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.

A silver Hummer vehicle, sparkling and impressive, sat parked at the far end of the wide pavement in front of the mansion.  The Hummer’s windows were tinted black.  But the back of it was all that could be seen from the limo as the limo crossed the pavement towards the mansion.  Suddenly the intercom beeped and immediately Her Honor’s voice issued forth in her usual bored tone.

“This is far enough.  Stop here,” she said.

“But ma’am—” said the driver.

“I said, stop here!”

The driver brought the vehicle to a quick halt still some fifteen yards away from the front of the mansion and at least thirty-five yards from the silver Hummer, parked a distance beyond.

“Thank you.”  Her voice was pinched and cynical.

“Trev, I need a minute.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said the bodyguard.

The driver watched his boss through the rearview mirror.

“What’s she doing?” asked the bodyguard.

“Texting, I think.  Or unfriending some more of her crew.”

“Dumbass!” said the bodyguard then smiled to himself.

The driver continued watching.

“She just threw the phone in her purse.  Okay, here we go,” said the driver.  “I hope she let’s me out this time.”

“You were let out the last time, remember?”

“I don’t know about you but I’m starved.”

“This won’t take long, Poindexter.  Whatever it is she’s up to won’t take long because she hates fresh air.”

The intercom beeped again.

“Okay Trev, I’m ready.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The bodyguard rocked forward and was about to pull the door lever but Her Honor had not finished giving instructions.

“But Trev, listen.  I don’t need an escort this time.  I’m going alone.  So just let me out; then wait here.  I’ll be fifteen minutes.  Okay, now be a gentleman.”

The light on the intercom turned off.

“Goddamnit!  Shit!” swore the bodyguard.  “She’s trying to fuck me up, isn’t she.  Why even have protocol if you never follow it?  I guarantee you this, Poindexter: if anything goes down, you’d better believe I’m calling you to testify on my behalf.  You got that?”

The muscular bodyguard snatched his sunglasses from his breast pocket as he pushed the door open with his foot then stepped from the limousine into the park-like setting.  But once out of the vehicle, his professionalism returned and he showed no emotion whatsoever.  He brushed his suit jacket smooth with his hands while making an assessment of his surroundings, then strode stone-faced around the end of the car to the door where the judge waited to be let out.

He opened her door.  She stood up with a heavy sigh then looked around while clutching her purse.  In that moment she seemed small, even vulnerable, to the bodyguard.

“Thank you, Trev.  I won’t be long.  It’s okay; I know the person I’m seeing,” she reassured him.

“I feel better knowing that, ma’am.  Thank you,” he replied.

“When we’re done here, what do you say we have a good ole greasy-spoon burger back in town.  I’m pretty hungry, aren’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am, I am.”

“Good.  I’ll be right back.”

She reached up and patted the bodyguard’s shoulder, an unusual display of affection for the judge, which prompted a sudden, uneasy knot in the pit of his stomach.

Then she started towards the silver Hummer, favoring her right side a bit as she went.

The judge plodded her way to the passenger side of the tall silver vehicle and tapped her knuckles on the rear door window.  Robotically the window opened.  The judge was greeted by the smiling face of a young woman seated in the cockpit of the vehicle who looked back through the space between the two, tall bucket seats.

“Hi, I’m up here,” she said, “Why don’t you join me?”

“Sure,” said the judge.

Robotically the doors unlocked and the front passenger door popped open like the hatch of a spaceship.  With a bit of effort the judge hoisted herself into the silver ship and closed the door.  The doors automatically relocked themselves.

“You must be Jane Smith,” said the judge out of breath.

“Yes, and you must be Cordelia, the blunt but honest daughter.”

“You know your Shakespeare.”

“A good lawyer would.  May I call you ‘Your Honor’?”

The judge shrugged.  “That’s fine,” she said.

“Would you like a tour of the grounds, first?”

“No, not today, thank you,” replied the judge.

The judge turned her head looking out the window to her right at the Bridewell mansion.  She began smiling and shanking her head in consternation not making eye contact with the beautiful young Jane who sat in the driver’s seat beside her.

“Is there something on your mind, Your Honor?”

“Yeah, there is,” said the judge.  “I’ve come all this way and you seem—awfully—”  The judge sniggered.

“Pretty? Young?” said Jane.

“I was going to say junior but, yes, both.  This is a very serious business you’re in; I guess I just expected someone more seasoned is all.  I’m sure you understand the risks involved for someone like myself?”

“Yes, Your Honor, I do.  And that is why they sent me.  I’m the best they have.  And I’ve done this more times that you’d believe.  In fact, this is all I’ve ever done over the course of my career.  But if you’re uncomfortable, I’m sure other arrangements—”

“No, it’s not that,” interrupted the judge.  “I’m sorry.  I’m nervous, I think.  I’m perfectly comfortable with you, Jane.  I promise I’ll do precisely what you ask me to.  I trust you.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“All right. Let’s get started, then.”

The young woman opened a soft leather attaché which rested on her lap and pulled from it a manilla envelope.  The envelope was sealed and had no markings on the outside.

“First things first,” said Jane still holding the envelope.  She looked directly into the judges’s eyes.

“Are you sure?” she asked, “because once we start down this path, that’s it.  No turning back.  So I need to know right here and now, Your Honor:  Is there any shred of doubt in your mind?”

“No.”

The judge’s voice was resolute.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.  I can assure you I’ve given this a great deal of thought—probably more than it needed—and I know that this is exactly what I want.  I want a new life—desperately.”

“Then we’re good,” said Jane.  “Here.”

She handed the judge the envelope.

“For your eyes only.  Keep it in a safe place until you can peruse it without interruption.  You don’t want any copies of this floating around on the internet, I assure you.  That is why I needed to give it to you in person.  But it’s only your head start on the transitional stuff while you’re in Zurich.”

“I understand,” said the judge.

 

The Bridewell mansion, in its day, had been a very beautiful home.  It was the type of home they made paintings of for Christmas cards – grand yet homey at the same time.  It was the kind of place where every American wanted to live.  And it was surprisingly modest as mansions go which was part of its charm.  It was large enough to leave a visitor with a feeling of awe yet small enough to be furnished.  And Oh My! was it furnished well, back in its day.

But events within families get complicated when grandparents pass on and there is real estate to dispense.  In these situations, there arise the inevitable disagreements, slights, insults, snubs, retributions, and what have you, which all impede the smooth transition of a mansion like the Bridewell from one set of hands to the next.  The winners in such contests never come out feeling as if they have won, however.  They come out feeling put upon, mainly because of the enormous debts and financial obligations which accompany winning.

Therefore, the winners almost always want to sell the ball-and-chain prizes as soon as they get them which was the case with the Bridewell.  But during the time that the Bridewell was up for sale the country had entered another recession and speculation on big old mansions which needed substantial repairs and updating and which sat out in the middle of nowhere did not seem like a wise investment to its would-be buyers.  So the Bridewell sat empty, unloved, and dying for way too many years.  And, in time, it did die, after which the crows moved in.

The lady whose driver had stopped at Elsie’s Cafe so she could ask directions on how to find the Bridewell mansion now sat glumly in the very depths of her large black limousine.  Now and then the driver would glance nervously at his employer through the rearview mirror.  Her expression had not changed.  It was the same scowl she had worn the entire trip.  It was unsettling for the driver because it was the very scowl the judge always wore when she was about to explode into one of her famous fits of rage.

Not that her fits of rage were unusual or that the driver did not manage to deal with them, somehow, when they happened.  No, that was not it.  The driver was very skilled at handling the judge and knowing how best to appease her when she flew off the handle.  But no matter how many times he had done it, it was still extremely stressful and uncomfortable when the judge would let go on everyone around her during one of her violent tirades.  What made it especially difficult was the fact that the driver, by nature, was a sensitive and introspective man who sometimes took things to heart that he shouldn’t.

The driver was beginning to feel antsy.  It had been farther around Fish Lake than he expected given waitress Doris’s directions, and Fish Lake Road was broken and rough.  The judge hated getting jostled when riding anywhere.  In the opinion of the judge, all cars and roads were a curse on civilization.  If it was up to her she would travel nowhere that could not be reached by private jet, yacht, or helicopter which added to the mystery of why in heaven’s name “Her Honor” had insisted on visiting a dilapidated mansion at such a remote location as Jeap’s Holler.  The other mystery regarding this particular trip was the fact that the judge had left her personal assistant at home—something she never did—and had traveled to this isolated place alone, except, of course, for her driver and personal security man.  At about that time, Her Honor picked up the phone and pushed the intercom button to beep the driver.

“Dewey, what’s our ETA?” (Estimated Time of Arrival)

The driver ventured three seconds to calculate his answer.

“Ah, one or two minutes, Your Honor.”

“Is it one or two?”

“Two, ma’am.”

“Be precise,” she commanded then hung up.  The driver exhaled, exasperated.

The bodyguard, who also sat up front, turned to the driver with a smirk.

“Maybe you should step on it, Poindexter.  You know she’s back there counting the seconds.”

“But it’s not even noon, yet,” said the driver.

“No, but you told her two minutes, Dumbass.”

Fortunately for the driver, at the next turn, as they wound around the side of a wooded hill, they came upon a split-rail fence with an apple orchard behind it.  This was the driver’s clue that they had reached the edge of the Bridewell estate.  Two-hundred yards further and they came to the main gate and a paved road which led around a fishing pond then bent up a wooded parkway to the house.  The gate was open.

The paved road leading to the house was a wide, double-lane street, built of smooth stone cobbles and was tree lined.  The street even had a painted dividing line which, by then, had faded.  Still, the road was much better than Fish Lake Road from which the limo had just turned.

The limo motored slowly up the lane.  Finally, it topped a rise where the road flattened and broke free of the trees onto a broad pavement from which those inside the limo had a full view of the house standing before them.  There it was.

The driver whistled in wonder as he drove slowly across the pavement.

Indeed, it was still a mansion and not nearly as broken down as one might have expected given Doris’s description of it, back at the cafe.

It was three stories of graceful Georgian Architecture with dressed stone quoins, stucco, and paired windows.  In front, it had an expansive oval portico supported by six doric columns, and under the portico, a wide porch stretched itself.  It gave the impression of a small White House, but more elegant.  The porch was bounded by a sturdy but graceful rail that floated atop an arch of supports which looked like a line of white pawns from a giant chess board.  It was but two steps from the pavement to the top of the porch, and the front doors at the mansion’s entrance were carved-wood, inlayed with elegant, oval, leaded glasswork.  The mansion was impressive still.  But, yes, the years of neglect had taken a toll.

A bit of old work again.  I’m not going to elaborate but I’ve got a few short chapters of this yet incomplete story.  Please let me know if you like it.  Dale

Jeap’s Holler:  Chapter I

One bright Thursday morning, close to noon, a big black automobile shaped like a coffin came rolling into Jeap’s Holler.  No one would have noticed, however, had the big black coffin rolled on through town and not stopped at Elsie’s Cafe where everyone who was in town and on lunch break was having lunch—most likely the Chicken & Ribs Special.  The good folks of Jeap’s Holler were, no doubt, talking about important things over lunch such as how many fish some of the fellas planned to catch that Saturday down at Fish Lake or what dresses some of the gals were sewing for Nancy Bett’s wedding and how many tiny pearls would get sewn into the bridal gown.  Important stuff like that.

Elsie’s Cafe was busy that day, so the coffin had to park a little distance away from the restaurant and out of view of the big picture windows which fronted the shop.  The first out of the coffin was a stocky man in a dark suit and dark sunglasses who emerged from the passenger side up front.  He was nicely dressed.  He wore a navy suit which gleamed in the bright sunlight as he moved.  He also wore polished black shoes, a brilliant white shirt—crisp as a corn chip—and a blue and red striped tie.  He was as dapper as a swordfish! as someone from Jeap’s Holler would say.

So he got out and walked the long way around the back of the vehicle to the back door on the opposite side.  There he paused for a second or two as if working up the courage to open the door.  Then finally he opened it and stood at attention while waiting for someone to emerge from the big black coffin.  But it took about five or ten seconds before anyone did emerge.  Finally, a woman stepped from the car and stood up.

She was an average sized woman, middle aged, straight blonde hair brushed back from her face that reached no farther than her collar.  But you couldn’t see much of her face for the enormous black sunglasses she wore.  Her pegged denim jeans were a tiny bit more snug around the abdomen than they should have been making her belly look, in shape, like half of a boiled egg.  And instead of boots she wore brown leather huaraches.  She also wore a blousy white shirt accessorized with a blue bandana tied at the neck and a broad silver bracelet on her left wrist.  In all, she looked as if she would have been more comfortable wearing a pantsuit than in her faux country getup.

Despite the sunglasses, one could see she wore a scowl on her face which betrayed a mood of aggravation and perhaps discomfort.  To put it bluntly, she was not a happy camper, but for some reason she had wanted to stop at Elsie’s Cafe—maybe for an icy glass of tea or a roll of breath mints.

At first her attention was taken with the large bag she carried, but once she had zipped two or three of its zippers and anchored it on her shoulder she stepped forward and looked around to orient herself and decide where it was she was headed.  The man in the suit closed the door of the automobile behind her and asked the woman something.  But she was disagreeable and dismissed whatever it was he had suggested with a wave of her hand.  So he left her and got back into the vehicle the same way he had gotten out.  She, at the same time, adjusted her sunglasses before starting for Elsie’s alone.

When the woman entered Elsie’s the bell on the door jingled but no one paid attention.  The woman came in as far as the end of the lunch counter where the cash register sat and stood awkwardly waiting for a waitress or someone to approach her.  She did not remove her sunglasses but instead clutched her large bag with both arms as if holding a pet cat.

After a minute or so a waitress with a pot of coffee in one hand stopped long enough to find out what the woman needed.

“You waiting for a table, honey?” asked the waitress.

“No,” said the woman, “I need directions to the Bridewell Estate; I’m to meet someone there at noon.”

“Bridewell, you say?  I’m sorry, I’ve never heard of it.  You sure it’s around here?—Jeap’s Holler?”

“Yes, It’s supposed to be near the lake, somewhere.”

“Let me see if Doris knows.  If it’s here, Doris will know where.”

It took a minute before the waitress returned with a second waitress.  This one had a head full of coarse, black hair and wore heavy pancake makeup which failed to conceal the puffy bags under her eyes.  The makeup did, however, manage to color the bags the same pinkish tan as the rest of her face.

“Hi.  You’re looking for the old Bridewell mansion?”

“Yes, I believe so.  I was told it was near the lake.”

“Well not exactly.  It’s actually out past the lake about a mile, but you do take the lake road around the lake but then keep going.  But I’m wondering if it’s Bridewell you’re looking for because that old place was about to fall down, the last I knew, and that’s been a few years ago.”

The woman from the coffin finally removed her sunglasses.  She, too, had saggy bags under her eyes and looked like she hadn’t slept in a week.

“I know this is an imposition,” she said, “but is their any chance you could tell my driver how to get there.  I’m not very good with directions, myself.”

“No problem,” said Doris.  “Have him come in and I’ll draw him a map.  You look like you could use an iced tea.  I’ll bring one out for you and your driver.  Ginger, sweetheart, show this nice lady to Table Three for me, will you?  I’ll be back in a flash.”

Doris winked at the woman as she turned and, before you could say Rumpelstiltskin, she was gone.

The woman from the car wanted to object, to say she would be more comfortable waiting where she was, but she was not given the opportunity.  So after being shown to Table Three by the younger and prettier waitress named Ginger, the woman from the coffin fished her cell phone out of her purse and called her driver then put her big black sunglasses back on to await Doris’s return.