fresh-pressed uniform. Chauncey saw it in the way the boys scanned him from head to toe, not just inside the recruiting office but when he walked around town or drove out to visit a farm. Even Paul Clayton had once been like that, shyly asking to wear Chaunceyâs campaign hat so he could look in a mirror with it on. Chauncey had let him. Later, when Paul turned eighteen, Boyce and his brother Ansel had tried to talk him out of volunteering, telling their nephew that his mother needed him more than the army did.
The bell finally rang and Chauncey closed the blinds. He made a last inspection to ensure he left the office in good order before walking out. As Chauncey turned the key, he saw his face reflected in the window. The skin was smooth and clear, which wasnât always good since the slightest thing made him look flummoxed when he really wasnât. But like his mother said, Chauncey had a strong chin, and people noticed that too. The Turkey Trot was on the outskirts of town so the law and the preachers could pretend it wasnât breaking state law. Veterans drank there, including Tillman Estep, whoâd lost an eye and had his face scarred rough as a washboard. The first time heâd seen Estep after his return, Chauncey saluted and Estep didnât return the salute, just glared at Chauncey with his one eye like Chauncey had been the one who sent the mortar round into his trench. Estep went around Mars Hill telling anyone whoâd listen that the war was nothing more than a bunch of men killing each other for a few acres of mud. Saying such things hurt morale on the home front, and things were already bad enough. The county was all but overrun with Germans. They spoke German, telling each other who knew what, and ate German food and just because they didnât wear Hun army uniforms no one seemed worried a bit by them being here.
Chauncey walked down the street toward the one-windowed clapboard building. He pushed through the swinging doors, paused a moment to adjust to the lesser light. Tillman Estep sat at the table nearest the entrance, almost like heâd planned it so Chauncey would see him first. A man wearing an overseas cap sat at the table as well. Chauncey didnât know his name, but heâd heard about the man and his ailment. Just pretend you were looking for someone else and leave, Chauncey told himself, but others had noticed him now, including Boyce Clayton, who was at the bar talking to Toby Meachum. Three old men sat on stools at the barâs far end, liquor bottles out in the open. Maybe because of his war veteran clientele, or bribes, Meachum no longer pretended his âGentlemenâs Clubâ was anything but a saloon. No one looked especially glad to see Chauncey, including Meachum, who began polishing the bar, acting like he hadnât noticed his coming in. Didnât turn away when he needed money from Feith Savings and Loan to buy this building, Chauncey thought.
The air suddenly seemed thicker and his ribs felt like laces pulled tight around his lungs, but Chauncey squared his shoulders and stepped to the bar, remembering his fatherâs advice on his first day at the bankâlook confident and people notice and acknowledge that confidence. Chauncey placed his left boot firmly on the brass railing. Boyce, like Tillman Estep and the three old men at the bar end, chased his beer with a shot glass of clear liquid. Moonshine, and it was Boyce and Ansel Clayton who supplied it to Meachum. They probably didnât think Chauncey knew about such things, but it was part of a recruiting officerâs job, at least a good one, to know what went on not just in Mars Hill but the whole county, especially since some of the youths in his Boys Working Reserve lived as far north as Shelton Laurel and south to Moody Knob.
Refusing to drink anything other than brown liquor was the sign of good breeding. That was something else his father had taught him, but there were
The bell finally rang and Chauncey closed the blinds. He made a last inspection to ensure he left the office in good order before walking out. As Chauncey turned the key, he saw his face reflected in the window. The skin was smooth and clear, which wasnât always good since the slightest thing made him look flummoxed when he really wasnât. But like his mother said, Chauncey had a strong chin, and people noticed that too. The Turkey Trot was on the outskirts of town so the law and the preachers could pretend it wasnât breaking state law. Veterans drank there, including Tillman Estep, whoâd lost an eye and had his face scarred rough as a washboard. The first time heâd seen Estep after his return, Chauncey saluted and Estep didnât return the salute, just glared at Chauncey with his one eye like Chauncey had been the one who sent the mortar round into his trench. Estep went around Mars Hill telling anyone whoâd listen that the war was nothing more than a bunch of men killing each other for a few acres of mud. Saying such things hurt morale on the home front, and things were already bad enough. The county was all but overrun with Germans. They spoke German, telling each other who knew what, and ate German food and just because they didnât wear Hun army uniforms no one seemed worried a bit by them being here.
Chauncey walked down the street toward the one-windowed clapboard building. He pushed through the swinging doors, paused a moment to adjust to the lesser light. Tillman Estep sat at the table nearest the entrance, almost like heâd planned it so Chauncey would see him first. A man wearing an overseas cap sat at the table as well. Chauncey didnât know his name, but heâd heard about the man and his ailment. Just pretend you were looking for someone else and leave, Chauncey told himself, but others had noticed him now, including Boyce Clayton, who was at the bar talking to Toby Meachum. Three old men sat on stools at the barâs far end, liquor bottles out in the open. Maybe because of his war veteran clientele, or bribes, Meachum no longer pretended his âGentlemenâs Clubâ was anything but a saloon. No one looked especially glad to see Chauncey, including Meachum, who began polishing the bar, acting like he hadnât noticed his coming in. Didnât turn away when he needed money from Feith Savings and Loan to buy this building, Chauncey thought.
The air suddenly seemed thicker and his ribs felt like laces pulled tight around his lungs, but Chauncey squared his shoulders and stepped to the bar, remembering his fatherâs advice on his first day at the bankâlook confident and people notice and acknowledge that confidence. Chauncey placed his left boot firmly on the brass railing. Boyce, like Tillman Estep and the three old men at the bar end, chased his beer with a shot glass of clear liquid. Moonshine, and it was Boyce and Ansel Clayton who supplied it to Meachum. They probably didnât think Chauncey knew about such things, but it was part of a recruiting officerâs job, at least a good one, to know what went on not just in Mars Hill but the whole county, especially since some of the youths in his Boys Working Reserve lived as far north as Shelton Laurel and south to Moody Knob.
Refusing to drink anything other than brown liquor was the sign of good breeding. That was something else his father had taught him, but there were
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