by F J messina
“Why don’t they come to see us like Papaw and Mamaw? Are they too old?”
“Well . . . maybe. Maybe that’s it. Maybe they’re just too old to make that long trip in a car.”
A car horn jolted Jet back into her lane. Damn, I’ve just got to stay focused here. Maybe I should have had more coffee before I left. Jet kept on driving, knowing that it would still be a while before she saw the signs for Bardstown, where she would leave the parkway. The rhythm of the road rose again in her ears.
“Joyce Ellen, sweetie, what’s wrong? Why do you look so glum? Did something happen at school today?”
“No, Mama.”
“Don’t you say that, Joyce Ellen. I can see it on your face. Did those boys bother you in class again?”
“They made fun of my dress, Mama, and on third grade picture day. All the girls wore dresses, but the boys made fun of mine. They said it was too small for me, that I looked like a bean pole that had grown up through the dress.”
“Those boys. I’ve got a good mind to go right up to the school and box their ears. That’s what I should do.”
“No, Mama, please don’t. If you do, then they’ll just make more fun of me. That’s what they always do.”
“Now, Joyce Ellen, you come right over here and let Mama hold you. Let me make it all better.”
“I’m okay, Mama, really it’s okay.”
“Joyce Ellen. You come over here right now. You let me hold you, hear?”
“Yes, Mama.”
“Now, doesn’t that feel better?”
“Yes, Mama.”
“And now, I’ve got an idea. Let’s me and you put on our best dresses and then we can make believe that we’ve gone over to those boys’ houses and tricked them into coming to a party, a party with all our friends. And then all the nice people at the party can make fun of the silly old clothes they’re wearing when they should have come all dressed up to the party. That would show them, wouldn’t it, Sugar?”
“It’s okay, Mama. We don’t have to do that.”
“Joyce Ellen, you go right into your room and put on that pink dress of yours, the one with the big flowers. Go ahead. You go put that dress on right now, hear?”
“Yes, Mama.”
Jet may have been lost in her thoughts, but when she passed a Kentucky State Trooper parked on the side of the road her attention shifted quickly. She slowed down, though it was too late. Damn. Her eyes remained glued to her rearview mirror, hoping to see if the trooper had pulled out behind her, lights flashing. She was relieved when there was no sign of him as she rounded a large bend in the road. She set her cruise control five miles over the speed limit and reminded herself, again, about staying focused on her driving; but by then the voices in her mind were having their way, no matter how hard she tried to shake them.
“Mama! Mama! Guess what, Mama!”
“Joyce Ellen, you lower your voice. Ladies don’t shout when they come into a house. You just settle down and act like a lady, and close the door behind you.”
“But, Mama, guess what?”
“Okay, Joyce Ellen, you go ahead. You tell me.”
“Mama, the gym coach, he saw me running today. He said I was fast as greased lightning. He said he wants me to be on the track team, Mama. I’m going to be on the high school track team. Varsity, too. I’ll be the first ninth-grader ever to be on the varsity team, Mama, for a girl that is.”
Miles passed. Jet was still lost in thought.
“Joyce Ellen! You get in here right now and wipe that lipstick off your face. No fourteen-year-old lady walks around with bright red lipstick, looking like one of those nasty ladies. You know what I mean. And don’t you slam that screen door at me!”
“Ugh, Mama. Why do we have to live in this tiny house anyway? It’s so small and dark. And why doesn’t Daddy paint it nice like Mr. Joseph’s? I feel like we’re the poorest folks on the street.”
“Now you mind your tongue. Your daddy brought us up here from Savanah so he could learn to work with the horses. Someday he’ll be a trainer, maybe even an owner.”
“Then why does he keep changing jobs, one farm after the next? Why doesn’t he stay at one job?”
“Never you mind. You go clean yourself up before he sees what you look like. You know how he can be.”
The voices took on a darker tone. One tore at her heart with an old, not-so-faded pain.
“Mama? Mama? Are you okay? Wake up, Mama. It’s almost five o’clock. I’m home from practice. Mama, wake up. Daddy will be home soon. You know how he can be if we don’t have dinner on the table. Come on, Mama. I’ll put the bottle back in the cupboard. You don’t want him to know you’ve been drinking his bourbon again.”
Finally, sounds came to her that were not quite so dark, though not pleasant─not pleasant at all.
“Joyce Ellen?”
“Yes, Mama.”
“You got a phone call today while you were at the grocery.”
“Who was it?”
“That’s not the question. The question is why did that boy call for someone named Jet?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t you go lying to me, Joyce Ellen. You know that boy was calling for you. Now you tell me right now why he asked for Jet. Go on. You tell me.”
“It’s no big deal, Mama. It’s just a nickname.”
“What kind of nickname is Jet? Makes you sound like some silly airplane or something.”
“It’s just my initials, Mama. It’s just J.E.T. Everyone on the team just thinks it’s cool to turn my initials into the word Jet, because I’m the fastest girl on the team, the fastest girl ever at Woodford County High School.”
“Well, you tell them to stop calling you that. No southern lady allows herself to be called by any nickname, especially one that makes you sound like some sort of machine.”
“But, Mama, I like it. I like that they have a cool name for me. It makes me feel─”
“I’ll have none of it, Joyce Ellen. You tell them to stop calling you Jet and refer to you by your name, your given name, Joyce Ellen.”
“Yes, Mama.”
Jet saw the sign, Bardstown 10 Miles. She was relieved. The miles were going quickly, but she couldn’t shake her uncomfortable feelings. Fight as she may to change the locus of her thoughts, words and phrases that pained her kept coming back to her.
“Joyce Ellen, is that you?”
“Yes, Mama, it’s me.”
“Well, look at you girl. What’s that in your hand?”
“Nothin’.”
“Don’t nothin’ me. What is that, another trophy?”
“Yes, Mama. It’s another trophy. I took first place in the 5K.”
“Well, isn’t that nice Joyce Ellen. Come here and let me give you a kiss.”
“Please, Mama.”
“Joyce Ellen. You come here now.”
“Yes, Mama.”
“And don’t you think we should dress up in our Sunday best and play like you’re at some big event with the governor and a thousand people? I could play like I was his wife and I could be the one who has to give the trophies out.”
“Mama, please. Let’s not do that again. I just want to go to my room. Please, Mama. Here, you take the trophy. You put it anywhere you want. You make believe it’s a big ceremony and you place it on the table over there if you’d like.”
“Joyce Ellen, don’t you want to be part of the ceremony? It’s no fun without you.”
“No, thank you, Mama. Really, I have lots of homework and I need to get it done before Daddy gets home, while it’s still quiet.”
“Joyce Ellen? Joyce Ellen?”
The sign for US 150 and Bardstown came up, along with a sign about it being the site of My Old Kentucky Home, the antebellum home that Stephen Foster had written about in his famous song─the official state song of Kentucky. Just two more miles to go. Just . . .
“Elsa! Elsa! Where the hell are you? Where the hell’s my dinner? Elsa, you been drinkin’ again?”
“Huh? Chuck?”
“There you are. You have been drinkin’ again, haven’t you? No wonder I keep losin’ my job. Everyone at the farm keeps talking ‘bout you stayin’ home makin’ believe you’re some kind of southern belle, dressin’ up all fancy in a dress and phony pearls and sittin’ around doin’ nothin’ but drinkin’ all day.”
“Now that ain’t fair, Chuck.”
“Not fair, nothin’. I work my ass off all day and you sit home doin’ nothin’.”
“You knew when you married me that I was a lady of breeding, that I wasn’t meant to be working in some factory.”
“Oh, you’re a lady of somethin’ alright. Home all day drunk, and me losin’ one job after the next because of your reputation.”
“Oh yeah! Because of me! What about you going out every Friday, drinking with the boys. What about that? And sometimes not a damn penny left from your paycheck when you get home. And don’t you think for a minute that I don’t know where you go on Saturday nights. You’re not with the boys. You’re out with that red-headed whore from the diner. You son-of-a-bitch, you’re a drunk and a shitty father, that’s what you are. My parents were right. They said I shouldn’t marry you, that you were no good, and they were right. I should have listened to them when they said I had to choose between you and them. I should never have left Georgia and come up here to this God-forsaken place with you. Now I haven’t seen my own parents in almost twenty damn years.”
“You get over here woman! You quit that bawlin’ and get over here so I can teach you a good lesson with this belt. Elsa, you get over here!
At last, the exit appeared. Fully-formed tears sat in Jet’s eyes, not willing to slide down her face. As she drove down the exit ramp, Jet was glad that the smaller road ahead would demand her full attention, attention that would finally allow her to silence the voices screaming at each other in her head.
23
About fifteen minutes after Jet came down the exit ramp onto US 150, she turned on to KY 635. Forty minutes later, she arrived in Rosland, a town with an estimated population of just over nine hundred people. The town was dominated by one thing, the Settler’s Pride facility.
It being Sunday, she walked around the neatly kept property by herself. Each of the bright white, wooden buildings was set off by dark blue trim, the same blue that appeared on the label of each and every bottle of Settler’s Pride Bourbon. After getting a sense of the property, Jet walked into the main office and told the only person there, a woman in her late fifties or early sixties, quite thin, glasses, dressed in blue jeans and Settler’s Pride-blue T-shirt, that she had an appointment with Gary Dumas, the Master Distiller.
Jet found Dumas a pleasant man in his late forties, slightly balding and very gregarious. He was, of course, eager to say that Settler’s Pride was probably best known for its double-oaked variety. In that process, bourbon is matured in a second charred oak barrel, one which has been deeply toasted before being lightly charred. The process creates an even sweeter oak character.
When she finally got around to asking Dumas about Victor Rasmussen’s death and his purported twenty-year-old bourbon, Jet was disappointed to find that she got the same kind of information she and her colleagues had gotten the other day, no useful information. She said her polite goodbyes and stepped out into a day that had turned dark and threatening.
After a relatively short drive, about a half hour on Rosland Road, Jet was at the Woodland Acres distillery, a huge property with a full distillery, eighteen seven-story tall rack houses, and a beautiful modern heritage center. She was there to speak with Avery Hobart, the Master Distiller, and a true Kentucky legend.
She found Hobart an attractive, articulate man in his mid-seventies, standing behind his desk as she entered his office in a secluded section of the heritage center. “It’s an honor to meet you, Mr. Hobart.”
“A pleasure to meet you as well, Ms. . . .”
“Jet. Everyone just calls me Jet.
“Certainly.” He took a seat behind the generous, finely carved mahogany desk and motioned to her to take a seat in the dark red leather chair opposite him. “I know that Mr. Holiday asked you to speak to me.” He grinned. “That’s why I’m here on a Sunday afternoon and not at home with my family. How can I help you?”
Jet smiled, glad for the opportunity to get right to the business at hand and avoid hearing more about different bourbons. As she well knew, the Woodland Acres distillery produced more than its share—Jeremiah Clark and Edward Willard, along with the Woodland Acres products, among them. “Sir, I don’t mean to use up any more of your time than absolutely necessary.” She waited for a response.
“That’s fine. Whatever it takes.” His expression darkened. “This is a nasty bit of business we’re involved with. Isn’t it?”
She opened with the most straightforward question she could think of. “What I’d like to know is if you can think of anyone or any reason someone might want to hurt Victor Rasmussen.” The word “hurt” seemed a little overly polite to her.
Hobart sighed. “Honestly, he wasn’t very well known in the bourbon brotherhood,” his eyes widened, “if it all. He was not one of us. I certainly know I never met the man. And trust me, I’ve been at this a while. I know pretty much everyone in the family.”
Jet was taken by his use of the word, “family.” “I just have to ask, sir, and I apologize for my ignorance about this, but I heard you are a cousin of the Bennington family. Shouldn’t you be working at the James Bennington distillery?”
Avery Hobart let out a solid chuckle. “One thousand, five hundred and ninety-six.”
Jet cocked her head. “Excuse me?”
He smiled broadly. “That’s the number of times I’ve been asked that question.” He took a quick breath. “Let me explain. My family, the Rheums, came to America and started making whiskey in 1795. Since then almost every male in my family has been in the business. But people in all the bourbon families moved back and forth from one distillery to the next, crossing bloodlines, so to speak, over and over again. In fact, Ed Rollins and his brother, over at James Bennington, are our cousins. It’s almost like we’re all one extended family.”
Jet smiled politely. “Interesting.” She took a deep breath. “Now, if we could get down to brass tacks. Is there any way you can help me understand what happened to Victor Rasmussen?”
Avery Hobart rocked back in his upholstered leather chair, the wood-paneled walls in his office reflecting the last remaining rays of sun as the sky continued to darken. “I think I just did.”
Jet cocked her head sharply. “Excuse me?”
“You want to know if I can help you understand what happened to Mr. Rasmussen. I just told you that we’re family in the bourbon business. That’s who we are. That’s how we operate.”
“Oh.” The sound of Jet’s voice made it clear that she didn’t really understand.
Hobart leaned forward, his arms resting against the edge of his desk. “Look, I’m sure you’ve heard about the fire they had over at the Heaven Hill distillery in 1996. It started in an old warehouse. Before they knew it, it had spread to other buildings, even to their vehicles. It was a river of fire flowing downhill. They lost almost one hundred thousand barrels of bourbon that day, seven rackhouses, the distillery, almost every vehicle.” He shook his head sadly. “There was simply no way to stop that fire.” He shrugged. “Heck, six percent of the world’s bourbon went up in flames that day.”
Jet nodded. “I certainly had heard about that. Anyone who’s lived in Kentucky long enough knows that story.”
Hobart smiled. “So, how do you think those folks survived over the next few years? Ever wonder about that?”
“I guess,” Jet shrugged, “I never thought about it.”
“Well let me tell you.” His voice was resolute. “The other members of the bourbon brotherhood. We all helped them survive. For a short time, Heaven Hill products were actually made in the distilleries of other companies.”
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Jet’s eyebrows raised. “Really?”
Hobart nodded. “Really. And to this day, if one distillery is short a piece of equipment, they know they can call down to someone else and they’ll have it as long as they need it.” He stopped and looked right into Jet’s eyes. “You know of any other business in which that would happen?”
Jet was actually in awe. “Really, I don’t.”
Avery Hobart winked at her. “We may be competitors in the marketplace, but we’re family down here in the world of bourbon.”
After a pause, Jet squinted. “Sooo, that helps me understand how?”
“Family,” Hobart stated proudly, “doesn’t treat family that way. Even if it’s new family.”
A flash of pain pricked Jet’s consciousness. Well, maybe some families don’t.
Hobart shook his head again. “No. I just find it hard to believe that anyone in our community would respond that way to another man planning on making bourbon,” he paused, “even if he didn’t seem to have the slightest idea about what he was getting into.”
“Oh.” Jet’s voice conveyed her disappointment. Then she brightened up. “I mean, that’s wonderful, about the community and all. It just doesn’t help me with my Victor Rasmussen problem.”
Hobart looked at her and spoke softly. “Sorry.”
After a moment, Jet ratcheted up her energy one last time. “And about the twenty-year-old bourbon that Rasmussen was going to bring out. Any ideas?”
Hobart shrugged. “That would be a tough one. Takes time to make bourbon.” He shook his head. “Can’t see how he could do it. That would be a tough one.”
Somehow, those words sounded awfully familiar to Jet. She tried to hide her surprise, but inside her mind, bells were going off. She stood and extended her hand over Hobart’s ample desk. “Mr. Hobart, sir, it’s been an honor meeting you and I thank you ever so much for taking the time to speak with me. I’ll let you go.” She shook his hand, gave him a big smile and headed for the door.
“Ms. Jet,” he called out.
She turned back to him. “Yes?”