Barring Some Unforeseen Accident - Excerpt
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Note to my editor: By the time you receive this manuscript, I will have committed suicide.
Demise by my own hand was never something I foresaw, but the trials of this book have been too much to bear. I sit here now, in an enormous antebellum mansion in the Deep South, writing this to you with the hope that what follows will explain my present state of mind and the decision to end my life. It was either this funereal route via my present writing and delving into places better left untouched, or prison, for when the story comes to light I will undoubtedly be hunted down like some rabid raccoon by yokels looking for sport and lurid gossip which, if not found, will be manufactured.
Persons of authority in Chalybeate Springs have no problem with what I’ve done—how could they as they are all dead?—but I’m sure that officials at the state and federal levels will intervene and make my life a living hell (more so than it has been for the last month). I’m not even sure what day it is at present. All I know is that it is sometime after this year’s Fourth of July.
We agreed that I would get you a book within the last thirty days. I am, however, delivering this manuscript slightly late. What you do with it is up to you. Not that I will know, having gone to a better, or at least less stressful place (this based on my meager Sunday school teachings and my lack of belief in the evils of self-annihilation.)
As far as worrying about lawsuits—don’t. Everyone of any consequence in the book (and a few others that no one would care about), are quite dead.
A note about the house I am in at present: I leave it to you, as it was indirectly left to me—the thing seems to get passed around more than a Hollywood starlet with no future. It is in need of some work (the house, not the starlet), but I’m sure that you will find it comfortable and a good retreat from the noise and confusion of New York.
My trip back to the South was, for the most part, an enlightening one, and the month or so that it took to glean this tale from the good (and not-so-good) people of Chalybeate Springs was an experience I shall never forget, short time that I have to remember it.
Exactly how I will end my own life is not yet known to me. My revisitation (I think that’s a word I made up—my homage to Faulkner and his penchant for invention and warpedness—another one) of the South has given me more book material than I ever thought possible, a lot of which was, and is, disturbing to me; so much so that I cannot live with what I know.
Perhaps my death route will include pills, perhaps a gun. I tend to think pills would be less untidy for whoever finds me, but a gun seems so final—I suppose that is the point—and here in the South, a tad more masculine, don’t you think? I do fear for the antiques in the house should I miss while using an artillery device—really nice stuff (the antiques, not the guns) which, if not to your liking, can be auctioned off at one of New York’s major houses—lots of John Henry Belter and Duncan-Phyfe: top drawer, all of it—the real thing too.
Hanging is another possibility (for me, not the furniture). I’ve checked out the rafters in the attic of this old mansion as I’ve been spending as lot of time there—solid, sturdy cedar things that are a good foot square thick, and quite capable of handling my weight. But I’ve had a bit of a time managing the noose. I stole a car the other day and drove to a nearby town, questioning the locals on how exactly one accomplishes such a complex knot, but the inquiry elicited more than a few raised and disapproving eyebrows from some, and overzealous reactions from others. Human beings are an uneven lot.
As you may have guessed (or will from reading the manuscript), people—for lack of a better term here in Chalybeate Springs—had taken quite a shine to me, while others would have been more than willing to help with my demise—nay, some actually attempted it for me once or twice. But I’m not one to give those who might hate me the satisfaction of aiding my trip to the great beyond, choosing instead to personally take charge of my last moments here on earth. It’s one of the few things I will actually have control over in these last days and I’m looking forward to the experience.
I do dislike the thought of leaving this house though. It’s what I’ve always wanted, and perhaps that’s fitting—getting what you really want in the end. But then, where do you go from there, when you finally attain your goal? My objective initially was to live in New York and become a famous writer, garnering enough money to allow me to move back to the South and live in seclusion like some hermit with only pen and paper and a lifetime supply of Scotch.
Then my fantasy progressed to a farm in Connecticut. Years ago, when I pictured myself as a writer, I imagined my broad-shouldered torso, expertly fitted in a custom-made tweed sports jacket, sitting before an open window, puffing my pipe while ideas flowed—waterfall and torrent-like—to such an extent that I was forced to find less lofty distractions.
“Be sure to shear those sheep early this year, Bill,” I might throw out at some farm worker of mine, between the incessant clacking of typewriter keys (I was imagining this long ago) and sips of imported tea.
But, for the most part I found myself traveling across the country from sea to not-so-shining sea, staying in seedy hotels, eating questionable fare, getting no sleep, listening to chatty housewives go on about the characters in my books, and as of late, trying to make sense of one town’s flagrant and blossoming idiosyncrasies that led it down a most unwanted path. It wasn’t what I would have imagined for myself, but then, what is?
So here I sit, writing this in the one place I’ve always wanted to be—a twenty-room house built before the Civil War. It has remained untouched by the hands of time: no indoor plumbing or electricity, but the fifteen-foot ceilings and original furnishing more than make up for the lack of modern amenities. I’ve often walked about the place at night after I’ve put some finishing touches on the manuscript you’re about to read. My work is all done by the light of hurricane lamps, fueled by kerosene—very old-fashioned. And I’ve been scanning the collection of books that are in the house’s library—first editions of Dickens (my, he did like a comma, didn’t he?), and even Poe and Proust. Who would have thought that anyone in this area cared for Proust?
Lately, the vicinity that the house sits in has been having those tremendous thunderstorms which seem so very Southern and add to the general gloom and doom of not only my life, but the story I’m sending you as well. You couldn’t order this stuff up from Hollywood if you tried. And the thunderstorms gave me an excellent idea: I’ve thought of flying a kite, à la Benjamin Franklin, seeing if I could be electrocuted. But it’s been done before and I’m a real stickler for originality in matters where death is concerned.
While pondering the many ways I could do myself in, drowning came to mind. But that would entail a long walk as the nearest pond is a mile away and only accessible on foot. (I am, if nothing else, a lazy person, and the well on the property—while deep—is not filled with enough water.)
It was then that I considered drowning myself in my own urine but realized that I would have to fill a bathtub (remember, the house has no plumbing), and even if I could find a receptacle large enough, the process would take weeks before I would be able to stock it with the necessary amount of my own juices. Peeing on an electric fence was out as I have no fence (or electricity for that matter), though the urination theme seemed to be ever-present that particular day.
Next stop was death by hari-kari. Unfortunately, for all the house’s Southern ambience, the “help” I’ve recently had here absconded with the solitary knife that had taken up residence, so disemboweling myself was out. Plus, there’s that clean-up factor again. On the same note, I nixed the idea of a wood chipper since, a) it is noisy, and, b) the nearest one is in Bugger Hollar (yes, there is such a place), which is a good forty miles away. True, some have put it to good use here, but I’m looking for a solution that requires less energy and no gasoline. Besides, who would turn it off once I’m done? Again, the lazy factor raises its unsightly head.
Slitting my wrists seemed like a bad cliché, and strapping explosives to my body would damage the structure of the house and that lovely furniture I’ve told you about—I do have some semblance of respect for the past.
I thought of giving analingus to an AIDS-ridden hooker, but Chalybeate Springs doesn’t have prostitutes (any longer) or AIDS (just about everything else though), and I don’t particularly want the general reading public to know the last place my mouth has been. In addition, the dying process might take months, even years. And what self-respecting (oxymoron alert) prostitute is going to actually tell you she or he (I’m not picky at this point) has AIDS?
I hope you won’t find it too morbid; me giving this house to you after I’ve done away with myself inside the thing. It’s nothing personal—I just want to finish what I’ve started in a comfortable, albeit drafty locale, where I feel I really belong.
As for the citizens in the surrounding towns, you’ll have no problem. I’ll leave them a note explaining who you are and how this whole endeavor came about. Trust me, they’ll understand. In the meantime, I’ll keep trying to come up with a creative way to shuffle off my mortal coil. The latest method I have dreamed up is to read a book by Hemingway and be simply bored to death (the man was a complete idiot and pulling the shotgun with his big toe was the most creative thing he ever did).
In closing, I hope this last epistle of mine finds you in good health, and, when you come down to Chalybeate Springs to claim the house, take my advice—bring a gun.
Parenthetically yours,
Jackson (Tippett) McCrae
P.S. Please do not
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Eatables Psych-Ring
Here I sit, at the Chalybeate Springs Inn, starting my latest literary effort. The room is comfortable enough, and for the time being I expect few disturbances. We shall see what happens, but first, let me start from the beginning or at least somewhere nearer the point in my life where the idea for this book came about so as to better explain how I got where I am.
When my editor called me in New York and asked what I was working on, I searched my desk at home, looking for some subject that I could incorporate into a lie. “I’m working on a story about Eskimos who were transferred to South America now that global warming has reversed the climates,” I said, seeing a carved Walrus tooth as it rose, Pike’s-Peak-like, from a pile of bills and first drafts. (It was imitation—the tooth, not the bills or drafts.) But the idea seemed forced. He wasn’t interested anyway.
“How about a novel on the history of the enema?” I mused into the receiver. He waited, not even bothering to answer that one. I tried to coerce the wheels to turn, thinking of the friends I have and their occupations. I always try to keep people around me who are not a part of the book world, finding that it gives me a great deal of fresh ideas. And it’s healthier. My closest friend works in a lab, performing chemical tests, soil and air analysis, and experiments on various products, looking for lead toxicity or other elements in common everyday items. It sounds boring, I know, but it might come in handy some day. Another is a computer programmer—a bit dull but convenient when you have problems as I so often do with my laptop. And finally I have one who is a furniture designer.
“How about a book on the history of the Eames chair?” I ventured, but Mr. Editor would have none of it. Then my sight fell to the right of my desk; to a pile of mail I had just received that included a letter (I get so many) from a woman, requesting that I come to her town and help put together a cookbook. Before I could fathom the lack of interest this sort of thing would generate sales-wise, I blurted it out.
“Sounds like hell,” was the response, “but you might as well go down there and see if you can make something out of it—you know, find out who these people really are and write about them. Just make sure they don’t find out what you’re doing,” he said.
“Well,” I responded, “barring some unforeseen accident, I should have the manuscript to you in about a month.”
I gazed at the letter from the Southern housewife, now open and in my hand, and gave it a once over.
The correspondence from Chalybeate Springs—from a Miss Henrid—was straightforward enough. About the only thing that struck me as odd was the handwriting—not very feminine and with a touch of, well … something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Nevertheless it was an invitation, and having just been harangued about my next book—of which there was none at present—I accepted the summons, even though it was to a town of only three hundred people and in the middle of the Deep South. I thought that surely something would come from the experience. As I had pulled the letter from the envelope, something had fallen out that I had previously missed. And as I hadn’t bothered to read her note all the way through days before, I had overlooked a valuable money reference.
Here is what the note said:
Dear Mr. McCrae,
I am quite a fan of your work and would like to present you with a proposition: Would it be possible for you to visit our fair town for a few weeks and help the Junior League put together a cookbook of their favorite recipes? My way of thinking is that you could add in some historical facts and maybe even an essay or two for good measure. I must be up front and tell you that I, personally, am not in the Junior League—just yet. This town did have a Junior League over a hundred years ago, but it has long been disbanded. If you could do this favor for the town, perhaps they would look upon certain persons (myself comes to mind), more favorably. I won’t try to hide the fact that I have an ulterior motive in making this request, but my way of thinking is that you might also find some new material for a book—in addition to the cookbook. I hope you will consider this request—it would be such an honor to have a great author such as yourself in our midst. I am enclosing a check for $25,000 in the hope of seducing you to come to Chalybeate Springs.
Very truly yours,
Miss Tuck Henrid
Seduction indeed: of the most glorious kind. And there was a check accompanying the note, just as promised. I wanted to kick myself for missing it previously and actually tried to perform the act. It’s very difficult and I don’t recommend it. The outside of the envelope, as well as the letterhead inside, bore the name Chalybeate Springs. The invitation was two-sided in my mind (not literally as that would have been bad form for any Southern woman, but figuratively.) First of all, the chance to get out of Manhattan for a while was inviting. But I was an unsure traveler. Would this be a Southern Homes and Gardens visit (shameless promotion), or would it be Deliverance? While visions of well-appointed chintz-stuffed antebellum bedrooms, and breakfast in bed served by a pretty woman who called me “Sugar” and “Honey-lamb” danced in my head, I was also aware of the possibility of no air-conditioning, snakes, and people lacking front teeth who asked not-so-innocuous questions such as “You funny, boy?” while fingering a twelve-gauge shotgun and looking for a place to aim their latest gathering of tobacco spit. And they weren’t inquiring about my sense of humor either. Besides, I had absolutely no idea where Chalybeate Springs was.
So I looked on the map for the town.
Nada.
Still, I needed material for the next writing assignment and my editor had been calling each and every day. “Why don’t you just pay me an enormous advance?” I had asked him. “That’s sure to get the creative juices flowing.” But it didn’t happen. And Miss Henrid was offering dollar signs—nothing to sneeze at. I wrote her back—after cashing the check and waiting for it to clear—letting her know that I’d be there in a few days, and set about packing toothpaste, hairbrush, contact lenses, and laptop computer. Surely they had electricity.
I stopped.
What was I thinking? I had grown up in the South. I knew that everyone was acquainted with each other, that you could find culture and civilization right next to towns that barely had phones, and that the gamut of intelligence and manners ran from Antique to Zealous. In short, I knew what the general atmosphere was like. But years of never venturing outside Manhattan’s safe confines had taken their toll and I found myself being overly critical of any place that didn’t offer a sushi bar or massage parlor where the staff spoke twelve languages—or both. I was used to New York now: its manic bustle and throw-around style; its way of talking (a simple jerk of the head upward was all that was needed to say “Hello” where anywhere else it would have been a five minute conversation); its foods, theaters, and united or not-so-united nations of peoples. It’s been said that over one hundred and seventy different languages are spoken in New York. That was the nice thing—that you could remain anonymous and alone, even in a city of eight million proper, choosing to communicate with no one if the mood hit. Yes, it was now home. A trip out of it would clear the head and make New York look new again. Especially a trip to some remote town like Chalybeate Springs.
I tied up what loose ends I could in the city and prepared for my trip. I cleaned out the mailbox in my apartment building’s lobby and alerted the doorman that he would need to collect my letters for a while, telling him that I’d be out of town. He seemed his usual overjoyed self at being asked to perform one more task for no extra money, and grunted. On my way back up to my apartment—to get my bags—I glanced at the incoming correspondence. Nothing too spectacular. But then an unusual envelope postmarked “Chalybeate Springs” grabbed my attention. Was this the illustrious Miss Henrid taking back her invitation? I hoped not. The idea of writing the history of the enema was not an appealing one. But wait, the letter was from someone I’d never heard of—a Mrs. Helen Weems. Here is what it said:
Dear Mr. McCrae,
It was so good of you to offer your services in the planning and editing of our Junior League’s cookbook. I cannot tell you how happy I am that you are coming to our town, and I would like to extend an invitation for you to stay at my lovely home. My husband is the mayor and we have more than enough room. And what a thrill it will be to have a real-live author in our presence!
My best wishes, and may God speed.
Mrs. Helen Weems
“What the …?” I thought. How did she know I was coming? And it sounded as if she thought I’d written her. It was strange, but I had to be on my way to the airport and figured that I would address the issue when I got to the town. And stay in her home? I’d never met the woman! How did she know I didn’t walk in my sleep or that I didn’t have thirty body piercings and green hair? For that matter, how did I know she didn’t? Perhaps she was just being kind, displaying Southern hospitality. Or perhaps her invitation was a hollow one; not really meant to be acted upon. I would figure it out when I arrived in Chalybeate Springs, so I made my way out of Manhattan and began the journey.
By the grace of God, nothing remarkable happened between the time I made my plane reservations and the wheels of the 747 touched down at Atlanta’s airport. A labyrinth of such enormous proportions so as to confuse even the most learned student of geometry or professional surveyor, Atlanta’s hub of air transportation activity is not for the faint-hearted. I somehow found my way to one of the airport’s areas where smaller planes took off—for smaller places. This was nothing new to me. I’d been home to visit relatives several times, but at least those towns had more than a couple hundred people.
I unzipped my laptop case to take out my cell phone—to let my editor know that I was on my way and to check and see how the sales were on my latest book.
It wasn’t there (the cell phone, not the book).
I looked again, panic-stricken. I had forgotten my phone. “Stay calm,” I said, as they called my fight to board. “You can always get in touch by regular phone or use e-mail,” and I took a deep breath and boarded the plane.
When the twin engine propeller aircraft finally bumped to a stop in some place called Swillville (swear to God—I could see the sign from the plane), I disembarked. The plane’s exiting gear wasn’t exactly what I was used to as it was one of those fold-down step things. You know, made for presidential photo ops or old film reels of Marilyn Monroe gently making her way earthward while her knees rub together and Jo DiMaggio scowls in the background?
Just as I reached the tarmac, a rather burly law enforcement person of considerable size and attitude did a toe-to-toe dance with me. I backed up. He came forward. I noticed his badge. It said simply, “Sheriff.” Very Western.
“You that McCrae fella?” he asked, removing the salami-sized cigar from his lips for a moment, then replacing it. It bobbed no less than a quarter of an inch from my face. I felt, nay, heard three eyelashes singe and curl up. I tried to ease back.
“That would be me. Anything wrong?” I asked, holding on tightly to the one bag and computer case I had.
“Naw.” He waited, eyeing me up and down. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong.” He waited again. It was all coming back to me now—the pregnant pauses in the South, either designed for maximum discomfort of the other fellow, or simply because the person one was having repartee with needed time to think. I wasn’t sure what the reason was at that moment, but didn’t care; I just wanted to get to my hotel and rest. Sheriff Big-Smoke Cliché continued after taking the cigar out of his mouth once again and flicking two inches worth of ash onto the asphalt. “Sent here to collect you up,” he said, turning his head to the side and squinting. He removed his hat and scratched his balding head, all the while surveying a line of trees to his left, on the side of the small airstrip.
My nerves were getting the better of me. I wasn’t sure why someone had been sent to “collect” me, and the guy didn’t look like he was going to ask me to join his poker game (I don’t play), so I moved from foot to foot, squinting at the harsh sun.
“Wouldn’t have thought a town of this size would have an airstrip,” I said, attempting nonchalance. Unfortunately, my voice broke on the word “size” and I sounded all of thirteen. The sheriff squinted. I went on. “I mean, I couldn’t find this place on the map and …”
“Ain’t no real airstrip,” the man said, readjusting the hat atop his head and rolling his cigar between two sausage-like fingers. “Pig field. Belongs to Old Man Reynolds. (Double puff, deep inhale, thirty-second wait, exhale.) “Just leveled it off last year,” he finally managed.
“Must have been expecting me,” I tried to joke. He eyed me again as his tongue lapped around the end of the Havana smoker. There was a pregnant pause again, only this time he was evidently expecting twins.
“Musta been,” he said, never taking his eyes from me. “And this here’s Swillville. You’s goin’ to Chalybeate.”
After a set of triplets and two miscarriages, he gestured toward a police car. “Better get goin’ if you’re to get rested up afore you get started.”
“Guess there’s no rental car in this place,” I said sheepishly, trying to add a smile to my face.
“Nope. I’m it.”
At that moment, a nice-looking man sauntered over toward where the sheriff and I were standing.
“Well, speak of the devil,” the sheriff said, and grasped the man’s hand, pumping it up and down. “I’s just tellin’ this here Mr. McCrae that this used to be your pig farm.” Then My Collector turned to me: “Mr. McCrae, this here is Mr. Reynolds.” Then to Reynolds: “This here is Mr. McCrae.”
“I’m pleased to meet you,” the new man said, extending a firm handshake and a smile in my direction.
Mr. Law Enforcement broke in: “Reynolds here might have had to move his farm, but he sure does have some fine sows. Ooooooooo-weeeeeee! And got a damn fine slaughter and smoke house too.”
“Then why haven’t you bought any pork from me for the last five years?” Mr. Reynolds asked the large cigar that was attaching itself to the sheriff.
“Now, you know I come over from time to time to That’s All Folks and pick me up some good chops and ribs.”
Reynolds looked at the sheriff. “Not near enough. And I don’t know who you’ve been buyin’ your contest pork from …” and he turned to me, “but the sheriff here makes the best chili in seven counties. Wins the cook-off every year.” Then he put his hand to the side of his face, pretending to shield his comments from the officer. “Personally, I think he’s been using beef, but I can’t prove it.”
The sheriff piped in, toward me: “No, ain’t used no beef, and he’s got some good pigs,” he said, indicating Reynolds, “but man, he’s high on the price.”
I couldn’t hold back. “Your pig farm and slaughter house are called That’s All Folks?” Both men ignored me.
“Tell you what,” Mr. Reynolds said to the officer, “you come on over this year and I’ll match any price you get, anywhere. I guarantee I’ll give you a lower price than anyone else—that is, if you promise to buy from me.”
“You know what?” the big armed-with-gun man said, “Let’s shake on that. It’s a done deal. You give me the best price and I guarantee I’ll use them fat pink snortin’ things this year in my chili recipe.”
“Deal,” Reynolds said, and both men shook. Then Taxi & Co. turned to me, putting his hand on my shoulder. “Got to be gettin’ Mr. McCrae here on his way.”
“Any hotels in the town?” I asked.
The sheriff looked at me sideways. Then Mr. Reynolds spoke: “You ain’t got no place to stay, with folks, I mean?”
“Well, I did get a sort of invitation, but I’m not sure if it was serious or not. I thought if there was a motel or something that …” I started to say to Reynolds, but my personal chauffeur held up his hand and shot me a look.
“I know where I’m a-takin’ you.” (Twins again.) He looked around at the leveled pig farm. “You just put yourself in my hands and everthin’ll be okay. I’ll take care of you. Got it? Know just the place where you can stay.”
I heard myself say the words and they shocked me as I’m not one to offer them up easily, but out they came nevertheless. “Yes, Sir,” I said, and followed his pair of overly beefy buttocks to the patrol car as Mr. Reynolds waved good-bye.
Copyright ©2007 Jackson Tippett McCrae
