by Cameron Judd
Feely looked pointedly at Lundy: “Or intelligent Baptist.”
Lundy glared back in feigned anger.
“Well,” said Eli, ready to redirect the subject. “I don’t know much about good Presbyterians or intelligent Baptists, but I do know I’ve been frustrated in trying to get David to sit down with me to map out specifics about the magazine he wants me to work on. But one other thing I don’t know is what it means to be ‘Curtis-crazy.’ I’ve never heard that expression before.”
“It’s purely local,” Lundy said. “I’ll explain it to you later.”
“It’s a phrase that’s a bit unkind to a rather unfortunate fellow in our town,” Feely added.
Lundy rolled his eyes. “See there? That’s why I call him ‘Touchy,’” he said to Eli. “I got a lot of things to explain to you, son. I’ll fill you in all about Curtis, and Davy Carl, and Touchy here, and every other escapee from the laughing factory roaming this county. We’ll have good opportunity for it: Davy Carl has done left me a note saying that he’s got it in mind for me to haul you around with me for a few days, sort of breaking you in to Kincheloe County.”
“That sounds good to me.”
“We’ll make a right smart party of it, son. I know the finest scenery and the prettiest girls and the ugliest men in this county. And which of the old country stores make the best baloney sandwiches. I’ll introduce you to all of them.”
Eli grinned. “Can we start with the girls and the baloney sandwiches?”
Lundy’s phone rang. “Tylerville Daily Clarabelle! You got Lundy!”
A brief, joke-and-pun-filled phone conversation with an obvious friend or acquaintance ensued, but Lundy ended it quickly, using the impending staff meeting as his excuse.
“Charlie Hardy,” he said as he hung up the phone. “You know him, Touchy? Good man, but you let him get to talking and your day is shot for anything else. Charlie’s tongue wags like the tail of that old dog my grandpaw had when I was a boy. It would sit by his screen door and that old tail would thump the door until Grandpaw couldn’t bear it anymore. His oldest boy, my uncle Bob, chopped that dog’s tail off as a birthday gift for Grandpaw. He got a scolding for being mean, but I know Grandpaw appreciated the silence.”
“I’ve met Charlie Hardy, I think,” Feely said, wincing at Lundy’s anecdote about the dog. Eli would later learn that Feely was a mainstay of the local Humane Society, a card-carrying member of the ASPCA, not to mention PFAW, the ACLU, and various other groups much in the minority in reflexively conservative Kincheloe County, Tennessee.
Eli said, “Jake, I like that ‘Clarabelle’ thing.”
Lundy chuckled. “Davy Carl hates me doing that. Says it doesn’t ‘reflect and respect the newspaper’s dignity’. Which of course just makes me sure to answer the phone that way nine times out of ten.”
Davy Carl came around the near corner as if on cue. “Staff meeting, gentlemen!” he announced cheerfully. He noticed and greeted Feely, who departed after a vigorous handshake and a thank-you to Brecht for editorial support the newspaper had given to a recent food drive for the needy. The thank-you was why Feely had dropped by. Least we could do, Brecht told him.
When Feely was gone, Brecht said, “Glad to see you getting acquainted with Jake here, Eli … he is going to be a real help to you with the magazine. In fact, we’ll be talking about that some today.”
“Good. I’m eager to get rolling on it.”
The three headed together down the hall toward the conference room.
BRECHT WAS TRUE TO his word at least in getting around to the subject of the bicentennial magazine project during the staff meeting, but Eli’s frustration was little relieved. Brecht merely repeated the basic plan, gave the staff the usual directive to give Eli their attention and support and the magazine the same level of professionalism expected of them in their normal journalistic exercises. Professionalism, he repeated over and over.
Lula Ann Jarvis, a local recently graduated from Bowington College as a communications major and now working for scullery girl wages as the Clarion’s education reporter, meekly raised her hand and was recognized by Brecht.
“How can we exercise any professionalism if we can’t get our assignments?” she asked, eyes cutting toward Eli. “Eli’s not given us the first one yet.”
A faint murmur and chuckle passed between the five staff writers, all but one of them young adults on either their first or second post-graduation jobs. The one exception was Treva Fulton, a long-time Clarion employee in her fifties who served a dual role as copy editor and general assignment reporter.
Eli was both surprised and perturbed by Lula Ann’s obvious effort to cast blame his way. Lula Ann, with mouse-brown hair and wide hazel eyes that gave her the look of being perpetually startled, had such a sheepish demeanor that she did not seem the type likely to point a critical finger at anyone. Further, Eli suspected that Lula Ann was attracted to him; he’d seen it in her look and manner from the first time he’d been introduced. Maybe this attack of blame was vengeance for him not returning her interest.
Brecht gave a loud sigh. “It’s not Eli’s fault,” he said. “I have to carry the blame. I’ve told him we’ll make the assignment list jointly, and circumstances haven’t allowed us to get together and finalize anything. But assignments are coming, I promise. Soon.”
Lula Ann gave a smile and nodded as if satisfied by the answer, but Eli saw another round of subtle, skeptical glances pass among the others.
A general discussion of the magazine ensued but led to no real progress. Jake Lundy, seated beside Eli, sneakily nudged him with an elbow and whispered, “I’ll give you some wisdom about all this crap later.”
When the meeting was done, Eli stood to leave with the others, but Brecht motioned for him to stay behind.
“Eli, now that you’ve been here a while I’ve had some time to think about some things and conclude that I might have made an error or two in how we set up your situation with us. Do you know what I mean?”
“No, David. Not a clue.” For a few dread-ridden seconds Eli wondered if he was about to be fired.
“How do you like your office space?”
“Very much. No problems with it that I’ve detected, and it is a good atmosphere for work. And Jimbo takes good care of the place.”
“That’s good to know. I think I made absolutely the right decision in giving you some distance from our daily paper operation … you’ll recall that I told you I feared I’d be too tempted to drag you in for daily assistance if you were right here at hand.”
Eli nodded silently, not knowing what Brecht was trying to get him to say, if anything, and wondering were this was leading.
“But at the same time, I think the distance might be posing a problem as well.”
Eli stifled a sigh. Evidently Brecht was about to take his office away from him.
Thus Brecht’s next words were a surprise. “I don’t think we’d gain anything by removing you from your current workspace, but I do foresee there might be advantage gained in expanding it a little.”
Expanding? “I don’t follow you, David.”
“Eli, I’ve got to ask you to keep this confidential for now: we’re about to lose a reporter.”
“Who?”
“Jeff Ealey has given me his notice. Moving to Florida to go to back to college. We’re facing a personnel shortfall at a time when the work demand is about to increase for our staff writers.”
“Because of the magazine.”
“Because of the magazine, yes.”
“David, are you about to ask me to take on the workload of a departing reporter in addition to the magazine project?”
“Let me take this a step at a time. What I am going to ask in regard to the magazine that you be willing to share with me, and probably Jake, whatever bicentennial assignments would have otherwise gone to Jeff.”
“All right,” Eli said as cheerfully as possible. At least the magazine assignments would be fairly interesting.
“We’ll make the magazine work with one less person.”
“Now let me drop the second shoe. I’ll try to get somebody in in Jeff’s place soon, but I’m not known for making speedy hires. I don’t rush things.”
Eli had already figured that out, and withheld comment.
“So Eli, I’m going to need you temporarily to take over part of Jeff’s news beat. Not all of it, just part. The town government of Perkins Creek. One of the three municipalities in Kincheloe County, and the smallest. Also the county planning commission and beer board – the same people comprising both boards. They finish the planning meeting, adjourn, and immediately reconvene as the beer board. The business of the latter is largely cut-and-dried: if an establishment asks for a beer license and meets the guidelines, approval is essentially automatic. Though we’ve got one local citizen who believes, very sincerely, that he is called of God to come to those meetings and oppose any and every beer license application. He doesn’t expect success in the effort, but it makes a point important to him. Takes all kinds, as they say.
“Jeff also covered one small part of town government, the Tylerville Historic Zoning Commission. I’m going to ask you to take on that as well, but that will actually fit in well with your magazine work. The people on that board are many of the same ones who we’ll be subjecting to interviews for magazine stories.”
Eli understood his boss’s difficult situation, but couldn’t help feeling some annoyance. He heard himself saying, “So what you assured me when I interviewed – the part about trying to avoid dragging me into daily newspaper work – that’s going by the wayside.”
“Only temporarily, Eli, and only because the situation has changed with Jeff giving his notice. And I’m not asking you to take on his full beat, only those parts we just ran through. The remainder we’ll divide between the remaining writers, including me.”
Eli shrugged. What could he say? He’d hired on under the usual “and other duties as assigned” proviso. And he understood the predicament being forced on Brecht by the departure of a rather prolific staff writer.
“There’s another thing, Eli. If we’re going to involve you in the daily paper, you’d be advantaged by a work station here at the main office. Not in place of your private office, but in addition to it. And not out in the newsroom.”
“Where, then?”
“The morgue. The archive room. Right in there with the bound volumes of old papers and the microfilm reels. There’s an unused desk there, and we’ll drop in a phone extension and a computer … we’ve got a stray one in storage. And here’s the real advantage: you’ll have easy access to a century’s worth of Kincheloe County history, all around you. The bound newspapers go back to the mid-1920s, and the microfilm has at least some of the papers all the way back into the late 1800s, including some of the newspapers published here before the Clarion began. So you can spend whatever free moments come up looking through old papers … magazine research, you see.”
Eli nodded. Brecht was right: the opportunity to easily spend time with the old newspapers would be valuable. And not just for the magazine project, but also for his own purposes as a writer of historical fiction. To study the news events of many decades back from the perspective of the time when they were current events had the potential to launch a hundred ideas for stories, novels, any number of things. Though he would never say it to Brecht, that was more personally important to Eli than any come-and-go bicentennial project.
“Well, all this puts a new wrinkle into the situation, David, but I’m with you. The show must go on!”
David beamed and lightly slapped the tabletop. “Good man, Eli! Good man! Now run out and fetch Lundy back in here, if you would. I’m joining you two at the hip a few days … his input will be very useful to you as we get things rolling.”
Chapter Six
JAKE LUNDY’S USUAL MODE OF TRANSPORT was an aging but well-maintained chocolate-brown ‘74 Ford pickup he’d owned since it was new eleven years earlier. He welcomed Eli as a passenger and expressed a thought shared by both of them: gratitude that David Brecht had given them the rest of the week free of regular duties so that they could concentrate full-time on traveling the country roads of Kincheloe County to gain ideas and inspirations for the magazine. Though Lundy’s physical stature and loud, gregarious nature made him a potentially intimidating figure to a quiet soul such as Eli, he demonstrated unquenchable cheerfulness and friendliness to his younger charge. Freed from any duty to write a column for the week, Lundy gave the impression that being paid to drive around his home county, on the newspaper’s dime, and talk about the people and places he knew best, was like an unanticipated week of paid vacation. Even Lundy’s burdensome weekly chore of putting together the Friday “church page” had been temporarily shifted to another staffer.
Eli’s Tylerville-Kincheloe County grand tour began without delay. Freed from the tyranny of the day-to-day, Lundy and Eli climbed into the brown Ford truck and left with no particular planned route. Lundy chanced to drive in the direction of the strange farrago of a building that housed Eli’s office. They did not stop there, but continued on past, Lundy shaking his head.
“Can’t believe Davy Carl stuck you out here in Hodgepodge,” he said.
“’Hodgepodge’?”
“Just my name for that place they’ve got you working in. Downright abortion of a building. You heard the story of how it got like it is, I reckon.”
“Jimbo told me. Kind of hard to believe the tale, though. Letting a kid in high school take on an architectural design project? That’s kind of … over the top. Nuts, really.”
“When it comes to his family, nuts is just what Mr. Carl is. He wasted a lot of money letting that kid make such a mess of that place, and his family, grandkids in particular, is about the only consideration that can make that man waste a dime. But I can’t fault him, being such a family man myself. Me and Miranda have two daughters, and if they’ve ever done a lick of wrong in anything, anywhere, I’m blind to it.”
“How old are they?”
“Too young for you, boy. Or anybody else. At least until old Dad here says different.”
“I’m not chasing. Just asking.”
“Kelly is twelve, Haley is fourteen. Both take after their mother, for which they should bow their heads and say a prayer of sincere thanks every day.”
“Is Miranda a Kincheloe County girl?”
“I wouldn’t have married any other kind. And if you’re smart, you’ll take the same attitude. You’ll never find a finer one to spend your life with than a Kincheloe County gal. I believe that as sincerely as a man can believe anything. Of course, maybe you’ve already got yourself a sweetheart.”
“I did. We were set to be married, but it didn’t happen.”
“Walked out on you, huh?”
Eli paused. “Close enough. Yeah.”
“Recent?”
“About a year ago. We still keep in touch, occasionally. But I think that’ll change. Every time we talk it’s the same old garbage, over and over again. How many times can you listen to somebody tell you every bad thing in her world is your fault, while she’s as innocent as a lamb?”
“It’s like that, huh? Sorry for you, son. Your notion is best: just quit the talking and move off in a different direction. Let her find her another fellow to run out on and she can be his problem.”
“Truth is, Jake, I’m the one who ran. I should have done it sooner than I did and spared her some embarrassment, but I didn’t see things clear enough until we’d gotten right up near the day for the ceremony. But once I did see it clear, there was no question that the right thing to do, for both of us, was break it off. If we’d married I’m not sure it would have lasted a year. Allie and I got on well in superficial situations, but if anything serious came up, we just pulled in two different directions. Even so, I still think the world of her. I’ve never been quite able to figure that out, how it can be that way.”
“Quit trying to figure it, then. Let it
drop and leave it behind. Move on to something better.”
“That’s what I’m aiming for. Believe me.”
“So what do you think of Davy Carl and his daddy?”
“Not yet met Mr. Carl. He’s not been around the place in the time I’ve worked here.”
“Huh! I guess that’s right. He’s gone a lot this time of year. He’s in his seventies now, but age ain’t slowed that man one little bit, and I’ve known him a long time. He’s a member of all kinds of groups, from your local civic clubs on through all kinds of state commissions on history, ethics in state government, banking, courts, you name it. He’s on the regents board that oversees state universities, and he’s worked a lot promoting your community colleges, your private colleges, so on and so on. Then there’s the various press associations and editor and publisher organizations … you name it, he’s doing it. He’s been off in Nashville the last little while meeting with the governor about one thing or another, but I know for a fact he got back home yesterday. And tomorrow he’ll be taking part in a get-together you and me will drop in on. So you’ll meet him tomorrow.”
“At a civic club meeting?”
“Not hardly. We’ll just let it be a surprise … and it will be. Hey, let’s turn down this way and I’ll show you how to get to the vast urban center called Perkins Creek. Just be sure not to blink while we pass through it.”
ELI HADN’T EXPECTED TO FIND Jake Lundy to be so talkative. He discovered, riding on the passenger seat of Lundy’s truck, that many questions for which he’d been planning to seek answers were being answered without him even having to ask. Lundy knew Kincheloe County intimately, and obviously loved it. Every turn revealed a new vista and prompted a new bit of informal history presented Jake Lundy style. The man wrote in a naturally folksy manner, and his speech followed the same pattern.
“Let me ask you something, Jake,” Eli said during a lull in Lundy’s extemporaneous expositions. “About something Bufe Fellers was saying down in Harley’s Cafe the day I interviewed for my job.”