Katherine

by S. A. Glenn

“Here’s the work order.” Oli handed it and the map to Samuel. “Ya deliver three loads: two today, one tomorrow. Customer’s name’s Thomas Ferley. Ya should be back for lunch.”

  “Got it, Oli.” Samuel dropped his cigarette, smashed it with his heel, folded up the two pieces of paper and stuffed them into his pocket.

  Oli leaned forward, pushed his chair back and stood with a groan. He grabbed his worn-out gloves and slipped them over his wrinkled hands. He limped over to the saw and sat a heavy board atop the mechanical tool. He made a few adjustments, and flipped a switch that ceased the building’s deafening silence. Samuel left Oli with a forceful demeanor. He walked to the wagon, got the horses situated, then climbed aboard with his sack lunch in hand just in case he didn’t get back before noon. He adjusted his hat, lit up another cigarette, grabbed the reins and released the brake. He clicked his tongue, tapped the horses with the leather straps and motioned for them to move.

  “Come on, boys. Time’s awastin,” he said as he led the team east out of town.

  Samuel took it easy since the road had turned into a washboard from the storm the day before. He avoided a vast puddle in the route, steering the horses around it, pulling up next to a large evergreen bush. “Whoa, boys!” He drew back on the reins to stop the ride. He removed his hat and set the brake.

  The horses flapped their lips, producing their distinctive flutter, accompanied with the occasional neigh. Samuel hopped off the wagon, making a splash in a puddle. He interlocked his fingers, straightened his arms, and generated a few pops of his knuckles. He hurried over to the shrub, did the pee pee dance as he pulled down his trousers, buttocks exposed and as white as a ghost. “Oh my God!” he stated, head cocked back, eyes closed, mouth gaping as he urinated. “Mercy, whew,” he said as he shook off his male organ of the straggling drips and pulled up his britches.

  He spun around to return to the wagon and noticed many small golden mushrooms with streaks of dark blue growing in piles of cow dung—just like the ones he and Oconnestoto ingested during a religious ceremony. He crouched down, plucked the fleshy fungi from their foundation and collected a handful of them. He returned to the wagon, climbed aboard and wrapped up the cluster of mushrooms with the map he had memorized.

  THE APPALACHIANS

  SUMMER 1866

  The early morning sunlight was warming the land. A slight breeze ran through the close-packed growth of shrubs and trees. A couple of reddish-brown bushy-tailed squirrels playfully chased one another up and down the trees, chattering. Oconnestoto’s raccoon friend scavenged around the campsite for discarded food.

  Oconnestoto and Samuel sat opposite each other within a hole Oconnestoto had dug for devotional ceremonies. The chamber was round, three feet deep, eight feet in diameter, covered with logs, branches and leaves. Many white candles were lit, occupying the dwelling to purify it. The only clothing worn was their loincloths made of buffalo hide. They sat with their legs crossed, sage burning while they meditated to clear away bad energy.

  Oconnestoto broke their deep thinking by grabbing a small rectangular wooden box. It had feathers hanging from it and sacred words written in dark red at the top. He slid open the lid, reached inside, pulled out two dried caps of mushrooms and placed one into his mouth, then one into Samuel’s mouth. Chewing the substance, Oconnestoto gave Samuel a confirming gaze, letting him know to do the same.

  The creamy mushroom’s taste was strong as Samuel swallowed the first bit. Chewing up the rest, he held his breath, forcing down the nasty, slimy texture and retching punch, thinking about what is grew out of. He remained poised; using his tongue to pick out the pieces between his teeth, hoping the worst was over.

  It had been a long forty minutes that Samuel had been waiting for an insight to occur, but all he had experienced was a few drawn out yawns, thinking it was boredom. He was fidgety as he gawked upon Oconnestoto’s swarthy complexion.

  Oconnestoto’s nostrils flared as he breathed with his eyes closed—his eyelids vanished. Samuel saw his own reflection within the infinite blackness of Oconnestoto’s hypnotic pupils. He witnessed himself dancing to drums—then the eyelids reappeared, enveloping the bizarre vision. Samuel’s jaw dropped, baffled by the intense illusion. His eyes blinked hard, trying to clear away whatever caused the ridiculous sight. He imagined the mushrooms would just make him conjure up something intelligent to share, not to cause him to see something too crazy to speak of. He shook his head back into reality and ran his hand down his face, trying to abandon his nervous wonders of possible insanity. A small, green bird with a yellow chest and beak landed atop Oconnestoto’s head, strutting around in circles, clucking like a brooding hen as it stared at Samuel. He laughed through his nose, trying to control his emotion. Oconnestoto opened his eyes and peeked at Samuel, then closed them, shaking his head slowly from side to side. The bird stopped, faced Samuel and began slapping its knee with one hand. It then covered its mouth with the other hand, laughing without end, pointing at Samuel and roaring with rejoice. Samuel erupted with giggles, pointing back at the silly bird with ruffled feathers.

  Oconnestoto raised a brow and spoke with a quaint voice. “What is so funny, Katoka?”

  “That foolish little bird!” he exclaimed with a goofy grin as he peered into Oconnestoto’s wondering eyes. Looking back at the top of his head, he lowered his arm, his face turned serious in a flash, no longer seeing the delusional prank.

  JASPER

  1868

  On schedule, Samuel located his destination: 118 Sequoia Lane. The two-story, red brick with white trim house was magnificent. It had four free-standing vertical columns supporting the roofed platform over the verandah. Two charmingly bold balconies, one on each corner, projected from the wall, surrounded by a parapet. Three brick smoke stacks protruded from the roof; the center one trickled grayish-white smoke. Many trees and shrubs circled the home, everything within a white picket fence.

  Samuel hopped down from his rough ride, dusted himself off, and straightened his clothing. Opening the wooden gate he headed for the front door, parading down the inlaid sandstone walkway. He trudged up the five wooden steps leading to the entrance. He stood at the door, nervous but eager to meet the client. He removed his hat and knocked—brief silence followed—nearing footsteps on the wooden floor within the dwelling grew louder.

  “Coming!” said a deep-voiced man with a southern accent.

  Samuel watched the brass door handle turn and the door open. A man with a black handlebar mustache with the tips waxed stood there smiling. He was sporting a three-piece suit and a bowler hat. His cutaway sack coat had a high front closure and was worn buttoned just at the top, over a vest, decorated with a catchy watch chain.

  “Mr. Ferley?” Samuel asked him.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m Samuel Lee. I’m here with the materials you ordered.” Samuel wiped his sweaty palm onto his pant leg and put out his hand.

  “Good timing, Mr. Lee. I just got home. I’m Thomas Ferley. Call me Tom.” They shook hands. “Please, come in.” Tom fully opened the door and stood to the side, waving Samuel in.

  “Thank you, Tom. Call me Samuel.” Samuel wiped his feet on the mat then entered.

  Tom led him into the parlor to a leather sofa with fluffy brown pillows at each end. “Please, have a seat. I need to change my clothing. I won’t be but a moment.” Tom headed down a long hallway.

  “Thank you.” Samuel held his hat in his lap, twisting at a loose thread as he admired a beautiful Persian rug at his feet.

  An elegant woman wearing pearl earrings and a golden necklace entered the room, drying her dishwater-soaked hands on a towel. “I thought I heard someone come in,” she said, smiling. “My name’s Mary. I’m Tom’s wife.”

  Samuel stood and grinned. “Howdy, ma’am. Good to meetcha. I’m Samuel Lee. Call me Samuel. I brought the materials ya folks ordered.”r />
  “Nice to meet you, Samuel. Tom’s been dying to start the project. Please, excuse me. It’s a bit drafty in this room.” Mary walked over to the fireplace and threw in two logs, using the bellow to get the wood to catch flame.

  “A delightful home you have,” Samuel said, glancing around.

  Mary turned to Samuel with a modest fashion and untied her apron. “Thank you. Tom designed everything.” She displayed the place with her hand. “Would you care for some tea? I just brewed it—mint.”

  “Oh, yes, ma’am… sounds tasty.”

  “Good! I shant be long. Please, sit, make yourself comfortable.” She removed her apron as she left.

  Samuel sat and glanced up at the wall behind him, seeing an encased diploma with the name Thomas Ty Ferley, MD. “He’s a doctor!” he exclaimed as he concealed his lips with his hand, embarrassed someone heard his outburst. He searched the room, examining all of the extravagant items collected within it. There was a shiny black baby grand piano displayed, many glass statues, one being a cockatrice: a mythical serpent with a lethal glance. The rest of the glass sculptures were horses, one of them glistening from a ray of sunlight that streamed through the window. There were many cuckoo clocks, too—most of them from Germany. And there was a phonograph. Samuel had never known anyone with one; only saw one is a magazine once.

  Mary returned with a silver serving tray equipped with an English tea pot, patterned after a Chinese import, two Chinese tea bowls with saucers, and a China bowl containing sugar. She sat down the tray onto the glossy-finished oak coffee table, poured a cup for Samuel and one for herself. She picked up a sliver spoon and dipped it into the sugar. “Would you like to sweeten your tea?”

  “Two scoops, please, ma’am.”

  “One. Two,” she counted. “There you go.” She gave herself one scoop, stirred both, and sat the bowls onto the saucers.

  “Thank you, ma’am.” He carefully sipped the steaming brew, smelling the delectable mint aroma. “Mmm, good, ma’am.”

  She took a sip, sat down her bowl, crossed her legs and leaned forward with a smile. “I’m glad you like it. I—” She stopped talking and looked up at Tom who stood next to her.

  “I didn’t mean to interrupt your chitchat, dear,” Tom told Mary as he placed his hand on her shoulder. He was wearing overalls and scuffed boots.

  “No worries, Tom,” she assured him as she placed her hand over his.

  Samuel admired their love, smiled, and began to stand.

  “Relax, Samuel. Enjoy my wife’s marvelous tea. I’ll back up the horses and get the wagon ready to unload. Come out when you’re ready. No rush. Now, continue talking. Pardon me.” He tipped his worn-out hat.

  “Thank you, Tom.” Samuel nodded and took another sip of tea.

  “So, where were we?” asked Mary. “Oh, yes! I was going to tell you that I grew the mint myself. It’s a mixture of lemon balm, orange mint, chocolate mint, spearmint, and Korean licorice mint.”

  Her mentioning growing things caught his attention, something he had in common with her. He took a big sip, tasted the array of mint and wiped his mouth with his hand. “I grow things, too, ma’am.”

  Her eyes lit up. “Oh, really? Like what?” She uncrossed her legs and sat back with her elbow resting on her stomach, cupping her chin.

  “Lots of vegetables: corn, carrots, lamb’s quarter—stuff like that. Oh, yeah!” he said, slapping his forehead. “I’m takin’ care of some fruit plants I found on a hill south of Wrangler. I think someone planted the seeds, meanin’ to have a garden, but it hasn’t been kept up for years. There are apples, plums, cherries, raspberries, and more. Can’t wait to sink my teeth into them.”

  “Sounds wonderful, Samuel. I must take some liberty in the future to try some of that heavenly delight.”

  “I’ll make it a point to get some to ya, ma’am. Might I get some of them mint seeds? I’d love to grow some.”

  “Let me get you some.” She jumped to her feet with enthusiasm. With grace she moved toward the antique escritoire made of mahogany, slid open the door and removed a small paper bag. She returned to Samuel, sat next to him as she handed off the sack.

  He opened the wrinkled sack and raised his brow as he peeked inside. “Wow! They’re so small. Didn’t think seeds could be so tiny . . . must be thousands in here! Thank you, ma’am.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Silence came between the two as they gazed upon one another, as though content with their pleasant conversation. Only the ticking of various clocks was heard—then one after another timekeeper generated a cluster of chaotic chimes, indicating it was ten o’clock.

  Samuel swallowed the last of his tea, sat his bowl and saucer onto the serving tray, and stood. “Thank you, ma’am, for everything. Sorry to rush off, but I best be gettin’ to work.”

  “Our meeting was refreshing, Samuel. We must manage it again.”

  “Yes, ma’am, that would be nice. Good day,” he bid her as he fit his hat on and nodded with confidence.

  “Good day, Samuel.”

  He was feeling positive about his life, believed his future looked bright. He found Tom on the side of the house unloading supplies. Samuel sat down the bag of seeds into the wagon, grabbed his gloves, hurried them on, grasped a handful of lumber and stacked it onto the pile.

  Tom stacked his grip of boards atop Samuel’s orderly mass, sat his foot onto a tree stump, crossed his arms and rested them on his knee. With an inquisitive stare, he asked, “How long have you worked for Oli?”

  “Today’s my first day.”

  “Howdaya like it so far?”

  “I like it lots,” he answered, repositioning his gloves. Scratching his head, he asked, “If ya don’t mind me askin’, whatcha buildin?”

  “No, not at all. An addition to our home. Mary’s with child. Expecting the little one around September. We want a playroom for the tyke.”

  “Congratulations. That’s great! I’d like to have one someday, when I meet that someone special, that is—but I don’t think she exists—not for me anyway.” His chin dropped, then he gazed up. “Do you hope it’s a boy or a girl?”

  Tom peered up into the sky and drew a cross over his heart. “Whatever the good Lord blesses us with is okay by me.”

  “Understood. Ya know, Tom. You don’t gotta help me unload. It’s my job!”

  “Bosh! I tell my patients to exercise. What kind of a doctor would I be if I didn’t follow my own advice? So, Samuel, do you know anything about carpentry?”

  Samuel paused, removed his hat, and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “I’ve built lots of fences, and outhouses, too. That’s what me and my pa did—he owned his own business ’n’ all. I helped him frame the barn. I loved doin’ that stuff. He learned me lots—then he died,” he grumbled. He held his head low, not wishing to remember that part. “We were always together. We went fishing and played stick ball. I loved being with him. But when he died I lost a part of myself. I felt beat: How could I become a man without his help? My ma taught me stuff: how to be kind and gentle—it wasn’t the same as it was with my pa.”

  Tom froze in place. “Sorry to hear that. What’d he die from?”

  Samuel took a deep breath, looked at Tom and tried to hold back his tears. “Don’t really know. He didn’t wake up one mornin’, that’s all.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Twelve, maybe thirteen. I forget.”

  “My deepest sympathies for your misfortune.” Tom rested his hand on Samuel’s shoulder. They slowly got back to work.

  Samuel said nothing, no expression on his face. He dried his eyes, sniffed hard and continued working as he thought about his father and the times they spent together, the times when they laughed and played. Samuel missed him dearly.

  Tom seemed to sense Samuel’s sadness. Tom
could help Samuel with his deep-seeded tribulation. He had a year of college classes in psychology and theology and had always desired to help others. He had been fortunate in his life. He worked hard at finding solutions to problems, to be able to help his fellow man who hadn’t had the prosperity he’d been blessed with. “Samuel,” he uttered as he dusted off his hands, “I could use a hand on Saturdays with building the playroom. I’ll pay a dollar and a quarter per day. Can you make it out here?”

  Samuel got a glimmer of affection, then he lit up like a torch in the night and spurted out with glee, “I was hopin’ you’d ask me to help. I’ll ask Oli; see if he needs me on Saturdays. If not, I only need a way out here. I’ll ask Ms. Sara if I can ride her horse out here. I’m sure she won’t mind. I’ll run it by them folks, have both answers by mornin’. Gee! I’d really like to get back to buildin’ stuff. Makes me feel kinda important.”

  “Wonderful!” Tom declared as he slapped his hands together with glory.

  After they finished their work they made their way to the front of the wagon and Samuel climbed aboard. Samuel grasped the reins, ready to vacate the premises. He looked down onto Tom’s compassionate face gazing up at him, smiling. “Well, Tom,” Samuel said, grinning, putting out his hand, “guess I’ll be seein’ ya in a few hours with the next load.”

  “Okay, Samuel. Be safe, my good man.”

  Samuel tipped his hat, nodded and jerked the reins. The horses neighed as they pulled away.

  Samuel arrived at the mill at noon. He jumped off the wagon, anxious to talk to Oli. He saw Oli come out with his lunch in his hand. Samuel met him under the maple tree and sat with him on an old dried-up log.

  Oli eased back against the tree and scooped his spoon into a bowl of chili he had made the night before. “How’d everythin’ go out there, boy?” he muttered with his mouth full.

  “Great!” stated Samuel as he wiped a speck of beans off his forehead. “Tom and his wife… good folk. Also, Tom asked me to help him build on Saturdays. If ya ain’t go nothin’ for me to do on them days, I’d like to help him.”