Black Stump Ridge

by John Manning; Forrest Hedrick

  In the living room, the Detroit game was gone from the TV screen. The Lions had beaten the Chiefs 37 to 10. The second game was on. Dallas had just kicked off to San Francisco, who returned the kick to the 28-yard line. The Forty-niners were ready to start their first offensive play. Peete and Charlie watched from the couch while Dave sat nodding in one of the armchairs. Seated in another chair, Anne leafed through a magazine. She made it clear that she was bored and anxious to leave this testosterone-dominated environment.

  “Why don’t you just put the dishes in the dishwasher after I scrape them?” Johnny asked. “According to the commercials, you don’t have to rinse them anymore.”

  Edith shook her head. “I tried it that way a couple of times. It didn’t work. I ended up with cooked on food. Ever since, I do it this way. Truth be told, I don’t usually use a machine to wash my dishes. I don’t trust’em to do a good job. I only use’em when I have a big job, like today or Christmas time, when the whole family – or most of it, anyway – gets together.” She shot a meaningful glance toward Fred.

  “We like to never got her to use one even then,” William said. “I remember when we got the first one. You remember that, Fred?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “How long was it before she finally used it?”

  “You mean, after the first time, right after she got it? I think it was close to a year.”

  William sipped from a soda can. “We used it when she was away so we could get done with our chores quicker.”

  Fred nodded. “Yep. I don’t think she ever knew. Did you, Mom?”

  “Oh, I knew all right. Those were the only times that the dishes were really clean, so I knew something was up.” Edith glanced around the kitchen. Satisfied that everything had been rinsed and placed into the machine, she shut off the water. She dried her hands on a dishtowel and then turned around.

  “You knew?” Fred and William chorused.

  “Of course I did. I had a houseful of boys. Not a girl in the bunch. So, I was happy with little things like that. At least I knew they’d be clean once in awhile.” She looked at all of them. “I thank you, gentlemen, for your help and for your conversation. A Happy Thanksgiving to you all. Speakin’ of help and conversation, could I get you to come up to Lawyer’s room, Fred? I need your help with somethin’.”

  “Sure, Mom, no problem.”

  “You need me, too?”

  “No, William, thank you anyway. It ain’t that much. One extra set of hands should do it. Why don’t you and Johnny go watch the game with the others? ’Course, if one of you wants to set the garbage downstairs, that would be a big help.”

  “We’ll take care of it later.” Johnny picked up the bag by the top, spun it once, and then tied a knot using the excess plastic. “We’ll make sure all of the garbage is in the cans before we go.”

  “This ain’t the city, boy. We don’t have big old trucks comin’ up here once a week to haul away our garbage. We burn what’ll burn and take the rest to the dump. No, you just run that bag downstairs and I’ll drop it off on my way home.”

  “Is the dump open on Thanksgiving?”

  “I know the ol’ boy who runs it. He lives out back o’ th’ dump in a little shack. If he ain’t there, I’ll just put it with mine at home and dump it later.”

  William grabbed the bag. “I got it, Ma.”

  “Thank you, Son, and thank you all, again.” Edith turned and headed for the stairs. “You comin’, Fred?”

  “Right behind you.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “I should’ve done this when you were here last summer. I meant to, but I was so happy to see you it plumb left my old brain. It’s been so long since I seen you, Son. I used to think it was Karen kept you away. I know she didn’t like us much ’cause we’re hill folk no matter how nice a house we have.”

  Fred said nothing. His mother had uncanny insights into people. Right was right, and she was dead on where Karen’s feelings were concerned. She’d certainly rubbed them in his face often enough in the six years they were together.

  Edith stopped just inside the bedroom door and looked back at him. “Are you sleepin’ in this room, Son, like I asked you to?”

  “Yes, ma’m.” Suddenly, Fred was ten years old and ready to go outside to play with his friends with his mother asking if he’d finished his homework.

  She turned back to the room. “That’s good. I just feel better knowin’ you’re the one sleepin’ here – not that it matters for what I’m about to tell you.”

  “What’s that, Mom?”

  Fred looked about the room. He felt a little embarrassed that the massive king-sized bed was unmade, but there was nothing to do about that. He’d never known that his great-uncle had been such a reader. Built-in bookshelves lined one wall. The bed, with its high headboard full of built-in bookshelves, jutted from the center of another wall. Sliding glass doors opened onto the rear deck. A massive, ornately carved chest of drawers of the same dark wood as the bed dominated the wall opposite the bookshelves. A long, low vanity occupied the remaining wall and stood about six feet from the footboard. A doorway opened on the far side of the vanity and led into the master bath.

  Edith stood in front of the bookshelves. She studied the volumes for a moment before reaching up and extracting what looked to be a worn ledger.

  “This here’s Lawyer’s personal journal.” She held it out to Fred. When he tried to take it from her, she held it firm. “Wait just a moment. I want you to read it, but you need to understand something.”

  “What’s that?”

  She looked into his eyes as if searching for something. At last her grip relented; he pulled the book to him. The pebbled surface was cool to the touch. He looked down at it, but saw nothing remarkable.

  “Do you remember any of the stories from when you were growin’ up? From before you left?”

  Fred wracked his brain. Nothing surfaced. “Like what?”

  “Nothin’ about th’ dark o’ th’ moon? Nothin’ about strange goings on?”

  He thought harder. “Nope.”

  Edith sighed. “Son, there’s gonna be some things in there you might find hard to accept.” She clicked her tongue. “I meant t’ give you this last summer when you came out to see the place. I hope I didn’t do you and your friends wrong by not givin’ it to you then.”

  “What are you talking about, Mom? How could your not giving me this do us wrong? It’s just a book.”

  She looked away, but not before he saw a pained expression on her face. “I don’t have a lot of time to go into it now. I have to pack up my things and get back home ‘fore it gets dark. I know it’s not a working farm anymore, but I do have some animals to look after.” She looked at him and smiled. “They need their Thanksgiving dinners, too. I know William and Anne want to get back.”

  “You mean Anne does.”

  She patted his hand. “I wish you’d try to get along with her, Son. I really do. I know she can be somewhat positive about things.”

  Fred snorted.

  “She is William’s wife. That makes her kinfolk. An’ kin always looks after kin.”

  “I try, Mom. But, she doesn’t make it easy.”

  “I know. Anyway, read the journal. Not the whole thing. Just the last half or so.” She looked into his eyes. “Especially the last half.”

  “But, what’s so important about Uncle Law’s book?”

  “Maybe nothing. Might just be an old woman’s flutters. I hope so. But my gut tells me it might be more. I feel like something’s in the wind.” She looked away. “I ain’t always been honest with you, Son.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “About your daddy, for one thing.”

  “What about my dad.”

  “I lied about how he died.”

  “You mean the crash? He didn’t die in a car wreck?”

  She looked at him and then dropped her eyes. “No.”

  Fred’s knees tried to buckle. He steadied himself against
the vanity. “So, how did he die?”

  Edith sat on the bed and patted the mattress beside her. “Sit here by me, Fred. This ain’t gonna be easy to tell.”

  “Just tell me.”

  Her shoulders slumped. She appeared to shrink into herself. When she looked up at him she looked twenty years older.

  “He ain’t dead, Son.”

  Fred sat on the end of the bed. “What? Where? Um, who?” Thoughts raced through his head. “You always said…you always told us…”

  “I know what I told you.”

  “What about Will an’ Robert?”

  She shook her head. “William Bradley Kyle was their natural daddy. He adopted you. He did die in a car crash. He just wasn’t your daddy, that’s all.”

  “So, who was – is – my real father?”

  Edith looked down at her hands lying in her lap. “I don’t rightly know his name. He never gave it to me.” She looked up at Fred. “He was mighty handsome, though, an’ he could play his fiddle t’beat th’ very devil.”

  “Mom!” The idea that his mother – the rock of his life and the woman who gave him his values – could fall for a handsome stranger seemed alien to him.

  “It was a different time,” she said to him. “I was young an’ it was summer an’ the smell o’ flowers up on th’ ridge was like moonshine. I was almost fifteen then, but it was th’ last time I come up here t’ spend th’ summer at Black Stump Ridge. My mama like t’never spoke to her brother again. She mighta blamed him, somehow, but it wasn’t his fault. It was the ridge, plain and simple. Black Stump Ridge.” She pointed at the journal in Fred’s hands. “It’s all in there, Son. Read it.”

  Fred looked down at the book. Somehow it had gained weight. “I will – for you. But, I don’t understand why you don’t just tell me.”

  “Just read Lawyer’s words. It might be easier to believe – to understand.”

  Fred looked at his mother’s eyes. He nodded.

  “I don’t suppose I could just ask you and your friends to quit this trip and go back home, could I?”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, that’s pretty much what I thought. Never mind. I’m just an old woman who gets batty in the attic sometimes. You and your friends have a good time. If you can, stop by and say hello to your mama on your way back to Texas, okay? Would you do that?”

  “I think we can arrange that.”

  She hugged him and then stood up. She paused at the door and looked back at him. “And, read the book, Son. I know you will, just please, don’t wait too long.”

  As she left, Fred looked at the journal. He hesitated and then tossed it onto the bed. “Tonight. I’ll read it tonight when I go to bed.” With that, he followed his mother out of the room and down the stairs.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Charlie trudged up the mountain trail. His breath plumed before him in the cold air. Fallen leaves and dead branches crackled and snapped as his feet shuffled through them. The shotgun rode heavy in the sling that cut into his right shoulder. A nylon cooler sagged and flopped against his left hip. The liquid sloshing in the cans was muted by the insulation. He found the gurgling sound relaxing.

  He stopped and looked around. One hand rested against a tree as he struggled to catch his breath. It hadn’t seemed so far to the blind when they came out earlier. Of course, he wasn’t full of Thanksgiving dinner and beer then, either. As his breathing slowly steadied he looked for something familiar. He studied the trail that lead to his right, but it quickly disappeared in last summer’s blackberry vines. Thickets and blow downs blocked his sight in every direction. He saw no other paths than the one he now followed. It had to be the one they took earlier. The leaves were still wet from the morning fog and undisturbed by foot traffic. He looked back the way he’d come but saw no split in the trail where he might have chosen wrong. He shrugged, adjusted the shotgun and the cooler. He pushed onward and upward in search of the elusive blind.

  Charlie knew he had to get out of the cabin and away from the others. The longer he sat in the living room, the more the walls closed in. He tried to focus on the football games, but they were all color and noise and motion. There was no substance, no gestalt that he could grasp. He was not interested enough to join in the conversations. Anne’s constant sarcasm was so childish and inane that he wanted put his face within an inch of hers and scream at her to shut the hell up. Worse, it called to mind his last moments with Janine.

  Fearing an outburst or worse he finally excused himself, gathered his things, and left. Peete offered to come with him, but the last thing he wanted was company. He wanted to be alone. He needed to think. He needed time, but he felt that commodity slipping away.

  He thought back to his childhood. He remembered an amusement park. It was an exciting place for an eleven-year-old boy. It was small, tucked in a cul-de-sac at the edge of the forest, and nothing like today’s massive theme parks. Yet, to Charlie, it was dark and mysterious, full of magic and intrigue. Every time he walked through the front gate, the wild calliope music of the carousel drew him.

  The ride was huge and ornate. Every ridge, every fluted shape, was covered with gilt paint. Bright cheery colors – red and yellow and blue and green – flashed with each circuit it made. Horses and giraffes and elephants rose up and down to the rhythm as the floor turned. Dotted here and there were carriage cars whose wheels slowly turned going nowhere except within the circle defined by the merry-go-round.

  Charlie always looked for the black horse with the red saddle and gold-trimmed reins. He’d put one foot in the wooden stirrup and lever himself into the saddle. Gripping the shiny brass pole in the crook of his elbow he’d ride the horse up and down, around and around.

  A black metal pole stood outside the carousel. A rectangular hopper extended on a metal arm toward the ride. Dull iron rings lay nestled in the hopper for the riders to snag as they rode past. Every so often, however, a shiny brass ring stood in place of the iron ones. That ring was special, for the rider who snagged it would be able to ride the carousel for free for the rest of the day. That was Charlie’s goal — to snag that brass ring. No matter how much he grabbed for it, however, it always eluded his grasp.

  Today, Charlie was eleven once more. The ride went around and around and up and down. The calliope played madly, discordantly. Only this time, the brass ring gave more than a free ride. The prize was time. Time to think. Time to plan. Time to do — something. Anything.

  How long before the police figured out where he was? How much time until they came to arrest him? Had they discovered Janine’s body, yet? Probably. She said she had plans for the holiday. Were they with her family? Her lover? Did it matter?

  If her plans were with her family, then he had a little more time, perhaps the rest of the weekend. Surely they knew, after all of these years, how unreliable she was when it came to keeping engagements. They probably wouldn’t be concerned for some time – even if she failed to show.

  Her lover? That could be another story. Had she told him of Charlie’s hunting trip? He could think of no reason for her not to. It would add to the sympathy she sought. Would she plan to have them stay at the house? Charlie didn’t think so. As cruel as she was, that was not her style. No, she would keep the affair away from her nest, if for no other reason than to keep her family unaware for as long as possible.

  So, how long would Romeo wait before he checked on her? How many unanswered phone messages before he suspected something was wrong? How long before he acted on those suspicions? Would he first call the police? Or, would he investigate on his own? Since she was married to someone else, the cops might not pay a lot of attention to his concerns. No, Romeo would have to check things out for himself.

  What then? Like a scene from one of Charlie’s favorite TV crime shows, he watched it play on his mind’s video screen.

  •

  The young man pulls up in front of the house. He parks the car – a sports car, maybe a convertible. Philanderers always drive sports cars.
He sits there for a few moments. He stares at the house while he tries to figure out if anyone is home. Janine said her husband would be out of the state for the weekend, but does he really trust her? After all, how good can her word be if she cheats on her husband?

  Finally, after checking his Hollywood good looks in the car’s mirror, he gets out and walks slowly up the sidewalk to the front door. He looks left and right. He’s nervous because he knows that what he’s doing is wrong. Suppose the husband changed his plans and is on the other side of the door? Is he ready for a confrontation? Is this affair really worth an altercation? Is this woman? Surely there are easier conquests. Although his mind is filled with caution, his penis is giving the orders.

  Romeo hesitates. He is not supposed to be here. He is clearly violating the ground rules she established at the beginning of their relationship. Although he knows where she lives, she has never invited him here. He stands, balanced on the blade of the knife. On one side his hopes that all is well. On the other, the fear that something is wrong.

  He looks at the door. His mind tells him to turn away. If he knocks on that door it might kill the relationship. He gathers his courage. He presses the doorbell. It echoes eerily inside the house. He waits. There is no answer. He presses again. He knocks in case the bell isn’t working, despite the fact that he has heard it ring both times.

  There is only silence.

  He leans forward. He cups his hands to around his as he looks into the house through the small window in the door. It is dark inside. He cannot make out any details.

  Has she forgotten their rendezvous? Is she out with someone else? Another thought raises a disquieting voice. What if she is merely late and is even now waiting with growing impatience in the hotel restaurant?

  He turns away from the door and walks down the sidewalk. He glances to his left at the closed two-car garage door with its bank of small windows. Without thinking about it, he crosses the strip of grass to the driveway and, cupping his hands as he did at the door, looks inside.