Chapter 9 - The Long Retreat
A driveway seventy-five miles away can be a very long road when you have to back down it in reverse.
Earl Bennett told me the rest of the story on Sunday morning over a plate of biscuits at the diner in Greensboro.
Ryan had tried the Sheriff. Two deputies had arrived in a cruiser at three o'clock, their blue lights off, their tires crunching slowly on the gravel.
Deputy Miller—no relation to Ryan, though he took great pleasure in pointing that out—had stepped out of the car, adjusted his utility belt, and looked at the crowd.
Ryan had rushed him like a man presenting evidence at Nuremberg, waving his phone, quoting tax assessments, and demanding that the Colonel be handcuffed and removed for criminal conversion of property.
Deputy Miller had listened for four minutes with his thumbs tucked behind his brass buckle, chewing on a toothpick. Then he looked at Colonel Harris, who was leaning against the porch rail with a glass of tea.
“Afternoon, Colonel,” the deputy said.
“Afternoon, Bobby,” the Colonel replied. “How’s your daddy’s back?”
“He’s getting along, sir. Got some new liniment from the vet.” The deputy turned back to Ryan. “Mr. Miller, I’ve seen the lease. Judge Henderson filed it with the superior court clerk at nine o'clock yesterday morning. It’s tight as a drum. You don't have a lease. You don't have a deed. You don't have a court order.”
“I’m her son-in-law!” Ryan roared.
“Well,” Deputy Miller said, shifting his toothpick to the other side of his mouth, “my brother-in-law is a mechanic down in Eatonton, but that don't mean I can walk into his shop and take his impact wrench without asking. Now, you folks are blocking the turn-around for Colonel Harris’s tractor. You need to pack it up and move along before I have to write a citation for impeding a private right-of-way.”
Lorraine Miller had refused to get back into the Suburban until Kevin physically guided her by the elbow, her silk scarf trailing in the red dust, her gold bangles silent for once as she wept into an embroidered handkerchief.
The children were crying because the iPads had died and there was nowhere to charge them.
Ryan had stood by the driver’s door of the Suburban, his linen shirt soaked through with sweat, his face purple, looking up at the porch where Thomas’s swing was moving gently in the afternoon breeze.
“This isn't over, Harris!” Ryan had shouted through the heat. “We’ll be back with an injunction on Monday morning! We’ll tie this place up in litigation until that old woman dies!”
Colonel Harris had set his glass of tea down on the railing, walked down the three steps, and stopped five feet from Ryan. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't ball his fists. He simply stood there, six feet two inches of retired infantry discipline, looking through Ryan Miller as if he were a pane of dirty glass.
“Son,” the Colonel said, and the word had the weight of an iron anchor dropping into the mud. “I’ve spent thirty years dealing with men who had real weapons and real courage. You have a spreadsheet and an attitude. If I see this vehicle turn off the county road onto this lane again without my written permission, I won't call Deputy Miller. I’ll pull your truck out into the ditch with my John Deere, and you can explain to your insurance company why your undercarriage is sitting in the blackberry brambles. Now get off my grass.”
Ryan didn't answer. He climbed into the driver’s seat, slammed the door hard enough to rattle the side mirror, threw the Suburban into reverse, and backed down the gravel lane so fast the stones sounded like buckshot hitting the pine trees.
Earl Bennett had sat on his tractor by the woodpile, watching the dust cloud rise above the trees until the sound of the big V8 engine faded out onto Highway 44.
May you like
“Miss Margaret,” Earl told me over his second cup of coffee on Sunday, “I’ve seen a lot of things on that lake over fifty years. I’ve seen tornadoes take the roofs off boathouses, and I’ve seen hydrilla choke out a whole cove. But I ain't never seen a man get whipped so clean without a single hand being laid on him. Thomas would’ve bought that Colonel a case of beer.”
“Thomas,” I said, buttering half a biscuit, “would have offered him the rocking chair.”
