The Ghosts of McKendree©2007 John Keadle
Stan and Ron
Stan and Ron were glad to just have the weekend to travel into the West VirginiaMountains. Their family had moved away from the area when they were young children and they were always intrigued by the history of the region and the parts their ancestors had played in it. Probably as a result of having moved away, the two had been able to make something of themselves in the booming south. While the nature reclaimed the ghost towns of the New River Gorge as the coal mines shut down one by one, the Sunbelt boomed, college educations, high tech jobs, children in college themselves; the two were elated to get the weekend away; two whole days without any obligations in Stan’s new four-wheel drive. They had gotten away before dawn on Saturday and rolled into Beckley in time for a late breakfast at the Waffle House by the interstate. The only thing they wanted to see was the remains of the hospital in McKendree, the hospital where their grandfather had worked and, when he wasn’t embalming dead coal miners, he’d grown prize winning roses. From Beckley, Thurmond was about 20 miles into the New River Gorge; that would take an hour down a state highway. At Thurmond, they’d have to go another 15 miles up river, through Thayer, to get to McKendree; that would take another hour on a County Road 25 that they thought might be paved. The plan was to be there by noon and find the hospital’s remains; then, see if they could find the wild roses that reportedly bloomed along the river. Back at work, Ron could match the flower’s DNA with that from a dried rose the two had saved when they emptied their grandmother’s house a year earlier. If they could, their reward would be knowing that their grandfather’s handiwork was contributing to the natural beauty of the New River and were famously delighting rafters that waded slowly past the ghosts and the ghost towns of the New River Coal boom.
James
James Perry was pleased that the train was on time. He didn’t understand why he had to be in McKendree on Sundays; he worked Logan on Wednesdays but that was only an hour away. Iager on Thursdays was only a forty minute ride. His longest ride was to McKendree every other Sunday; why did that have to be on Sundays? It always aggravated Violet that he wouldn’t be at church.
He also always disliked waiting trackside for a late train to arrive as the sun rose over East Mountain delaying is ultimate arrival at work and, as a result, reducing the likelihood that had make the 5:35 for his return home. On the other hand, he never minded the ride in the relative comfort of the new Pullmans and, as the C&O’s undertaker, the train’s staff always treated him with more deference than he might expect around town where everyone know he and his wife were on the outs, mostly because of his drinking. He climbed aboard and tossed his bag in the aisle seat and fell against the window. The coach was nearly empty so the porter brought him a glass of orange juice and set it down on his tray. After another long night of domestic quarrels, James was happy to have 150 minutes of relative calm on the way to McKendree. His report said there were only three bodies waiting for him there and their graves had already been dug. He could finish them before dinner and get the 5:35 back to Williamson and be home before 8:00. That would give him the time he needed to trim the three roses that had just bloomed with the brightest periwinkle he’d ever seen. Violet loved periwinkle; maybe, if he could stay sober, they would help earn her forgiveness for the problems of the night before. James hated it when he had to dig the graves. He never had to break a sweat when he was an apprentice at Mitchell’s in Williamson; in his window seat, in his sleep, it seemed he always dreamed that his troubles with Violet started when he left Mitchell’s and took the job with the C&O.
Roger
Roger Gwinn took one last look at the stranger in the mirror, adjusted his new bow tie and headed back down to the parlor. It’s always notable when a coal miner shows up at the poker table freshly bathed in a new suit. When he got there, he was surprised to see Antonio in the game. Antonio never seemed particularly adept at draw poker and usually reported for work Monday with no more money than he had arrived at work with on Friday before the pay car arrived. Roger was always willing to take a bit of it but the real players, the guys that only played poker and didn’t work in the mines, seemed to be able to wrap up Sunday evening with the rest of what the miners had earned the previous week. There were three kinds of poker players, mine owners with money to lose, real poker players from Chicago, Cincinnati, and other cities that start with the letter C, seeking to oblige them, and miners that were smart or dumb enough to think they were one run away from a one way ticket out of the New River Gorge. Antonio and Roger were in that last group. Roger shoveled what amounted to five year’s of his typical pay in the mine through the cashier’s window which regurgitated so many chips that anyone that hadn’t noted his new affinity for fashion and hygiene could not overlook his wealth. He approached the corner table and, to his amazement, he saw Antonio sitting behind huge piles of chips as dirty as he had left him on Friday. A little confused, Roger asked Captain Buery if he could join. “That’s a fine suit, son.” The captain said “you ought to impress your friend here the benefits of an occasional shower. We typically avoid keeping this kind of company but he’s had something of a run at our expense.”
Next to him, Michael Thurmond observed “There’s one of your boys that cleans up real nice Cap’n” as if Roger and Antonio were both, at the same time, visible and invisible. Then, being overcome by Roger’s visible nature, Thurmond added “You had a pretty good run yourself Friday night, I hear Gwinn.” Then, pointing to Antonio, he added “Bagotti’s about matched you though, I think, mostly at my expense”
“I think most of that’s mine he’s got” retorted the real player that looked like he might be from Chicago.
Roger sat down at the table. “Yeah, Mike, not bad. What’s the game?”
Willy and Jimmy
The sun finally rose to light the window and woke Willie and Jimmy at almost the same time. Since it sat on the East side of the mountain, the sun would heat Jimmy’s trailer so quickly that someone would have to open a window to let some air in to cool everyone off. Equally as typically, the hangovers would induce any number of tirades as any number of derelicts would try to reconcile their obligations on Saturday, their whims of Friday evening and the astronomical relationships of Earth and Sun. If any car would start, someone would need cigarettes and head up the road to Glen Jean. Today, they had cigarettes. They remembered that they were kind to the young lady they had brought home the prior evening, not because they were kind but because she was so overweight and they were so wasted. They did not know where she was or how she had managed to make the three-quarter mile road down to route 25, in the dark, alone, and not end up dead in the depths of Coit Hollow. On the other hand, maybe she hadn’t; neither would look as the truck rolled around the switchback. They hadn’t talked much since they had been roused but they were headed toward Beckley like every Saturday; Matt punched in at the Wal*Mart pharmacy at 8:00 on Saturday and, since the pharmacist didn’t make it in until 10:00 they could get all the decongestant medicine they wanted if they got there early enough. This morning, after they left $165 with Matt, they tossed the Wal*Mart bags in the box in the truck bed and, still, they had enough left over to stop at the Waffle House for some eggs.
Stan and Ron
“Pancakes?” offered the waitress.
“Those are me” Stan replied.
“I had the eggs and grits” Rod added. “I really appreciate you driving your new truck up here. That road might be kind of messy.”
“No sweat.” Stan noted. “At least it’s still under warranty and we’ve got On-Star. I guess we’ll get a satellite connection down in that hole.”
“This is a real treasure.” Ron added referring to the easy schedule they had established for themselves “I really hope we’ll be able to find out if these flowers were granddad’s flowers.” He added as he flipped through the printout he’d made of the first hand reports the rafters had left on the New River Gorge Rafters blog.
We came around Round Bottom and as we cleared a set of minor rapids, on the right a carpet of the most striking flora I have ever seen appeared to climb from the river bank all the way to the tracks and, then, on the other side of the tracks up to what looked like it might have one day been a road and then, intermittently struggling to climb a mountain face that must have been a thousand feet tall. I grabbed the binoculars to look, and, all the way up were these most striking periwinkle flowers lit in the afternoon sun. I think they were roses but I’ve never seen roses that color.
That’s what the blogger had written on NewRiverRafting.com. Stan and Ron thought those flowers might have belonged to their grandfather, James Perry.
Stan had visited with his mother’s sister a few weeks earlier and added “You know, Mom never mentioned that granddad had worked in McKendree but Aunt Bunny told me that he had given them the flowers behind their house and they are the same bright purple that these were”
“That’s periwinkle” said Ron.
“Whatever,” said Stan. He hadn’t paid any attention to the two locals that had sat down at the bar behind him. Ron saw the two but, not wanting to antagonize them, he tried to ignore them after he had greeted them with a smile that was returned with no small measure of disapproval.
Roger
Roger had never had that many white chips stacked up in front of him at one time. Once before he had walked out of the DunnGlenHotel with about two month’s pay but, at ten bucks each, that didn’t amount to but a small stack of the white chips.
Friday had been good to him. He’d gotten away from work early after the pay car rolled out. Then he’d gotten a ride down the mountain and into Thurmond by offering to carry the inspector’s bags. The inspector had spent more time inspecting the scotch in the foreman’s hut than the beams on which the miner’s life depended and was really in no way capable of carrying that bag of gear; gear that, for some reason had gone up to the mine and, now back down, but hadn’t gotten out of the bag. It was heavy but Roger needed to get to town. The best seats are usually gone by 7:00 on Fridays and this ride was going to make sure he made it. The $10 tip the inspector gave him didn’t hurt either. Just as soon as the little maintenance steamer stopped at the station in Thurmond, he’d pulled a brand new ten spot off a roll about two inches thick and handed it to him. Roger said thanks and hopped down and trotted across the river and into the hotel. He stuffed the ten from the inspector and the fifteen he’d gotten from the pay car through the cashier’s window and got a small stack of chips. He took a seat next to that player from Cleveland that had taken most of his money a month or so ago. He didn’t have any money for a drink so he told the waiter, no thanks and he drew his first five cards. It was 5:00. He folded on first hand and then scored three full houses in a row, the last bringing in a $400 pot. With that, he changed tables to find some higher stakes. Again, on the first hand, he folded. Then over the next five hands he held a total of 14 queens winning once with two pair, ladies over eights, and four times with three ladies. All five times, he’d drawn the queen of hearts. On the next hand, the guy from Cleveland’s eyes started twitching. Roger held two kings and some trash. When the Cleveland guy drew two, he almost spit out his bourbon. Roger drew three and got a second pair of kings. Cleveland led with $100. As if by magic, everyone else stayed in. The guy to Roger’s right raised it to $200. Roger raised it to 4. Cleveland saw the 3 and added another 1. Fold, fold, Righty saw the 2 and raised another 2. Roger saw the 2. Fold, fold. Cleveland saw the 2 and raised another two. Doing the math in his head, Roger counted that losing this hand would take him to less than $100, more than a month’s pay but a lot less than he’d sat down with. Righty saw the 2 and raised another 1. Roger saw the 1 and called. Cleveland said “I got your lady’s this time, all four of them.” Righty was indignant, “Dang, I had aces over jacks.” Roger had won the biggest pot of his life; while Cleveland and Righty looked at him waiting, he hesitated. He stayed calm and said “You might have the ladies, but I got their daddies.” His kings laid down beside the four queens like some Versailles ball as Roger embraced the pile of chips.
Amazement and frivolity ensued; Roger bought a round of drinks for the table and tipped the waitress a two dollar bill. No, this table was not like the typical miner’s table where anything more that $20 usually ended up with fist play. Roger lost the next two hands folding early. On the third, he won another sizeable pot, this time with three sevens. His other two cards were the king and queen of hearts. Sensing a little unease Roger thanked his companions and tipped his hat to Cleveland. Maybe he could get a seat at the table in the parlor that overlooked the bend in the river and downtown Thurmond. He cashed in about half his chips and stuffed the bills in his pocket. With the rest he approached the table. There was Captain Beury and Michael Thurmond, the owner of several mines and the son of the founder of the Wild West of the East, Thurmond, West Virginia. There was the inspector whose tip had partially financed Roger’s current spree. There were two real players from Chicago and there was an empty seat. Roger asked if he could join. Captain Buery said, “Yeah, boy, you can take a seat here at the finest table east of Kansas City in the finest Hotel South of Philadelphia after you learn how to take a bath and find some clothes that don’t smell like that pit you work in.” Again, Roger hesitated. He’d broken fingers punching people that had said less unkind words. This time, he just said “Yessir” and tipped his hat to the inspector. He cashed in the rest of his chips and left the Dunn Glen headed across the bridge to the station. He counted his money as he crossed and about half way he finished at $8,737. It was a good thing he finished because the two minute whistle of the northbound would have scared the daylights out of him crossing the river in the dark. Northbound, Roger thought. I’ll be at the Charleston Y in three hours. I can still get back to play that table before those money guys leave Sunday night. Roger hopped on board just after the first chug of the C&O steamer.
James
Perry closed coffin number three about four o’clock. He was done. He’d have about ninety minutes to check on his garden which, now just before summer, would be in full bloom. Some kids were playing on the long porch of the hospital’s second floor and they paused and he made his way to the steps at the other end and resumed their giggling as he made his way down them. The hospital was the only building for miles and these kids always seemed to help the staff with chores around the hospital. James even thought their laughter, audible for miles intermingling with the sound of the river upstream and down, was good for the patients. The flowers in his garden there at McKendree seemed even more stunning than those back at home in Williamson. Something about the occasional sulfurous discharge that made its way down the valley from the coke ovens at Coit he thought. And, here on the east bank of the river, they got full sun for about four hours after they escaped the shadow of Dowdy Bluff, the five hundred foot rock face against which the hospital backed up with nothing but a half dozen train tracks between it and the river. He tended to some weeds, remarked to himself that the bugs were lighter than he recalled from years past. He checked his pocket watch; if the 5:35 was on time, maybe today was the day he could get home sober, walk those flowers up the hill to Violet and they could talk about trying to get along for the sake of the girls. It had never mattered much that mom worked at the drug store and granny tended to the cooking and cleaning but, now, at six and four, they were beginning to notice that mom and dad didn’t spend much time together sober, not screaming. If only, he thought, he’d hear that whistle about now and be able to get on that train.