Solom

by Scott Nicholson

  Clean water was money, just like scenic beauty was money. A lot of mountain communities were selling out their slopes to millionaires who built garish houses, and change was inevitable, but Sue planned on Solom’s not going to hell until she was ready to retire.

  “It ain’t what’s in the water. It’s what’s got the water,” Odus said.

  “Don’t scrunch up your eyes that way. Makes me worry.”

  “Maybe you ought to be.”

  “Talk to me plain. This isn’t one of your legends, is it? The kind you tell for money?”

  “You’re not from Solom, so you won’t understand.”

  “I’m as much a part of this place as I’ll ever be.”

  “All right, then.” Odus’s eyes roamed over the store and settled on the bike rack. “You got two bikes out.”

  “Yeah, a couple rented them yesterday and hasn’t turned them back in yet. I figure they pulled a few muscles and are lying in bed trying to recuperate.”

  “Where were they going?”

  “They didn’t say, but they headed east up the river road.”

  “I think I’ll run my truck up that way and have a look.”

  “Do I need to call them? They left their cell phone number on the deposit slip.”

  “It’s probably nothing. Just some odd goings-on got me a little spooked.”

  Sue looked up the number and punched it in on her phone. A monotone female voice came on the line and informed her that service to the number was unavailable. “This valley’s got more dead spots than a cemetery,” Sue said.

  “You got that right,” Odus said. “If you see any strangers, keep a close eye on them.”

  “I like strangers. They usually have money in their pockets.”

  “Not the one I’m talking about.”

  “Damn it, Odus, why do you have to be so mysterious? Why don’t you just come out and say it?”

  “Because you’ll think I’m drunk. Or worse.”

  Sue nodded in agreement. “You got me on that one.”

  “We’re having a meeting at the general store after closing time. Come over and you’ll find out more than you want to know.”

  “Sure. It’s not like I got anything better to do.”

  Sue followed Odus to his truck, checking out the river where it made a gentle bend below the store. She’d built a small ramp leading into the water to serve as a launch for canoes and kayaks. A patch of brambles, stalks of Joe Pye weed, and tangled pokeweed stirred along the riverbank. The yellowed vegetation parted, and a goat’s head emerged. The animal’s horns caught the autumn afternoon light and gleamed like a couple of bad teeth.

  “Hell of a lot of goats around here lately,” Odus said through his open window. The engine wheezed to diseased life, throwing a clot of blue smoke into the air.

  “Should I call the police about the bikers?”

  “Solom likes to take care of its own.”

  That’s the trouble, Sue thought, as Odus guided the truck down the road between the post office and general store.

  ***

  Sarah watched Odus drive by in his Blazer. If only he didn’t have to stir things up. Just like a Hampton. Back in her father’s day, a branch of the Hamptons had operated a grist mill and feed store on the back side of the mountain. When the state paved the roads in the 1930s, people found it was easier to drive into Titusville and buy their corn meal and flour rather than pay to have their own crops ground. The general store had lost some business as well, but her father had expanded with the times, going for cigars, candy, and pulp magazines.

  The Hamptons stuck to tradition and tradition left them busted. The grist mill still stood by a silver creek, like the bones of a dinosaur that had died standing up and was too dumb to fall over. The Hamptons had retreated back up into the hills, selling off their land, and generally ending up like Odus, either drunk or living hand-to-mouth.

  Sarah changed with the times, too, and times lately had gone deep into the contrary. She had convinced herself she hadn’t seen the Circuit Rider, but Odus wouldn’t let her hold on to that pleasant deception. And Gordon Smith’s wife had been in today, buying the oddest assortment of goods the shelves could conjure. The last person to shop so impulsively had been Gordon’s first wife, Rebecca, that pretty, black-haired gal with dimples.

  Rebecca was magic in the kitchen, and every fundraiser in the park or volunteer fire department pot luck brought out a few of her finest offerings. It was a terrible tragedy for her to run off the road like that. The emergency responders had stopped in the next day for Dr. Peppers and a pack of Camels and told Sarah all the gruesome details. The car had rolled, and Rebecca’s head had been sliced clean off, her body bruised as if she’d been beaten with hammers. It was a closed-casket funeral. Sarah thought at the time the Jews had it right by burying their dead on the same day, the better to get it over with and move on.

  A stack of cans fell over in the back corner of the store. It was the area where she kept the number 10 cans of vegetables, product that moved so slowly the cans often had flecks of rust before someone bought them. She grabbed the broom, determined to addle the brains of any mouse that might be causing trouble. The store was empty of customers, not that unusual for mid-morning.

  She moved past the black metal woodstove in the center of the store and through a few mismatched tables where the lunch crowd could enjoy their deli sandwiches. A sprinkle of black spots appeared before her eyes, but she told herself she wouldn’t pass out again. She’d rather go down with a stroke than have Odus Hampton haul her to the hospital again.

  Shelves on each side of her were packed with jelly jars, mountain crafts, floral arrangements, mass-produced folk art, motor oil, tire chains, boxes of cookies, assorted screws, Thanksgiving table settings, dinner candles, rubber gloves, and mouse traps. She figured her store was as general as they came, and she held to a pet theory that customers were more apt to buy things they didn’t want if they had to hunt hard for the things they did.

  She turned the corner between the Coca-Cola cooler and a rack of picture postcards and came face-to-face with a goat. It must have been a wether, because she hadn’t smelled it. Billies liked to piss all over themselves when they were in rut, and they didn’t smell too good any other time, either. She’d never owned goats, though she sold stakes, chains, and collars for people who liked to use them as cheap lawnmowers. Sarah didn’t have any particular grudge against goats, but she didn’t want one messing around in her store.

  “How did you get in here, you knot-head?” she said. Good question, one the goat didn’t answer. The back door was locked and Sarah had been standing by the front door for at least the last half hour.

  The goat’s mouth worked in that peculiar sideways twist, and Sarah looked around to see if it had chewed into any of the bird-seed sacks. The floor was clean, but the billy was busy cudding up something. Sarah knelt and peered, not trusting her ancient eyes. She owned glasses but always left them by the register. Red specks dotted the animal’s lips, and a pink strand of drool ran down the crusty beard.

  “I can’t tell what you’re eating, but it damn well better not be my pickled beets.” Sarah swept the broom around and gently swatted the goat on the shoulder. “Now get on out of here.”

  The goat continued chewing as if relishing a handful of artichoke hearts. Avoiding the curled horns, Sarah moved beside the animal and slammed the straw end of the broom against the goat’s rump. The billy looked at her out of its nearest eye, and Sarah saw a small version of herself in the rectangular pupil. The reflection looked scared.

  “Get on, get on,” she said, her voice nearly breaking. Because now something was crunching inside the animal’s mouth, like peanut shells. She delivered one more blow, and the goat took a few steps down the aisle, hooves scruffing over the hardwood floor. It looked back at her and seemed to grin before it headed to the front of the store, pushed open the door with its horns, and sauntered off the porch.

  Odus had scheduled a lit
tle meeting here tonight to discuss the strange carryings-on, and Sarah wondered if she would tell what she had just seen. Dangling between the goat’s ochre teeth had been a dark, wet string that looked for all the world like a mouse’s tail.

  ***

  Jett wasn’t hungry, despite the lingering effect of the munchies that pot usually caused. Mom had laid out quite a spread, with a casserole, roast beef, butternut squash, and a coconut cream pie for dessert. Mom had never made a pie in Jett’s whole life, if you didn’t count those that came out of a Sara Lee package. Gordon ate with hardly a word, stuffing his face and washing the food down with goblets of red wine.

  “How was your day?” Mom finally asked him, like a zombie mom out of some dippy sit-com.

  “Departmental meeting,” Gordon said. “The dean’s pressuring us to get more articles published.”

  “Isn’t your book good enough to satisfy him?”

  Gordon set down his wine glass hard enough to clink. “Nobody cares about Appalachian religion anymore. The old churches are dying out. Foot washings, tent revivals, creek baptisms, it just seems like a bunch of superstitious nonsense to my peers. But why should they think any differently? The faculty is from Boston, Berkeley, Tallahassee, and Detroit. They know more about the thousand Hindu gods than they know about their own back yard.”

  “Now, dear, I’m sure your work is appreciated.”

  Jett was freaking. Mom had never called her dad “Dear.” Jett had to shove some pie in her mouth to keep from gasping in disbelief. She had to admit, the pie was pretty awesome.

  “They don’t understand the importance of the church in Solom’s history.” Gordon pushed away his dinner plate and started on the pie. He raised one eyebrow in pleasure. “I’m impressed.”

  “Just an old family recipe,” Mom said.

  “I didn’t know we had any old family recipes,” Jett said.

  “Sure, honey. It’s about time you started taking on a bigger share of the kitchen work. After all, you’ll be a woman soon.”

  “More chores,” Gordon said. “That’s what builds character. Hard work will keep you out of trouble. Speaking of which, you’ll need to feed the goats after dinner.”

  “In the barn?” Jett looked at mom. Mom wore a faint smile, her lips stiff like those of someone sitting for a painting.

  Gordon focused on the last of his pie, shoveling it down in gooey white lumps. He scraped his fork across the plate and licked it clean. “Sure. Just throw down a couple of bales from the loft. The grass isn’t growing as fast with winter coming on.”

  “But it’s almost dark.”

  “There’s a flashlight in the hall closet.”

  “What about the man—”

  Gordon looked at her, his eyes like lumps of cold coal behind his lenses. “What man?”

  “Never mind.”

  “It’s a rite of passage,” Gordon said. “If you’re going to live on the farm, you’re part of the farm. Persephone’s about to go back to Hades and winter’s on its way.”

  “Who is Persephone?” Jett didn’t really want to sit through a lecture, but figured she might as well stall for time.

  “Persephone was the daughter of Demeter and Zeus in Greek mythology. Hades, the king of the Underworld, fell in love with her and dragged her to his realm. Demeter, who was goddess of the harvest, was angered and hurt. She punished the world through cold winds and freezing weather.”

  “Sounds like a bummer for all concerned.”

  “Especially the poor humans, who thought they had lost Demeter’s favor. Hades eventually agreed to let Persophone come up to the world for half the year, giving us spring and summer.”

  “Why didn’t Persephone just run away?”

  “Because she had fallen in love with Hades.”

  “Some people just fall in love with the wrong person,” Jett said, giving Mom a bloodshot stare. Mom smiled.

  “Okay, chores now,” Gordon said. “Just don’t try to sneak a puff of drugs while you’re out there. I know what that stuff smells like. Those hippies in East Dorm crank it out like a steam train.”

  “Mom?” Jett looked to her mom for any sign of concern, but Mom could have just as easily been watching television on the dining room wall. Jett had almost blurted out to Mom about seeing the man in the black hat, or being touched by the scarecrow guy in the attic, but she hadn’t, and now it would sound like the ultimate case of crying wolf. Or else the rantings of a deranged dope fiend. Besides, she didn’t want Gordon to get one over on her. She’d show the bastard, even if it killed her.

  Well, maybe that was a little extreme. Stoner paranoia. She pushed her pie away and went to the closet, finding the flashlight and shrugging into her favorite studded jean jacket. “If I’m not back in fifteen minutes, tell them my merry-go-round broke down,” she said.

  Gordon paused with his goblet to his lips. “Some kind of drug slang?”

  “A Tommy Keene reference. Get it, Mom?”

  Mom gave a Stepford grin. “No, dear. Who is Tommy Keene?”

  Freaky.

  Before Jett could dwell on the shadowy man who no doubt awaited her, she burst out the front door, gripping the flashlight as if it were a billy club. “Don’t let Hades come up and grab you,” Gordon hollered after her.

  She should have told Gordon to go take a flying fuck at his precious goats. Maybe a good, old-fashioned blow-up would shatter the creepy little drama stage that the Smith House had become, maybe even yank Mom out of Stepford mode. If Jett and Gordon got into a knock-down, drag-out, surely Mom would take her side. Wouldn’t she?

  Dusk was settling in the east as she made her way to the barn, the sky gone as purple as a Goth’s eyeliner. Crickets chirruped in the cool night air, but the forests were still. The lights of a few houses cast solid sparks against the darkening slopes, but they seemed miles away. The creek gurgled like a hundred men with cut throats.

  I can do this, she thought as she opened the gate. I can feed Shadrach and Nebechebnezzer and whatever the fuck else Gordon named them, then walk back in the house whistling. That way I can score points on Gordon. I won’t let that fucker win.

  She shuddered as she walked through the spot where she’d seen the man in the black hat earlier, when he’d lifted his hand and waved those cheese-colored, stiff fingers. She thumbed on the light and played the beam in front of her, watching for piles of goat goodies. She reached the barn without incident, and took a last, longing look at the lights of the Smith House before she entered. Part of her expected to see Mom at the kitchen window, watching after her, but all the curtains were drawn. Figured. Mom was Gordon’s now, for whatever reason. This seemed like something Jett was supposed to do alone. So much for getting through thinghs together.

  She had to throw all her weight against the barn door to slide it open, the little wheels creaking in their metal track. Her ankle throbbed like a sore tooth. The inside of the barn was nearly pitch black, the chicken-wired windows leaking the last of the dying daylight. The odor of manure, animal hair, and straw filled her nose and nearly made her sneeze.

  The goats must still have been in the fields, because the bottom floor appeared empty. She played the cone of light over the stairs. The scarecrow was in its usual place, hanging from a wire tied to a fat nail. Straw bulged from the seams in the clothes, and the cheesecloth face was expressionless. As the flashlight beam swept slowly over the wall, Jett paused. The wicked-looking sickle was gone.

  Something stirred just outside the barn, and Jett told herself the goats had decided it was feeding time. She went up the stairs, carefully adjusting her weight with each step to protect her sprained ankle. The wood groaned and squeaked like a beast with an arthritic spine. The door leading to the loft was shut, with the hasp in place, but the lock hadn’t been snapped. Just like the first time she’d seen the man in the black hat. Or the scarecrow creature. Or the abominable fucking snowman.

  If she’d even seen anything at all.

  To hell with it, just get it
over with.

  She could hear the goats milling below, calling out in anxious voices with their peculiar bleats. They must have been out in the barnyard the whole time, as if expecting her. It seemed crazy, but it sounded like there were lots more of them. They had somehow multiplied in number in the last couple of days.

  What was it the Bible said? Be fruitful and multiply? Did that apply to goats or just to people? I’ll have to ask Gordon. Strike that. I could never ask Gordon anything that would make him even more fucking smug than he already is.

  Jett eased into the loft, her footfalls hushed by the scattered hay. The air was as thick as snuff, and golden motes spun lazily in the flashlight’s beam. The bales were on the far end of the loft, and even dry, they weighed about forty pounds each. She couldn’t lift them, especially not while holding the flashlight. She rested the light in the crotch of an angled support beam so that it cast a spotlight on the area in which she would be working.

  She grabbed a bale by the twin strands of twine and yanked it toward the hole in the floor of the loft. She should have worn gloves. The twine gave her rope burns and cut into her palms. By the time she’d dragged the first bale over the square hole and shoved it to the nattering creatures below, her palms were wet with blood.

  The animals drummed their hooves on the packed earthen floor of the barn, thumping against each other in their lust for hay. She wondered if Fred were down there, the one who had eaten her stash the day before. Maybe the next bale would fall on him and break his frigging neck. She had dragged the next bale halfway to the hole when the flashlight fell to the floor, bounced, and went out.

  Shit damn almighty Jesus on a toothpick.

  Jett was so pissed off, she forgot to be afraid. For at least three seconds. Then she heard the soft shuffling of rag feet on the floorboards, and a whispering rush that was too small to be the wind, though it was loud enough to carry over the bleating goats. She backed away, toward the opening on the far end through which the bales were loaded into the loft.