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Authors: Scott Nicholson
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a shifting landscape that only appeared fixed and firm from a man’s temporary perspective. “I’ve got the eye, my friend. But I had great material.”
“I’m not your friend.”
“Neighbor, then.”
“Got your camera with you? Thought you might want to get a few shots of the knob before your bulldozers do their trick and knock it down forever.”
“It’s already well documented, neighbor.”
“Or maybe you want a picture of my rosy red asshole.” Hardy twisted his head and spat into the leaves, wishing he hadn’t given up chewing tobacco so he could squirt a strand on the man’s fancy and squeaky-clean Timberland hiking boots. “I don’t got no legal cause to stop you. Them ‘Save the Knob’ hippies couldn’t get anywhere with their long-haired Yankee lawyer, so what good could I do?”
“You sound just like them, making it ‘Good versus evil.’ But I’m providing a product and contributing to the community. Funny, in all the kiddie movies these days, developers are the bad guys. Why is that, Hardy?”
Hardy nodded toward the ridge that covered the cool, black tunnel of subterranean secrets. “I don’t know what ‘evil’ is, but I know when something ain’t right.”
Bill took a couple of brisk steps forward and slapped Hardy on the shoulder. Hardy looked down on the beaming cherub in the catalog-ordered flannel shirt.
“Take it easy,” Bill said. “I wouldn’t subject a stranger to the sinister mysteries of The Jangling Hole. It wouldn’t be neighborly. That’s why I’m putting my house right there on top. Once I clear the trees so I can get the view.”
“You mean, so everybody can see how big your house is.”
Bill gave a laugh that sounded too big to have come from his belly. “If there are any Civil War ghosts, restless Cherokee spirits, hillbilly horrors, or tap-dancing babies of Satan, then they’re welcome in my living room anytime. I might even rig up an infrared camera and see if I can get any of it on film. Those would fetch a pretty penny, don’t you think?”
“Enough for you to buy another mountain.”
“Hey, don’t take it too hard. We won’t have the road cut all the way to the top until next week. Plenty of time for all the wild turkey, rabbits, and deer to scamper off into the valley. Or maybe down to your pasture. You still hunt, don’t you?”
Hardy didn’t want to acknowledge that he’d given up hunting Mulatto Mountain one misty November morning after he’d gotten the feeling that something was hunting
him
. “Mountain’s been here since the Book of Genesis.”
“I tell you what,” Bill said, pressing on Hardy’s shoulder to guide him toward the Hole. “You find me a verse that says a man ought to ignore a calling. And it’s not like I’m going to pave every square inch. We’re working with a land trust to place a few acres under conservation easement.”
“So you can get the tax breaks on land too steep to destroy and spread even more cost onto the shoulders of the working folk,” Hardy said, shrugging off the man’s hand and walking beside him.
Bill gave the irritating laugh again. “If I didn’t know you were a registered Republican, I’d swear you’re turning into a Commie. Come on, admit it. The truth of the matter is you don’t want me to ruin your view. Within five years you’ll be selling out and moving into one of my condominiums near the hospital.”
“Over my dead body.”
“That’s one way of doing it. I’m sure the missus isn’t quite as hard-headed as you. Not so opposed to change.”
A hawk soared overhead, a dark silhouette against the high clouds. The maples had turned early this year, the leaves dark purple and brilliant red. The buckeyes and poplars were golden, and the oaks were in the first throes of going dark green. A squirrel darted along a hickory branch, then leaped into a pine and cut a candy-stripe route down the trunk. The traffic from the distant highway was softened to a distant
“I’m not your friend.”
“Neighbor, then.”
“Got your camera with you? Thought you might want to get a few shots of the knob before your bulldozers do their trick and knock it down forever.”
“It’s already well documented, neighbor.”
“Or maybe you want a picture of my rosy red asshole.” Hardy twisted his head and spat into the leaves, wishing he hadn’t given up chewing tobacco so he could squirt a strand on the man’s fancy and squeaky-clean Timberland hiking boots. “I don’t got no legal cause to stop you. Them ‘Save the Knob’ hippies couldn’t get anywhere with their long-haired Yankee lawyer, so what good could I do?”
“You sound just like them, making it ‘Good versus evil.’ But I’m providing a product and contributing to the community. Funny, in all the kiddie movies these days, developers are the bad guys. Why is that, Hardy?”
Hardy nodded toward the ridge that covered the cool, black tunnel of subterranean secrets. “I don’t know what ‘evil’ is, but I know when something ain’t right.”
Bill took a couple of brisk steps forward and slapped Hardy on the shoulder. Hardy looked down on the beaming cherub in the catalog-ordered flannel shirt.
“Take it easy,” Bill said. “I wouldn’t subject a stranger to the sinister mysteries of The Jangling Hole. It wouldn’t be neighborly. That’s why I’m putting my house right there on top. Once I clear the trees so I can get the view.”
“You mean, so everybody can see how big your house is.”
Bill gave a laugh that sounded too big to have come from his belly. “If there are any Civil War ghosts, restless Cherokee spirits, hillbilly horrors, or tap-dancing babies of Satan, then they’re welcome in my living room anytime. I might even rig up an infrared camera and see if I can get any of it on film. Those would fetch a pretty penny, don’t you think?”
“Enough for you to buy another mountain.”
“Hey, don’t take it too hard. We won’t have the road cut all the way to the top until next week. Plenty of time for all the wild turkey, rabbits, and deer to scamper off into the valley. Or maybe down to your pasture. You still hunt, don’t you?”
Hardy didn’t want to acknowledge that he’d given up hunting Mulatto Mountain one misty November morning after he’d gotten the feeling that something was hunting
him
. “Mountain’s been here since the Book of Genesis.”
“I tell you what,” Bill said, pressing on Hardy’s shoulder to guide him toward the Hole. “You find me a verse that says a man ought to ignore a calling. And it’s not like I’m going to pave every square inch. We’re working with a land trust to place a few acres under conservation easement.”
“So you can get the tax breaks on land too steep to destroy and spread even more cost onto the shoulders of the working folk,” Hardy said, shrugging off the man’s hand and walking beside him.
Bill gave the irritating laugh again. “If I didn’t know you were a registered Republican, I’d swear you’re turning into a Commie. Come on, admit it. The truth of the matter is you don’t want me to ruin your view. Within five years you’ll be selling out and moving into one of my condominiums near the hospital.”
“Over my dead body.”
“That’s one way of doing it. I’m sure the missus isn’t quite as hard-headed as you. Not so opposed to change.”
A hawk soared overhead, a dark silhouette against the high clouds. The maples had turned early this year, the leaves dark purple and brilliant red. The buckeyes and poplars were golden, and the oaks were in the first throes of going dark green. A squirrel darted along a hickory branch, then leaped into a pine and cut a candy-stripe route down the trunk. The traffic from the distant highway was softened to a distant
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