by Bob Knapp
At the store, Hanover picked up the groceries he had readied for delivery the previous night. At least he had an earlier start than usual to his customers along Middle Island Creek. Weather this hot and dry reminded him of a long-gone day when he and his Dad had fished at dawn for Muskie at the Jug Handle. But back then there hadn't been a drought and water flowed down the creek.
It seemed to Hanover that his Chevy Tahoe could automatically find its way to The Jug, his first stop. He turned on the car radio. It was time for “Oldies but Goodies,” on WWVA, the only station strong enough to reach into these hills. Connie Francis was singing, “Don’t Break the Heart that Loves You.” Pain jabbed his stomach as she sang, “Why do you treat our love so carelessly?” Hanover snapped off the radio.
Oh, Becky, Becky. I’m sorry. Please believe me!
He had last seen his uncle two weeks ago. He would bend Uncle Andy’s ear a little about his problem with Becky. Uncle Andy was a good listener—he might have some advice, too.
Someone else made most of the deliveries, but Hanover enjoyed delivering to Uncle Andy and Howie Crabapple—as he had when his parents had run the store.
My parents should still be running it. Killed in a car accident—so they say. That was no accident!
A cloud of depression crept over him. He had to get himself under control or he’d be where he had been after busting his old high school classmate’s skull. He could not relive that past and handle his current problems, or years of psychotherapy would be wasted. Fifteen years had passed since that fight and now his classmate was in a mental hospital.
Unless raining, Hanover enjoyed the half-hour ride each way because of the break from the store. He breathed deeply, trying to relax. He turned the radio back on. The U.S. continued to reduce the number of troops in North Korea, albeit gradually.
He slowed for Dead Man’s Curve, which made a sharp left, then dropped to Middle Island Creek and The Jug. One hundred fifty years ago, after the third driver had run his horse-drawn rig off the side of the curve and plunged forty feet into the creek below, it had been named Dead Man’s Curve. This was the last of 94 curves and untold steep hills in the space of the seventeen miles from Hanover’s Store to The Jug. Exactly 94—he had counted them many times.
Coming out of the turn, Hanover saw a large reddish blotch on the road.
Blood!
He braked and swerved around it; he didn’t want gore on his Tahoe. Somebody had hit another deer, he figured—almost in front of The Jug. He was revolted whenever he saw a deer that had been struck.
Hope someone didn’t get hurt.
That looks like the deer in the gully. Nobody ever reports them.
He parked on the gravel lot in front of The Jug. A puff of wind skipped a Planter’s Peanuts cellophane bag along the side of the road as he climbed out of his SUV. The deer’s brownish form lay in tall, yellowed grass. Flies and yellow jackets buzzed around the body. The Courtesy Patrol would remove it.
There was something different about this deer’s appearance. Hanover stepped toward the carcass to get a better look.
It’s a man!
He jogged a few steps and stopped. Then jogged some more.
Oh, no—Uncle Andy!
Hanover’s knees buckled. He grabbed the guardrail to keep from falling.
Hanover knelt next to his uncle’s head and, hoping against hope, felt for a pulse. Nothing. A sob burst from his throat. In anguish, Hanover tore his shirt, sending the buttons sailing. He cradled Uncle Andy in his arms and rocked, heedless of the blood and the flies.
A hit and run. If only they would have stopped, they might have saved him.
Inside The Jug, Hanover dialed the Madison County Sheriff’s Office. He hated to call Fowlkes. He had never thought he would need him.
* * *
Hanover, standing at a distance from the body, watched as Fowlkes slowly climbed from his cruiser and strolled toward him. He wagged his head. “I called the ambulance,” he said, and patted Hanover on the shoulder. Hanover pulled his shoulder away.
“What a shame, what a shame,” Fowlkes said, ignoring the rebuff. “Everybody is going to miss your uncle, a real pillar in this community.” A tear appeared on the sheriff’s cheek. “I’ll get that killer!”
Hanover glared. “Killer? How do you know that? Maybe it was an accident and he was too scared to stop, or he thought it was a deer. Killer? You slipped.” He pointed a forefinger at Fowlkes. “You know more, don't you? And how about my parents’ killer, Fowlkes? Is it the same person? You know who it is, don’t you? Someone very close to you.”
Fowlkes stared back. “Don’t be ridiculous. You're crazy with grief. You better get some help. You know that was a car accident. And however it happened, someone killed your uncle.”
“You’ll slip up one of these days, Fowlkes.”
Fowlkes turned to gaze at the top of Mehrhaus’ hill, then looked back at him. A smile crossed Fowlkes’ face.
Hanover couldn’t endure the duplicity. He wished he had phoned the ambulance instead of Fowlkes.
When the ambulance arrived, Hanover helped the volunteer fireman place Uncle Andy’s body on the gurney.
As they slid the gurney into the back of the ambulance, Hanover nodded his head and spoke to no one in particular. “There was only one like him—the last of my father’s generation.”
Fowlkes stood with hand on chin, looking at the road. “This is a man’s blood, Dickerson. Can’t have cars running over top of it,” Fowlkes said. “Bring the fire truck out here and get it washed off. I’ll set out some flares and traffic cones so that nobody does.”
The corners of Fowlkes’ lips curved up. He turned his back to them while his shoulders convulsed with fits of hacking.
11
Offer
The Grisell Funeral Home in New Martinsville, the oldest and largest funeral parlor in that part of the Ohio River Valley, was packed with mourners. Two of Sheriff Fowlkes’ deputies, veteran John Brady and Al Cummings, helped New Martinsville Police direct cars from State Route 2 to parking spaces blocks from Grisell’s.
Outside the funeral home, people waited in line to get inside. They spoke in subdued tones or not at all. Three men held umbrellas over their wives to protect them from the searing sun.
Uncomfortable in their suits, men tugged at ties and shirt collars. Most thought that they would never wear a suit until, like Andrew Mehrhaus, they were laid out. Maybe not even then.
Inside there were tears, but also greetings and laughter as mourners recounted old times at The Jug. The fragrance from funeral flowers permeated the air. There was a tight circle in one corner of the room where friends clustered around Michael Hanover.
Becky Hanover stood to the side, ignoring the group. Her eyes scanned the crowd. She appeared to look for someone.
“One thing for sure,” Hanover said, “we want The Jug Handle to remain unsullied.” All nodded in agreement.
“Yeah, about the worst thing would be to have some developer put up homes along the crick,” a heavy-set balding man, a contemporary of Andy’s who lived two miles farther up Middle Island Creek, said.
“Or some shopping center on top of Andy’s knoll,” chimed in another of Andy’s friends.
Sheriff Terrance Fowlkes head was visible above those assembled inside the funeral parlor. Mourners were shocked to see him out of uniform. Even to their unpracticed eyes, it was obvious that Fowlkes’ suit was too expensive to have come from Penney’s or Sears.
People pressed Fowlkes in order to greet him and shake his hand, hampering his progress to the front of the room. He had acquired many admirers early in his term as the Sheriff of Madison County. His eyes swept across the crowd and settled on Becky, standing in the corner.
Mehrhaus’ son and daughter-in-law, Jacob and Maureen, found him. “Thanks for coming,” Jake said. “It's tough making headway in this crowd.” Maureen took Fowlkes’ arm. The couple ushered him to the open casket where Andrew Mehrhaus lay. Propped inside
the casket was a black-and-white picture of Andy, grinning broadly in front of a 1952 Ford parked in front of The Jug. A spray of red roses, to which was attached a card reading, “With Love, Jake and Maureen,” graced the closed portion of the casket. Flowers from consolers crowded the walls.
Fowlkes stood for a minute looking at Andy Mehrhaus, then removed the handkerchief from his breast pocket to dab at his eyes. Jake, with Maureen’s arm across his back, stood next to the sheriff.
“Your Dad was a wonderful man,” Fowlkes said. “Even though he was busy, he showed me around his property, told me about the Jug Handle and his family. He was mighty proud of both of you.”
Jake hung his head and held back a sob. His rounded abdomen shook, more noticeably because of its attachment to an otherwise thin body. “I should have visited more often,” Jake said.
Fowlkes placed his hand on Jake’s shoulder and squeezed. “He knew you loved him—and understood you were busy making a living, Jake. Andy wanted what was best for you, what made you happy.” Fowlkes looked up and nodded toward the ceiling. “Still does.”
Jake smoothed down the few hairs remaining on his pate. It reminded Fowlkes of Andy Mehrhaus, perspiration glistening through his hair, showing him around the Jug Handle.
“You think he wants me to move here now—to run The Jug?”
Fowlkes stared into Jake’s eyes. Jake, you’re not the man that your father was. He’d never ask such a question. And you couldn’t run The Jug.
“Did Andy ever ask you to come help?”
Jake wagged his head.
Fowlkes smiled and patted Jake on the back. “Then I’m sure he wouldn’t now.”
Jake wrinkled his brow, then smiled, accepting what Fowlkes said.
“What are you going to do about the property?” Fowlkes asked.
“We’re going to sell it, of course,” Maureen said, thrusting out her chin. “We’ll start looking for a realtor tomorrow.”
“Good decision,” Fowlkes said, concluding that Maureen wore the pants in the family. He fought back a smile. Her short skirt—how ironic. “It would just sit here while you paid property taxes. Sell it, and with the right investments, you could build a nice nest egg.” Fowlkes removed a small cellophane bag of peanuts from his pocket and offered it around.
As he listened, Jake buttoned and unbuttoned his blue blazer around the expansive waistline of his canary yellow trousers. When fastened, the coat gathered at the middle and threatened to pop off the button.
“I think I can help with that sale,” Fowlkes said. He shrugged and gave a twist of his head. He didn’t want to appear too enthusiastic. Then he spied Hanover, sporting a scowl, heading their way. “Uh-oh,” he said under his breath.
“Oh?” asked Maureen, lifting her brows. “You know a good realtor?”
“Give me some time to think it over. Perhaps I’ll make you an offer. I won’t unless I can give you a good price for it, cash—no waiting for loan approval,” Fowlkes said. Hanover nudged his way into their circle across from Jake. Fowlkes grimaced but kept on. “We both could save on realtor’s fees. And the Jug Handle isn’t going anywhere. You’d visit any time you wanted.”
“Jake, the first shovel of dirt has yet to be thrown on your father's grave,” Hanover said. “Give it a little time. Your father’s property—been in the family for generations. There is only one Jug Handle in the world.” His smile looked forced. “You might be sorry later. If you wait, you'll still have the option to sell.”
“Michael, we appreciate your concern, but really, it’s our business,” Maureen said. She grasped Jake’s arm and leaned on him. She looked diminutive next to Jake. Fowlkes wondered if any of her jewelry was genuine. It seemed to drip from her ears. Gold and silver bracelets jangled when she moved her arms. That necklace was sure to wear her out. Probably the reason for the dark circles under her eyes.
“I know we’ve been out of touch. It’s not the same between us anymore. But your father was my uncle, my mother’s brother,” Hanover said. “You might hold the deed, but The Jug is still part of me.”
Fowlkes suppressed a grin. Let Hanover talk, he thought. He's appealing to the wrong person.
“Remember, growing up, more than one stranger thought we were brothers? We used to play for hours and days at the Jug and by the creek—skipping stones, fishing, exploring.” Hanover looked hopefully at Jake.
A glimmer of acknowledgment crossed Jake’s face. “Those were some good days.”
“Time moves on, things don’t stay the same,” Fowlkes said, his eyes boring into Hanover’s. “There are other considerations, now.”
Maureen wrinkled her nose. “Ugh! You're right. We really don’t like it up here, now, with all the bugs and animals and stuff. And those woods. I can’t wait to get out of here.” She shivered and, accompanied by the squabble of silver and gold, crossed her thin arms across her disproportionately large bosom and hugged herself. When she faced Jake, it looked like they were pieces of a puzzle that fit together. She bulged at the top, he at the bottom.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Jake said. “It’s peaceful at Dad’s place. And we haven’t been back for years.”
“We need the money,” Maureen said. “And you could get that Mercedes convertible you’re drooling over.” She thought about the impression she would make driving the Mercedes. “Sell that old rundown place to him, Jake.” She took his arm again, looked into his face and batted her false eyelashes. Fowlkes expected them to fly off.
“That wouldn’t be the new SLK350 Roadster, would it?” Fowlkes asked.
Jake nodded and grinned, his eyes wide with surprise. “How did you know? Maureen told you, didn't she?”
Fowlkes slapped Jake on the back. “You devil. Go for it! Can’t blame you. Come over to my place this evening. We’ll down a few and see if we can work out an agreement.”
The threesome turned their backs to Michael.
Michael tried to sound relaxed, but the tightness in his throat betrayed him. “I can make you an offer, Jake. Keep it in the family.” They turned and faced him.
Fowlkes smirked. “Hanover, where you going to get that kind of money?” He looked at Jake and Maureen. “He can’t possibly come up with what it’s worth. Bleeding heart there lets his ‘friends’ run up big tabs at his store.”
Hanover glanced away. Red splotches crawled up his neck and across his face. “The store is growing.” Even though he stared back at them, he didn't sound confident.
“Growing debt,” Fowlkes said.
“And we can’t afford to just let you string out the payments, Michael,” Maureen said. She gave him a coy smile, then snuggled up to Jake.
“Give me a chance before you sell.” They seemed not to hear and began meandering away.
Hanover frowned and clenched his fists at his side. He raised his voice so it carried to them. “The zoning for the property...” He paused, to make sure he had their attention, then continued, “can only be used for farms!”
Fowlkes turned and stared at Hanover. Fowlkes’ upper lip quivered into a snarl, revealing a row of even white teeth. His lips reformed their smile. “Call me Farmer Fowlkes,” he said, and laughed. His eyes were hard behind his blue sunglasses.
12
Zoning
“I don’t care what you have to do. It's the middle of August already. No more delays. Make it happen tonight,” Fowlkes said. “I have 330 grand riding on this zoning decision.”
Charles “Slim” Gates, reporter, editor, and publisher of The Mills Valley View, scowled as he followed the sheriff into his office. He grunted as he turned sideways to push his massive belly through the doorway. “The Council doesn’t do my bidding just because I’m the Chair. These folk have a mind of their own,” Gates said. “You think because you got the deed within a month you can get the zoning changed overnight?”
“Yes. There's no point in stretching this out. Time is money.” Fowlkes laid a hand on Gates' shoulder. “Have you had your business license renewe
d? Or do you even have one? You know, it’s a twenty-five-buck-a-day fine…about nine grand a year.”
“Don’t threaten me. I’m doing all I can. The last three Valley Views, I ran articles on expanding this county’s economic base. But no editorials. Last time I wrote one on a Council issue I about got run out of town. Subscriptions dropped a third.”
Fowlkes thrust his face next to Slim's and spoke softly. “Would I threaten a business partner? You present a good case in the Council tonight and after the meeting there won’t be any trouble.”
* * *
Like most West Virginia counties bordering the Ohio River, Madison County’s seat was on the riverbank. The County Courthouse was of an aged grey stone and had several stories. It was adorned by a gabled roof and a clock tower. Facing the street was a Civil War-vintage cannon flanked by a pair of large stone markers. On one was inscribed, “Freedom is Not Free,” on the other, “In memory of those who served.” A tall flagpole, adjacent to a short walkway, flew the U.S. flag.
Darkness had fallen when, at five ‘til eight on a Friday evening, after hurrying from the store, Michael Hanover, along with other concerned citizens, made his way up a wide set of steps to the courtroom entrance. From here he mounted another stairway leading to a long vestibule. He passed dusty honor rolls that proclaimed, “In the Armed Service of Our Country,” on which were the names of WWI and WWII enrollees.
From the vestibule, Hanover waited in line to pass through a set of carved oaken doors guarding the courtroom’s entrance. He was amazed each time he looked down on this splendid auditorium with seating for 300 or more. Men, who never thought to remove their hats in a church, grabbed them from their heads as they entered this room. The courtroom also served as a multipurpose center where town meetings, such as this one, took place.
As he entered, Hanover's eyes were drawn to the ornate cornice high above him. On the ceiling bordering the cornice was an impressive gold relief of Greek design. Globe lights hanging from chains anchored to the ceiling cast a golden glow on the audience below.