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.