by Cameron Judd
“I remember her bonnet,” Eli said.
“You never saw her without it,” Ledford said. “Come on. Let’s take a walk up the hill and talk a little about Kincheloe County and what you’ll be up to here.”
“SO,” SAID LEDFORD, SETTLING back in a nice leather chair in a rustic-styled den with a huge fireplace that would have looked at home in a mountain ski lodge. Above the fireplace hung an oiled and gleaming flintlock rifle, in such fine condition Eli assumed it was a latter-day replica. He asked about it.
Ledford was glad to talk about the rifle, which he described as a hybrid between old and new. The stock was original and carefully preserved, the barrel a later addition. But that barrel was a Hacker Martin creation, Martin having been a legendary Tennessee gunmaker whose works were prized by collectors. Eli, who had never fired a flintlock or even a percussion cap muzzle loader, was, because of his historical novel writing, a moderate student of old firearms and thus familiar with Martin’s legacy and reputation. He stood before the mantlepiece, eying the rifle, and reached up to lightly touch the barrel. “Touching history with my hand,” he said, and Ledford nodded.
“I suspect you and me like some of the same things, Eli,” Ledford said.
“If you’re an absolute fool for history, Eli, yes you do,” threw in Ledford’s pretty, brown-haired wife, Nancy. She was nearby in the kitchen, finishing the construction of some fine-looking ham and cheese sandwiches. Eli’s mouth watered as he studied the food in his peripheral vision. He could have stared openly at it, or for that matter, at the appealing woman putting it all together, but feared neither would be appreciated by his hosts.
Nancy went on. “If it has to do with local and regional history, particularly during the Revolutionary War period or the Civil War, Micah’s right in the middle of it. He’s a reenactor.”
Eli asked Ledford, “Rev or Civ?”
“Mostly Rev. And a little Tennessee long hunter thrown in for good measure. I guess I like it all,” Ledford said.
Nancy laughed. “He calls it ‘living history,’ but I think that he and his friends are just little boys disguised as grown men, playing Davy Crockett and Daniel Boone like they did when they were little, but with real guns in place of hickory stick rifles.”
“Not a thing wrong with that!” Ledford said. “Keeps you young and lively! You ever done any re-enacting, Eli?”
“Thought about it, never done it. I couldn’t justify the cost of the gear on my previous budgets. Probably not my upcoming one, either. I guess I satisfy my urge to play frontiersman by writing about it.” He had told Ledford about his published novel as they walked up from the old store site, and Ledford had been gratifyingly impressed, and vowed to find and read the book. He declared himself astonished that he hadn’t run across it on his own, being a heavy reader of frontier fiction.
He turned quickly back to the subject of reenactment. “Reenacting costs can add up, no doubt about it. But maybe we’ll manage to get you started now that you’re in Kincheloe. I know a lot of folks doing it, and we can round you up some clothes and moccasins and so on without a lot of trouble, I think. Hey Nance, where’s the beer?”
“Coming as soon as I finish these sandwiches, which is right about … now.” Eli heard the welcome sound of corn chips being poured onto sandwich-laden plates, and went back to his seat, a leather chair identical to the one Ledford occupied. Eli then realized he’d probably just taken Nancy’s usual chair.
“Should I move to the kitchen or someplace to eat?” he asked.
“We usually eat right here,” Ledford said. “Comfortable here in the den. You like it?”
“Beautiful home, just great. I love log homes. I’ll try not to spill any chips on the rug. Nancy, is this your chair I’ve commandeered?”
Her voice came from the kitchen. “Stay where you are, if you’re comfortable. We got plenty of places to sit.” Nancy came in with folding wooden TV trays, which she set up in front of each man. The sandwiches came next, complete with corn chips and split dill pickles, then the beer, still canned but already opened and ice cold.
“Just about perfect,” Eli said. “Good place, good people, good food and drink. I thank you for welcoming a stranger.”
“Stranger?” Ledford said in mock surprise. “Why, Eli, we’ve already established we knew each other when we were kids down at the store. We go way back, you and me! Old childhood friends.”
Eli grinned and raised his beer in salute. He reached for a chip but Ledford motioned him to wait. “I want to lead us in a brief bit of grace first,” he said. “I drink more beer than I should and say ‘shit’ more than I should, but I’m a believing man, and I try to thank God for what He’s given me.” He nodded toward his wife. “Especially for her. Can you believe an ugly old coon-hound like me wound up with such a lady? Pretty, smart, twelve years younger than I am … and pretty, too. Oh, and did I mention she was pretty?”
“You did, and rightly so,” Eli said. He bowed his head as Ledford led a brief, simple prayer of gratitude for the day, the food, the company, and the many good things in his life. After the amen he and Eli dived into the sandwiches.
No deli or sandwich house had ever served up anything better, and Eli wondered if he would ever be fortunate enough to find such a lovely and capable lady as Nancy Ledford. He’d not talked to Allison since that edgy phone conversation the day of the interview, and just now he didn’t think he’d much care if they never talked again. It was over, and it would stay that way. Perhaps it didn’t matter. Nancy Ledford was evidence there were not only other fish in the proverbial sea, but better ones.
CONVERSATION REVEALED THAT ELI and Ledford had more in common than just a shared awareness of the smoothest spot on the floor of the old Essie’s Market.
Though he had attended a state university rather than Eli’s Knoxville alma mater, Ledford had pursued a course of study not far removed from Eli’s. He’d pursued public relations and broadcast journalism, and after graduation worked several years in a mediocre job at a Tylerville radio station, where he’d risen to the level of station manager but left to sell television advertising for a station in Bristol. While there, he’d come to believe he would have been better served had he focused his university study on print journalism rather than broadcasting. He lacked the voice and presence needed if one was to thrive in broadcasting, and try as he would, he could not get the Northeast Tennessee drawl out of his speech.
In a wild burst of inspiration fueled by a night of drinking with a group of old college pals who were equally frustrated with their careers, Ledford and friends had come up with the idea for a regional magazine devoted to cultural life and history. The wealthy family of one of the drinking buddies could foot the startup. Ledford had known nothing about creating a magazine or building a business from scratch, and his partners were equally clueless, so it surprised no one but the most starry-eyed of the group when the magazine reached the brink of failure after only a year of publication. Ledford managed to cut his losses and bail out before it all went over the edge. He landed in a public relations position at Bowington College, an old, small private liberal arts college located at the eastern edge of Tylerville. Eli noticed that Ledford rolled his eyes when he said the college’s name.
Nancy immediately apologized for her husband’s sarcasm. “Micah can be a cynic sometimes, especially about Bowington. His experience there started out okay and gradually went bad.”
“I got fired,” Ledford said. “Sort of. Actually, before it could go that far I did the old jump-before-you’re-pushed routine. I had no other realistic choice.”
“What happened?” Eli asked. “Or am I being nosy?”
“Not at all. I’m the one who brought it up. Here’s the story: I was hired to direct the PR department, which was part of the Institutional Advancement branch of the college – the fundraising branch, at that time the least successful part of the college. Bowington had one budget crisis after another. The trustees of the place got antsy, and
then the micromanagement started. You know how that kind of thing can go. Long story short, the college started running through fund-raising vice presidents like a wino through a six-pack. Hire ’em, fire ’em, holler next! You’d have just learned how to please one VP, then he or she was gone and you had a new one to get used to. It wound up that one of them – my last one – decided I wasn’t doing to suit. I was called in and told that unidentified ‘others’ at the college weren’t happy with me and wanted me gone. Well, by then I wanted me gone, too. I’ve never been one to believe we were put in this world to dread going to your workplace every day. So Nancy and I had a long weekend talk, and I turned in my notice that Monday. It wasn’t good timing for it, and I’d not had any plan to leave, despite being unhappy there, because a man needs work, you know. But a man also has only one life, and I wasn’t happy living any more of mine where they didn’t seem to want me, and where I didn’t want to be, either. So bye-bye Suckington College, and good riddance.”
“It was the right choice,” Nancy said. “Really the only choice, considering. And it happened that I came into an inheritance at that same time. Not wealth, but enough to let us build this house. We already owned the land, thanks to Micah’s grandmother leaving it to him.”
“Sometimes things just work out right,” Eli said.
Ledford nodded. “Sometimes. I’m thinking now of going back to school and getting an MBA. Then I might try to follow in my grandmother’s footsteps and open a store or two around here, the first one right down the hill where Granny Essie had hers. I’ll become the convenience market king of Kincheloe County. Not the world’s grandest ambition, I guess, but it appeals to me, the idea of having a place like that. And if you do it right, you can make good money, even in tight times. Everybody needs gasoline and beer and overpriced potato chips, after all.”
“I’ll buy all my gasoline from you. And beer. I’ll get my potato chips at a discount store.”
“We’ll negotiate on the chips. Eli, I’m thinking maybe this newspaper job of yours also will also be one of those things that just ‘works out right’,” Ledford said. “Now, tell us all about how you see this bicentennial magazine project going.”
Chapter Five
AFTER TWO WEEKS ON THE JOB, Eli had gained a clearer perspective on his boss.
He’d expected to encounter a steady barrage of the cheery enthusiasm David Brecht had displayed during the interview process. Instead he found a David Brecht who was distracted by several recent local government issues that had been generating contentious meetings of the town’s aldermen, including two that seemed obvious violations of the state open meetings law and were inclining Brecht and the state press association toward litigation. The governmental insult to the citizen’s right to open government roused Brecht’s ire and claimed almost his full attention for many days, leaving Eli and his magazine project simmering at low temperature on the proverbial back burner. Eli attempted three times to set aside an hour with Brecht to allow for some serious planning of magazine content and story assignments for the writing staff, who would have to do the work on top of maintaining their regular newspaper beats. Brecht agreed to and scheduled all three meetings, then bumped each one off because of competing unplanned happenings.
Eli was discouraged, then began making a preliminary prospective assignment list on his own. Some things obviously would have to be included in a magazine devoted to community heritage: the historical and political origins of the county and town, the life and significance of the men for whom the county and town were named, the history behind the names of local communities and towns, noted people from Kincheloe County, the development of education, key industries and businesses, church life … Eli jotted down every obvious idea he could, then began to grow unhappy with what he had. The very obviousness of the ideas on his list made it dull and predictable.
Surely there would be a way to liven up the planned publication, give it some distinction and vitality.
Eli was new to this community, though, except for those childhood visits years before. He would need knowledgeable help to stir up some magazine content really worth reading for both those new to the area and those for whom it was a lifelong home.
ANOTHER MONDAY MORNING. ELI walked groggily into the newsroom for the mandatory first-of-the-week staff meeting, fast-food coffee in hand. It was the one morning of the week he was required to come by the newspaper building rather than straight to his office at the world’s ugliest office complex. He entered through the rear door off the staff parking lot. Inside, he heard an unfamiliar booming male voice bellow out, inexplicably and at top volume, “Toucheeeeeee!”
Startled, Eli accidentally sloshed coffee onto his shirt. He muttered an impolite word, softly, then felt glad he’d worn his brown shirt that morning. Once dried, the coffee stain would be invisible.
“Welcome home, Jake!” another unfamiliar voice said, and Eli spotted a lean, curly-haired, bright-eyed man in maybe his upper thirties who was approaching, with hand extended, the desk of the man who had just bellowed. The latter, judging from the desk he was at, was Jake Lundy, freshly returned from his long Alaska vacation. Lundy was the only staff member at the Clarion, apart from Mr. Carl the publisher and his wife, ‘Miz Deb’, whom Eli had not yet had a chance to meet.
Lundy pumped the hand of the curly-haired man. “How are you, parson?” he asked in a voice that reminded Eli of Bufe’s.
“Fine, Jake. Blessed and thankful to be so. And you?”
“Oh, I’m able to sit up and take a little nourishment,” said the florid-faced Lundy, who stood well over six feet and was the image of robust health.
“How was Alaska?” the visitor asked.
Lundy launched into a quick and vigorous summary of his just-completed trip. His visitor was a good listener and nodded frequently as Lundy told his hurried story, the gist of which was that the vacation was fun, but not restful, and Alaska beautiful, but no place Lundy would want to live for long, especially come winter.
Eli had no newsroom desk of his own at which to settle, and so meandered around the general vicinity of Lundy’s desk, eavesdropping and hoping for the chance to introduce himself.
Lundy’s visitor noticed Eli before Lundy did, and flashed a quick, friendly smile. When Lundy reached the seeming end of his Alaska narrative, the visitor put his hand out toward Eli and said, “Don’t believe we’ve met, sir. My name is Kyle Feely. I’m one of the Presbyterian clergymen hereabouts. That’s right … an admitted ne’er-do-well. Perkins Creek Presbyterian Church is where I do my pulpit hollering … Perkins Creek being a rural suburb of the great metropolis of Tylerville.”
“Eli Scudder. I’m new to the paper. Hired to work with a publication the paper’s doing for the bicentennial celebration. Pleased to meet you, Reverend.”
“Same here. Welcome to Tylerville! And please, just call me Kyle.”
“Don’t you do it, young man,” Lundy cut in. “This here ain’t no Kyle Feely, no sir … this is Touchy. The Right Rowdy Reverend Touchy Feely, that’s what I call him. And don’t buy that garbage about hollering from his pulpit, neither. That there hippie dippy do-gooder is a lot more likely to sing Kumbayah and fling flower petals at you while Michael rows your boat ashore than he is to holler. My name’s Jake Lundy, which explains why the nameplate on my desk reads Jake Lundy. I write feature columns in this here house of ill repute. Started out in the early ‘60s running a Linotype machine. Bet you don’t even know what one of them is, do you, son?”
“I do, actually,” Eli replied. “They showed us a film in our History of Newspaper Technology class at UT. Amazing machines, used all the way back into the 1800s.”
Lundy shook his head woefully. “Didja hear that, Touchy? They showed a film. A film! Shit! These new kids today, they come into the newspaper business not having no notion of what working at a newspaper really is. Far as I’m concerned, Touchy, you ain’t a true newspaperman unless you’ve got a few hot lead burn scars from the Linotype to show for i
t. World’s falling apart, Touchy. Right under my feet. Oh … and sorry I said shit. I forget you’re a preacher sometimes.”
The young minister shrugged. “Shit, Jake. Don’t worry about it. Sometimes I forget, too. And preacher though I may be, at least I’m no brain-dead, hidebound fundamentalist Baptist like you are.” Feely winked at Eli. “He calls me Touchy Feely. I call him Fundy Lundy.”
Eli grinned. “I’m a Methodist myself, and admittedly a nominal one. Church attender every couple of months … and that’s if I’m trying hard. Tell you what, Kyle, I’ll try to make a visit to your church once I get settled in here.”
“You’ll be welcome.”
Eli turned to the other. “Hey, Jake, change of subject: I met your uncle Bufe the first day I was in town.”
“Uncle Bufe? Now, there’s a man worth knowing,” Jake said. “Touchy here will lead you astray in a hundred different ways, but you listen to Bufe and me and Ruby up at the front desk, and you might just survive around here. Maybe.”
“What about David? He’s one of the few local folks I can say I actually feel like I know so far.”
“Davy Carl? Lordy, boy! You start listening to Davy Carl and you’ll go Curtis-crazy before you know it! I might be stepping over into Touchy’s territory here, but I’m here to tell you, Eli: the good Lord created two universes. The real one, and the one Davy Carl lives in. Try to stay in the real one as much as Davy Carl will let you.”
“That’s a point on which Jake and I can, to a degree, agree upon,” Feely said, volume low. “David can be … esoteric. Hears a different drummer, you know. But a good man. Good Presbyterian.”
“Which? David, or the drummer?”
Feely gave the feeble joke an equally feeble chuckle. “David, I mean. Good Presbyterian man.”
“Hear that, Eli?” Lundy said. “‘Good Presbyterian.’ Contradiction in terms! That’s like saying ‘honest lawyer.’”