dontravis.com
blog post #627
Image Courtesy of Suncatcher Studio:
I guess we left Larry Lovestock not yet sure where his love stick belongs.
Happens to a lot of us.
Today,
we have a guest post from my Okie buddy Donald T. Morgan. Back in May of 2018,
I posted the Prologue and part of Chapter 1 for my readers. Since that back
beyond our attention span, let me remind readers the novel is a mystery set in
Southeastern Oklahoma. It is also the story of twenty-year-old, shy, retiring
Derek Monsum, a young farmer with failed ambitions to be an archaeologist. Derek
lives on a poor, clay-heavy farm with his alcoholic father (who lost a leg in
the Panama Invasion) and his young stepmother. He and his father’s new wife don’t
mesh well together. In Chapter 1, we learn the Oklahoma University anthropology
Department is sending a team to excavate an ancient Caddoan Indian burial mound
adjacent to the farm.
We
pick up in Chapter 2 where Derek has gone to the town library to write a letter
to a Dr. Petersen, who’s coming down to dig up the mound. He’s asking for a job
on the dig crew.
Hang
on… it’s a little long. Here goes.
****
MOUNDS
By
Donald T. Morgan
Derek made a long-distance call from the
pay phone at the drug store. Getting through to Dr. Ericksen’s office ate up a
healthy portion of his emergency fund—money hoarded from last season’s corn
crop—but a secretary eventually provided the information he needed. That done,
Derek headed straight for the library at the north end of downtown. Mrs.
Lillian Greavy greeted him enthusiastically, as always. She was fond of him,
but then she liked anybody who read books.
The neat, blue-haired librarian—who’d
helped him earn his GED—nodded toward the stacks and chirped, “They’re back
there, Derek. Help yourself.”
“Maybe later, ma’am. First, I need to
borrow a pen and some paper and buy an envelope and stamp.”
“We can manage that.”
Derek sat at one of the reading tables to
write a letter to this Dr. Ericksen who was coming to dig up his mounds. When
Mrs. Greavy found out what he was doing, she wrote a note, folded it, and told
him to put it in the envelope with his application, saying it never hurt to
have a local recommendation. She added the stamped envelope to the library’s
outgoing mail, sparing him a trip to the post office.
His chore accomplished, Derek walked to
the shelf holding the library’s archaeology section to overdose on a load of
delightful dreams. O’Connor’s Lost Cities of the Ancient Southeast and
Fagan’s From Black Land to Fifth Sun stole minutes from the day so
smoothly he hardly noticed them slip by. He could have lived in those books.
For the hundredth time, he studied the color plates and absorbed the familiar
lines of text. Only when the librarian’s discreet noises intruded on his
consciousness did he realize it was closing time. As usual, he’d overdone it.
Cassie would give him a good scorching. So what else was new?
Derek breezed through the front door to
trip down three shallow steps to the sidewalk. Dismayed at how low the sun lay
in the sky, he didn’t notice the girl until they collided.
“Whoops!” he exclaimed, trying to stem his
momentum.
“Derek Monsum, you’re as clumsy as ever.”
“Sorry. Did I hurt you?”
Darla Morse’s brown eyes snapped as she
shook her brunette shag. She was tall for a girl, a smidgen shorter than his
five-ten. Still looked like a cheerleader, although she’d never been one,
disdaining such “airheaded” pursuits, probably because she had worked after
school for as long as he could remember.
“No, no thanks to you. Where you going in
such a hurry?”
“Late getting home.” He snatched a quick
glance at her pretty face before fixing his eyes resolutely on a crack in the
sidewalk and backing away a neutral distance. He swiped the itchy mole on his
upper lip, hoping she wouldn’t think his nose was running.
“You’re always late. Late to every class
we ever took together.”
The
recollection, delivered with a laugh, drew an answering chuckle from him.
“Practically, I guess. Where you headed?”
“Home from work. That’s all I ever do. Go
to work. Go home.”
“You still at the insurance place?” he
asked.
“Still the glue holding the Ribbens
Insurance Agency together.”
He noticed his dirty boots but didn’t know
how to hide them and ended up in a slow shuffle backward. “I’ll bet you are
too. You know, the glue.”
“You better believe it. One of these days
I’ll surprise everyone and make a change.” She grabbed his arm. “Buy me a Coke
and tell me how you’re doing. Been ages since we talked.”
Ages? He couldn’t remember it ever
happening unless yelling at him from the bleachers when he fumbled a line drive
at third base counted as conversation.
“Got chores to do at home,” he protested,
his stomach knotting. He’d already spent thirty-three cents on a stamp and a
couple of bucks on the telephone call. Nonetheless, he allowed himself to be
dragged along when she reversed direction and headed back downtown. He still
had at least one dollar in his pocket, enough for a couple of colas.
“I’ll take mercy on you,” Darla declared.
“We’ll go dutch treat.”
Conscious they made a spectacle with her
pulling him along, he matched his long farmer’s stride to her nice legs. “Okay,
I guess.”
Nina’s Café was busy, but Nina Gillette
took time to greet them by name and wave them to a booth. Ignoring their call
for a couple of Cokes, the sturdy proprietress bustled over and flashed a
blinding smile. She was pretty. For a middle-aged woman, that is.
“Derek,” she roared in a voice accustomed
to calling orders to the kitchen. “Got a deal for you. I got four cracked panes
on the windows out back. They gotta be replaced and the wire mesh on the
outside cleaned. You do that, and I’ll treat you to a couple of burgers, a
large order of fries, two sodas, and throw in ten bucks to boot. How about it?”
“Sure, but I can’t do it tonight.”
“Sunday after church?”
He brightened. “That’ll work.”
Darla reminisced about their school days
while they waited for their order. Derek leaned back in the blue, padded booth
and listened, alternately worrying the mole on his lip and drumming his fingers
on a gray-speckled Formica tabletop worn thin by a thousand arms and elbows. He
and Darla had been in the same class from the first grade until Derek dropped
out of school in the twelfth, which gave her a lot to chatter about while he
called up images of a spindly girl filling out into something nice.
“Wish you hadn’t quit school,” she said.
“Missed you at graduation.”
“Me? You missed me?”
“Course, we did. All the teachers said you
could amount to something. You’re smart, Derek. You even wanted to be something
smart. What was it? Had to do with those hills you were always talking about.”
“Mounds,” he corrected. “They’re mounds.
You know, old Indian burial places.”
“Oh, I remember now. You wanted to be an
archaeologist.”
He flushed at the pretentiousness of his
dream spoken aloud. “Yeah.”
“What’s so fascinating about a bunch of
old clay pots and dried-up bones?”
“Just interesting, that’s all.”
As Nina delivered their order, Darla shook
her head, allowing a trace of impatience to show. “Don’t do that. I’m trying to
understand, so don’t cut me off. You wouldn’t go dig up a cemetery and call it
interesting, would you?”
Savoring the aroma of freshly cooked beef
and pungent onions, he smeared mustard on his hamburger. “No, but we know all
there is to know about those folks.”
“And we don’t about the people in the
mounds?”
She sounded sincere, so he leaned forward
to answer her that way. “There’s lots we don’t know about them. For instance,
who were they? They were Indians, but which Indians?” He warmed to his subject,
shedding his usual phobia about coming across as a weirdo. “Some say they
weren’t Indians at all. Claim they were Canaanites or the Lost Tribes of
Israel.”
“Like in the Bible?”
“Uh-huh. Or some race of super beings.”
She picked up her burger, took a small
nibble, and dabbed her lips with a paper napkin. “You don’t really believe
that, do you?”
Derek shook his head over a mouthful of
Nina’s delicious food. He didn’t know what the cook did to them, but her
burgers were the best in the county. A bunch of other patrons happily chowing
down confirmed his assessment. He swallowed before answering. “Those are just
some of the wild theories going around. They were Indians, all right.”
They worked on their meal in silence for a
few moments. He liked the graceful way her small hand gripped the soda glass.
When she caught him looking at her, he glanced away.
“Weren’t they Choctaws… like we have now?”
She put down the drink and took another bite of her hamburger.
“No, these people were a mounds culture.
Around here, I’d say Caddo. Lots of natives buried their dead in mounds back
then. There are mounds all the way from New York to Florida.”
“Are they out west too?”
“Mostly the eastern woodlands. We’re on
the western perimeter of the mounds civilizations. There’s a big Mississippian
culture complex up at Spiro in Leflore County near the Arkansas border. I hear
the earthworks are really something to see.”
“You’ve never seen them?”
He gave a bitter laugh. “I’ve never seen anything.”
She reached out and patted his hand. He
flinched at the unexpected touch. “You will, Derek. You hang in there.”
A sudden commotion at the door drew his
attention. Dale Ray Hawkins entered and headed straight for their booth,
surprising him. He and Dale Ray weren’t particularly friendly. The attraction
soon became clear.
“Hello, Darla.” Dale Ray, a contemporary
of Bowie’s, verged on being good looking but was snatched back by a perpetual
scowl and a weak chin. The heavy thighs and wide hips that once made him a
decent lineman for the Hilton High Hornets now threatened to render him lumpy.
Derek noticed the man’s gaze rested on Darla’s hand atop his.
“Dale Ray,” she responded.
Hawkins ignored Derek. “Been looking for
you. Got two tickets to the Demolition Derby over in Clovertown Friday night.
Play your cards right, you can go with me.”
Darla’s answer gave Derek a start.
“Sorry, but Derek’s already asked me to go
to the movie Friday.”
Dale Ray’s dull, dun eyes flicked to him.
“You can go to a movie anytime. The Demo Derby don’t come around every day.”
Darla leaned back in the booth with arms
folded over her breasts. “What makes you think I’m interested in watching
people smash up cars?”
Dale Ray’s mouth dropped. He sucked in
breath before coming up with an answer. “Everybody likes the derby.”
“Not me. I’m going to the movie with
Derek.” Her voice held a finality even Dale Ray understood.
“Whatever. Your loss.” He turned his back
and slouched off, his hips working about as hard as Cassie’s when she was in a
snit.
As soon as Dale Ray was out of earshot,
Darla sighed. “Can’t stand that man, but he keeps hitting on me. Sorry about
the movie thing. I just needed an excuse.”
“Why don’t you like him?”
“He’s creepy. Dale Ray thinks he’s God’s
gift to women. Some girls might find his caveman attitude sexy. Not me. But I
guess his dad’s money makes him attractive to some.”
Darwin Hawkins owned the local auto parts
store where his son had worked all through school. That was how Dale Ray could
afford to drive a snappy blue ’98 Chrysler LeBaron convertible. What made the
family a standout to Derek were the hundreds—maybe thousands—of arrowheads and
lance points and stone hatchets old man Hawkins had scavenged over the years.
Derek hadn’t seen the collection, never even been invited to the Hawkins home,
but they claimed the governor was carping at the Hawkins family to donate the
treasure trove to the state museum up in Oklahoma City.
Darla’s voice snatched his attention back.
“And Dale Ray thinks he has to maul every girl he goes out with. Never did
understand what Bowie saw in him. They used to hang out a lot.”
He met her gaze for a brief instant. He
liked her big elk’s eyes. Pretty eyes turned him on. He nodded and sipped his
soda, his cheeks burning when the straw made a slurping sound. He set the glass
down hard. “They bummed around in high school. Double dated some. Anyway, Dale
Ray’s too old for you.”
Darla gave him a pitying look. “He’s too
wild for me, but he and Bowie are only six years older than we are. Bet you
didn’t know I went out with Bowie once before he left.”
“Bowie left two years ago. You couldn’t
have been more than seventeen.”
“Just turned eighteen.” She frowned. “He
was sorta hard to handle too. Did you know Dale Ray and Cassie used to go out
some? Bowie and Cassie dated too… before your dad was in the picture,” she
hastened to add.
Aware it was dark outside, Derek glanced
at the illuminated wall clock advertising Coca-Cola in undulating shades of
crimson and was surprised to discover it was after eight. He had enjoyed
himself and lost track of time. Usually, he was so uncomfortable around a girl
every minute was an hour. Even when he about halfway went steady with Betsy
Bates his sophomore year, he’d never been completely at ease. What made Darla
different? Ah… because she hadn’t gone cross-eyed when he talked about mounds.
Inch by reluctant inch, he worked his way
out of the booth. “Didn’t realize it was so late. Gotta get home and finish up
my chores.”
Darla collected her purse and got to her
feet. “That’s what happens when you’re having fun. Thanks for the burger.”
A little tingle played up his back. She
had fun? “Glad to do it. Uh, and if you’d like to, we can take in the movie
Friday night. You know, so you won’t be fibbing to Dale Ray.” He frowned. Where
could he come up with ten bucks for two tickets to the picture show until he
could pay it back out of Nina’s ten dollars? Darn! Should he have left a tip?
Or was it included in Nina’s chore?
Once outside, Darla clasped his arm as
they strolled back to the library. “Glad I ran into you. Enjoyed our talk. See
you Friday night. About seven?”
He tripped over his own feet but managed
to remain upright. “Uh, yeah. I probably bored you with all that mounds stuff.”
“Not at all. Maybe you can tell me more
about it sometime.”
“Can… can I give you a lift home?”
“Wouldn’t want you to miss your chores.”
“They’ll be waiting when I get there.”
She permitted him to drive her, even
though the Morse place was only another three blocks up the street. Fighting
Red Rover’s grabby brakes, he hid his embarrassment at the jerky halt in front
of the Morse’s house by scrambling out and yanking open the squeaky passenger’s
door. Her hand, when he helped her from the cab, was softer than anything he’d
ever touched.
The motor stuttered as he herded the old
truck down the highway toward the farm. Daddy hadn’t got the carburetor working
right yet. Nonetheless, Derek caught himself humming an Elvis tune. Surprised,
he pursed his lips. Why in blue blazes did he feel so good?
****
Hope you saw
enough of Derek to figure out he’s a pretty good guy. Shy and socially awkward,
but a sound human being.
Next week, we’ll
probably be back to one of my short stories.
Stay safe and stay strong.
Now my
mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say… so
say it!
Don’t
forget to check out my BJ Vinson murder mystery series starting with The
Zozobra Incident and ending with The Cutie-Pie Murders:
My
personal links:
Email: don.travis@aol.com.
Facebook: www.facebook.com/donald.travis.982
Twitter: @dontravis3
See you next Thursday.
Don
New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time.
