Lucky Strike
Lucky Strike
By - Chris Crowder June 4, 2007
---One---
Devon Stought stopped on the tracks of the Southern Railway. A concrete post stuck out of the ground off the lefthand side of the tracks. The weathered and crumbling post had the number ninety on it, painted in black. "Mile post ninety," he said to himself.. Having arrived at his destination, he studied his surroundings. To the left was a dense forest of pine trees. On the right, running parallel with the tracks, was a shallow creek--Pinebrook. About fifty feet beyond the creek was a small, run-down house surrounded by towering shade trees. The trees somewhat camouflaged the house. Had he not been looking for the house, he might have never seen it. The fact that the house existed gave him an unsettled feeling. For a moment he considered turning back, but he did not. He wanted answers.
Devon took a deep breath, crossed Pinebrook Creek, and walked toward the house. The house--better described as a shack--was very old. Judging from the way it looked, he was certain it had been abandoned many years ago. The house seemed out of place. It was in the middle of nowhere. The nearest road was at least a half mile away. The house sat on a rock foundation. Its wood siding was dark gray; only a few spots of flaking white paint remained. Both front windows were busted out. Outside the left front window, a tattered curtain rustled in the afternoon breeze. A rock chimney on the right side leaned a bit away from the house, as if trying to get away. The tin A-roof was rusted to a solid brown. Towering trees engulfed the house in shadows, offering additional protection from the elements. If it weren't for those trees, Devon would likely have been standing before a pile of rubble instead of a house.
The front door was shut but did not have a lock. He doubted it ever had. With a little forceful persuasion, the door opened with a defiant creak. He poked his head in and glanced around, looking for bee nests or other imminent wildlife dangers. "Anybody home?" His voice echoed throughout the room. No one answered. He was glad, but wasn't convinced that he was alone. He had a strong feeling that he was being watched. A squirrel who had noticed him was barking in a tree beside the house. Devon pushed open the door, tested his weight against the old wooden floor, and stepped up into house. While standing in the doorway it became apparent that other people had recently visited the house. The scene was not what he expected. He walked around the room, observing. The planked wooden floor was unlevel and responded to each step with creaks and pops. There was a stench about the place that reminded him of a restroom at a truck stop. The plaster walls were crumbling in numerous places, exposing underlying chicken wire and slats of wood. Cigarette butts, chicken bones and colorful confetti were scattered the floor. To the left was a doorway leading to another room. Someone had painted 'The Love Zone' in red spray paint above the door. A pair of lacy red panties hung from a nail in the center of the door. Devon suddenly felt as if someone were peering over his shoulder. He jerked around and looked around the room. No one was there. Spread out on the middle of the floor was a stained and faded blue sleeping bag, with numerous cuts from which seeped bright white stuffing. On top of the sleeping bag was a used condom, an empty book of cigarette papers, a dirty latex glove, and a half bottle of extra virgin olive oil. A pair of neon green flies were busily investigating the glove. Beside the sleeping bag was a warped pewter serving dish mounded with cigarette butts and burnt matches. On the right side of the room was a rock fireplace containing trash; a half-burnt Kentucky Fried Chicken bucket; a balled up McDonald's bag; paper plates and a diet book. Above the fireplace was a mantle--a section of a two by six board bracketed to the wall. The mantle supported a row of alternating Budweiser, Miller, and Coors beer cans. Devon took interest in the way the cans had been so meticulously placed. They were evenly spaced in a single file line with all the tabs pointed in the same direction. He cringed at a familiar sight as he looked above the mantle. There on the wall was an antique, eight-day calendar clock. The glass in the door of the clock was broken and someone had painted a smiley face on the pendulum. The clock was not running; he was glad of that.
Before going on, Devon could not resist having a look into the room titled 'The Love Zone.' On the other side of the door was a scene that he would ponder for years to come. A yellow pentagram, painted on the floor, stretched to all four walls. The floor, walls, and ceiling were splotched with dark stains that appeared to be burn marks. Unlike the aforementioned room, this floor contained no chicken bones, cigarette butts or confetti. In the center of the pentagram sat a Kentucky Fried Chicken bucket surrounded by a wide circle of at least fifty quart mason jars, the old square type ones that were popular among moonshiners. In each jar stood unlit fireworks: various styles of roman candles and bottle rockets. Devon found this odd because those types of fireworks were illegal in North Carolina. "They must have been imported," he thought.
Inside the chicken bucket were ten pairs of women's panties, all different styles and colors. On the back wall was an outside window that had been covered over with plywood. Printed on the plywood was 'This Side Up,' next to an arrow pointing up. The plywood must have been recycled from a crate. Someone had painted the outline of a large animal on the left wall that, to him, looked like a cow. After a bit of studying, Devon made out the word 'POSIE' painted above the cow. 'FURTHER!' was painted on the right wall in large purple letters. 'REJOICE!' was painted on the ceiling. A bong, fabricated from a clear plastic three-liter drink bottle, sat in a corner. The bong was mounted on a lazy susan, and it had a section of vacuum cleaner hose attached to it with duct tape. There was a yellow liquid inside the bong that looked and smelled just like old piss. The room bewildered him. His mind was saturated with conflicting images. Devon decided that it would be best for him to do what he came to do and get the hell out before other people began showing up for the party or whatever weirdness manifested there.
He exited the 'Love Zone,' closed the door behind him, and walked over to the lefthand side of the rock fireplace. He knelt down to examine a short section of floorboard next to the wall. The board was loose but too tight a fit for him to remove with his fingers. He found a metal fingernail file on the floor nearby and used it to pry up one end of the board. Underneath the board was a shallow compartment. Lying in the compartment was an rectangular Lucky Strike tobacco tin. Devon removed the tin, stood up, and examined it. The tin was green, had a flip-top lid, and had 'It's Toasted' printed on it. It had some light surface rust but was otherwise in good condition. He opened the tin and saw a card inside, which he removed. It was a postcard with an image of a peaceful lake scene. At the bottom right corner of the card was printed, 'New York. Paradise Bay.' He flipped the card over and noted that it was postmarked March 3, 1908. The next thing he saw set his mind twirling into a state of shock, helpless confusion and fear. Fear. The postcard was addressed 'To Devon Stought.' A cold chill flew over his body. He was stunned. "That's impossible," he thought to himself as his jaw dropped open. A low rumbling sound was growing as the floor began to quiver beneath his feet. Devon read his own name on the postcard over and over. His mind was in disarray, fixated on the postcard and unaware of what was developing around him. The rumbling grew louder. Things in the house began to rattle. There was a loud snap. One end of the mantle broke free from the wall and dropped a few inches. The snap broke his trance, returning him to a conscious state. Fear took over as he became aware of what was happening around him. The roar, the house rattling, the pentagram! It was too much. He wanted to run but couldn't. Where would he run to? The mantle slumped some more and the row of beer cans came to life in rattling motion. Clank...clank...clank...clank... The cans sounded one by one in perfect rhythm as they plummeted off the end of the mantle, crashing to the floor. Devon, mortified, looked at the clock on the wall as it chimed twelve o'clock. Gong...gong...gong... A shrill scream radiated from the house when the horn blasted from a passing freight train.
---Two---
Devon had seen the house at milepost ninety in a dream; a recurring dream. In the dream, he always awakened to a young woman standing beside his bed, smiling at him. The woman had long, flowing black hair and bright green eyes. She wore a plain brown dress with a matching bonnet. Her bonnet was held down with a thin off-white scarf tied beneath her chin As soon as Devon became aware of her presence, she floated toward the bedroom wall and motioned for him to follow. He fell in right behind her as an opening of bright, glowing light appeared on the wall. Together they floated through the light. He had no choice in the matter; it was like she had him by an invisible leash. On the other side of the light was an open forest of hardwood trees. The view was majestic. It was a beautiful, sunny day. The birds sang songs of joy while two young deer ran playfully through the woods. Devon and the woman drifted through the forest, hovering a few feet above the ground. They passed by a pond where a young boy and a man sat fishing on the bank. Behind a small house nearby, a woman wearing a long white dress was hanging clothes on a clothesline.
They continued to drift along and soon came upon a town that at first he did not recognize. The streets were dirt and were quite muddy. In front of some of the buildings were horses tied to posts. The people out and about seemed overdressed, in his opinion. The men wore suits and ties. The women wore long dresses. Soon, Devon saw a recognizable landmark--the monument of the Mule and Plough. His guide stopped in front of a building on the other side of the monument. 'Shockley Mercantile Bank,' read the sign on the building. People were walking in and out of the bank, right past Devon and his guide, yet no one seemed to see them hovering above the bank steps. The woman spat at the bank, glowered at the sign, then cut her eyes to the ground with a look of disgust. She raised her head, glanced at Devon, and away they went. He floated right behind her at an increasing speed toward the edge of town. Without slowing down, they made a hard right turn over the railway tracks. They floated above the tracks at a high rate of speed. In the distance were acres and acres of planted fields, rapidly approaching.
They came to an abrupt halt. The woman pointed down to a short concrete post beside the tracks. Painted on the post was the number 'ninety.' Beyond the post were neat rows of tobacco plants. It must have been at least a hundred acres of tobacco. The woman turned around and Devon followed, under control of her magic leash. In front of them was a narrow wooden bridge which spanned a wide creek. Beyond the creek was a small white house with a bright tin roof and a chimney made of rock. The yard was neat and trim with several small trees planted around the house. Devon could hear what sounded like a man playing a guitar inside the house.
He drifted behind the woman toward the house and together they passed right through the front door. Inside the house, four men dressed in overalls were sitting around a square pine table playing cards. In one corner a black man was sitting in a chair, strumming a twelve string guitar and singing.
"Yonder come Miss Rosie, how in the world do you know," the man sang.
He seemed completely absorbed in the song he was playing. The room was dimly lit by two oil lamps sitting on the pine table. Devon looked through the window and saw that it had grown dark outside. The tobacco fields glistened under the glow of a full moon. His guide floated to the table where the men were playing cards. She put her hands on one man's shoulders in a familiar way. He did not appear to notice her presence. The woman drifted playfully around the table, peeking at the cards the men were holding.
One of the men at the table spoke up. "Fire water," he said.
The woman frowned. A man across the table passed him a quart mason jar half-full of clear liquid. The man took a big swig and swallowed, a sour expression on his face. The man in the corner continued to sing at the top of his lungs.
"When you get up in the mornin', when that big bell ring
You go and march to the table, see the same damn thing
Knife and fork are on the table, there's nothing in my pan
And if you say anything about it, havin' trouble with the man."
Devon's guide drifted over to the left side of a rock fireplace. On the mantle above the fireplace was a perfect row of empty quart mason jars. Above the mantle was a calendar clock on the wall, its pendulum swinging back and forth. The time--according to the clock--was one minute till midnight. The woman knelt down and put her finger on the floor right next to the fireplace. She then looked at Devon with a look that he interpreted as "Please."
"Let the midnight special, shine the light on me
Let the midnight special shine the ever lovin' light on me."
The music abruptly stopped. The clock chimed midnight. The entire room was silent and motionless. After the final chime, Devon found himself lying awake in his bed, staring at the ceiling. He glanced over at his alarm clock. Every night the recurring dream ended at exactly midnight.
---Three---
At 7:00 A.M. Devon woke to the sound of his clock radio . For the first night in almost two weeks he hadn't dreamed of the mystery woman giving him the grand tour. He was glad. The sun shone through his bedroom curtains. 'Ironic,' by Alanis Morissette, was playing on the radio. He crawled out of bed and found his way to the kitchen. He grabbed breakfast from the fridge--a can of caffeine-free Diet Coke. He sat down at his kitchen table and was reminded of his disturbing visit to the old house the day before. He decided then and there not to tell anyone about his dream or his experience at the old house. Who would believe him? He considered it all coincidental. A heaping helping of coincidences all at once. The rumble of the passing train had caused the mantle to break free from the wall and the clock to chime--hadn't it? Devon's world was a world of logic. Everything had a perfectly logical explanation. It had to! He sat at his kitchen table wanting to believe that it was all a dream. But, sitting right there in front of him, was a green Lucky Strike tobacco tin. The wrench that had been thrown into his gears of logic. Here was proof that something illogical--impossible--had happened. It hadn't been a dream. But what did it mean, if anything?
Devon chugged half his Coke, opened the tobacco tin, and dumped its contents onto the table. There was a black and white photo of a man dressed in business attire. The photo was yellowed and had ragged edges, and on the back was written 'Bill 1904.' There was a coin token of some sort that was stamped 'The Avalon Mills.' The last thing was the postcard addressed to Devon Stought, the one postmarked March 3, 1908 in New York. The card was addressed to 'The Shockley Plantation, Billsville, North Carolina.' The message on the card was rather difficult to read.
'Dear Devon,
I was so glad to finally hear from you. When I received the news of your father I tried to
contact you. No one had seen you since the day of the run. I was worried that
something bad had happened to you. It's not like you to disappear the way you did.
I'm glad to hear things are working out for you. I think the worst of the panic is over now.
Some of the banks have re-opened; others have closed for good. So, what's it
like living down there in North Carolina? Don't spare me any of the details, either!
Sincerely,
Loretta'
On the way out the door of his singlewide trailer, he grabbed the tobacco tin. He climbed into his 1984 Buick sedan and headed for work. Thirty-four year old Devon Stought lived alone on the outskirts of Billsville, North Carolina. Right after college he'd landed a part-time job as a meter reader for the Billsville water treatment plant. Throughout the thirteen years he had worked as a meter reader, he'd turned down numerous opportunities for job advancement. He saw no point in advancing his career. "Why change a good thing?" he would say. The pay was low but adequate for his uncomplicated lifestyle. Most importantly, the job carried little stress. Time off was plentiful and his to do with as he pleased. He'd never had any desire to shine. Instead, he danced cautiously in the shadows to avoid stirring up dust.
Devon arrived at the Billsville Sewer and Water treatment plant and backed the Buick into his customary parking spot in front of the building. He got out of the car and checked his watch, 7:59:03 A.M. Plenty of time to walk across the parking lot and punch the time clock before the 8:00 buzzer sounded. Well...it had once been a buzzer. Robert Underwood--right after his promotion to Manager--had maintenance rig up a foghorn on the roof of the main building. Robert claimed that a foghorn suited the water treatment plant better than an annoying buzzer. He also said that a foghorn would boost employee morale. The rumor was that Robert had a secret desire to be a captain of a ship. In a roundabout way, you could say that his dream had come true. His office was decorated like a pirate ship. The walls were adorned with nets, sails, and a Jolly Roger flag. There was a ship's wheel at the window overlooking the sewage lagoon. On several occasions Devon had seen him running his radio-controlled ship in the lagoon. He thought of this as he punched the clock. Only two seconds later, the foghorn rattled the building.
Sheila Brown was in the lobby pouring coffee into a tall cup when Devon walked in.
"Have a good weekend?" she asked him. Her eyes were bloodshot.
"It was all right. I just mowed the yard, hung out at home and played Nintendo. The usual stuff. How about you?"
"Oh. A friend of mine invited me to a party. A really wild party," she grinned. "We had a great time. Didn't get in till after midnight last night. Coffee?"
Devon got an image of Sheila standing in the doorway of 'The Love Zone.' She was wearing nothing but a pair of panties and was munching on a chicken leg. Loud booms and bright flashing lights came from behind her. "No way," he thought, then flushed the image out of his head.
"I never touch the stuff," Devon replied, shaking his head.
Sheila Brown had come to work at the water treatment plant right after dropping out of college. First she had majored in accounting, then English, then dropped out of nursing when her scholarship finally ran out. He thought she was in her late twenties, though he'd never asked her age. Her current hair color was black with a hint of burgundy. Her hair was wavy and hung just below her shoulders. She was the laboratory technician and it was a very important job. She was responsible for ensuring that the outgoing water was safe for human consumption.
"Talk to you later, " she smiled as he turned to leave. He nodded at her and made his way over to Tanya Bottoms' desk. Tanya was Robert's personal secretary. She was chatting on her cell phone and sipping a bottle of water she'd purchased from the vending machine in the break room. She briefly broke away from her conversation to speak with Devon. "Rick called in sick. Would you mind reading the Shady Acres meters?"
"No problem," he replied.
Devon found it odd that Rick had called in sick. Rick had never called in sick before. Every year the water treatment plant employees with a perfect attendance record received an award: a T-shirt valued at a whole four dollars and eighty five cents. Last year, Robert had mistakenly left the purchase order for the T-shirts on a table in the break room. Rick frequently bragged on his twenty-two perfect attendance T-shirts: one for each year he'd worked there.
Shady Acres--an upscale housing development--was considered the rich side of Billsville. Rick always had funny stories about reading the Shady Acres meters. Rick had told Devon that several of the residents of Shady Acres regarded the meter reader as a pathetic tool of the government, a tool used to leach money from elite residents of Billsville. Once, a resident even tried to have Rick arrested for trespassing.
Devon walked into the shop, unplugged his assigned Meter Mate 2000 from its charger, and attached it to his belt. The Meter Mate 2000 was the device that replaced the manual clipboard and pen method of gathering meter readings. The device stored the readings gathered throughout the day. At the end of the day all the readings were uploaded to a central computer via a special cable. It had been Robert Underwood's idea to purchase the Meter Mate system. The system streamlined the meter reading process so much so that management was able to permanently lay off half the meter readers and two office personnel who had manually entered the water readings into a computer. The Meter Mate system and proprietary computer with built-in software cost the tax payers one hundred and forty thousand dollars to install. However, the system saved the town an estimated twenty one thousand dollars per year. Robert's promotion came shortly thereafter.
Devon unholstered his Meter Mate and turned it on. It blipped a happy note, meaning it was charged and ready to go (Meter Mate 2000, at your service.) Some LEDs flashed and the full-color screen came to life. The full-color screen was the only drawback to the Meter Mate 2000. The screen was nearly impossible to read outdoors in sunlight. The Meter Mate was available with a black and white LCD screen--The Meter Mate 1500. However, the smooth-talking, top-heavy sales lady had convinced Robert to splurge for the more pricey color model. Devon reholstered his Meter Mate and headed out the door.
---Four---
He arrived at the end of Goldview street and parked the town's truck in front of a gate that had a sign which read 'Shady Acres: A Gated Community.' He got out and walked around the right side of the gate and headed toward the first meter. He reached down, opened the hinged metal cover over the meter, and read off the ID number. He unholstered his Meter Mate 2000 and punched the ID number into it. He cupped his hand over the screen to block the sun. The Meter Mate's screen read "Theodore Johnson III, August 2006, Enter gallons run:" Devon kneeled down to read the value from the water meter. At that instant the Johnson's water sprinkler system came to life. A sprinkler head, strategically located right beside the water meter, soaked him down. He mumbled a few choice words while he punched the reading into the Meter Mate. He then kicked the cover shut and got out of the way.
Down the street at the home of Henry Simpson, Devon spent almost fifteen minutes trying to find the water meter. Henry owned the automobile scrap yard on the other side of town. You couldn't miss it: one hundred acres of junk cars. The doors and hoods stood open on most of them. Henry had made his fortune by hauling cars from Mexico and selling parts off them. Except for gas tanks--none of the cars had gas tanks.
Devon finally found the meter after remembering a story Rick had once told him in the breakroom. Rick had said that Henry insisted on covering his water meter with a fake rock. Mr. Simpson claimed the metal cover on the ground disrupted the natural beauty of the housing development. Rick had said that when he reminded Henry of his junk car collection, Henry had chuckled and said, "I can't see it from my house."
After several more houses, Goldview Street dead-ended at a three-story Victorian house complete with a round lookout tower. Around the perimeter of the yard was a tall wrought-iron fence grown up with ivy. There was an ornate double wrought-iron gate at the entrance to the driveway. On each side of the gate was a large bronze leaf that resembled a cured tobacco leaf. One side of the gate hung wide open. Inside, Devon saw a tired-looking old woman pouring liquid from a pitcher around the base of a rosebush. The liquid was thick and reminded him of the heavyweight motor oil he used in his tired Buick. He marveled at the size of the rosebush. It must have been at least twenty feet tall. Its base had to be nearly ten feet in diameter.
He opened the meter cover and punched its ID number into his Meter Mate. In the shade, the name Elizabeth Shockley was barely visible on the screen. Devon punched in the gallons run and stood up. The old woman had placed her pitcher of amber liquid on a concrete bench next to the rosebush and was making a beeline for him.
"Well, hello, young man," the old woman said with a scratchy voice.
"Shit!" Devon thought. "The lonely old woman has done found someone to talk to."
Grinning wide, revealing her perfect dentures, she said, "Beautiful day, isn't it?"
"Yes, ma'am, it is. That's quite the rosebush you have there! I've never seen one that big!" he said as he looked toward the top of the towering bush.
She tossed her hand back at the bush as if were of no significance, "Oh, that old bush? William planted it when he built this house in eighteen hundred and ninety three. It's been here for over five generations."
"I didn't know rosebushes could live that long."
"Special fertilizer. A family secret. It works for me, too. Tuesday, I'll be ninety-five years old."
Glancing over at the pitcher of amber goo on the ground, he laughed, "Sounds like I could use a bit of that fertilizer; what is it?"
"If I told you it would not be a secret anymore, now would it?"
Just in front of him, the lady stopped and offered her hand. "I'm Elizabeth Shockley. And you are?"
He shook her hand. "I'm Devon Stought. I work for the town. I read..."
"Devon Stought?" She interrupted. "My, that name sounds mighty familiar." She looked away for a moment, bemused, then shook her head slightly.
He heard the horn of a passing freight train in the distance beyond the house. He remembered a scene from the recurring dream...the woman spitting at the Shockley Mercantile Bank.
"Shockley?" Devon asked. "You ever heard of a Shockley Mercantile Bank?"
Her eyes sharpened, then her face gleamed with pride. "Heard of it? My father, William Shockley, founded it."
Devon's heart sank at the sound of her words. The Shockley Mercantile Bank really did exist. He told himself it was just another coincidence.
Elizabeth, with a puzzled look, continued. "How do you know about my father's bank? It burned to the ground more than fifty years ago. Such a tragedy it was. Poor William. God rest his soul."
Devon did not want to tell the woman he'd seen the bank in a dream. She'd have thought he was crazy. "I've been researching the history of Billsville," he replied, squeezing the words from his mouth.
"Research!" Elizabeth's eyes lit up. "William Shockley was the history of Billsville. I knew you came here for a reason. Such a smart young man. I can tell you all about Billsville. It all started with William's tobacco farm."
His heart sank further as he remembered the address on the postcard--Shockley Farms--and the huge tobacco fields in the dream.
"Won't you come inside and have a glass of tea? I just made a fresh batch."
It was against policy for a meter reader to enter a customer's home, even if invited. Devon decided to overlook that policy and see what else he might learn. A logical explanation, he hoped. "Okay, I'd like that." He considered showing Elizabeth the contents of the tobacco tin, then remembered he had left it in the truck.
The inside of her house looked every bit as Victorian as the outside. She guided him to a room she referred to as the sittin' room.
"Have a seat, Devon. I'll go fetch the tea."
A sturdy-looking round table surrounded by four matching chairs was in the middle of the room. The table appeared to be solid oak and had large claw feet. Devon sat down and noticed that he could see his reflection in the finish. The table was nothing at all like the one that came with his mobile home. Lying on the table was a stack of 'Weekly World News' magazines. He picked up one of the magazines and began flipping through it. A short while later, Elizabeth returned with two glasses of tea and a photo in an old frame.
"There you go. A fresh glass of tea," she said as she sat a glass in front of him. He was a bit surprised when she put the glass of tea directly on the table instead of on a coaster. "And this is William." She placed the photo in front of him. A familiar face, Devon thought, then realized he had a picture of the same man in a Lucky Strike tobacco tin.
Elizabeth sat down at the opposite side of the table. Something about the glass of tea caught his attention. He glanced at his glass, trying not to be obvious. There were three ice cubes in the glass. The ice cubes were sitting on top of the tea.
"This is a beautiful table, how old is it?"
"Older than me. Mama told me William ordered it from Sears. She said he paid eleven dollars and eighty five cents for it. I'll betcha can't find a table like this now for that price."
Devon doubted that a table like that could be found new at any price. He glanced at his tea again and noticed that the ice cubes had sunk about one-fourth of the way into the tea. He watched with fascination as Elizabeth chugged half her glass of tea, making long, loud gulping sounds
"Ahhh. Nothing like fresh brewed tea," she said as she returned her glass to the table.
He noted that the ice cubes were still slowly sinking into his glass of tea.
"So... tell me about William Shockley."
"Ok. Hmm. Where to begin...in 1893. William, my father, came to this country from England. He was an opportunist and a pretty darn good businessman. After the Civil War, land here was plentiful and free for the taking. Labor was cheap and easy to get. People were literally begging for work in those days. At the age of twenty, William seized the opportunity and set up a tobacco farm that was run entirely by sharecroppers. There was good money to be made in tobacco back then."
"Where was this farm?"
"You're sittin' on it. This house is the home place. This farm covered two hundred acres." Elizabeth took a sip of her tea and observed, "Devon, you haven't touched your tea."
He didn't want to try the viscous-looking beverage. However, he felt that she would be offended if he refused the tea. He picked up his glass and turned it up to his mouth before he could further contemplate. The tea was thick and took a few long seconds to reach his mouth. He expected it to taste like pure sugar--it didn't. In fact it was quite bitter, with an underlying flavor not at all familiar to him. In addition to being thick, it was sticky. Rubber cement came to mind. Fearing he might choke on the stuff, Devon swallowed. With a sigh of relief he returned his glass to the table.
"It's good, isn't ?" Elizabeth asked expectantly.
"Yes, it is," he lied. "What gives it that unique flavor?"
"Tobacco!" she proclaimed. "Three glasses a day keeps the mortician away. Rosebushes love it, too."
"Tobacco?"
Elizabeth explained, "Yes, tobacco. An old family recipe. Granny used to make it in a cast iron kettle in the back yard. I adapted the recipe to work in my eighteen-quart pressure cooker. Saves time."
"How innovative."
"Now, where was I?" she asked.
"Your father set up a farm run by sharecroppers. I've heard of sharecroppers. Didn't they work for a percentage of the profits?"
"No. Not on William's farm. He compensated workers by providing them with everything they needed. A place to live, food and running water. He was so generous with benefits that the workers didn't need money. Most of the time William would employ entire families, not just single workers. 'The more kids the better. Pack them in like sardines if you have to,' I remember him saying to potential employees. Back then kids worked too, you know. Six spacious homes were provided for the workers to live in. The homes were built along the edge of the tobacco fields. William never had to worry about workers not showing up for work."
"A British carpetbagger," thought Devon. Elizabeth spoke of her father's business practices with great pride.
"Each house had running water. Pinebrook Creek ran right across the front yards along with the tracks of the railway. Each house was allotted a quarter acre garden spot for growing vegetables. The men were allowed to hunt in the woods between this house and the tobacco fields for deer and turkey. "
The house, Pinebrook Creek, and the rail tracks: all were very familiar to him. "Are any of the old houses still standing?"
"I doubt it. Haven't been back there in thirty years. I think there was only one left standing then. Termites have probably eaten them completely up by now. You know what's odd?"
"What's that?"
"Sometimes late at night, from my back porch, I hear what sounds like fireworks coming from the direction of the fields. I never see them Perhaps it's just my old imagination playing tricks on me. But they sound so real."
"That is odd." An image of the 'Love Zone' popped into his mind.
"I feel so rude. All this talk about William and I know nothing about you. Where do you live? What do you do?"
"Oh, I live over in Greene Acres and work for the town. I read water meters."
"The trailer park? Oh... I see," Elizabeth replied with a startled expression.
She removed a gold pocket watch from her pocket and checked the time. "Oh my goodness, look at the time! I hate to run you off like this but I have a Rotary Club meeting to attend and I still have to go buy cake and cookies."
She got up and led him to the front door.
"It was nice talking with you, Ms. Shockley, and thanks for the tea."
"Yes," Elizabeth dryly replied.
He left and to continue his task of reading water meters.
---Five---
Devon's logic had been covered with a big pile of coincidences that made no sense. He wondered if, hypothetically, it was remotely possible that something illogical was going on. How many coincidences does it take to make the illogical probable? What if the woman in the dream had really been trying to tell him something? No, that can't be possible. She was not real; she was only in his dream. The woman had shown him the old house; then he had confirmed it existed. There was the tobacco tin and the postcard addressed to Devon Stought. If Rick hadn't called in sick, Devon would not have met Elizabeth Shockley...who'd confirmed that Shockley Farms and the Shockley Mercantile bank existed. He wondered what tragedy had occurred at the bank over fifty years before.
He went after work to a place he hadn't been to since high school--the Billsville Public Library. He saw a familiar face at the front desk: Mrs. Goodinworth. Mrs. Goodinworth was the same librarian who'd worked there when he was in high school. She was intensely reading a novel entitled 'The Royal Stud.' She looked just as old as ever. The huge bookworm ashtray that used to adorn her desk had been replaced with a 'No Smoking' sign. He was willing to bet that in the top drawer of her desk was pack of unfiltered Camels. The library was quiet except for a couple of teenagers opening and closing the drawers of the card catalogue. They were scratching their heads and looking confused. One of the teenagers said to the other, "I don't know. She said we would find it in here." Devon approached the librarian's desk. Mrs. Goodinworth wiped drool from her chin with the back of her hand as she looked up. "What can I do for ya?" He noticed beads of sweat on her forehead.
"Do you keep back issues of the Billsville Gazette here?"
"The newspaper? Yes. Which issues are you looking for?"
"From the 1950's, maybe older."
"All issues prior to 1980 are on microfiche downstairs in the multimedia room."
"Can I see them?"
"Mildred!" Mrs. Goodinworth exclaimed.
A woman, who appeared to be in her late sixties, emerged from an office behind Mrs. Goodinworth's desk.
"This man would like to look at some back issues of the Billsville Gazette on microfiche."
Mildred smiled at Devon and said, "Come with me."
They went through a door and down some stairs to the multimedia room. The room looked exactly as he remembered it from high school. There was a table with a 16mm projector, a slide projector, a reel to reel tape player, and a suitcase record player. On another table against the back wall was the microfiche viewer and an Apple IIe computer. A sign on the wall above the computer said "Turn monitor on first, Turn monitor off last."
"Which issues are you looking for?" asked Mildred.
"I suppose 1950 would be a good place to start. There used to be bank in town called the Shockley Mercantile Bank. I was told a tragedy occurred there over fifty years ago. I'm hoping to find out what happened."
Mildred smiled. "It exploded."
"Exploded?"
"KA-BOOM," she said.
"What happened?"
"I was just a little girl when it happened. Best I can remember a man entered the bank one afternoon carrying a picnic basket full of dynamite. About a half hour after closing time, KA-POW! I'm almost certain in happened in 1956. It was the same year I started school. I'll pull the 1956 microfiche." Mildred went over to a closet, removed a shoebox, and began looking through it. "Here it is. 1956." She loaded the microfiche into the machine and began scrolling through the headlines. Devon noticed a couple of interesting ones as Mildred scrolled through: In May of 1956 there had been a UFO sighting that made the front page. In July, a man had been arrested for running a moonshine still. The Billsville Gazette had only been published twice weekly back in the 50's, so it wasn't long before Mildred found the correct article. It had happened in August.
'Shockley Mercantile Bank Explodes, Owner Perishes
Billsville suffered a great loss on Wednesday. At five-thirty P.M. an explosion
inside the Shockley Mercantile Bank rocked Main Street. Sally Rogers, a bank teller,
said that when she left at five o'clock William Shockley was in his office arguing with
a man in bibbed overalls. Sally had witnessed the man entering the bank, carrying a
picnic basket. A man matching his description was seen fleeing the scene shortly after
the explosion. Shockley, 77, owner and founder of the bank, was pronounced dead
at the scene. The motive is unknown and the suspect remains at large. Flying debris
from the explosion broke the tail off the mule of the Mule and Plough monument.'
"Well... thank you. I guess that answers my question."
"You're welcome, Mr..."
"Stought... Devon Stought."
"Just curious...why are you interested in the Shockley bank explosion?"
"I've been doing a little research. I'm curious about the history of Billsville."
"You writin' a history book?"
Devon laughed. "Me? Hardly."
"Someone ought to. Billsville has numerous interesting stories to tell. Not long after the bank exploded they found a woman dead on the Mule and Plough monument."
"Dead? Who was she?"
"No one knows, or at least no one ever came forth and identified her. It should be on this microfiche."
Mildred scrolled a couple of papers over and there was the headline.
'Mystery Woman Found Dead on Mule
The body of an unidentified elderly woman was found on the Mule and Plough
monument, across from the recently exploded Shockley Mercantile Bank. Jonathan
Willard found her Monday morning while opening his bread shop. Jonathan had
approached the monument to see why a dog was barking at the mule. When
he arrived, he found the woman's naked body draped over the mule. Dr. Graves
pronounced the woman dead at the scene. Graves concluded that the woman had
been stabbed to death. Her body has been placed at the drive through morgue for
public viewing in the hope that someone can identify her.'
"No one identified her."
"No, she was buried in the back of the town cemetery. On her headstone was engraved, 'The Unknown Woman.' Rumor was that she had once worked on the Shockley farm. I do believe some of the people here knew who she was. They just didn't come forth and identify her for fear they would suffer the same fate as she," Mildred speculated.
"Interesting. You think the murder and the bank explosion are related?"
"It's quite possible. Anything else can I do for you?"
"That's all, I guess. Thanks for your time."
"You're welcome."
Devon walked back up the stairs and into the main section of library. While walking past a long book shelf towards the exit book fell from above and hit the floor with a loud smack directly in front of him. He picked up the book. It was titled 'Roses for Dummies - A Guide for the Rest of Us.' He placed the book back on the shelf, carefully making sure it was in just the right spot, and left the library.
---Six---
The next day, after collecting water samples from the river, Devon returned to work. He placed the samples, which Sheila Brown had requested, on her desk in the lab.
"Can I ask you something, Sheila?"
"Sure," she replied.
"Do you believe in ghosts?"
"Ghosts? Like, the supernatural kind?"
"Yeah."
"No....why? Have you seen one?"
"Not really. I had this dream. A woman led me to a place I've never seen before and showed me something. On Sunday, I actually went to that place and it was real."
"Where?"
"I don't know if I should say; it was a really creepy place. I found something there. I know this sounds stupid but I think the woman in the dream wanted me to find it. I just can't figure out why."
Devon pulled the postcard from his pocket and placed it on Sheila's desk.
"A postcard from New York?" she laughed.
"Flip it over."
"It's postmarked 1908." Sheila read aloud, with a bewildered look, " To Devon Stought?"
"Exactly."
"Any relation to you?" she asked.
"Not likely. I was adopted from a foster home. I don't know who my real parents were. I was told my mother was a butcher from Texas and my father was a fisherman from Oregon. The two hooked up one night at Disney World."
"Is this a joke?"
"I wish I could tell you that it is. But there has been too much weird shit happening to me lately. Coincidences keep adding up and so far don't amount to anything. I don't have an answer. What are you doing for lunch?"
"I left my lunch at home on the kitchen table."
"What a coincidence. Wanna go to the Chuck Wagon Cafe?"
"Sure. By the way... I recommend drinking bottled water for the next week or so," she remarked.
The day's special at the Chuck Wagon Cafe was fried chicken livers, fried okra, crackling corn bread, and a quart of buttermilk to wash it all down. Devon ordered a grilled cheese sandwich and caffeine-free Diet Coke. Sheila ordered a garden salad with extra blue cheese dressing and a cup of black coffee. An Eagles tune blared from the jukebox. While they ate, Devon explained all the interesting coincidences that had taken place. He told her about the old house by the railway and its unique decor. He described his bizarre meeting with Elizabeth Shockley. Sheila had a hard time believing all of it. After they ate, they took a stroll down the street to the monument of the Mule and Plough. Someone had placed a Kentucky Fried Chicken bucket on the mule's head. Sheila climbed atop the concrete mule and sat as if she were riding it. Devon stood beside the mule and pointed across the street toward the Kentucky Fried Chicken.
"The Shockley Mercantile Bank used to stand right there," Devon said.
"What happened to it?"
"It exploded. A man armed with a picnic basket obliterated the place in 1956. The explosion took Mr. Shockley's life and the tail off the mule you're sitting on."
Sheila looked back at the nub where the mule's tail had once been. "A picnic basket did all that?"
"A loaded picnic basket," Devon replied. "Less than a week later, an elderly lady was found, buck naked and dead, draped across this mule you're riding."
"Who was she?"
"Nobody knows. She's buried in the town cemetery under a headstone that's engraved 'Unknown Woman.' Something is going on, but I can't make any sense of it. I'm beginning to wonder if the woman in my dream was named Devon Stought, and perhaps that was her body draped over the mule."
"The postcard was postmarked in 1908; the murder happened in 1956. Devon Stought would have been elderly in 1956," added Sheila.
"You're right. But that still proves nothing. I don't have a clue what's going on. I'll just wait, I guess. See what happens next."
"You should go and talk to Elizabeth again. Show her the postcard. Perhaps it will help jar her memory if you mention the woman on the mule."
"Yeah... I suppose you're right. Maybe I'll stop by tomorrow after work. Say, you want to come with me?"
"I don't know."
"Come with me. She makes great tea and you'll love her bush."
"Her bush?" Sheila looked confused.
"You'll see." Devon grinned.
From somewhere in the distance came the sound of a foghorn. Two men who looked like traveling salesmen stopped on the sidewalk, looked in the direction from which the sound had come, then exchanged baffled looks. They both shrugged and resumed walking.
"Sounds like we're late returning to work," muttered Devon.
"Doesn't matter. I saw Robert leave for lunch with his golf clubs; he won't be back today."
---Seven---
That night Devon had a dream; the first dream he'd had since he visited the house by the railway. The same mystery woman was in the dream, her back to him as they hovered in a field watching fireworks. After a while the woman turned toward him. Her face had changed into the face of the calendar clock from the old house. The hands of the clock were on twelve. She mimicked the sound of the chiming clock in a raspy voice. "Gong...gong...gong..." After the last chime Devon awoke, soaked with sweat. He glanced at the clock on the night stand; it read twelve o'clock. He couldn't help but feeling as if something bad had just happened. After a while, the feeling passed and he felt calm.
The next morning, he picked up the Billsville Gazette from his front yard and was shocked when he saw the news on the front page.
'Local Woman Perishes In Fall
Miss Elizabeth Shockley was pronounced dead on arrival early Wednesday
morning at the Billsville hospital. Neighbors called police after hearing
screams coming from her house. Officer Tina Manly arrived at the scene at
11:57 P.M. Tuesday night. According to Officer Manly, Miss Shockley was
screaming at the top of her lungs, 'Go away, Leave me alone!' She had
climbed halfway up a huge rosebush in her front yard. She was unclothed,
and bleeding all over as a result of climbing the thorny bush. Officer Manly
tried to talk her down, but had no luck. According to Officer Manly, Miss
Shockley continued to scream senseless gibberish while climbing higher.
Her life ended when the branches she clung to gave way. She crashed
onto a concrete bench below the rosebush. Officer Manly remarked that
it was the strangest event she had ever witnessed. While standing beside
Miss Shockley's body, which was draped over the concrete bench,
Officer Manly swore she heard fireworks from somewhere behind the house.'
---Eight---
Wednesday morning at 7:59 A.M, Sheila was waiting for Devon at the time clock. He punched the clock and the foghorn blew.
"Did you see the news?" she gasped.
"I saw it in the paper. It's messed up, ain't it? I guess I wasn't meant to speak with Elizabeth again."
"What do you think possessed her to climb a rosebush naked?"
"I have no idea. I did have a dream, though. I watched fireworks with the mystery woman from my previous dreams."
They were pondering what this meant when they were interrupted by Tanya Bottoms.
"Devon, Robert wants you to turn the water off to the Shockley house in Shady Acres."
"Why?"
"She died last night," replied Tanya.
"We know," Sheila offered.
"What about her family?" asked Devon.
"She had no family," answered Tanya. "Elizabeth was the last living survivor of the Shockley family. Robert said she had an automatic sprinkler system in her yard and gardens."
"I get it. There's no one home to pay the water bill so Robert wants the water turned off ASAP. Why can't Rick do it? Shady Acres is his area."
"Rick's on vacation for the rest of the week," Tanya said.
"You've got to be kidding," Devon uttered, astounded..
Tanya shook her head 'no.'
Devon turned to Sheila. "Go with me."
"But I need to get my samples."
"Go with me.. please."
Sheila reluctantly agreed and the two of them drove to Shady Acres in a town truck. Devon parked the truck in front of the Shady Acres entrance gate. They got out and walked around the gate, toward the home of the late Elizabeth Shockley. The gate at the end of Elizabeth's drive stood wide open. Sheila stood in the driveway while Devon turned off the water main.
"Maybe we should have a look around," Sheila said, staring at the tall rosebush.
"Isn't that trespassing?" he inquired.
"She had no family. Think about it, Devon. I think you are here for a reason. It's all a bit too coincidental, don't ya think?"
He looked up at the house. "Look, the front door is wide open."
"An open invitation."
"All right, but only for a minute."
They walked into the house, first through a mud room and then into a larger room.
"Wow, look at all this antique furniture!" Sheila exclaimed.
"This place gives me the creeps," he retorted.
"Oh, come on, Devon. Elizabeth isn't going to jump out of a closet and attack us."
"Don't be so sure. I've seen some weird shit lately."
Sheila walked over to a large stone fireplace. Above it was an ornate mantle that she thought was made of mahogany. On the wall above the mantle hung a large painting of William Shockley. Sitting on the mantle was a book that appeared to be very old. On top of the book was a gold pocket watch. Sheila picked up the pocket watch and examined it as Devon made his way over to her.
She handed him the watch. "I think this belongs to you. Look at the back."
Devon looked at her, disconcerted, then studied the back of the watch. The name "Devon Stought" was engraved in small letters. He laughed out loud and said, "For some reason this doesn't surprise me." He carefully placed the pocket watch back on top of the old book.
"No," said Sheila, looking him in the eyes, "you keep that watch."
"I can't steal it."
"It has your name on it, silly. I don't know why but it must be meant for you."
He picked the watch up, then Sheila removed the book from the mantle. "Interesting. The Shockley family Bible," she spoke. She paged through the book and soon located the Shockley family tree. The top of the tree indicated that William Shockley had married Grace Landcaster in July of 1899. Sheila closed the family Bible and handed it to Devon. "You keep this book, too. I'll bet it contains answers."
Reluctantly, he took the book and slipped the watch into his pocket.
---Nine---
After work, Devon walked into Trusty Eddies Pawn shop. He placed the gold pocket watch on the counter. Eddie picked it up, opened it, gleamed for an instant, then returned it to the table. He threw back his shoulders and took a deep breath. "I'll give you twenty-five bucks for it."
"But, Eddie..."
"Okay, okay," Eddie interrupted. "Thirty bucks... no. Thirty-five smackeroos. My top offer."
"I don't want to sell it. I want to know how old it is."
"Oh," Eddie said with a disappointed look, "you sure you don't want to sell it?" He opened his cash drawer and removed a one hundred dollar bill, then waved it at Devon.
"No, I do not want to sell the watch."
"Sentimental value, eh?" smirked Eddie.
"Perhaps. I'm not really sure at this point."
"Really?" Eddie asked.
"How old do you think this watch is?"
"I'd say it's between a hundred and a hundred and fifty years old. It's railroad grade. A twenty-three jeweled piece made by the Hampden watch company of Canton, Ohio."
"Railroad grade?"
"It's accurate. When that watch was made, keeping accurate time on the railway was very important."
"I see. Thank you." He pocketed the watch and bid Eddie a good day.
---Ten---
The next day Devon invited Sheila to lunch again at the Chuck Wagon Cafe. The special of the day was Salisbury steak, baked beans with bacon strips, mashed potatoes, and a quart of sweet tea. They both ordered garden salads with extra blue cheese. He chose a caffeine-free Diet Coke, and she ordered black coffee. An Eagles tune blared from the juke box.
He had brought the family Bible with him. "I looked all through the Shockley family Bible last night."
Sheila replied, "Find anything interesting?"
"Not really. I expected to see Devon Stought written somewhere in it, but it wasn't. I know I looked through the names in the family tree a half dozen times. I couldn't find any connection."
"Did you dream last night?"
"Nope, haven't even had anything unusual happen to me today."
"Well, the day is not over with yet."
He pulled a folded up piece of paper from the family Bible. "I did find this."
"What's that?"
"It's a list of people who worked at the Shockley Farm. It's dated 1955." He held up the paper so she could read it."It looks like it was torn from a ledger. See the page number at the top left side? Page 143. Recognize any of the names?"
"Not a single one."
"Eddie at the pawn shop said the pocket watch was over a hundred years old. He offered me a hundred bucks for it."
"You didn't," Sheila frowned.
"Nope, got it right here in my pocket."
After they ate they got into his Buick and headed back to work. As they passed the Mule and Plough monument he noticed something on the mule's back. He gave it a passing glance and continued on to the Billsville water treatment plant. As he was backing into his customary parking spot, he stopped and burst out laughing.
"What's so funny?" Sheila asked, puzzled.
He pulled the list of Shockley's employees from the family Bible, studied it briefly, then replaced it in the book.
"Well, I'll be damned!" He threw the Buick into drive and sped out of the parking lot.
Sheila asked,"Where are we going?"
"I know the answer, you'll see."
Devon stopped at the Billsville hardware store. "Sit tight. I'll be right back."
A couple of minutes later he emerged from the store carrying a brown paper bag. He slipped the bag behind the front seat of the Buick.
---Eleven---
They parked at the Billsville town cemetery. Devon got out, grabbed his bag, and walked across the cemetery. Sheila followed. She had a creepy feeling, but was curious about his revelation.
"What are you doing?"
"Help me find the grave of the Unknown Woman."
After about 15 minutes they found the grave in the back far right corner. They stood, silently looking at the grave for a moment.
"So... who was she?" Sheila begged.
He pulled a can of red spray paint from the Billsville hardware store bag and began shaking it. "Devon Stought is not the ghost in my dream. Devon Stought is not buried here. The ghost in my dream has a sense of humor." He removed the top from the can of paint and painted a name on the Unknown Woman's headstone.
"Rosie Taylor?" Sheila looked puzzled.
"When we left the Chuck Wagon Cafe I saw something on the back of the mule. A red rose."
Sheila was baffled, "You got Rosie Taylor from that?"
"No. The rose reminded me of my visit to library. I had just learned of the woman found draped across the mule. I was leaving the library when a book fell off a shelf and landed right in front of me. It was called 'Roses for Dummies.' Remember yesterday, there was a Kentucky Fried Chicken bucket on the head of the mule?"
"Yes?"
"The bucket reminded me of the 'Love Zone' in the old house. On one wall someone had painted the outline of a large animal, which I thought was a cow. It must have been a mule. Above the animal I saw the word 'Posie.' Well, I must have misread it. There were burn marks all over the wall."
"Okay, but how did you get the name Rosie Taylor?"
"The list of William Shockley's employees from 1955. One of the woman listed was Rosie Taylor."
"Elizabeth Shockley died on a rosebush," Sheila added
"Revenge, maybe? Perhaps Elizabeth was the one who killed Rosie. Who knows? Oh yeah! I just remembered!" Devon put his palm to his forehead, and said "In the house. In the dream. The man playing the guitar and singing. He sung 'Midnight Special.' The first line was, 'Yonder come Miss Rosie.'"
He caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye. He turned and there stood the woman in his dream, wearing the same brown dress. She was smiling at him. He turned to Sheila and then back to the woman. She was gone. Devon looked around the cemetery for her.
"What is it, Devon?" asked Sheila.
He paused, "Aw...nothing."
"Wonder who Devon Stought was?"
"Who knows,"he replied. "The watch and the postcard prove that he or she was a real person. Perhaps the fact that we share the same name is purely coincidence."
|
|
|
