South of Reason Read online

  South of Reason

  Kendi Thompson

  Three Pearls Publishing

  Three Pearls Publishing

  4648 Mercersburg Road

  Mercersburg, PA 17236

  South of Reason Copyright © 2014,

  Kendi Thompson and Three Pearls Publishing

  No part of this publication may be reproduced in totality or in part, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or recording without written permission by the publisher.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  South of Reason/ by Kendi Thompson

  Cover Art by: Rebekah Joy Walck --- 1st Edition

  This work is fictional. It is based on the town of Abbeville, South Carolina. The names and situations depicted are from the author’s imagination and not real. Any semblance to a particular person’s life, past or present, is completely coincidental. Although the storyline is fictional, there are some historical references throughout the book.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2013947692

  ISBN: 9780985552343 ---- Printed edition

  ISBN: 9780985552367----- EBook edition

  DEDICATION

  I began writing South of Reason over six years ago. I wanted to write a fictional story around a small southern town and was drawn to Abbeville, South Carolina based solely off images I’d seen on the internet. When I was finally able to visit in the summer of 2013, I knew I’d chosen wisely.

  This charming southern town is truly inspiring and although Abbeville is immersed in its own history and some hold strong opinions, you cannot help smile at the people and places as you walk down the street. “Thank you” to the wonderful people I met during my visit and especially to Lynn and Fred at the visitor’s center for all their help.

  Second, I want thank my mother and my friends who supported me even when reading through incomplete drafts while I ping ponged on the storyline.

  Tom, my editor, thanks for your support and guidance.

  I dedicate South of Reason to my kids and husband for their encouragement and patience. I especially appreciated my husband cooking meals and handing me plates on days I was so engaged in writing, I’d forget to eat.

  He gagged and coughed… thick smoke scorched his lungs. Fighting the pain, he stumbled through darkness until his hand touched the burning handle flinging the rough wooden door wide open. Taking a few staggering steps outside, he collapsed. Gasping for air, he lay face down in the soft, cold grass. The fire reflected in his blue-green eyes while flames ripped through the roof of the two-story Victorian manor. A searing pain stung the back of his skull. He cried out, “Wh…where…are you?”

  Sawyer shot straight up in bed. Sweat drenched the white shirt clinging to his chest. He looked around a moment steadying his breath then walked uneasily to the bathroom. Smacking cool water on his face he stared at his reflection in the mirror for a while. “Damn nightmare,” he cursed crawling back into bed. He tucked the sheets under his chin and glanced over at the clock. It was after 3:00am and in less than three hours he’d be up preparing for work. “What’s the sense?” he groaned throwing the sheets off. He couldn’t go back to sleep.

  His foot hit something on the floor at the side of the bed causing a faint whimper from the dog. He was always tripping over her. Stumbling downstairs towards the kitchen, he pressed the button on the coffee maker. The red brew light illuminated the dark room. A loud snoring came from under the kitchen table just as he sat down. Abby propped her huge jowls on his lap. “Hey, girl,” said Sawyer rubbing her ears. Her nubby tail wagged at the attention, but the snoring continued. It was Apollo who remained asleep inches from his feet.

  The sun came up a few hours later. Sawyer emerged from the front door leaning over to read the rusty thermometer that barely clung to the outside wall. “Hmm….four degrees warmer than yesterday,” he thought. The weather was unusual in South Carolina for this time of year. It was Thursday, and the beginning of November. It should be much cooler with a slight chill. Instead, the warm sun shone bright with barely a cloud in the sky.

  With a black thermos in hand, Sawyer began making his way toward the truck. He paused to observe warped wooden boards on the porch steps. They were one of a thousand things he hadn’t gotten around to repairing. The two story home with the wrap around porch belonged to his uncle who died about six years ago. Sawyer bought it shortly thereafter not realizing just how much maintenance and fixing it needed. His uncle wasn’t a fixer and left things deteriorate. Rooms full of cardboard boxes and covered furniture littered the place. The family blamed his uncle for being a hoarder, a behavior he learned growing up poor. When he moved in Sawyer found containers of old spit out chewing tobacco hidden behind curtains in window sills. The smell was unbearable.

  Sawyer opened the driver’s door to his dark gray 2007 Ford pick-up that sat in the stone covered driveway. The motor whined as he shifted in reverse. Two streaks bolted from the back of the house before coming to a halt beside the truck. Sitting like stone statues, the two tan and white Boxers looked at him pathetically. Most days,

  they just sat on the porch until he got home. He rolled his eyes and sighed, “Come on!” Huge paws pounced on the seat knocking over the coffee thermos. Apollo attempted to sit in Sawyer’s lap, but was quickly swatted away. He had difficulty shifting gears, but managed with the dogs crammed in the front seat. Gravel kicked from the tires heading down the long driveway.

  As an only child, Sawyer McKinley lives alone. Employed as a general contractor in the family business, he works for his father, Thomas. When he was a little boy, Sawyer watched how his father ran the business and knew he’d be prepped to take it over one day. A firm, but gentle man, Thomas had an impeccable work ethic. He never yelled and there was an unspoken knowing that Thomas never accepted a half assed job. His employees and subcontractors respected him and as a result took pride in their work. McKinley Contractors had a good reputation.

  After Thomas encountered a series of health issues, from a mild heart attack last fall, Sawyer took over the reins. The business had been in the family for a long time, but with the downturn of the economy and the mortgage crisis, home building came to a screeching halt. As a result, Sawyer had to seek opportunities anywhere he could, even out of state on occasion. Sometimes he’d unload equipment or do work himself just to keep the doors open. Thomas appreciated his son’s dedication, but even he could see the toll it was taking on him, and how his social life suffered.

  Even though McKinley Contractors built houses in popular residential areas, Sawyer always favored older homes for some reason which is why he bought his uncle’s house after his death. The older rustic structures and unique designs always appealed to him with their antique smell and scratches in the flooring. It gave them an historical feel, like the energy of the previous occupants from long ago still lingered within its walls. His own home was built in 1924 on a lot of land with wide open space. Sawyer liked it because he could walk about his property without another soul around.

  An older house has character and often folks left bits and pieces of furniture and knick knacks behind, much like his uncle. One day while he was moving a box full of his high school paraphernalia, he spotted a caned rocking chair and an old roll top desk beneath sheets in the far right corner of the attic. They fit perfectly in the study adding a familiar sentimental touch. His two-story home had a wrap-around porch with gray siding and light gray shutters. Pocket doors divided most of the rooms downstairs. Beautifully preserved hardwood floors were discovered only after removing the smelly stained carpets that had been in there for over forty years. Sawyer did his own repairs
, but had no idea how much work needed to be done. It seemed like everyday something else needed repaired or replaced.

  Growing up in Spartanburg, South Carolina became his permanent residence. Many of his childhood friends stuck around too. Everybody knew everybody, and people followed conservative rules. Kids played at each other’s houses after school. When the dinner bells rang it was time to come home. Each kid knew whose parents rang which bell and if they weren’t home in time for supper they wouldn’t be back for a few days. A slap across the cheek cleared up a smart mouth and ‘yes, ma’am’ and ‘no, sir’ were just common courtesy. Families and neighbors helped each other out. This was a true southern community.

  As a boy, Sawyer played just about every sport invented. The handsome lad with dirty blonde hair was a natural athlete. Once when he was 8 years old and playing baseball for a team his father coached, his front tooth was knocked out from a fast pitch. Without hesitation, he snatched the small ragged object up and held it tightly in his hand as he rounded home base. The 5x7 team victory picture showed the players in their dirty white and royal blue uniforms holding up a trophy; Sawyer held up his lucky tooth. His mother put it in a mason jar that’s still on the top shelf of his desk in his old bedroom.

  Basketball and football occupied most of his teenage years. As a senior, he played quarterback. He pulled the team through an 8-2 season before graduating. Awards bearing his name still hang in the dusty glass case outside the boy’s locker room. It was obvious that he was more athletic and less academic when B’s and C’s were the norm for his report cards. Grades didn’t bother him and he didn’t much care if his name ever appeared on the Honor Roll. Being voted, “Most Athletic,” and, “Most Likely to be a Comedian,” for Senior Superlatives, described him perfectly.

  Sawyer had charisma and was pretty popular with the girls. His blue/green eyes accented an oval face with sculpted cheekbones, and his muscular build made him very attractive. He was friendly and attentive to the girls which resulted in mixed signals. Rarely was he seen unaccompanied at the local pizzeria after the games. Still, he never got that serious with any of them. Now, thirty years old, Sawyer barely had time to himself, much less contemplate a serious relationship. Managing McKinley Contractors consumed him.

  Chapter 2

  The sun disappeared behind the horizon. Darkness came early as the air turned crisp, the smell of a southern autumn returned to the Carolinas. Outlines of puffy clouds hung in the sky as Sawyer watched the sun dip lower and lower. The seasonal change relieved him, because summer had been brutal working outside on the construction sites. Some trees held leaves of yellow, red and amber. The ones too impatient to cling to their stem, dotted up and down the long gravel driveway.

  Sawyer opened the truck door as Apollo and Abby greeted him. They ran circles around each other before bolting up the front porch to scratch at the door. Grabbing a huge pile of leaves, Sawyer whistled for the dogs. Both clowns raced toward him, tongues hanging from their mouths. As they neared, a burst of color exploded before them. They sprinted up the steps toward the wooden swing. Piling on together they swung back and forth for some time until only the porch light was visible.

  The timer on the microwave beeped indicating another frozen dinner was nuked to perfection. Sawyer grabbed beer from the fridge and settled on the couch with his faithful four-legged friends; T.V. blared in the background. Sawyer opened the newspaper stuffing a forkful of lasagna in his mouth. Half of another beer followed before he was finished reading and climbed the stairs to his bedroom. Feeling unusually exhausted, he lay across the bed dangling his feet from the side. Apollo sniffed them. “Stop it!” he yelled. His eyes were closed for only a minute when a strange heaviness pulled him into the mattress. A wave of nausea began followed by a dizzying ringing in his ears, he felt weak. He lay there paralyzed.

  A wall of thick black smoke stood before him. His lungs burned; pain seized up his beaten body. Trembling fingers felt for the door knob that seared his hand when touched. Taking steps outside, he fell to the ground watching fire dance through the roof of the house. A shadowy female figure knelt beside him touching his face.

  Sawyer awoke flaying his arms and legs. Cold sweat trickled down his forehead. The room was now pitching dark. He blinked trying to reorient himself. Reaching for the alarm clock, which was now on the floor along with the bedspread, Sawyer read, 7:33 pm. Bewildered, he sat up. He’d been asleep for over an hour.

  The nightmares were like torture. What was happening? Grabbing his sneakers from under the bed, Sawyer headed downstairs. His unfinished bottle of Budweiser stood on the kitchen table. The lukewarm brew moistened his dry throat while he pulled on his shoes, not bothering to tie them. Snatching his keys, he ran out the door. He had to get out of the house; go somewhere; anywhere to help clear his troubled mind.

  Driving several miles southwest, rain pelted the windshield as he wrestled with his emotions. The steering wheel felt moist under his hands. “What’s goin’ on?” he thought. Road sign after road sign passed him gently in the night while the steady rhythm of the windshield wipers echoed through his troubled mind.

  Gloomy clouds appeared to follow him on his journey even though the rain eventually stopped…he’d been driving for hours. A sign came up along the side of the road for Abbeville. The Ford pick-up entered the square of the little town that for some reason looked oddly familiar. He spotted a diner and pulled into a parking spot. The neon open sign lit up the window. He walked up and peered in leaving a smudge mark on the glass.

  A plump, middle aged waitress smiled waving him in, “We’re open, honey.” Her two toned curly hair matched the color of her bright orange-red lipstick. She wore a yellow top with black pants and a white apron. The name ‘Dottie’ was engraved in blue on her name badge that adorned a little pink ribbon on top. Sawyer walked in surveying the place then slid into a booth. The waitress carried over a silver pot, “Good evening, honey, would you like some coffee?” she said in a thicker southern accent.

  “Yes, ma’am, thank you.” He turned over the mug that was already arranged along with the silverware.

  She started humming a tune while wiping a splotch of ketchup off the table, “There’s our menu,” she said pointing toward the salt and pepper shakers. “Tonight’s special is chicken fried steak with two sides and a dessert.” Dottie poured his coffee then reached in her apron pocket plopping three creamers on the cup’s saucer before walking away.

  Sawyer looked around the quaint diner. It reminded him of somewhere he’d been before. The inside was simple too; small with a long red counter facing the kitchen grill in the back with six silver bar stools lining it. Toward the sides were booths spaced apart, five on each side. The original black and white tiled floor was in good shape, minus a few cracks and yellowing. Food stains marked the white table tops making them look old and dull, but overall the place was clean. Sawyer noticed the pictures of nostalgia hanging on the walls.

  The waitress returned minutes later, “Ok sugar, you ready to order?”

  “What town am I in?” he said trying to sip at the coffee. It was really hot.

  “You’re in Abbeville, honey,” she said taking out her pad and pencil.

  Sawyer cocked his head and frowned as if the name jolted a memory. He stuttered, “I… I’ll have the special, ma’am.” He hadn’t even looked at the menu.

  “What sides do you want?”

  “Surprise me.”

  The waitress flashed a smile. Her pearly white teeth shined in contrast to the orange-red lipstick, “Ok…now save some room, ‘cause we’ve got lots of yummy desserts.”

  He managed a tired smile, “Yes, ma’am.”

  The coffee’s aroma went up each nostril. Still it was the most comforting thing he’d had all day. His aching legs started to throb so he stood up and walked around making his way to the men’s restroom in the back left side of the diner.

  On his way out, he stopped to look at old photographs. The collage pre-dated the dine
r to the civil war. A photo of Jefferson Davis hung up top in a round frame with a few individual photos of young Confederate soldiers in their uniforms directly below, their names written on a gold plate at the bottom. Grease from the diner lined each frame. Another grouping was a picture of a painting that showed people standing together. “First Organized Meeting of Secession,” it read. Photos and names of cotton plantations from all over the state of South Carolina displayed off to the left side of the wall; many pictured with slaves standing in front of them. A picture of a horse and buggy parked in front of the old Abbeville bank and another showing the square from sometime in the early 1900’s was the last picture he observed before wandering back to his table. Dottie was just bringing out his food.

  He devoured his meal, and sat satisfied with his legs stretched out under the booth. Sawyer only noticed two other patrons and they were up at the bar stools. The cook yelled out to one of them.

  Dottie returned to top off his coffee again, “What kind of dessert do you want, honey? We’ve got ice cream, apple pie, pecan pie…” she paused, “Oh, and pumpkin pie that was made this evening.”

  Sawyer thought a moment, “I’ll take a bitty bit of pumpkin pie, please.”

  As she walked away, he picked up his mug strolling over to the other side to look at more pictures. There he found photos of the diner when it was built in 1929. From the looks of it, not much had changed. The old Abbeville jail and firehouse hung in black frames beside each other and photos of the railroad depot with different train engines depicted in them. Strangely, these images were familiar, but Sawyer dismissed them. The row of pictures below showed six Victorian style homes from the area with the owner’s name, and year built in the bottom right corner. These houses were built between 1880 and 1907. Being a general contractor he liked the detailing and appreciated the construction of older southern homes.