The Prophet of Paradise

Chapter 9

Chapter 9

RYMAN MCKENDRICK WAS in his teens when a large, badly scarred, rough looking character with one hauntingly pale blue eye showed up at Fair Enough Farm. The man told Fergus and his wife Rhetta that he’d served in Vietnam with their son Teedy, that Teedy had often talked about the family homestead and the farm implement business. He said they’d talked about that the night before the mortar assault wiped out the entire platoon, every man killed except Barstow Reinhardt.

Bar said he’d been drifting around since the war, kind of lost. He found himself in Virginia, thought he’d stop by and pay his respects. And, by the way, he was looking for work and was pretty handy when it came to fixing mechanical things.

Fergus could not turn away a brother Marine and, yes, maybe he could use some help at the shop, part-time anyway. And no one was using the old hunter’s trailer back in the woods if he needed a place to stay until he found something suitable.

Ryman’s mother did not hear these offers. She’d gone into a shaking fit, turned deathly ashen, and retreated upstairs to her bedroom the moment Bar mentioned Teedy and Vietnam in the same sentence. She had a few comments to make to Fergus later, although by then the deal had been struck and Fergus McKendrick would never go back on his word. Certainly not to a fellow Marine, and a wounded vet at that.

Four decades later Barstow Reinhardt had worked his way up from part-time assistant to head mechanic at McKendrick and Sons, he still lived in the old hunter’s trailer, and Rhetta still made every possible effort to avoid the sight of him. No one dared even mention his name in her presence.

The half dozen people in the hospital’s emergency department waiting room, however, could not help but notice the sight of Bar Reinhardt as he and Ryman were ushered in by a patient aid volunteer, an elderly woman in a blue smock. Bar’s bulk flowed over the chair he settled into. The others waiting for news of their loved ones and friends could not decide whether to stare at his bare upper torso, only partially covered by the soiled once-white bib overalls, or the monstrous scar slashing through the left side of his face. Averting their eyes did not lessen the force of his presence as the air in the small windowless room was instantly overpowered by the scent of diesel fuel, hydraulic fluid, industrial hand cleaner, and workman’s sweat. There was an incongruity to Bar’s presence in a hospital waiting room, that whoever was in the ER was more likely his victim than his loved one.

Nobody took much notice of Ryman, the man with the sad green eyes who slouched into the chair next to the deformed, smelly giant. He was what you would expect to see in such a place; lean, sharp-featured, tanned, his short brown hair touched with gray and matted from the tractor cap he’d just removed, his chin bristly with three-day-old stubble. Ryman’s polo shirt, jeans, and paddock boots identified him as more horseman than farmer, only a slight distinction in the community. He’d likely been in this waiting room a few times before as the result of someone’s unpleasant encounter with a horse or piece of farm machinery. And while his scars were not as visible as Bar’s, it was a good bet he’d been the patient himself more than once.

A woman hushed her young son, avoiding the uncomfortable if honest question the child asked about the scary looking man. “Let’s take a walk,” she said brightly, as she arose and led the child down the hallway.

Anticipating the outcome of their reason for being there, Ryman said, “What’s taking them so long? The old man’s dead. You know he’s dead, right?”

“Looked dead to me,” Bar replied. “And I’ve seen a good bit of dead.”

Hearing this, a middle-aged man also arose and decided a walk would be a good idea.

“Something just occurred to me,” Ryman said.

“Whazzat?”

“You were with my brother when he died, and now you were with my father when he died.”

“Reckon I’m bad luck for you McKendrick men. You’d best watch yourself around me.”

Ryman noticed one of the few remaining people in the room, a young man also dressed in farmer/country/workman attire. Unfazed by Bar’s presence, he took a long swig from a bottle of Mountain Dew.

“I sure could use a drink,” Ryman said.

“When couldn’t you?” Bar replied.

“Did you know ‘Glenfiddich’ means ‘Valley of the Deer?’”

“You don’t say?” Bar looked at Ryman, surprised by this unexpected remark.

Ryman’s gaze drifted off to the opposite wall, settling on a spot just above the Mountain Dew-swilling fellow’s head. “It’s a stag on the label. ‘Valley of the Deer.’ That stag this morning could have sent me to the Valley of Death. It was almost like he was trying to knock me off the horse. Then he just stood there looking back at me. That mouth. That must have been the mouth! That sumbitch was talking to me.”

“Probably sayin’ what a fuckin’ i***t you are.”

Ryman continued musing to himself, as if Bar wasn’t there. “I couldn’t hear anything. No words, not even a sound. Just saw those lips moving. But not human lips. The deer’s lips! What was he trying to tell me?”

“How about that your old man was gonna kick the bucket in a few hours and you were gonna be left with a business that’s about to go into the shitter.”

“And that thing between his antlers. What was that? It was so bright, the sun shining on it. Too much glare to make it out.” He looked at Bar, his eyes wide with conviction. “You wouldn’t believe it. Biggest damn rack I’ve seen in years. Had to be at least twelve points, maybe fourteen. You’d have thought we’d seen a buck like that before, not just show up out of nowhere. You ever seen one with a rack that big around here?”

“A fourteen pointer? You sure?”

“Well, maybe. At least twelve, though.”

“I mighta seen one that big maybe twenty years ago or so. Frank Worsham bagged a fourteen pointer in…lemme see…’89 maybe.”

“Right, exactly. And nobody knows the deer herds in Crutchfield County like you do. So if you’ve never seen him and I’ve never seen him, where the hell did he come from?”

“Maybe from some fuzzy corner of your scrambled brain. Sounds like you got a pretty good bonk on the head this morning.”

“No, I’m sure I saw him. And then again driving back from Warrenton. Standing up on the hill right in front of me after the Mac Tools guy damn near hit me head on.”

“You didn’t mention that.”

“Yeah, well, things got a little hectic around the shop this afternoon, didn’t they?”

Bar let this remark pass and sat in quiet reflection. “Ain’t gonna be the same without old Fergus around,” he said.

“You’re telling me?”

“Well, it ain’t like he was in the prime a life. Christ sakes, Ry, the man was eighty-five. He had to go sometime. Y’all did set up some kinda plan, right? Make a smooth transition from him to you? The old man had some life insurance, right?”

“I’m not sure about all the details.”

“You’re not sure.” There was a note of disdain in Bar’s voice.

“That wasn’t my area.”

“No, your area’s been mostly spending more time with horses and hounds than you did at the shop, being the big time master of the hunt. Sportin’ and boozin’ your life away.”

“You’re sure a big help here at my time of loss. Aren’t you supposed to be comforting me, preparing me for the news that’s going to come through that door any time now, some ER doc bearing the sad report that the old man is gone, too late, nothing they could do?”

“I ain’t the comforting type, you know that. I just tell it like I see it. And I see you needin’ to get a grip on what’s real. Now more than ever.”

Ryman stared across the room again. “Maybe I do need to cut back on the booze.”

“They say alcoholism is hereditary.”

“Yeah, you get it from having kids.”

“Very funny, dumb ass. I never seen your old man take a drop. Everybody around here knew Fergus didn’t touch the stuff, nobody ever questioned it. ’Course, for all I know your old lady could be sauced up to her eyeballs every damn day. Maybe you got the gene from her.”

“No, Ma doesn’t drink either. But Daddy used to, back before you showed up. There’s still a liquor cabinet in the living room, where he kept a few bottles for his friends when they came over to the house. Hell, I don’t think any of that stuff’s been touched in years. When I was a kid, though, I can remember Daddy knocking back the sauce and getting real loud. Then he’d start being really happy one minute, loved everybody, and the next minute he’d go off and want to punch some guy’s lights out. Did it a few times too. Back then nobody went to jail for throwing a punch. The sheriff sort of winked at country boys getting into it. Hell, most of the times s**t like that happened he was there too, letting the men punch each other and roll around some before he waded in and pulled them apart. But all that changed after Teedy died.” Ryman looked down at the floor. “Lots of stuff changed after Teedy died.”

The two men sat in silence for several minutes. Ryman was the first to speak again. “I was in the bank the other day and Bob Sensabaugh asked me to step into his office for a private chat. He said if we don’t start paying down our line of credit, they may have to call the note on the shop.”

“Cain’t say I’m surprised. What would your old man have done in that situation?”

“Well, if it was Bing still running the bank, I guess he’d smooth talk him into giving us more time.”

“So why didn’t you smooth talk Bob into that?”

“’Cause Bob ain’t like Bing. And I ain’t Fergus McKendrick. I’m just the spare son he got stuck with after the number one son went off with you and got himself blown up.”

“Yeah, well, that was a long time ago. We all got scars. Life’s gotta go on.”

Ryman’s cell phone rang. “It’s Thumper. Yeah? Okay, ten minutes? Ma’s with you? Thanks, I’ll let him know. I’m in the ER waiting room. No, no word yet. See ya in a few.”

“Reckon I’d best get going then.” Bar stood up just as the woman and her son returned. The little boy gazed up at this creature who appeared to have stepped out of a bedtime story about giants, ogres, and trolls. He couldn’t decide between fascination and repulsion. “Hey there, little feller,” Bar said with what passed for a smile, a thin line of brown teeth revealed by slightly upturned lips, a friendly gleam in his crystal blue eye. The boy leaned hard against his mother’s leg. Bar turned back to Ryman. “Wish I could stay to give you that comfort you so badly need. Guess you’ll have to get that from the crazy old ba…I mean from your dear old mama. Gimme a call when it’s official, just for the hell of it.”

“Yeah, sure, I will. Thanks…well, for…you know…everything and all.”

Bar smiled down at the little boy again, nodded politely to the mother, and left.

The room seemed suddenly spacious and airy, although Bar’s pungent odor lingered. The occupants were all relieved to see him go. All except Ryman.

Relief for him arrived minutes later when a slender woman wearing dusty jeans, paddock boots, and a pink polo shirt with upturned collar dashed into the room. Her long chestnut hair, arranged in a frazzled French braid, trailed behind her. Ryman jumped up to accept Nardell’s embrace.

“Oh, honey,” Nardell said, “I’m so sorry. Any more news?”

“Still waiting. But from the looks of things, I don’t think there’s much hope.”

“Oh, there is hope. You have to believe that.”

“I dunno. He looked pretty bad lying there in that pile of tires. And the way the paramedics were working on him…”

“I don’t mean like that. I mean that Fergus is progressing to his next level. If he has passed on from this life, he’s resting in Summerland now, preparing for the next. He led a good life here, he grew in wisdom and good works. That will be a great help to him in the…”

“Yeah, okay, whatever.” He motioned for Nardell to sit. As she did, her polo shirt fell open enough to reveal part of her new Wicca tattoo. The little boy caught sight of it, as did the Mountain Dew-swiller. The little boy wondered why the lady had painted this picture on herself. The young man thought this wasn’t a bad looking woman for her age. He’d happily grab hold of that tattooed tit and enjoy the ride any day.

His reverie was interrupted when Thumper entered the room, accompanied by Ryman’s mother. At eighty-one Henrietta “Rhetta” Keane McKendrick retained enough evidence of her youthful beauty to confirm the stories that sixty-some years ago she had been the most sought after catch in Crutchfield County. Her green eyes, identical to Ryman’s, were bright and alert, able to hold the viewer in their mesmeric spell no less as an octogenarian then when a dozen bucks had eagerly courted the feisty young beauty. She did not believe in cosmetic subterfuge, never had either the patience or the need for it. Her hair was now gray and close-cropped; she cut it herself. Wrinkles, yes, there were wrinkles, but a good twenty years behind the curve where most women would have been at her age.

She marched into the waiting room, erect and in charge. “Well?” she demanded of Ryman. “Is he dead or not?”

Ryman jumped up at his mother’s entrance. “I’m pretty sure so, Ma.”

“Pretty sure? Is that all you got? Pretty sure? Who’s in charge around here?”

Ryman’s roommates all sat staring at the demanding old woman barking questions. The little boy assumed he was now in the next chapter of the fairy tale, the one where the wicked witch/stepmother/evil queen makes her appearance. Except those characters do not wear blue jeans and white blouses with embroidered flowers. At least the giant dressed for his part.

Thumper interceded on Ryman’s behalf. “I’m sure someone will be here as soon as there’s something to report. There are procedures that have to be followed…”

“Fine,” Rhetta snapped. “Bad enough y’all didn’t think I could drive here myself, like I’m some decrepit old lady. If it weren’t for my po-lite nature, I’d a kicked Thumper down the front steps when he was trying to manhandle me into his damn car. Well, y’all can wait here like a bunch a lumps. I’m gonna go find someone who can tell us what’s goin’ on.”

She turned and started back out the door, almost knocking over the young woman coming the other way. The woman was wearing ER scrubs.

“Excuse me,” she said, deftly dodging Rhetta’s assault. “I’m looking for the McKendrick family.”

“That’s us,” Rhetta said. “I’m Mrs. McKendrick.”

“I’m Doctor Chua. Would you care to sit down, Mrs. McKendrick?”

“I can stand,” she replied.

The doctor looked at Ryman. He nodded. She took a breath and said, “I’m sorry, we did everything we could…”