Country Charm #5

Country Charm

The Original Short Story

(Note: This short story is the basis for the novel, Country Charm. The father in the short story evolved into Peter Schertz, the protagonist of the novel. The father in the short story was inspired by Bob Miller, owner of the Country Charm Dairy that was converted to a restaurant. Bob Miller died at the age of 101 in 2017. The short story is completely fiction and is not at all reflective of the life of Bob Miller or any events surrounding his life.)

During the winter of ’64 when Jamey Harrellson shot his holsteins, pigs, chickens, wife, and three children before hanging himself in the barn, I broke out with a bad case of the pimples, failed to make the freshmen basketball team, and kissed Mary Lou in the back seat of Jake’s Chevy.

Ours is a small farming town in central Illinois where less than two thousand people work, sleep, and dream. Our roots trace themselves back to German farmers and Italian coal miners. The people work hard day and night with time off on Sunday for church and people still believe in apple pie, motherhood, and the American way. No one over the age of thirty has a college degree and no one under thirty who latches on to one stays around longer than five seconds.

In ’64 my father owned the only local restaurant worth its salt, named Country Charm, a converted dairy. He was a tall man, at least 6’4" in his stocking feet and dominated any conversation with his deep throaty voice. His eyes, a pale thin blue, danced with excitement and made you feel that you were the most important person in the whole universe. He was the greatest basketball player this town had ever known and still is, having led his team to the state championships in ’41 and ’42. Many old timers still worship the ground he walks on.

When I was three, my mother died of breast cancer and a broken heart. My father had quite a way with the ladies. He couldn’t keep his hands off them, or they, him. At one time or another he may have slept with at least half the women in town and made a pass at the other half. I remember very little about my mother, other than her smell ~ the warm inviting smell of burning leaves.

After mother died, father gave up farming. He didn’t like dirtying his hands by pitching manure or feeding the pigs. The hours didn’t suit his tastes, either. He rented out the farm to Harrellson and he and I moved to town where he became the proud owner and manager of the Country Charm.

The restaurant seated only thirty-five customers and served a simple menu of hamburgers, french fries, and milk shakes, but there was always a hot dinner plate. Sometimes it was roast beef, sometimes chicken, and sometimes meatloaf. He always served mashed potatoes with plenty of brown gravy and a choice of vegetables, usually green beans or corn.

When my father heard that I had been cut from the basketball team, he ranted and raved for hours, slapped me around a couple of times, and swore on my mother’s grave that I would never amount to anything. He wasn’t going to have a kid of his cut from a basketball team.

He dragged me over to the coach’s house and made me apologize for not practicing hard enough (I had cut a few practices) and made me promise to try harder. The coach, small in stature next to my father, felt sorry for me and tried to reason with my father. He knew I had no interest in basketball, but my father wouldn’t hear of such a thing.

“Charlie,” he yelled, “if you don’t put Jason back on the team, I will see to it that you never coach in this county or this state again.”

The coach had no choice but to acquiesce since he had a large family to feed and he knew that my father could back up his threat. I learned a lot about power that day and about how it can be used to bend people. My father had too much power for a man of his character.

So I there I was — back on the team. I hated basketball then and still do. It is such a silly sport — running around trying to put an orange ball through a hoop that’s a little bigger than the ball. Oh, I played six years of it — my father saw to that I even started a few games but I don’t think I scored more than six points my whole career. My father never seemed to understand that one can lead a horse to water but one can’t make him drink.

I guess I was just rebellious. At least that’s what my father claimed. I was more into cars and girls, but girls didn’t look in my direction and I had no wheels because I was too young to drive.

Somehow I did not get my father’s good looks or his boyish grin. There are moments when I even wonder if I am really his offspring. I have always been the shortest boy in my class and about fifty pounds overweight.

The waitresses would always slip me an extra piece of pie or another dish of ice cream in order to get on my good side. They wanted my help in sweet talking my father into marrying them. He was the town’s most eligible bachelor and probably the richest, too.

When the pimples came, though, I was unprepared. What little chance I had of finding a girl flew out the window. To be short and fat is bad enough but to have pimples too is the pits. They took over my face and chest, invaders from another world, popping up everywhere, making my skin look like a piece of raw meat. The gods must have wakened in a bad mood that morning and asked themselves which human should we mutilate today. And I was their choice, a raw recruit, a nobody in the sands of time, a freak.

I couldn’t even stand to look at myself in the mirror. I avoided mirrors like the plague, choosing to suffer in ignorance. My father got his kicks out of making fun of me, calling me names, laughing at me in front of others, holding me up for ridicule. He called me, “lizard skin,” and “wart face.'

Jake was the only real friend I had during those years. He was nine years my senior and the only person in the whole town who even cared for me for myself, not because my father was a bigwig. Of course, my father didn’t like him. This stood to reason because Jake was the antithesis of who my father imagined himself to be.

Jake never completed high school and some of the town’s people considered him dumb, almost mentally retarded. He spoke only in monosyllables and rarely said more than a few sentences. He also came from the wrong side of the tracks which didn’t help. Jake’s father had been the town drunk and would always beat the living daylights out of him. He still had the scars from where his father had cut him with a knife while in a drunken rage. Jake was only seven at the time. Jake’s mother had been a loose woman, which caused many of the old hags to whisper over their backyard fences. She had died giving him birth. He was the youngest of three children and the most sensitive to the ugly world around him.

Jake was a genius when it came to cars or anything mechanical. He could tear a carburetor apart and put it back together without blinking an eye. He would make simple adjustments which would take other mechanics hours to locate. His large hands were strangely never dirty.

Jake was always very protective of me. The first time I actually met him was when he saved my life. A couple of bullies were using me as a punching bag on the way home from school. Jake tore them off me and washed their faces in their own blood. They never bothered me again and Jake quickly became my friend and counselor. I told him things I’ve never told another living soul. After a particularly bad day in school or a terrible fight with my father, I’d spill my guts to him. Jake would look deep into my eyes, nod his large red head, and assure me that everything would be alright.

About a week after one of my tantrums, in which I told Jake the way things were going that I’d probably die a virgin, he asked me if I wanted to double date with him and his current steady, Sue, a girl from a neighboring town. She had a friend who would love to have a handsome man like me. We could take in a movie and share a pizza afterwards. Of course, I jumped at the chance. I didn’t bother to ask him if she was ugly or fat, or even how old she was, because at the time it didn’t matter. A girl was a girl was a girl as long as she had breasts and thighs.

Mary Lou was no beauty by any standards, including mine. While she was about my height, she weighed fifty pounds more than I and was five years my senior. Her eyes were a pale green and her cheeks chubby with a slight mustache on her upper lip. Her dishwater-colored hair was straggly and straight. But she was clean. Smelled clean. Looked clean. And felt clean.

And talk! Why, she was a one-woman conversationalist. She never seemed to shut-up. From the moment we picked her up in Jake’s 54’ Chevy, she never stopped talking. She told me all about her job as a nurse’s aide in a nursing home, describing the sick people whom she had to bathe, feed, and dress. She talked about her parents, her brothers, and her sisters, all older, sexier, and established in glamorous careers.

I sat beside her in the back seat, only half listening to her prattle, thinking about how I was going to kiss her and what her reaction would be. I would smile my father’s special smile every so often to give her the idea that I was listening and understood what she was saying. It didn’t matter whether I listened or not since she was so wrapped up in her monologue that I don’t think she even knew I was there, or at least it didn’t matter whether it was me or another jerk.

The movie was one of those James Bond kind with lots of action and plenty of women in bikinis. The hero resembled my father and made me start wondering if he was a restaurant owner or some exciting, woman- chasing, gun-toting spy. I could see him fighting his way out of trouble and ending up in bed with the girl. What an enchanting double life he led!

I bought Mary Lou and myself a large box of buttered popcorn and a large Coke. We sat in the back row, gorging ourselves, while Jake was putting the moves on his girl. Out of the comer of my eye, I could see him kissing her as his right hand slipped underneath her blouse. Half way through the movie Mary Lou wanted a hot dog with mustard and onions, so I obliged.

All the way to the concession stand and back, I plotted how I was going to get her to kiss me. First, I would sneak my right hand around her broad shoulders and if she made no move to get away, I would whisper her name and when she turned I’d kiss her. A big juicy kiss.

Well, it went as planned — almost. I waited until she had finished her hot dog and had wiped the mustard from her lips. When the hero was kissing an enemy agent, I pretended to scratch my right ear, then gave a big stretch as if I was tired. I lowered my arm on the back of her seat and brought my hand to rest on her right shoulder. She didn’t jump or scream. I had gotten to first base. She stared at the movie as if nothing had happened. As I leaned closer and was gathering the courage to whisper her name, she turned and said, “Jason, be a dear and get me another Coke, would you?” What could I do but comply.

The pizza was another matter. I’d often been accused of eating too much and my body reflected it, but Mary Lou took the cake. She ate as much pizza as Jake, his girl, and me put together and in between bites she talked a mile a minute. Jake and his girl paid no attention to us. They were wrapped up in a world of their own choosing. I was left to fend for myself against the onslaught of words and pizza and tomato sauce.

“Jason, do you know that since I was four years old I’ve wanted to be a doctor. I would like to put on one of those white gowns and wear a stethoscope around my neck, looking into people’s throats and ears. I once had a real bad earache and ended up in this huge hospital and they cleaned out my ears by blowing air into them. Boy, did that hurt. Have you ever been in a hospital, Jason? Let me tell you it’s not a fun experience. I’d rather be a doctor than a patient so I can do all the poking and prodding and sticking.”

Mary Lou turned toward me, her chubby fingers grabbing for my round stomach. I had visions of her in white coming at me as I lay on the operating table. I could see her sharpening her knife, preparing to plunge it into my belly. I jumped, knocking over a glass of Coke into her lap and soaking her pink dress. She screamed and flew out of her chair. I never saw her move so fast.

I tried to apologize, but she gave me a dirty look and stormed off to the restroom. Everyone was looking at us. I could feel my face growing several shades redder. Jake’s date followed Mary Lou to see if she could help.

“What happened?” Jake asked. “Why are you so clumsy?” “It was an accident,” I mumbled. How could I explain about Doctor Mary, even to Jake.

“Well, we better be going. You’re picking up the check, right?”

“Yes, Jake,” I answered, lowering my eyes.

We rode home in silence, not a word from Mary Lou. She wouldn’t even look at me. I apologized a dozen times but she remained like ice. I was getting desperate. I wanted a kiss as some type of trophy to say I was a man.

I decided I had no choice but to tickle her back to life. It couldn’t make things any worse than they already were. She jumped and took a hard swing at me. The blow glanced off my shoulder so I tucked my head in and kept tickling. Soon I heard a giggle, and another, and another.

“Stop it! Stop it!” she sputtered breathlessly before lapsing into full scale hysteria. She was laughing so hard that Jake later told me he could feel the car swaying as her weight shifted.

When I did stop, we both collapsed against each other, while trying to catch our breath. Then I did it. I put my arm around her, turned her lips toward me, and kissed her. I’d wager that kiss lasted for a full minute. Her lips were soft, succulent. I was in seventh heaven. We spent the rest of our time together trading kisses until Jake dropped her off at her house.

“Why did you do that?” she asked as I walked her to her front steps.

“I don’t know,’ I said. “I guess I just wanted to.’’

During the next couple of months, we double dated about every Friday and Saturday with Jake and his girl, sharing tender moments and sweet kisses. One night she even let me touch her breasts. When Jake stopped seeing his girl and found another one in a different town, it all came to an end since I had no wheels.

While one never forgets his first kiss, the events of February 25th totally unnerved me and shook the very foundations of the town. Some people never recovered.

Jamey Harrellson was a born farmer, an upstanding man in his mid-forties, with the good looks and charisma that made him everybody’s friend. My father and Jamey had grown up together, played on the same high school championship team, and married their childhood sweethearts in a double ceremony which was attended everybody in town. By all accounts Jamey was one of the most successful farmers in the area. His fields yielded the most grain every year. His livestock brought the best prices at the market. To top it off, he had a beautiful family, a lovely wife, and three well-behaved intelligent children.

The eldest was a star varsity basketball player and junior class president. He was almost a duplicate physical specimen of his father. He occasionally beat me up after school. Once he stole my jockey strap and hung it on the school flag pole. Jamey attended church regularly and gave more than his fair share to charity. When the Donaldson’s house burnt, he was Johnny-on-the-spot and took them into his home until they could rebuild theirs.

But on the morning of February 25th something snapped. According to the police report, Jamey took his shotgun and blasted his wife and two daughters while they slept. Upon hearing the noise, his son had gotten out of bed and was coming out the door when his father pulled the trigger. They say the look on the son’s face was a strange mixture of fear, shock, and delight.

Jamey proceeded to systematically kill their two dogs, five cats, twenty-five holsteins, six pigs, three dozen chickens, and seven rabbits. The only animal that was unharmed was the black stallion my father had given him. It is estimated that it must have taken an hour for him to finish the slaughter. He then put a rope around his neck, kicked the bale of hay away, and hung himself from the rafters of the barn which he had built with his own hands.

Old man Hodel discovered the bodies about 8:15 a.m. and reported the discovery to the police. By 9:00 a.m. it was all over town including the school. So great was the impact on everybody that they decided to send us home early.

I’ll never forget the look on my father’s face when I walked into the restaurant. He was sitting in a booth by himself. He seemed like a lost little boy who didn’t know whether he dared to cry or not. His face was drained, pale. His eyes were glassy, like a cow before the slaughter.

The restaurant was packed with people, community leaders, farmers, and local businessmen, all talking and expressing their shock, their wonder, their puzzlement at the turn of events. Occasionally someone would go over to my father and engage him in a one-sided conversation, usually mumbling something about this being a great tragedy and how they knew this must be difficult for my father since he and Jamey were such good friends. Now and then one bold but rude person would ask him if he knew why it happened or if he thought Jamey was crazy. Through it all, Father did not respond with a single movement of an eyelid or a finger. Soon the person would shrug his shoulders and return to the crowd of voices.

Three days later they held the funerals. Father was one of the pallbearers. They buried the whole family side by side at the top of a hill on their farm. Everybody was there. School had been dismissed and I walked along side Father. He still said very little.

Father died three years later of a heart attack, just two weeks before I was to graduate from high school. He never got over Jamey’s death. He drank more, talked less, and paid very little attention to the restaurant, which had steadily gone down hill. I sold the restaurant after he died and ran off to college.

I will graduate in five weeks as a chemical engineer and I have not been back to the old home town since I left four years ago. My pimples have vanished and I now stand 6’4" in my stocking feet and weigh 180 pounds. I swim two miles a day. I’ve been in love twice and lost my virginity a year ago.

But there are times late at night that Jamey Harrellson still comes back to haunt me and I wake up screaming and shivering with fright. Sometimes I see myself pulling the trigger and kicking the bale of hay and I pray for forgiveness.

(Country Charm, the short story, was first published in Mother, Don’t Lock Me in That Closet!, a collection of haiku, poems and short stories published in 1989. If you would like a free copy of the book, email Harley King at [email protected])