Preston and Katy proved to be lazier than I could’ve ever imagined. They entertained my pap with music while he supervised and drank, but never got drunk. Jamie and my dad butted heads about every little detail, making me wonder how their houses ever got built the first time around. Greg was more than happy to swing a hammer in order to keep eating my aunt’s cooking.
Only Ben was absent. I knew when he said he had to ‘finish his mission’ a long time would pass before I saw him again. Yesterday he called me from Florida to say he was looking for a way to Mexico. I knew I had to tell Jamie.
Pumpkins and gourds appeared on front porches alongside bundled cornstalks, the only real sign, besides the leaves, that fall had arrived. Apple butter had already been made and canned, the cellars were filling up fast with sauces and pickled veggies.
All we had was a foundation. The rubble from the fire had been cleared. The scent of smoke barely lingered on the high, dry grass that used to be, and would become once again, my front yard. We bought lumber, framing timbers and plywood sheets. Coils of electrical wire and insulation waited in Jamie’s shed. We had windows and doors picked out, flooring, appliances and fixtures on their way.
At the moment it wasn’t much to look at. A hole in the dirt surrounded by weeds. But we’d build our lives on those stone walls, and all that would come after would be stronger because of our commitment.
Alex bent down to plant some of the spruce seedlings we’d collected from other parts of my pap’s farm. A pair of gray kittens played in the topsoil, grabbed her hand shovel, chased milkweed seeds. Her tank top rode up, and for a second I glimpsed the crescent-moon-shaped scar that’d come to grace the small of her back.
That scar. I wondered if it would ever fade. The raised tissue was the only blemish on her otherwise perfect body. I still felt it was my fault, and probably would until I died. My regret followed me like a shadow. I was always aware of it. But it was thin, without substance, compared to the hope we held for each other.
Now when I looked at her I’d know our love had been borne upon the backs of a thousand dreams and many more nightmares. Yet we still lived to laugh and smile. This long dream that we’d been living wouldn’t end by the influence of nature or men. This dream was ours to hold, to keep, to write as only we could.
Blood is not thicker than water. Family isn’t who you are born to, but with whom you choose to spend your life.
THE HELLBENDER FAMILY
I’d like to start by giving a very special thanks to Hellbender’s visual godfather, Mr. Brad Vetter of Hatch Show Print for the amazing cover art. A picture may be worth a thousand words, but your creation is worth many more. At least 98,000, give or take a few.
A very special thanks goes out to Jim Sherraden of Hatch Show Print for his tremendous patience. I think a book most certainly should be judged by its cover. And I thank you from the very bottom of my heart for helping make this one happen.
Since Hellbender served as my thesis for Seton Hill University’s Writing Popular Fiction program, I have to thank all my SHU cousins for helping me make this book special, especially my critique partners: Alex Spoerer, Glenn Garrabrant, Kim Howe, Venessa Guinta and Maria V. Snyder. I would also like to thank my SHU uncles, Pat Picciarelli, who offered forceful encouragement without ever having to resort to force and Timons Esaias, who provided logic and wisdom when I couldn’t muster enough of my own. I grimace at the thought of studying under lesser men.
I’d like to send a very special thank-you to my cousins from the West Virginia contingency—Alton and Elizabeth Byers and the rest of the gang who were with The Mountain Institute way back in the fall 2003 for familiarizing me with a West Virginia that I didn’t know existed, and most of all, for introducing me to Gerald Milnes, who opened my eyes to a whole new Appalachia. Two nights in that big yurt with Gerald, his fiddle and his stories (and a few jugs of Carlo Rossi) and I end up with enough material for two books and counting. He’s the first living legend I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting.
Then there’s my family from Laurel Highlands River Tours—the good years: uncles Bo Harshine, Chaz Hamilton, Rich Krajacek, Packy Nicholson, Big Jack Preston, Rockin’ Scott Bunner, Tom Steyer, and Mark McCarty, aunt Gayle Myers, cousins Mike Hendricks, Alan Jackson, Glen Shearer, Brian McMullen, T-Bird Nicholson, Harold Tawney, Doug Arbogast, and my brother, Mike Duff. At some point in the six years I spent up there I became a man. Not sure if it was the cold water or the toluene. Thanks for the laughs and the stories.
A pair of very special people adopted Heidi and me into their own writing families, and I owe a big debt of gratitude to both. Mary SanGiovanni and Christopher Paul Carey are by far the best critique partners I’ve never had. They exemplify professionalism and creativity, and I’m grateful for the laughs we’ve shared.
And I have a very, very special thanks for my label brother Michael A. Arnzen who left his blueprints on the table for me to look at. He’s what I want to be when I grow up. And he does it with a smile.
It was Mike who introduced me to Jennifer Barnes and John Edward Lawson of the Raw Dog Screaming Press family. We squared off over some Sundae Pie and my life hasn’t been the same since. I owe them both a tremendous amount of love and thanks.
Over the last twenty years I’ve accumulated all kinds of new family members, and especially want to thank my new cousin Mike Mehalek for making the day job fun for a few years (and for teaching me patience), Little Mike Rega—an old cousin—for always helping me to remember why twelve years old was, in fact, awesome, grandma and grandpap Hawk for their kindness and Tuesday night halupki, the Rubys—Albert, Sharon and Tom, for welcoming me as a son and a sibling and for sharing the magic with me, and Crystal for being a sister when I only had a brother.
And I want to express my deepest thanks to my real brother, Mike, and my mom for always being there, even when I wasn’t. Whenever I’m with either, I’m home.
Lastly, thank you, Heidi. Thinking of all the stories we have yet to write together keeps me up at night. In that Alpine meadow we made a promise; “We aren’t like the rest.” Maybe those weren’t the exact words and maybe neither of us even ever muttered them. But I remember the exact moment it happened—when you grabbed my hand, and led me into the clouds.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jason Jack Miller hails from Fayette County, Pennsylvania, as in, “Circus freaks, temptation and the Fayette County Fair,” made famous by The Clarks in the song, “Cigarette.” He is a writer, photographer and musician. His first band was the un- ironically named Phist, a punk/grunge hybrid who played their first show during second period at Tri-Valley High School’s Winter Carnival. Their last show was a week later on New Year’s Eve at Friend’s Roller Rink. He worked as a whitewater raft guide on the Lower Yough in Pennsylvania and the Cheat in West Virginia, during which time he met his wife, Heidi. Shortly after getting hitched they moved to Florida and worked for a very famous mouse. An outdoor travel guide he co- authored with his wife in 2006 jumpstarted his freelancing career; his work has since appeared in newspapers, magazines, literary journals, online, as part of a travel guide app for mobile phones, and in a regular column for Inveterate Media Junkies. He wrote the novels Hellbender and All Saints during his graduate studies at Seton Hill University, where he is now adjunct creative writing faculty. When he isn’t writing he’s on his mountain bike or looking for his next favorite guitar. He is currently writing and recording the soundtracks to his novels, The Devil and Preston Black and Hellbender, and his next novel, The Revelations of Preston Black. He lives near Pittsburgh with his writer wife Heidi Ruby Miller. His blog is http:// jasonjackmiller.blogspot.com. Tweet him @jasonjackmiller
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Hellbender (Murder Ballads and Whiskey Book 2) Page 30