The Rising

He was carrying his jacket instead of wearing it and his tie had been stashed away in one of the pockets a long time ago. Already the place was changing him but he was too distracted by the strange surroundings to notice. He had no premonitions. No uncomfortable sense of warning crept in to make him glance behind. If he had he might have seen that—even on that first day—all the bridges of his past were burning.

The few people in line ahead of him did not notice the condition of his suit. What they noticed was that it was “store bought,” had a matching gray vest, and that he had the perfectly trimmed hair of a city person. Dark, wavy hair and eyes that were so blue they set off a striking handsomeness. But no stranger—handsome or otherwise—had any right to stare so intently at folks. Especially in a public place.

Harlan looked around. He had heard the people in the hill country were shy of strangers but he wasn’t in the backwoods, yet—just this little town on the outskirts. Most places he visited, local folk were eager to direct a traveler to where they could best spend their money. Maybe he could get someone to recommend a good place to eat.

“Warm weather for this time of year,” he said aloud, to no one in particular.

The woman in front of him, dressed in a flower print dress, glanced back briefly and then pushed her small son a little farther ahead in the line.

Undaunted, Harlan addressed a grizzled looking man ahead of her who had turned around to eye him curiously. “Is it always so warm this late in September? I just got off the L and M from Richmond. I could use a good place to eat.”

Now, all eyes turned to him but no one said a word.

“Next!” the postmaster’s voice rang out from behind the iron bars above the counter.

The line moved ahead and everyone looked forward, again. When someone else came up behind him, Harlan turned to face the newcomer, determined this time to at least win the favor of a smile. But he couldn’t have been more startled if he had seen someone step out of a painting. For a brief moment, he suddenly found himself caught off guard as much as he had caused the others to be.

There, standing before him, in a blue lace-trimmed dress, and deep red hair that was pulled back from a lovely face with a velvet ribbon—was a girl he was almost certain he had seen before. Even the sweep of those tumbling curls was familiar. And he was sure the fashionable cut of that dress belonged somewhere else he had been, not here.

She had the look of the French—which he knew very well—but that was absurd. He must be more tired than he realized to even think such a thing. Yet he couldn’t help the quiet murmur that escaped him, “It must be a small world!”

He only realized he had spoken in French when she answered back in the same, “Indeed, sir, it is.” …As if they had been two friends talking over coffee on the streets of Paris. His surprise must have amused her, because the green eyes sparkled and she smiled—a beautiful smile that seemed to light her entire face.

“Next!” the postmaster’s voice rang out, again, and the lovely vision pointed past him to indicate that his turn had come up.

The man behind the counter was frail and balding, and limped uncomfortably as he moved to deposit a few envelopes into the outgoing mailbox.

"I was wondering…” Harlan still felt distracted—he must talk to her again before she left—if only to find out—

“Need stamps?” the postmaster prompted, seeing he had nothing to mail.

“Oh, sorry. No, thank you. I was wondering if you could direct me to Tom Bascomb’s place. He doesn’t live in town, here, but farther up. Somewhere called —”

“Cedar Creek,” the man finished for him. “On yonder side of the winding river, and just this side of the Wind Ridge.”

Finding the explanation far from sufficient, Harlan asked, “But how do I get there from here?”

“Well,” the older man said thoughtfully, “you can follow Main Street to Cedar Creek Road... then follow it clear on up past the mines. It’s a far piece to walk, though.”

“How far?”

“About twelve miles, give or take some. Mailman stops there. You might ride on out with him.”

“That would be fine. When does he leave?”

“Left this morning.”

For a moment there was silence, except for the buzz of an electric fan and the sound of papers fluttering softly on the counter. “Well, I suppose I could wait until tomorrow,” Harlan finally decided. “What time does he usually leave?”

“He only lights out that way once a week,” said the postmaster.

There was another silence. This time it was broken by the long blast of a car horn outside, and an impatient masculine voice shouted, “Bonnie Rae! You in there?”

The postmaster looked past Harlan as if their business had ended, and spoke to the girl. “That package you been waiting for come in, Bonnie Rae.”

“It did? Law, Mr. Farnsby—I been just enduring the time waiting for it.”

“I’ll fetch it,” the wrinkled face broke into a smile, as if the pleasure of a package from far away was something to share. “You go tell Joseph Lee to keep his shirt on.”

Bonnie Rae…

She hurried to the open door and called, “I’ll be along!” before returning to stand next to Harlan, again, this time, casting her eyes down as shyly as the others had. Surely he must have been dreaming on his feet, or had some momentary mental slip, because now her voice rang with that same mountain twang everyone else had been speaking all around him since he had arrived.

“Here it is,” the postmaster returned and handed the package across the counter to her. “Come all the way from New York, this time.”

“It’s a wonderment, ain’t it?” she murmured, looking the plain brown wrapping over. There was another long blast from the horn outside and then another as she turned and started for the door.

“Hold up, Bonnie Rae —” the postmaster called her back. “You reckon you could pack this foreigner up to Doc Bascomb’s place?”

Now, she stared uncertainly at the handsome stranger. 

“I’d be happy to pay for the trouble,” Harlan said quickly.

“Law!” she breathed the word as if the offer had been an insult. “I ain’t about to take no money, Mister...” She looked questioningly at him.

"Fleming,” he replied. “Harlan Fleming. I’m the new—what is the phrase you folks call it out here—government teacher. For Cedar Creek. Tom Bascomb is my uncle and I’ll be staying with him.”

“The government teacher?” It seemed the title suddenly made him acceptable. That, or the mention of his uncle.

“Well, Mr. Harlan, if you can abide my brother’s driving, I reckon we can get you there.”

“Thank you,” He reached for his suitcase. “And thank you, Mr. Farnsby,” he added as he followed her outside.

The horn blasted, again, and Harlan saw that the noise belonged to a dilapidated, ‘thirty-two, Ford pickup. The engine was running and the back was filled with four children, each holding a bottle of Coca-Cola. “How are you all?” he asked politely. 

They just stared at him. 

Then a ruddy, good-looking young man, with hair somewhere between the color of sunset and sand, stuck his head out of the window. “Howdy.” When he smiled, Harlan noticed that he had the same charming smile his sister had.

“This here is Harlan Fleming, J-Lee,” Bonnie Rae explained. “He come from off to be the new government teacher. I told Mr. Farnsby we’d pack him in to the Doc’s place.”

“Doc’s place —” The friendly smile disappeared.

“He’s my uncle,” Harlan added. “It’s where I’ll be staying for the year.”

“Well... shoot, I guess we could do it. Bonnie Rae, you set in the back with the younguns.”

“Oh, no need for that,” Harlan objected. “I would just as soon ride in the back, myself.” He threw his suitcase over the side and climbed in.

A girl around fourteen, with hair a shade darker than her sister’s, was holding a freckle-faced boy of five or six on her lap. A smaller girl—not much more than seven, Harlan guessed—had blonde hair done up neatly into two braids. She moved closer to an older brother who was seated nonchalantly with one arm up on the rail. He was wearing a faded gray cap and looked to be older than the rest, but not by much.

“He a foreigner, Rafe?” the little girl asked, staring wideeyed at Harlan. She sipped on her drink and then spit some back into the bottle.

“Yep,” her brother replied.

“I am not a foreigner,” Harlan corrected. “I’m an American. Same as—”

The door of the truck slammed after Bonnie Rae got in. As if it had been the long awaited signal for the start of a race, the engine roared, the truck leapt forward with a startling jerk and began to barrel its way down Main Street, entirely too fast for downtown. Harlan had to hold on to the side as he was bounced and jostled with every bump and rut in the road.

When the children’s eyes shown with pleasure, he realized they were enjoying the sight of the “foreigner’s” discomfort. He won them over, however, when—in spite of their shyness—they couldn’t help laughing out loud at the shocked expression he let cross his face when the driver hollered back to them from the open window, “Hang on, now! I’m gonna drive her wide open all the way!”