It
was a cool West Virginia summer evening and the wife and I had just
finished a
late supper of her famous steak & stinkers—cube steak and fried ramps. The sun was starting to set over the hills
behind us, turning the mountains to the east purple and casting a glow
over the
whole valley. We'd retired to the porch
to enjoy a beer, with our feet propped up on the rusty old deep freeze
that I
still ain't gotten round to getting rid of.
It seemed a natural setting in which to open discussions
for where our
Saturday evening might lead us. We were
part way into negotiations when we were interrupted, mid-smooch, by the
grind
of half-bald tires on the gravel road.
I saw the yellow door panel on the otherwise red Dodge
pick-up and knew
it was Virgil Hawks pulling up.
"Evenin',
Virgil," I said as he staggered up the walk. "What
brings you out this...?" My voice dropped
off as I caught sight of
Virgil's face. It was ghost white and
held an expression of what I can only describe as pants-filling terror. "Hell, Virgil.
What's wrong?"
"Jeff,
I'm in trouble somethin’ fierce.
Evenin' Marsha," he said, touching the bill of his cap to
my wife
with one hand. His other hand held the
stub of a cigarette.
"Can't
be all that bad, Virg."
"Oh,
yes it can."
"Well,
okay then. Come on up and tell us about
it."
Virgil
scratched at the back of his sandy-colored head. "No. I'd rather
not. I think you best come out to the
truck, Jeff. Somethin’ you probably
ought to see."
I
shrugged an apology in Marsha's direction for my untimely departure
from
negotiations. Not having much use for
Virgil, she frowned and went in the house while I followed him on out
to the
drive.
Virgil
popped open the tailgate of his Dodge.
An old tarp in the truck bed was covering
something big and lumpy. He pulled back
the edge of it. THE STORY CONTINUES IN THE MOUNTAIN VOICES ANTHOLOGY OF WV WRITERS  |
