husband is an excellent cook. Let’s have a drink on the porch and talk about stuff. I’ll tell you everything you need to know about Brady.”
Mattie found her shoes and locked up the office. She said the Prius was safe where it was parked, on Main Street. “I walk to work,” Mattie said. “About my only exercise.” The shops and offices were closed. The two cafés were serving an early dinner to thin crowds. They trudged up the side of a hill, passing kids on the sidewalk and neighbors on porches. After two blocks they turned onto Third Street, a leafy row of turn-of-the-century, neat, redbrick homes, almost all identical with white porches and gabled roofs. Samantha wanted to hit the road, to hurry back toward Abingdon where she had noticed several chain motels at the interchange. But there was no way to gracefully say no to Mattie’s hospitality.
Chester Wyatt was in a rocking chair reading a newspaperwhen he was introduced to Samantha. “I told her you are an excellent cook,” Mattie said.
“I guess that means I’m cooking dinner,” he said with a grin. “Welcome.”
“And she’s starving,” Mattie said.
“What would you like?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” Samantha said.
Mattie said, “What about baked chicken with Spanish rice?”
“Just what I was thinking,” Chester said. “A glass of wine first?”
They drank red wine for an hour as darkness settled around them. Samantha sipped slowly, careful not to have too much because she was worrying about her drive out of Noland County. There appeared to be no hotels or motels in Brady, and given the town’s declining appearance she doubted there was a suitable room anywhere. As they talked, she politely probed here and there, and learned that the Wyatts had two adult children who had fled the area after college. There were three grandchildren they rarely saw. Donovan was like a son. Chester was a retired postal worker who had delivered rural mail for decades and knew everyone. Now he volunteered for an environmental group that monitored strip-mining and filed complaints with a dozen bureaucracies. His father and grandfather had been coal miners. Mattie’s father had worked the deep mines for almost thirty years before dying of black lung at the age of sixty-one. “I’m sixty-one now,” she said. “It was horrible.”
While the women sat and talked, Chester eased back and forth to the kitchen, checking on the chicken and pouring wine. Once, when he was gone, Mattie said, “Don’t worry, dear, we have an extra bedroom.”
“No, really, I—”
“Please, I insist. There’s not a decent room in town, believe me. A couple of hot-sheets joints that charge by the hour, but even they’re about to close. A sad commentary, I suppose. Folks used to sneak off to the motel for illicit sex; now they just move in together and play house.”
“So there is sex around here?” Samantha asked.
“I should hope so. My mother had seven kids, Chester’s had six. There’s not much else to do. And this time of the year, September and October, they’re popping out like rabbits.”
“Why?”
“Big storm just after Christmas.”
Chester stepped through the screen door and asked, “What are we talking about?”
“Sex,” Mattie said. “Samantha’s surprised that folks have sex around here.”
“Some of them do,” he said.
“So I’ve heard,” Mattie shot back with a grin.
“I didn’t bring up sex,” Samantha said defensively. “Mattie mentioned an extra bedroom for the night.”
“Yes, and it’s all yours. Just keep your door locked and we’ll stay out of trouble,” Chester said as he disappeared into the house.
“He’s harmless, believe me,” Mattie whispered.
Donovan arrived to say hello and thankfully missed that part of the conversation. He lived “on a mountain out in the country” and was on his way home from the office. He declined an offer of wine and left after fifteen minutes. He seemed distracted and said he
Mattie found her shoes and locked up the office. She said the Prius was safe where it was parked, on Main Street. “I walk to work,” Mattie said. “About my only exercise.” The shops and offices were closed. The two cafés were serving an early dinner to thin crowds. They trudged up the side of a hill, passing kids on the sidewalk and neighbors on porches. After two blocks they turned onto Third Street, a leafy row of turn-of-the-century, neat, redbrick homes, almost all identical with white porches and gabled roofs. Samantha wanted to hit the road, to hurry back toward Abingdon where she had noticed several chain motels at the interchange. But there was no way to gracefully say no to Mattie’s hospitality.
Chester Wyatt was in a rocking chair reading a newspaperwhen he was introduced to Samantha. “I told her you are an excellent cook,” Mattie said.
“I guess that means I’m cooking dinner,” he said with a grin. “Welcome.”
“And she’s starving,” Mattie said.
“What would you like?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” Samantha said.
Mattie said, “What about baked chicken with Spanish rice?”
“Just what I was thinking,” Chester said. “A glass of wine first?”
They drank red wine for an hour as darkness settled around them. Samantha sipped slowly, careful not to have too much because she was worrying about her drive out of Noland County. There appeared to be no hotels or motels in Brady, and given the town’s declining appearance she doubted there was a suitable room anywhere. As they talked, she politely probed here and there, and learned that the Wyatts had two adult children who had fled the area after college. There were three grandchildren they rarely saw. Donovan was like a son. Chester was a retired postal worker who had delivered rural mail for decades and knew everyone. Now he volunteered for an environmental group that monitored strip-mining and filed complaints with a dozen bureaucracies. His father and grandfather had been coal miners. Mattie’s father had worked the deep mines for almost thirty years before dying of black lung at the age of sixty-one. “I’m sixty-one now,” she said. “It was horrible.”
While the women sat and talked, Chester eased back and forth to the kitchen, checking on the chicken and pouring wine. Once, when he was gone, Mattie said, “Don’t worry, dear, we have an extra bedroom.”
“No, really, I—”
“Please, I insist. There’s not a decent room in town, believe me. A couple of hot-sheets joints that charge by the hour, but even they’re about to close. A sad commentary, I suppose. Folks used to sneak off to the motel for illicit sex; now they just move in together and play house.”
“So there is sex around here?” Samantha asked.
“I should hope so. My mother had seven kids, Chester’s had six. There’s not much else to do. And this time of the year, September and October, they’re popping out like rabbits.”
“Why?”
“Big storm just after Christmas.”
Chester stepped through the screen door and asked, “What are we talking about?”
“Sex,” Mattie said. “Samantha’s surprised that folks have sex around here.”
“Some of them do,” he said.
“So I’ve heard,” Mattie shot back with a grin.
“I didn’t bring up sex,” Samantha said defensively. “Mattie mentioned an extra bedroom for the night.”
“Yes, and it’s all yours. Just keep your door locked and we’ll stay out of trouble,” Chester said as he disappeared into the house.
“He’s harmless, believe me,” Mattie whispered.
Donovan arrived to say hello and thankfully missed that part of the conversation. He lived “on a mountain out in the country” and was on his way home from the office. He declined an offer of wine and left after fifteen minutes. He seemed distracted and said he
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