by Deanna Edens
“I don’t have a clue,” I sighed. “However, today I’m going to drive all the way to B & B Market, pick up some groceries, come back up here, find Erma’s typewriter, and complete the bibliography for my dissertation.”
“It’s a good day to work inside,” Will’s attention drifted toward the kitchen window, “it’s gonna rain all day.”
My gaze changed to the view of the mountains, noticing the thickness of the fog. “If I complete my bibliography today, I’m going to pile up on the sofa and read some more.” I suddenly realized I hadn’t told Will about my discovery. “I found Erma’s journal and I’ve really been enjoying reading it.”
“Really?” Will’s ears perked up, “Did she mention me?”
“Not yet.”
“Can you let me know if she does?”
“Maybe,” I teased. “It seems that Ida and Erma were involved in the women’s suffrage movement back in 1919, and stood vigil with folks when mine explosions took place.”
Will seemed to consider this for a long moment, “Ida and Erma probably got into quite a bit of mischief over the years, considering they were best friends for over half a century.”
“Yeah,” I reflected, “that’s true.” I was eager to read the next entry in her journal.
“I’m gonna bury the cat out by the barn before the rain sets in,” Will informed me before inquiring, “what are you gonna do with the little kitten?”
I glanced down to see Hank and the kitten curled up by the sink. I shrugged my shoulders, “I don’t know.”
“Ya could take it to the pound in Charleston, maybe she’ll get lucky and someone will adopt her.”
My mouth dropped open, “I can’t believe you just said that! I saw you crying last night over the death of a cat you didn’t even know!”
“I wasn’t crying,” he puffed up, “the smoke from the fire was irritatin’ my eyes.”
“Irritatin’ your eyes,” I reverberated. “You are cantankerous,” I told him as my nose crumpled up good-humoredly, “just like Erma said you were.”
He chuckled, “Erma knew folks well, just like old Hank does.” He slid a slice of beef jerky from his pocket, stretched over to where Hank was lying and offered it to him. Hank gobbled it up before carefully rearranging the little kitten underneath his protective paw. “What are ya gonna name the kitten?”
“Name the kitten?” I asked, as I sipped the strong coffee.
“Peskyy,” Hank suggested.
“Did Hank just say Tessy?” I nonchalantly directed my attention toward Will.
“Yeah,” Will reluctantly concurred, “maybe.”
I looked down at Hank who was staring at me in anticipation, “Hank, did you say Tessy?”
“Nooo!” he echoed, “Peskyy!”
“Fine,” I took in a deep breath before wailing out my finest impersonation of Hank, “Tessy, it is!”
The old dog raised his gaze to meet mine and our eyes stared at one another for a long drawn-out moment. “Did Hank just roll his eyes at me?” I imagined, as my jaw plunged open in astonishment.
Hank abruptly turned and lumbered over to tuck himself in beside Tessy, but not before releasing a powerfully long spurt of intestinal gas in my direction.
Will sniffed, suddenly stood, and snatched up his cane, “I best be gettin’ to my chores,” he snickered as he darted out the kitchen door.
I could still hear him cackling as he unhinged the lock on the barn door and disappeared inside.
I decided to take another peek at Erma’s attic with hopes of locating her typewriter. I pulled the retractable ladder down and climbed the thin rungs. When I reached the top I could see the sun brightly shining its light through the circular window, seemingly directing my attention toward a large stack of boxes. I brushed the dust from the box only to see a handwritten note taped to the top. It revealed the name Buster Thaxton.
“Buster Thaxton?” My face contorted with confusion. “Why would Erma have Buster Thaxton’s belongings up here in the attic? Is this the same Buster Thaxton the sheriff arrested?” I was awfully confused, so I popped open the lid and explored its contents. Inside there was an envelope stuffed full of letters and various documents, a woman’s ring tucked neatly inside a velvet-covered jewelry case, a key, several black and white photographs, a remembrance card from a funeral, a little over fifty dollars in cash, and an honor laurel from World War II.
I gently replaced the lid, “I wonder if this is why Buster had come up Black Hollow Road? Maybe he was looking for this?”
I walked to the window and stared out at the rolling valley and cheerful green blooms just starting to burst into the world. “Should I take this down to the sheriff’s office?” My finger gently trailed over the lid on the old shoebox. “Probably so,” I reasoned. “Even though Baxter Thaxton nearly scared the bejeebers out of me.”
I knew I would be making a run to the market and would be driving past the sheriff’s office, so I tucked the box under my arm, figuring that the right thing to do was to return it to its owner. “Even though this is not my responsibility,” I huffed as I faltered down the steep flight of steps – completely forgetting to rummage around to find Erma’s typewriter.
“Let’s go, Hank.” I snapped my fingers in his direction. “We are going to the sheriff’s office and market.”
He jiggled enthusiastically before purposefully directing his attention toward Tessy the cat.
“Right,” I acknowledged, “I’ll put Tessy in the kitchen so she won’t get into trouble.”
Hank sighed, before comfortably spreading out on the floor. I gave Tessy a fresh bowl of water, left the kitchen and headed for the front door. “I’m finally ready to go, Hank.” I said, my hand on the knob. His attention turned to the shoebox I was planning to deliver to the sheriff. “Thanks for reminding me,” I praised, “I almost forgot it.”
I couldn’t quite make out Hank’s response, but it sounded to me as if he suggested I was scatterbrained. “No,” I stared at him, “you wouldn’t have called me scatterbrained. Would you?”
He diligently avoided eye contact.
A few minutes later, Hank squeezed into the backseat of my Volkswagen Bug, his head practically popping through the fabric of my convertible top, and we made the short trip down Cicerone Route before curving onto Route 21 beside Rhoda’s Beauty Salon.
Super Duper Charlie Cooper, the DJ on the radio, had just introduced a new song by ABBA when I made the sharp right turn beside Dawson’s farm. It was at this very moment that something suddenly occurred to me. “Do you want to know what my problem is?” I asked Hank, not waiting for a response I continued, “I’m too susceptible to suggestions. That’s my problem. A ninety-year-old man thinks I should buy an old farm and I actually start considering it. Can you believe it, Hank? He advises something preposterous and I start thinking it might be a good idea.” Hank kindly responded by swiping my ear with his tongue. “Geeze,” I suppressed a groan as I dabbed the blotch of saliva from my ear with my shirtsleeve.
I followed the road running beside Pocatalico River and eventually passed Sissonville Middle School, before pulling into the graveled parking lot alongside the mobile unit, which housed the Sissonville Sheriff’s Office.
“Wait for me Hank,” I told the old dog, “I’ll be right back.”
“Nooo,” he yelped.
“Do you want to go in with me?” I asked, as I pulled my keys from the ignition.
The slobbering jiggle of his head indicated he would like to accompany me.
“All right. You let me get out of the car first,” I firmly shook my finger at him, “do not trample me when we exit this car!” I glanced in the rearview mirror.
His body was shaking in anticipation. I knew Hank adored Sheriff Holmes, so I tightened the grip on my handbag, in case I needed to use it to block an abrupt exodus, and then slowly opened the car door. Hank kindly followed my direction and we made it out of the car and to the front door without incident.
“Hank, I
’m so glad to see ya!” Sheriff Holmes greeted the canine. “Ole Hank here,” he told me as he ruffled the hound dog’s head, “deserves a medal for helping us capture a wanted criminal.”
“That’s what I came to talk to you about.”
Sheriff Holmes offered Hank a dog treat, before directing his attention toward me. “Oh yeah? What’s on your mind?”
“I found this shoebox in Erma’s attic, and it has Buster Thaxton’s name on the note, so I could only assume it belongs to him and, for some unknown reason, Erma had it stored in her attic.” I leaned in close and whispered, “You don’t suppose Buster has a mental illness do you? Maybe he’s on the autism spectrum or something?”
“Autism spectrum?” he repeated. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Ma’am,” he disregarded my assumption. “All I know is that he is always gettin’ into trouble. He has been known to break into people’s houses and they will find him in the morning asleep on their sofa. One time he was passed out at the school bus stop and nearly scared the wits out of the preschoolers. Tom told me he kicked at Sparky.” He added for clarification, “Sparky is Tom’s dog.”
Hank snarled, “Grrrr.”
“Exactly,” the sheriff acknowledged Hank’s dictum before redirecting his attention toward me. “Who would want to hurt Sparky?” He shook his head in disgust, “That old dog has an optimistic sort of personality.”
“So I’ve been told,” I faintly replied. “Nonetheless, I was wondering… is there any background information that would suggest mental illness as opposed to criminal behavior?”
“None that I know of,” he plucked the stuffed envelope from the container, “did you look at the paperwork in here?”
“No,” I assured him, “I didn’t read any of the documents.”
“I’ll take a look at ‘em, and see if there’s anything referring to autism or other mental illness.”
“I would appreciate it, Sheriff Holmes. I would hate to think Buster is not getting the help he needs.”
“I agree,” his brow rose, as if asking whether there was anything more to discuss, “I’ll make sure he gets his stuff after I examine the paperwork.”
“Thank you,” I offered a polite nod of my head.
“You’re welcome,” he rubbed Hank’s head again, “it was mighty kind of ya to drop this off.”
“I’m just a little concerned about Buster,” I admitted.
“Concerned?” A frown quickly formed on his face. “Why so?”
“Could you explain to me why Buster is a wanted criminal?”
Sheriff Holmes rubbed his jaw awhile in thought, the irritation clearly casing his face. “I’ve already told ya. One…” He held up his pointer finger, “Buster broke into Pearl Chandler’s house and fell asleep on the couch. Breaking and entering is what those of us in the law enforcement field call it.” He puffed up, “Strike one.”
“Didn’t Pearl buy the house where Buster grew up?” I added to further explain, “The one that his mama owned.”
“Yep,” the sheriff confirmed.
“Maybe he was confused,” I articulated meaningfully. “Maybe he forgot he didn’t live there anymore.”
Sheriff Holmes regarded me as if I had lost my mind. He held up a second finger, “Buster nearly scared the little Cook girl to death when she discovered him sleeping at the bus stop.” He pointedly glared at me, “Strike two.”
“But…”
He interrupted, “Then he kicked at Tom’s dog, Sparky.” He grinned exultantly, “Strike three,” his third finger shot up. “Three strikes and he’s out!” His thumb flicked as though he was imitating an umpire in a baseball game.
The telephone started ringing, so Hank and I turned to leave, but not before Hank positioned his front paws on the countertop, leaning forward expectantly. Sheriff Holmes slid a treat from his trouser pocket and popped it into the hound dog’s open mouth. He gave me a cool once-over before offering Hank a farewell smile filled with warmth and affection.
“I’ll be right there,” I overheard him reply to the caller as the heavy wooden door thumped shut behind us.
Gauley Bridge, West Virginia
August 10, 1919
“Once in a Lifetime”
{{12}}
“I was thinking, Ida, why don’t we hop on Route 60 and follow the road up to Hawk’s Nest? We could stop at the Glen Ferris Inn afterwards.” Erma glimpsed in Ida’s direction to measure her reaction as she turned the key in the ignition. “Mr. Geary asked me to fill in for Mr. Campbell in the carpet department while he is on vacation, so I don’t have to report to work for three days. I’m in no hurry to get home.” She knew her friend well enough to fathom that Ida was still dreadfully upset over the disagreement she had instigated while visiting Mrs. Jones’ farm, so Erma thought a peaceful, slow drive through the spectacular scenery of the mountains would cheer her friend up.
“That road makes me want to puke. I never know if we are heading north, south, east, or west when we are traveling around the curves.”
“Everyone feels the same way when they are traveling this road – which is why folks from West Virginia give directions to places by using landmarks. You know, make a sharp left after the third barn,” she flipped her hand knowingly. “Anyway, I heard the cliff top overlooking New River from Hawk’s Nest is a once in a lifetime experience.” She sweetened the proposal by adding, “Plus, I’ll splurge for dinner at the inn. What do ya say?”
“I reckon,” Ida consented. She just couldn’t seem to get her mind off the conversation that had taken place in Mrs. Jones’ kitchen, “Did you see Mrs. Jones give me the ‘Lord have mercy’ roll of her eyes?”
“The ‘Lord have mercy’ roll of her eyes?” Erma reiterated, “No,” she thoughtfully considered, “I was too busy winding my hair into a tight ball around my ear to notice.” She took in a deep breath, “However, in Mrs. Jones’ defense, you did keep eggin’ her on.”
“Eggin’ her on? I was not!” Ida declared exasperatedly, “I was just telling the truth.”
“Opinion and truth are two different things.”
“Meaning what, exactly?”
Erma rolled her eyes, “Folks always go about saying they’re telling the truth, when they are simply stating their opinion. For example, when I look in a mirror I could say, ‘I am the loveliest woman in West Virginia.’ Now that could be my opinion albeit not the truth.” She offered her friend a knowing look, “Do ya understand what I’m saying?”
“I understand what you’re saying,” Ida replied begrudgingly, “but it seems to me that Mrs. Jones was mighty quick to fly off the handle.”
“Well, you were being a little too outspoken when speaking to Aunt Mary.”
Ida’s face suffused with color and she stammered, “O-Oh Erma, please. Aunt Mary sat there and declared that women shouldn’t have careers, which is a terribly old-fashioned point of view. An opinion which I would never believe “Mother” Jones would ascribe to.”
“She didn’t exactly say that women shouldn’t have careers. She said women shouldn’t take jobs in factories, where they will be treated poorly, just for the sake of money. She simply emphasized the idea that raising children is a worthy pursuit.”
Ida murmured, “That is not what I heard.”
“Ya seem to have forgotten that Mrs. Jones saved your life – and mine.” Erma took her eyes off the road for a brief moment and looked at Ida. “Really, what would have happened if our mamas hadn’t been brave enough to leave Red Ash or if Mrs. Jones hadn’t opened her home to us?” She didn’t wait for a response. “I would never speak rudely to an elder, especially in Mrs. Jones’ home. In my opinion, Mrs. Jones is an angel.”
“True,” Ida admitted as she stared expressionless at Erma, “but, there wasn’t any need for her to reprimand me so sharply.”
Erma bit her lip, opened her mouth to retort, and then decided against it. “Well, it’s over now and we are gonna enjoy this day.” She peeped over toward Ida who was blankly starin
g out the passenger side window, “Okay?”
“Alright,” Ida mumbled.
Erma zipped down Route 60, navigating through the zigzagging bends in the road, following the twisting lane through Chimney Corner, and slowly traversing ‘kiss your butt’ curve, before steering off the side of the road where a small hand-painted sign indicated the town of Ansted was only two miles away. “Pull the map out of the glove box for me Ida, would ya?”
Ida huffed, as she slid the aged map from the compartment, “I’m not sure if I really feel like taking a hike up a mountain today, Erma. Can’t we do this the next time we drive through?”
“Nope,” Erma defiantly replied, as she studied the diagram. She tapped her finger on the desired location, “We are almost there.” She beamed, “I’m so excited!”
“Only you could get excited at the prospect of scaling a mountain,” Ida curtly retorted.
Erma drove a short distance before popping the gearshift into park. “We’re here,” she announced as she clambered from the cab of the truck, “the highest point this old truck will carry us.”
Ida stood by her friend’s side with her hands planted defiantly on her hips, “I’m not sure I can climb all the way up the path,” she confessed, as she stood disinterestedly gaping at the steep hillside.
“Oh, come on. It will be as easy as sliding off a greased log backward.”
“Can’t I just wait in the truck for ya?” Ida pleaded.
Erma soberly stared at her.
“Fine.”
They climbed hundreds of feet to the highest accessible cliff, often pausing to catch their breath, or to take in the panoramic views. Sometimes they would come around the brow in the path, and there far below would be lush meadows, dark green treetops, and ranks of somber mountains trailing away to the west.
When they reached the pinnacle they could view the stunning New River, with its rushing water cutting deep and narrow through the canyon below. From their vantage point, high up where the hawks soar, the river reflected the same brilliant cerulean blue hue of the sky on this vibrant summer day.