Read Online Southern Haunts by Stuart Jaffe - Free Book Online Page B

John incorporated and for the first time, officially, created The Casper Company. He became president and chief operating officer, and quite quickly, he grew the company by acquiring twenty-one other distilleries in nearby Yadkin and Davie Counties.
    While accomplishing all of this, he set up a massive advertising campaign across the nation’s newspapers and magazines. He pronounced The Casper Company as the lowest-priced whiskey distributor to be found and the largest mail order business in the entire South. A typical Casper ad touted: “All the North Carolina whiskey we sell is good — there’s no bad. People here wouldn’t adulterate if they knew how — they are too honest! Most whiskey sellers are noted for mixing, blending and watering. We sell more genuine old whiskey and less water than any known competitor.”
    As Max scrolled down an article, he knew the man’s gambit would succeed. “You push that hard in a world that isn’t used to it, and you’ll either shine bright or flame out.”
    John L. shined. By 1905, his company had a net worth of over $250,000. John used the profits to build what he claimed to be “the largest building in the world devoted to the mail order whiskey trade.” Max didn’t know if that were true, but the building certainly looked huge. It took up an entire city block in Winston-Salem. Not only did they handle their own whiskey mail order business, but the building also became the local outlet for Milwaukee’s Pabst Beer.
    Max stepped away from his desk to stretch his back and roll his neck. Dawn would be coming soon enough, and he considered tumbling into bed for a little bit before reading the rest of Casper’s life. However, the thought of ascending a flight of stairs that at the moment rivaled Mount Everest kept him from moving.
    Instead, he shuffled through the kitchen and entered the half-bath off to the side. Throughout the long night, he hadn’t been paying attention to the needs of his body. All the coffee he had swallowed, all the shock he had absorbed, all the nerve-wracking events he had experienced finally added up. He stood at the toilet, listening to his steady stream, unable to do anything more than sigh in relief.
    Until he saw the trash can.
    Through bleary, dry eyes, he swore he could see a plastic stick poking up through the used tissues — a plastic stick quite similar to a pregnancy test. Despite an entire evening of adrenaline rushing through his body over and again like high tide on a stormy night, he still managed to pump enough of the stuff through his system that he perked up, wide awake, his eyes locked open and staring at the trash. Stone still. Heart racing. Hardly a breath.
    Am I going to be a father?
    Max flushed the toilet and washed up in the sink. He moved slow and deliberate, trying not to snatch glances at the stick in the trash while also avoiding eye contact with his reflection in the bathroom mirror.
    Years ago, they had stopped talking seriously about children. It was always something in the far future, and as time went on, it became something that they both knew would never be. He was okay with that. He knew his mother wanted grandchildren, but his life had never been conducive to child-rearing. Especially after moving to the South and encountering Drummond, the Hulls, and the real world as opposed to the one people think to be real.
    Yet right behind him, an alternative life sat atop a nest of tissues. He merely had to pick up that stick and read it.
    His hands shook. He stared at them, marveling at the idea that a little piece of plastic could cause such a reaction. Except he couldn’t be sure whether he feared looking at the stick or not looking at it.
    “Here we go,” he whispered. “Count to three and then just check it out. 1 ... 2 ... 3 ...”
    In case his body or mind might balk, he moved fast. He whirled around, bent over the trash, and snatched up the plastic stick. Not giving himself any time, he spun the stick until he