The Black Train

A strong male voice intervened, “What my mom meant is the last regular room.” A tall man, thirtyish, stepped up, wearing a confident smile and jeans, work boots, and a T-shirt. “Howdy, Mr. Collier. I’m Helen’s son, Jiff.”

Collier shook a toughened hand. “Hi, Jeff.”

“No, sir, that’s Jiff—you know, like the peanut butter?” The tight T-shirt sculpted a toned upper body; he had a blond buzz cut and similar drawl. “This room here ain’t yours. We don’t rent it out.” He pointed to the next door. “This one’s yours, and it’s our best.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Jiff.”

“Lemme take these bags from my little pipe cleaner of a sister, and get’cha set.”

Collier unlocked what was actually the second-to-last door, but he quickly noted that the third door stood more narrowly and sported a plaque, which read ORIGINAL GAST BATH AND WATER CLOSET. “So what’s this here, Jiff?”

Lottie glared as Jiff yanked the cases from her; she may have even mouthed Fucker!

“That room we never renovated ’cos a lot of tourist folks like to see what a real bathroom from the old days looked like. I’ll be happy to show it to ya, and give ya a tour of the whole house when you’re ready.”

“Thanks, I’d like a tour.”

Collier entered his room, and heard Jiff mutter “out’a my way, dopey!” to his sister behind him. They seemed to be fighting over Collier’s attention. “Yes, sir, I seen your show many times,” Jiff assured him. “It’s a real pleasure to have such a famous TV fella staying with us.”

Collier couldn’t have felt less genuine when he replied, “Thanks.”

“You here for anything to do with your TV show?”

“No, Jiff, actually I’m here to finish a book. Besides my Prince of Beer show I also write books about the art and craft of beer—” And then he quickly said, “Ah, perfect,” of an antique scroll-top desk, which sat before a broad window. “I can work on my laptop right there.”

Jiff put the laptop case on the desk. “I hope the room’s to your likin’.”

“It’ll do just fine.” Cozy, Collier thought. Heavy rust-colored carpet wall to wall, and furnishings of the expected post-Colonial bent. The four-poster bed sat unusually high. Gold and maroon wallpaper covered the half-paneled walls. “Oh, and let me check out this view your mother promised.” And he went through a pair of French doors out to an elaborately railed balcony. Jiff stepped out with him.

The second-story view showed him an impressive garden bisected by flagstone trails. “Beautiful garden,” Collier commented. The meld of fragrances reached him on a warm breeze.

Centered in a small cove at the end of the perimeter sat a crude chimney made of flat beige stones piled high and set with mortar. Several ducts seemed to exist in the structure’s body, and then Collier noticed a chained beam hanging on the side, attached to a large version of a fireplace bellows. A separate shed sat beside it all.

“What’s all that there, that chimney-looking thing?”

“Harwood Gast’s personal iron forge,” Jiff replied. “Any rich man had a forge and blacksmith on the property. Lotta tourists and historians come here just to see that one. It’s in perfect condition; only thing new on it is the leather for the bellows.”

This, like some of the artifacts downstairs, fascinated Collier. “And the shed next to it?”

“Fuel house. They used coal or charcoal; couldn’t use regular wood ’cos it wouldn’t get hot enough. One fella ran the whole show, pumpin’ the bellows, turnin’ the ore, then pullin’ out the blooms to knock the iron out of ’em. Tricky process. The smith’d have to shape the iron before it got too cold.” He pointed to a sawn tree stump that housed an anvil. “It was hard work but those fellas could damn near make anything, and they did it all with a hammer and molds.”

The sight made Collier realize how little he knew of the world. “I’d love to see that some time.”

“I’d be happy to show it to ya whenever you like,” Jiff said. Then he pointed beyond. “And there’s the mountain.”

Collier could still see it, even at this distance, its peaks and edges ghosted by mist that looked purple. But past the garden stretched an endless scrubland that wasn’t much for scenery. “How come no one farms all that land out there?”

“Used to be one of the biggest cotton plantations in the South,” Jiff said, “back before the war.”

“World War Two? Or do you mean—”

“The War of Northern Aggression, sir.”

Collier smiled. He struggled with more distraction when Lottie listlessly leaned over the rail and looked down, and was just able to resist overtly looking down the top of her denim frock. “So it’s just wasteland now? Surely it’s been farmed since then.”

“No, sir. Not a square foot.”

“A developer’s sitting on it?”

“No, sir.”

The deflection of the issue intrigued Collier. “Well then why not use all that valuable farmland?”

Lottie looked at him. She slowly shook her head.

“Folks think the land’s cursed is all, Mr. Collier,” Jiff informed. “Lotta old legends and ghost tales ’round here, but don’t pay ’em no mind. Man who used to own that land was Harwood Gast. The cotton his slaves harvested clothed most’a the Confederate army, and the soybeans he grew out there fed it. bet’cha didn’t know they had soybeans back then, did ya?”

“Actually…no.” But Collier delighted in ghost stories. “And why is the land supposedly cursed?”

Jiff crooked his head. “Aw, you don’t wanna hear that silly talk, sir. Oh, look, there’s them folks from Wisconsin.”

He sure changed that subject fast. Collier’s eyes darted down and, indeed, there walked the married couple he’d seen downstairs. The woman seemed to sense Collier’s eyes, and jerked around to wave.

“Can’t wait for that autograph, Mr. Collier!”

Jesus… Collier nodded and smiled. “Let’s go back inside.”

Lottie skipped ahead of him; he couldn’t take his gaze off the toned, gymnastlike legs. But then his loins surged when the spry girl leaned over for his suitcase. Jackpot! Collier thought. The action afforded only a glimpse, but as the top edge of the frock dipped from gravity, Collier noted breasts the size of peaches, and probably as firm. Good God…This sudden thrill of voyeurism left him mystified; it simply wasn’t like him. Nevertheless, the glimpse made him feel as though he’d received a wonderful surprise gift.

She hauled the suitcase atop the bed, opened it, and began to hang his clothes up in the wardrobe.

“Thanks, Lottie, but that’s really not necessary…”

“It’s our pleasure, Mr. Collier,” Jiff offered.

Next, Lottie grabbed a pair of shoes from the case, then turned and bent down to place them at the bottom of the wardrobe. Collier got an adrenaline jolt from a perfect shot of her white-pantied bottom.

Jiff gave her a hard smack. “Have some respect, girl! Mr. Collier don’t wanna look at your scrawny bee- hind!”

Yes I do! Yes I do! Collier objected. The girl stood straight, grinned sheepishly.

But it was just more incomprehension. Even the air seemed gorged with desire; he inhaled it like smoke. Collier had all but forgotten such sexual awareness, but all of a sudden…

His chest felt tight. He felt antsy.

“So what was that you was sayin’, Mr. Collier?” Jiff repaired the awkward moment. “You come here to work on a beer book?”

“Uh, yes, Jiff. I’m writing a book about classic old American beers, and the reason I’ve come to Gast is because I heard some fellow connoisseurs speaking particularly of a beer brewed in this town, at a place called —”

But Jiff was already nodding, arms crossed. “Cusher’s, ya mean. Next words out’a my mouth was gonna be how the Prince’a Beer surely must throw a few back at Cusher’s.”