Arkansas Gothic: Part One

    It was a dark and stormy night. Esmeralda was busily crocheting a new scarf for her second cousin Albert. She had already made scarves for her immediate family and was working her way through the extended. Why she never learned how to make anything more complicated than a scarf is still a mystery. She says it calms her down when she's scared, and Esmeralda spooks easily.

    The weather lady on channel 9 had warned Esmeralda of the coming thunderstorm earlier that day with ominous looking Doppler radar time progressions. Esmeralda watched in horror as the wall of green, yellow, red, and yes, even black crawled across rural Arkansas and promptly drove to the Yarn Barn for the night's all too necessary supplies.

    Driving along the backcountry highway, Esmeralda was filled with a strange sense of dread she attributed to the omnipresent kudzu. What malefactions might be found within a plant she knew not, but marveled at how the chaotic green mass grew so rapidly in the warmer months. It was the rain, she told herself, while trying not to think about the impending storm.

    Mr. Carl Appleby, proud owner of the Yarn Barn and citizen of some esteem, greeted Esmeralda with a warm smile as she entered. "Esmeralda's fixing for some yarn," he said with a sly twinkle in his eye, "guess that means rain."

    "Oh, it'll be a doozy. The weatherman says there's a tornado watch startin' at 9 o'clock."

    "Uh oh, I won't have time to get home after I close shop. Guess I'll have to weather out the storm at Harry's. I'm sure the missus will understand."

    Esmeralda smiled at Carl's small act of rebellion. Mrs. Appleby could be a bit much at times. Carl's subsequent drinking problem was one of the town's poorly kept secrets. When Esmeralda asked the local Deacon if someone should do something about it, the Reverend reminded her that sometimes a little vice can help out with the bigger virtues. Two Sundays later, Esmeralda presented him with a scarf in a touch of mischief.

    She left the Yarn Barn with three hundred yards of Lion Bouclé. It was expensive, yes, but she thought the bright colors would cheer her as the wind rattled her windows. Esmeralda may not have been the most gifted of creatures, but she knew herself well enough to get by. It's hard for old people to live alone, and seven years had passed since John did.

    She resolved to make a scarf for John. Another one.

-

    The sparrows sang their secrets to the wind as the eleven o'clock train pulled into station. A bell announced its arrival since the shriek of the steam whistle was long ago silenced by the advances made in diesel engines. The sound of the stranger's feet landing on the gravel train tracks was as meaningless as that of a fallen tree's in a zen koan. No one saw him wander into town that day.

    Harry disliked the man who sat down at the bar around noon. He was a transient as near as Harry could tell, with matted, unwashed hair and an unkempt beard to match. The stranger's clothes were as worn as can get while still retaining the basic properties of clothing. And the smell coming off him was something else entirely. Still, his money was just as green as anyone else's and he kept to himself in the corner, watching the game on the old black and white Harry had set up by the pool table. He didn't even seem to notice when Harry moved the fan to blow his stink towards the bathroom.

    The stranger didn't say much beyond what was necessary to order, seemingly content to stare at the flickering box and nurse one beer after another. Harry would have forgotten about him entirely except for the occasional grunt signifying that his bottle was empty. Eventually, Harry brought over a bucket of ice and a six-pack and told the stranger he could settle it when he leaved. After that, he did forget about the stranger until Carl popped in about six, first friendly face he'd seen all day.

    The corner was empty save for the bucket, six empty bottles, and a crumpled twenty-dollar bill. The television was quiet but Harry couldn't recall when the stranger must have turned it off. He let it slide as Carl threw his damp jacket over a bar stool and said hello. Harry already had a bottle of Jameson in his hand when he asked, "Howdy, Carl. What can I get for ya?"

    "Same as always, Harry," who poured out three fingers over ice.

    "Looks like you caught yourself some rain out there."

    "Oh yeah, it's a doozy. Esmeralda even dropped by."

    "She did? Well, I better go let Tulip in then. You know how she gets during a storm."

    "I hear that."

    Carl polished off his drink while Harry went around back. Not wanting to trouble the barman, Carl poured himself another glass of whiskey and walked over to the pool table. He turned the television on to check out the latest weather report when the stench hit him. "Jesus Christ! Harry, when was the last time you cleaned the toilets in this dump?"

    Harry stomped in from behind the bar, soaked to the bone. "Damn dog musta chewed through the gate latch!"

    The weather lady said something about flash flooding, but Carl wasn't listening. "Hey Harry, do you know why the hell it smells like dead possum over here?"

    "No, I cleaned them bath-"

    He remembered the stranger from earlier and stopped cold. The beep-beep of the severe weather alert echoed through the small bar. Harry started for the bathroom muttering, "that stinking bastard. That no good, rotten son of a bitch!"

    Harry slammed the restroom door open and both men were inundated with the odor of an open septic tank on a warm day. Carl doubled over and retched right there on the floor, dropping his whiskey in the process. Harry just stood there, wide-eyed and blubbering like a schoolgirl.

    "Aww...Tulip."

Continued