Southern House

by Mark Deloy

  What I didn’t know until later, was on the day I was due to arrive in Centerville, some very strange things happened there. There was a small earthquake, which nearly every resident felt right after sunrise, but which wasn’t recorded on USGS charts. Along with the earthquake came a metallic grinding sound that seemed to be coming from everywhere and nowhere in particular. People described it as the noise as two huge ships would make when rubbing against one another in harbor. The sound lasted until just before I arrived. I read about it later in the town’s only newspaper, The Centerville Herald. Other people reported garden plants dying and turning black overnight, as if there was something poisonous in the soil. I might have heard about those events as I stopped for gas a final time right outside of town, but I can’t say for sure. My mind was elsewhere.

  My trip should have taken a little over sixteen hours. I did it in fifteen and change. By the time I arrived I was fighting to stay awake, while at the same time, I had that jittery, teeth grinding, hollow feeling you get from drinking too much truck stop caffeine. The back roads were all but empty when I got off Interstate 40. It was a Wednesday. Most people were at work, or school, and those who weren’t were probably home watching Good Luck Charlie reruns with their kids. I turned off County Road 50 onto a barely paved street I remembered from when I was a boy. That led me through some twists and turns and finally to a narrow dirt road… Grimble lane. The sign was missing, but of course I knew the name. The only two structures on the road named for my family, were my grandparent’s house, which was now mine, and the First Baptist Church of Centerville. Established in 1935, the land where it sits is also owned by me now. It is leased to the church. My grandmother had attended services there for the last thirty years. I was surprised to see the white paint-peeled building still standing. As I passed, a man dressed in all black came out the covered front door. When I waved he didn’t wave back. He just stared, his face giving no expression at all. He reminded me of Johnny Cash.

  “Not going to increase the flock with that demeanor,” I said to myself as I finished the last fifty feet to the house. Of course, I imagined he knew just by looking at me that I was an addict and not worthy of a wave. Addicts think everyone can tell you’re on the stuff. We reason people can smell it on us, like K-9s at the airport.

  The small ranch house sat at the end of the road in a shallow valley. There was a large front porch with two padded wicker chairs and a table between them. The big front widow was dark. Another car, a big Lincoln was parked in the driveway with a man, presumably my lawyer, behind the wheel. I’d phoned Mr. Hayes when I was close and he’d promised to meet me here. He got out holding a large manila envelope as I pulled in behind him.

  “Mr. Grimble,” he said, holding out his hand. “Good to finally meet you.”

  “You too,” I managed, rubbing my eyes and then my lower back. “Call me Hickory, or Hick if you’d like.”

  Hayes nodded. He looked out of place in a navy three piece suit. It even had a lighter blue hankie sticking out of the breast pocket. His hair was greased back, completing the slickster attorney image.

  “If we could go inside,” he gestured toward the house, “we can get all the paperwork out of the way and I’ll be out of your hair.”

  “I don’t actually have a key.” I said, checking my key ring as if to be sure.

  “I do,” Hays replied, working the hasp on the bulky envelope and digging around inside like a kid in a box of Crackerjacks. His chubby hand emerged holding a gold-colored key attached to a fob from some local car dealership that had probably gone belly up a generation ago.

  We climbed the steps to the front door and he handed me the key to unlock it. When the door swung open, the first thing that hit me was the smell. It was a wonderful tightly-packed bouquet tied to a long stream of memories, nearly all of them good. I felt a welling up in my chest and struggled to suppress it in front of this stranger. I hadn’t expected this. It was more than remembering; it was feeling again. Feeling what it was like to be young and innocent. It was not having to worry about a soon to be ex-wife, a lost job, or a nagging pain in your back day and night. I won my battle, but Hayes had already seen the expression on my face.

  “I can give you a minute if you’d like,” he said.

  That simple country kindness almost got me going again.

  “No, no, I appreciate it, but I’m fine. It just all came back to me. It’s been a rough couple of months.

  “I understand,” he said.

  We sat at the kitchen table and I could almost see him running through a mental checklist as he slid the contents of his envelope out onto the table.

  “Your Grandmother Ellen’s funeral is tomorrow at ten followed by the burial. I’ve already taken funeral expenses out of the estate as you requested. Here is the phone number and address of the funeral home,” Hayes explained, handing me a business card, which I glanced at.

  “Thank you,” I murmured. “Did the funeral home know who to contact for the eulogy?”

  “Yes, I believe they reached a minister from her church. That one right up the road.”

  “Great, yes, that’s the one.”

  “The reverend’s name is Burnside. He agreed to speak and waved any fee. He did however ask me to make you an offer for counseling after the service.”

  I thought that was a strange request, but didn’t say anything, and only nodded noncommittally as Hayes went on.

  “The estate is comprised of one thousand sixty-four acres, on which sits this house, everything in it, and three barns. The property taxes have been paid up for the next ten years along with the real estate insurance. Here is a map of the property. You’ll see it encompasses everything out to Highway fifty including the church. Your grandmother leased the land the Baptist Church sits on to Reverend Burnside and has waved the leasing fees for the next ten years. It was the only stipulation in her will: that the church be allowed to stay there, rent free for at least the next ten years.”

  “I wasn’t planning on making them leave,” I said.

  “I guess your grandmother wanted to make sure.”

  “Your grandmother has also left you any money in her saving and checking accounts. As you probably know, she didn’t have much debt, so after estate taxes, the total from the two accounts comes to seven hundred thousand, three hundred sixty-four dollars in cash.

  I was dumbfounded. I knew my grandparents were comfortable, but I had no idea they had amassed this kind of wealth.

  “Also,” Hayes went on. “Your grandparents own several hundred shares in several companies, including Crackerbarrel, AT&T, and GE. At current market value as of this morning, the total for the stocks comes to another three hundred and sixty thousand dollars. Congratulations, Mr. Grimble. You are now officially a millionaire.”

  I just stared at Hayes. I had no idea what to say, so I just thanked him. I had the strange urge to give him a tip, or double his fee. I’d never had this kind of money before and I felt like I had to share it with someone, anyone. Well, anyone but my soon-to-be-ex-wife. I was sure, however, I would be doing just that very shortly, like it or not.

  There was a seemingly endless stream of paperwork to sign and initial, all marked with colored tabs. I finished, and Hayes extended his hand once more and wished me luck. As he drove away, leaving me to wander around the empty house, I had a feeling there was much more to this new world that had just opened up. I had no idea how right I was.

  2

  I was down to three pills. If I took them as I had been, they would last me until seven tonight. I planned, however, to wean myself from them over a three day period, only taking one a day. I’d take my one allotted daily pill as late in the day as I could. There was plenty to do around the house to keep my hands, and more importantly, my mind, occupied. I knew three days was nowhere near long enough to wean myself off from a year-long addiction, but it seemed like a good idea at the time. It was really my only option, since trying to get a doctor’s appointment, and then convincing
that doctor I needed controlled substance pain medication right away, without a referral, probably would never happen. Tennessee is number one in the nation for opiate addiction. Doctors were extremely careful about prescribing anything addictive. Of course I’d done my research about the state as soon as I found out about my inheritance.

  I used what was left of my on-the-road Pepsi to wash down pill number one. As soon as I did, I had a terrible regretful feeling I should have waited to take it until later that evening, after the unpacking and cleaning was done. I’d learned if you were busy, you barely noticed the high. The pain just sort of melted away, but before you knew it, you felt its effects begin to wear off. It was always better to take a pill when you weren’t doing anything and on an empty stomach.

  I started cleaning and trying to make the place my own. I guess I knew as soon as I got the email from Mr. Hayes that I’d be coming down to stay. After all, what was there for me back in Massena? Cold winters and a colder soon-to-be ex-wife. Kim and I had had no children, so it should be a clean break. I had no idea what to do next, had no plans. I was like a ship adrift on unknown waters. I decided to take things one day at a time. I hadn’t had a decent vacation, other than after the accident, for years. It would be nice to do nothing for a while.

  There were just a few packed boxes in the car. It took me twenty minutes to bring them in and unpack them. I’d send a mover for the rest of my things. I certainly had the money for that now. Kim could keep all the furniture. She’d picked it out and I never liked her taste anyway. I was more of a sparse furniture guy. I just needed a place to sit, preferably a leather recliner, and a big screen, and I was happy.

  As I unboxed my laptop and began to set it up, movement caught my eye through the window on the other side of the desk. There was a huge hay field on the other side of the lawn. The cut hay was laying down like a yellow woven blanket. An animal that looked like a dog was running across it in a zig-zag pattern, like a soldier avoiding gunfire. It was about two hundred yards away, so I couldn’t even be sure it was a dog. I suppose it could have been a coyote, it was the right size. From that distance the animal looked black, but could have been dark brown. It ran a few paces, and then leapt into the air clearing the fence. When it landed, it started running again. A few seconds later, it entered the tree line and disappeared.

  My newly inherited land is some of the best in Tennessee. There are several springs, in different places, one supplies the house with drinking water and has never dried up since the house was built. The soil is good and Grandpa Hickory was always growing something. He alternated soybeans, corn, wheat, and hay, always getting top dollar at the co-op and the farmer’s markets. After Papa died, Granny got offers from local farmers to lease an acre or two for their own crops. There were three main fields, each one nearly ten acres. Then there were six smaller fields, which branched off from the main plots. The whole farming portion of the property was surrounded by thick forests, which accounted for the other nine hundred-fifty-or-so acres. My father and I had come down here nearly every fall to hunt whitetail deer. They were plentiful and would have eventually become a nuisance if we hadn’t. We were the only ones who were given permission. Papa never allowed anyone else on the land. And even then, there were only certain areas he allowed us to hunt. Hickory Grimble was particular and peculiar. He knew how he liked things, and he knew what he wanted. You were wise to keep that in mind while on the farm. He was a hard man with eyes that were always half-squinted and more wrinkles on his face than I’d seen on anyone, before or since. I always remembered he smelled like pipe tobacco and soil.

  I finished unpacking my boxes and checked my phone for texts from Kim. I wasn’t expecting her to miss me, but it would have been nice to know she’d at least noticed I was gone. There were no messages, but also no service. I’d forgotten there were no cell towers anywhere around. I’d have to climb to the top of the hill where the big power lines ran to get even one bar. It kind of made me nervous to not have service way out here, but then remembered the house had a land line. I thought about calling Kim and telling her where I was, but pushed the notion aside after nearly five minutes of internal debate. The call would most likely turn into an argument and I’d be left feeling as if the failure of our relationship was all my fault, instead of just mostly. Then I’d take my remaining two Percocet, drown in a wave of self-pity and temporary euphoria, finished off with deep regret when it set in they were all gone.

  I managed to keep busy for most of the afternoon by first exploring, then cleaning the six-room, two-bathroom house. I felt like I was intruding into my granny’s life... then remembered she no longer had one. And besides, someone had to go through all of her things—better me than a stranger. She would have hated that. She was a proud woman and kept a very clean house right up until the end. There were only a few things that needed serious cleaning and even then it was only high shelves, which were coated with dust. The house was very much livable and had been kept in good repair over the years. I knew the electrical system had been given a complete overhaul in the nineties and the plumbing was completely redone, including a new septic tank, three years ago. I felt very blessed to have been given such a gift by two people whom I had loved very much. I regretted I hadn’t been down to see Granny over the last few years, even though I promised her I would after Papa Hick had died. Life happened, and months stretched into years.

  I could smell the hay and the soil, and the far-off, sickly sweet odor of soybeans. As it grew dark, I realized just how isolated I was out here. I turned on both the back porch light and the front one, but they did little to reach out into the smothering darkness. When you live in the city, or even a town like Massena, you forgot that out here in the country it gets dark at night, especially on moonless nights like tonight. I’m not usually a panicky person who thinks a lot about the boogyman, but damn, ANYTHING could be out there. Granny had told me a few years ago she had seen a bobcat, a mountain lion and even a small black bear. Not to mention, there is a prison right over the ridge-line from the house. It’s less than a mile away. If you go up to the spot where the power lines run and use binoculars, you can look down on the main guard tower. If someone escaped, they would most likely head straight into the woods… in other words, straight at me. I remembered there was something Grandpa Hickory had left me, which would make me, feel better.

  I switched on the upstairs light and climbed the stairs two at a time, then went down the narrow hallway to grandpa’s room. My grandparents had never slept in different rooms, but Hickory had a room guys now-a-days called a man cave. I had glanced in briefly when I’d explored earlier, but hadn’t taken the time to look through everything. There was a desk, piled high with papers and old photographs. Papers spilled onto the floor. Samplers and old bills, offers for credit cards, which my grandparents never took advantage of. There was an old army cot layered with dust that smelled of mothballs, a tall yellow, rusty filing cabinet and an oil-spotted folding table with some WD-40 soaked mechanical parts on it. What I wanted though was in the closet.

  I opened the double doors and the gun safe stood before me like a bank vault. There was a peeling gold decal, which read W.P. Galloway Safe Company, Buffalo, NY in Old English script. I prayed Papa hadn’t changed the combination. He made me memorize it when I was a boy. At the time I thought it was because he trusted me, and took it as an honor, but I just think his mental faculties were starting to go and he knew it. I was his mental insurance policy. It was another kind of insurance I was after though.

  If the shit ever hit the fan, the best insurance you can have is a firearm, he’d told me.

  I’d stayed away from guns for most of my adult life. I knew how to shoot them, thanks to Papa Hickory and my yearly hunting adventures with my dad, but I always had other things to spend my hard- earned cash on. The thought of saving up to buy something I’d never use, seemed like a waste of money. Now I was glad Papa thought differently.

  I turned the dial right, then double left,
then right again. I had half expected it to be gummed up to where the dial wouldn’t turn, but it slid as if recently greased. I pulled down on the lever and at first thought I’d put in the wrong combination, then applied a bit more pressure and the handle chunked into the open position. I pulled the heavy door open, half expecting to find it empty, but I was greeted with a dozen or so rifles and shotguns. On the first shelf above the long guns were ten or more revolvers and a couple semi-automatic pistols. Boxes of ammunition were piled deep on the second shelf. I stared at it all wondering which one to look at first. I hadn’t remembered Hickory to be such a gun nut. Yeah, he liked guns, but I can only remember him having a couple deer rifles and a shotgun in here along with his short-barreled .45 caliber Ruger revolver he always carried while doing chores. Granny would call him Wyatt Earp when he wore his holster around the yard. Papa always called it his snake gun and he’d killed a couple good-sized rattlesnakes near the barns with it over the years.

  I looked through the weapons with a great degree of awe. I’d forgotten how terrific it was to have the weight of old wood and steel in your hands, to smell the thick, rich odor of gun oil and Hoppes number 9. I was a computer geek—at least, I used to be. There was never much reason to go armed. I recognized some of the names, Beretta, Benelli, Ithica, and of course Colt, Winchester and Ruger. I finally selected a Benlli semi-auto, 12-gauge that looked easy enough to load and operate, and my grandfather’s .45 cowboy gun. I’d forgotten what a thing of beauty it was with stag grips and a nickel finish. I swung the cylinder out as Hickory had shown me long ago and was happy to find it loaded. I grabbed the weapons, a box of fifty shells for the .45 and a box of buckshot for the Benelli. People who don’t own firearms, for reasons other than they are afraid of them, really are missing out. The level of security you get from knowing you are well armed is immeasurable.