by Morgan James
It seemed to me Daniel hesitated, just for a second. Was he that uncomfortable? He finally sat down and I poured two glasses of iced tea from the fridge. “Sorry. The tea is not sweetened. Can I get you some sugar?”
“No Ma’am. I drink it straight up, just like my coffee.”
“Is that a fact?” I said, “I thought I was the only Southerner who didn’t drink sweet tea.” I handed Daniel his glass and began to assemble my sandwich. The photograph of Stella, Paul, and Boo Turner, three friends seemingly relaxing at the beach, streaked through my mind. Was I just assuming they were friends, as I’d assumed that I was alone in preferring my tea unsweetened? “How am I going to find the truth?” I said aloud, then embarrassed, glanced at Daniel, hoping he’d not heard me. No such luck. He looked perplexed, and seemed to be giving my stream of consciousness question serious thought.
After he took a couple of deep swallows of his tea, he answered, “Well, I expect you are like most of us. We already know the truth well enough. Sometimes we just wish it weren’t so.”
What an interesting observation. For a brief second I considered telling Daniel about the Tournay case, to get his perspective; then I dismissed the idea. Too much risk in him thinking I operated in the Twilight Zone. Better to change the subject. “I’m sure you’re right,” I agreed. “So Daniel, do you like delivering the mail?”
Looking bemused at the abrupt change in subject matter, he leaned back in his chair to casually stroke his hat with his left hand, turning it gingerly a half turn around on the table. “I like it well enough. It’s steady and before long I’ll have a small retirement. Like most things in life, it’s a compromise. When I was young I went two years to community college. Learned tool and dye making. Did that for a while. Hated being inside all day. I wanted to farm like my daddy in the daytime, and spend my nights playing music. Course, my daddy thought I was wasting my time learning to fiddle; but I don’t think so. Too bad there’s no real money in Bluegrass music, or in farming now days. Unless you’re part of the mega farms, then your soul belongs to the corporation. Later, when I needed to be home more with Susan, I quit the manufacturing job. That same week a vacancy came up at the post office. They hired me, so I reckon I did fair enough on the test. Pretty soon I quit raising tobacco and vegetables, and got into raising cows and sheep instead. More money in beef than tomatoes.”
I nodded my understanding and slowly chewed my sandwich; amused that Daniel was providing so much information.
“Susan showed her sheep at the fairs when she was in grammar school. Won a passel of prizes, and got her picture in the paper most every year. She tell you that?” I shook my head no, and he forged ahead. “Now we play music together. She’s the best picker in the state. I reckon you do know that, since I saw you a couple of times in the crowd last summer when we played on the square in town.” Daniel paused, probably to take a breath. The man had volunteered a book of information about himself in one long string of sentences. And I had thought he was the silent type! “Yes, Ma’am, it’s a good life, between the income off the cows and the mail carrying, we do fine. We got out of the sheep business, though.”
“Why no more sheep?”
“Cause they are dumber than rocks, and cause Susan never could get the point sheep are for lamb chops, and not just grooming up in pretty ribbons for the county fair.”
Peanut butter stuck in my throat. I could feel a young Susan’s aching heart as she said goodbye to a much-loved sheep, knowing it was destined to be Sunday lunch served with mint jelly. Washing the last of the sandwich down with iced tea, I went to the sink and rinsed my glass. “I see your point. I’d have to pass on the sheep, too. Just the thought of it makes me consider being vegetarian. Are you ready to call on Mr. Enloe?”
Daniel rose, and settled his hat on his head. I was realizing he and that Stetson hat were old and close friends. “Ready as I’ll ever be,” he replied.
With an offering of a jar of my homemade fig jam in hand, we followed a foot worn path from my side yard through a heavy stand of white pines laced with leggy young hemlocks, leading us to Fletcher Enloe’s property. Since my five acres had been carved from his eighty-plus, we shared a rear fence of open welded wire and wood posts. A two-foot wide rut showed in the dirt long the fence, the result of the offending male goat patrolling up and down the line, munching my blueberry bushes through the wire as he walked. Thus, I was on a mission to ask Mr. Enloe to move his goat somewhere else, anywhere else, away from the fence.
It felt good to be walking in the open air of early fall, the warm sun on my face, and needing only a light sweater. This would be my first autumn in the North Carolina Mountains, and I was looking forward to a leaf explosion of reds and yellows, and the heady smell of wood smoke in the air. We ambled silently through the thickest part of the trees, the floor a dense cushion of fallen brown pine straw and feathery ferns. I was grateful Daniel had talked himself out and didn’t feel the need to fill every second with conversation. When we were almost to Enloe’s property, I spoke. “Daniel, how long do you suppose these white pines have been here?”
Daniel stopped and thoughtfully touched one of the tender pine fronds. “These whites haven’t been here all that long. Just like most everything else you see around here, they’re not old forest because of the logging done up here.”
I thought about the thick clumps of laurels, native holly, and gangly oaks growing in front of my house along the banks of Fells Creek, and wondered what had grown there two hundred years ago when the Cherokee watched the same creek. “So logging used to be big business in this part of the county?”
“Lord, yes,” he answered. “When my Daddy was young this part of Perry County was pretty much bald. He used to say come rain the mountain slopes cried red muddy tears. I think the federal government knew all of us stubborn Scot-Irish would never listen to anybody telling us we were shooting ourselves in the foot by cutting so many of our trees to sell. Course, when a man is just trying to feed his family, he doesn’t want to hear no to the only thing he thinks will keep’em going another winter. No ma’am, you can’t tell a Scot what to do; he’ll do the opposite just to cross you. Leastwise, the government put what they could into National Forests, and that’s a good thing. We finally figured out they were right about the strip logging. Timber folks are a lot more careful now days.” Daniel turned and pointed beyond the far side of my pasture. “You see that overgrown spit of a road over there? Can you can make out it climbs up the saddle of the ridge to Fire Mountain? That’s one of the abandoned logging roads used back during the early nineteen hundreds. I believe it was used pretty regularly until the late thirties. Least, that’s what my daddy always said. I don’t go quite that far back myself.”
I knew exactly what road Daniel was talking about. I’d already seen the shadows of the brush-covered roadbed from my bedroom window, and heard wagon wheels grinding with the effort of climbing the road in the predawn quiet. “When you say abandoned, do you mean no one ever uses the road now?”
“No, nobody much goes up there any more. They’d probably be trespassing if they did, because except for the little bit on National Forest land, all of it is on Fletcher’s property. Nantahala National Forest begins somewhere along the ridge and stretches all the way to Wayah Bald, but I don’t know exactly where it starts. Fletcher knows, I’m sure; we can ask him, if you’re curious.”
As if on cue, we reached Enloe’s property and a wiry man of about my height came out of the house to stand on the front porch. I surmised he must be in his late seventies or eighties, though he was certainly not a feeble old man. Dressed in creased chino work pants and a freshly ironed shirt of the same dark cream color, Fletcher Enloe looked active and healthy; from his pink flushed light complexion to his neatly parted thick gray hair, this was a man who prided himself on holding the years at bay. He would probably tell us he still split his own wood and mended his own fences.
“Afternoon Fletcher,” Daniel called out cheerfully. I conce
ntrated on trying to look pleasant and watched Fletcher Enloe carefully appraise me from the porch. He hesitated long enough to put me on notice he wasn’t sure he liked me, or trusted me, before descending the four steps to the ground.
“Daniel, “Enloe replied somberly, and extended a calloused hand. I noticed the last two fingers of his right hand were missing below the knuckles. He seemed not the least shy in offering the damaged hand, nor did Daniel in taking it. They must know each other well, I observed, and wondered at the story behind Enloe’s missing finger parts. “Your cows faring well?” Enloe continued.
“Yes Sir, they are, thank you. Are you looking to replace those you sold off last spring?” Daniel made easy conversation with Mr. Enloe.
Enloe shook his head, “Naw. I’m done with cows. Got tired of messing with them. That’s for you young boys.”
“Well, I’m not so young anymore, and I know I’ll see the day I get tired of the cold nights and wet mornings tending to’em my own self. When that day comes, we can both sit on the front porch and rock.”
Enloe frowned. “Well, I didn’t say I was sitting like a old woman on the porch. I just said I’m tired of the cows. I keep busy enough with other things.”
Daniel nodded his head as though he knew exactly what Enloe was talking about. I wondered how long the two men would banter around doing the male non-threatening thing while ignoring me. Finally, Daniel turned to me. “This here is Miz Promise McNeal, Fletcher. Your new neighbor. Miz McNeal, Fletcher Enloe.”
I offered Enloe the jar of jam. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Enloe.”
He took the jam and studied the contents. “Is it fig?”
“Yes Sir,” I replied.
There was no change in his facial expression, still suspicious. “Trying to catch me with honey, are you?”
“No, I believe Promise said it was fig,” Daniel interjected.
Enloe frowned. “I know what she said, Daniel. I ain’t hard of hearing, Pay attention, son. That was a joke.”
Looking shamed, Daniel tugged his hat farther down on this face. I did not dare laugh. “Well, all right, so it is,” he recovered, “guess I spend too much time listening to cows, and they don’t tend to make jokes.”
Good for you Daniel, I thought. Don’t let that old man put you down. When it became obvious that was the end of the conversation about jam, and I was not going to get a thank you from Fletcher Enloe, I attempted to make small talk with him. “Your roses are still blooming. Beautiful. What variety are they? The red is the deepest I’ve ever seen.”
“I don’t have the least idea what they are,” he barked back.” My late wife planted them there against the porch years ago. I just trim’em up and ply them with manure cause I know she’ll rob my sleep from her grave if’n I don’t.” Enloe didn’t seem to want to talk roses either. “Who are your people, girl?” he asked abruptly.
Daniel gave me an apologetic look. “My sir name is McNeal, Mr. Enloe. I grew up in Atlanta and moved here about eight months ago.”
Looking at me as though I had just said I was Venusian, he spat out, “I know you moved from ‘Lanta! Everybody in town knows that. I mean who are your people, your daddy’s people?”
I truly did not want to talk about my family with Fletcher Enloe, or anyone else for that matter. I tried to brush the question off the table. “If you mean are the McNeals from around here, I doubt it. I know my mother thought the McNeal family lived for a time in North Carolina, I don’t know where. Certainly not here.”
Enloe was not to be thwarted. “Why didn’t you ask your daddy when you was coming up where they was from? Or ask him now. You might be surprised.”
Ask my father: the here on Tuesday gone by Friday guy? Enloe’s question hung in the air as he fixed me with a sight down the barrel of a gun look. It was obvious he would wait for an answer. “My father was away a lot. There wasn’t much opportunity to have that kind of conversation with him. He’s long dead and gone. Too late for questions.”
“Was he a traveling salesman, or preacher?”
What an odd question. This old man was fraying my last nerve. “No, certainly not a preacher.”
“Well then, that’s pretty sorry,” Enloe snorted.
“Yes, it was,” I agreed, trying to sound calm through my irritation. “But you are neighbors with me, Mr. Enloe, not my relations. It doesn’t matter who my people were?”
“Horse pucky.” Another you must be from out of space indictment. “Your people always matter, Miz McNeal. I figure them like a shadow. You can’t never lose it. What was your granddaddy’s name?”
I sighed. This man was determined with a capitol “D.” I may as well answer and get it over with before autumn turned into winter. “James McNeal. He died before I was born. My father, James, was a junior.”
“Well, hell. That doesn’t tell me much. There are probably a thousand, or more, fellers named James McNeal in North Carolina.”
Good, maybe we could leave the McNeal family tree alone. “There you go.” I opened my hands towards Enloe as if to say, finished.
Enloe squinted at me. He was not finished. “What about his daddy? What was his name?”
I wanted to scream. This was not the purpose of my visit and I was beginning to doubt we would ever get to the goat issue. I looked to Daniel for help but his neutral stare told me I was on my own. “Oh good grief, Mr. Enloe,” I said through clinched teeth, “My great grandfather’s name was January McNeal. Probably died before you were born. Not anyone you would have head of, I’m sure. Could we please change the subject to the reason for my coming over today?”
“January McNeal. I thought as much.” A satisfied smile bent Enloe’s mouth upwards. “You fooling me, girl? Course I know who he was. Anybody who knows any history of Perry County knows the story of old January McNeal.”
I studied his face; was Enloe having another joke, as he had with Daniel and the honey reference? No way I would jump to his bait. Daniel finally broke in. “Fletcher, are you saying Miz Promise had long ago kin living here in Perry County?”
“Well, of course that’s what I’m saying. Are you deaf? Or don’t know the story of January? I would’ve thought that’s the reason you moved here, girl. You’d have to know the McNeals lived here for quite a long spell.”
For a few seconds all I could hear was a rushing in my ears like the incoming tide. What was Fletcher Enloe talking about? There was no possible way I could have bought property in a county once occupied by my great grandfather, and not known it. Was there?
Daniel looked from Fletcher Enloe to me. “You didn’t know?” he asked me.
I shook my head in disbelief. “Look, Mr. Enloe there must be some mistake. Some other January McNeal. You said McNeal is a common name.”
Enloe shrugged. “Well, that’s true enough. Though I expect not too many folks would curse a baby with a name like January? But whatever you say, girl.”
That was it. I’d had enough of Enloe’s game. “Mr. Enloe. My name is Promise, not ‘girl.’ And I would appreciate it if you would call me Promise?”
“Yes, Ma’am, whatever you say,” he replied, so conciliatory I wanted to scream. “Now, what was it you came over here about, other than to bring me this fine bit of jam?”
“It’s about your goat, Mr. Enloe. I was hoping you would move him to another pasture, away from my fence. He has eaten all my blueberry bushes through the fence, and frankly, he smells.”
Fletcher Enloe threw back his head and laughed. “That goat ain’t mine, Miz Promise. It’s yurn. The old boy walked through a hole in your fence after the Goddard twins moved, and I been letting the pitiful creature graze my pasture and drink from my spring to keep him from starving to death. I was looking to start charging you board and rent, unless you plan to run him back over to your side.”
All my restraint in the face of Enloe’s agitation flew into the mid-afternoon wind. I had to clench my hands into fists to keep from exploding. The Goddard twins had conned me again! I visua
lized myself galloping across the landscape on a fast horse looking for the twins, bullwhip in hand, shotgun by my side. Unfortunately, I can’t ride a horse. I must have stood there for a few seconds with my mouth open, looking stupid, because Enloe stopped laughing. Daniel touched my arm. “Promise, you look pale. You all right?” he asked.
I was angry and wanted to throttle the Goddard twins; but yes, I was all right. I cleared my throat and pressed my fingers into the back of my neck to ease the acute tension twisting there. “Mr. Enloe,” I recovered, “let me make sure I understand what you are saying. Do you mean,” I pointed to the probably two hundred pound white goat, sporting a long grizzly beard, “that creature is my responsibility?”
“Hubert,” Enloe interjected, “his name is Hubert.”
“I see. Hubert,” I repeated. Daniel was smiling. I was not smiling. “You say Hubert lived in my pasture while it belonged to the Goddard twins, and for the eight months since I bought the property you didn’t see any reason to come over and tell me this? Is that correct?”
“Well,” Enloe said with a sly smile, “truth be known, old Hubert does keep the pasture cut down some for me. And it’s like I told you, the Goddard boys sold the three nanny goats and let the pasture go to ruin. Then they moved off to leave Hubert to starve. Those boys never were worth a tinker’s damn. Hubert was heartbroken; probably came my way for the company, as well as my good standing hay.”
I wasn’t sure I was following Enloe. “You say he was heartbroken about the twins leaving him?”
Amusement twinkled in Fletcher Enloe’s blue eyes. “No, ma’am. That ain’t it. Don’t you know nothing about goats? It was the nannies he missed. He was awanting for female company, don’t you know. That’s why he wears out that path all along your fence line. He wakes up every day with a hope he’ll walk that line and see a nanny on the other side. It’s down right pitiful, when you think about it. Course he does have a strong smell right now; its fall, the time of year they breed. Nanny goats love that musky smell.”