by Jeff High
"Yeah, it's nearly swallowed in the woods down at the bottom of a ravine. I saw it below me as I climbed down the steep slope of the hill. Other than a small gouge in the metal roof, it looks to be a pretty stout structure."
“Did you go into it?”
"No. I really didn’t even get close. From a distance I could see that the door was padlocked and there were no windows, so I didn't pursue it."
“Was there a road leading up to it?”
"Not that I could tell. There probably was at one time, but it's long been overgrown." He returned his focus to the document. "It does seem incredibly odd, doesn't it? And you're saying that all this property behind is owned by the Frontenac Company?"
“Yes.”
“Hmm,” Matthew murmured reflectively. “Hic autem dracones.”
“What did you say?”
“Oh, sorry. It means ‘here lie dragons.’ Mapmakers used to put them on areas that were unexplored.”
"It does seem odd that it is the same name on the five-gallon cans in the basement. By the way, did you get the masonry saw and cut into the wall."
Matthew's face softened into a look of amused resignation. "I did. I did indeed. And after several hours of blood, sweat, and lungs full of masonry dust, I discovered a whole lot of nothing."
“Seriously? Nothing?”
"Well, there is a room on the other side. It's about ten by ten with concrete walls and a concrete ceiling. It's below a storage room that's on the back side of the house that I think was used for keeping coal. That upper storage room has only an outside entrance to it. Anyway, in the basement room, there's a small offset, I'd say about a couple of feet square that was partially boarded up. I removed the planks, and it looked to be some sort of chute leading to the coal storage room above. The rusted remains of a miniature elevator were in there, like an industrial grade dumbwaiter. I'm guessing it was used to move coal down for the basement furnace. I suspect that's how the cat managed to get in."
“So, did you find anything else?”
"Mostly dirt and time. There was an old fuse box and some heavy wiring on one wall. It looked to be original with the house but apparently had been disconnected long ago. Oh, and there were two other rather curious things."
“Which were?”
“There was a long coil of metal cable. Pretty rusted and on an old spool. Probably several hundred feet of it.”
“Interesting. And what was the other thing?”
"A good-sized drain pipe coming out of the far wall. Probably about eighteen inches. I pointed a light down it, but it was caved in after about twenty feet.
“What was it for?”
"No idea. I guess it may have been a drain for any water that may have flooded the basement." He paused. "Come to think of it; it leads in the general direction of that spring house at the back of the property. But that's a fifth of a mile away. I can't see where that would serve any purpose."
A silence fell between us as we both tried to fill in the gaps of what we now knew.
"Matthew, I'm no engineer, but none of this makes sense. Why would coal be brought down so far away from the furnace and through a room with all the wine racks? And why would a drain pipe be in the room where there was no plumbing?"
"Beats me. Maybe there was a design change, and the wine racks were built after the fact. Who knows?"
"So, I guess we're no closer to unraveling any big secrets about Hiram Hatcher then we already were."
“Looks that way. Although I would like to know more about this Frontenac Company.”
“You want me to follow up on that?” I asked.
“Thanks, but no need. I’ll make some inquiries. Maybe when the weather gets a little warmer the two of us can hike back down to the spring house and take a closer look.”
“Do you think there’s something creepy about it?”
“Not so much creepy, just puzzling. Might be good to have a second set of eyes.”
“Fair enough.”
He cocked his head slightly to the side and looked at the large envelope under my arm. “Did you find something else?”
I removed the photo. "Yes, but not at the property office. Christine and I were antique shopping earlier today, and I came across this. You recognize the guy?"
At first, Matthew held the print casually. Then he instinctively drew closer, completely absorbed, as if the man in the picture was whispering to him. "Sure do. Where did you find this?"
I explained the details as he quickly flipped it over and back, scrutinizing every particular.
“Didn’t you mention once that Hiram had made an inventory of everything for the move to Charleston? Was the phonograph on it?”
He gazed up from the photo, but he appeared to be looking through rather than at me; his thoughts in a distant place. Slowly, hesitantly, he shook his head. "No. No, it wasn't. I don't ever recall seeing a vintage phonograph at Emily's grandmother's house either."
I shrugged and rubbed my chin. “Well, chalk up another chapter in the Hiram Hatcher mystery story. It seems that anything new learned about him only raises more questions.”
Matthew offered a nod of concession. “Yeah. I’m beginning to think there’s nothing there to find. I may never know why Hiram left town so suddenly or why Emily dreamed about him.”
“Sounds like you’ve had a change of heart.”
Matthew grinned and held out his arms in a gesture resignation. “I don’t know. Over the last week, the oddest thing has happened. I feel like I’m slowly waking up from a deep sleep.”
Chapter 27
LOST DREAMS
I FOLLOWED MATTHEW to the kitchen. As he washed his hands in the large sink, he gazed out the window, speaking reflectively. “Ever since we talked the other evening, I have to admit, I’ve felt a little bad about asking you to be all cloak and dagger about gathering information at the property office.”
“Why is that?”
“It’s starting to all seem silly now, all the secrecy.”
I pressed my lips together, contemplating the question stirring in my head. “So, if that’s the case...are you saying it’s no longer important to keep Emily’s relationship to Hiram private?”
He dried his hands with a towel and turned to me. "Perhaps. Other than the picture I have of Hiram and Capone, nothing is linking him to any kind of bootlegging or anything illegal."
“True. I’ve not heard any mention in that regard.”
"There's some speculation about his swift departure, but he clearly did a lot of good for the town. And even if all of this bootlegging business did come out, I don't think it would matter either way. The truth is, the children completely love living here. School has been wonderful for them. They've made oodles of friends, and I'm beginning to think that the people of Watervalley aren't that swayed by what happened nearly a hundred years ago. They might find it interesting and want to chat about it, but they seem a lot more interested in the here and now."
“No argument. And if people knew about Emily’s relationship to Hiram, I think it would go far to help them understand why you came. You have to realize, this is still the South, and ancestor worship is a valid form of religion. In a sense, this is your family’s ancestral home. That’s reason enough. Emily’s dreams never need to be known beyond this room.”
Matthew leaned against the kitchen counter, absorbing all that I had said. “I don’t know, Luke. Perhaps I’m just looking for a quick resolution. I’m still haunted, still curious about what she meant. Maybe I’m just looking around at the positives and trying to make those fit into the answer box.”
I nodded my understanding but had no words of comfort in response. Matthew lived with a perpetual ache; an imbedded sense of loss that time would slowly dull. But without some measure of closure, it would become part of his character, leaving all of his days tinged with a faint sourness. I opted for a change of subject.
“By the way. The children. Are they here?”
“No. Birthday party for a classm
ate. It’s amazing really. For such a little town, they have a constant social life.”
“Well, maybe you should start thinking about having one as well.”
Matthew offered a tenuous smile. “I don’t think so. The garbage goes out more than I do.”
“Matthew, look...I know you’ve been a widower less than a year. But that doesn’t mean anything to the single women of this town.” I gushed a short laugh. “Or the married ones for that matter. The married ones believe it’s their mission in life to find a mate for a single guy like you, irrespective of your thoughts on the subject.”
This topic must have struck a chord. His mood lightened, and he spoke with great animation. “Oh, I’ve already learned that in spades.”
“How so?”
“A few weeks back I showed up to a PTA meeting and practically got mobbed. They were like seagulls going after a piece of bread. The kids have had a few classmates over to play in the afternoon. There are some single moms in the mix, and you wouldn't believe the way they dress just to drop their kids off. One of them was wearing clothes small enough to be an outfit for one of Adelyn’s dolls. I don’t want to be rude, but I’m just not interested. I mean, how do you make them stop?”
“Talk with a Yankee accent.”
“Very funny. I’m not kidding, though. It’s an awkward business. Some of these single moms can be embarrassingly forward. One of them asked me to go see a movie with her.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“From what I could gather, it was playing on the big screen in her bedroom.”
I responded with a stifled laugh, not wanting to divulge my amusement fully. Matthew continued.
“How can such a little town have so many single moms? Burning the cornbread must be grounds for divorce.”
“I think it has more do with their available options. You’re probably in a vast group of one.”
“Humph,” he replied. “The other day I’m in the grocery store and this girl...young woman, I guess...passes by me. She was very attractive but couldn’t have been a day over twenty. Anyway, as our buggies pass, she winks and says ‘hi.’”
“And what did you do?”
“I lost the power of speech. I was a complete idiot. I grunted something and practically ran to the checkout line.”
“Face it, Matthew. I know you miss Emily and rightfully so. But you’re not dead.”
“Listen, Luke. I’m thirty-eight with twin six-year-olds. At my age when I'm at the grocery, and a young, attractive woman smiles at me, the first thing I think is, ‘I wonder if she babysits?’”
“Well, you can’t blame them for trying to get your attention. They know you’re in mourning. But they’re hoping to be the reason you come out of it.”
“It’s just not that simple. I’m not looking for another wife.”
“That’s not going to keep them from auditioning for the part.”
Matthew folded his arms and spoke in a mix of dismay and amusement. “Perhaps you’re right.”
I shook my head. “Well, I’m glad to hear you’re getting to know some of the locals. And listen, if sometime you ever do need a babysitter, Christine and I would be happy to accommodate.”
"Thanks. It's not a big deal, really. As I said, I'm not looking for companionship. It's just that sometimes, it might be nice to go sit somewhere and drink a beer and remember what a crowd feels like. Anyplace like that around here?"
“There’s a roadhouse called the Alibi. It’s a good place to see the local lowlifes in their natural habitat. You’re not going to find many look-a-likes. The highest skill set most of them have is how to put backspin on a cue ball."
“Rough bunch?”
“They cheer by firing their guns in the air. I think some of them were born with tattoos.”
“Seriously?”
"I'm probably not being very fair. The majority are pretty good fellows. And when it comes to farming and mechanical things, they're unbelievable. Half of them probably know how to hotwire a stealth bomber."
“You seem to have connected well with them.”
“They’re different. But I do like them. Even the rough ones. They are as good and genuine a people as you’ll ever know. Granted, there are a few that make me want to put a high voltage fence around my house. But all in all, they’ve been kind and accepting of me...even though admittedly, I’ve always practiced a certain self-imposed exile.”
“That, my friend, is a little hard to believe. Even from the few conversations I’ve had, you’ve practically been canonized by the locals.”
"Nice to hear. But it doesn't exactly help my larger dilemma. Besides, if they discovered I was leaving, my status would quickly drop to that of a Nazi war criminal."
"I understand. I've actually thought a lot about your situation. It was good medicine to hear you talk the other night. Lately, I've spent a lot of my time in self-pity. You helped me remember that everyone has struggles."
“I’m a little embarrassed about it now. I generally like to find the answers to my own problems without having to divulge my soul’s squalor to anyone else.”
“Have you decided what you’re going to do?”
"Not really. I still love the idea of doing research, but I can't see my way clear to leave the people here. Looks like my dreams of fame may never occur. Like innocence and hope for mankind, I now number it among the lost things.”
“Do you think you would be good at medical research?”
“Truthfully, I think I would be very good at it.”
“Then you should pursue it.”
“It’s just that this town, these people; their need is real. It’s here and now and I’ve grown to accept that, to own it. It’s part of who I am. Research is only a hypothetical good. So, every time I do the mental gymnastics on the two choices, I find myself leaning toward the known good.”
“Everyone wants to lead an extraordinary life, Luke. The trick is to figure out what extraordinary looks like.”
I smiled and nodded. “Fair enough. It’s just that the stars seem to be lighting a one-way road that ends in Watervalley, Tennessee.”
Matthew smiled and offered a subtle nod of understanding. “Astra inclinant, sed non obligant.”
“Meaning?”
"The stars incline us; they do not bind us."
“I wish I shared your confidence.”
He again pursed his lips thoughtfully, driven by some private entertainment. “I wish I could do more to help.” He paused and gazed around the kitchen. “Truth be known, I do well to take care of the twins. A lot of the time the house looks freshly bombed. I've come to realize that my cooking is only slightly preferable to hunger. I need a housekeeper. Do you know of anyone?"
Chapter 28
HOUSE CALLS
MARCH DISAPPEARED INTO vapor.
Somewhere about mid-month, the first scattered days of spring began to advertise themselves. As warmer, southerly winds passed across the wide plain of the valley floor, the fallow earth with all its abundance, began to stir and swell. Soft breezes pulled at the heads of the emerging buttercups, their brilliant yellows coloring the woods and fields. The normal silence of my morning runs in the countryside became progressively invaded by the distant groans of tractors. The lilting fragrance of fresh grass and clover began to permeate the air. In both mind and marrow, I felt the promise of warmer days.
Caught up in all the anticipation of bridal showers and wedding plans, Christine was in an endless blissful state. I dutifully went along to all the meetings with the event planner, the minister, the florist, the photographer, the baker and all the other players required to be officially betrothed. But candidly, I found it all unbelievable. D-Day had been launched with less preparation. Invariably I hovered on the periphery of all the conversations and decisions, content to be the poor cousin in the mix and finding great satisfaction in watching Christine’s excitement with the selection of every detail.
During the month it seemed that Connie and I o
nly saw each other in passing. I had mentioned to her that Matthew might be looking for a housekeeper, but the prospect received only a lukewarm response. Something in Connie had changed. She seemed distant, preoccupied. Perhaps she was following in form with my own reticence of the past couple of months. But there seemed to be something more to it; a secretive and worried state that offered nothing to the few nuanced inquiries that I made to her.
As the days passed, I fully expected to find Ann Patterson, my incredible nurse, in a puddle of tears...knowing that John would likely follow through on his previous assertion to break things off with her. What played out was quite the opposite. More than ever, John made almost daily appearances; taking her to lunch, showing up at day's end, or arriving with flowers for a minute's visit. He and I would exchange a few words of sly comradery and move on, never having so much as a conversation that included an entire paragraph.
Curiously, the one person who was omnipresent in my world was Matthew. Not with me personally, but in the general life of Watervalley. It seemed that more and more I would see him at the Depot Diner, the grocery store, or the Farmers Co-op. For some reason I expected him to stand in the corner like the shyest boy at the dance. But instead, he would call people by name, and they would respond in turn. He carried himself with a certain confidence, a kind of understated friendliness. Smartly turned out, perfectly tempered, his capacity for blending in was slowly emerging.
As well, the realization that his departed wife was the ancestor of Hiram Hatcher had quietly become common knowledge. Whether by accident or by design, it had been his children who had disclosed the information to some friends at school. Since this truth came from out of the mouth of babes, it was met by the larger adult world of Watervalley as a wholesome and proper thing, the rightful return of the family of a prominent citizen from a more glorious time.
It was seen as a good sign, and no one was trying to read the prosperity tea leaves more than the Mayor, Walt Thurman. He had finally assembled what was, in his words, “an All-Star, Cream of the Crop, Top Drawer, Nobel Prize-winning, Blue Ribbon Panel.” I did not doubt that after many long and intense hours of meetings Walt would be able to issue a lengthy and comatose report on the problem. Our initial gathering was set for the first week of April. I could hardly wait.
