The Black Train

“Jiff can tell you that,” she said.

Again, that pained look on Jiff’s face. “Aw, come on, Dominique. I been tryin’ hard not to let any of that creepy B.S. get ta Mr. Collier.”

“I knew it,” Collier said. “Ghost stories. Haunted folklore.”

“The way it goes,” the woman began, “is that when the Union commander sent a team of men up to the Gast House, he had to wind up putting them in the stockade.”

“The stockade? What on earth for?”

“Because they refused to carry out their orders.”

“They refused to burn the house, you mean?”

Dominique nodded with a mischievous grin. “They said they were too afraid to go inside, said there was an ungodly presence.”

Jiff frowned, as expected, but Collier wasn’t impressed. “That’s all?”

“No. Then another squad of men were sent up to the house, and…” Her eyes shined at Jiff. “Jiff, tell Mr. Collier what happened.”

“Shee-it,” Jiff said under his breath. “The second squad never came back, so’s the Yankee commander went up there hisself and saw that the whole squad hanged thereselfs.”

“From the same tree that Harwood Gast had hanged himself a year and a half previous. The tree’s still there, too, right Jiff? That giant oak next to the fountain.”

“Yeah, but it all ain’t nothin’ but a bushel basket full’a horse flop, Mr. Collier.”

Collier chuckled. “I’ve got to tell you, Jiff, it’s a fascinating story, but…I don’t believe any of it. So you can relax.”

“Thank God…”

“Regional folklore has always interested me, but at the end of the day,” Collier said, and paused for effect. “I don’t believe in ghosts.”

“But Jiff’s right,” Dominique added. “There are a lot of ghost stories around here, typical of any Civil War town. Funny thing is, our stories are a bit harder-edged than most.”

“Harder-edged?” Collier asked.

Jiff butted in again. “So, wow, that’s really interestin’, that this beer’s been around since the war. I didn’t even know they had beer way back then.”

Collier knew Jiff was desperate to change the subject. But why would silly ghost stories bother him so much? Another Southern cliche? Were people from the South more superstitious than anyone else? Collier doubted it. But the pedant in him couldn’t resist the deflecting remark. “Actually, Jiff, beer’s been around for at least eight thousand years, and in earlier civilizations, it was the main carbohydrate staple. Before man figured out that they could turn grain into bread, they were turning it into beer.”

Dominique accentuated, “Early nomads discovered that they could boil ground-up grain, like barley, wheat, and millet, and eat it as a porridge. But when they accidentally let it sit around, or when rain would saturate their grain stores, it would ferment and become ale. It had the same nutritional value as bread but it wouldn’t go bad, like bread does, because of the alcohol content. And let’s not forget the additional fact. You don’t get a buzz from bread…”

Collier and Dominique spent the next half hour bantering more about beer. When he offered to buy her another, she declined with a comment that struck Collier as odd: “No, thanks. I never drink more than one beer a day.”

Collier found this astonishing. “But you’re a brewer, for God’s sake.”

“Well, that’s sort of the point.” She said it all very non-chalantly. “I’m a Christian. I don’t let myself get drunk. You know, the body’s a temple of the Lord, and all that.”

Collier’s eyes shot back to the cross around her neck. What an odd thing to say… He struggled for a response that wasn’t stilted. “Well, Jesus drank wine, right?”

White teeth gleamed in her grin. “Yeah, but he didn’t get shit-faced and swing from chandeliers.”

Collier had to laugh.

“And that’s the kind of stuff that happens when I drink too much,” she went on, “so…one’s my limit. I figure the least I can do is not insult God by getting pissy drunk.”

Collier was intrigued by the strangeness of it all. The mild profanity mixed with a matter-of-fact religious sentiment. “My own personal rule is no more than three a day; it’s no fun to write about beer when you’re hungover.” Then he looked at his glass and realized that he’d just finished his fourth. “But I’m being a hypocrite today. One more please. And another for Jiff.”

“Thanks much, Mr. Collier,” Jiff said, slurring “much” as “mlush” and “Mr.” as “Mlister.”

When Dominique returned with two more, Collier felt the need to continue. “But I’ve never thought of having a few beers as much of a sin. At least I hope it’s not.”

“Inebriation leads to temptation,” she said. She was unconsciously fingering her cross now.

“I’ve definitely been guilty of that,” Collier admitted.

“Sure, and we all have. Making an effort to stay sober is a form of repentance”—she frowned as if irritated with herself—“but I’m not trying to Holy Roll you. It’s just my personal view. Spiritual beliefs are individual. When you’re in the bar business as long as I’ve been, you learn fast—”

“Never talk about religion in a bar.” Collier knew.

“You got that right. Anyway, I don’t want you to think I’m a Holy Roller. Telling other people how to live is the worst hypocrisy. I think it’s best to show your faith by example, not chatter and finger-pointing. If you’re a Christian, Jew, Muslim, Buddhist, whatever. Live it, don’t talk it is what I try to do.”

This girl is cool, Collier realized. He also realized he was half drunk. Don’t make a dick of yourself! “You weren’t telling me how to live, you were just explaining why you only drink one beer a day. Beer snobbery is a sophisticated science. If you drink too many, you might as well be guzzling domestic draft—”

“Because no one can appreciate the nuances of fine beer, not with a load on.”

God, I really dig her, Collier acknowledged to himself. Even the way she talked— half colloquial, half philosophical—seemed sexy. She looked at her watch, then excused herself. “I have to go upstairs and check the wort. But please don’t leave yet.”

“Wouldn’t think of it. I might even have to have a sixth glass of your lager. See, my rules go out the window pretty fast,” he joked, “but I can only blame you.”

“Me?”

“For being the purveyor of one of the very best lagers in America.”

She smiled at the overt compliment, then slipped away through a door behind the bar.

Jiff leaned over, concerned. “Shee-it, Mr. Collier. She say she had warts? Man, you don’t want none’a that.”

Collier was quickly learning to frown and smile in amusement simultaneously. “Not warts, Jiff. Wort. Wort is beer before the yeast and hops have been added. After the solution ferments and is filtered of its excess proteins, it officially becomes beer.”

“Oh, yeah, well, now that I thunk of it, I’m pretty sure I knew that, and, yes, it’s a damn good thing she ain’t got warts. Not that I ever had ’em—you know, the sexual kind—” Jiff pronounced it “sax-shool.” “And I say it’s plain as barn paint she got a serious torch fer you.”

Collier’s unconfident eyes looked at him. “You…really think so, Jiff?”

Jiff’s head lolled back with a big shucksy grin. “Shee-it, Mr. Collier. Her face was plumb all lit up like a pinball machine when you and her was talkin’ all that beer talk.” Then Jiff wheezed a chuckle, and elbowed Collier. “And— aw, shee-it—I can tell ya someone else who’s got a fierce likin’ for ya, but don’t ya dare say I said so—”

“Lottie,” Collier supposed.

“Aw, yeah, sure, but I ain’t talkin’ ’bout that silly string bean. I mean my ma.”

Collier was duped. This guy’s telling me that his MOTHER is attracted to me? “Uh, really?” he said.

“And I gots to tell ya, there’s dudes twenty years younger asking my ma out all the dang time. Yeah, I know, she’s a bit raggy in the face but that’s some body on her, ain’t it?” And then another elbow jabbed Collier in the side.