Fourtune's Yoke

By S.P. Huddleston

It is said that the more things change, the more they stay the same. But do they really?

Fortune's Yoke explores in depth the lives of characters coming from diverse backgrounds and stations in life. The common thread among them is that all lead lives set in motion toward a clearly carved-out destiny.

Set in the dark and bloody ground of the Appalachian coalfields, the novel is a gritty, unapologetic examination of the human spirit with all its frailties, imperfections, and magnificence.

It is the mid-1970s, and the coal market is booming. Life in the small coal town Whitehurst is vibrant. Prosperity and optimism reign. Coal trucks grind incessantly through the hills, and mining jobs abound.

Within this hum of activity, plans are made and schemes hatched. How does one react when life's road comes upon an unexpected fork? Bankers and hermits, tavern keepers and debutantes, lawyers and miners, good Samaritans and adulterers must all confront that dilemma and themselves. The results are various and surprising.

The tumultuous story offers a thorough view of the rich life, culture, and politics of a rough-and-tumble part of the world in a time gone by, putting the reader in Whitehurst with all its glory and infamy.

The author imposes no value judgments. The tale is told, and readers are given the respect to make of it what they will.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Newman Springs Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jun 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9798887634326

Book preview

Table of Contents

Title

Copyright

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About the Author

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Fourtune’s Yoke

S.P. Huddleston

Copyright © 2023 S.P. Huddleston

All rights reserved

First Edition

NEWMAN SPRINGS PUBLISHING

320 Broad Street

Red Bank, NJ 07701

First originally published by Newman Springs Publishing 2023

ISBN 979-8-88763-431-9 (Paperback)

ISBN 979-8-88763-432-6 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

This book is dedicated to Mattie Harris Pearce and to Rhonda, who somehow lived through the writing of it.

1

George Colyer listened to the familiar clackety-clack rattle of the man-car passing over the steel rails.

He kept his head bent low against the metal floor of the car, shoulders hunched as if in anticipation of an impending and unseen blow. He was lying on his side in a twisted fashion, much like one would expect to find the unconscious victim of a long fall. His legs were slightly curled and held together in an uneven manner. His round hat, resting between his head and the floor of the man-car, pressed hard against his ear.

The position was unnatural for the human body. An uncomfortable position for most, but George was not the least ill-at-ease. For twelve years, he had assumed just such a posture, twice a day, five—sometimes six—days a week.

It was not simply that past practice had inured Colyer to physical discomfort but rather that a life largely composed of deprivation and emotional strain had taught Colyer the insignificance of short-lived pain, however severe.

Physical pain was easy to overcome. One merely needed the fortitude to endure. Having passed, pain no longer existed, was no longer pertinent to the continuity of life. The anguish of hungry dependents, the frustration of one's inability to function within the prevailing system, the hopeless and inevitable alienation from one's upbringing, such was the anguish through which George Colyer had come. He was thirty-five years old and accustomed to pains that did not vanish when muscles and tissues ceased sending impulses to the brain. They were pains George Colyer had vowed never to experience again. He was a man of determined resolve and would not allow it. It was as simple as that. No, it was not as simple as that.

The fact of the matter was that George Colyer's primary motivation was to ensure that he and his never suffered such degradation. And so it was that to assume an awkward position in the man-car for forty-five minutes, twice a day, was of no consequence. George turned his head ever so slightly and shifted his eyes for an upward look. He saw the gray rock whirring by about fifteen inches above his head. The blurry grayness was broken at regular intervals by the fleeting passage of a darkened line George knew to be the squared wooden support beam holding that gray rock in place, fifteen inches above his head. The angle at which he held his eyes caused George's head to hurt, so he again cast his eyes downward into the blackness, caused as much by the proximity of his own dark clothing to his eyes as by the absence of light.

Having returned to the darkness, George closed his eyes and set his mind adrift. He could hear in the background a low muffled murmuring he knew to be the conversation of other man-trip passengers. But George had no desire to converse. These man-trips were the only times he allowed himself the luxury of introspection.

His thought set upon his status in life and how he arrived at this particular station. It was his favorite subject at these times. He had plenty to be ashamed of, but he had risen above that, and nobody, no set of circumstances, would pull him back into those nightmares. Yet he knew these were not nightmares but realities continually lived out by unfortunates in every corner of an unjust world. No, he decided, unfortunate was not accurate. Nobody had been born into a more impossible and useless situation than he. Yet, through perseverance, he had overcome every obstacle. He reasoned that one who wanted justice in this world must fight to attain it and be jealously vigilant to meet and conquer any challenge to his personal justice.

While he knew it wasn't his best self, George derived satisfaction, in spite of himself, thinking about people more intelligent than he crumbling under pressures he had long since mastered.

Not that he lacked compassion or wished ill fate upon his fellow man, but he figured that if he was taking care of himself, well, that was one small step toward solving all man's problems. He reasoned, defiantly, as if debating an unseen adversary, This world would be a damn sight better off if every man would just take care of himself.

The ferocity with which he formulated this last thought had drained George. Thus he tried to settle back into a more pleasant stream of consciousness. If it weren't for some minor problems at home, his life would be close to perfect. Betty was acting a little contrary lately. Things weren't being taken care of around the house, and it had been two weeks since George had slept with the ease that follows the release of passion. Women are naturally moody, he concluded. Maybe it was time they had a child.

George had refused to consider children during their four years of marriage. He wasn't about to father a child until he was in a position to provide adequately. Betty was probably just suffering from a frustrated motherhood instinct. Anyway, he had control of his life and could deal with whatever happened. He would speak with Betty about a baby tomorrow.

George felt the man-car gradually slowing and finally coming to a halt. He didn't move but sensed a lightening of the space around him. As the man-car began to creep very slowly forward, he felt a canvas material brush across his head and shoulders. He moved his arm so as to guide the canvas over his body as the man-car proceeded through the canvas-draped portal within the earth. Such canvas curtains appeared at various points along the underground tracks. They helped direct the proper flow of air into the subterranean labyrinth.

After passing through this last canvas, George lifted his head and propped his body up with his elbow. It was safe now to lift his head. Ahead he could see a small white circle. George felt the brisk breeze blowing into his face—a result of the large fans on the outside working incessantly to push air into the underground maze from which George Colyer would momentarily emerge. The cool air chilled his face as it struck his perspiring flesh. He felt good.

It was Friday, and he had plans. George licked his lips in a subconscious attempt to savor the cold beer that he would soon be eagerly consuming. He tasted only the dirty grit of black dust which covered his face.

The white circle had grown larger with each succeeding moment. Suddenly, George and his co-passengers burst into the world of light and color. The mid-October sun was beginning its descent. Still, the light hurt the dilated pupils of the passengers' eyes. The chill of the air felt good to George after spending nine hours in the temperate underground climate.

When the man-car came to a halt, George stood up and stepped down about two feet to the ground. Men were dispersing and gathering all about. Some—the dusty, blackened ones—were leaving the premises or heading to the bathhouse, having completed their day's work. Others were assembling to board a man-car for the trip within the earth to their work places. George walked toward the one-storied frame building which served as the superintendent's office.

Inside the building, he mechanically thumbed through a stack of printed forms bearing the letterhead: Jimmerson Ridge Coal Company Inc. They were reports to be signed by the mine foreman at the end of each shift. The reports had already been completed by the assistant foreman and awaited George's signature. George always sent the assistant foreman out of the mine a little early to prepare the necessary reports. George wasn't much for paperwork. He thought it a bunch of nonsense for the purpose of providing far-off bureaucrats with jobs. His mind was on the night's activities as he signed the reports, leaving a smudgy handprint on each one.

After peeling off his dark khaki jump suit and removing his yellow hard-hat, George rolled the work suit in a ball around the yellow hat and tossed it into the bed of his blue-green pick-up truck. No time for the shower-house tonight. He'd catch a quick bath at home.

As he wound his way home on the narrow mountain road, George felt a bit of weariness sink in. Child's play compared to that to which he had once been accustomed. He leaned over to pluck a cassette from the glove compartment and thrust it into a tape player.

From the surrounding hillsides sprang forth a cheerful array of bright reds, oranges, and yellows. It would have seemed to an aesthetic that the autumn woodlands were bravely straining for one last and glorious hurrah before succumbing to the inevitable ravages of winter. George didn't notice the scenery as he drove. He knew the beauty was there. He had often enjoyed it as a youth. He just wasn't interested in nature's splendor. Such things were not significant to him anymore.

After a hot bath and a revitalizing meal, George kissed Betty at the doorway of their doublewide mobile home and climbed back into his blue-green pick-up truck. As he was backing the truck up the steep incline of his gravel driveway, he looked down upon his home. Someday, he thought wistfully, he would build a proper home. But that narrow strip of flat land at the base of that towering hill had cost him a pretty penny. He would have to wait until that was paid off before building any house. Flat land did not come cheap in Jimmerson County.

George did not pine long for his proper home. After all, this was Friday night. And his brief stop at home had left him reassured of his domestic situation. Betty had a rib-sticking meal waiting when he arrived—fried pork chops, mashed potatoes, and baked apples were good eating for a man with drinking to do—and she had hinted she might still be awake when he got home. A good limbering-up with the boys followed by a spirited workout in the bedroom would be a dandy way to end a week as far as he was concerned.

George pulled his truck into the pot-holed parking lot adjacent to a white frame building with dark green window shutters which might have passed for a two-bedroom suburban home had not its identity been betrayed by a flashing neon sign which proclaimed Smiley's Place—Cold Beer.

As George entered the roadhouse, he saw Donnie Harker and a group of men with their backsides to him sitting at a table in the corner. When Harker spied George enter the room, his broad smile disappeared and his conversation abruptly halted. The other men, sensing the change in their cohort, ceased their merriment and nervously turned to see who or what was approaching. George was somewhat pleased at having disrupted the gaiety.

Harker flashed a big smile and loudly announced, Well, there's Ol' Georgie-boy, whudaya know there George?

George saw the other men at the table give Harker quick, anxious glances before breaking into raucous laughter. George resented the laughter. The drunkards had found more humor in Harker's remarks than was deserved. He felt heat spreading from the back of his neck. But he gave the men an insincere grin and said, I missed you at work today, Donnie.

Well, Harker responded, it's a funny thing, but sometimes I get this strange virus that comes to me of a Thursday evening.

Ya don't look too sick to me, George said.

Harker was red and retorted, That's what makes it so curious, it always leaves me twenty-four hour later. Most prob'ly has somethin' to do with all that dust you let pile up in that mine. Again, the other men laughed too loudly.

You might be right, George managed with an obviously forced laugh.

You goin' to the game tonight, Georgie? Harker asked.

Yeah, are you? George responded, wishing he could conclude the conversation.

Before he could answer, someone in the crowd said, You better go, Donnie, we might need to put you in there tonight.

The bar crowd, which had been listening, took an active interest now, and someone picked up on the conversation, saying, You think you've still got the moves, Donnie?

George was grateful for this intervention. Under its cover, he escaped the verbal joust.

Smiley O'Rear was setting a mug of draft beer on the bar for George as Harker was saying, Hell, if I get a few more of these cold beers in me, I might just get out there and kick some ass.

George closed his eyes, tilted his head far back, and downed the beer in huge, swift gulps. That goddamned Harker, still trying to be a football hero. George's mind raced. Well, the lousy bastard is a failure in my book. The son-of-a-bitch always tries to get my goat. He's a fast talker, all right, but I know he's just jerked-off at me because I made foreman and he never will. He misses too much work, just like today, lollygagging around here all day soaking up the suds. He'll never get ahead, and I know it. I'll leave him behind like last night's dinner.

The alacrity with which George had dispatched the beer caused his eyes to water, and he brought the empty mug down to the bar with a force that produced a loud knock which startled him. For an instant, he felt embarrassed, fearing the others had heard the sound. He was momentarily frozen with dread that he had betrayed his disconcertion. The others were too involved in a discussion of the night's football game to notice the noise. George quickly loosened with relief as Smiley asked, Need another, George?

George nodded as Smiley delivered another frosty mug, for Smiley hadn't really waited for George's answer, the answer being a foregone conclusion and the question a mere formality.

I wouldn't let Donnie get to me, he's just got a bit of ham in him, you know. He'll do anybody that way if he thinks he can get under his skin, Smiley offered soothingly.

Yeah, well, he's just embarrassed to see me 'cause he missed work today.

I guess that's right. Of course, as much as you're in here, you'd think he'd find a better place to hide out, Smiley said, almost apologetically.

That makes him a dumb-ass, I guess, George concluded.

Changing the subject, Smiley offered, I saw your wife today—she came in a little after noon."

An empty feeling spread quickly from the pit of George's stomach. Why hadn't Betty said something about being at Smiley's today? He quickly brought the beer to his lips and drained it with four successive gulps. Sensing that a nerve had been struck, Smiley turned away to fill another mug for George. No sense worrying about it, thought George. She probably just dropped by to pick up a six-pack for me. It'll be good to have some cold ones in the refrigerator tomorrow afternoon anyway.

Smiley returned with another beer and departed for the other end of the bar to heed the call of another patron. George watched Smiley with interest. She was tall of stature. George noticed that Smiley was about the same height as he. They both stood nearly five feet nine inches. Smiley's hair was bright red, but her complexion was darker than average and free of freckles and blemishes. At fifty-two, she was past her prime, but the years had been kind to her body. Aside from a somewhat thick midsection, her muscles seemed to be firm and well-rounded. At least that's the conclusion George drew from a view of her backside as she attended to the customer at the end of the bar. She was still a striking figure, and a tight skirt did her no injustice.

Smiley returned to George's station with another beer. George felt better now. The tension which had seized him following his encounter with Harker had been chased away by the ingestion of some thirty ounces of beer within ten minutes. George felt quite amiable and perhaps a bit dazed. For although he was capable of consuming voluminous quantities of alcoholic beverages, George was not a large man, and he was often quick to feel the initial effects of the alcohol (a fact which sometimes made him feel inadequate when among his more prodigious drinking buddies).

The influence of the beer prompted George to ask, Smiley, how come you never tied the knot?

Smiley gave a good-natured chuckle and lowered her voice as if imparting a well-kept secret. Buddy, she said, if I got married, I wouldn't sell enough beer to keep me in lipstick. 'Course, if you got some fellow in mind, it wouldn't bother me none to give him a look-see if you want to bring him around. Smiley gave him a wink, which conveyed to George that she wasn't really serious about looking at any men, but she wasn't denying her sexuality either. George laughed. Besides, said Smiley, wouldn't be proper for you hill-jacks to carry on like you do in front of a married lady. Y'all would either have to scrub up or find a new watering hole. And I got a feeling that business would suffer a right smart amount.

I bet you've had a few offers, though, George said.

Honey, Smiley replied, I've heard as many proposals over this bar as I've got hair on my head. I've been tempted to take two or three of them up on it too. But, in my business, it's against the code to take advantage of a drunk. Poor souls would have probably took a fit if I'd said yes. Anyway, I'm not so sure that some of those boys weren't already spoken for.

Unusually inquisitive on this night, George asked, How come they call you Smiley anyway?

My daddy never smiled, she said matter-of-factly. They named me after my daddy. He never smiled, so they called him Smiley. She was amused at George's curiosity. She moved toward the other end of the bar as duty beckoned.

What a strange breed of cat that George Colyer is, she thought. He was a moody fellow, not as prone to chumminess as most of the patrons of Smiley's Place. But despite his aloof nature, Smiley somehow felt that the hours of drinking spent at the tavern meant something to George. There seemed to be a loyalty and dependability about the man. She considered him a friend, although it occurred to her that she had no real basis for the conclusion. At the very least, he was a valued customer. Not a bad-looking one either, she decided. Although short of stature, he was well-muscled and agile. George did not possess exquisite features, but his straight brown hair and pink complexion made him appear younger than his thirty-five years, and a careful observation of as much of his person as was exposed to the viewer revealed no disfiguring scar tissue, decaying teeth, or dismemberment. To have kept a body intact for thirty-five years in Jimmerson County was no small feat.

A few minutes later, George was joined at the bar by two friends. After a couple of rounds and some good-natured barbs directed by George to his companion concerning their inability to break cleanly away from their wives, the three men departed for the football game. On their way to the tavern door, Donnie Harker, who was still seated with his companions, remarked that he hoped to see the men at the ballgame. George hoped not.

2

The electric clock radio resting upon the marble-top dresser read 8:01, Friday, October 23, 1975. Paul Everett's attention was drawn to the clock by the light click of the plastic flap bearing the number two as it fell into place. Well, it's 8:02, looks like I'm late again , he thought. He had finished his shaving and had stepped out of his small bathroom into the bedroom. He stood at the door of his closet for a few minutes peering at the row of clothes hanging before him. The ritual was familiar to him. He felt utterly uninspired at the prospect of selecting his attire for the night. A man should derive some degree of pleasure from choosing his dress , Paul thought. After all, I buy clothes that suit my taste. I buy clothes that I believe to be attractive. I like clothes—I feel confident when dressed well and uncomfortable when dressed shabbily .

He was groping through the rack of clothing as he pondered the question before him. It was a useless exercise. He knew from memory the location of every article of clothing. His mind really wasn't taking notice of his exercise. The absurdity of it caused him to feel flushed with self-disdain. It can't be this difficult. He let out a long breath, pursing his lips so that the air escaped with a hissing sound. He made two clicking sounds out of the side of his mouth and said aloud, Well, what'll it be tonight?

Now what would be the appropriate attire for the young-lawyer-man-about-town whilst escorting the daughter of the city's most prominent citizen to the social event of the season—the annual football game between the Jimmerson County Cougars and the low-life-scum-suckers from neighboring Hawkins County? Yes, we attorneys must be ever vigilant to maintain our position of responsibility within the community. An awesome task is before me. An imprudent choice of garment may bring the entire bar into disrepute. If I am not mistaken, there is a Canon covering that very point. I must refresh my knowledge of the Code of Ethics.

You're a vicious man, Paul Everett, he thought, as he chuckled aloud. Oh, well, enough of this. Now that you've been sufficiently admonished, it's time to apply yourself to the business at hand.

This will do nicely, Paul thought as he plucked from the closet a sky-blue oxford cloth shirt with a buttoned down collar, a maroon V-necked sweater, and a pair of navy blue slacks. He felt relieved at having finally decided upon a uniform for the evening. As if to strike the last blow at the conclusion of a childish fight, Paul wished that the daily chore of mustering out clothing from the rack of garments hanging in that closet could somehow be eliminated.

Having dressed and groomed himself, Paul descended a dark wooden stairway, opened the door at the bottom, and stepped onto the sidewalk of Main Street. He closed and locked the door which bore the numerals 129.

Paul lived in a one-bedroom apartment above Stoneham's Drug Store. If it wasn't an impressive residence for an aspiring attorney, it was certainly economical. Its convenience was its greatest asset, however. Stoneham's Drug Store stood adjacent to Hubbell's Auction and Reality Company above which was housed the offices of Dandridge, Bascombe, and Everett, Attorneys-at-Law. The proximity of Paul's living quarters to his place of work afforded him extra sleep in the morning, if nothing else. For this, he was thankful.

The distraction attendant to downtown living posed no problem for Paul. He had lived in the big city for eight years during college before returning to Whitehurst just over a year ago. Very little distracting activity took place on Main Street in Whitehurst after 6:00 p.m. anyway. Occasionally, Paul might find himself awakened early on a Saturday morning by the bark of an automobile horn, which oft time was accompanied by a shouted greeting to a familiar pedestrian. But curiously, Paul had found that his need for sleep was not as strong on Friday night as it seemed to be Sunday through Thursday. Thus an early awakening on Saturday morning did not annoy him greatly.

Paul was satisfied that by taking this apartment, he had found a solution to his housing problem upon returning to Whitehurst. And practical was smart to his way of thinking. At any rate, his current living situation was only temporary. He had just last week purchased, with the aid of a loan from the Whitehurst National Bank, a lot in a newly developed subdivision. He intended to build on that lot as soon as he accumulated sufficient resources.

Paul's car was parked in a reserved slot on the street in front of his law office. He started the engine and switched on the headlights of his compact American-made car. Paul thought wistfully of a new car. He needed a bigger, more comfortable car but had delayed its purchase until his finances were in order. Meanwhile, this provided economic transportation. And it was paid for—a college graduation gift from his parents. The headlights shone upon the glass door of the law office. Paul noticed the gold lettering which plainly stated:

Law Offices

Aaron Dandridge

James T. Bascombe III

C. Paul Everett

At noticing his name publicly displayed in such a way, Paul experienced a strange sensation of nakedness and vulnerability. He angrily dismissed the thought as stupidity as he maneuvered his car into the roadway and drove away. Paul turned on the car radio as he drove out of town in the strikingly dark countryside. It is the darkness of night that can be the most unnerving quality of the country. Darkness, unpenetrated by streetlights or neon, covers the traveler with a close heaviness. The headlights of one's car offer but an inadequate weapon against the black night. Strangely, one who has lived without fear amidst the perils of urban America may suddenly find himself besieged by a frightening sensation of defenselessness when thrust into the black rural night.

Paul was not so far removed from being a country boy that the darkness produced fear in him. Yet he thought it strange that even now, the density of the night sometimes surprised him. Paul listened to the radio as the announcers were reading the line-ups of the opposing teams. It appeared he would not make the kick-off.

The prospect of tardiness did not trouble him. He wondered, though, what would be the reaction of his companion for the evening. She had been a cheerleader, or so he thought he remembered someone having said. That would lead one to the belief she was athletically inclined. Or perhaps just inclined toward athletes. Paul pondered for a moment why he recently seemed to be exercising a gift for cynicism. At the least, missing the kick-off might provide some insight into the temperament of the lady in question.

To justify his tardiness to himself, Paul reasoned that he was in a good position to engage in such an experiment. He wasn't particularly motivated to exert himself to favorably impress the girl. He had met her just once—at a social occasion hosted by her father. At that first meeting, Paul had concluded that she was too concerned with the proper mix of propriety and chic to offer much in the way of companionship. He had seen enough of that odd character created by the fusion of country aristocratic values and big-time college morality. It was the same old conflict that had been replayed endless times along Sorority Row—the outcome of which would determine whether the emergent character would go off into the world in search of a husband with a promising professional future and notable ancestry or for something nebulously described as a meaningful relationship. The same considerations were quite prominent along Fraternity Row as well, but the conflict didn't seem so severe. Compromise was accepted more readily among the males.

Paul had determined to leave these struggles to younger, sturdier hearts. The best policy was to wait until the girl decided which course to pursue before entering the scene in earnest. Anyway, the girl wasn't pretty enough to merit a dedicated pursuit of her affection. Her face was certainly not without charm, but she was too skinny and flat-chested to arouse serious romantic interest in Paul, whose taste ran toward more supple figures.

Despite this first impression, Paul had agreed to this date at the suggestion of her father. He and Jim Bascombe were sitting at the bar in the VFW Club one afternoon the week before when Gilbert Erskine rescued Paul from an oration by Bascombe on the subject of foreign policy and defense spending. God, but Bascombe is exhausting, reflected Paul. But just when Paul had reached the point of eruption, the point he knew he could stand no more and at that very moment would either run screaming from the building or physically attack Bascombe with the nearest available blunt object, he knew not which, Erskine had benevolently intervened from across the room, shouting, Don't you young jack-legs have anything better to do than sit around drinkin' sour mash?

The two men turned quickly to see Gilbert Erskine sitting at a round Formica-topped table in the middle of the dimly lit room. Bascombe had nearly fallen off the bar stool in his haste to get to the table when Erskine cordially invited them to join him in a drink.

Come on over here, boys—I'll buy you a drink, Erskine had said.

It was said that Erskine owned the bank. Paul wasn't sure what that meant. In any event, he was a very, very important man.

I really appreciate this, Mr. Erskine, Bascombe had blurted. I'll have a Johnny Walker Red and soda, he said to the waiter.

Call me Gil, Erskine said flatly.

Yeah, we appreciate it, Paul mumbled tentatively.

Erskine turned his head toward Paul and smiled, saying warmly, Glad to do it, son. Then in a loud voice, he said, I'm thankful for the company. We bankers aren't too popular, you know. Besides, it makes me feel safe to be with you young attorneys. You all won't let me get in trouble, will you? I might need you here in a minute.

Everyone in the room had laughed, for he had been speaking publicly.

I'll have a Scotch and water, Erskine said to the waiter. What'll you have, son? he asked Paul.

Paul ordered a bourbon and water after momentarily considering and opting against ordering the rum and coke that he had been drinking prior to Erskine's invitation. Paul unconvincingly consoled himself for this unfaithfulness to himself by noting that Bascombe had shifted from premium beer to premium Scotch.

So how's the law business since you came back to town, Paul? Erskine inquired.

Well, pretty good, I guess, Paul responded cautiously. I think I'm finally getting my feet on the ground, you know. I'm finally learning how to actually do things. They don't teach the mechanics of legal practice in law school.

Bascombe interjected, Yeah, all those law professors know is theory—never practiced a case, most of them. Why, I bet most of them have never even seen one.

Well, let's hope you're getting the hang of it. I saw where we loaned you some money the other day, Erskine said to Paul in exaggerated tones.

Yeah, I guess you've got a vested interest in my career now, Paul laughed nervously.

In a fatherly manner, Erskine patted Paul on the back and said, I'm sure you'll do real fine. You've got one of the best for a teacher in Aaron Dandridge. And if you're anything like your grandfather, and I think you are, I know you'll do fine. Then in a lighter tone, which Paul suspected was indicative of a half-jest, Erskine said, Why, in no time, you'll be as rich as old Jim Bascombe here. How long you been here now, Jim?

Five years.

See, five years of country law practice, and he's already a wealthy man.

Coal country law practice, Paul interjected instinctively.

Erskine's voice became serious as he said, Yes, we owe a great deal to the coal industry—a great deal.

Yes, we sure do, Bascombe had worked his way into the conversation, and what you said about Aaron Dandridge was right—he's a sly fox. People don't realize how shrewd and well-versed in the law a good country lawyer has to be. I have to laugh when—

Yes, yes, I know, said Erskine. Then to Paul, he said, Paul, my daughter is coming home from school next weekend. I was wondering if you would mind escorting her to the game next Friday. She's a nice-looking girl and real sharp. I know she'd like to have a date for the game, and you know, we don't have many eligible and suitable young men here. Many of the bright young people go away to school and never come back. It's hard for a girl like Laurabeth to find friends here her age. And, well, I hate for her to go to that game alone or with another girl—it could get rough around there. I would feel better if I knew someone was kinda lookin' out after her. You could use my car if you like.

Yes, I met Laurabeth at your party this summer, remember?

That's right, Erskine said. Then you'll do it.

Yes, I would be honored, Paul lied.

Good, then I'll make arrangements with her, but don't tell her I requested you to do this—I'll just tell her that you had inquired about her.

Fine, Paul said.

Do you want to use my car?

No, I'd feel more comfortable in my own, I think.

Very well, now promise me that you'll bring her home if any rough-stuff breaks out.

I'll be the first to leave if that happens, Paul grinned.

Good, then it's settled. I'll talk to you in a few days. And thank you, Erskine had said.

My pleasure, Paul graciously said.

Bascombe asked, Is Gilbert Junior coming home, too, Mr. Erskine?

No, he's too busy doing whatever it is he does, Erskine replied quickly. Suddenly, Erskine came to his feet, saying, Fellows, I enjoyed it. Have another drink on my tab—I must be going now. Erskine strode out of the room stopping momentarily to inform the bartender to charge the bar bills of Paul and Bascombe to his tab.

Thus the bargain had been struck, although Paul wasn't sure just what he had received for his part of the deal. An evening with the fair maiden and an invitation to a party at the Erskine home on the following Saturday night appeared to be his reward. In Bascombe's mind, this was ample remuneration. Bascombe had been flabbergasted by Paul's good fortune. Man, you better latch onto that, he had said, hardly able to contain his excitement.

Paul hadn't known how to take this unexpected development. Perhaps he had been subconsciously coerced by the fact that Erskine's bank had recently loaned him money. He hadn't really been given that impression by Erskine's demeanor, yet Erskine did bring up the loan early in the conversation, and he had received the invitation to Erskine's party two days after their agreement. Somehow, Paul couldn't believe Erskine was as blatant and unsubtle as it appeared. It was a very strange turn of events, Paul concluded.

At any rate, it wouldn't do him any harm to be seen with Miss Erskine (or was it Ms. Erskine?). She wasn't a bad-looking girl by any stretch of the imagination. Paul thought of her long wavy blond hair and dark, full eyebrows. She had an angular face and a finely lined mouth. If her face wasn't beautiful, it was striking with its well-defined features and smooth complexion. Paul slowed his car as he approached the two brick pillars, which marked the entrance to the Erskine home. The two pillars, constructed of old brick, stood about five feet high, and atop of each was a white, glass sphere of light.

As he swung his car between the pillars and drove toward the columned two-story mansion, he felt a sadness which comes to a man when he senses he is not where he should be or that, perhaps, he has embarked on a course of action that is not at all what he would have chosen had he but exercised a choice. Paul knew there was nothing to do but follow through on his commitment and hope to avoid a similar situation in the future.

Melancholy has a way of fading away or at least temporarily yielding to the company of another human being. And Paul felt much better about the prospect for an enjoyable evening once having settled safely back into the car with Laurabeth. She had appeared at the door herself, almost simultaneously with Paul's pushing of the doorbell. The chimes still played through the spacious anteroom as she quickly opened the door and cheerfully greeted Paul. She was obviously ready to go without delay. Paul was spared the customary small talk with her parents, except for a shouted greeting from Gilbert Erskine who sat sedately in the living room with Mrs. Erskine. Paul had waved to Erskine and assured him that he would do his part to root the home team to victory.

Paul had stood in the doorway, watching Laurabeth put on a mahogany suede jacket over her white ski sweater. She wore tight brown corduroy pants tucked into knee-high leather boots. Vogue, very vogue indeed, thought Paul as he watched her peer seriously into a mirror, adjusting a woven tam on her head.

Suddenly, she had turned to Paul with sparkling blue eyes and said with a wide, toothy smile, Ready?

Yes, are you? Paul said stupidly.

Laurabeth, still smiling, gave five short quick nods of her head and said, Let's go as she slung the strap of her large leather purse over her shoulder.

As they rode away, Paul apologized for his tardiness with the vague excuse that I was running behind today and just couldn't get away in time. I guess I should have called. I'm sorry about that—I'm sure that you wanted to see the kick-off.

No, not at all—I mean, you don't need to apologize. I mean, it's better to get there late anyway. That way it's easier to see everybody. Laurabeth spoke with a syrupy Southern accent, which Paul knew was not entirely native to her.

And to be seen by everybody, Paul thought, but he said, Well, I hope we can get a seat—there should be a big crowd.

Oh, don't worry about that, some of my friends will squeeze us in.

Paul skeptically said, I hope you're right.

I am. By the way, since you were running late, I thought I'd better take care of the refreshments. Laurabeth opened her purse and brought forth a black leather flask with a silver cap. I just wouldn't know how to go to a football game without taking some Jack Daniel's along for company. You know what they say about our football games up at school—they say it's the world's largest outdoor cocktail party. Did you know that we've been written up as the number one party school in the country?

Yeah, I heard about that, Paul replied. Of course, Paul had heard it. He had heard it a hundred times about a hundred different schools. It was like the stories of supernatural events that one is led to believe occurred in his hometown. Every student body that Paul was aware of seemed to be under the impression that it attended the school officially deemed the number one party school in the country.

When will you be graduating? Paul asked.

I'm going to get out in December—a semester early, Laurabeth answered.

Do you know what you're gonna do after you get out?

Well, I'm either going to come back here and help out daddy at the bank or I'm going to go to law school in Washington and work in Congressman Arrington's office. He and Daddy are real good friends, and he thinks he can get me into law school up there.

You've certainly kept your options open, Paul said. He was amused to the point of delight at Laurabeth. He could just visualize her at Georgetown. It never ceased to amaze him—the unabashed gall of the children of the wealthy. Laurabeth Erskine is just going to cruise right into Washington DC from Whitehurst and enroll in law school and set a few things straight on Capitol Hill while she's at it. As if that old Cletus Arrington could get her into a Washington law school anyway.

Laurabeth pulled a long, thin menthol cigarette from a leather cigarette case in her purse and said, I just don't know what I'm going to do yet.

Paul pushed the cigarette lighter protruding from the dashboard and said, You've got a couple of good opportunities there—it might be fun to spend some time in Washington, though.

Laurabeth shrugged as she puffed the cigarette while Paul held the lighter. How blasé she is, thought Paul. Here she is, off to a high school football game with a flask of whiskey, with no doubt in her mind she need only to exercise her will in order to attain the goal of thousands of others. Paul happily imagined the outrage of hundreds of ambitious, over-achieving, young scholars having lost that coveted seat in a Washington law school to the whim of Miss Laurabeth Erskine. Well, more power to you, Laurabeth—more power to you. And you, Paul Everett—you've sure come a helluva long way. Here you are, on your way to watch a high school football game and drink whiskey from a paper cup. Paul's spirits were high as they arrived at the football stadium which stood starkly against the night as an oasis of light. Paul anticipated an enjoyable night.

3

Nestled deep between the folds of earth, the football stadium created a white bulb of light radiating upward against the dense mountain night. On few other occasions could such a large