The Folks of Weezer Township
by Charles C. Cole
part 1
Gentle Swain Clatchee steered his way through a small rural community where everyone knew just about everything about his and her neighbor, sometimes to a fault. A secret was a rare and precious commodity. Swain knew a few, and he was good at keeping them. He was the closest thing the isolated hamlet had to a minister or a mediator or a marriage counselor.
Swain, unattached and in his twenties, was an old soul who’d rather support others than build a future of his own where he might one day have competing interests. His friends needed him, and that was just fine.
Swain stood in the middle of the wooden bridge over Screw Auger Falls, listening to nature’s peaceful “white noise.” Here he and his latest friend in need, Lola Delacroix, talked without risk of someone overhearing. And if someone did discover them, they’d very likely keep their distance because clearly Swain was “in session.”
Lola was seven years older than Swain, old enough to have been his babysitter on more than one occasion back in the day. Today, between the two of them, she was a full-fledged grown-up: a married, working woman with a toddler. She stared down into the swirling water, waiting for her words to come.
“It’s alright, Lola. You don’t have to say anything. I’m happy you called.”
“You know I’m not a complainer, Swain. If life gives me lemons, I make a wicked lemon meringue pie.”
“Sounds like you,” agreed Swain.
“Butch is a good provider. Marrying him was the happiest day of my life, after the birth of John Henry.”
“I remember your wedding like it was yesterday. I danced so much both my legs cramped up. And that’s saying something.”
“Am I a bad person for wanting more ‘me’ time? I just want one night a week to laugh with my girlfriends. Butch thinks I’ll talk about him, but that’s the last thing I’d do. How do I convince him what’s good for me is good for him?”
“What if I come by on your night out? Butch and John Henry and I can have our own party. How’s that sound?”
“Unlikely,” said Lola.
“Let me talk with Butch. I’ve got a bit of a reputation in these parts. He’d be crazy not to listen to me. I can’t promise once a week, but I think I can promise one time, then we let events speak for themselves.”
Another day, another bridge conversation, only this time between Swain and Butch.
“Butch, you came.”
“Think I wouldn’t?” asked Butch, looking over the side of the bridge with a grimace.
“Not at all.”
“You heard Lola’s side. Figure you should hear my side.”
“Butch, I’m a man: I know your side,” said Swain.
“But you’re not married and with a kid.”
“Nope, I’m not. I’m not as brave and committed and self-sacrificing as you are. I listen to folks, sure, but at the end of the day, I live alone. You, my friend, got me in spades. Congratulations on being the more complete man.”
“I didn’t say that,” said Butch.
“But you could, and I wouldn’t have a leg to stand on. You built yourself a fine little family. Solid as granite. Anyone can see you and Lola deserve each other.”
“They can, huh? I thank you for that,” said Butch.
“Well, don’t you?”
“Sure as Hades,” said Butch.
“So when should I stop by?” asked Swain.
“If I’m doing it, I’m doing it without anyone’s help. There’s only room for one man in this marriage. You can check in with Lola after. Right here, since she apparently knows the way.”
A few days later, yet another bridge conversation transpired, between Swain and Lola. Lola was there first, staring down into the rumbling water. Swain yelled greetings from the trail so as not to sneak up on her. When he stepped on the bridge, Lola dashed over and squeezed him like a momma seeing her son fresh back home from a war front.
“Easy does it, girl. I’m not made from the same muscle and sinew as the father of your baby boy.” Swain peeled himself free. “Use your words. You two okay? Because I’m not a professional. Just some fella who’s had luck and common sense on his side more often than not.”
“He’s perfect,” said Lola.
“He is?” asked Swain, a little surprised.
“Yes, and we’re fine. It was scary, but it didn’t have to be. We had to make a little leap of faith, that’s all. And, afterward, he was the perfect gentleman. He even made breakfast and told me I could go again if it made me happy.”
“He’s a keeper,” said Swain, nodding, letting the facts sink in. “Yes, sir.”
“He had one bit of advice for you,” said Lola.
“He did?”
“He said if you want more ‘clients,’ consider meeting them somewhere else. This bridge is scary.”
Swain smiled. “Butch has a point at that,” he said.
* * *
Burt Walz sat center stage in the shiny barber’s chair. The unincorporated municipality’s oldest living WWII vet, Ike Noonan, birth certificate lost to antiquity, was next in line, here for his monthly ear-hair trim. “Thank you for your service” was more a matter of basic pleasantries than formal protocol, but Ike sometimes forgot that.
Sid Sutter was doing the hard work, taking his time, with long-practiced professional attention to detail, emphasis on old-fashioned customer service. Accompanied by some dramatic throat-clearing, and for neither the first nor the second time, Ike extracted his gold-plated pocket-watch the company’d awarded him when he’d finally retired from the mill.
“Got a hot date, Ike?” asked Sid, noticing — as he figured he was supposed to.
“Just wondering if I ‘membered to turn off the coffee pot.”
“Modern ones do it for you. They know when it’s best to quit,” said Sid, with only slightly veiled hostility.
“If only people were more like machines,” said Ike, matching the tone.
“Emotionless?”
“Precise. Consistent,” said Ike.
Burt, youngest of five and a natural mediator, jumped into the fray. “Either of you ex-soldiers notice the moving van over to the Rhetke house?”
The “boys” shook their noggins like those top-heavy bobbleheaded toys.
“The community headcount just upped by one,” said Burt. “Sounds like a scoop, Ike. You best ‘telegraph’ your friends over at the Gazette.”
Sid bit: “One of the twins move back? I warned them: the real world ain’t the same as Weezer Township.”
“Got that right,” said Ike. “Not nearly as neighborly.”
Sid and Burt couldn’t help but smile at the sincere pontification.
“Can’t be a replacement undertaker,” Sid continued. “Barely enough warm bodies to pay the ‘lectric bill. Car mechanic?”
“It’s a preacher,” said Ike, like it was old news. “Last week, Doc Small had to put down one of Elmer Whitten’s cows. They got to talking, and the subject just naturally come up. Elmer told me.”
“How on earth Doc get the memo?” asked Sid.
“Apparently, ‘cause he was once in the legislature, he was called to give his opinion in a closed-door session at the People’s House.”
“Back up,” blurted Burt, like he’d been struggling for an answer. “How’d we get here?”
“According to Doc, some fellow from the state with a religious bent said we won a summer-long grant, on account of that mining disaster last year.”
“That was two towns over,” said Burt. “Why us?”
“Some of the men had relatives from here,” said Ike.
“Name one,” said Sid.
“’Had,’ I said. They’re all long dead now.”
The new preacher stepped in, tall enough to duck, striking in all-black with a white collar, straight-backed, chin and chest forward, early-forties, and bald as a bowling ball.
“On that uplifting note: gentlemen, nice to meet you. I’m Baz Wilton, on loan for your spiritual needs. You three must be the Welcome Wagon.”
“Reverend Wilton? We were just talking about you,” said Burt, to which the others responded with a scolding look, as if a sacred trust had been broken.
“Did you now? Officially,” continued the newcomer, “I’m here as a grief counselor. Unofficially, I needed the assignment and come cheap. Nothing says success like a big fish in a small pond.” Confused faces. “A tall fish in a short pond.” Everyone smiled good-naturedly at the clever twist.
“Just heard about your arrival,” said Sid, “from our walking-talking newsman.”
“I do a weekly society column,” explained Ike, “on births, deaths; comings and goings.”
“Let me finish here,” said Sid, a little too formally for the other two, “and you can be next.”
“Hey,” squawked Ike, who was eager to impress the minister. “At this rate, folks will start confusing me for Edmond Dantes. You know: the imprisoned fella in ‘The Count of Monte Cristo.’” He waved their unimpressed looks away.
“I’m fine,” said Wilton. “The Good Lord blessed me with hairlessness. All told, I’ve probably saved hours in the shower, when I could be working on sermons. I’m less dependent on my bathroom mirror; less need to look at me means more interest in you, the hirsute heroes of God’s world.”
“I like the way your mind works,” said Burt.
“Like the father in ‘The Swiss Family Robinson.’ Right, Father?” asked Ike.
“Honestly, Ike, I never read it, though maybe I’ll get around to it. After all, the author, Johan Wyss, was himself a Swiss minister.”
“I thought so.”
“Just stopped by to introduce myself, put up a flyer, and invite folks for Saturday night. I was thinking a spaghetti-supper inauguration. Interested? Nothing gets a stubborn agnostic male into a prayerful mood like an empty stomach.”
“Amen,” said all three locals.
“You need help moving in?” asked Sid.
“Brought a couple of homemade teenagers, spitting image of their father.” The three men nodded while still adding the clues, then Burt pointed at the guest, an apparent indication he’d “solved the riddle” first.
“Two more? That’s three total,” announced Burt. “For these parts, that’s a population explosion.”
“As part of my state-monitored duties, I should ask: Any of you three related to the deceased?”
Burt was quick: “Does first cousin once removed count?”
Awkward silence.
“You fellas got names?”
Burt jumped in, pointing yet again: “Burt, Sid and Ike. Sid’s the proprietor. Ike and me are regular ‘regulars,’ you might say. We’re real good at sittin’ for a spell.”
“Then I expect you can be regular ‘regulars’ at my place.”
“Sure,” offered Burt, “especially with food on the table.”
The preacher shook hands as if concluding business. “Ike, as the people’s voice, you can come by before if you like. I’ll give you a behind-the-scenes interview, no conversion needed.”
Sid walked him to the door. “Take care, Reverend,” said Sid. “Always glad to have another friendly face.”
Those left behind sighed collectively like life was about to change.
“No commitment,” said Ike, “but I could do with more religion at my time of life. And a free meal’s plenty incentive.”
“Amen,” said Burt and Sid.
* * *
Copyright © 2024 by Charles C. Cole
