The Tennessee Mountain Man

by Olivia Gaines

  “Beau! Hey Beau! Wait up,” Jethro yelled, coming after him in a hurry. “Wanted to tell you something.”

  The large man, known for his patience of a saint, arm tattoos, and large, imposing stature stood, in his best pair of dress pants, nice shoes, and a tie, waiting for his cousin to remember whatever in the hell he wanted to say.

  “Jethro, these shoes are pinching my toes,” he offered to his cousin.

  “Oh yeah,” Jethro said. “Maybe you should go home and change.”

  Beau pressed his lips together and counted to ten, hoping that lightning didn’t strike him in the nuts for wanting to kick the shit out of Jethro. “I was going to change, but you stopped me. Remember? You said you wanted to tell me something,” he emphasized, speaking slowly.

  “Oh yeah, I wanted to tell you something,” Jethro said, arching his furry eyebrows.

  “Will it be today, Jethro?”

  His cousin, an odd man with a weird sense of communication skills, leaned back in the wing tips and offered him a full-toothed smile. Jethro had a dental plan as he proudly informed everyone he met while he showed off his very healthy set of chompers.

  “Oh yeah!” Jethro said with a grin. “I was down in Huntsville, Alabama last week and met a fella by the name of Roscoe. You know like, Roscoe P. Coletrain of the Dukes of Hazard? Well, he up and got himself a wife.”

  “And that impacts me how, Jethro?’

  “He used one of them mail order bride services out of New York. Roscoe was pleased as punch with himself because he said that service matches you up with the ideal mate, not a wife, but mate,” he said. “You have to take this test, give blood, urine, and I think a poop sample, too, just to make sure your kids won’t come out with one leg shorter than the other and a funny eye.”

  “Dear Lord man, is there a point to this?” Beau asked.

  “Oh yeah, I wanted to tell you something,” Jethro said.

  “Gosh dang it, would you fucking tell me already!”

  “You should use the service, too,” Jethro said.

  “What? Beauregard Montgomery don’t need any help with the ladies,” he said with pride.

  “Ladies, no. A wife, yes,” Jethro said. “You got some funny ways about you, Beau.”

  Beau stood on the sidewalk, glaring at his cousin while his shoes seemed to shrink around his toes. At this point, Beau was uncertain if the shoes or the conversation with Jethro was causing the most pain.

  “Hear me out,” Jethro said. “We could sure use a doctor or even a Nurse Practitioner in these parts, ‘specially for our kin. Maybe...now think about this...you oughta get you one of them brides.”

  “You came to this conclusion all by yourself?”

  “I ain’t no dummy, Beauregard Montgomery,” Jethro said defiantly. “But you are if you think some woman is going to willingly live on that mountain, growing her own vegetables, drinking pulverized cabbage mixed with strawberries as a breakfast drink, then you’re wrong. The way I see it, you can place an ad, pay the fee, and find you a lady bear to hibernate with this winter. You know, make a few more Montgomery’s while you’re at it.”

  “Jethro, you are saying that you think I’m weird?”

  “Your word, cuz, not mine, but I don’t know many ladies who want to spend the evening reading about dragon queens sleeping with their nephew then watching the show on pay per watch television,” Jethro said. “Plus, you have different tastes. What you like to dine on ain’t served much in these parts.”

  “Goodbye Jethro,” Beau said, walking away.

  “Beau, this is a win-win for you, the community, and a weird bear-loving woman who’s just waiting for you to come find her,” Jethro said. “Wait up. I have the number for the matchmaking woman in New York.”

  He didn’t know why, but Beauregard accepted the number. After making it home and ridding himself of the toe-pinching shoes, another force outside of himself made him call the nice lady in New York. Caroline Newair, that was her name and she wanted to meet him in person. Well, that was after he heard Caroline Newair clicking away on her computer with each statement, he made about himself. He’d figured she was looking him up and doing a background check on him.

  New York. He’d been a few times himself in college, then one for a football game. Beau didn’t much care for the place or the millions of people who lived in such confined space. But, a mate would be nice.

  “I’d love to meet you as well,” he said, using his college-mock-interview-for-a-job voice.

  Then, for the dimmest reason, he called Billy Joe Remmer, who flew planes for the drug cartel. As far as he could tell, Joey made weekly runs to New York, Vermont, and sometimes Philadelphia. Luck was on his side and tomorrow, the plane was headed for the Big Apple. The apple had worms but he was going anyway and before he knew it, he was in New York.

  That Monday afternoon, he found himself in the offices of Perfect Match, having a conversation with one and the same green-eyed Coraline Newair who reminded him of a witch. Beauregard learned two things that day. One, he could crap on command because the lady did, in fact, take a poop sample and two, Jethro wasn’t as stupid as he acted.

  It took several tries to get the ad right and he wasn’t satisfied, but the nice lady said he had time. She needed to fly back with him to Tennessee and see his home and business and meet his folks. It was fine by him because Billy Joe Remmer wasn’t coming back for an extraction and Beau needed to way back home.

  Beau wasn’t an idiot either. The Coraline woman wanted the time alone on the flight with him to pick his brain and get to know him better. That part he appreciated. The hefty $10,000 fee he had to pay, not so much, but if she said she could do what she promised, it would be worth every damned penny.

  Chapter Two – ... And Things Got Worse

  Chicago, Illinois

  Thursday morning, the Chief of Staff for Mercy General summoned Khloe to his office. Years of working in the medical field as a nurse had gifted her with the perfect poker face which gave away no reaction, whether it was good news she needed to deliver or bad news which had to be explained. Her facial expression did not falter as she sat in front of Dr. Wells listening to him and the head of Human Resources explain why she would be placed on a leave of absence for the situation in the ER.

  “Do you understand what we are saying, Ms. Burgess?” Jennifer Conners, head of HR asked.

  “I understand it perfectly,” Khloe said. “To keep from getting sued by patrons waiting to be seen, it’s best that I not be seen.”

  “Khloe, it’s nothing like that,” Dr. Wells lied. “In light of the situation, along with a bit of counseling for such a traumatic ordeal, plus the loss of your mother, we are giving you time to get your personal affairs in order.”

  “My personal affairs are just fine,” she said, maintaining the stoic face. “I need to stay busy and work.”

  “Yes,” Jennifer said with that same patronizing tone she used when she fired people. “You may need to work to stay busy, but lives are at stake. A distraction could be deadly to one of our patients.”

  “Waiting for nearly 24 hours to be seen by a doctor because you don’t have enough insurance can also be deadly, but I don’t see you changing any of your policies regarding that,” Khloe said. “I also don’t see you changing any of your policies regarding fraternization and Dr. Lombardi’s overprescribing the use of his penis to every female employee.”

  “Hmm, regarding that,” Jennifer said with the barely-there lips pressed together. “We will have to reprimand you for calling his wife and creating such a volatile situation in the ER.”

  “Bitch, are you high?” Khloe said before she knew it. “I didn’t call that woman and God is my witness, I won’t even allow Dr, Lombardi to breath on me let alone have intimate relations with the man!”

  “If you didn’t call Mrs. Lombardi, then who did?” Dr. Wells asked.

  Khloe Burgess was many things, but a snitch wasn’t on her list. As much as she wanted that crazy ass Vicky out
from under her feet, turning her in was not cool. The situation between her and a married man was a job for God.

  “Maybe the person who is actually sleeping with him,” she said. “I suggest you start there.”

  “Ms. Burgess, take the leave of absence,” Jennifer commented.

  “Or what?” Khloe asked. “Are you intending to make my leave permanent when I am gone, whether or not I accept this unwanted help you are offering for my mental recovery?”

  Jennifer handed a business card for Employee Services to Khloe, strongly suggesting she take the time. “We shall see you in two weeks,” Jennifer said with her shit eating smile.

  That was the cue to leave. Standing slowly, she thought hard about cleaning out her locker and never coming back. The second thought which came to her like a hurling pile of bricks was to shoot them all double fisted birds like an angry child on a playground. But she didn’t. Their actions would not be dignified with a response as she walked from the offices and out of Mercy General with her back rigid and the stoic face which had become her trademark.

  Khloe made her way to the silver Jeep Rubicon that she’d grown to love. It was the only real possession that remained after the bonfire that had consumed her home. Driving to the home that she’d grown up in, she parked her vehicle and sat looking at the structure which felt as nasty on the outside as it was within.

  “Feels like my life,” Khloe mumbled as she let herself in the three-bedroom home where she’d grown up.

  The stench hit her first and against her better judgment, she began to open windows covered in burglary bars, praying fresh air would find its way inside. In a whirlwind of activity, she vacuumed, dusted, sprayed, wiped, mopped, cleaned, and threw out any and everything that smelled. Her phone chimed and she reluctantly stopped to look at the message. It was Joey, who wanted her to call him.

  She did.

  “Hey Joey,” she mumbled.

  “Hello, my beautiful Nubian queen, I have great news,” he said in the New York accent she used to think was sexy.

  “Would it be too much to think you had a change of personality and are bringing back my jewelry?”

  He laughed into the line. That skin crawling laugh of a Bond villain right before they began to describe in detail all the ways they planned to kill you. Painfully.

  “No doll, I have a plane ticket waiting for you in the morning to come to New York,” he said with pride. “It’s on Delta. Just check in and join me for the weekend.”

  “I could use the getaway,” she said, not wanting to fill him in on the horrific turn of events in her life.

  “Great! I’ll send a car for you, then we head down to Atlantic City when this tourney is over and have a good time playing the slots,” he said cheerfully.

  “I don’t gamble, Joey,” she reminded him.

  “Hey, you took a gamble on me, and look how it’s turned out,” he said, lying to her with his catchphrase, “Love you, doll.”

  Joey Montana was a two-bit hustler with a silver tongue and the ability to make a woman orgasm even if he wasn’t touching her. Ruefully, she admitted that is why she was with the man. The sex was amazing even if the man was a low-life con artist. At least this way, she didn’t have anything left for him to steal.

  She sat on the worn couch. Puffs of stink oozed out of the fabric when her butt made contact with the pillow. Disgusted, she began to drag the couch across the living room and out on the street. In this neighborhood, it would be gone before the last rays of sun touched the back of the couch.

  It took a bit of effort, but she got the old couch to the curb, followed by the two wing-backed chairs and the smelly old recliner her mother slept in as she half-watched her soap operas. One thing became obvious with the furniture gone. The carpet was woefully gross and disgusting as the furniture which it had rested upon. Clean patches provided a stark contrast to the darkened carpets that used to be beige. Using the anger which rested just below the epidermis of her soul, Khloe located a box cutter to use as a weapon and she began to slice the carpet into manageable sections, hauling it out to the curb as well. In less than an hour, the dirty carpeting was no more and hardwood floors in need of a shitload of TLC stared back at her.

  “Well, I have two weeks,” she said, taking a seat at the dining room table. The walls of the room were filled with photos of their childhood, pre-walkout of Ricky Burgess. The living room walls, in contrast, were filled with framed photos of the same two children, holding no smiles and sadness in their eyes.

  Khloe could almost pinpoint the exact day, in the exact year, in the specific month that she’d stopped being able to smile, the small action requiring very few muscles around her mouth to move in order to create an emotion that others would take as enjoyment or friendliness. She had no friendly left in her. Just anger. Enough anger to work out large chunks of it by a hard ride on Joey before she sent him home.

  Anger was the only emotion she truly had left. The men in her life had become a grave disappointment as they all ran from the bottle of poison who was her mother. Deep inside, she knew it was a daughter’s duty to grieve the loss of Erica Burgess, but she was glad the bitch was gone. Setting herself and all of Khloe’s possessions on fire was a fitting end to a demon who tortured everyone she came in contact with, whether they’d done harm to her or not.

  “Dorian,” she said aloud, looking at the photo of her older brother. They didn’t speak to each other much, if at all. The occasional phone call on birthdays and the required Merry Christmas text had become the norm over the years. Erica had done this to them. Pitting her children against each other during her bouts of sobriety and even worse, during her bouts of fallen down drunkenness. Unlike Dorian, Khloe never reached out to Ricky Burgess. In her estimation, the man was a traitor.

  Dorian didn’t feel that way and left her alone with Erica when he turned 13 and moved to Indiana with his father. That’s how she thought of Ricky Burgess, as Dorian’s father. She never considered him to be hers. A father wouldn’t abandon his children to be raised by a drunkard with low self-esteem.

  Low esteem or not, Erica Burgess went to work five days a week and drank from the end of shift on Friday until the end of the day on Saturday at 11:58 pm. Sunday, she slept all day, rising to urinate and throw meat and beans in a crockpot. The good side, because there was no bright one, was that Erica never brought men home. Their home was secured with burglar bars and an alarm system which was armed from the moment she cracked open the bottle to the last drop to touch her lips on Saturday night. Most Sundays, the house remained locked as well. During the week, she sat with Khloe doing homework, the regular Tuesday visit to the hairdresser, and grocery shopping on Wednesdays. To the outside world, Erica was a hard-working, single, good mom.

  In the inside world of the Burgess home, she was a closet drunk. For Khloe, she was a sad woman afraid to face her failures who cowered in glass bottles of expensive booze to force blackouts that prevented a daily dance with reality. During the day, Erica was a Charge Nurse in Obstetrics. The irony of such a sad woman caring for sick children never escaped Khloe since such a sick woman barely cared for her own children.

  She looked about the house. “At least it smells better,” she said, looking at her phone. “I have to make the call.”

  Reluctantly she dialed her brother.

  “Hey,” Dorian said.

  “Hey back,” Khloe said.

  “How is she?” He asked.

  “Burned down my house with herself in it,” she said solemnly. She waited a few seconds not sure whether to expect a gasp of horror or a sigh of relief. “I’m cremating the rest of what was left. If you want some of the ashes, let me know. If not, I will put her in an urn and keep her in the dining room in china hutch.”

  “You are so cold, Khloe,” Dorian said.

  “I am living in the old house because yesterday she burned down mine and everything in it, Dorian. Not sure how you expect me to feel at this moment,” she said. “The only pair of drawers I curr
ently own are the ones I’m wearing and the pair in my locker at work.”

  “Do you need me to do anything? Help you plan a homegoing ceremony or... not really an or situation, in this case,” he said. “She is already cremated, so to speak.”

  “There is no ‘or’ in this case,” Khloe said. “She had no friends. Family stopped coming around years ago, so I will just pick up her ashes.”

  “Should I come to town, have dinner with you this weekend, say our farewells?” He asked.

  “We both said farewell to her years ago, Dorian. This is just the formality of closing out this body,” she said. “Stay where you are. I’m heading to New York for the weekend to gather my thoughts.”

  “Sis,” he said with that sorrowful blowing of his breath into the phone. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Thanks,” she said, hanging up.

  She too was sorry. The words that hung on her lips she couldn’t utter as she fell asleep on the old futon in the guest room. A realization wafted up through the fibers and stuffing, reminding Khloe that her mother had also pissed on this piece of furniture too.

  Weariness covered her like a blanket as she lay there, too tired to get up, too broken to care, and too hurt to move. She needed a change. A reason to smile if, in fact, the muscles around her mouth still worked to perform the function of pulling back fleshly lips to expose teeth to sunlight.

  The saddest part to Khloe came at three in the morning when hunger woke her, but she was too tired to even eat.

  “THE CAUSE OF DEATH was smoke inhalation,” the Coroner had pronounced on Erica Burgess, then he asked if he could keep the body.

  “Excuse me?” Khloe said.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss, but your mother is a rare creature,” he said. “True her liver was 60% corroded, but her heart and muscle tone were extraordinary for a woman who drank as she did. Her body would make a great case study.”