The Architecture of the Arkansas Ozarks - Donald Harington [200]
On one of his weekend woods walks, at the age of sixteen, Vernon discovered the abandoned yellow house of the old near-hermit Dan, who was buried on the hill behind it. Exploring the interior of the house, he found upstairs a feather mattress, and lay down on it; he had never lain on a feather mattress before and was surprised at how comfortable it was, so comfortable that he fell asleep and slept for several hours. When he got up he went into the other of the two bedrooms of the house and was startled to discover an old glass showcase containing the body of an old, old man. He stared at it for a moment, trying to understand, then he ran all the way home and said, “Dad, there’s a dead body in a showcase in an old yellow house about a mile up Banty Creek.”
Hank said, “Sit down, son. Can you spare an hour or two?” It took more than an hour or two, more like three, but Hank told Vernon the story of the old peddler from Connecticut. Vernon was delighted. Even more delighted than by the story of the old peddler, he was delighted by the past of Stay More; he had known that Stay More had a past, and he had explored all of its abandoned buildings, but he had never inquired into that past. “We was even going to name ye after him,” Hank informed his son, “but we plumb fergot what his name was, and nobody could recall it. The reason we was even going to name ye after him was that he left somethin fer ye, let me see if I caint remember whar I buried the thing.” Hank took his shovel and went to Bevis’s house and asked his father if he could dig up something in the backyard. Bevis was seventy-eight years old, and his mind had begun to fail him, but he could still use Emelda’s mind, which he did, and she said okay. Hank dug his hole, but that wasn’t the spot. He dug another hole, and then another. Darkness came and he had to give up digging for the day, but rose early the next morning and resumed digging, until the backyard of his parents’ house looked as if it had been bombed. The reporter of the Jasper Disaster, who had been a mere reporter when Hank had sat on his roof for seven hours, was now the editor, and showed up and began taking pictures before Hank could stop him. “What are you looking for?” the editor wanted to know. “Oil? Gold?” “None of your business,” Hank replied. The editor beseeched, “Nothing ever happens in this county anymore. Give me a story.” Hank would not.
The Disaster folded with the next week’s issue, which consisted only of grocery ads and a picture of Hank destroying his parents’ backyard with a caption, “Stay More citizen, J.H. Ingledew, 48, shown with shovel in left background, is mysteriously excavating the rear yard of the home of his parents, Mr. and Mrs. B.H. Ingledew, also of Stay More, this county. We were unable to determine his motive, and, after reflection, we ceased to care. This is the last issue.” There have been no more newspapers in Newton County.
But Hank found the watch. The lard pail was so rusted it disintegrated in his hands, but the heavy wad of flannel within the lard pail was still intact, and in the heart of the wad of flannel was the gold chronometer wristwatch, in perfect condition.
As Hank winds up the watch, time changes to the present tense. Now. The watch runs. Hank apologizes to his parents for having torn up their yard, and promises to smooth it out and reseed it as soon as he gets the chance. “You jist better,” says Bevis, whose mind has failed but who is using Emelda’s. Hank takes the watch home and gives it to Vernon. He says, “This is it. This is what that old peddler left for you. He made me promise to keep it for you.”
“Gosh dawg,” exclaims Vernon, dazzled by the sight of the expensive gold chronometer, whose band is gold too. He takes it and looks at it closely,