by R. R. Banks
Folks interested in helping out with the stuffed effigies should see Cletus. He needs help with the bottling and the stuffing.
The Committee is also asking for volunteers to man the ice cream churns. They’re hoping for at least four flavors for the booth this year.
Voting is still open for the Whiskey Hollow Day King and Queen and their court. Remember with the change on this year’s ballots that you will need to specify what position you are voting for for each person. Times have changed, folks, and we can’t be assuming anything.
This year’s raffle is to support the annual band trip for the high school over in Altonville. There are some real nice prizes up for grabs this year, including one of Norma’s quilts that is a real beauty. This publication might even buy a few tickets ourselves.
Chapter Ten
Bitsy
I straightened and bent, pressing into my lower back to try to stretch the painful muscles and loosen them. Sweat was trickling down my face and I reached up to wipe it off with the back of my arm. That only resulted in me streaking pumpkin patch dirt across my forehead. I had spent nearly every waking hour for the last several weeks in the pumpkin patch, hoping that it would somehow sense my devotion and be willing to reward it with strong growth. It was still very early in the season, but the plants were sprouting and I was feeling hopeful. Their little leaves looked strong and so far, I hadn’t seen any sign of infestations that might wipe out the plants.
It had taken me so much time and energy to take care of the overgrowth and other damage that had been done by Granddaddy’s neglect, but I was doing my best to be as optimistic as I could about what I had been capable of doing. The special circumstances that we had encountered the year before had convinced Granddaddy to hold off on the sale, but I knew that this season was my last chance. The work that I had been doing felt like it was going to kill me, but I was willing to do anything to try to convince my grandfather not to give up. I was going to do my best and hope that it was enough.
Leaving the baby pumpkin vines, I made my way toward the cornfield. It was growing beautifully, promising that in the coming weeks I would have a bountiful harvest I could sell at the farm stand and dry out for decorations to sell at the patch when it opened in October. As I made my way back toward the house for lunch I stopped by the little shack that my grandmother used to use to sell her homemade doughnuts to the families visiting to pick pumpkins for their Halloween and Thanksgiving celebrations. It had been left largely dark for years and I could see signs of the farm trying to reclaim it, little plants starting to make their way up the sides of the building and the wood looking older and more weathered. I was determined to reopen that this season. The year before I had used the little stand that Granddaddy had used in the years after my grandmother’s death to sell a few treats and some preserves. It wasn’t anything like it had been when I was younger, but those who had come seemed to enjoy it and I figured I might as well go for broke on my last chance to save the farm.
I could smell fried chicken when I stepped into the house and took a deep breath to fill my lungs with it. It didn’t matter if it was blazingly hot outside. There was nothing that would keep me from a big plate of my Granddaddy’s fried chicken. The only thing that would be better than eating it for lunch today would be packing it up cold tomorrow and having it as an evening picnic after a long day of work. I settled down at the table after washing my hands and Granddaddy placed a huge platter of chicken in front of me. I piled it onto my plate along with a mountain of mashed potatoes and peas.
“How is everything looking out there?” Granddaddy asked.
I nodded through the bite in my mouth and then swallowed.
“It’s getting there,” I said. “I think the fields are going to be really impressive this year.”
“That sounds good,” he said. “I’m sure proud of everything that you’ve been doing.”
His interest in my efforts and his support of all that I had been doing was encouraging, but there was a part of me that still felt hesitant to be too hopeful. Granddaddy didn’t know that I had found out about the real estate listings that he had been looking at a few weeks back. When I learned that he had been selling off some belongings, I had confronted him about it and he brushed me off, saying he was just getting rid of some old things that he didn’t need so we could have more space in the house. I had let it go, but the combination was making me worry that he wasn’t really invested in the chance that he had promised me and was getting ready to pack up and leave. It was disheartening, but I was choosing not to let it drag me down. Instead, I was more determined than ever not just to save the farm so that I didn’t lose the connection to the elements of my childhood that I loved so much, but also so that I could prove to my grandfather that I did have what it takes to run the farm. Though he had never said it, I knew that he believed it was this inability to follow through with my family’s traditions that had been at the root of my leaving the Hollow. He didn’t know about Gregory and never would, and now I had to prove to him that he was wrong.
“Are you ready for the Whiskey Hollow Day Festival?” I asked, trying to move beyond the doubts in my mind.
Granddaddy took a long sip of his sweet tea to help his bite go down and nodded.
“Just a few more things left to finish, but I should be ready.”
I ate as I listened to him, needing to get back out to the fields.
****
Roman
I didn’t know what to think as my car slid slowly through Whiskey Hollow. It had taken me several days to track down the place and make plans to go, but now that I was here, I wasn’t entirely sure that I had found the right place. It was definitely adorable, but it wasn’t what I would have expected from my mystery woman’s hometown. The further I went, though, the stranger the sights became. Several posts set up in the center of little village were hung with what looked like giant piñatas designed to look like old-time police officers, several people had crossed the road directly in front of me carrying fully assembled wooden booths like I would expect to see in a carnival, and I couldn’t escape the smell of fresh bread that seemed to permeate the area.
It took until I had gotten nearly the entire way through the Hollow for me to remember the issue of the Holler Holler that I had read at Nia’s house. They must be preparing for the Whiskey Hollow Day Festival.
Whatever the flying fuck that was.
Suddenly the Hollow was behind me and I started looking for somewhere to turn around so I could make my way back through it. I realized that though I had found the Hollow itself, I had absolutely no idea where in it Beatrice might live. Nia hadn’t kept any of the envelopes with return addresses, so all I had to go on was knowing that she lived somewhere around here. Remembering that I had seen a sign for a post office when I first entered the Hollow, I drove all the way back through, dodging people who simply stopped in the middle of the road to stare at my car. Finally, I pulled to a stop beside the sign and climbed out of the car. Ahead of me I saw a tiny building with an aged wooden sign beside the door declaring it the official post office and the newspaper office.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I muttered to myself as I started up the few wooden steps that led to the door.
Bells jingled overhead as I stepped through the door and a man popped up from behind the counter. He appeared to be several centuries old and as though he had stopped updating his wardrobe at least one of those centuries ago. His skinny frame barely held up dark slacks and a tucked-in white shirt complete with black bands around his upper arms and a green visor.
“Can I help you?” he said, sounding somewhat confused, and I realized that I was stuck in place at the door.
I shook my head and took a step forward.
“Yes. Sorry. Hi. I was hoping you could help me.”
“Hi. I’m Coy.”
Coy? Was that a name or a personality trait?
“Hi,” I said again. He stared at me expectantly and I realized that he had, i
n fact, introduced himself. “Roman. My name is Roman.”
“Nice to meet you, Roman. What can I do to help you?”
“I am looking for somebody who I think lives here in Whiskey Hollow, but I don’t know where she lives. Her name is Beatrice.”
“Beatrice Krueger? About 87? Has a hump?”
I shook my head, the hopes that I had felt when he first said her name dashed.
“No, that’s not her.”
“Good, because that Beatrice died three months ago.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.” We had an awkward moment of silence and I leaned slightly toward him. “This Beatrice has been here for about a year and a half. Her grandfather lives here, too.”
“You say her name is Beatrice?”
I can understand the difficulty. ‘Beatrice’ just sounds like so many other names.
“Yes.”
Coy thought for several long seconds and then shook his head.
“No. No, I can’t say that I know a Beatrice that sounds like that. I’m sorry.”
“That’s alright,” I said, feeling completely defeated. “Thank you.”
I left the building and started back toward my car, but stopped short when I heard the bells jangling frantically and Coy yelling my name behind me. I turned around and saw him running toward me, looking like this was more exercise than he had gotten in quite some time.
“If you really want to find her, the best thing you can do is go to the Whiskey Hollow Day celebration tomorrow. Everybody in the Hollow will be there and if your Beatrice is here, you’ll find her there.”
Feeling hopeful again, I nodded.
“That sounds perfect,” I said. “Is there a hotel around here where I can stay?”
“Your best bet for that is going to be the Hollow Day Inn.”
I stared at him, waiting for a laugh but not getting one.
“That…sounds perfect.”
“I’ll take a break and lead you right to it. Just give me a few minutes.”
I waited for Coy in front of the building, letting my eyes scan back and forth over the road as I did, part of me holding out the distant hope that maybe Beatrice would just wander by. The only thing that did come by, though, was Coy behind the wheel of a golf cart. He waved at me and I waved back, wondering what I had gotten myself into as I climbed back into my car and started to follow him in what felt like the shortest, most pathetic funeral processional that had ever been.
Was this woman really worth all this?
I thought back to how she looked on all fours on my bed, her head thrown back as I plunged into her.
Yes.
I followed Coy for several minutes, turning out of the main section of the Hollow and starting to worry that his thoughts had wandered and he no longer remembered where we were going. Finally, a tiny, slumbering inn that looked like it had been designed after the roadside motels of the 50s and 60s started to appear. It might actually have been a roadside motel of the 50s and 60s. He pulled to a stop in front of it and leaned out toward me.
“You go right on in there. They’ll help you.”
I climbed out of the car and approached his cart.
“Thank you,” I said. I reached for my wallet. “Let me give you something for your trouble.”
Coy screwed up his face and waved his hands at me.
“You put that away. Where did you come from that you have to pay for someone to give you some simple help?”
He pulled out of the parking lot and puttered away, waving as he took the curve in the road out of sight. I turned back to the inn and stared at it for a few seconds, not seeing any signs of life inside. Coy had said that this is where I would be able to stay, though, so the least I could do was go to the door. As I walked toward a door marked “lobby” I noticed a red neon sign on the tinted front window pop on, announcing “vacancy”.
That’s a good sign. In more ways than one.
I opened the door and was greeted by a merciful blast of air conditioning. I stepped inside and took a moment to let the temperature cool me.
“How can I help you?”
I opened my eyes and noticed a woman had seemed to appear at the check-in desk across the small lobby. I walked toward her and noticed her eyes scanning me, scrutinizing every inch of me in a way that made me feel slightly squirmy.
“Hello. I noticed the vacancy sign in your window. I’m looking for a room for the night.”
“Just the one night?” she asked.
“Maybe two,” I said.
She looked at the ancient computer on the desk as though checking reservations that I had the distinct feeling didn’t actually exist.
“It looks like I’ll be able to accommodate you,” she said. She looked at me and a smile curled her lips. “I’m Day.”
“You’re Day?”
She nodded.
“I’m the owner here. It used to be just the Hollow Inn, but I added my name in there when I inherited it from my daddy.”
I chuckled.
“I guess it fit in pretty conveniently, didn’t it?”
She looked at me strangely and shook her head.
“How do you mean?”
I blinked a few times and realized that she really didn’t know what I was saying, so I moved on.
“It’s nice to meet you, Day.”
“It’s very nice to meet you.” There was suddenly a suggestive tone to her voice that I was going to choose to ignore. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to ask you to fill out this little registration card here while I gather up a few things.”
I took the card from her and started filling it out as she disappeared into a small storage room to one side of the desk.
“You aren’t going to need more than the one bar of soap, are you?” she asked.
Seriously?
“Um. No. I don’t think so.”
“Good.” Day showed back up carrying two towels and a paper-wrapped bar of soap. “I appreciate if you take short showers, turn off the lights when you aren’t using them, and don’t turn the air down too low.”
The woman had gone from flirting with me to lecturing me about how to properly patronize a hotel. I wasn’t sure how to process this. I followed her around the corner of the building and watched as she fought with the key to unlock the door. When she finally succeeded, I stepped in and immediately noticed something somewhat disconcerting.
“There’s no bed,” I pointed out.
“That’s why we don’t call it the Whiskey Hollow Bed and Breakfast.”
I stared at her, hoping upon hope that she actually was kidding this time.
“Um…”
Day sighed.
“Sure, there is,” Day said. “You see that rope hanging from the wall?”
“I thought that was a broken lamp.”
She glared at me and stomped over to it. She pointed up at it.
“Tug on this and you will get your bed.”
“Thank you.”
She walked toward the door and the suggestive look showed back up in her eyes.
“Is there anything else I can do for you?”
I shook my head.
“No. I’m good. Thank you.”
She left and I walked over to the rope. I gave it a tug and a bed tumbled out of the wall toward me. I ran out of the way, narrowly escaping getting flattened to the worn blue carpet. When it had finally settled, I looked at the effect. The bed now took up nearly the entire room, covering the door to the closet so I couldn’t open it. I sighed and put the bed back into the wall so I could hang my clothes in the closet. By the second time I pulled the bed down I was feeling a bit more confident with it. Feeling about as settled into the room as I was going to get, I returned to the lobby to ask where I could find something for dinner.
I fully expected Day to invite me to her house, but to her credit she only looked at me for a few seconds too long as though she was thinking about it, then directed me to the most popular restaurant in the Hollow.
Lat
er that night I returned to the motel with a stack of takeout boxes from El Rojo Cuelo and a headache from one too many Margaritas with the owner, an interesting man named Bubba Ray Ramirez. I tumbled forward onto the bed, ready to sleep and wondering, after all I had already seen of the Hollow in the short time I had been there, if I was really ready for the festivities the next day.
Chapter Eleven
Roman
I was woken up yet again by sunlight streaming through the windows into my eyes. This time when I reached for the remote to close the blinds, however, I didn’t find it and the reality that I was in the middle of nowhere in a motel that very well might have once been owned by the Bates family came crashing down on me. I groaned as I opened my eyes, then realized the room was filled with the smell of coffee and bacon. I looked around and saw a tray that seemed like another throwback to the 50s set up at the end of the bed. A white plate in the center was piled with food and a simple white mug sent the enticing smell of strong black coffee wafting toward me. I slid to the end of the bed and started eating, getting through nearly half the plate before it occurred to me that the presence of this tray meant that Day had come into my room while I was sleeping. That thought was just a little unnerving, but the breakfast was delicious enough that I was willing to overlook it for the time.
When I was finished eating, I fought the bed up into the wall and got dressed. I was starting to feel wary as I headed out of the motel toward my car. I didn’t know what to expect of the holiday that was ahead of me. The newspaper that I had read had only given me a brief overview of the festivities and Nia was only able to give me a cursory explanation of Whiskey Hollow Day pieced together from what she remembered of stories that Beatrice had told her in the two years they had known each other. Neither gave me any real insight into what they did to celebrate or why. Though I was feeling cautious, part of me was also excited at the prospect of the new experience and the chance to see Beatrice again.