Below the bone pile is a yard-wide furrow about twenty inches deep and ten feet long into which some runoff from the creek collects. The water level never rises above an inch or two, even in heavy rains, due to the drainage dug out years ago to divert water to the livestock that once made this land profitable. Laid across this is a heavy iron grate that keeps the accumulated carcasses from clogging the spillway. As the remains decay, small portions of flesh drip or fall peeling off between the bars and linger for a short while until the water can carry them away, eventually leaving an exposed skeletal array which needs periodically to be cleared. As I prepared to add the raccoon to the pile, I noted that it would soon be time for this unsavory task and looked to Duncan ruefully.
“If you were worth a damn I’d-a trained you to do it.”
The dog looked at me in that quizzical way which likely ingratiated his species to mine eons ago, but quickly turned his head toward the road as we heard the careful approach of unfamiliar tires. I threw the raccoon onto the pile and began the hundred yard walk down to the barbed wire fence-line that runs the width of the property above the road.
Sherriff Jim Stanton was a big son of a bitch, two-hundred-sixty pounds if an ounce, and at least six inches better than six feet tall. His tan and brown uniform never seemed quite able to contain his torso, always on the verge of a terrible collapse. He wasn’t a particularly skilled investigator, at least not much better than anyone else around these hollers at deducing a man’s intentions or the odds of his guilt. Having failed at every other attempt at elected office, he found a home among his high-school-bully-cum-unemployable-adult brethren on the local police force, and flourished. I counted the handful of times I had interacted with Jim Stanton as some of the least enjoyable of my existence, and it wasn’t simply a natural aversion to law enforcement that made it so.
“Well howdy, Jim,” I smiled as he pulled in front of the house. He rolled down his window.
“Jacob, how are you this morning?”
“In need of a second cup, if I’m bein’ honest.”
“I am moving a bit slow today myself. Late night.” He glanced at the sky. “Does it look like rain to you? They’re sayin’ rain today.”
“I ain’t seen the leaves turn over yet, so I’m optimistic.” I stood at the gate, hands in pockets, the .22 visible in its holster on my belt.
“Well, there’s that. New dog?” he asked, and jerked his head toward Duncan.
“Few weeks now, I reckon. Got dropped off up the road a piece, couldn’t stand to see another one starve. Still had his tag on ‘im.”
“Poor bastard.” He spit heavy brown tobacco juice from the driver’s seat of the county truck, staring hard at the dog. “God damn he’s something to look at.”
“What can I do for you, Jim?”
“Had a bit of a dust up downtown last night, Jacob.” Yeah. Downtown. “Seems a lady from up Little Washington went missing last month, only no one noticed till the lawyers tried to divvy up some estate or other, went round looking for her. Found the house open, abandoned. Nobody’s seen her, heard tell, nothin’. The Pennsylvania boys put out the word. Ay. Pee. Bee.”, drawing out the acronym. Jesus, I thought. Self-important prick.
This is what the world does to us-- puts us on sides, teams in opposition, wins and losses, a cycle of energy inexhaustible throughout history. I stared out toward the dirt paths leading down to the creek.
“What caught our notice,” he continued, “was the vehicle. Blue Edsel. Don’t see many of ‘em. Ellen Bishop, though, she says she seen one come up Baxter’s while giggin’ for frogs about a month ago, and damn if I can remember anyone in the county having one, let alone anyone with business up this way.” He leveled a look that I met head on, cold and steady.
“Jim, you’d better come up and join me for that coffee,” I said.
He killed the engine and opened the badge-emblazoned door. “Sounds like I might.”
In the kitchen I poured the coffee, offered cream and sugar though I knew better than either of us doctoring a morning brew in front of the other. “Jim, there was a lady driving a blue Edsel stopped by here last month,” I said. “A bit lost, had some car trouble.” I sat at the kitchen table and gestured to the empty seat across. “A Helen, oh,” snapping my fingers. “Baker, or other.”
“Cooke,” he said, pulling back the chair.
“Cooke. She was lookin’ for Wetzel, but I don’t think she knew what it was or why she was a-lookin’. She stayed on a couple nights while I fixed up her ignition coil, up in the cellar rooms out back, and then she went on her way. I gave her all the gas I had in my can out there,” gesturing with a finger looped through the coffee mug’s ring out the window toward the shed. “I figured she was headed back to Washington.”
“Ignition coil, huh?”
“That’s how I started to figure it. Turning over but no spark. Thought I was gonna have to come into town and order one from Ben Shaw, but then I realized it was just the coil wire was shot. Could see it arc inside the insulation once the sun went down. So I took some wire off the tractor and spliced it up, ran just fine. I told her to get a new set of wires soon as she could.”
“And she stayed here.”
“Just the two nights. Out back above the cellar.”
“When’s the last time you saw a woman, Jacob?” Adrenaline tightened my scalp like a bucket of ice water, running down into my shoulders.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, seems to me a pretty young city girl shows up on your doorstep, knowing you, maybe you try keeping her around for a bit? Maybe take your time with the repairs?” He looked knowingly over the rim of his cup with a wry smile. Just needling me. I relaxed into my chair and laughed sheepishly.
“Oh no, now, Jim. I wouldn’t do that. It just had me stumped at first is all. And she wasn’t all that young, neither, damn near my age.”
He smiled and set down his cup and lifted his Stetson, pressed the opposite palm against his growing forehead.
“Thing is, Jacob. We found the car.”
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Tune in to Dispatches Every Sunday to Continue Reading “The Kindness of Strangers” by Lou Poster.
Start from the beginning of “The Kindness of Strangers” on SVJ’s Features.
This is Lou’s first published piece.
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Lou Poster is a Native West Virginian, current resident of the poorest county in Ohio. Appalachian songwriter/singer/storyteller. Son of a third-generation coal miner.