High Lonesome Sound

by Jaye Wells

  He made it all sound so reasonable, but Peter wasn’t quite ready to become pals. “So how do you explain Lettie trying to cancel our rental agreement?”

  Deacon Fry sighed. “Mistakes have been made. I admit that. But I’m hoping we can move forward in a spirit of cooperation.”

  He wanted something. Peter was sure of it, but he was also sure that if he didn’t play by the deacon’s rules things would get a whole lot worse before they got better. “I am open to that.”

  “Excellent. Tell me, have you ever heard of our tradition of Decoration Day?”

  He nodded. “I’ve read a little about it, but I’ll admit I’ve never attended one.”

  “I might be able to help you with that. Despite recent tragedies, we’ve decided to move forward with the tradition this year. The festivities will commence in three days’ time.”

  “That’s fast.”

  “We are eager to begin the healing process. The Decoration will provide much-needed closure for the town.”

  “That’s nice,” Peter said, “but what does it have to do with me?”

  “I came to extend a formal invitation to join our community at the Decoration.”

  Peter let that sink in for a moment. “What’s the catch?”

  He stopped rocking. “That when the Decoration is complete, you will pack your bags and leave this place.”

  So much for cooperation. “And if I refuse?”

  “Then my good friend Sheriff Abernathy will arrest you for trespassing.”

  Trespassing? Shit. “So this is about Ruby?”

  Deacon Fry’s placid expression deepened into a frown. “What about her?”

  The relief he should have felt was displaced by regret over even bringing up the girl. “Oh nothing. I misunderstood.” He cleared his throat. “If you have that kind of power and want me gone so badly, why haven’t you already had Abernathy pay me a visit?”

  “I’m a reasonable man, Mr. West.” He nodded, as if doing so might make it true. “You paid good money to rent this cabin. Leaving after the Decoration means that you’ll get a full week of time for your trouble. Use the next couple of days to get more writing done, and then go to the Decoration so you have a good story about your time here. But then it’s time to go home and leave us in peace.”

  Peter stood. “It’s late.”

  To his credit, the deacon didn’t miss a beat. He simply nodded and stood. “When can I expect your answer?”

  “I’ll give it to you now.”

  “All right.” He clasped his hands together, the picture of benevolent patience.

  “I’m not here to make enemies or upset anyone. I’ll leave before the Decoration.”

  “Oh, Mr. West, please don’t feel like you have to rush out on my account. You’ll enjoy Decoration Day. There’s a picnic.”

  Peter couldn’t believe this man was trying to sell him on a picnic when he’d just threatened him with arrest. Given that he had a teenager pressuring him to spirit her out of town and, now, with the town’s mayor/religious despot threatening to have him arrested, maybe the best course of action was simply to leave the next morning and be done with the strange town and its even stranger inhabitants. Still, part of him was intensely curious about attending the ceremony, if for no other reason than to see what the fuss was about. “Either way, you win. I’ll be gone by the end of the day of the Decoration, if not before.”

  The deacon held out his hand to shake Peter’s. “If you think that’s best.”

  He stared down at the man’s hand. Shaking it would have felt too much like making a deal with the devil. “Good night, Deacon Fry.”

  “God bless, Mr. West.”

  32

  Tending The Flock

  Deacon Fry

  The morning after the funeral and his late-night meeting with Peter West, Deacon Fry paid a visit to the Barrett house.

  An old tricycle and a mangled swing set stuck up from the weeds like sculptures done by one of those fancy New York artists who liked to make statements about the loss of innocence or the unbearable passage of time. He didn’t know too much about art, but he was pretty sure those fancy boys with their art degrees didn’t know a dang-burn thing about innocence. Besides, Cotton’s front yard wasn’t no work of art. It was proof of neglect, pure and simple.

  He stepped over an old, rusted wagon. Old Cotton hadn’t been so good at taking care of his home or his family even before poor Rose died, but where the man had simply been lazy after going on disability, now he was downright slovenly. Lord knew poor Ruby had her hands full with those two girls and keeping the household afloat while her daddy was off cooking his shine.

  He climbed the steps, careful to avoid the gaps between the boards, and knocked on the door with the torn screen. The sound of a television drifted out of the open windows facing the porch. He mentally shook his head. Television rotted brains, and heaven knew those children didn’t have many of those to spare. Ruby seemed to take after her mama with her curious brain and always having her head in a book, but he didn’t have a lot of hope for those youngins now that they had to grow up without Rose’s influence.

  He knocked again.

  “Ruby!” a young voice called. He couldn't tell which of the girls had spoken. “Someone’s at the door!”

  “Well git it!” Ruby’s yell echoed down from the second floor.

  An argument followed as the sisters argued over who had to answer the door. Deacon Fry prayed for patience. Clearly this house was in need of a responsible adult who could teach these children proper manners. “Hello?” he called. “It’s Deacon Fry. I’ve come lookin’ for your daddy.”

  The argument cut off abruptly, almost as if the children thought if they were quiet he’d just go away. His voice must have carried upstairs because suddenly a pair of bare feet appeared on the top step. Ruby smoothed her hair as she came down in an attempt to look more presentable. Didn’t help much seeing how her britches were short enough for the devil to see the Promised Land.

  She pasted a smile on her face and opened the screen. “Deacon Fry,” she said breathlessly, “I’m so sorry. I was upstairs reading.” She said it in a tone that implied she wanted him to believe she’d been reading scripture, but Sarah Jane had already told him that Ruby preferred the kind of books he’d been trying to get banned from town for years.

  He smiled his best shepherd-of-the-flock smile. “It’s all right, dear. Your daddy home?”

  Her guarded expression told him she was considering a lie, but then her shoulders slumped. “No, sir,” she said in a reluctant tone. “I haven’t seen him.”

  “Since when?”

  She looked up at him from under her lashes. “Since the funeral.”

  He’d really hoped his talk with Cotton at the cemetery would have helped things, but it appeared that he’d been wrong.

  “He up at his cabin?”

  “I think so.”

  Deacon Fry reached out and touched the girl’s arm. When she looked up at him, embarrassment was there, but also something deeper—shame?—and a healthy dose of fear.

  “Don’t worry. I won’t tell your daddy you told me where to find him.”

  She visibly relaxed. “Thank you.”

  “Now,” he said in his get-down-to-business tone, “how are you doing for money?”

  She looked at a point just south of his eyes. “We’re okay.”

  He bent down until he caught her gaze. “You know it’s a sin to lie, don’t you, Ruby?”

  “Yes, sir. But Miss Edna brought us some leftovers from Jack’s funeral supper and Daddy’s disability check is due tomorrow to pay the ’lectricity.”

  “Good—that’s real good. I sure am proud of you for taking such good care of your family.”

  She tipped her chin to acknowledge the compliment. “What are you gonna say to Daddy when you find him?”

  She had no right to ask an elder to explain his intentions to her, but he had a feeling that keeping her thinking they were allies woul
d benefit him. “I’m just gonna check on him, is all. I know he’s been hurting ever since your mama went to heaven, bless her. All the help he needs can be found in the Lord.” He paused meaningfully.

  “Amen,” she said on cue.

  “You’ll see. Once we get him back in the bosom of the church your daddy won’t need to find solace in that cabin of his or in the bottom of a whiskey bottle.”

  Her head jerked up, as if she’d somehow believed her father’s drinking was a family secret no one else knew. Poor lamb. Poor dumb lamb.

  “Have faith in the Lord, Ruby.”

  “Amen.” Her tone lacked the enthusiasm one might expect from an obedient child of God when discussing faith.

  “Say, you haven’t been spending time with that author fella, have you?”

  She looked down at her dirty feet. “What do you mean?”

  “Oh nothing. I was chatting with him last night and he brought up your name.”

  “He did?” her voice squeaked.

  “It’s okay to tell me the truth, Ruby. He’s a guest in our town. I trust you haven’t been doing anything . . . inappropriate.”

  Her cheeks flushed. “Oh no, Deacon Fry. I swear it. I just saw him yesterday after the funeral when he was taking a walk is all. I was pretty upset about Jack and all. He was real nice and told me everything would be okay. That’s all, promise.”

  He gave her the same look he gave Sarah Jane when he suspected she wasn’t telling him the whole truth. Ruby met his expression without flinching. “It isn’t appropriate for a young woman to be talking to a grown man alone.”

  She tilted her head. “But I’m talking to you, Deacon.”

  He resisted the urge to reprimand her. She always seems a tad odd to him, and so he had to be patient. “That’s different, Ruby. You known me your whole life. Peter West is a stranger.”

  She frowned but nodded. “I guess so.”

  “Anyway,” he said, changing tactics, “Mr. West’s time with us won’t be lasting too much longer. He’s decided to leave following the Decoration.”

  Her skin paled and her face fell. “Really?”

  “I know it’s been real exciting having a famous author around, but he needs to get back to the city and get on with his life.”

  “I see,” she whispered.

  “All right, I need to head out. If I miss him and your daddy comes here, send him up to the cemetery to pitch in with the clean up, will you?”

  She nodded but her lip was trembling. “Yes, sir.”

  He patted her head. “That’s a good girl. Everything’s going to be okay, Ruby. Trust the Lord.”

  “Amen,” she whispered.

  33

  Hair Of The Dog

  Peter

  He woke later than usual the next morning. The bourbon he’d attacked after the deacon left the night before had glued his tongue to the roof of his mouth. He stumbled out of bed and gulped water straight from the faucet. His head throbbed, as if overnight his skull had shrunk but his brain had grown. Only, he knew that wasn’t right because he’d never felt dumber.

  He’d let that man get to him. He splashed some water on his face and spat into the basin. He was tempted to just throw his shit in a bag and take off, but he didn’t want to seem like a coward running out of town with his tail between his legs.

  Snatching a towel from the hook on the wall, he scrubbed away the moisture. The scent of laundry detergent surprised him. Somehow he’d missed that Lettie had come by to replace the linens. He paused and tried to think back to the night before when he’d passed out in the bed—a vague recollection of cursing the coverlet he’d had to pull out from under the pillows. He frowned at the towel and let it drop into the sink.

  Now that he was upright and marginally awake, echoes from his argument with Renee flew through his head. Peter, why are you calling me in the middle of the night?

  He winced as half-formed sentences paraded through his head. Terrible words he’d spewed at her like venom—accusations and wild theories about why she’d written that damned book.

  That warped imagination of yours is telling you lies.

  Oh she’d loved his imagination in the beginning, hadn’t she? When they’d met in college, she’d read each of his short stories, looking for herself between the lines and hidden among the letters. She’d giggled when he told her he’d named the murder victim in his first published novel after her. He couldn’t recall when she’d started to find it less charming. Maybe it had been about the time his advances started slipping. Or maybe it was when her nosey friends started asking pointed questions about why the characters in her husband’s books bore uncomfortable similarities to themselves. Or perhaps, after a while, she’d simply grown jealous of all the time he spent writing instead of worshiping her.

  She’d never understood his need to prove himself. Beautiful Renee with her family money had never had to worry about working. He still remembered the smug look on her father’s face the day he handed them a check for the down payment on their house. He’d called it a birthday present for his little girl. Peter had seen it as a reminder that he’d never measure up, but he’d still cashed the check. Turning it down hadn’t been an option. He’d coveted the little guest house in the back because it seemed like the sort of thing a real author would have—a sacred space where a serious scribe used alchemy to transform words and paper into the Great American Novel. From the moment he saw it, he’d begun imagining the photo shoot that would happen when the New York Times sent a photographer to capture images of the bestselling author in his habitat.

  In the end, he’d gotten the office, but the rest of his vision never materialized.

  Which brought him back to the reason he’d drunk-dialed his ex-wife, as well as the reason for him coming to Moon Hollow in the first place. Both choices had clearly been mistakes. At that moment, standing in the little cabin with a hangover raging behind his eyes like a demon, he wondered how long it had been since he’d made a good decision.

  He padded from the bathroom to the kitchen. On his way there, he stepped on something sharp. “Son of a—”

  He stooped down to see what caused the pain, and realized he’d stepped on the remains of his cell phone.

  Oh, right. The ill-fated call with Renee had resulted in yet another terrible decision when he’d thrown the phone against the wall. He vaguely remembered feeling satisfied when he’d heard the loud crunch, but now it was just another reminder of his stupidity.

  Now he’d have to deal with the headache of figuring out where to buy a new one. Another reason to just leave that morning. He could buy a new phone on his way down the mountain in Big Stone Gap. If he stayed, it wouldn’t be worth the effort. The only person he’d called since he’d arrived was Renee and look at how well that had gone.

  In the fridge, he found a Coke and an untouched mystery casserole brought over by the good deacon’s wife. He grabbed the soda and turned his back on the other thing, which he was too polite to throw away but definitely was never going to eat. Eventually he’d need food, but for now, he contented himself with the bubbles and caffeine.

  He was halfway to the haven of the couch when a knock sounded at the door. He considered ignoring it and retreating to his room to hide under the covers, but then he saw Bunk’s beat-up truck through the window. He padded over to the open the door.

  “You look like warmed over shit, son.”

  “Hi, Bunk.” He rubbed at his aching head and stepped back to let the older man inside.

  Bunk came in, his eyes doing a leisurely inventory of the space. “Why ain’t you dressed?”

  “For what?”

  “For the cemetery cleaning?”

  He frowned and scanned his mental inventory to see if he was forgetting a conversation he’d had with Bunk about it, but nothing came up. “I didn’t know I was going.”

  “Well, ’course you are. Every man in town is required to pitch in with the Decoration Day clean up.”

  “I don’t even know i
f I’ll be here for the Decoration.”

  Bunk simply watched him, as if he was wasting both their time by arguing.

  Finally, he spoke again. “I’m not feeling well.”

  “Judging from the way you smell, you was drunker than Cootey Brown last night. Best cure for a hangover is fresh air and workin’ up a sweat. Run and git yer britches on.”

  He considered telling the old man to get the hell out. He was in no mood for being pushed around or forced to participate in Moon Hollow’s arcane community rituals. But then he remembered the book he needed to write to punish his backstabbing ex. If he left town that day, he’d miss out on the extra material for his story. Spending the day cleaning a cemetery wasn’t his idea of fun, but he knew enough about people to know the men would spend as much time telling stories that day as they would pulling weeds.

  “All right,” he said. “But I’m going to need some food.”

  Bunk smiled. “Oh, I don’t believe that’ll be a problem.”

  By the time they reached the cemetery, Peter’s hangover raged like a hurricane in his head. In the heat of the late morning, his sweat smelled sour and flammable. The dark sunglasses he’d put on before leaving the cabin did little to calm the throbbing behind his eyes. More than anything, he wanted to go back and dive headlong into the couch for a long nap. Warring with that urge was a craving for an ice-cold beer to take the edge off and settle his stomach.

  This was his first visit to the top of Cemetery Hill and, despite his sour mood, he had to admit the spot was spectacular. Tall evergreens and shorter hardwoods surrounded the open space as if trying to keep a secret. A black wrought iron fence surrounded the area and an archway over the entrance had a Bible verse painted on it. He that endureth to the end shall be saved.—Matthew 10:22