat…something in his hand.” Jake’s hand squeezed mine hard. “He’s walking toward me…I can see his eyes.”

  He stopped and hung his head. “Oh, sweet Jesus, his eyes! All glassed over and…evil!”

  Jake’s speech quickened. “My heart—hammering. He saw me looking at him. And he screamed!” He squeezed his eyes shut. “It was the most awful sound I’ve ever heard… Oh my God, I’m going to die!” He dissolved into deep, racking sobs.

  I climbed onto the side of the bed and held him as he shook. Finally, he stopped and looked at the investigators.

  “Can you continue?” Lt. Harrison asked.

  Jake nodded. “He reared back and hit my leg with the object in his hand—maybe a bat? Excruciating pain and the bile rose in my throat…trying not to choke, trying to breath through it.” Jake shrugged. “I must’ve blacked out. Then, I heard Oprah’s voice.” He looked over at me. “And I saw Hattie’s face.”

  “Can you identify your attacker?” Tom Watkins asked.

  “It was one of the boys who came in the shop a few times. Just loitered around a bit, then left. I used to call them—oh, what was it!”

  Lt. Harrison leaned closer. “Take your time, Mr. Witherspoon.”

  “One of them was a little older, and he lorded over the younger one. They looked like brothers. I called them Matt Dillion and Festus, like on Gunsmoke.”

  Jake nodded. “His name—Marshall. Marshall Thurgood.”

  I sat with Jake, relishing the silence in the aftermath of the harrowing interview.

  He pinched his eyes shut and winced.

  “Let me call the nurse and see about getting you something for pain.”

  “Sister-girl.” He grunted. “I’ve been back in the world less than three hours and you want to put me out again!”

  “No, Jake, I…”

  Jake held up his hand. “I know what you’re trying to do. It’s kinda good in a bizarre sort of way to feel every part of my body—even if it’s pain. It reminds me that I am alive.” He moaned. “I sure could go for one of your lovely full body deep tissue massages.”

  I looked him over. Very little area was not covered in bruises, snaked with wires and tubing, or wrapped in bandages. “Your left foot! It’s the only thing not covered. I can do some reflexology! That would make your whole body feel better, and it wouldn’t hurt anything!”

  Jake moaned. “Lordy, yes! Ask Nurse Nancy for some lotion. I’m sure they’ll add $30.00 to my bill, but I really don’t care at this point.”

  I rummaged in my purse. “I have a sample of massage cream in here somewhere…Ah-hah!” I held the small plastic container up like a trophy.

  “Sister-girl, we need to get you onto Let’s Make a Deal! I’m sure there’s nothing Monte Hall could ask for that you don’t have somewhere in that bottomless pit you call a purse. You hidin’ a couple of hard-boiled eggs in there, too?”

  “No, but…I do have half of an energy bar.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Like I said!”

  I sat at the end of his bed and gently started to work the pressure points on the bottom of his left foot.

  He flinched.

  I stopped. “Am I hurting you?”

  “No, no. It’s not you, my right leg’s doing a cha-cha under the splint.”

  He closed his eyes and fell silent for a few moments, releasing himself into the pleasure of the foot rub.

  “Sister-girl, tell me what happened.”

  “Jake, haven’t you been through enough for today?”

  “There’s no way I could feel any worse. I have to understand. You are my eyes and ears.” His boyish face was marred by purple-black bruises and slashes of tape. My soul felt as if it wa
s crumbling under a weight of tremendous sadness. “Why would Marshall Thurgood do this to me? I’ve never tried to hurt anyone, at least consciously, in my whole life! Why me?”

  “Jake, I…”

  “Please, Hattie.” He closed his eyes again. Tears glistened on the tips of his eyelashes.

  As I continued to massage his foot, I unfolded the story of what I knew of the attack—my arrival at the shop, the trip to the ER, his surgery, the hours of worried vigil by his bed, and the extent of his wounds. Then, I recounted Thomas Thurgood’s visit.

  The slight whir of the electric wall clock accompanied the silence.

  “Could you get the nurse, now?” He asked in a soft voice. “I think I will take you up on the pain medicine.”

  Excerpt from Max the Madhatter’s notebook, July 23, 1958

  I stepped on a fire ant hill. The ants boiled out of the top, raging mad. I got bitten so many times, my feet swelled up twice their size. Can’t blame them. They were just being ants.

  Chapter Twelve

  HORNET’S NEST

  News of any kind, especially bad news, travels through a close-knit community like telepathy. When a few folks saw a Gadsden County Sheriff’s Office cruiser pull away with Matt Thurgood riding in the seat reserved for criminals, it struck like a bolt of lightening. Where Matt was involved, that bully cousin of his was often leading or somewhere close behind with a cattle prod. Even before word of the wide scale manhunt was officially released, Chattahoochee residents suspected the worst—one of their own had committed the unspeakable crime.

  I washed my bowl in the sink, and helped myself to a coffee refill. “Thanks for the cereal, Evelyn. I was just going to get something later on. God knows, the milk at the house is probably sour by now.”

  Evelyn smiled. “Glad to help out, Hattie. You heading back on over to the hospital now?”

  I rolled my eyes. “As frivolous as it sounds, I’m actually going up to see if Mandy can squeeze me in for a trim.”

  Piddie, Evelyn, and Joe stared at me.

  I cocked my head and shrugged. “Jake insisted. He said if you don’t get that mop of stringy hair cut, don’t bother coming back!”

  Piddie chuckled. “That boy’s going to be okay.”

  “So, after I take care of that, I’ll stop by the Hill on the way out and gather some fresh pajamas. He’s mortified someone will pass judgment on his delightful hospital gown.”

  The phone jangled and Piddie picked it up before the second ring.

  Piddie clapped the phone headset on the table. “That was Elvina Houston. She says the Thurgood boy, Matt, just turned hisself in at the police station.”

  Evelyn looked up from the cookbook she was studying: You Can Cook Thai!

  “Matt Thurgood? Thomas and Lottie’s son? He’s such a nice young man! I can’t fathom him doing such a thing!”

  “Elvina didn’t have all the details yet. Seems they’re lookin’ for Matt’s double first cousin, Marshall,” Piddie said.

  Joe shook his head. “Now, there’s one troubled young man.”

  “I told Elvina to snoop and call me as soon as she finds out anything new.”

  Evelyn squinted at Piddie over the rim of her reading glasses. “Mama, just yesterday you were saying ‘she wears me out’!”

  Piddie huffed. “She does wear me out! But, I’m not able anymore to go sniffin’ around on my own. I gotta turn that over to the younger generation, and Elvina seems to be naturally inclined toward surveillance.”

  Piddie checked the clock on the counter. “Evelyn, you better get a move on if you expect us to make our appointment at the Cut ’n’ Curl!”

  “We got time! It’s only a minute away from here! Besides, I gotta wash my hair before we go.”

  “You beat all I’ve ever seen. Washin’ your head before you go pay someone to do it for you is the silliest thing I’ve ever heard! That’d be like cleaning the house before the maid comes!”

  Evelyn walked out of the kitchen. “I’ll not be seen out of this house with dirty hair!” she called over her shoulder.

  “Well, you better hurry up! Mandy’s got a new shade of nail polish for me.” Piddie held out her hands. “It’s called Kiss of the Harlot red!”

  Evelyn snorted back into the kitchen. “Mama, why on earth do you have to wear such whorish colors! When are you going to start actin’ your age?”

  Piddie stared a hole in her prudish daughter. “Red, for your information, little Miss Smarty Pants, is a royal color of queens and kings! And, I’ll wear it painted on my bare behind and sashay down Washington Street if you don’t hush!”

  I ducked my head and stifled a snicker.

  “Is it safe for me to leave you two to go to the bank?” Joe asked.

  Neither woman said a word.

  I patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Joe. I’ll be here for a bit.”

  Joe shook his head. “Actually, Evelyn, it’s pretty wild out there with the media in town, and all the traffic. Y’all may want to allow yourself some extra time so you don’t miss your slot.”

  The standoff ended, and Evelyn disappeared into her bathroom. Joe gathered his billfold and checkbook and left for town. A few minutes passed before we heard a loud argument on the front lawn. Piddie picked her way to the front picture window and looked outside. A group of strange men stood facing a nice-looking young fellow dressed in a suit. The group’s leader was scarlet red in the face, yelling at the top of his lungs.

  Piddie swung the front door open. “Hear, hear!” she called. “What’s the fuss?”

  The group turned to see an elderly, lavender-haired woman in a bright red housedress clumping down the concrete walkway with a walker.

  “What do y’all mean, standin’ out here on our property shoutin’ loud enough to raise the dead?!” Piddie’s blue eyes flared like crystals.

  The handsome young gentleman in the tailored sport coat spoke first. “My apologies, Mrs...”

  “Longman. Piddie Longman,” she said.

  I watched from the porch as the tall, handsome man with swarthy features approached my aunt. “Mrs. Longman, I was just coming to see if your family would grant me the pleasure of an interview, when I seem to have somehow offended these men by refusing to back down to their insults. They were hurtling words not suitable for a lady—at your house. Seems as if the local hate group militia have stumbled upon your home as the residence of friends of Jake Witherspoon.” He pointed toward a stack of hand-lettered poster boards affixed to wooden stakes. “They were attempting to plant these anti-gay signs in your front yard when I interrupted them.”

  The pimply red-faced leader of the small group spewed obscenities.

  Piddie picked up her walker and swung it through the air. “Lissen here!” she shouted. “You can pack your filthy potty mouth and mutt-ugly buddies back in that rat-trap truck and head on back up town. There ain’t any cameras here to help you end up on the national evenin’ news. And, that’s what you’re after, am I right?”

  The greasy-haired leader started to speak.

  “Git!” Piddie punched the air with the walker turned battle-ax.

  The five men grumbled under their breaths as they piled back into the truck and peeled off toward town.

  She aimed a diamond encrusted finger toward the astonished man standing beside the driveway. “Now, as for you—come with me.” She turned and made her way toward the house.

  Clad in a lavender chenille housecoat and matching fuzzy house slippers, Evelyn rushed into the kitchen, leaning over to towel her wet hair. “Five minutes, Mama. Give me five minutes and I can be ready to leave.” She looked up to see me, her mother, and an attractive stranger being obviously chummy over coffee.

  Piddie gestured. “This is my daughter, Evelyn. She looks better when she dresses right.”

  The color drained from Evelyn’s face. She modestly grabbed the front of her robe where it had gaped open. “Mama? Who…who’s this man?”

  Piddie smiled. “This happens to
be Mr. Holston Lewis, a writer all the way from New York City, here to do a background interview about our lovely Hattie and the shop.” Piddie smiled adoringly in Holston’s direction. “The three of us have just been sittin’ here gettin’ acquainted.”

  Holston stood to leave. “Mrs. Longman, Hattie, you’ve been most enchanting. And, Mrs. Evelyn, pleasure to meet you. Hattie, may I come by in a few days after Mr. Witherspoon is released from the hospital?”

  I shrugged. Words stuck and hung in my mouth.

  The skin around his blue eyes crinkled when he smiled. “I’ll leave you now so that you can make your appointments on time. I will look forward to seeing you, Mrs. Piddie, and you, Mrs. Evelyn in the future. Please forgive me if I have interrupted your morning.”

  Evelyn blushed. “Of course you didn’t bother us, not one little bit. If I’d have known you were out here, I would’ve offered you a piece of homemade sour cream cake to go along with your coffee.”

  “You better get out while you can, Holston. Evelyn’s killed stronger men than you with her pound cake.”

  Evelyn glared at her mother, and then smiled in Holston’s direction. “Please, do stop by again. I’m sure Hattie will grant you an interview as soon as things settle down, and anything we can add; we’ll be happy to help you out.”

  The two women stood side-by-side at the front door and watched Holston leave. I hung back slightly, peeking from one corner of the window sheers.