Spiritus Mundi: The Bulging Lucky Tumor

Chapter Thirty

2009-08-27T11:34:00.000-07:00

A few hours had passed since Mayor Barton left his home to check on Philpot’s status. With each minute that passed, Ransom grew more nervous. He could make a break from Bethlehem, knock the proverbial dust off his feet and tuck tail for home. Ransom was never so much a brave man, at least not in the ways that most folks counted bravery, but he recognized something uncouth in cowering when the going got tough. Besides, it was difficult to tell how much of Paul’s threatening stance toward him was a ruse and how much of it was real.

If Paul’s threats were real, and Ransom left, the hick would likely track him down anyway. If the threats were a ruse to keep him off his story, there wasn’t much benefit in running away. Either way, Ransom’s Catch 22 would have him waiting it out here in town.

“Sorry we only get three channels. You have to get up on the roof and turn the antenna to see the other one. Paul does it all the time when the Alabama game is on. Roll Tide!” Darlene’s voice reminded him that there was a television on in front of him. He’d be sitting there mindless in front of it for quite some time.

Kathy chimed in. “Actually, the other station has the best news anchors... out of Opelika, although I'm sure it's nothing like New York,” she added somewhat sarcastically.

“Well, I'll get up there and turn the antenna if you want. When I was growing up, my grandpa had one of those roof antennas. Just tell me which way to point it.” Ransom said.

“That's nice of you.” Darlene answered. She started to say something else, but was interrupted by a knock at the door.

Sheriff Tommy and Matty entered without waiting for the knock to be answered.

“Hey boys, just in time. We were fixing to turn the antenna for Opelika 12:00 News. Can you help?” Darlene asked.

“I get it. I done it time and again.” Matty moved toward the door.

“Ransom, Mayor Barton called me and wants me to run you over the school later this afternoon.” Sheriff Tommy looked as menacing as ever. “Matty, don't do that by yourself. Hold up a second.” Tommy turned to follow Matty out the door.

“The boys come over all the time and fix the antenna. Tommy's television don't work right, and Matthew... well, I suppose you can figure that one.” Darlene made her way into the kitchen, “I'll fix us all something to munch on while we wait.”

“I thought daddy wanted you out of town. I wonder why he's changing his plans now?” Kathy looked over to Ransom.

“All I want to do is leave this crazy town and know he’s not going to hunt me down for something outrageous that I didn’t even do.”

“I bet Rusty is part of the problem.” She said.

“Oh, sorry. I mean Tommy, our Sheriff. He's mean as a snake.”

“Why did you call him ‘Rusty’?”

“In school, we all used to call him Rusty because his belly would hang over his belt buckle and all the sweat made the buckle rust over time,” Kathy shot the most reasonable answer imaginable back to Ransom in a bizarre sincerity.

Outside, Matty had made his way to the roof while Tommy stood holding the ladder. Tommy’s belt buckle emerged to catch a glimmer of sunlight as he stretched out his arms, but ended up absorbing much more than it reflected. The buckle was only slightly visible to the beauty of rural Alabama, but certainly discernable to anything that might find a way to throw a glance around the folds of the man’s belly.

Matty was obviously frightened of the heights as he adjusted the antenna. Tommy tried to reassure him.

“A little more Matty.”

“Gotta go west a teeny.” Matty grunted.

“Yeah, that's it I think.”

“Thanks fer the goat, by the ways Tom-Tom.” Matty said.

“Well I knew I wouldn't have time to dress it. Glad it didn’t go to waste.”

“Tay, Tom-Tom… I forget. How do I get down?” Matty was perched over the top of the ladder looking down at the ground.

“What?”

“How do I gets down?”

“You get down the same way you got up there numbskull. Use the ladder.”

“You don't have to be wude.” Matty sounded dejected.

“Sorry. I haven’t had dip since early this morning.” Tommy reached into his pocket for the can and discovered he was out of tobacco. “Hey, I'm gonna go grab a dip from the squad car. Wait there a second and I will help guide you down.”

“I can do it by myself.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I sure.”

“Just go down it the same way you went up. I'll be right back.” Tommy hurried around the side of the house towards his squad car to get the tobacco.

Matty took hold of the top rung with his hands first and began to descend the ladder head first, the same way he came up it. In a matter of moments the strain of his body weight began to cut into his wrists and forearms.

At the squad car, Tommy grabbed his snuff and placed a dip in his upper lip on the left side. As he started back toward the antenna he noticed Matty half way down the ladder going head first.

“What the hell?”

“I need help Tom-Tom!” Matty cried.

The sheriff bustled over to the ladder and took hold of Matty’s torso with his arms, before the two of them took a nasty spill onto the ground. Tommy cushioned most of Matty’s fall and the two of them sat up uninjured.

“What the hell were you doing? You could have gotten yourself killed Matty.”

“Doing down the same way I tame up!” Matty replied, standing up to examine himself fully.

“You idiot! That's about the dumbest thing I've ever seen.” Tommy also checked himself for cuts and scratches, and after feeling as though everything was properly examined he turned his eye toward Matthew. The boy had urinated all over his pants, and was inspecting the wet spot with his hands.

“Aww Matty, you peed your pants!”

Matty shrugged his shoulders and slid his hands along a dry spot in his jeans.

“Day'll dry,” he giggled.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

2009-08-27T11:32:00.000-07:00

Mayor Barton leaded over a microscope in a back room of Doc's office. Doc stood over him with his arms folded, occasionally switched slides for Paul to look at.

“So what, Doc. This doesn't mean a thing to me.” Paul finally said aloud.

“It's dying, Paul.”

“Well stop it. Keep it alive.”

“It's not that easy. It's used up about as much of Philpot as it can.” Doc said, pulling out an X-Ray and placing it on a light board. “You see it's attached here near his renal artery. I think it functions a lot like a kidney, absorbing his body's waste. That would explain its growth over the past several years.”

“So what's making it die?”

“Philpot's just getting old. The arteries are hardening and the amount of waste it needs to survive is diminishing.”

Mayor Barton pointed at the X-Ray. “Why not move it here, to the other side?”

“I would expect the same problem. Besides, Philpot would never survive the surgery in his condition.”

“So what? It could feed off that kidney at least long enough to get us through the championship game.

“No, Paul. If he dies, it dies.” Doc Mastes had no trouble concealing his frustration.

“Did that fiasco last night have anything to do with this?” Mayor Barton shot back aggressively.

“Well it certainly didn't help matters; most likely sped along Philpot’s deterioration.

“I knew it.”

“That night is behind us. What we have to do is figure out a way to keep it alive until the championship Friday.”

“So you think it won't even survive another 48 hours?”

“I doubt it.”

“Well you're the Doc, what do you propose we do?”

Doc Mastes was silent for a moment. It wasn’t often that Paul consulted him for advice. In fact, the last time Paul did so was when Kathy lost her grandfather and started displaying suicidal ideation. Usually, Paul took to Reverend Baker when he needed help making a decision.
Truth was Doc didn’t know exactly how to keep the tumor alive. In spite of all his study, the thing remained a mystery. Nevertheless, Mastes was a rational man, and he knew that this day would one day come. He’d already considered an alternative.

“There is a remote opportunity of saving it.” Doc said.

“Go on.”

“We could transplant the tumor to another person.”

“A tumor transplant?” Mayor Barton sounded incredulous.

“Yes. In the history of medicine, this sort of thing has never been done.” Doc paused, “For obvious reasons.”

Mastes waited patiently as his solution was being weighed. He knew Barton was taking him seriously, he could see the choice turning along the folds in the man’s cheeks, coloring them as they moved.

Mayor Barton remained silent and began to look increasingly twisted up in his countenance. Doc decided to break the silence will a little joke.

“We would need someone willing to ‘take one for the team.’"

Apparently Paul didn’t find that too amusing. He shot a cold stare back to Doc Mastes and still refused to speak.

Doc returned to business. “There's still no guarantee it will work. But I hardly see an alternative. Oh yes, and the transplant will kill Philpot.”

Mayor Barton turned and walked toward the office window. He pulled the blinds open and stared out. This was certainly the longest that Doc had ever seen Mayor Barton go without speaking. After two agonizing minutes of silence, Barton turned around.

“I know just what to do.” Paul said calmly.

“You'll find a host then?”

“I will find a host. I'll do whatever it takes to see this through until kickoff.”

And with that, Paul turned and left the room.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

2009-08-27T11:30:00.000-07:00

When the trio arrived at Mayor Barton’s home, conversation had died down. The fatigue of the previous night had settled over the vehicle and Ransom could barely think about anything other than getting out of town.

When they entered, Ransom noted Darlene milling about the kitchen cleaning up what appeared to be a modest Southern breakfast. The sound of a fork raking eggs from a plate into the sink was painfully noticeable since Ransom hadn’t slept much all night.

Kathy sat in the lazy boy watching television, the morning news out of Dothan.

“Get your butt out of my chair!” Paul belted out at her having noticed where she was seated and Kathy promptly got up and moved to an old patchwork sofa.

“Go pack your stuff, Ransom.”

In a similar sullen obedience, Ransom moved down the hall to the guest room. His trip to Bethlehem was neither that of a wise man or a shepherd. He would leave as empty as he had arrived, with no promise redemption and no real story for his editor.

As Ransom entered his room and began packing up his things, he heard the phone ring in the distance.

Darlene shouted from the kitchen, “Paulie, it's for you honey. It's Doc.”

Ransom strained his ears, partly out of reporter’s instinct, but mostly because he figured Doc was reporting in on old man Philpot.

“I've got it.” Paul yelled back to kitchen, clearly waiting on his wife to hang up the phone.

“How is it?” Paul asked, and Ransom noted once again the use of the pronoun. “That bad?” The Mayor sounded worried and insecure for the first time since Ransom came to town.

“Yeah, I can come right over.” The Mayor placed the receiver back onto the phone with a crash.

Ransom waited a moment, then heard the sound of Paul’s enormous feet shuffle down the hall. He stood straight up, bristled at what he suspected might be coming.

“Ransom, come out here a second I want to talk to you.”

The reporter emerged from the room and took a step into the hall.

“That was Doc. It seems all the trouble you caused last night has pushed Old Man Philpot into some kind of congestive heart failure. I need you to give me your keys.”

“What?”

“You're not leaving town just yet. I need to sort this thing out and you may have to answer a few more questions.”

“Look, Paul, I said I was...”

“Do what I say Ransom or I'll run you back down to the jail.”

Ransom started digging feverously through his pockets. In a flash he passed over his only ticket out of town.

“If it dies, things are going to get complicated.” Paul turned to walk back down the hall, leaving Ransom a bit more terrified than he already was.

He went back into the guest room to finish packing, listening completely to the conversation in the family room. Paul told Darlene he’d see her a bit, dismissing most of her questions with his usual bravado. Ransom heard the front door open and close, and he peered out the window as Mayor Barton and Tommy re-entered the squad car. He watched them back all the way out the driveway and was so enthralled that he failed to notice he was being watched.

“I'm sorry all this has happened.” Kathy startled Ransom, and the pair both glanced back to ensure they conversing were alone.

“Whatever.” Ransom’s sullen retort wasn’t exactly what Kathy was hoping for.

“My dad suspects me. I think he knows I helped you.”

“I didn't tell him anything.” Ransom replied. “As far as he knows it was all me.”

“Thank you.”

“I just want out of here in one piece.” Ransom said.

Kathy moved closer to Ransom and put her hand on his shoulder. She rubbed him as though she both understood his fear and was willing to offer great sympathy. It made Ransom angry and he felt patronized. It reminded him of the time he tried to explain to his mother the nature of his job. As he recounted his stories of alien abduction, his mother reached out, much like Kathy, and gently rubbed his shoulder. Almost as if she pitied him. Ransom hated his life and his job during that moment, probably more than any other in his life.

“This town is crazy Ransom... just plain nuts. You have no idea what kind of trouble you are in.” Kathy’s fear bubbled over into her speech.

“Trouble will be leaving here without a decent story, too. I damned either way.”

“Just be glad if you leave, Ransom. I'm stuck here.”

“You can leave whenever you want, don't give me that crap.”

“Can I leave with you?” Kathy pleaded.

“Absolutely not.” Ransom shot back. He didn’t want to be hunted by Tommy and Paul for stealing away the Mayor’s daughter. If he was to take a bullet in the head, he at least wanted it to be for the craft itself.

“I can meet you outside of town, you can pick me up...” Kathy’s pleading continued.

“I said no.”

“You’re a prick.” Kathy hurled and stormed out of the room. Ransom shrugged to himself and continued packing.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

2009-08-27T11:28:00.000-07:00

Ransom didn’t get much sleep. With the toilet flushed, the smell had at least died down. That didn’t stop him from worrying about Bo waking up. He nodded off a few times leaning against the wall, and it was during one of those times that Bo must have been roused enough to pull his pants up and move to the bunk.

When he finally came around, it was early morning. Matty was cleaned up and seated behind the desk. He was twirling a pencil between three of his fingers as best he could, but kept dropping it. Undeterred, he would pick it up and start again.

“You need the law and to follow it boy. This jail is for you. Don't think it's a cupcake. That's why I'm in charged of it.” Obviously Matty had noticed that Ransom was awake and decided to initiate conversation.

“I will keep that in mind, Matty. When do I get to make a phone call?”

As Ransom finished his sentence, the door opened. Mayor Barton and Tommy entered, looking surprisingly spry for such an early hour. Tommy had what Ransom now considered a third appendage: a spit-cup. The Sheriff’s mouth was packed with a fat wad of tobacco.

“Get me the key Matthew. Ransom is coming with us.” Mayor Barton commanded.

“OK. He's been the last hour crying from the scent in the can.”

Paul took the key from Matty and opened the cell door, giving Ransom a harsh look, although he didn’t say a word. The reporter recognized it, and hurried out the door, also silent.

“Jeez... you never get used to smell.” Paul said, closing the cell door. Tommy spit a stream of brown juice and grinned ear to ear.

“That was the single most horrible night of my life.” Ransom asserted.

“Well, it can only get worse from here Ransom, unless you make the right decisions.” Paul seemed willing to negotiate some kind of truce.

“Bo give you his usual surprise boy?” Tommy was still smiling and upon hearing his name, Bo awakened.

“I'm hungry!” the large man said, finally hoisting himself up to a seated position.

“Imagine that.” Ransom rolled his eyes.

Paul asked Matty to scrub the place down when he handed the key back. After a few more jokes and a make-shift lecture from Mayor Barton to Bo on the dangers of public intoxication, Ransom was loaded into the squad car outside.

Tommy once again drove, and Paul took the passenger seat. It didn’t take long for all the men to notice the smell of the goat and because he sat in the very spot the bag had rested last night, Mayor Barton smelled it first.

“Jesus it stinks in here Tommy!” He cried.

“That'd be the goat. Matty cleaned it up for me last night if you want some.” Tommy replied.

“I see.” Paul leaned back to speak to Ransom. “Bo and Matty stay in the jail since we don't have much crime. They've got no other place go really. In spite of this being a dry county, Bo manages to find booze. He gets drunk too often and gets himself locked up in his own bed in spite of all our hospitality.”

“Kind of like Otis on The Andy Griffith Show?” Ransom asked.

“I never thought of it that way... that's too funny.”

“So what's wrong with them anyway?”

“Bo and Matty? No lifeguards at the gene pool if you know what I mean.”

Tommy cleared his mouth of saliva. “That family tree don't split.”

“Well I'm glad you both got a kick out of my torture. I never got a phone call you know.” The two men just looked at each other, so Ransom continued. “Where are you taking me? I have right to know.”

Mayor Barton shifted his posture and his tone. “I figure you have two choices here Ransom. One, we take you out in the woods and shoot you, then dump your body out by Jackson's field. 52 acres, not a soul would ever find you. Or two, you pack up your crap and leave while you still can. We'll take this whole breaking and entering thing off the records.”

“I'm voting for option two.” Ransom fired back quickly.

“The condition there is that you forget about your tumor story. You didn't hear or see a thing about Old Man Philpot. I don't want my town becoming another Graceland for all the freaks that read your paper, and quite frankly, all the commotion could kill Philpot.”

“I can do that. Not a problem.”

“Good. I'm a decent man, Ransom. I never wanted to hurt a soul, but Caleb almost died last night because of your meddling. Imagine what would happen if people reading your story really believed it? Surely you can see my point of view.”

“Yeah, I understand. I wonder if I might be allowed to write a story on the Beethoven here in town. Maybe make that my focal point?” Ransom asked.

“I suppose that’d be alright. Everyone around these parts knows how much this town loves the music. And our tumor would still be safe. But remember, you gotta leave here and if I find out that you wrote about our tumor, I will track you down and Tommy here will put a bullet in your brain like some wounded goat. You got it?”

“Hey, I said I'll leave, you'll never see or hear from me again.”

Sheriff Tommy peered back at Ransom through the rearview mirror and fixated his eyes in a lock-stare toward Ransom. While doing so he nearly clipped a parked car.

“Jesus, Tommy! Keep your eyes on the road!”

Chapter Twenty-Six

2009-08-27T11:27:00.000-07:00

Back inside the cell, Ransom pondered his options. Bo had finished his ‘business’ but still sat helplessly on an un-flushed commode. The smell was stuck in the room, seemingly being absorbed one particle at a time by the dingy walls, which appeared to come to life in the thickness of the odor. The walls emitted the stench in waves, and it rocked through Ransom’s nostrils in an open defiance of his personal privacy. He had pulled his shirt up over his nose and moved to the far end of the cell, but that wasn’t helping.

Bo’s overalls still bunched up around his ankles as he sat there pants down, completely passed out. Ransom wondered how he was even able to keep his balance on the toilet, being large, drunk and asleep all at once.

Determined to escape this lingering torture, Ransom called out to Bo.
“Hello? Hello? HELLO! Wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up!” His cries fell on deaf, inebriated ears.

“Wipe it. Flush it. This is how this thing is supposed to work.”

Bo didn’t budge. For a moment, Ransom thought he saw the man's eyes flutter, but it could have been his imagination. He rose from his position and placed his face as far as he could between the cell bars.

“Matty! Matty, help me!”

Matty emerged from outside with blood on his rubber gloves. He stood there holding the knife out, frustrated to have been disturbed.

“What ya want priwsnor? It's the middle of night?”

“This beast of man has defecated all over the place and fallen asleep. I need you to move me to another cell, please.”

“Beasts? Somebuddy find the gun!” Matty spent most of his life playing catch-up.

“No, that man has used the bathroom and fallen asleep on the toilet. It's god awful in here. He needs to flush it and put some clothes on.” Ransom pointed at Bo as he spoke, although he doubted it was going help matters.

“Dat's my brother Bo. He dook and sleep every night bout this time. We cween it up in the morning.”

“What?”

“You go sweep now and shut you mouth!” Matty wagged the knife at Ransom in disapproval before leaving the room.

My God I'm stuck in a scene from Deliverance. Ransom conjured up that thought before glancing back and Bo and realizing it could be much worse.

After a couple of long, lonely minutes, Ransom decided to make his move. Once again, he placed his shirt over his mouth and nose and very nervously crept his way toward Bo. His steps were slow and steady, creeping over to the drunken man inches at a time. When Ransom was within arm’s reach of the toilet handle, Bo stirred a bit. It was enough to deter the reporter. He took a closer look at the handle and realized it was literally surrounded by Bo’s fat. It was going to take the combined dexterity of an entire NYPD police bomb-squad unit to get to the flusher.
Ransom backed up a bit, and waited for Bo’s breathing pattern to emerge. Feeling confident he had caught the rhythm, he waited for the right moment to reach around the fat and clasp the lever. In an instant, he saw his opportunity.

Ransom slid deftly around Bo's fat with his hand, moving toward the lever and flushed the toilet. The crash of the water swirling down the pipes echoed through the cell, and quite startled, Bo jumped straight up, before losing his balance and fell face first onto the ground.

“Holy crap!” Ransom screamed, as he rushed as fast as he could back the corner of the cell. Bo cocked his head up toward Ransom for just a moment before drifting off to sleep, pants still around his ankles, with his gigantic white butt pointed menacingly toward the ceiling.

Chapter Twenty-Five

2009-08-27T11:25:00.000-07:00

Philpot rested on his bunk becoming increasingly aware that he’d been mentally checked out for a while. Doc Mastes knelt at the bedside, gently mopping the sweat off his forehead. It was a far cry from what he was used to. Doc usually only poked and prodded his tumor with a curious indifference. He found the additional human touch welcoming, but it didn’t last too long.

“I need to take another sample Caleb. Do you feel up to it?” Doc Mastes broke through the wall of comfort. “This might hurt a bit.”

“Maybe it's time to cut it out of me, Doc.” Caleb couldn’t imagine life without the tumor. It had been with him over forty years, but the pain was intensifying and for the first time since the war, Caleb could see Death perching anxiously in the corners of his every breath.

“Caleb, you've done so much for this town. You know that I would if I thought it would help you. I think removing it could cause more damage than just leaving it there. You might not even survive the operation.”

“We could both rub it before you started... Everything would go alright then. It would bring us luck.”

“Maybe, but we should play it safe. I'll tend to you Caleb. I always have. We almost lost it... almost lost you tonight.”

Doc Mastes took out a scalpel and scraped a bit of the tumor. Philpot winced, but he kept working. He took a small sample of the scraping and placed it in a test tube, capped it, and stuck the layer of flesh in his medical bag.

“It's been with me so long, Doc. I guess I'd feel kind of naked without it.” Philpot’s fingers reached down to touch the tumor before being brushed aside by Cletus.

“Don’t touch it, Caleb. We can’t risk further infection.”

“Have I ever told you the story about the Nazis?”

“Yes, about a hundred times.”

“What a gift. They were giving me exactly what I needed to survive and escape.” Caleb remembered the first hour in the Nazi cell. In his mind he rehearsed a thousand different escape scenarios. He remembered thinking of his mother and how she would respond at the news of his death should he fail to make it home.

“You need to rest.” Doc interrupted the memory.

“You've been so good to me these years, Doc.” Caleb reached up and grabbed Cletus by the hand.

“You’ve been good to us Caleb. Better than we’ve been to you.” He took his medical bag in hand and made haste toward the door, eager to view the new sample from the BLT.

“Rest Caleb, you'll need your strength. We can talk about removing it after the game on Friday.

As Doc exited the room, an old song flashed through Caleb’s brain and he began to sing it again as if for the first time:

“When the saints go marching in,
Oh, when the saints go marching in,
Oh, Lord I want to be in that number,
When the saints go marching in!”

Caleb sang until he drifted off to sleep.

Chapter Twenty-Four

2009-08-27T11:23:00.000-07:00

Mayor Barton entered through his front with no regard for being silent. He was angry and his body thundered through the house,unleashing disapproval openly through every twist of his joints and every expression of movement. He leaned his rifle up behind the door. That reporter was ruining everything and he needed to sort through what to do next before he could even think about sleeping.

As Paul removed his coat, Kathy emerged from the hallway in a set of flannel pajamas. She yawned.

“What's going on dad?”

“Our ‘guest’ broke in the school this evening to work on his story. There was a big commotion, Tommy's gun discharged and old man Philpot went bananas.”

“Jeez, is everyone ok?” Kathy secretly wondered about Ransom. She knew exactly what her father was capable of and had spent the last hour laying flat on her back worried sick.

“Doc thinks we might lose the BLT because Caleb had some kind of cardiac arrest. And I had to throw Ransom in the jail with Bo. It’s all his fault.”

Darlene bustled into the room at the sound of her husband’s voice, eager to determine why her house was in a state of seeming panic.

“Do you two know what time it is?”

“No, honey. I lost track when I was out gallivanting with the town whores.” Paul landed his retort with a sting.

“Take it easy, dad.”

“I'm going to kill that damn reporter.”

Darlene recognized the look on her husband’s face. He wasn’t necessarily a good man, but she loved him. More than that, she knew he wasn’t a killer and hated to see him so worked up.

“Now honey, you don't mean that. Tell us what happened.”

“He snuck out of here tonight, broke in the school. He's been in town 12 hours and he already found out enough to know right where to go. I just don’t...”

Barton’s voice trailed off, and he paused as if thinking to himself. As he did, a slight look of anxiety crossed Kathy's face. Paul noted it, and his rage spilled over.

“You! What did you tell him?”

“Nothing daddy, I swear it!” Kathy’s fear echoed through the house and was nearly as thick as Barton’s anger.

Paul repositioned himself and took a threatening posture over Kathy, who retreated from him as if she were about to take a beating.

“I saw you looking at him over dinner, parading that meatloaf around your mouth. What did you tell him??”

In a flash, Darlene inserted herself between them. She could still move with the grace and quickness of lioness when it came to defending one her cubs. “That's enough Paul!” She screamed. “You're losing your grip. Come to bed, we can sort all this out in the morning.”

“Dad, I swear I haven't said a word about it.” Kathy lied.

Paul stormed down the hall away from the two women, slamming his bedroom door in disapproval a moment later. He was wasting time with them anyway. It didn’t matter who or how Ransom knew about Caleb. It only mattered that for the first time in his career, he believed he was Bethlehem’s failure. He’d let loose of something he was entrusted to guard.

Kathy followed her father a few moments later, as her mother moved around the house locking doors and turning off lights. Nearing her room, the youngest of the Barton trio paused then backed away from her door quietly. She entered the guest room where Ransom’s things were neatly stacked around the room and started to rummage through his bags, finally landing on a magazine. The cover article had a picture what looked like a pile of tongues. Above the photograph, the headline read "Tongue Collector Baffles Police." The article was written by J.C. Ransom.

Kathy opened the magazine and began to read, growing increasingly disgusted with each paragraph. She didn’t hear her mother enter the room as she read.

“You know it's rude to mess with other people's stuff.”

“I was just curious about him.” Kathy said with a sigh.

“You like him don't you?”

“He's alright, a bit quirky if you ask me.” Kathy tried not to sound overly interested, but she knew she was lying again. She did like Ransom, and even the quirky bits left her wanting more of him.

“Did you help him get into the school tonight?” Darlene went straight to the point.

“Honest mom, I had no part of it.” Kathy was stacking lie upon lie.

“I know life with your dad hasn't been easy these past few years. He’s just got a lot on him, with the town, the tumor, all that.”

“Why does he hate me so much?”

“He's doesn't hate you. You're just a bit too independent for him. He likes to know where everything, and everyone, is. He likes things ordered and easy to manage. You don’t fit that bill.”

“Well, I didn't help Ransom tonight no matter what he thinks. Ransom wouldn't need my help anyway. He's a smart man and I think he already knows a lot.”

Darlene grabbed the magazine from Kathy and started thumbing through the pages.

“From the looks of his stories, he is liable to find the worst parts of our secret. I’m betting that’s what has your father so worried.”

“Do you believe any of those things in his magazine?”

“This stuff? Not a bit.”

“What about the BLT? Do you believe in it?”

“I don’t know much about that honey. That's a man's world, I suppose. All that competition never made any sense to me.”

“Night momma.” Kathy got up and kissed her mom on the cheek, leaving Darlene alone amongst the belongings of man whose stories included the collection of tongues.

Chapter Twenty-Three

2009-08-27T11:21:00.000-07:00

The Bethlehem jail was tiny, comprised of a single cell with two bunk beds and one open toilet and a dirty brown sink, which rested between the beds. Ransom sat still on the bottom bunk of one of the beds, toward the front of the cell, near the bars. Directly across from Ransom sat an extremely overweight man in dingy overalls facing him.

Tommy had chuckled a bit when he took the cuff off and locked the cell door and indicated that this excessively large individual was, in fact, the mysterious “Bo.”

For the past several minutes the two men had just stared at one another without speaking a word. Bo was clearly inebriated; his eyes masked a foreboding, familiar glaze that Ransom recalled from his mischievous college days. It was the sort of look that kept the ceiling spinning and the stomach churning, and it most often ended with a pre-digested mass making its way out his mouth and onto the floor. Bo’s stare made Ransom uncomfortable, but he wasn’t certain if he was even being seen at all from underneath the drunkenness.

Outside the cell, Matty kept watch at a desk. He recalled that the kid could barely carry on a conversation at the Barton dinner table last night, and wondered how on earth such a clearly disabled thinker could single-handedly man the local jail.

Matty twirled a knife around his fingers, seated there fighting off sleep. The knife was large, of the hunting variety, and Ransom recalled how Tommy had drug the large plastic bag from the squad car containing the dead goat. He also duly recognized that he had been stuffed into this cell without the customary phone call he’d heard about in the movies.

It was Ransom’s first arrest; he’d actually never even come close to walking on the wrong side of the law, and had never received so much as a traffic ticket until today. He had a great many personal flaws, but law-breaking just wasn’t one of them.

Remembering the patches of dust and dirt that had accumulated on his trousers and shirt in the school basement, Ransom took the opportunity to stand up and dust himself off. As he rose to his feet, Bo didn’t even move, but Matty clearly got nervous and also stood up.

“I didn't even get a phone call, you know. I mean you'd think there would be some semblance of due process in this crap town,” Ransom said. Matty didn’t respond, but never took his eyes off the cell.

Ransom completed his self-cleaning ritual and turned over to inspect Bo more carefully. Determining that there was a good chance the large man wouldn’t be capable of issuing a response, Ransom didn’t feel too insecure about offering a little conversation:

“They got me for breaking and entering? What about you?”

Bo turned his head slightly, and even that seemed like it took a great deal of effort, so Ransom was genuinely surprised to get a response.

“Public defecation,” he said.

Matty was growing more at ease now, since it appeared that Ransom really wasn’t going to pull a prison break. He decided to enter the conversation, and Ransom suddenly realized that he’d sacrificed the enjoyable silence of the evening on the altar of his fear and discomfort.

“And dwunkeness! Ha,ha,ha! Bo likes da drink da boobs.” Matty was as incoherent as ever.

Suddenly, Ransom noticed that Bo was moving. He was still expressionless, but none the less taking great effort in an attempt to stand up. As he rose completely to his feet, Bo wobbled and Ransom backed further away from him toward the corner of the cell. The enormous, intoxicated man waddled and swerved his way to the toilet between the beds and unhooked his overalls.

Using the wall to keep his balance, he pulled everything – underwear and all – down to his ankles and lowered himself onto the lid in a seated position.

“Dear God! You've got to be kidding.” Ransom erupted in horror.

“I gotta take a dump.” Bo slurred out his response and clearly began pushing.

“Matty can you get me out of here while he goes? Please?”

Ransom looked back out of the cell, happy to turn his head away from the grotesque image unfolding before him. He noticed Matty was also turned away from the cell, seemingly uninterested in what was taking place inside it. The young cell-keeper was fumbling with a pair of bright yellow rubber gloves, which were sticking to his hands as he slid them on.

“I got to cween the goat.” Matty responded after Ransom’s second plea to be removed from the cell.

With fully donned rubber gloves, Matty turned and grabbed the knife in one hand and the top of the bag with the other. He looked over at Ransom and grinned ear to ear before pushing the front door open with his backside.

“You don’t get any ideas.”

And with that, Matty was gone, leaving Ransom to the un-pleasantries of a public commode in the depths of a drunken night.

Chapter Twenty-Two

2009-08-27T11:18:00.001-07:00

Sheriff Tommy started the car and reached into his back pocket. Pulling out a can of tobacco, he took a small pinchfrom the can, realizing it was his last dip. After putting the wad of tobacco in his mouth along his front two bottom teeth, he moistened his finger and rubbed it around to pick up the loose pieces resting in the sides of the can. He then sucked the remaining tobacco from his finger.

Satisfied, Tommy put the squad car in gear and started up the road, tossing the snuff can in the floorboard on the passenger side. Ransom was seated in the back examing the entire procedure.

“Damn. That's my last dip.”

“That causes cancer you know.”

“Yep.” The sheriff sounded completely indifferent.

“And that doesn't bother you?” Ransom was truly incredulous by his lack of emotion.

“Nope. I figure I got to go sometime. And in my line of work you never know when that day will be.”

Ransom snickered. “Oh, I'm sure. This is a regular downtown Detroit, huh?”

Tommy grabbed an empty soda can from the cup holder. The tab had been pulled off and the opening enlarged to allow for easier spitting. He held the can closely to his lips and emitted a string of brown juice into it. “Nope. We wouldn't let it get that bad,” he said after completing his spittle ritual.

“You know, I bet you've never even had to fire your gun. I mean, besides dropping it.”

“I've shot a few people.” Tommy grinned and spit again before continuing, “And only a couple of them was accidents.”

There was an awkward pause in the squad car. Ransom fidgeted a moment, feeling the discomfort of the cuffs against his wrists.

“So how did Mr. Philpot get cancer?”

“Nazi experiments during the big one. Old Philpot was one tough mother. He was POW for nearly three months in Europe. He told me once that he took a bullet right in the gut where the tumor is now growing; said that the Nazi's used some chemical concoction to try and patch him up, you know, experimental stuff.”

“Sounds painful. Why do they call it the BLT, anyway?” Ransom figured he’d at least get what he could for the story he may never even get the chance to write.

“Who told you about that?” The sheriff just kept on spitting, a veritable faucet of liquid disgust as he spoke. “Better ask the Mayor about that, we aren’t supposed to talk about it.”

“Does this town really believe the tumor is lucky? What in God's name could be lucky about having a tumor?”

“Like I said yank, you'd best talk with Mayor Barton.” Tommy’s eyes looked back through the rearview mirror. His stare was fierce and combative. It lasted a second too long. Having his attention diverted away from the road, he failed to notice an animal, about the size of large dog, step in front of the moving squad car.

Tommy tried to hit the breaks, but it was too late. The police car skidded a few feet before striking the animal with a deafening thud. Two quick thumps later, he pulled the vehicle over to the side of the road.

“Wait right here.”

The sheriff got out and first walked to the front of the car to inspect any damage that might have occurred from the collision. He nodded and circled the car, then walked back down the road a few dozen feet.

Although it was uncomfortable to turn his head around at that angle, Ransom looked back to watch. Tommy knelt down around a furry mass along the side of the road. Then he stood up, shook his head, and drew his sidearm again.

A single shot rang out with a burst of light from the muzzle. The sound of it rattled the partially cracked window in the squad car. The sheriff then walked over to the trunk of the squad car, opened it up and removed a large plastic bag. Ransom watched him hoist the animal up and begin placing it in the bag. It looked very much like a goat.

After fully bagging the animal, Tommy returned to the squad car, shut the trunk lid, and loaded the bag into the passenger seat, before getting back behind the wheel and moving out.

“What was it?”

“A goat, probably one of Parker's.”

“Was it alive? Why didn't you take it to the vet?”

“You some kind of animal lover?”

“No, I just wondered why you shot it.”

“It was a bleeding out the ears. Nothing could be done, there wasn't any good reason for it to suffer.”

“Is there ever?”

“Ever what?” Tommy looked back at Ransom through the mirror again.

“A good reason for something to suffer?”

“Yeah, I suppose sometimes there is. My cousin runs one of them there lamb farms where he raises baby lambs to make veal. He says the little lambs have to stand in these boxes that don't let 'em move left or right, forward or backward. They just stand there while their meat gets all soft.” Tommytookup thespit can once again. “You ever had veal?”

“Yes.”

“A lot better than goat meat.”

Ransom watched as the officer patted the goat beside him. It somehow seemed a more fitting thought than the Beethoven filling his earsduring his trip Bethlehem.

“But you didn't even look for an alternative. You just killed it. How could you be so sure in such a quick amount of time?”

“That goat was in the wrong place at the wrong time. It’s as simple as that sometimes.” Tommy took a right turn into what was for Ransom, a familiar street connecting to the town’s main square. Ransom gazed out the window and the sheriff continued. “Do you got any more wise comments, or are you going sit back there and pipe down like a good prisoner?”

“I just have one more question.”

“Yeah?”

“Who's Bo?”

Chapter Twenty-One

2009-08-27T11:17:00.000-07:00

Doc knelt by Philpot on the floor. Having unwrapped the bulging mass from its bandages, he shifted his weight to allow Mayor Barton a closer look.

“Watch the light, Paul. You’re throwing a shadow over it.”

“How bad is it, Doc?”

“It's not good. He hit it hard enough to burst the outer membrane.”

“Will we lose it?”

“That's kind of up to Caleb, I guess. He's been so fragile lately. I figured we didn’t have much time left for it, but this incident may have sped up its demise.”

Mayor Barton felt his temperature begin to rise. So many years of history were at stake here, so many victories. Perhaps even his town’s identity.

“Listen to me, Doc. I don't care what it takes; anything you have to do, whatever it takes; you can’t let that tumor die before the game, Friday. We have a state championship on the line. If it’s going to be our last, then I want this town to enjoy it completely.”

“Help me get him on the bed, Paul.”

“This is that reporter's fault, nosing around where he doesn't belong.”

With a sputter and a groan, Caleb Philpot went completely silent. Placing his ear against the man’ chest, Doc listened for some sign of life. Moving more quickly, Cletus placed both hands across Philpot’s chest and began to initiate CPR.

“The commotion threw Caleb into some kind of damned arrest.”

“What can I do?”

“Just give me some space.”

Seconds passed, and Paul held his breath. His eyes worked their way down to the uncovered mass of cancerous flesh at Caleb’s waste. This wasn’t how the story was supposed to end, not here, not now. Paul thought of his town, and his memories floated back to his election some sixteen years ago. In the back rooms where he shook the sweaty hands of his constitutes he had made a promise to keep the BHS tradition alive. At that time, Caleb had floated the idea of retirement, and there was a great deal of pressure to keep the tumor around. Immediately after the election, Paul had enacted his plan. With the help of the Doc, Caleb wasn’t going anywhere. A heavy dose of pain meds and psychotropic drugs would be enough to keep him hidden. The boosters all praised his swift action, and had become the force behind his subsequent reelections.

“He's coming back around.” Doc said in a resolute voice.

“I don't care about him... what about it?”

Doc backed away from Philpot and checked for a pulse. Satisfied he tended more carefully to the tumor, checking to see if it has been injured, wondering to himself how, after all these years, Paul still didn’t understand.

“It's a part of him, Paul. Jesus, whatever happens to him, happens to it. We lose him, and you lose it. And this town loses the game Friday night. Got it?”

Mayor Barton’s eyes cringed down into a squint, “That Yankee son of bitch.”

Chapter Twenty

2009-08-27T11:14:00.000-07:00

“Caleb, it's ok. Calm down.” Mayor Barton whispered into the dim lit cell in an attempt to calm the old veteran. He reached down to the dusty floor and took old of Tommy’s pistol, as the discharged smell of smoke and gunpowder singed his nostrils.

“Sorry, Paul.” Tommy sheepishly re-holstered his weapon.

“Christ, he could have killed me!” Ransom’s shrill voice could barely be heard over Caleb’s continued combat rant in the background. It appeared the old bugger really was losing it in the carnage.

“What the hell are you doing here Ransom?”

“I didn't take anything, or hurt anyone. I was just working on the story.”
Tommy straightened up. “Breaking and entering. That's what I'd call it. You're under arrest mister.”

“Well, I didn't break anything.”

“This is our school, Ransom. I bet it’s a Federal offense to break in here.”

The Mayor’s last sentence sent a chill down Ransom’s spine. The thought of losing the story seemed to pale in comparison to becoming a felon. He cursed under his breath for not having thought this all the way through.

The Sheriff moved closer to Ransom with his handcuffs ready. As he grasped Ransom by the shoulder, another figure emerged from the staircase, giving all three men a startle.

“What the hell is going on down here?”

It was the good Doctor Mastes. Cletus was wrapped hastily in a bathrobe and looking quite perturbed at having been awakened at this hour. He was having a good dream too, when the squad car pulled into the school lot. He couldn’t quite remember what it was, but it was peaceful – and it was right there, at the edge of his brain, lingering like succubus and coaxing him back.

“Well, the gang’s all here.” Ransom quipped.

From the cell, Caleb’s assault on the door had ceased, although the occasional swelling of profanity emerged in waves. Upon hearing the doctor’s voice, Caleb had gone totally silent.

“Doc, is that you? I don't feel so good, Doc.”

The exhaustion now fully set upon the old man, Caleb’s legs gave way and he crumbled to the floor inside the cell. Fumbling a moment DocMastes started over to work the lock with his key.

“Hold on, Caleb. I'm coming. All of this trauma can't be good for it, Paul.”

Ransom took notice of the doctor’s choice of words. The trauma can’t be good for ‘it.’ He clearly meant the tumor. Ransom’s thought returned to his story, even if but a moment. The locals here had a janitor, a World War II veteran, locked in a school basement. The janitor suffered from some kind of illness or injury, Ransom couldn’t be certain, but Kathy told him it was a tumor. A bulging, lucky tumor… the BLT. The old man was clearly off his rocker, and if any of this was true, the town was too.

“Cuff him Tommy. Let him spend a night in the tank with Bo.”

Mayor Barton’s voice broke his train of thought. Kathy had warned him that who could be in danger, and as the cold steel slipped around his wrists, he thought his predicament might even be worse than a breaking and entering charge.

“Come on Paul. No harm, no foul right?”

“Pipe down, you're gonna like Bo. I think he might be just the thing for you.”

“Paul, quit trying to scare the kid and come over here. This is serious.” Doc’s voice echoed through the basement hallway.

As Tommy began to escort Ransom up the stairs, he caught a glimpse of his trousers in the improved light. He never wanted so bad to dust himself off, as huge clumps of dirt and debris covered his clothing, even up as far as his navel.

“Damn dirty floor.” Ransom muttered. He then turned and shouted back down the stairs toward Mayor Barton, “Not much of a janitor you have there, Paul!”

Chapter Nineteen

2009-08-27T11:12:00.000-07:00

Ransom followed Kathy intently. They made their way down a flight of stairs and into a shabby, dusty basement in the school. Light oozed out of aged bulbs, casting dim shadows of everything along the walls. The equipment stored in this place looked to be at least thirty years old and it littered the hallway walls like elementary school drawings. The smell of must permeated his senses. For the first time since taking the job with the tabloid, Ransom felt like a genuine snoop.

“You keep it down here? You're not just messing with me are you?” Ransom chattered a bit to ease his nerves.

“We keep it down here... and him.”

Ransom paused clearly confused, “Him?”

“Old man Philpot.” Kathy whispered.

“The janitor?”

Kathy was taken back. “You know, for being here such a short time, you sure have learned a lot. Now, hold it down, he’ll hear us.”

Ransom couldn’t let it go. He crept up closer to Kathy and whispered, “How does he fit into all this?

“He is the secret. He has the BLT.”

“What?” Ransom was still playing mental catch-up.

Kathy stopped and motioned Ransom to crouch down. “The BLT is our slang. It stands for Bulging Lucky Tumor. It got named before I was born. It's a tumor that sticks out of old man Philpot's belly and if you touch it, you have good luck for a few hours.”

“This town is even more whacked out than I thought!” Ransom spoke louder than he had intended.

“Shhh! We’re close. This is not a joke.”

They resumed moving through the basement. When the two reached the end of a corridor at a "T" section, Ransom looked both left and right. To the left, a flight of stairs led up and out of sight. To the right, a single door with a barred window could barely be made out in the shadows.
Kathy motioned for Ransom to approach to door with her. She moved with the grace of cat, so quiet Ransom was certain he couldn’t match her stealth, even when he was her age. Taking a position alongside the base of the door, she slowly stood up and peered through the bars on the window. A moment later she, she crouched again.

“I don’t see him.” Her voice was faint and barely audible.

It suddenly occurred to Ransom that maybe he was being snookered yet again by the beautiful temptress of Bethlehem. He felt his face swell up in embarrassment. “Oh man, you almost had me going.” He said with a chuckle. Ransom stood up and glanced inside the cell, ignoring the tugs on his jacket coming from Kathy.

As he peered inside, he was met with a ghastly sight. Philpot's wrinkled face flashed up a few inches away from his own. The old man’s eyes stared wildly at Ransom, and both men’s mouths were agape with surprise.

Ransom’s heart slid down into his stomach and he felt himself gasping for air; a vain attempt at screaming. In his panic, he fell backward to the ground.

“God have mercy!” He cried out,the sound of his words bouncing off the basement’s block.
Philpot was equally startled. “Nazis! Nazis!” The old man shouted, banging around his cell in fear and anger.

Ransom started to lift himself up from the ground. He watched as Kathy ran back down the hall at a full sprint. Philpot was screamingly madly, his voice so loud that he didn’t hear the footsteps rushing down the stairs behind him. Ransom was not quite fully standing by the time Barton drew a bead on him with his rifle.

“Ransom! Don't you move an inch.”

Beside Barton, Ransom noticed another man in a police uniform. The officer drew his weapon, but as he did, he fumbled it on the way up. In a flash, Ransom watched the pistol fall and in another flash, the gun discharged when it hit the floor. The bullet was sent out in a thunder that shook Ransom to the core.The bullet ricocheted twice in the narrow hallway causing all three me to duck and cover their heads.

In the commotion, Philpot started ramming his shoulder against the cell door. “Squad, covering fire!”

Chapter Eighteen

2009-08-27T11:11:00.000-07:00

Mayor Barton was fully dressed. He hadn’t heard Ransom leave, but he trusted his gut enough to check the room when he woke up. He felt the cool air flowing from under the hallway door leading to his guest room, and suspected the window was open. He tried the door quietly, but it was locked. A quick glance outside would confirm his suspicions. The window was partially opened.

Barton made his way around to the garage. He kept his pistol by the nightstand, but didn’t want to worry Darlene. For now, he would have to settle on the 30/30. The rifle was his lucky gun anyway; it had scored him a deer every year since he bought it back in ’81. Already this year, he’d landed a six-point that wandered too close to his father’s garden.

Paul loaded the rifle, but didn’t chamber a bullet. He gently placed the gun in the passenger seat of his car. The problem at this point was going to be trying to figure out where Ransom went. The Mayor figured that the most likely place would be the school, but he wasn’t sure. He decided to make a pass down Main Street and at the very least, get Tommy’s help.

Tommy had been Sheriff of Bethlehem for only three years. He was clumsy and slow, but he was born and raised in Bethlehem and that counted for a hell of lot to Paul. Unlike Doc, or Reverend Baker, he knew he could count on Tommy in a clutch. Besides, Tommy had been complaining about the lack of activity in Bethlehem for some time. Paul knew Tommy well enough to know what he meant: Tommy needed something (or someone) to shoot.

Within fifteen minutes, Barton had scoured the downtown area, roused Tommy, and told him to load up and meet him at the school. Barton pulled into the school parking lot, and leaned up against his car. He couldn’t outright kill the New York reporter. Too many people in town had seen him already. Besides, the disappearance would only bring more meddlers and spurn a whole new set of questions. Barton wasn’t sure if Bethlehem was ready for them.

As Tommy’s squad car pulled up alongside him, Barton hoped for a moment that they wouldn’t find Ransom, and that somehow, another opportunity might present itself.

Chapter Seventeen

2009-08-27T11:08:00.000-07:00

The pair quickly approached the school building. They hadn’t talked much over the past five minutes. Along the way, Kathy had reached out and grabbed Ransom by the hand. He had obliged against his better judgment.

He let go of her hand as they began circling the building, trying doors along the way.

“They’re all locked.”

“What did you expect?”

“I don’t know, maybe that small town feeling of trust.”

“Follow me.” Kathy took Ransom by the hand again, this time leading him over to a window near the ground. With a slight push, she opened it and rolled inside. Ransom followed.

Inside, Ransom dropped onto the floor of a typical high school classroom. Desks were moved into a circle in the center of the room and a huge American flag hung across the blackboard. Right under the window, Kathy rested on the floor, flat on her back. Ransom reached down and offered her his handfor alift up, but Kathy grabbed hold and pulled him face down on top of her.

“Finally. I was beginning to think you didn't like me.” She released his hand and slid her arms up around his neck.

“You are way too young for me.”

“It's not always the age that counts.”

“Well, for now it will have to be.” Ransom said, standing up and dusting off his pants off.

“You're not gay are you? I mean, if you are that's cool and all, just don't tell anyone around here.”

“I hate dirt.” Ransom continued to feverishly dust off his clothes. “And no, I'm not gay, far from it. I just don't want to give you the wrong impression. I'm leaving in the morning.”

“No duh. Knowing that up front makes it easier for both of us, don't you think? Besides, I have the information you want.”

“Are you blackmailing me into having sex with you?”

“How's about we start this way. I will let you ask me a question for every kiss you give me.”
Ransom thought about it for a long second.

“Man, you are gay aren't you?” Her words were all he needed. Ransom hoisted her up from the floor and pulled in his arms. He looked at her intently, leaned in, and kissed her. Her lips were soft and moist, which surprised him given the night air and the trek they had just taken. She tasted like raspberries, but Ransom was far from intoxicated by the young girl.

“What is the secret to this town’s winning streak?” Ransom asked after he gathered his thoughts.

Kathy looked at him and shakes off the power of the kiss. She turned her shoulder away from Ransom and began to move toward the door.

“Fair enough. You were right. The BLT is the secret.”

“What is the BLT?”

Kathy stopped and turned back to Ransom. “No, no. Another kiss first.” This time, she initiated the kiss, it was much longer than the first, and Ransom was obviously affected. His response came much slower.

“What's the BLT?”

“They have to be yes, or no questions.”

Kathy held his gaze and smiled. It was enough for Ransom to realize he was getting played. “You never said that. Just forget it.” He turned away and started walking toward the door of the classroom. Kathy hurried along after him.

“Hey, I thought we were having fun. Why are you so serious?”

“Maybe, because it's my job. Maybe because my editor says I've not produced a good article all year. Maybe because he fronted the expenses for me to come down here to Who-ville and write him a story. And maybe because if I don't get what I camefor, I'll lose my job.” Ransom never turned around to face her as he spoke. He turned the handle to the door and walked the hallway of the school.

“Wait up.”

This time he did turn to face her and there was an uneasy moment of silence before Kathy finally spoke up. “You know if I tell you, my life may be in danger.”

“Save it.”

Kathy’s agitation spilled over. “Think about it, Ransom. We've not lost a game in 37 years. You think folks in this town are just going to give all that up for your story? You think they are just going to let you waltz in here and take all this away from them?”

“It's a crap story for a crap tabloid magazine. People are taking me way too serious. I'm flattered, you believe so many people read my articles, but it just ‘ain't’ so. You Beethoven loving rednecks really believe you have some kind of magic here. You’re probably the kind of idiots that keep the magazine I write for in print.”

Kathy put both hands on his shoulders. Her smile and the play from just moments ago had totally evaporated. “Listen to me. I'm going to show it to you, partly because I don't care about this town anymore and I want out; but mostly because I like you.” She took Ransom by the hand and marched straight down the hall.

“You’d better not tell a soul that I was the one who let you in on this.”

Chapter Sixteen

2009-08-27T11:05:00.000-07:00

“Alright, I lied.” Ransom let go of the deception. “I have no idea what the BLT is. I just heard old man Buck mention it.”

“You tricked me?”

“Yes and your father was angry. Angry because I have been asking around about it. I have to leave tomorrow.”

“You're crafty. I’ll give you that.”

“So is the BLT a special sandwich the kids eat before each game? Or does it have something to do with all the Beethoven this town seems possessed with?”

Kathy laughed at him. Ransom wasn’t surprised really. Nobody hides a sandwich or symphony for forty years.

“You couldn't be farther from the truth.”

“So help me. Tell me what I would find in that school if I found a way inside?”

“You won't find anything unless you know what you are looking for.”

“And what am I looking for?”

“You might be able to persuade me to tell you.” Kathy said coyly.

“How's that?”

“You're a smart guy. I'm sure you'll think of something.”

Ransom’s heart raced as Kathy pulled ahead of him. He wanted to tell himself it was because there was a window of opportunity opening up for his story, but he knew it was more. She did too.

Chapter Fifteen

2009-07-01T19:41:00.000-07:00

Ransom waited until midnight. The evening hadn’t gone well and Barton was ready to escort him to the county line tomorrow. The two bickered mildly back and forth about for an hour after they left the school. Paul maintained his position that he didn’t want to see his town side-swiped by any crazy stories. He used that excuse to keep Ransom’s line of questioning in order. Ransom thought about just telling the mayor he would be making something up anyway, but decided against it.

The Beethoven story took shape in his head while he waited on the noise in the house to settle down. Finally, around midnight Ransom figured it was safe to sneak out. He moved quietly and raised the window, then slipped out into the night air.

It was chilly, but nothing close to a night in New York City. Ransom zipped his jacket up around is neck toward his ears and started a slow jog out the driveway and toward the street. The school was about a mile and half from Barton’s house. He hoped the quiet walk there and back would help him put some meat onto the skeleton of his story:

Bethlehem High School… excessive exposure to classical music enhances physical performance. Pre-game rituals at a rural high school in Southern Alabama indicate that Beethoven’s music can increase concentration, coordination, and strength. This secret strategy has been in place since World War II and the town has gone to great lengths to protect it. They even have a code phrase – “The BLT,” which investigation reveals stands for “Beethoven Listening Therapy.”

Ransom took a deep breath. That wouldn’t do. He knew it wasn’t true and it really wasn’t interesting enough for anyone outside of the school’s football opponents to even raise an eyebrow. He’d have to do better. His job probably depended on it.

“Hey, wait up!”

Ransom froze at the sound of Kathy’s voice. Maybe he would be leaving faster than he thought. Ransom refused to turn around.

“Don't worry, I'm not going to tell. Where are you going?”

The girl came alongside Ransom, standing way too close. “I’m just walking to clear my head. I thought maybe I’d go to the school and back.”

“Sounds sneaky. Let me come with you.” She giggled a little and took three steps ahead of Ransom.

“If I don't let you come, then I suppose you'll tell your dad.”

Kathy kept walking ahead. “Nah. My dad can hold a pretty mean grudge. I wouldn't want that for you. I like you Mr. Ransom.”

“Just call me Ransom, everyone does.” He hustled up and matched stride with her. “You know you are the only person who seems to want me around.”

“We are a really private town. Besides, I'm like you... kind of an outsider.”

“Why's that?”

“Something that happened a few years back.”

“And...”

“And I don't want to talk about it.”

“What, did you give the wrong answer in Sunday School or something?” She didn’t answer, so Ransom decided to shift gears. “Well then, let's talk about Bethlehem High School?”

“What makes you think I'll tell you anything? Like I said, this is really private town.”

“That's cool, that's cool. But you know I already uncovered a little secret about this place. I think it’s going to make for a great story.” Ransom baited the hook.

“What?”

“The story of the BLT.” He pulled the line taut and prepared to set the hook.

“Who told you that?” Kathy looked alarmed.

“Doesn't matter.”

“I bet my dad was pissed off. Was that what you guys were fighting about tonight?”

“No, he didn't seem to mind about that. He was just frustrated because the area teams were going to know about it now. Maybe try to duplicate the process.” Ransom was gambling, but he felt sure she couldn’t tell.

Kathy stopped walking. “Then you are in big trouble.”

Ransom stopped also. “How so?”

“It's been a secret this long and you think you are just going to up and write a story about it?”

“That's the plan.” Ransom answered with confidence. His ruse was working perfectly.

“My dad is a very smart man. Maybe not smart in the same way you are, but trust me on this.” She continued walking in the direction of the school, and Ransom followed. “If my dad knows that you know and he acted like it was no big deal, you're in trouble.”

Chapter Fourteen

2009-07-01T19:39:00.000-07:00

“Good practice boys!” Anderson’s voice boomed from the bottom of the steps.

The football players headed toward the school entrance, passing Ransom and Mayor Barton one at time. Ransom glanced at each boy, looking for something in their walk or facial expressions that might lead him toward finding some answers. Ransom noticed Paul was watching him like a hawk, ready to intervene should he decide to speak to one of the boys. Barton’s expression didn’t even attempt to hide a burning frustration. I’ll be lucky if he puts me up for even the night. Ransom thought.

One of the players lagged behind the group and upon seeing Ransom, he slowed down even more. Ransom made his move, ignoring the strong grip Barton placed on his shoulder.

“Hey! Wait a second.”

“Donnie! Head up to the showers.” The mayor’s voice was stern, most certainly trumping Ransom’s meager request. Without a second thought, Donnie turned and made his way inside. Doc Mestes and Philpot had disappeared through the door with the team, while Ransom was observing the boys. Coach Anderson fumbled with his keys, which were entangled with his whistle at the bottom of the steps. Paul and Ransom were alone on the hillside.

Mayor Barton seized the window of silence. “Ransom, I want you to listen to me, and listen good. I'm not trying to get smart with ya, like I said, that's not my way, but you’d better think about packing up first thing tomorrow morning. You’re obviously not here to do a real story on our team. You’re looking for dirt, and I don’tlike it none.”

Ransom kicked at the gravel. He’d need to choose his next words carefully.

“Paul, Bethlehem seems like a great place. You and your family have been very kind to feed me and give me a place to stay, but honestly Paul,” Ransom paused for a long moment, “you’ve been in my business a lot more than I’ve been in yours.”

“That’s my job…”

“No Paul, it’s not your job.” Ransom interrupted. “You’ve taken control of every situation I’ve had here from the moment I got out of the car; you dictate the kinds of questions I can ask, and the types of people that I am allowed to talk with, and you all but answer their questions for them.”

“So I guess this the big newspaper man I've heard about?” Coach Anderson interrupted Ransom and formally introduced himself. “I hear you want a story on our victory streak. Well, to do that, you need to write about tradition. We have great traditions here a BHS and pride in those traditions is what helps us win. We have not lost in 37 years and these boys you just saw, well, they don't want to be remembered as the first team to lose since WW2.”

Coach's monotonous dialogue was enough to convince Ransom that he would get no story here. He began to count his options for making something up. The alien abduction angle was out; Bigfoot DNA in the town populace was a possibility, but maybe there was another avenue he could create tomorrow on his drive back to the Birmingham airport. As Ransom’s thoughts drifted around these ideas, he heard something very faint coming from the school. It drowned out Coach Anderson’s voice. Something seemed familiar about it. Then, it quickly became unmistakable. A chill ran up Ransom’s spine. It was the sound of Beethoven.

And just like that, Ransom found his story.

Chapter Thirteen

2009-07-01T19:37:00.000-07:00

Ransom stepped in it, but he didn’t care. The worst thing that could happen is that Mayor Barton would toss him to the street tonight. Then, he’d threaten to just make something up (which he could easily do) and Paul would either give him something to go on, or risk having him publish whatever he wanted. They were hiding something, and he knew it.

“I've heard it's an important piece of town trivia.”

With Barton still in shock over the question, Doc stepped in as he turned away to push Philpot toward the school.

“I don't know what you're talking about. Please excuse us.”

Mayor Barton encouraged Mestes to move back inside with a wave. When he turned his head back around, Ransom knew he was furious.

“Why are you asking about that? I told you Buck was nuts. You said you didn't write about bull crap.”

“Sorry I just wanted to see what would happen if I said ‘BLT.’ There's got to be a story behind this sandwich thing.”

“And I told you there is nothing to tell. We don't teach our boys fables. We teach them they play a part in their destiny and that part requires hard work.”

“Much like a political career, I'm sure.” Ransom retorted.

Mayor Barton lips snarled up for a response, but a shout from Coach Anderson diverted his attention and the confrontation would have to wait just a bit longer.

Chapter Twelve

2009-07-01T19:35:00.000-07:00

Ransom and Barton walked across the field toward a set of small stepsleading up toward Philpot’s wheelchair. On they way, they passed Coach Anderson, yelling at his players.

Mayor Barton took a long hard glance at Anderson, who refused to make eye-contact. He’s ashamed, and he damn well should be. Paul grabbed him by the shoulder.

“Roy, I want you to meet someone.”

At that moment, a scuffle broke out on the field. One of the boys was posturing up and shoving the other one in the chest. Two other boys were propping up the kid being shoved. The others hurried over and began to chant, “Fight. Fight. Fight.”

“Just a minute Paul, let me take care of this.” Coach Anderson bounded down the stairs.

“Your coach, I take it?”

“Yeah, it’s a tough job staying on top. And as you can see, the boys need almost constant supervision.”

Ransom looked back up the hill. The doctor was pushing the old man away from the field toward the building. Ransom continued up the stairs quickly.

“Well, while he settles this, I’d still like to catch a word with your town doctor.” Ransom said, barely glancing back over his shoulder at Mayor Barton.

“I don’t know, maybe…” The mayor’s voice trailed off. Ransom was already to the top of the stairs and making his way toward Philpot.

Barton shouted toward him, “Hey Doc! Hold up a second!”

Doc Mastes halted his progress toward the door, then he took a position several feet in front of Philpot to keep Ransom at bay. Ransom took the nonverbal cue and slowed to wait on Mayor Barton.

Paul’s look was stern as he approached and the good doctor recognized it all too well. Still, he was determined to play his part in the charade.

“Hello Paul. Who's our visitor?” Mastes gestured toward Ransom.

“J.C. Ransom. Reporter for Unconventional Wisdom out of New York.” Ransom offered and the two men shook hands.

“Oh, a reporter from New York? Hopefully an educated man… God knows I could use the company. Doctor Cletus Mastes, internal medicine, Emory University in Atlanta.What brings you to our fair town Ransom?”

“I've come to write a story on the town's athletic victories. It's an incredible record your town has here.”

Doc turned toward Barton who hurried into the conversation. “Here’s some good material standing right in front of you. The Mayor set a few records himself back in the day.”

“Ha, ha. Yeah, that was long ago.” After a long pause, Barton added, “Doc, Ransom here was wondering about any injuries our players may have had over the years. I told him I wasn’t aware of any.”

“No, nothing serious that I can remember.”

Ransom hated having his questions asked for him and it seemed obvious the two men were hiding something. In a single question, Paul had again revealed a need to control the conversation and he all but scripted out the doctor’s answer.

“That seems awfully lucky of you guys, I mean with all the championships and the level of competition you face.” Ransom watched for a reaction.

“Maybe so, but luck’s part of the game isn’t it?” Doc smiled then glanced back to Philpot in the wheelchair. “I really should get Caleb back inside. Good luck with your story.”

“What's wrong with him?” Ransom asked.

“Poor Caleb, he's been such a servant to this town. It's a tumor-- benign, but I imagine still quite painful. I bring him out here on clear afternoons so it can get some sunlight because for whatever reason that seems to slow the growth.”

“Is that it?” Ransom pointed right at Philpot’s waist where the bandages protruded from an un-tucked shirt.

Paul grabbed Ransom’s arm. “Let's not wake him.”

Ransom took a step back and whipped his yellow pad out of his back pocket.

“Just one question before you go, Doc.”

“Shoot.”

Ransom glanced down at his pad. “How much do you know about the BLT?”

“What the hell?” If there had been a roof, Barton would have split it wide open.

Chapter Eleven

2009-07-01T19:33:00.000-07:00

Ransom’s initial impression of the field didn’t match his expectation. He had imagined that with such an impressive string of wins, that the local populace took their sports seriously. Everything he saw ripped apart this imagination. The school itself appeared to be in a state of extreme disrepair. The field was covered in grass much taller than any other he’d seen. The goalposts were rusty and covered in chipped paint, and the practice sled for the linemen was overgrown in thick weeds. It appeared as though it hadn’t been used in ages.

“I know it may not look like much, but hell neither does my wife in the morning. That doesn't mean we don't get happy every now and then!” Barton offered more information that Ransom needed.

The mayor was obviously quite used to what he was seeing. He was like a kid in a candy store, and the gleam in his eyes reminded Ransom of a former player reliving his glory days just by stepping foot on a football field.

“I will tell you this Ransom, Bethlehem field has a richer history than the deed itself if you know what I mean. Ain't a man in the universe can claim this kind of victory on the field of female flesh, that's for damn sure!”

Ransom’s discomfort with Barton’s unapologetic mixture of sex and football caused him to turn his head just in time to see a man in a wheelchair being pushed by what appeared to be a doctor of sorts. The men situated up on the hill were looking down at the practice field and had clearly noticed him.

“Who's that?” Ransom asked, pointing up the hill.

“You're a curious one, aren't you?” A look of seriousness crossed the mayor’s face and he continued, “That there's Caleb Philpot.”

“He looks pretty ill. Why does he come here, does one of his grandchildren play or something?”

“No, no. He's our janitor... too sick to do the work anymore, but we keep him around anyway. We fixed him a place up inside the school. He's got no family left.”

“Kind of you to do; what's wrong with him?”

“Cancer of some sorts. At least that's what Doc says.”

“Is that Doc pushing him?”

“Yeah. Doc's been with us over 25 years. Taken care of many of us too. He's a good man.” Ransom could tell that Barton wasn’t totally convinced. Call it ‘reporter’s instinct.’

“Do you care if I talk with him while the boys are finishing up practice?”

“What you want to ask the Doc?”

Ransom was sure he was onto something by the way Barton shifted his posture. “I don't know. Maybe I'll ask him if any of your boys have been injured during a game.”

“I can answer that; never happened.”

“All these years and not even a sprained ankle?”

“Ankles sprains? Maybe. Ankles turn all the time. That ain't nothing. I'd say even a few angels get their ankles sprained from time to time… I know they've turned an ankle or two in my twisted head.” Barton sounded oddly gleeful as he spoke.

“I'd still like to talk to him, if that’s ok.”

Mayor Barton cursed to himself. He was in a pickle. If he refused, Ransom would only grow curious. If he obliged, he might have to let the cat out the bag. There was always a price to be paid when surrounded by idiots. Angered that his instructions to lock Caleb away were not followed, he agreed.

“Alright, but you better not disturb Caleb. He’s a real treasure to this town.”

Chapter Ten

2009-07-01T19:32:00.000-07:00

On the 50-yard line, Coach Anderson blew a whistle and shouted again at his players. At this stage, he really wasn’t sure why they even bothered practicing. I guess it allowed them to at least look relatively organized in their victories. The boys responded well to authority, and in spite of feeling the tumor's power work in them, none of them ever complained about practice. Anderson considered that a great strength in their spirits, but the truth was, no one in Bethlehem ever complained—about anything. Maybe that wasn’t such an admirable quality. But he had a great job, and the town loved him. Too many other coaches in way too many other places never experienced that kind of luxury.

From the distance, he watched the old man get rolled out to a hillside view of the festivities on the practice field. Then he remembered Baker’s phone call, muttered a bit of profanity, and made his way up. With a reporter snooping around, they couldn’t afford to be careless.
Coach Anderson waited until he was safely out of earshot from the rest of his team; then he announced, “Doc, Reverend Baker called and said, ‘Not today.’ Apparently, we’ve got company in Bethlehem of the un-welcomed variety.”

The doctor stiffened. As long as he had been caring for the tumor, he still angered at the idea that he was last to find out anything. He supposed that’s what happens when you’re an outsider in a small town. Still, after a couple of decades of dedication in this armpit of a town, he thought the unspoken policy of “who’s local” and “who’s not” was severely misplaced when it was applied to him.

“What did Paul say about it?” The doctor asked in no real hurry to comply with Anderson’s request.

“Paul told the Reverend to call. They’re coming by to watch practice today,” Coach Anderson rattled off something subtle about religion and politics without even realizing what he said.

It wasn’t the first time this happened. Small town press was always around... other coaches too. They’d even gone as far as to disguise themselves to take a peek at BHS football practices. At one point in thelate 70’s the spying got so bad that the town decided to close all practices to the public. Since then, visitations were few and far between, and always rigidly controlled. The BLT was a highly protected town secret.

“Something tells me Coach, that this time, I got the information too late.” Doc pointed down toward a lanky fellow he’d never seen before getting out of Mayor Barton’s passenger car door.

Chapter Nine

2009-07-01T19:30:00.000-07:00

Caleb Philpot recognized the hour. It was time for afternoon sunlight. He’d heard the boys meander their way to the field, and Doc Mastes was coming down the hall, right on cue. Like one of Pavlov’s dogs, the old man hobbled toward the door at the sound of jingling keys.

Doc Mastes opened the door and gave Caleb a long, but compassionate stare.

“Caleb, you ready to watch the boys practice?” The doc sounded off the usual routine.

Caleb wasn’t a talker in his Nazi cell. Not like a couple of the others he heard squealing in the night air so many years ago. There’s something uncouthabout a man willing to trade pain for information, or information for pain, something base and rudimentary that worked above the simple survival instincts of human beings. Caleb never fingered exactly what it was; he knew he lacked the mental capacity to articulate it as a prisoner of war, and now, well, he was lucky to remember to wipe himself after bowel movements.

Doc Mastes ushered Caleb into his waiting wheelchair and strapped him in. He noticed the wince of pain shudder across his patient as he tightened down the straps. The tumor had nearly doubled in size over the pasteighteen months, and as a doctor of nearly thirty years, he knew what was coming next. Maybe even before the beginning of next season. With only a mild concern for Philpot, Doc Mastes cursed the fact that he’d not been able to unlock any of the tumor’s secrets. They hid there inside Caleb, under the fleshy folds of skin and leaking pus.

“It’s getting bigger, Caleb. And I imagine even more painful. I hate to see it go… to see you go.”

Somewhere between the tumor and the man, an ugly truth found its way to the surface in the doctor's speech.

Chapter Eight

2009-07-01T19:27:00.000-07:00

Kathy and Ransom walked their way to the dinner table, took a seat, and Paul led them in a prayer. As soon as the ‘A-men’ was finished, the food began to make its way around the table. Famished, Ransom dipped himself hearty portions which brought a smile to Darlene’s face, confirming to him that the rumors of Southern hospitality were indeed true.

“You missed it Ransom, Barney couldn't find his bullet.”

“Always fumbling around his pockets, isn't he?” Ransomed laughed for the first time all day. The food was making a difference, filling up a bit of the cynicism of having to be in Bethlehem.

Kathy looked seductively from across the table at Ransom. She took her fork, turned it upside down and placed a piece of meatloaf in her mouth. Ransom noticed but quickly looked away, trying to keep his attention focused on the Mayor.

“Goobers and Gomers, huh? Tell me more about Bethlehem.”

“My English teacher once told me, never tell it... show it. I’ll take you around to meet some folks, you’ll get a hoot out of them.”

Kathy took another piece of meatloaf the same way only to be interrupted by a knock at the door. Mayor Barton carefully pushed himself up in obvious displeasure to answer it.

“That'll be Matty. He eats with us from time to time.” Darlene said to Ransom.

“Oh God.” Kathy’s disgust was impossible to hide.

“Watch your tongue, lady!” Barton shot back from the next room. Kathy stuck her tongue out in Ransom's direction and he smiled. She did have spirit.

In a quick moment, Mayor Barton returned with Matty. Ransom would later learn that Matty was the town charity case, a bit inbred, in his early twenties. Feeling sorry for him, the town appointed him deputy to keep him busy and to provide him with a sense of self-worth in the town collective. They gave him a badge, but no gun and his primary duties were caring for the jail, where his brother Bo spent many nights sleeping off a long, hard drunk.

Matty spoke inscarcely intelligible phrases, constantly placing "t" and "w" sounds where they didn't belong. The Barton family was used to it.

“This here is Matty, Mr. Ransom. He's a lot smarter than you'd think.” Darlene began to fix Matty a plate while introducing him.

“I tan dwive.” Matty said looking intently at Ransom.

“He drives.” Mayor Barton interpreted.

“That's great, Matty.” Ransom responded kindly while noticing Kathy roll her eyes.

“Tank you Miss B.” Matty dug into the full plate that Darlene prepared for him.

“Matty here is a product of unique breeding if you know what I mean.” Paul smiled across the table.

“Paul, be nice.”

“I am being nice! Matty's in my house. Again. He’s eating my meatloaf. Again. I'd call that nice.” Barton shot the response back to his wife before launching a question toward Ransom, “That's nice, isn't it?”

“Sure. It’s very kind of you, Paul. Also it’s kind of you to open your table up to me.”

“Well, Matty’s just here because he has a crush on Kathy.” Darlene added to discussion. Her statement sent Matty into a laughing, snickering, and blushing fit of epic proportions. He spit up his bite of meatloaf, all over the table and pointed over to Kathy while stomping his feet.

“Welcome to Freaktown.” Kathy grabbed her plate and headed to the sink, obviously disgusted.

Sheepishly, Ransom looked around at his dinner hosts.

“Well, I certainly can't wait to meet everyone.”

Chapter Seven

2009-06-30T11:14:00.000-07:00

Darlene and Kathy resumed preparing the family meal. Cornbread baked in the oven and fresh snapped beans steamed on the stove.

“He sure is cute momma.” Kathy chided herself for being so straightforward, but she sensed that her mother noticed it too.

“I noticed. Go get fixed up and we’ll see if he eyeballs you any over dinner.”

“What should I wear?”

“I don't know, honey; nothing too revealing. You don't want him thinking you’re a tramp from the wrong side of town.”

“I didn’t know this town even had sides, mom.” Kathy replied with a smile and hurried out of the kitchen through the living room.

Ransom cocked his head over the sofa as she passed, but turned back again when he saw that she noticed him watching her.

“You have a lovely family, Mr. Barton.”

“Please, for God’s sakes, call me ‘Paul.’ Mr. Barton is an old fart we put in the ground about six years ago. I believe it was six years ago.”

Barton yelled to the kitchen, “Baby doll, how along ago was it we buried dad, six years ago?”

Darlene didn’t emerge from the kitchen, she merely shouted back at her husband. “It was seven years ago, dear. Kathy just turned eleven. You remember, Doc said she had "post traumatic death syndrome" or something like that.”

“Yeah, it was real hard on Kathy. She was papa’s little girl. She spent the next six months thinking she was going to die young. Only the good die young though!” Mayor Barton ended with a deep laugh that Ransom found to be out of place and discomforting.

Darlene popped her head out from the kitchen to let Paul know that dinner was about ready.

“We ain’t got much time honey, hope you didn't go to much trouble.” Paul winked at Ransom and struck him in the ribs with a firm elbow.

“Hey, if you need to wash up the bathroom is the second door on the left down the hall.” Barton pointed the way.

Happy to excuse himself, Ransom said thank you and headed down the hallway. When he passed the first door on the right, he inadvertently glanced inside just in time to see Kathy pulling a top over her head. Her black bra screamed back at him and though every instinct in him said to keep on walking, he couldn’t help but stop a moment. As Kathy’s head emerged from beneath the fabric, she looked over to see Ransom unable to peel his eyes away. Instead of lowering her shirt quickly, she smiled nonchalantly at him.

Completely embarrassed, Ransom continued down the hall toward the bathroom. He slipped past the door and shut it firmly in place, letting out a wanton sigh of both relief and angst. As Ransom washed his hands, he noticed a framed newspaper article hanging on the wall directly above the sink.

“Barton's 23 Tackles lead BHS in Championship Game." The headline read. Paul really was a football hero, he thought to himself.

Returning down the hall, Ransom found Kathy leaning in the doorway to her bedroom. She was smirking, obviously waiting to see the look on face as he returned.

“Hungry?” she asked.

“A little.” Ransom said.

“You know I really love meatloaf.” Kathy said seductively.

Ransom turned away to continue down the hall and muttered under his breath, “Only the good die young.” Apparently, he was louder than he thought.

“Dying on your mind, Mr. Ransom?” Kathy spoke from down the hall. He decided to stop rather than risk having this conversation flow all the way into the living room.

“Hardly.”

“Me either. I just turned 18 you know.”

“And I'm about to turn 31.” Ransom said abruptly, feeling like he was being pulled in, lassoed by a girl on a mission.

“I could show you around the town later tonight...”

“That shouldn't take long.” He was trying to end the conversation abruptly before it was too late.

“It's not New York I'm sure. But I bet I could show you a thing or two.” Kathy winked and Ransom winced. This could prove to be more dangerous than he imagined: a crazed mayor’s daughter in a small town latching on to a young reporter from miles away. It had all the makings of a tragedy.

Luckily, from the distance Mayor Barton’s voice issued a call that the table was set and ready.

Chapter Six

2009-06-30T11:11:00.000-07:00

Ransom enjoyed the next few minutes. There was a certain tranquility to the town of Bethlehem that he found refreshing when contrasted to the busy streets of New York. There was hardly a soul on the roads, but the ones he passed each waved and smiled. Small Town America. Maybe it wouldn’t be quite as bad as he imagined.

Mayor Barton pulled into the driveway of his home and Ransom followed suit, uncertain exactly as to where he should park. It was a comfortable one level home, probably one of the better houses in town, although certainly not postcard material.

Mayor Barton seemed duly proud to have a guest. He ushered Ransom quickly inside. The front door was decorated with fresh flowers and a welcome sign and looked like it was copied right out of Southern Living magazine. The aroma of the flowers was sweet and particularly refreshing in the December air.

The smell was quickly dwarfed by the aroma of meatloaf that overpowered his senses when he stepped inside the Mayor’s home. Ransom absorbed the feel of the home with its down home country accents. He believed that the Barton family had made their home look very nice using obviously inexpensive and common decor.

Paul’s wife Darlene and daughter Kathy were busy preparing a meal in the kitchen. They responded eagerly to the mayor’s announcement that he and Ransom had arrived.
Darlene emerged from the kitchen for a moment to make nice with their new guest. Ransom couldn't help but notice how attractive she was for a middle-aged woman at leastfifteen years his senior.

In the background of a small, cozy living room The Andy Griffith Show played on 19" television. It was slightly audible during the introductions,and Ransom pondered the irony.

“This is J.C. Ransom. He’s a New York City reporter.”

Darlene fidgeted a moment and moved straight past the pleasantries to drag her daughter out from behind the kitchen counter and into the conversation.

“Hello and welcome! I’m Darlene and this is our daughter Kathy.”

As she tugged Paul’s daughter into full view, Ransom worked hard not to show any form of emotion. Kathy was beautiful, in the Southern sense… faded tight jeans, big hair, buxom breasts.

“Hey.” Kathy’s voice was majestically Southern and added to Ransom’s rising attraction.

“Hello.”

Ransom watched Kathy’s gaze become mildly seductive. He noticed that she followed Ransom with her eyes as he and Mayor Barton took their seats in the living room. Ransom nervously eyed the girl’s father to ensure that he hadn’t noticed.

“Dinner will be ready shortly.” Darlene must have noticed the look because Ransom barely heard her whisper the words, “Don’t stare at him,” and he definitely saw the elbowDarlene gave her daughter.

After an awkward silence in the living room,Mayor Bartonmade an attempt at a conversation. “Now that’s a damn good show, Ransom. I wish our sheriff was half the man of Andy.”

“What, is he more like Barney?”

“Good ole Barn! Ha! Yeah, he just might be. Except meaner. You know we’re a town smack full of Gomer’s and Goober’s. We even let Matty be deputy. He can barely tie his own shoes. A charity case you know.”

Ransom pondered the admission. “That's kind of you,” he said.

“Some say the education problems of this town are a reflection of my leadership — you know, my political enemies.” The mayor shifted in his seat as he spoke.

“Great men always have enemies.” Ransom decided he’d lay it on thick in hopes of establishing good graces, but the mayor shot a dead pan glance over to Ransom thatsent a chill up his spine.

“All men have enemies, Ransom.”

Chapter Five

2009-06-30T11:08:00.000-07:00

Ransom turned to make his way back to the car and noticed Mayor Barton grab Baker's shoulder. The two men turned away from him for their own private conversation. He had no problem giving the men their privacy and in fact was thankful to be returning to the inner workings of his own uninterrupted thoughts.

As he neared the rental, he noticed an old man walking up the sidewalk. Ransom stopped to speak to the man, guessing him to be quickly approaching his upper eighties. The old man leaned on a cane for support, chewing on a wad of tobacco watching Ransom’s movement toward the car. Ransom approached.

“Hello there! I’m J.C. Ransom, I'm a reporter from up North. I came to Bethlehem to do a story on your high school athletes.”

“You mean you know about it?” The old man seemed incredulous. Ransom learned long ago that the best way to garner information was to simply play along.

“That's why I'm here.” He takes out a yellow pad and pencil to jot down some notes. It was probably best to get what he could, while he could, especially since Mayor Barton and Reverend Baker were busy.

“Reverend Baker says the BLT is a gift from God.” The old man looked intently as he answered. There was a look of both shock and awe in the old man’s face as he spoke. Ransom’s instincts kicked in once more, recognizing the beginning of a potentially great story.

“What did you say is a gift from God?”

The question seemed to have caught the old man off guard. “The BLT. That's why you're here, right?” As the old man stammered a moment, Ransom took a step back as the smell of something foul and long since dead caught his nostrils unawares.

“Yeah, the BLT. That is how your teams win every game isn’t it?”

Across the street, Mayor Barton and Reverend Baker continued their conversation, well out of earshot. Barton took the dominant role in the dialogue, and Baker did what all good reverends do: he listened as if sincerely interested. Reverend Baker knew that the truth was Barton had only half his education and more often than not, nothing at all to say. He learned quickly during his tenure in Bethlehem that a pastor should seldom speak outside the pulpit. This degree of silence likely kept him employed as the town’s only minister for the past decade.

Once and one time only, Baker challenged Mayor Barton. It was when the community church built a new platform in front of the baptistery. The statue of Jesus was hand-carved by a local just after the civil war and placed in the church, spanning the entire distance of roof to ceiling behind the pulpit. The church, led largely by its head deacon (none other than Paul Barton himself), decided it would be best to trim bottom of the cross, and even a small section of the heels of the crucified Jesus with a wood saw in order for their gracious deity to remain at the front of the sanctuary unblocked by the new platform, which would indisputably hinder the view of the cross and be difficult to construct without some alteration to the Master’s feet. Baker objected, and it nearly cost him his job. So they went ahead, cutting the feet of Jesus near completely off, and the church got its platform.

Barton’s guttural voice stirred Baker from the memory. “We got to be smart here, if we get stupid then every one of them will want to be touching it... rubbing up on old man Philpot just to change their luck. I'd soon shoot them as look at them… damn Yanks toot around here asking for country music like we've got no class-- what's next? That ‘Michael Jackson’ character? Let me tell you this, no colored boys are ever going to touch that tumor! Not while I'm the Mayor. No pinky little Floyd homos either. I can see all the gays now, rubbing on his belly getting turned on by that cancerous thing.”

“You're worrying, Paul. God has protected us all this time. He will not fail us now.” Baker responded in his usual calm.

“Yes, yes, God. Well just in case, will you call the school? Tell Coach Anderson I'm bringing Ransom over this afternoon. Make sure he doesn't mention the BLT.”

Control. That’s what it always boiled down to around here, thought Baker. The town ran so smoothly that it was really hard for him to be too critical. He had played along all this time and saw no reason to rock the boat today.

“Oh Christ!” Baker heard the shout and turned his head to follow Barton’s gaze. The two men watched as Ransom scribbled furiously in his notepad.

Paul took off toward the two men and Baker followed instinctively. The mayor walked vigorously and head-strong right into the middle of the conversation. As they got closer, it was obvious that Barton had every reason to be concerned.

“Why are you avoiding my questions?” Ransom asked insolently.

“None of us much like to talk about that.” The old man responded. To this point, Ransom had learned the man’s name, but not much else during his brief visit.

“Buck! What the hell are you two talking about?” Mayor Barton’s voice crashed over the interview.

“Nothing Paul; I swear it.” Buck looked scared.

“Well, go on home now; our new friend Ransom here doesn't need any of your crazy stories. He's here to do a real story on our teams.”

“Alright, Paul.” The old man hobbled off and Ransom turned his attention to the mayor.

“So what is this BLT? He wouldn't speak of it.”

“BLT?” Mayor Barton answered.

Ransom continued. “Yes, he was saying something about—

“Oh, I'm real sorry you had to listen to Buck. He's a little…” Ransom watched Barton take his pointer finger and make circles around his ear, the old middle school method for indicating someone was crazy. “That's nothing for you to worry about Ransom. He's simply the town joke. Well, one of them.”

Ransom wasn’t content to let the first lead he had drop by the wayside. “I thought it maybe it was some special sandwich the kids ate before the game.”

“Sandwich? Forget that! Let's get up to the old homestead and eat some meatloaf! We should still be able to finish it off before Coach clears the field. He'll be able to tell you how we'll pull off a win in the L.A. championship game on Friday!

“L.A.?” Ransom asked, completely puzzled.

“Lower Alabama, son. We mean lower Alabama.”

Chapter Four

2009-06-30T11:03:00.000-07:00

“Hey there! I see you made it, partner! We’ve been expecting you for near about an hour.”

Barton’s southern drawl was exactly what Ransom expected. A deep, but pleasant sound, curled up around the edges, masking a force that person could only decipher intuitively. Never really aggressive, the Southern drawl had its own ruse and unique set of barbs. Nevertheless, Ransom extended his hand toward the burly man without hesitation.

“J.C. Ransom, New York City. Thank you for allowing me to visit.” Mayor Barton either didn’t notice, or refused to recognize Ransom’s gesture... and the young reporter remembered a dozen of his favorite plots with similarly inauspicious beginnings.

“I can't believe you fellas are so interested in our athletic program. Quite a ride you just took for a simple football story.” Barton finally noticed Ransom’s hand, wiped off a palm greased with sweat and reached out.

“I'm Paul Barton, Mayor. Welcome to Bethlehem!”

“Thank you.” Ransom sounded off sincerely.

“First time in Alabama, son?”

Ransom detested being called, ‘son.’ He knew a guy once that constantly referred to people as ‘son.’ The guy was a belligerent whelp of man, constantly ridiculing Ransom’s every spoken word and the memory was still hot to the touch.

“I’m afraid it is my first trip to Alabama, but hopefully not my last.”

“Afraid? Boy, there ain't nothing to fear 'round here, except getting on my bad side.” The former jock turned Mayor laughed out loud like a bear on steroids. Ransom counted the word ‘boy’ and added it to the list of terms he disliked.It appeared as though he’d need to be getting used to the term, despite a deep detest.

During the brief exchange both men sized each other up. Paul Barton saw the very thing he hated most about outsiders: a false grin offered above a condescending expression ready to emerge at the drop of a hat. It was the Northern gaze, which carefully hid a Yankee seriousness, a painfully obvious reflection of too much being made out of too little in honest conversation. He had seen it in Bethlehem’s visitors before. It was enough for Mayor Barton to justify taking aim and firing off a pre-emptive strike across the bow.

“Now I read that sample copy of your magazine you sent me, and I ain't believing it-- not for a minute. UFO's, Antichrists, and bigfoots! Jesus son of Mary, how do you make a living with crap like that?”

Ransom shuffled his feet. “I don't know. It's just a job. Most of it probably is crap. But then every once in a while there comes a story like this.”

“Well there’s no crap here boy. It’s in the water down here! We breed winners and we've got the streaks to prove it.” As Mayor Barton recited the high school’s victories, he slapped the back of one hand into the palm of the other, emphasizing the number of wins. Ransom couldn’t help but follow his hands in a hypnotic trance.

“We’ve got thirty-eight championships in football, thirty-seven in basketball and we’ve grabbed seven in baseball... I guess we would have more there, but we just recently had enough boys to start a team.”

“Impressive.” Ransom began to ponder his assignment. Creating an unusual story for readers of the Unconventional Wisdom was never easy, but he was the best in the business… at least until recently. His editor accused him last week of rehashing the same basic plots and twists, as if a two-headed baby wasn’t enough to capture a reader anymore. He was assigned to Bethlehem for something fresh.

Barton continued. “Never a loss, not even one single defeat in seven hundred and ninety-three straight athletic games,” he eyed the reporter in glee while continually moving his hands.

“But how do you do it? I did my homework on your teams. You’ve no losses in over thirty-seven years and yet none of your players go on to play professional sports-- or even college for that matter,” Ransom shot back aggressively.

“We bring the best out our boys down here. This ain't your usual town.”

“You're right about that. So far, just about everything I guessed about this place has been off, way off...” Ransom’s voice trailed off as he remembered the Beethoven.

“Like what?” Mayor Barton shot back.

Ransom shifted again uneasily. It might be a legitimate question… it might even play into his story.

“Like why is Beethoven playing on all the radio stations?” Ransom asked.

“Beethoven? Don't you like it?”

“I love it. It's just not... what I expected.”

“Well son, what did you expect?”

Ransom stopped for a split second to consider the situation he’d gotten himself into. The bomb had already been dropped, not much point in trying to avoid it, he thought.

“I'm not sure what I expected, maybe Hank Williams Junior? Beethoven just seems off kilter.”
Ransom watched the demeanor of his host change. The man’s smile slid downward into a straight gathering of the lips, approaching a frown.

“Kilter? I don't even know what the hell that means. You won't find any Hank Williams junior or senior or Hank Williams the third once removed, or any of that stuff down here. You'd best head to Nashville boy if that's what you're looking for... all that smoking and drinking doesn’t sit right with us, you know? We only listen to Ludwig Van Beethoven down here. Hell, our basketball team runs out to the Fifth Symphony!”

Ransom’s mind instantly conjured up the image of a group of boys running out of the locker room to do a few lay-ups to the opening notes of Beethoven's 5th. What a cue. He visualized a crowd of twenty people roaring in approval.

Noting Ransom’s inner silence, Mayor Barton continued. “Surely you've heard Beethoven's 5th up there in New Jersey, ain't ya?”

“I don’t think Beethoven plays New Jersey too much anymore. I probably couldn't go hear him anyway, since I'm from New York.” Ransom retorted already feeling the Southern rub. This conversation was spirally downward very quickly.

“He don't play anywhere anymore son, he's dead! That's why we have radio.”

“I'm sorry I was trying a joke.” Ransom realized at this point that all attempts at humor were likely moot. It was probably best for him to repair the bridge that was systematically being eroded before his eyes.

The mayor adjusted his posture and brushed a piece of lint off his jacket. “Wasn't very funny. Hank Williams Jr., my ass. I'll tell you this right now... not trying to get smart with ya... but a big part of me doesn’t like you folks sniffing around our business. Hell, for all I know this town could get run over with the kind of freaks reading your paper.”

“It's all harmless, I promise.”

“Not trying to get smart with ya... but we've had promises from your type before and we don't care for 'em none… no offense now.”

“None taken.” Ransom said, in his best attempt to dodge both the bullet and bite.

That moment, a side door opened from a little shop on the street and a member of the clergy emerged. Reverend Baker was dressed in black pants, black shirt, and a white collar. He seemed to be slightly older than Mayor Barton, but it could have be the thick black rimmed glasses (a style from maybe the 1950's) that caused Ransom to project an older age onto him. Ransom noted the Catholic appearance, and believed that it seemed out of place for rural, protestant Alabama.

“Reverend Baker! Come join us a second. This here is J.C. Ransom, a reporter from New York City. He's come to tell the world about all our victories in his magazine, Unconventional Wisdom, or something along those lines.”

“Well, God's fortune favors us once again. And wisdom is often quite unconventional. That’s a catchy name for your magazine Mr. Ransom.”

“Pleased to meet you Reverend, and actually for the record, it's not ‘my’ magazine. They just pay me to write a few stories every year.”

“I'm sorry to say I've never read your work, Mr. Ransom. But I pray you find your stay here pleasant.” Baker seemed sincere, but Ransom couldn’t tell. He’d never met an insincere priest, but supposed there was a first time for everything.

“Thank you, Reverend. Maybe later I could speak with you about Bethlehem High School's athletic victories.”

“I'm not sure how much help I could be; after all, I'm only the town minister.” Ransom noted Baker’s humility and he found it welcoming and inviting. “You can help more than you realize... for example, do your players pray before the games?”

Barton shot back rapidly and Ransom was sure he just struck a nerve. The mayor said something about ‘secular humanism’ and Constitutional Rights and he said it a not so friendly tone. Two steps forward, three steps back, Ransom mused.

“How did you find out about all our wins Mr. Ransom?” Baker asked, visibly embarrassed by the conversational turn.

“You can just call me Ransom, that's what I go by at home.” Ransom was eager to share what he knew and pounced on the opportunity to answer the question directly.

“A friend of mine has a daughter over in Twin Gap. She was visiting her folks last summer and told me you guys had beaten them in every sport, every year for as long as she could remember.”

“All true! Every word of it!” The Mayor belted out like a drunk who was somehow allowed to participate in a Marine boot-camp.

“So I became curious.”

“And?” Barton leaned in toward Ransom for a response.
Ransom obliged. “And it all checked out. You actually hadn't lost a game since before she was born. I'm still curious though.”

“About what?” Baker asked.

“Why do none of your athletes go on to play in the Pros? Or even college athletics? Even the handful that do get scholarships never start a game. Doesn't that seem strange to you?” Ransom asked.

“We bring out the best in our kids down here.” Baker beamed.

“So I keep hearing.”

This story was sure to be more interesting than last month’s. Like it or not, successful sport’s stories naturally draw more readers than alien-abducted babies in eastern Illinois. If this didn’t pan out, he was toast. His editor would never let him back on the job with another lousy article like that. Here was a potential goldmine though… an undefeated, unheard of athletic program. Ransom was aware of how many odd rituals there were in sports, such as wearing socks inside out, touching the school mascot; something was going on here and that gut instinct he had learned to trust in his years of writing seemingly ridiculous stories started to churn.

“You know, I got a scholarship myself back in the day. I never played a single down of college football though. Maybe all those fancy colleges are prejudice towards us down here.” The Mayor grinned at Ransom.

“Why would that be?” Ransom asked.

“You're the reporter. Find out for me!” Barton gave Ransom a hearty slap on the back. For a moment Ransom thought he would fall over.

“Enough talk. You probably want to get over to the field and catch the tail end of the boys’ practice. I'm in the green car over there. You can follow me home, freshen up a bit and we'll grab some of the woman's meatloaf on the way out!”

“That would be great. I've not eaten since Birmingham.” Ransom said, remembering how the coffee had soaked into an empty stomach and left him both jittery and hungry.

“I guess your boss told you that you’d be staying with me this weekend seeing how we got no hotel or nothing. I should tell you my house ain't no Ritz Carlton, but it ain't no barn neither.”

“Ah yes, no room for him in the inn...” Reverend Baker quipped. The men share a brief chuckle. Ransom wasn’t so sure it was funny, but he tried to play along.

Chapter Three

2009-06-30T11:00:00.000-07:00

J.C. Ransom sipped a cup of hot coffee as he pulled into town. Although he appeared to be man quickly approaching marrying age, he retained a somewhat boyish, intelligent look about him. Ransom believed it was his “inner geek” that kept him looking so young and fresh.

The town itself was dotted with images of the rural South. Ransom turned off the mysterious Beethoven which ushered him to this place and put the rental in park, neatly folding up the map which he needed far too many times over the last hour. Only a few buildings lined the town's main street.

“Salt of the earth,” Ransom mused as he took in his surroundings.

The young reporter lamented being here. For that matter, he lamented the job itself… spending countless days tracking down bizarre stories to splash across headlines designed to capture bored patrons standing in the lines of supermarkets. It was the lowest common denominator of writing, and Ransom despised it.

He glanced over toward an overweight man getting up from his seat on an old park bench covered in peeling paint. The man looked exactly like he had imagined… Mayor Barton, a self-described ‘middle-ager’ with an unmistakable former football player look about him. Barton was at least well dressed, though noticeably out of fashion by New York’s standards.

Ransom shouldered a beautiful Nikon 35mm camera, his only source of entertainment throughout his five-year career at Unconventional Wisdom. The lens of the camera itself had become an extension of his soul, as steady as an eleventh finger pointing out toward scenes he would bring to life with a quick wit and an even quicker pen.

Bethlehem, Alabama. Only here could the benign become cancerous, the ordinary shift into the extraordinary; and only here would a few scribbles from an imaginative pen craft a righteous, holy whole.

Chapter Two

2009-06-30T10:27:00.000-07:00

Bethlehem, Alabama
December, 1988

Caleb Philpot sat on an old cot in a dimly lit cell in the Bethlehem High School basement. In what was left of his mind, he pictured an old prison cell of similar dimensions,onehe spent fourterrible monthslocked inside,struggling to maintain his sanityduringWorld War II. From Philpot’s warped view of reality, he saw the hue of the two rooms separated in time and contrasted with nothing but the vacant middlehe now occupied. He fixated his gaze on a single beam of light from a solitary window as it illuminated particles of dust floating aimlessly down to a chipped concrete floor.

Philpot took his old wrinkled fingers and began the familiar probe. It was a sickening mass growing a few inches below his bellybutton, hanging over to the right. It was his closet companion all these years: a large tumor, a flaky red texture masked with patches of black infection. Since the war, his tumor was the very center of his timeless world; the one thing he believed was truly his own, a vestige of memory of a time now passed. Overwhelmed with both pain and joy, he fondled.

The noise in the room moved through the same quiet crescendo as the Beethoven which saturated Philpot’s cell from a radio beside the bed. He leaned back on his cot staring into the spaces of what used to be, spaces of mind and melody.

At seventy-five, Caleb is strong and determined; although his protruding facial structure gives many people an impression that he is mildly retarded. The pain of his large, fleshy tumor rockets through him daily in waves. He glances down at his fingers, still caressing the mass gingerly. For an instant, Philpot imagines the bulge curling around his thoughtful digits, vivacious and eager to greet him. Each year the tumor has grown larger, and more painful, and yet he serves as its willing and humble host.

When the sound of boy’s cleats begins a solemn shuffle down the high school hall, he hears the old German boots in the distance and is jostled back and forth between two worlds. A young Caleb Philpot rises from the mist of his memories. He is nearly naked, and lying on a blood-stained sheet, clutching a bullet wound in his lower abdomen. What a fateful origin of cancerous luck, in the hell hole of Hitler’s making. And then, as if out of place, the sounds of teenagers murmuring outside the door rise and fall behind the swastikas of cell keepers. Keys jingle and Caleb Philpot is horrified once again. The handle turns ever so slowly and the door creaks open to reveal a middle-aged doctor in a white robe, holding a syringe in his hand. Philpot’s eyes begin to blur and an audible gasp ripples out and up as he slips back into his wrinkled frame, now curled up into the shell of age. Caleb is a far cry from the image in his mind, the image of what he once was. He is no longer riveted with muscles, no longer wounded, no longer carrying the pride and honor of his nation in his backpack. He is all but absent of the shimmer found in the vigor of his youth; all but absent from his mind.

Caleb remembered how his former captors knelt beside him, injecting a green liquid into his wound. Now, oddly mixing past and present, he watches as three boys dressed in football uniforms enter his cell religiously. Caleb knows why they are here; they know just as he knows, the tumor growing from his side brings good luck. The boys have lined up this way for years, generations of them; lined up to caress his leaky pus in a ritualistic pattern. And as the first player reached down to touch the tumor Caleb rested in the knowledge that he is in some way serving his country once again. One of the boy’s hands clutched his helmet by the facemask while the other hand timidly offered a quick series of pats to the fetid growth. As his hand folded around the mass, the boy released a sigh of disgust, barely heard among the echoes of Beethoven bouncing across the basement’s acoustic block.

Chapter One

2009-06-30T08:00:00.000-07:00

The darkness drops again; but now I know
that twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?

W.B. Yeats, "The Second Coming”

On the road to Bethlehem, Alabama
December, 1988

Something about Beethoven’s symphony seven burned a hole through rural Alabama. There was no way his lead foot could pass the red clay of the afternoon in a usual haste. It was the Southern mosey, a neurological toxin that infects you when you see a running tractor, or a mile of tobacco crop. It was the gentle urging of something beautiful and forgotten, the clamor of something sinister and confined by distance; it was the old, deaf conductor at his best.

Passing two burnt-orange bulls on Highway 58 South left him pondering the irony of it all. Reaching past the open map in his seat, the reporter fiddled for another station on the rental car radio. The damn thing scanned for what felt like two miles of corn before it landed. It was Opus 18, number 2: a string quartet in G major. Not particularly a favorite.

Hitting scan again, J.C. Ransom began to wonder what a back-wood hick would ever need with someone so sophisticated as Beethoven anyway. Maybe in the shadowy world of private lynching and public prayer, a man finds the most uncouth form of himself in a world gone-by: a world of culture hovering slightly beyond his ability to comprehend, but so alluring as to appear on two separate radio stations.

The third hit on the tuner brought him a mixture of trepidation and curiosity, as Piano Sonata number 12 in A Flat major churned like musical cud, paradoxically bovine and spectacular. It would be these three stations to which his last twenty minute descent to Bethlehem would accompany an endless crescendo of questions, mirrored by the awkward glances tossed at him as he passed the tiny gas stations and country farms.