Gravy, Grits, and Graves

Tuesday, October 4, 1938 n night blacker than pitch, six men crept into the heart of the Cumberland National Forest. The October night was eerily quiet as each of the six men, pillars of the community and respected leaders, could feel their heart beat in unison with each step. The ka thud ka thud of their drumming heartbeats was soon replaced by the thuds of shovels meeting the black Kentucky soil. Several of the men were still dressed in their fancy work suits while others still had the farmer’s stink hanging onto their overalls. Although the night air was cool, the men were sweating like pigs, but they paid no never-mind to their own odor because they could only smell the sickening sweet scent of warm blood. It was a smell these men would never soon forget. The stench would serve as a reminder of the night they witnessed Jon R. Ledford kill the Mayor of McWhorter in cold blood. Nary word was exchanged as the six men finished digging the mayor’s final resting place. This unmarked grave in the middle of a thick wilderness would be a safe place to hide their sin. The gravediggers’ silence was not because they had nothing to say to one another; they didn’t speak because they valued their own lives. Jon R. Ledford hadn’t planned on pulling the trigger and murdering one of his lifelong buddies, but it had happened, and he learned long ago not to look a gift horse in the mouth. Jon R. knew this was his opportunity to create a dynasty where he called all the shots as McWhorter, Kentucky’s rightful leader. actually, he never felt more alive in his life. His presence loomed even larger over the top of the grave as he rested his body weight on the shovel and examined his reluctant partners in crime. He smiled inwardly because he knew he had them in the palms of his hands. Although their intelligence was no match to his own, they were still smart men—smart enough to recognize their only options were to follow his lead or follow the dead mayor into another shallow grave. In the three short hours since the shooting, Jon R. had formulated his plan. Every town loved a good scandal, and McWhorter was no exception. Every tongue would soon be wagging telling how the mayor had skipped town with the black- haired gypsy woman who passed through town a few weeks ago. In a way, he was doing his slain friend a favor by making him a legend. The men would all admire him, and the women folk would hang on tighter to their men lest they too suffer from another gypsy’s spell. Jon R. even planned how to prevent the deathbed confessions of his silent partners. Although he was the one to pull the trigger in a fit of rage, the others did absolutely nothing to stop him. Actually, there’d been no stopping him. He wouldn’t have hesitated to shoot anyone who got in his way tonight, tomorrow, or as long as he lived. He knew he would miss the dead son of a bitch, but he knew there was no use crying over spilt milk now. What was done was done. Jon R. Ledford was certain he could make this unholy alliance work for them all. They would soon reap the benefits of the little murder club they had accidentally joined one lovely Tuesday evening in October. cWhorter, Kentucky, was a place time had left behind. The population of the town was just over five thousand and hadn’t changed much over the past thirty years. Big business wasn’t encouraged, and the town didn’t take too well to newcomers unless they were paying tourists. Those passing through would often mistake the Appalachian accents, the colorful language, and the poor grammar of some of the McWhorterians as being slow witted. A huge mistake. These hillbillies would have the last laugh while laughing all the way to the bank. There were no franchise restaurants in McWhorter. Hazel’s Diner was the eatery of choice, and it probably wasn’t the place to go for those who didn’t believe in eating egg centers or worried about their cholesterol. Hazel’s was the place to eat real food, fried in black-iron skillets with real lard for the grease. Although Hazel had been dead for years, her son Jebidiah continued to run the restaurant using her same secret recipes. Normally, Hazel’s Diner only served dinner and supper; however, the diner made an exception and opened for breakfast for the Tuesday Club meetings. There were only thirteen people in the world who knew about the Tuesday Club’s existence, and one of them was Jebidiah Moses. Providing food and a backroom for them to meet, Jeb continued the tradition in just the same manner as his momma had done before him. Neither Hazel nor Jeb was privy to the meetings. Jeb didn’t really know what they met about; the truth of the matter was he didn’t give a rat’s hind and they kept competitors away so Hazel’s would be the only source of dining in downtown McWhorter. The sound of his cash register ringing was all the explanation he needed. Jeb had been cooking since four-thirty in the morning and had bacon, sausage, cat head biscuits, sausage gravy, grits, and eggs fixed for the group as they started meandering in about an hour later. The mayor was always the first to arrive. “Jeb, I smelled that bacon the minute I walked in the back door. I started salivating for your good cooking as soon as I hit Broad Street,” the mayor said while he made his general inspection to make sure the meeting place hadn’t been compromised in any way. Parking his car at his office, the mayor chose to walk the short distance and then entered from Hazel’s basement entrance. A nice sheen of sweat was glistening from his face due to his exertion from his morning walk. The group had their timing and entrance down to a fine science. Anyone who was stirring that early would not notice anything unusual. The storefront of the diner was dark, and the lights weren’t visible from the street. No one would have any idea that an important meeting was taking place. The members of the group were a select few men that had been born into the three or four generations of members. They secretly ran the town. All the elected officials were nothing but puppets for them. They’d been making these decisions for going on seventy years, and today was report card day, meaning the club would make decisions for the 2008 election. Twelve seats surrounded a large table in the backroom. This meeting didn’t call for formalities such as roll call or minute- taking. On the contrary, it was best that there was no evidence left about the meeting—period. No one dared to miss a meeting. Most men had been groomed all their lives to come into their inherited rights as a member. Starting in 1938 with the original six men, the club continued to grow as each of the legitimate male heirs became old enough to join. No women were allowed