Appalachian Galapagos (38 page)

As the other houses sped by and into memory, Laurie realized they were merely variations on a theme.

"I had this friend in the Army," said Doug, noticing her discomfort. "He was Hawaiian, and in more than blood, if you know what I mean. The term pack rat could be easily placed beside his name. One thing I noticed about him is that he had no need for a nice house or a fancy car or new furniture. Some people made fun of him. He didn't care. What he wanted was lifestyle. He cared more for the way he lived than how he lived. The folks around here are simple. Not stupid, but simple. They like living well better than appearing like they're living well. They don't worry about...things."

Laurie could tell it was a prepared speech. Doug really wanted her to like it here. This was his past. It was what made him the man she loved. The culture, the mentality, the...life. All of it. Laurie promised herself she would get past her own materialism and give the place a chance.

"I didn't say anything, Doug. Nothing at all," she said softly, beaming a smile across the small space.

"Look," he said, indicating a building, "something new. If I remember right, the town store used to be in the old firehouse."

A tin, barn-like structure sat amid an almost empty parking lot. A flickering neon sign was bolted above the single double-wide door in the metal building's center:
Jacob Mountain Beer & Grocery.

"At least they have their priorities straight," he said.

"Dad, it says ham hocks are on sale. What's a hock?"

Laurie ginned.

Doug sighed and glanced at his son in the rearview mirror. "Ian, I haven't a clue. And I don't know what pickled pig's feet taste like. I have never eaten tripe. And I only had hog jowls once, but that's because my mother made me eat it when I was a kid. Hey, let's get some supplies."

He swung into the empty gravel lot and pulled up next to the door. He turned the ignition off and paused, listening to the chorus of insects that were beginning their song. The engine ticked its approval.

"Dad, what's a tripe?"

Laurie shot a warning stare at her husband not to get angry. He evidently realized his last response had been a little short, so, as he unbuckled himself from the seatbelt, he turned and grinned.

"You know? I think it's related to snipe. That's a bird that's pretty common around here. If I remember right, the best way to hunt it is by walking through the brush and banging two sticks together. Of course you need a burlap bag or the like. That you have to carry in your teeth." He rubbed his stomach. "And the way your grandma used to cook them really brought out the flavor. Remind me sometime and I'll take you hunting for them."

Ian's eyes were wide at the prospect of hunting. Laurie could see his mind working as he probably imagined capturing a snipe big enough to stuff and place on the wall. The only problem with the prospect was that snipes don't exist. She raised her eyebrows and cocked her head at her husband. He grinned sheepishly and shrugged his shoulders.

Everyone jumped out, eager to stretch their legs. When they opened the door, they were welcomed by the sound of a cowbell, bolted right above. The interior of
Jacob Mountain Beer & Grocery
was brilliantly lit with overhead bulbs that shone brightly over the surprisingly large and varied stock on the many-tiered shelves. A plump, middle-aged woman sat atop a stool behind the counter next to the door.

"Evening, y'all," she said around an impossibly long Virginia Slim.

"Evening," said Doug. "Real nice place you have here."

Laurie's eyes widened slightly as she noticed the sudden lilt to her husband's normally
accentless
speech.

The woman smiled and pushed a wisp of graying blonde hair behind her ear with a long, garishly-painted red nail.

"What happened to the old firehouse?" He asked.

She eyed him speculatively. "It burnt down a few years ago."

Ian snorted behind him.

"Don't recognize you, and old Annie never forgets a handsome young man. You got relatives around here? What's your family, son?"

"No. No relatives around here. Used to live down Chattanooga way. Had some friends up here I used to do some fishing and hunting with."

"Really. What's their name?"

"It's been a long time. Maybe they moved."

"Honey, nobody ever moves away from this place. Nobody."

"Well, you know Spencer and Bobby Johnson?"

"Do I know 'em. Chased 'em
outa
my rhubarb and strawberries until they were
outa
school. And then a few more times."

"Are they still around?" Doug asked.

"Spencer is. See him every day. But he's changed. I don't think he's like he was when you knew him."

Doug's face fell slightly. "What do you mean, changed? And what about Bobby?"

Annie paused for several seconds, one Lee Press-On Nail tapping rapid fire on the linoleum counter. She drew a deep drag of her cigarette and blew it out slowly.

"We don't talk about Bobby no more. And I don't wanna speak any ill of Spencer. Let's just say they changed."

"Wait a minute," Doug said, and then caught himself and slowed down. "Listen, why don't you give me Spencer's address. I'd like to see him while I'm in town. I thought that maybe me and him could hash over some old times."

"Spencer's definitely good for that," she said. "Tell you what," she continued, seeing Laurie and Ian as if for the first time. Ian squirmed under her gaze. "I'll do you one better. Tonight's the annual Kudzu Festival over in Spencer's Grandpa's old pine nursery. If you hunted with Spencer, I'm sure you know the place."

Doug reddened.

"Just as I thought. Any friend of the Johnson's is welcome. In fact, as soon as you folks leave the store, I'm gonna close up and head over there myself."

"Oh, Doug. It sounds like fun," said Laurie, eyes sparkling.

"Okay. Okay," said Doug in what Laurie recognized as his pro-
vs
-con Army decision-making mode. "Should we bring anything?"

"Just yourselves. The more the merrier."

"Dad, I thought we were gonna do some fishing?"

"Son, it's too late for that. It's almost pitch black outside. Let's wait until tomorrow morning. And don't worry, we'll be up and have our poles wet before the roosters crow."

"But, Dad—"

"Your Father's right, boy. You need to get you some mountain bait, anyway."

"What's mountain bait?" Ian asked, wary of a grownup joke.

"Didn't you know that Jacob Mountain has the biggest and juiciest
nightcrawlers
in the South? No, I guess you didn't. I see we need to advertise a little better. When you're at the Festival, see if you can scare up some kids to help you learn their secrets."

"You got kids here, too?"

Laurie mumbled something like, "He doesn't get out much."

"What, you think everyone's born here all grown up and
smokin
', like me? Course we got kids."

A night drive in a kudzu forest brings new meaning to the concept of darkness. During the day, the ever-present weed is a devourer of the earth and everything upon it. But at night it assumes a primordial Godhood, its ambition to swallow the sky. Even now, Doug was unable to see the moon he knew to be full. All that allowed him claustrophobic comfort was the thin strip of Milky Way that could be seen winding along with the road.

Doug remembered his first hunting experience travelling down this same rutted road. Until now the memory had been a confused conglomeration of four-wheeled drive vehicles, high powered rifles and booze.

That night so many years ago had been just as dark as this one.

With the Jeep's headlights off, bucking along the thin mountain trail, he had felt like a blind man. The only light he'd seen as he rocked and bucked in the passenger seat were the orange and blue of the dashboard digits and their blurred reflections off the clear glass of the Wild Turkey bottle.

The jeep skidded and stopped. Heavy breathing from the back seat. Heavy breathing from the front seat. Primal blood rushed through their civilized veins. The smell of their previous fear, replaced with the anticipation of their illegal hunt and alcohol sweat.

This was their second stop of the night. The first, several miles back along the same road, began in drunken revelry. Beer cans hit the bushes as fast as he and the Johnson brothers could empty them. Doug sat on the warm hood of the Jeep, enjoying his first backwoods experience. Spencer and his brother, a deputy sheriff by day, had just finished setting up the fox caller: a portable tape deck with recorded rabbit cries that sounded disturbingly like a human baby's scream.

The dense brush created a black living wall along the night road. All was silent except for the occasional burp and the wailing of the Memorex dead rabbit. The rustling in the bush came suddenly. Doug's heartbeat doubled.

Spencer crouched and swung the shotgun towards the sound, his back almost touching Doug's feet. His brother readied the light in a two-handed grip, aiming at the approaching sounds.

A hulking form, impossibly large for a fox, parted the vegetation. The light flicked on at the same time the shotgun blast sounded and cast its own deadly illumination. In that brief, intense flash Doug saw yellow eyes surrounded by green, at least eight feet off the ground. All went black as Bobby dropped the flashlight and from the continued spastic flashes of the rapid fire shotgun blasts, they watched the form disappear from where it'd come from and the hole in the vegetation snap shut.

Within seconds they were in the Jeep, hauling terrified ass around the well-rutted corners of the dark trail, the fox caller crushed and forgotten under spinning wheels. Spencer answered Doug's unspoken question, "Must have been a deer." An obvious lie.

In front of Spencer's grandfather's pine nursery, the last hour was almost forgotten. They scrambled silently out of the car. A Winchester 30/30 was passed to Doug, a real cowboy gun. Spencer grasped another rifle, pretty with an oversized scope as his brother readied the light. The bottle of Turkey was passed around providing them fermented courage.

After several seconds of subdued mutterings, Doug readied the Winchester and sighted along its deadly length at the black night. On whispered command, the light flicked on. Several dozen red reflecting eyes turned toward the boys just as the rifles opened fire. Doug emptied the Winchester, aiming at all the eyes he could see. The light illuminated a large portion of the field, but failed to penetrate the kudzu-covered forest edge. When the shooting was over, they'd smiled, giddy with the killing.

Now, years later, he was going there again. The van's headlights seemed to create the road ahead as the van bumped slowly along the worn dirt road. Fresh, dark red earth smoothed out potholes, promising Doug he was on the right path. Behind him, Ian read an X-Men comic with the tilt of an overhead light.

"So, Doug?"

"Yes, Honey."

"What exactly is a Kudzu Festival?"

Doug laughed. "I'm not exactly sure. I remember that they had them every year, but we were always doing something. I do remember the papers and the news. They always showed some older folks dressed up with kudzu attached to their clothes. I always thought it was just a dance and country music thing."

"But we have nothing to wear?"

"There's a whole forest of it. Here, let me stop the van and you can pull off a few vines."