The Madhatter's Guide To Chocolate

by Rhett DeVane

  Bobby helped Jake onto the bench seat of John and Margie’s ATV, leaving Leigh and me to follow on foot. When we reached the pond, Bobby carried Jake in his arms and negotiated the steep, grassy steps.

  “Ewwww…” Jake pinched Bobby’s biceps. “You’re such a strong man!”

  Bobby nearly lost his balance. “Careful, Princess, I’ll chunk you right down this hill into the water!”

  “Don’t worry, Bobby-boy. You’re not my type,” Jake said with a wicked grin.

  Leigh and I chuckled as we hopped down the steps behind them.

  The oppressive heat of the summer day began to break, and a cool stillness descended on the woods. Occasionally, the snap of a twig in the underbrush behind the dam broke the serenity. Soon, the deep bass croaks of the bullfrogs and the higher chirps of the peepers would reverberate around the water’s edge.

  “Miz Evelyn’s frittata looked—interesting,” Leigh said.

  Jake laughed. “I’m pretty sure that color doesn’t exist in nature.”

  I nodded. “Piddie pulled me aside and warned me not to dare touch it. Evelyn got the recipe from her new cookbook, Channeled Recipes for Cosmic Healing. Piddie said it had one of those triangular-headed, bug-eyed green guys on the front cover.”

  We shared a chuckle.

  “I sniffed it,” Leigh said. Her tanned nose crinkled. “I picked up the scent of curry—and, maybe mint? And, something else I couldn’t identify.”

  I held up both hands. “Being a child of the ’70s, and somewhat familiar with this—not that I ever partook, mind you. But, I could swear the crumpled brown herb under the top layer of cheese was marijuana!”

  Jake, Leigh, and Bobby regarded me with wide eyes.

  I added. “That is—if I didn’t know Evelyn the way I do. She’d die before she broke the law. She’s such a rule-abiding sphincter queen; she wouldn’t sleep nights if she didn’t return a shopping cart to its corral in the parking lot at Wal-Mart!”

  Jake nodded. “Say what you will about Evelyn, but she and Piddie have been so good to me. Piddie was my savior while I was laid up in the hospital. She smuggled food in to me every time they came over. Evelyn always checked with the nurses to make sure I could have it, of course.”

  Jake rested his gaze on the still water of the one-acre fishpond. “I wish I could recuperate out here instead of uptown.”

  “I know you do, Jake, but I’m going to be staying some in Tallahassee starting next week. My massage clients over there think I’ve deserted them. It wouldn’t be good for you to be out here on the Hill alone. Sure, Margie and John are fairly close by, but it still wouldn’t be a good idea.”

  “What about the kids?” he asked.

  “Margie has volunteered to feed Spam and Shammie for the few days I’ll be gone,” I said. “I’ll pick you up as soon as I get home on Wednesday evening.”

  Leigh smiled and patted Jake on the back. Her dark blue eyes twinkled. “I can come by and drag you out of the house after I get off from work. We’ll find something to get into.”

  “And, it’ll be only for a few weeks until you have a walking splint on your leg,” I added.

  Jake sighed. “All right. I’m going to start ordering for the shop next week. Mrs. Tamara Johnson’s son, Harrison, wants a job as the delivery person until school starts back. I’ll have to hire someone to help with the sweet shop customers. I want to go back to work as soon as I can. I can hobble around and do my flowers!”

  Bobby chewed on a sprig of grass. “I could run you to work in the morning on my way out until you can drive again.”

  “See…it’ll all work out,” I said. “You know Evelyn and Joe will pitch in, too.”

  Leigh grinned. “Piddie told me she’s going to be overseeing the cooking so you don’t end up back in intensive care.”

  “Poor Miss Hapless Gourmet Evelyn. Am I the only one who understands her? She’s just trying to find a way to shine for her mama. I spent years trying to do the same.” Jake shifted his weight and winced.

  “You need to go on back up to the house, bud?” Bobby asked.

  “Bud? Imagine that! Bobby Davis calling me his bud! A few minutes ago you were threatening to chunk me in the pond!”

  Bobby smirked.

  Jake laughed. “No, I’m fine. I just have to change positions every now and then when my hip starts to rumba. Oh, I forgot to tell you guys—they want to turn this whole ordeal of mine into a made-for-TV drama! Can you believe that?”

  “Wow, doesn’t take the circling vultures long to zero-in on a potential profit,” I snapped. “You going to sell the story?”

  Jake shrugged and skipped a flat pebble over the water’s surface. “It’s already been plastered all over the newspapers and magazines. This little town has been through a lot. On the other hand, it might help to raise awareness. Maybe keep something like it from happening to someone else.”

  “One thing I wondered about. That twin thing. One gay and one straight. I’ve never even heard of such a thing,” Bobby said.

  “Why would you, Bobby-boy? Not exactly your frame of reference.” Jake winked. “I don’t have any statistics to quote, but I personally know two sets of identical twins where one is salt and the other, pepper.” He grinned. “If I know that many, it must be something that happens fairly frequently.”

  “Did anyone hear what’s going on with Matt Thurgood?” I asked.

  Bobby nodded. “Only bits and pieces from Rich Burns. I’m sure we’ll all hear more later on. Since he wasn’t involved in the abduction and final assault and hasn’t had any prior trouble with the law, his attorney will try to keep the case in the juvenile justice system. Rich says that, given the high profile of the crime and the national outcry, he may be tried and sentenced as an adult.”

  Leigh shook her head sadly. “That would mean prison time, no doubt.”

  Jake toyed with a sprig of dry grass. “I don’t know how I feel about all of that. I know he can’t get off with just a slap on the wrist, but it seems so awful to have his life ruined by sending him off to be around thugs.”

  Bobby’s face turned red with emotion. “Lord have mercy, Jake! The boy was in on wrecking your shop…and your life, for that matter! How can you be so damn forgiving?”

  “I just think there should be a way for it to come out—somehow, I don’t know—less tragic. Matt never struck me as being a mean kid—just one that was pushed around. He made the mistake of following the wrong person. Besides, everyone around here has sure been busy making me look like Mother Teresa!” Jake retorted. “I’m not perfect. There were times when I lived in New York when I didn’t give a flying shit about anyone but myself. I could’ve easily been like Matt, given a different set of circumstances. I’m not a saint!” He grinned. “Although, I would look fetching in a flowing white robe.”

  The awkward silence was broken when Spam slapped at the edge of the water, chasing a frog.

  “He can move like a puppy when he wants to,” Bobby said.

  I jumped up and burst into song. “I wanna tell you all a story ’bout a dog named Spam…”

  “You ain’t never been right,” Bobby said after I completed the Florida Cracker Dog Song and took a bow.

  Spam dashed back and forth, sending sprays of water into the air. For a few moments, we were silent, enjoying the balmy evening.

  “You know,” Jake began. “I dream about it. Joe says it’s Posttraumatic Stress Syndrome. I see Marshall’s demented face…so close I can see every pore of his skin and the line of spittle on the corners of his mouth.” Jake shuddered, and I put my arm around his shoulders. “In the dream, I’m not gagged. I’m talking and talking to him, trying to talk him down—telling him my name is Jake. I’m not who you want to hurt! Please, hear me!”

  Bobby ran a hand through his thin hair. “I don’t know if he would’ve listened, Jake. Drunk and mean is a bad combination.”

  “I just felt so helpless. He was beating the life out of me, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could d
o to stop it!” Jake wiped the tears forming at the corners of his eyes. “Joe insists that I see a counselor, and I will. I just look forward to a time when I can close my eyes at night and not see his face.”

  Bobby nodded. “There’re some things your mind just burns into your memory.”

  Leigh reached over and grasped Bobby’s hand.

  Jake breathed deeply. “Anyway, Piddie has hooked up with a book author she has fallen in love with, I think. Some guy named Holster or something—”

  “Holston Lewis,” I said, my voice a tad too dreamy.

  Jake raised one eyebrow. “Well, do I sniff the Virgin Queen perhaps coming out of her early forced retirement?”

  “I just met him, Jake.”

  Jake snuffled. “Then, I suppose you won’t be interested in the fact that I am considering granting him exclusive book rights to the story.”

  I shook my head. “I thought you didn’t want to have anything to do with all of that.”

  “If Piddie is right about him, he’s the only one I’d want to write it. You know someone will, and, if I can depend on him not to portray Chattahoochee as some hick Southern town full of half-breeds bent on hate, I want him to handle it.”

  Jake studied the orange reflection of the sunset mirrored on the pond’s surface.

  “And, sister-girl, as far as your obvious attraction to Mr. Lewis goes…one thing I decided through this ordeal—I will not close myself off to love anymore. When I came back to Chattahoochee after the Countess Witherspoon passed away, I was searching for a place to hide away from the world. I do love this place. But, I will not allow myself to bury my heart anymore…and neither should you.”

  A bullfrog thumped a deep bass note and was quickly joined by several more. Soon, the air filled with the evening frog opera.

  I pointed to a rusted pole on the far end of the dam. “You know, my dad used to have an intercom receiver over there so he could lie in bed at night and listen to this.”

  Bobby chuckled. “Used to drive Mama nuts.”

  Leigh traced her fingers across Bobby’s chin. “It’s good sometimes to remember the past.”

  Jake slapped a hand on his left knee. “Speaking of remembering the past—the other reoccurring dream I’ve had since the attack, is one where I am walking down Washington Street repeating the names of the shops, over and over, and sometimes stopping to tell some inane little story about the owner. I wonder what that all means?”

  Ah! All the hours I’d spent recounting the town’s history to Jake as he lay unconscious. I started to laugh, hard. I snorted and tried to catch my breath. The puzzled expressions on their faces only made me laugh harder. Pretty soon, they joined me, caught up in my craziness, not sure what the heck was so funny.

  Everyone’s Favorite Chocolate Cake by Piddie Longman

  Ingredients: ½ cup margarine(I love to use real butter), ½ cup oil, 2 ¼ cups white sugar, 2 eggs, 2/3 cup cocoa, 2 ½ cups flour (self-rising), 2 cups buttermilk, 1 tsp vanilla.

  Mix your margarine, oil, and eggs until just soft. Add sugar and vanilla. Dab some vanilla behind your ears to make you smell good on baking day. Sift your cocoa and flour together. Then, alternate mixing in the buttermilk and dry ingredients into the margarine, egg, and oil blend. Beat until the lumps are smoothed out.

  Bake in a preheated 350º oven for 35 minutes. I use a greased bundt pan. After it has cooled, top with my Best Damned Icing.

  Chapter Sixteen

  THE MADHATTER’S FESTIVAL

  October 21, 2000

  I stood on the west bank of the Apalachicola River watching the coffee-brown water churn in muddy swirls over the submerged concrete boat ramp a few feet from the base of the old Victory Bridge. Though the river was broad at this point, the swift current often made launching a light boat an interesting proposition.

  Indian Summer heat and humidity had recently given way to the pleasant, clear blue-skied days of late October. A cool breeze kissed my cheeks. The predictably cooperative weather had been the main factor in the city manager’s decision to officially slot the third weekend in the month for the annual Madhatter’s Festival.

  A broad grassy meadow near the landing was surrounded by sprawling ancient live oak trees festooned with hanks of Spanish moss, a stringy, gray parasitic plant we called witch’s hair when we were young and trying to scare the bejeezus out of each other at Halloween. A black and white-checked welcome banner hung across the entrance to the grounds with the festival’s title, year, and an enlargement of a line drawing of Max the Madhatter gleaned from an old black and white print from the Twin City News archives. Jake’s standing sprays of red and white carnations adorned the covered performance stage, and all of the food and craft booths were decorated in a red and white picnic theme. Huge black wire and paper maché ants, Jake’s and Stephanie’s creation, were scattered randomly between the stage and seating area.

  Since Jake’s abduction and assault, a change had washed slowly over Chattahoochee. Driven by the national media frenzy, people from across the country had visited the town. The release of Holston Lewis’s book, Twin Tragedy of the Twin Cities: the Jake Witherspoon Story, focused the spotlight on our area.

  Sensing the small-town appeal and potential for profit, an investor from south Florida had purchased a section of vacant buildings on Washington Street and created the Madhatter’s Antique Mall. Small specialty shops had recently opened, selling antique glassware, silver jewelry, and hand-thrown pottery. The shop owners had created a committee to beautify Washington Street. The proceeds from the festival, after expenses, were added to the renewal fund. The first Madhatter’s festival had provided money for new sidewalks, faux antique pole lanterns, and wrought-iron park benches. A brick paved courtyard with a center fountain, benches, and a flower garden were planned for a vacant lot a block down from our shop. Similar to the town of Havana, Florida, north of Tallahassee, Chattahoochee was evolving into an arts and antique center.

  As a result of the influx of business, housing sales had increased. Several antebellum homes had been renovated. Surrounded by rose gardens and neatly trimmed hedges, the newly opened Madhatter’s B&B welcomed guests to a cheerful house that had once been a dilapidated eyesore a block from downtown.

  I turned from my vigil of the river to watch the frenzied activity. A total of sixty-five arts and craft booths were scattered under the overhanging arms of the giant trees, twice last year’s number. As the day progressed, the crowd would grow in size, sending a mixture of bluegrass music from the covered stage and laughter filtering through the air.

  Jake wound through the throng, moving as quickly as his cane and the uneven ground would permit. At last count, he owned thirty canes; an eclectic assortment of intricately carved oak and cherry, chrome, and fantastically painted wooden walking aides. Once Elvina Houston spread the word of Jake’s passion for variety, he’d received canes every month. Sometimes, he would find them propped against the alley entrance to the shop with a hand scrawled get well note. For special occasions such as today, he used his favorite – a black, pearl-handled cane—Piddie’s homecoming gift.

  Rich Burns waved from across the meadow. The local deputies were on duty, parking cars and milling through the crowd for security. Rich pointed to his shoulder and pantomimed extreme pain. Must have been out target practicing for too long—always his shoulder and forearm. I’d have to call him and get him in soon.

  A sense of deep connection flowed over me. For the majority of my life, I’d known many of the vendors and locals who had come out to enjoy the food, music, and pleasant weather. Because today was to be special for Jake, I had invited the nurses, doctors, law enforcement officers, and emergency personnel who had been involved with his case. My friends from Tallahassee were in attendance, along with many of my massage-therapy clients from both Tallahassee and Chattahoochee.

  Rich Burns had been on target with his prediction concerning my massage-therapy practice in town. A trickle at first, it had developed into a steady strea
m. Elvina Houston, Piddie, Evelyn, Bobby, Joe, and Leigh blazed the trail initially. Shop owners, city officials, and hospital employees followed. Although many of my male clients waited until a strained muscle or sore back drove their wives or girlfriends to make an appointment, the females came regularly.

  Bit by bit, I gleaned the details of their families and daily struggles, shared in confidence during the sessions. Though I strived to maintain a level of professional distance, the act of providing safe, relaxing touch to another human created a bond. Stephanie, formerly of the Homeplace Restaurant, was now a licensed massage therapist. Using her hard-earned tips, she had attended night school in Tallahassee. After passing her national board examination and receiving a Florida license, she added her practice to our shop, using the treatment room on the days when I was out of town.

  I waded into the crowd toward Jake.

  “Sister-girl!” Jake called, “Isn’t it great this year? Our booth is swarming with people buying the Madhatter’s Guide to Chocolate. I’m goin’ to have to put in a print order, again.” He wiped a chocolate crumb from the corner of his mouth. “Michele Newman from Quincy sold two of her queen-sized quilts to the new family who moved into the old Jones house. And, have you seen the redneck wind chimes? They’re just flattened beer cans hanging from a piece of driftwood, and they’re selling like mad!”

  “I’ll have to buy some for the shop,” I joked.

  Jake’s blue eyes twinkled with mischief. “I’ll be sure to hang them smack dab in the middle of your treatment room, if you do.” He scanned the crowd. “Where’s that love-struck brother of yours?”

  “Flat on his back with a terrible head cold. My, God willing, future sister-in-law is nursing him back to health.” I crossed my fingers.

  Jake shook his head. “Too bad. I actually look forward to being around Bobby. Amazing how sobering up and finding the love of your life can change a guy.” His eyebrows shot up. “Guess who I spotted in the parking lot?” He paused dramatically. “Just a certain beautiful male author from New York…”