Our travelers are at a soup kitchen, run by the Missionaries of Charity in St. Louis, Missouri.  The travelers have been riding in the black interior of an empty trailer of a tractor-trailer rig.  The diver of the rig is an acquaintance of George’s, one of our five travelers, but the group has become uncertain they can trust the driver when he lets them out of the trailer to pick up freight.  The group is supposed to continue its journey in the trailer through Illinois and on to Kentucky.  The driver’s name is Sweeney.  Note: Saints Peter and Paul is a large church in St. Louis.

Datesville: Out of the Land of Bondage!  (excerpt from Chapter 14 — “Saints Peter and Paul”)

. . .

Armed now with his outdated atlas, George begins another geography lesson; this time for everyone.

“So here we are: St. Louis, Missouri,” says George.  He has circled the label of the city on the map.  None of us has noticed that the younger Sister who opened the hall for lunch now stands quietly right behind George until I do at that very moment.  She lightly touches George on the shoulder, and he looks up.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Sister.  Were you needing us to leave so you can lock up?” he asks.

“Oh no; I only noticed your atlas and was wondering if all of you are traveling together.”  She makes eye-contact with each of us around the circle, and we nod to confirm that we are.  “I’m  Sister Michaela, by the way,” she continues, “and a lay missionary with the Missionaries of Charity.  But I was wondering, if perhaps you plan to travel from St. Louis farther east, across the Illinois State line?”

“Well, as a matter of fact,” says George, “that’s exactly what we were trying to figure out: whether we should or not.  Do you have a suggestion, Sister?”

“Yes, I do,” she answers.  “Do you mind if I sit with you for a minute?”

George and Pearl scoot apart to give Sister Michaela a place between them.  She sits then leans forward and, in a low voice, begins telling us her real reason for stopping by our table.

Sister Michaela, I soon learn, doesn’t pull punches.

“Just across the Mississippi,” she begins, “about two miles on the Interstate, is a weigh station that has been converted into a checkpoint.  All truckers are required to stop there for inspection.  What they’re looking for are so called ‘trailer hoppers'”.

She glances around the circle to confirm that we understand what she means by the term.  We nod that we do.

“In essence, the state of Illinois is paying a bounty of three-hundred dollars per person for anyone caught traveling in the trailers.”

“We heard it was two-hundred, fifty,” says George.

“It used to be, but recently they’ve increased it to three-hundred.  And drivers who lack scruples are cashing in on this immoral program.  Basically, what they are doing is selling people like yourselves into bondage for personal gain.  Most of the passengers, when turned over to the Illinois authorities, are charged with Felony Attempted Domestic Terrorism, regardless of what police might find in their duffle bags or backpacks.  Even if it’s only a lighter or a pocketknife or a skillet, they’ll count these articles as weapons and evidence of ‘intent to commit an act of domestic terrorism’.  And the inspectors always find something.  And with such flimsy evidence, they’re shipping dozens of people every day—from this one checkpoint alone—off to the super prison near Paris, Illinois.  Have you heard of it?”

“Yes, Reggie was telling us,” says George.  The rest of us just nod, in stunned silence.  It appears the reality of the situation is even worse than the rumor.  It is obvious now that Sweeney knew about the checkpoint and planned to take us there.

“But—and here’s the good news,” continues Sister Michaela, “if you are headed east to the other side of the state, to Indiana or beyond, I know of a ministry that can help you get through Illinois.  The ministry doesn’t even have a name; they are very underground; but we have a contact for them that we use.  But for them to continue doing what they do, it’s important that no one knows they exist, and for that reason we ask you not to tell others about this unique ministry or how you came to know about it.  Can you promise me you will not share this with anyone else?”

We all echo, “Yes.  Of course.  We won’t tell a soul.”

“Let’s have a look at your atlas,” Sister Michaela says.  “Are you going somewhere specific?” she asks.

George shares with the Sister our story, how we’d hoped to get as far as Lexington, Kentucky with the help of our trucker “friend,” and that from there we’d planned to walk to Datesville, located in northern West Virginia, but then Reggie had warned us about trailer hoppers sometimes getting shanghaied and sent to gulags at random checkpoints, set up at weigh stations on highways and Interstates in the state of Illinois.

“I’m afraid your article was misleading,” says the Sister.  “In Illinois, the checkpoints have always been permanent.  Now, they might not be open twenty-four hours a day, everyday, at every location, but most of the time they are open and all truckers are required to stop at them when they are.”

“Wow!” says George.  “We were doomed.”

“I knew there was something wrong with that man,” says Pearl, referring, of course, to Sweeney.

Sister Michaela shows us a small town in Indiana—Farmersburg, to be specific, just south of Terre Haute—where the underground ministry would take us, that is, if we chose to go and when there was room for us.

“It usually takes a day or two to make the arrangements,” says Sister Michaela, “but, if you want their help, I think we can work something out.  And the Missionary Sisters can arrange for you a place to stay—perhaps not the most comfortable place, but at least a roof over your heads until your passage is secured.”

George looks to us for feedback.  But Sister Michaela’s proposal doesn’t demand deliberation.  We all know we are stuck between a rock and a hard place and her proposal looks as much like divine intervention as anything I’ve ever seen.

“I’m in!” says Reggie, resolutely.  We all emphatically agree, so the question is settled: we will place our fate in Sister Michaela’s hands rather than Bill Sweeney’s.

“Good!” says the Sister.  “Just give me a half-hour to speak with the Reverend Mother, okay?  In the meantime, you can wait here, and I’ll show you where the facilities are should you need them.  Have some more tea or coffee if you’d like.  And please don’t worry:  You are under Christ’s protection now; he will take care of you.  I’ll be back soon.”

Sister Michaela rises, taking Pearl with her to show her where the restroom is.  So the two of them scurry away.  George watches as they exit through a door into the kitchen then quickly turns to Reggie, Bulchenko, and me.

“Do you think we can trust her?” he whispers hoarsely.

We all break into laughter.

“She’s a nun!” says Reggie.

“Yeah, I know,” says George, “but I thought I could trust Sweeney, too.”

For some reason Reggie, Bulchenko, and I find this remark incredibly funny.  Finally, George laughs too.

“What?  What?  What’s so funny?” he laughs.

“You believe a guy like Sweeney but doubt a nun!” says Reggie.  We all belly laugh again, and it feels good.

Here is the final chapter I have written of Jeap’s Holler.  And it ends abruptly because it is not finished.

I should mention also that I have had some trouble with spammers, flooding posts on this blog with lengthy comments, pushing a variety of products.  So if you find that comments on this site have been closed, you will understand why.  But for the time being, I’ll try again to have comments open on newer post.

Hope you enjoy.  — Dale

 

Jeap’s Holler — Chapter IX

Just as Kathy Swann was about to lay out the plan for J.C.—the plan the squatters had come up with on their own—there came a burst of loud voices and boots from the kitchen porch through the screen door.  The commotion was men, it sounded like, stomping their boots to knock off mud and talking loudly about mechanics; what parts needed to be rebuilt or replaced on the old Ford pickup by the barn.

“Please just take them off,” called Kathy from the table.

The screen door squeaked open, and a head poked through.

“Take off what, ma’am?” asked a fellow with a dirty face.

“Your shoes,” she answered.

“Oh—right!”

“She said to take off our shoes,” reported the man with the dirty face to the others.  Their voices quieted as they sat down on the porch steps and removed their footwear.

Kathy excused herself from the table and hurried to the cupboard to get plastic tumblers.  She sat three out and began filling them with sweet tea.

“They think they can get the old Ford running again, but I don’t see how,” said Kathy to J.C.

Just then the screen door squeaked again and three figures entered the cool dimness of the kitchen.

“Hi guys,” said Kathy.  “Come on in.  Sit.  This here is J.C.”

Only two of the the three were men; the third was a woman who wore a broken fedora and had her hair pulled back in a ponytail.  She took the hat off as she entered the room and hung it on a hook beside the door.  Where the two men wore thick white socks on their feet, the woman wore nothing.  She was barefooted, J.C. noticed.

The two men, upon entering the kitchen and returning hellos to Kathy, made a beeline straight for J.C.  The one in front (the fellow with the grease-smudged face) smiled broadly as he extended his hand toward J.C. seated at the table.  J.C. stood and shook both mens’ hands who introduced themselves.  The woman had joined Kathy at the counter to help her bring the tumblers of tea to the table.  But all three and Kathy arrived at the table at about the same time.

“Hi, I’m Brock Baker,” said the man with the smudged face.

“I’m Cal Espinosa,” said the second fellow, giving J.C.’s hand a quick jerk as a sort of truncated handshake.

“Hi, I’m Kipper,” said the woman who seemed friendly and nervous as she extended her hand to J.C., palm down.

“Kipper?” asked J.C. as he shook her hand.

“Yes,” she said, “it’s a nickname, but I don’t use my real name.”

It seemed the fellow named Brock Baker could not stop smiling at J.C. as he pulled up a chair to sit beside him.  Cal Espinosa was a tall lanky fellow, square-jawed and good looking.  He seemed the quiet type.  Kipper possessed an attractive quality (something in her gestures or the way she walked) though she seemed to want to hide that quality and blend into the background.

“Heather was supposed to join us,” said Kipper, “but we couldn’t find her.”

“Oh, I believe she and some of the gals went for a walk to the creek,” said Kathy.

“We can fill her in later,” said Cal quietly.

“We didn’t know who you were last week when you were here,” began Brock, “or we would have wanted to talk to you then.  But Red and Kathy have told us about you, so this time we had to meet you.  I hope you will forgive our intrusion.”

“No intrusion at all,” said J.C.  “I don’t know what Red and Kathy might have told you about me, but I’m just the delivery guy, these days.  But I’m also very happy to meet you and get to know you.  And I like getting out of town and up here into the fresh air whenever I can.”

“So, like, I was told you’re the chairman of the canton’s governing council, or something like that?” asked Brock.

“No, not anymore,” replied J.C.

“But you do sit on the council, right?”

“No, I haven’t served on the council for several years though I attend most of their meetings.  See, we organized the council such that it wouldn’t get . . . stale, shall we say.  We wanted everyone—who would be willing—to serve a term or two on the council to see how it all works.  That way, more citizens gain an understanding of the decision-making process and are better able to empathize with those sitting on the council.  Doing it this way, people learn that we all make bone-headed decisions sometimes so to not get too worked up about it.  But fortunately, the way the council has been designed, it’s easy to fix mistakes whenever they happen.”

“Don’t let him fool you,” said Kathy.  “J.C. here is not just some delivery guy, as he claims or a retired past-member of the governing council.  Everyone from Jeap’s Holler to Chalk Creek knows J.C. is the bona fide Founder of the canton.  Without him, none of this would exist.  Winstanley Canton was J.C.’s brainchild.”

“Wow!” admired Brock.

“Aw come on, now,” said J.C., “I get harebrained ideas all the time.  Only once in a while are they even useful.”

Everyone chuckled at J.C.’s modesty.

“So,” said J.C., “Kathy tells me you guys have a plan.”

“Yes, that’s right.  That’s what we wanted to talk to you about,” said the lanky and quiet Cal Espinosa.

Cal had leaned forward and placed both forearms on the table, a gesture which said he was ready to get down to business.  Both Brock and Kipper shifted their postures in deference to Cal.

J.C. was somewhat surprised that Cal would be the one to speak for the group.  On first impression, he had seemed the most reticent of the three, more likely a supporter of action rather than its initiator.  But his voice was confident and his manner direct.

“We three plus Heather, who is not here,” began Cal, “have been chosen by our group to represent them—well, to represent all of us, that is—and to articulate the whole group’s desires and decisions.  So the three of us don’t speak for ourselves; we speak for the group in general.”

“So you are, in essence, your group’s governing council, would you say?”

“Yes, well, except that we don’t have authority to make decisions on our own, not without first bringing matters to the General Assembly and letting them hash it out until they come to a consensus—a unified decision.  That’s how we work.”

“Yes,” said J.C.  “That’s how we started out, too, so I’m familiar with the process.”

“Right,” said Cal.