Crawdad Creek chapter one

 

 

 

 

Crawdad Creek

 

 

 

 

A Novel

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Andrew K. Berger

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The nice thing about living in a small town is that when you don’t know what you’re doing, someone else does.

 

                      Immanuel Kant

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

1.

            Only one road leads in and out of Crawdad Creek, and Thomas Sawyer was unfortunately on it. He was driving a beat-up Country Squire station wagon with the iconic wood panel siding, with all of his worldly possessions crammed inside, and wondering how his life now boiled down to one option, teaching English to a bunch of mouth breathers in Mayberry. The town itself would have remained virtually unknown to all but the people who lived there, if not for the events of the previous summer, involving the spectacular demise of its only noteworthy resident, Senator Langston Harwood. Sawyer figured this was exactly the sort of place to go when it was time to implode.

            Life was not supposed to turn out like this. Sawyer’s father was a personal injury attorney and his mother a school librarian. He grew up in a big city, weaned on symphony and musical theatre and art galleries, not tractor pulls and demolition derbies and hot dog eating contests. Paul and Linda Sawyer didn’t intentionally raise their son to be a snob, it was more like simple osmosis. He fancied himself a writer, but his initial forays into the literary scene were soundly rebuffed by agents and publishers, sticking their fingers in the dike wherever his writing started seeping through. Just like his writing, Sawyer’s marriage fizzled out after his college sweetheart, Kelli, suffered a midlife crisis, awaking one fine morning to the realization that her husband was the cul-de-sac of American literature, and she was in love with a two stepper in cowboy boots she’d met while hanging out with her gal pals at a favorite local watering hole. After an amicable divorce lacking any children or substantial property to divide, Sawyer took the first job for which he was still qualified and skedaddled out of town.

            He had heard of Crawdad Creek, population and elevation negligible, because it was home to the Harwood family ranch, but Sawyer had failed to use his admittedly limited imagination to conjure what life might be like in a town that small. He had been recruited in the city and took the job at Crawdad Creek High School, home of the Crawlers, sight unseen. How bad could it be if two generations of United States Senators had called it home? As it was quickly becoming demoralizingly apparent to Sawyer, pretty bad.

As he approached his new hometown, there were none of the typical signs that one was about to leave the Great Plains for any sort of civilization or even modest oasis, such as billboards or service stations or hotels, or maybe an industrial park. Rather, the first sign of being in town was also pretty much the last sign. The town planners were nothing if not efficient. Every building had some sort of dual purpose, perhaps taking a cue from the county government building, comprising the courthouse, city offices, county sheriff and jail. Then there was the local post office piggybacked to the Piggly Wiggly, a Tastee Freez with a café, a thrift store competing with a Dollar General, and the public-school building hosting elementary through high school, where Sawyer was going to work. Surrounding all that splendor was a smattering of s**t box houses, a sprawling trailer park with a huge gateway sign announcing the mistakenly named “Hidden Acres,” and a bowling alley that shared space with a local tavern, where one could presumably lose one’s spouse to a cowboy. In short, Crawdad Creek had everything a fella so inclined to small town life could want or need, and nothing Sawyer was remotely interested in. A rancid pit grew in his stomach, and his brain screamed to his right foot to floor it, hit the gas and don’t look back.

            Sawyer drove a little further down the main street past a car wash/used car dealer, a Shell station/McDonalds, a beauty salon/tattoo parlor, an auto parts store/insurance agency, and finally an Evangelical church/VFW, and found himself heading back to the Plains, all within a couple miles. He recalled coming to one four-way stop. There was not even a single traffic light. It was a one-horse town all right, but without the horse, and without the town, and without even the creek it was named after. He had arranged to rent a place in town, and realized as he turned around by the county fairgrounds/raceway on the edge of town how appropriate his rusty old station wagon would look parked in front of one of the houses he had passed. Most of the houses and businesses didn’t have numbers on their doors or mail boxes, because really, why bother? Sawyer was supposed to meet the rental agent at the Crawdad Creek Café, which he figured would have jumped out at him somewhere on the main drag, but no such luck. He was actually going to need directions from one of the locals if he was going to navigate his way to his new abode. His GPS was stumped by this tiny slice of Americana.

            He pulled into the Tastee Freez, which happened to be staffed that day by a couple of local kids who would soon play a significant role in his life, Shelby Harwood, daughter of the now disgraced senator, and her loyal boyfriend, Glen Campbell, that’s right Glen Campbell, son of a country music loving over the road trucker. The rental agent he was supposed to meet happened to be Glen’s mom, Bev Campbell, who among her many hats managed Hidden Acres, and the café without a sign, and Sawyer’s rental property. The Country Squire chugged to a halt in front of the building, and Sawyer got out and peered through the service window to see Shelby and Glen, both wearing cut off jean shorts and t-shirts, fooling around by the soft serve machine. It looked for all the world to be blatant sexual harassment, except that both parties were smiling and laughing as they groped their way into each other’s parts unknown. Shelby noticed the stranger at the window, who would be her new English teacher in the upcoming school year, and unlocked her legs from around Glen’s waist and jumped down from the prep counter where she had been sitting. She pointed at the window and both kids flashed Sawyer a bashful smile.

            “Sorry about that,” Shelby said. “What can I get you?”

            “Directions,” Sawyer said. “I seem to be lost. I’m looking for the Crawdad Creek Café.”

            “Then you’re not lost at all,” Shelby said. “It’s right next door.”

            Sawyer looked at the girl, feeling a little foolish. Of course it was next door, no other building in town boasted of being a café with a tiny sign over the entry. 

            “Okay,” Sawyer said. “I thought there would be a big sign on the street or something.”

            “You’re not from around here, are you?” Glen said, insightfully.

            “No, just got here,” Sawyer said.

            “Sweet ride,” Glen said, referring to the station wagon. “We used to have one of those when I was a kid.”

            Sawyer wondered how anyone could describe the heap he was driving as sweet. He had just purchased it from a used car lot that summer, after finalizing his divorce and taking the new job. For Sawyer, it fulfilled three basic criteria, it was cheap, it ran, and it would fit all those worldly possessions. He didn’t have any expectations other than it delivering him to Crawdad Creek, where it could gasp its last breath for all he cared.

            “I’m supposed to meet a Bev Campbell at the café,” Sawyer said. “Maybe one of you knows her?”

            “You could say that,” Glen said. He stepped back from the service window and yelled through an interior door connecting to the café. “Hey, Mom, some guy’s here.”

            Sawyer started to comprehend the kind of Peyton Place he had so hastily adopted in his quest to start a new life. Glen’s mom appeared, all curly hair and makeup, behind a greasy smock.

            “This guy says he’s here to see you,” Glen said.

            “Is that right,” Bev said. “What can I do you for?”

            “I’m Thomas Sawyer. I spoke to you on the phone about the place for rent.”

            “Oh, yes, yes, I’ve been expecting you,” Bev said. “Come on over next door, darlin’, and I’ll get you all fixed up.”

            Sawyer walked over to the entry marked “café” on the other side of the Tastee Freez building. He was still sure that he’d made a terrible mistake, that he wasn’t going to make it living in such a rural fish bowl, but he was encouraged to be called darlin’. There was something so welcoming about it. He imagined everyone he would meet was going to be as suited to their natural habitat. It was somehow touching, but at the same time magnified what an outsider he was.

            “Step into my office,” Bev said, as he came through the café door, ushering him into a backroom off the kitchen, cramped by a desk cluttered with stacks of paperwork and an ancient desktop computer, underneath a few messy shelves and a bulletin board littered with notices and flyers, along with an old fashioned time clock and punch cards. “Have a seat,” she said, as she moved a box of miscellaneous what-nots to the floor. “So, you’re gonna be the new English teacher.”

            “Guilty,” Sawyer quipped, trying to hide his buyer’s remorse.

            “Guess you didn’t hear what they did to the last one,” Bev said.

            Sawyer looked at her with a panicked brow. “What’s that?”

            “Nothing,” Bev smiled. “I’m just messin’ with you. So, you’ve met my son and his girlfriend. They’ll probably be in one of your classes. They’ll both be seniors this year.”

            “I’m not sure if I’d say we’d met,” Sawyer said. “I had just asked for directions when you came in.”

            “Well, my boy’s name is Glen,” Bev said. “He’s probably never going to forgive us for that one, but his daddy insisted.”

            “I can understand,” Sawyer said. “It can be a real pain having a famous name sometimes. That’s why I always go by Sawyer instead of Tom.”

            “I don’t think I follow,” Bev said. She rolled it over in her head. “Oh, I get it, Tom Sawyer. Yeah, I can see where that might get a little old.”

            “And his spunky girlfriend?” Sawyer asked.

            “That’s Shelby,” Bev said. “Shelby Harwood. A real sad story that one is. You probably heard about it on the news last year. Her poor little brother, Bobby, killed in that awful accident and her father, the senator, going to prison for drunk driving.”

            “Yes, very sad,” Sawyer said. Naturally, he had heard about it. The country had obsessed over it for the better part of the previous summer, prominent senior senator and potential future presidential candidate kills his only son while driving drunk after a campaign fundraiser at the family ranch, where one of his rich donors presented him with a Cadillac convertible that simply had to be driven that very day.

            “Shelby and her poor mom had to move back to the ranch full time from Washington,” Bev said. “It was all they had left. Her mom’s a wreck, of course. I think she drinks, but you didn’t hear it from me. We just took pity on the poor girl, practically took her in.”

            “That’s very kind of you,” Sawyer said.

            “So, what brings you to our little hamlet, if you don’t mind my asking,” Bev said. “I mean, I know you took the job, but why Crawford Creek? Surely, there were plenty of other places you could ply your trade.”

            “It’s a fair question,” Sawyer said. “I’ve been asking myself that all day now.” He looked at Bev for signs of offense. “But just kidding, really. From what I’ve seen so far, it looks like a charming little town.”

            “Charming my a*s,” Bev said. “It’s a boil on the nation’s butt if you asked me, but what can I say, we like to call it home. I’m just wondering why someone would come here, like voluntarily.”

            “A fresh start, you might say,” Sawyer said. “I just got divorced and took the first job I could find, anywhere I could get far away from my ex.”

            “You picked the right place, then, I expect. No one’s ever gonna come looking for you here.”

            “I’m counting on it,” Sawyer said.

            “Just do me one favor,” Bev said. “If my boy and Shelby wind up in the same class, put them as far apart as humanly possible or ain’t one of ‘em gonna get a thing done, if you know what I mean.”

            “Yes, I think so,” Sawyer said. “They seemed rather cozy with each other just now.”

            “Cozy’s one way of puttin’ it,” Bev said. “Another is I’m gonna have a bunch of grandbabies on my hands if them two don’t cool it.”

            “I’ll keep an eye on them, you have my word,” Sawyer said. “So, what can you tell me about my new home?”

            “Well, you probably already drove by it,” Bev said. “It’s just a couple blocks from here. You can walk to work, no problem. I’ve got some paperwork somewhere around here to sign, and then I can take you over there.”

            Sawyer signed away the next year of his life on a lease and put down a deposit and first month’s rent. He had already signed a one-year contract with the school district, so there was no backing out. The worst that could happen was he’d endure a year of down-home wisdom and local charm and then move on.

            Or possibly die from mold.

            Sawyer’s rental had suffered a requisite level of neglect and then some. It had been unoccupied for over a year. The “lawn” was basically a weed museum. The siding was peeling paint like a sun burnt Conan O’Brien shedding skin. Bev struggled first with the storm door, and then the lock on the main door. When they finally gained entry, they were both a little hobbled by the stench.

            “What do you say we open some windows,” Bev said. “Place just needs a little fresh air.”

            “Do you think?” Sawyer said.

            The place had been advertised as furnished, but everything inside screamed crack house. After the two of them waged battle for a while with windows and light fixtures and appliances, there was a knock on the storm door, and Sawyer’s new next-door neighbor popped his head inside.

            “Howdy there,” the man said. “Name’s Ray. I live next door. We’re gonna be neighbors.” Sawyer looked at the man and gave him a slight nod as he walked right on inside. “Oh, hey there Beverly,” Ray said when he saw Bev. He looked at Sawyer and said with a wink. “I see you’ve found another victim, I mean tenant, for this place. Don’t worry, the rats are friendly and the bed bugs don’t bite.”

            “Hey, Raymond,” Bev said. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t scare the man away on his very first day.” She turned to Sawyer. “Don’t mind him. He’s harmless. You have to understand a certain amount of local character comes with the territory.”

            “I see you’ve got quite a load out there,” Ray said, referring to the worldly possessions in the Country Squire. “Could you use a hand?”

            “It’s not that much,” Sawyer said. “I think I can handle it. I wouldn’t want to put you out.”

            “Nonsense,” Ray said. “What are neighbors for?”

            Bev looked at Sawyer and shrugged. “You’re not going to get rid of him that easily. You might as well put him to good use.”

            So, the trio unloaded the wagon and plopped everything down inside Sawyer’s new living room. The totality of his possessions was a humbling sight. Sawyer thought if the entire place could just go up in flames that night, his life would be improved immeasurably. After the final load, Sawyer closed the tailgate to the wagon and they lingered awkwardly for a while.

            “You really should do something about this grass,” Ray said to Bev. He turned to Sawyer. “I’ve been telling her for years she should hire someone to fix this yard.”

            “Maybe you could tell me who performed the miracle on your lawn, Ray,” Bev said. They looked over at Raymond’s property, and it was hard to tell where one “lawn” ended and the other began.

            “Well, listen, thanks for all the help,” Sawyer said. “I’d love to hang around and chew the fat with you folks, but I’m afraid I’ve still got miles to go before I sleep.”

            “Okay,” Ray said. “I can take a hint. But just remember, if you ever need anything, just holler.”

            “Same goes for me,” Bev said. “I’m just a phone call away.”

            Sawyer watched as Ray sloped back to his front porch, and Bev walked down the street toward the café. He was happy to be alone again, and thought he’d taken in enough local color for one day. He was wrong. He still had official business to finish if he wanted the basics like sewer and water, gas and electricity, garbage service and internet. If he still lived in the big city, it would take hours driving from place to place, and days waiting for service technicians. But as he learned from Bev, Crawdad Creek had one stop shopping for all of that, the service counter at the Piggly Wiggly. In a single afternoon, he arranged all his utilities with a woman named Barb at the grocery store, laid in a week of food and supplies, and got home in time to meet with a super knowledgeable young guy named Tyler, who brought his house back into the twenty-first century. At least that much could be said of small-town life. It was ridiculously convenient.

Author’s note: If you are enjoying my writing, you can check out the opening chapters of my first published novel at Divertir Publishing.