Here’s another chapter of “Jeap’s Holler”.  If you’ve landed here for the first time, scroll down to read the other seven chapters of this story.  I have only one more chapter that hasn’t been posted so obviously the work is unfinished.  But in reviewing it for inclusion in my blog, I find that I really like where the Jeap’s dystopian piece begins and may consider developing it further—perhaps completing it.  Write a comment and let me know what you think. — Dale

From the main road,

J.C. turned onto the narrow, what used to be, gravel track that led out to the Swann and Fowler farms.  It was three bumpy miles from the main road to the Swanns’ place; the Fowlers were a half mile farther.  J.C. took the track slowly in Jean’s old pickup.

The eastern uplands had been the most progressive part of Winstanley Canton.  They had embraced the vision of the canton before any of the others understood it.  They had felt it even before it became a revelation to J.C. whom canton residents widely credited with its creation.

But even before J.C. saw his idea, his vision, the Uplanders knew it would come, that it must come, this other path.  Life had already gotten much simpler for the Uplanders, and that fact alone had had a profoundly positive effect on their lives.

When the electricity failed, life suddenly simplified.  No cell phones; no telephones at all.  No televisions or radios or stereo systems or electronic gadgetry or satellite dishes or microwave ovens or conventional ovens or refrigerators.  No internet!  That, in itself, was a huge millstone suddenly lifted from their necks.  Suddenly they had time, a luxury that at first they did not know how to use.  But what time gave them, more than anything else, was a reconnection with the land.  And they realized that it was good.

By the time the canton was organized, the Uplanders already knew they would not be going back to “civilization” as it had become.  They had found themselves back at a fork in the road where their great-grandparents had once stood, and now they stood.  But this time they decided they were going take the other path.  The one that did not lead to the atomic bomb, nuclear waste, credit ratings and college debt, chemical farming, petrodollars, and mass surveillance.  No, they would not go that way again.  This time, they would choose the other path.  They would choose Peace.  And the Uplanders embraced this alternative choice passionately.

On the uplands one could not find fences.  There were no property lines simply because there was no property, just the land.  The Uplanders had plucked up all of the fences which separated them from their neighbors.  They found it was not so difficult to share pastures, ponds, croplands, and streams.  Sharing, they discovered, was a natural human trait which required no effort at all, just an adjustment in one’s view of his or her place in the scheme of things.

They discovered that when you thought of yourself as an island, then sharing felt like an irritation, like a broken tooth exposed to cool air.  But when you thought of yourself as a vital part of a living organism, one in which you yourself must be present for the organism to survive, then sharing became natural.  In fact it became an elixir which defined you and gave you purpose for being.  And that was true no matter how old or young you were, no matter what your gender, no matter which family you were born into.  You were always necessary and vital to the organism because you had a function within it.  You were needed.  Your natural gifts were appreciated and sought after.

Among the Uplanders, finding one’s natural gifts was almost a cult obsession.  You might not be particularly interested in finding what your own gifts were, but everyone else was keenly interested.  They would not let you drift without knowing what your purpose was and what you wanted from life, especially after you had crossed the threshold of your fifteenth birthday.  But the prodding was not so much to decide on any particular vocation but to explore many, to see which ones might fit.  In this way, the whole community became one’s family.

J.C. pulled Jean’s boxy, green pickup around to the back gate of the Swanns’ house, nearer the kitchen entrance.  Just by the look of things, you might have guessed that either the Swanns had hired a larger crew of farmhands than they actually needed or they were in the midst of a family reunion.  There were people everywhere, all engaged in one sort of work or another.

Three young women and a girl were hanging clothes to dry.  Two men appeared to be engaged in mechanic work on the Swanns’ very old pickup truck which the Swanns themselves had not driven in a decade or more and had left by the barn to rust.  There were people clearing weeds and debris over near where the mechanics were working.  Others were weeding the vegetable garden.  One fellow had apparently paused from splitting firewood in order to sharpen his ax.  There were even a pair of youth – a boy and girl – just raking the driveway as if the Swanns’ place was a palatial estate which required that degree of aesthetic attention.

And all of these workers seemed to be enjoying themselves as they labored.  As if, as just mentioned, they were in attendance at a family reunion and were absorbed in the excitement and pleasure of getting reacquainted with one another after years apart.  There was that kind of energy among them.

Kathy Swann emerged from the kitchen door donning her apron, all smiles and happy.  She waved exuberantly at J.C. as he pulled up near the gate and she hurried out to greet him.

“Hello, J.C.,” she said.  She sort of yodeled the word “hello.”

As J.C. reached the gate, Kathy grabbed him and hugged his neck as if he were her long lost son, returned home from war.

“Jean sent me up with groceries.  They’re in the back,” he managed to whisper as Kathy squeezed his neck.

“How are things?” asked J.C. once he had air again.

“Things are wonderful.  How are they with you?” said Kathy.

“Can’t complain.”

“Well, come in then and have some sweet tea.  So much has happened since you were here.”

Before going inside, Kathy stopped to ask one of the women named Gracie, of the three who hung clothes, if she and her coworkers could bring in the supplies from the pickup truck which J.C. had brought from town.  The women agreed cheerfully and left their baskets of laundry on the grass, to stock the new supplies in the pantry.

J.C. followed Kathy into her kitchen.

The kitchen was cool and dark and filled with a bouquet of cooking fragrances all mingled together.  But most pronounced among them was the tangy fragrance of apple pie.  Three apple pies rested on the kitchen counter, no doubt baked that morning.

J.C. sat down at the well seasoned oak table which stood at the center of the farmhouse kitchen.  The table was black with layers of checked varnish and, in places, its surface sticky with syrup or jam from that morning’s hurried breakfast.  Kathy brought two glasses of cold tea and joined J.C. at the table.  But immediately she jumped up to fetch a damp cloth.  She gave the table a good wiping down and got up the jam or whatever it was that was sticky.

“Miss Kathy?”  It was one of the women hanging laundry outside.  She had poked her head in at the backdoor.

“Yes, sweetheart?” answered Kathy.

“We’ve finished, now.  And we were thinking we’d take a walk down to the creek, unless there was something else you needed.”

“Oh no, everything is done until supper.  You all go ahead, and have a good time.  Thank you, Heather.”

“You’re welcome, ma’am.  See you later.”

The screen door made a nice sound as its spring pulled it closed.

“Quite a crew you have out there,” said J.C.

“Yes, aren’t they amazing?” said Kathy.

“Yes, indeed.  Say, where is Red, by the way?”

“Oh, he’s up the road at the Fowler’s.  He and Frank had something they were doing today.  I forget what.”

“So about your ‘crew’,” said J.C. “how many are there this week?”

“Fifteen.  We had five show up on Wednesday last, bringing the total to eighteen.  But then Thursday, the very next day, three decided to leave which brought us back down to fifteen, total.”

“They eating you out of house and home, yet?”

“No, not yet.  The Fowlers have helped quite a bit.  But, say, there is something I wanted to tell you about which is: we may already have a plan.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.  It was our sojourners who thought of it.  They’re all very good people, J.C., willing to do just about anything, and they work hard to earn their keep.  They say they know how fortunate they are that we let them stay here and have not chased them off.  Apparently a lot of other places have done that—chased them off—before they landed here.  Speaking for myself, I think we need to keep them.  I mean, I believe the canton should keep them.”

“Hmm.  That’s good to know,” said J.C. thoughtfully.  “I’m just one man, but I agree.  So you say there is a plan?”

“Yes, and I’m surprised that none of us Uplanders thought of it,” said Kathy.

J.C. and Jean strolled slowly together on the gravel driveway in the hot sunlight.  They arrived at the tailgate of Jean’s square, green pickup truck whose paint had erupted into pocks across the top and hood.

She reached out and affectionately patted the side of her old pickup as someone else might do a favorite horse.

“You won’t have to worry about the brakes, anymore,” she said.  “Dan Mills fixed them for me last week.  Brand new, all around.  That Dan’s a good boy.”

“Gave you a good deal, did he?” asked J.C.

“Two dozen asparagus starts and some fresh walnuts of this year’s crop is all it cost me.  You underestimate me, Johnny.  I’m a very good bargainer.”

“I know you are, Jean.”

“When you get back with the pickup I might be napping, so just leave the keys in it; I’ll find them later.”

“All right.  Thank you for the lemonade and the advice.”

“I never give advice, Johnny.  You should know that about me by now.  I only offer friendly observations and encouragement.  I don’t have the courage to give people advice and take responsibility for it.  It’s how people ruin friendships, and I would never want to jeopardize ours, Johnny.  And that’s the truth.”

“I know, Jean.  Well then thank you for the lemonade and the friendly observations, my dear.  I appreciate both very much.”

“You are welcome, and don’t stay away.”

J.C. climbed into the pickup, rolled down the window, slammed the creaky door, and fired up the engine.  Then he waved to Jean and backed the truck down the long drive and out onto F Street where he lurched to a stop as he stepped on the brakes.

“I told you they worked!” shouted Jean and laughed.

He waved again, shifted gears, and was off.

It was an unusually sleepy day for April.  The heat had driven all the gardeners of Jeap’s Holler indoors for the afternoon.  But they would return in the evening with the barn swallows when the breezes had cooled to finish their watering and weeding.

J.C. bounced over the uneven streets of town that had been repaired innumerable times but had not been repaved in forty years or more.  After a quick stop at Spooner’s Bakery where he picked up loaves of unsold bread, J.C. followed B Street until it ran out at the end of town where the old water tower stood.

The water tower had once been bright silver with neat, block lettering, in yellow and black, printed on one side, the side where the tower faced the old highway by which travelers entered town.  J.C. could still make out the message on the tower which had turned into a ghost of the original lettering painted on it:

COALVILLE

Home of the Miners

But Jeap’s Holler had not been Coalville for over eighty years.  The residents had changed the town’s name to spite the coal company when the company suddenly closed the mine and abandoned the workers who had relied on coal, for several generations, as their only source of income.  Jeap’s Holler was the original name of the place before it had been Coalville.  So the people decided to return to their roots and not trust a mining operation ever again.

At the end of B Street, on the other side of the train tracks, there were the water tower and three fat silos on the left—also abandoned.  There B Street branched.  Straight ahead it turned into Fish Lake Road, but to the right it was Old Coalville Road which, if followed, eventually brought one to the hamlet of Turner.  At the stop sign where B Street branched, J.C. continued straight on Fish Lake Road.

Fish Lake Road meandered out to the rustic picnic grounds at the lower end of the lake, then skirted the tranquil body of water for about three miles along its northern shore until it reached the lake’s upper leg where J.C. enjoyed fishing the bass which prowled its reedy shallows in late spring.

At the upper leg, the road parted company with the lake’s edge and angled along the grassy wetland, southward, until it found the canyon’s mouth.  There, among granite outcroppings and eastern white pine, the road swung east and gained elevation as it hugged the hillside and began climbing the canyon.

Ironically, the canyon appeared drier at its base where the lake and wetlands were, but grew greener and lusher with fern and woodland shrubs the farther up the canyon one went.  The canyon was a long and gentle grade, but a person did not travel too far before the granite outcroppings sank into the earth and the topsoil became deeper and richer, enough to support fruit trees on the western exposures.

At another period in their history, the hills around Fish Lake had supplied three large fruit packing companies with good quantities and a wide variety of fruit, though apples and cider where its champions.  There were some nut orchards intermingled as well.  Of all the orchards in that area, the Bridewell Estate was most famous and the largest.  It spread across 250 acres and lay just off of Lake Road (as the road is known once it enters the canyon).

But the Bridewell orchards had not been kept up for many years and were now approaching the brink of no return in terms of restoration.  Some of them had already crossed the line and would have to be torn out and replanted before they would be productive again.  J.C. cruised past the gate leading to the Bridewell mansion and pushed on up the grade toward the top.

The canyon would have presented a hard climb for J.C. on his bicycle, but he had done it many times before.  But by now, he had achieved the summit and below him—down a gentle decline and in a shallow valley—lay the upland farms spread out before him.  The individual farms were separated by natural margins of undergrowth, rills, and woods.

J.C., even on his bicycle, had always considered climbing the canyon worth the effort when he finally reached the uplands because they were so idyllic and beautiful.  The families who lived up there, thought J.C., were the most fortunate inhabitants of all Winstanley Canton.

About half the towners who lived in Jeap’s Holler owned motor vehicles of one sort or another.  J.C. was not one of them.  He owned a fat-tire bicycle and kept its chain oiled.  It had a tote trailer attached to the back which allowed J.C. to haul the stuff he needed such as groceries and library books.

J.C. mounted his blue Star-Trail bike and rode west on B Street, two blocks until he came to Filbert Avenue where he turned left and headed south toward F Street.  At F Street he floated a right turn and headed west again.  There the bungalows spread out on larger lots and floated in green.

There were gardens everywhere though they were not deep yet since it was only April.  By June the little white, yellow, or green bungalows would hardly be visible when the gardens had achieved their full glory.  Lawns, when they existed, were reserved for backyards and were usually small.  Most residents of Jeap’s Holler would rather grow flowers or rosebushes than idle good ground with, virtually, pasture.

It was a half-mile to Jean Friggatt’s place down F Street once J.C. had turned west.  Along the way grew nice, mature trees—hardwoods, willows, and fruit trees—which created a polka-dotted effect on the landscape.  Looking at this setting, with its soft, green hills and perfect placement of trees, made J.C. feel as if he had entered a land of fairytales and gnomes, where at any minute a dragon might wing past, overhead.  The sky was a perfect cerulean except for a line of fleecy white clouds which sailed along its southern horizon.

Right where the road bridged Cold Creek there grew an enormous weeping willow tree.  If I were a kid again, thought J.C., I would spend my entire summer in that tree and only come down to fish the creek under its branches.  Somehow it seemed the willow created its own breezes where everywhere else there were none.

Fifty yards beyond the willow J.C. arrived at Jean’s house.  She would probably be outside, somewhere.  He would look for her around back.

“Oh there you are!” sang Jean, her voice high and excited, when she found J.C. inspecting her poll beans.  “You’re here just in time; I’m headed in for some lemonade.  How about you, Johnny, could you use a lemonade?  You must be thirsty from such a long ride, all the way out here.”

J.C. accepted a glass of lemonade, and the two of them sat at a blue painted table under a pear tree and listened to Cold Creek gurgle for a few minutes without conversation.

Jean was a woman of seventy years who still had not lost all of the umber in her hair.  She was of medium height but had both a straight back and straight shoulders which made her appear taller than she was.  Her face was well wrinkled, yet the wrinkles somehow contributed to her natural beauty.  Her eyes were black but, like obsidian, contained light.  She was the embodiment of a riddle, and her mind was keener than any J.C. had encountered before.  In a way she had become his guru though she was frugal with her outlays of advice.

She seemed to enjoy studying J.C.’s face and did so always with a droll expression on hers.  It was as if she read his mind perfectly while she looked at him and found its sundry contents amusing.

She smiled at J.C.  A few wisps of her hair had escaped the confines of the floppy brimmed hat she wore and were stuck to her face with perspiration.  He returned her smile, thinking how nice it felt to be smiled at.

“Are you going out to see our friends today?” she asked finally.

“Yes, I plan to,” said J.C.

“I hope you will take my pickup.  I had to clear out my root cellar, so there are cabbages and onions and other things I needed to get rid of.  Some canned goods, too.  Oh, and a bag of English walnuts; I’d hate for them to go sour.  Will you deliver these things for me?”

“Of course, I’d be happy to.”

“Well then, you’ll have to take the pickup for sure; your bicycle won’t hold it all.”

J.C. nodded in agreement.

“So how many squatters are there, Johnny?”

“Last Monday there were thirteen, including three kids—seven to nine years old, somewhere in that age group, is my guess.  The kids were new last week.  I don’t know how many total there’ll be this week.  Kathy Swann, God bless her, has taken them under her wing, so they’ve probably done all right as far as food goes, but thirteen is a lot of mouths to feed.  I’ll see how things are this week, but I’m going to have to bring it up to the council tomorrow night.  I can’t keep it under my hat any longer.”

“What’s the mood among the uplanders?  Are they worried?”

“The Swanns seem fine.  I don’t know about the others.  Everything seems okay, so far, from what I can tell.”

“So might the uplanders handle it themselves?  Just absorb the squatters?”

“Again, I don’t know.  I don’t know if they know, yet.  They haven’t made any demands on the council.”

“Don’t mean to change the subject but how’s Dale Scoggins doing these days?  You mentioned you wanted to see him last week.”

“Had breakfast with him this morning.  Asked him about the common gardens idea.  He wasn’t too keen on it.  I didn’t mention the squatters.  I was afraid that would prompt an automatic rejection without him even listening to the merits of the argument.  But I still believe that if the towners made some kind of gesture, such as the gardens, then it would probably put us in a better position to negotiate with the uplanders if it came to that.”

“May I make a suggestion?” asked Jean.

“Yes, of course, Jean.”

“I think you’re right.  You should inform the council about the squatter situation tomorrow night.  I’ll be there, too, for support.  But don’t get too far ahead of yourself, Johnny.  The ultimate answer lies in the uplands; they may fix it before we can even start.  So let them, if they choose to.  In the meantime, talk to Dale Scoggins again when you have the chance.  Explain the whole situation to him.  Tell him your ideas; he may have some of his own.  Dale’s a reasonable man and a problem-solver when he needs to be.  We’ll need Dale as an ally if the uplanders can’t handle the squatter problem by themselves.  Just take it slowly.  That’s my suggestion.”

“Yes, of course, Jean.  You are alway right about the timing of things.”

“Your ideas are sound, Johnny, but we have to play it carefully.  The worst thing we could do would be to create a schism between the uplanders and the in-towners.  Don’t you agree?”

“Oh yes, of course.  But we knew word would get out eventually, and we’d have to face this one day.  I just have this gut feeling that this is the trickle before the deluge, and the ark isn’t finished, yet.  We need to get ahead of it, Jean, so it doesn’t destroy everything we’ve worked for.  We’ve put too much into this dream to see it all wash away down stream.”

“That we have,” said Jean.  “More lemonade, Johnny?”

Dew gave drink to the moss this morning as the frog chorus sang.  Among a murder of crows a cote of doves had settled, all looking west.  They were white and clean in their new spring clothes.

As their heads bobbed they began to spread like congregants leaving church for Sunday supper.  Now and then they found millet which the squirrels had overlooked.

It was a fine morning.  I hope Spring does not leave us prematurely as it did last year.

– from the notebook of J.C. Winchell

Ping-ping!

The cook hit the bell twice and lifted two hot plates of food through the window onto the stainless steel shelf for the waitress.

“Doris,” he called, “your order’s up,” upon which the cook  withdrew back into his hot cave, where waiting for his return were his spatula and the griddle.

Doris picked up the ticket, checked its table number, and pulled the plates down without once breaking the flow of her conversation with Ginger (the other waitress) until, of course, Doris was about to cross the pale of the counter’s end and enter the restaurant’s dining room.

“Hold on, honey, my table five is ready,” said Doris.

Doris crossed the dinning room to a booth where two older men sat, sipping coffee.

“Dale, J.C.,” she said as she placed the heavy plates of breakfast in front of the hungry men.  “Well, J.C. I thought you’d get enough of this place to stay away on your days off.”

“I just avoid cooking if I can help it,” he said.  “But I still eat, and here is the only place that serves breakfast.  So, you know, it’s where I come.”

“Makes sense, I guess.  Dale, you old razorback, you got a garden this year?”

“You know I do.  ‘Bout a quarter-acre is all.”

“Hmm.  That’s kind of slackin’ for you, isn’t it?”

“How much you put in, Doris?”

“I’ve got a nice little patch out back, as much as I can handle.  I’ll be back in a minute with coffee, fellas.  Enjoy your breakfast.”

With a wink Doris was off and back to the counter where Ginger awaited the continuation of their conversation.

Dale Skoggins picked up his fork and began cutting his eggs into squares causing the yokes to puddle into the potatoes.

“But back to what I was saying, J.C.:  I mean, I don’t have a quarrel with the idea, per se.  It’s a noble concept and I get it.  But I don’t think people will go for it.  I might, perhaps.  But I think it would be something of a horse-pill for most others to swallow.  It’s just too idealistic.  People rely on their gardens, J.C.  You’re talking about jeopardizing them.”

“No, I’m not.  It’s not like it’s going to change anything.  Even as it now stands, who do you know who would file charges if someone stole a grocery bag full of vegetables from their garden?”

“Well, no one, I guess.  But they might go to the law if it happened two or three times or became a regular thing.  That would be different.”

“I’m sure we could find a way, outside of the law, to deal with that type of problem, don’t you?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“Look, the change of law which I’m proposing is really just symbolic but it’s an important gesture.  One that would better align our laws with our values.  I see it as another step in our ongoing effort to decriminalize society and broaden personal freedom.”

“No, that’s not what you’ve said.  Now the way I understand it, J.C., is that you are proposing that all gardens within the boundaries of Winstanley Canton which have, up to now, been private property—”

“Not private property.  Privately controlled property.  There is a difference,” interrupted J.C.

“Not much of one,” Dale shot back.  “If I own what grows on the property then how is that different from owning the land itself?  There’s no real difference as I see it.  Anyway, what you propose, J.C., is that privately controlled property should become common property so I don’t see that as simply decriminalization.  And there is a difference here—between privately controlled property, as you call it, and commons.  There’s a big difference.  You say the gardens, all gardens, should belong to everyone which means that anyone who picks a bag of my tomatoes out of my garden—which I alone spent the time and effort to raise—can do so legally without so much as asking me, first.  Am I not correct?”

“You are correct.  But—”

“Let me finish, J.C.”

“Okay.  Sorry.”

“I mean, I’ve never begrudged anyone a bag of tomatoes but this proposal of yours goes too far.  So here’s the rub, as I see it:  It boils down to incentive or disincentive, however you look at it.  On the one hand, if I’m able to go around, without lifting a finger to garden myself, and can basically rob from other people’s gardens, is that not disincentive to grow my own garden?  So what you get, then, is less motivation for people to grow gardens which would eventually lead to shortages.  Would it not?  On the other hand, if I’m someone who enjoys gardening—as I do—but every year, other people eat up my produce simply because they’re too lazy to grow their own, then wouldn’t that discourage me from growing a garden the next year?”

“You tell me.  Would it?”

“Well it might.  Yes, it just might.  A part of the reward for growing vegetables is getting to eat what you grow.  That’s a big part of it.  Without that, well, I don’t know if it would be worth it.  It’s a noble idea, J.C., but damned idealistic, if you ask me,” said Dale.

“Well, Dale, you’re the one person in Jeap’s Holler who I figured loves to garden the most which was why I wanted to ask you about this, first.  You’ve given me food for thought.  By the way, breakfast is on me, today.”

“Oh no, that’s not necessary, J.C.”

“I know, but I want to.”

“Well it’s my turn next time, then.”

“Good enough.  Say, you going fishing tonight?” asked J.C.

“Maybe.  Don’t know yet.  You?”

“Yeah, going to hit the upper leg tonight after supper.  I figure the bass are up there by now.”

“Well, good luck, J.C., with the fishing and all.”

“Thank you.”

By then J.C. had stood and collected the ticket from the edge of the table.  He put on his felt hat, nodded goodbye to Dale Scoggins who had not finished his coffee, then went to find Doris so to pay for breakfast.

It was a quarter till nine, Monday morning, and J.C. Winchell still had a busy day ahead of him with many errands to run.  His next errand was to visit Jean Friggatt about the squatters who had recently settled up near the Fowler and Swann farms in the woods above Fish Lake.

“This is terribly vain of me,” said the judge, “but I’m really curious as to how I’m supposed to—well, you know, die.”  The judge used air quotes around the word die.

“Everyone wants to know,” said Jane.  “You’d have been the first if you hadn’t asked.  But the company has found, over so many decades of doing this, that the less the client knows the better.  And here’s why:  Once you, as the client, cross the Rubicon you are, in fact, a completely different person.  The person you used to be does die—all of her history, all of her interests, and all of her memories of family and loved ones die with her.  Just for example:  Do you know the name, John Singer Sargent?”

“Yes, of course.  He’s the famous painter, isn’t he?”

“Yes.  The very famous American portrait artist.  But let me ask:  Do you know how he died?”

The judge rolled her eyes.  “No, but who would?” she said.

“Exactly!” said Jane.  “No, you wouldn’t know because he was a person of another era whom you did not know personally and never met.  And that’s why you don’t know that he died in England on April 14th, 1925 of heart disease.  As the new you, you will not personally know the person I’m speaking to right now.  So the less you know about the old you the easier it will be to become the new you; and that’s what the transition course is all about.  But we have other fish to fry, as they say, before all of that.”

Jane hesitated for a moment then added:

“But I can give you this much about your death, if you really must know.”

“Yes, I would like to know anything you can tell me.”

“You will die of sepsis from a sudden virulent infection, contracted during a routine removal of a precancerous lump under your arm.  It happens all the time.  But that’s all I can say for now.  Later, of course, you can read your own obituary if you feel that’s something you must do but I recommend against it.”

“No hit men or anything like that?  Or suicide?”

“No.  You’ll go peacefully in your sleep.  All very low key.”

“Oh thank god!” exclaimed the judge.  “I feel better already.”

Jane glanced at her wristwatch.

“But what about my—my husband and children?  How are you going to deal with them while I’m supposed to be dying?”

“We have that covered,” said Jane.  “But your death will happen suddenly and unexpectedly so it will be a shock to everyone.  But since you’ve brought it up, let me ask: how open have you been with your husband and children about your last wishes, those in your 1990 will?  Are all of your family aware that you plan to have your body cremated and that you want no public memorial services?”

“Oh yes, they’re all well aware of my wishes.”

“Good.  Then there should be no difficulty at all.  But we’ll handle all of those details.  You don’t need to worry.”

“So . . . “ said Jane as she exhaled.  “We need to discuss name.”

Jane began searching her leather attaché then pulled out a yellow legal pad full of hand written notes.

“And on that front, I have some very good news and a little bit of not-so-great news.  But let me just lay it out for you.

“First the good news.  We’ve done extensive research and have found one really good choice for a surname.  It’s a name from here in Jeap’s Holler which goes way back.  It’s literally as old as these hills.  The really great thing about it is that there are almost no direct descendants still living and those that are alive are quite elderly and not likely to even hear about their long lost cousin.  And the closest one, geographically, is an eighty-seven year old woman who lives in a care facility three hours from here.  That makes things much easier for you.  No one popping over for tea or needing a loan or any of that sort of thing.”

“So what’s the name?” asked the judge.

“The bit of not-so-great news is that we couldn’t find any other viable choices for here, for Jeap’s Holler, I mean.  There’s really only one option, if you want roots.  There are a million choices if roots don’t matter but in your case roots do matter; you want to enter this tight-knit community without too much prying by your new neighbors.  And that was the platform we were given.”

The judge decided to cut short the lengthy disclaimer.

“Look, obviously it’s not a name you think I’ll like.  But I’m a big girl so why don’t you just tell me the name and we’ll get on with it?  Besides, how bad can it be, really?”

“The name is Hickey,” said Jane.

“Oh my fucking god!  You’ve got to be kidding me!” said the judge.

“I’m afraid not, Your Honor.  Is this a deal-breaker?  I mean, it will change things if it is.  We’ll have to pretty much start from scratch, at least as far as the biometrics are concerned and, as you know, that’s a big deal.  It takes time.”

It was the first time during the meeting Jane showed any sign of stress: she pursed her lips and wrinkled her forehead after asking the “deal-breaker” question.

“So you’re telling me that if it’s not Hickey then we have to start over?”

“Yes, Your Honor, that’s what I’m telling you.”

“There aren’t any other choices?  None?”

“No, Your Honor.  I don’t know if this helps you with your decision or not, but there is an entire unit on name attachment during the transition training course.  The unit is extensive and, according to our client surveys, one of the most useful in the entire course.”

Jane glanced at her wristwatch again.

“I’m afraid, Your Honor, we’re going to have to decide whether or not this goes forward.  You have to decide right now.  The flight for Zurich is scheduled for Thursday evening.  Everything in Zurich is in place—your elective surgeries and so forth.  But it’s better for everyone, including me, to turn off the machine right now and let it cool, than to move forward if there’s any uncertainly whatsoever.”

Jane waited for the judge who was again peering out the side window.  But the judge did not linger long.

“No.  No,” she said forcefully.  “I will not let this hold me back.  Do not turn off the machine.  I want to go forward.  But, please, just assure me of one thing, will you?”

“And what is that?”

“That my first name does not have to be Martha!”

Jane began flipping the pages of her notepad, pretending to scan her notes.

“Ah. . . well . . . let me see. . . .”

The judge physically recoiled in her seat.

“I’m just kidding,” said Jane as she closed her notepad and smiled.  “There are many more choices for first names, and Martha doesn’t have to be one of them.”

Both women broke into laughter.  The judge laughed until tears dampened the corners of her eyes.