The Poison Flood

by Jordan Farmer

Genres: Literary Fiction; Noir

Synopsis

A captivating, gritty, and tender story of a reclusive musician and the environmental disaster that threatens his small town and changes his life forever.

Hollis Bragg lives on the fringes. The hunchbacked son of a West Virginia hill preacher, he now resides in rural isolation next to the burned-out husk of his father's church, and earns his living ghostwriting songs for a popular band that left the poverty and corruption of Appalachia and never looked back. It's the life he prefers, free from the harsh glare of the spotlight and attachments that lead only to heartbreak.

Then, much to his consternation, he's discovered by Russell Watson, a local musician and fan who also happens to be the rebellious son of the local chemical company magnate. When a devastating toxic spill at the Watson chemical plant poisons the local water, it sets off an unpredictable series of events as Hollis witnesses a murder, faces a shocking betrayal, and begins to come to terms with his body and his past. Soon Hollis will find that in losing his anonymity and reclaiming his music, he can transform his future; and in opening himself up to the world, he might find redemption.

Release date: May 5, 2020

Publisher: G.P. Putnam's Sons

Print pages: 288

Sample

The Ghostwriter

Two Days Before the Contamination



I'm chasing a song down the neck of my guitar when the pain in my back breaks the spell. The fighting cocks across the creek crow in added interruption, and I know it's pointless to continue. I can work past the pain, but never the racket of the chickens. Just one rooster singing is enough to make the others convene an ill choir, all their voices rising in shrill music that spills through my walls. Sometimes the distraction tempts me to go free the flock from their coops, only I'd never get past Mr. Fredrick. Generations of his birds have fought in the local pits, their spurs adorned with razor blades that gouged through opponents' feathers. In Coopersville County, anything accustomed to that much violence is worth protecting.



My lost melody had repeated in a loop all morning. I thought I'd play until I found a bridge, but songs are fickle. They rarely appear fully formed. Most must be mined slow from the subconscious in fragments. The tune won't drift back, so I light a cigarette and remind myself not to worry. It's just another love song I owe Angela.



Caroline is playing in the other room. I grab my cane and shuffle across the floor littered with dirty clothes. The place smells like an animal den. Beer bottles rest on the bedside table and the ashtray overflows with crushed butts. A few of the filters are marked by Caroline's lipstick. I try to recall last night, but my back protests with each step until I can't remember our evening. Everything will remain foggy until I swallow a few pills.



In the living room, Caroline strums my unplugged hollow body. She still can't quite create proper barre chords. Each note is full of static, but her rhythm is coming along. The guitar presses into the white of her bare thigh as she leans over the instrument. Blond hair dangles against the strings and her lips purse in concentration. Lacquered nails rub the fret board as she shifts to a C chord to play one of the many cowboy tunes I've taught her.



"Sounds like cats fucking," I say.



There is no discernible pattern to Caroline's visits. She comes and goes like a stray, often showing up in the middle of the night. Usually, I can sense her before she arrives. I'm not superstitious, but winter nights feel hotter as if warmed by her approach. The air carries a slight electric charge in her vicinity. These sensations should only be brought on by a lover, but I'm uncertain how to define my relationship with Caroline. I'm something between teacher and curiosity. She came to me a year ago, traveling across the creek no one dares to cross, saying she wanted guitar lessons. I should have sent her away, but something inside me was too lonesome for company. There's a classic archetype in our dynamic. The withered expert and the brash student. In the old parables, the reclusive master doesn't get to turn the cocky apprentice away. I guess I felt teaching her was owed, no matter how much I knew it was a mistake.



"I can't get these chords," she says and demonstrates by forming another poor F. "How long before I can just pick it up and play whatever?"



"Depends," I say. My back hurts too much for conversation. I move around the couch to the end table, where my pills lie spilled from the bottle. Lately, I need more to numb the pain and these larger doses transform me into something formless. A euphoric ghost drifting about the confines of the house, content just to listen to records. This new dependency is half the reason I'm behind schedule on The Troubadours' album. Just a few more songs for Angela, then I'm calling it quits.



"What were you playing in there?" she asks.



"It's a secret." I bite one of the pills. I've taken to chewing them just enough to get the chalk taste in my mouth. There's no reason it should, but the medicinal tang makes me numb quicker.



"It's all muscle memory," I say, pointing to the guitar. "You just gotta keep at it. All day, every day."



"How long if I practice for an hour each day?"



"Years."



I sink into the couch above Caroline and hang down the cigarette to let her steal a puff.



"Piss on that," she says, neck still craned back from the toke. Her wild hair brushes against my knee. "Got one of those pills for me?"



"I thought you were quitting."



She's probably taken a few already. I never keep an exact count, but the bottle rattles half empty and Caroline's eyes carry a wet shine. It isn't anything personal. She enjoys my company and is an adamant student, but some things are about need. If I refused her, she'd just sneak and steal them. We both know that truth. There's no reason to debase ourselves by making it a reality.



"I'm trying," she says.



When I don't hand over a pill, Caroline tosses me the guitar and rises to get a drink of water. I watch as she goes, the backs of her thighs red from sitting on the carpet. She leans under the faucet and slurps up a drink while I tune the guitar.



"Remind me what time you got in last night?" I say.



"Pretty late. I borrowed Jeremy's truck."



Caroline doesn't belong to anyone and she makes it a point to remind men. Some of her lovers must feed off the evolutionary principle that they're in competition for mates and that a woman who makes them compete so fiercely is a sort of thrill. I hate knowing but feel so fortunate to have been occasionally included in her rotation, I don't question motives. I believe it's probably the novelty of my body that's responsible for our few nights together. Each time, she ran hands over the great curve of my back that bends me low like a snow-heavy tree. Her fingertips never examined in that clinical way I've often endured. I read somewhere that certain ancient cultures used to look at the misshapen as touched by the Gods. Once, we revered deformity rather than isolated it. When Caroline touched me on those nights, she seemed to be paying respect to whatever force could twist me so severely.



"I'm going to need a ride into town."



"What for?"



"I need a guitar fixed." I wish she'd just offer the favor without questions. I already feel impotent relying on favors. Delivery boys bringing groceries and medicine, Caroline providing rides on the few occasions I slink into town. Sometimes I want to pretend there's no burden in my requests, to focus less on the blatant charity.



"Can't we just stay here and relax awhile?"



Nothing would make me happier, but I promised myself I'd finish the song today. I've been ghostwriting for Angela over eleven years. In all that time, I'd never felt the desire to compose my own work. I thought it would always be that way, but recently I've been inundated with snippets of tunes. Tones invading any silence until I'm compelled to transcribe the strange songs. I've even heard lyrics. Their singing interrupts my thoughts like some schizophrenic episode. Now Angela's tracks are a hindrance keeping me from this new material. Things were simpler without ambition.



"I've got to go to Murphy's," I say. "I'm way behind, so get dressed. Please."



Caroline adjusts her cut-off denim shorts, throws on a light jacket.



"Too chilly for those shorts," I say, but she just shrugs before stepping outside.



I go down the hall to fetch the broken Telecaster from my music room. Guitars line the far wall, shapely acoustics hang suspended next to electrics with chipped paint, the road-raw and pristine, all preserved in the humidified air. My recording equipment sits in the far corner. It's an older outfit, everything analog since I've never seen the use in upgrading to digital. All I do are mail tapes to Angela. The real treasures are secured in a tall gun safe. Inside, early recordings from my days on the road collect dust. The Gibson that Angela gave me is hidden away here, too. It's older than either of us, a 1927 model that she signed and sent for one of my birthdays. I've memorized the inscription but can't bring myself to consider the words. Lingering here is dangerous. The memories can overwhelm, so I grab the Telecaster and head outside to meet Caroline.



The sky is gray, the mountains hulking over the valley make noon seem like dusk. Songbirds sing from trees on the hillside and chicken shit wafts heavy on the wind. I own the ten acres on my side of the creek, but like most property in southern West Virginia, the land isn't good for much. Nearly all the acreage is hillside. I have no claim on the minerals or timber. What little flat land does belong to me is too stony for even a fit man to farm. Caroline tried to start a small garden last summer in the soured earth. After she lost interest, crows ate the abandoned crops. Now nothing is left but dead tomato vines tied to wooden stakes with old rags and rows of wormy, rotten cabbage protected by chicken wire. Near the tree line of softwood sycamores and hard oaks are the charred remains of my father's church. Fire took it more than a decade ago, but sometimes when the wind blows just right, I can still smell the burnt planks. It's my favorite scent.



Privacy is a necessity for a man who looks like me, so I'm grateful for small blessings of self-sufficiency like the house and my well. Since I maintain no official writing credits on any of The Troubadours' albums, there are plenty of rumors about where the money came from. Theft of the proceeds from my father's congregation, murder of rich outsiders and trafficking narcotics have all been theories floated to explain my meager wealth. The most endearing I've heard is that Angela bought the house for me after she became famous. It has a kernel of truth to it, I suppose, but Angela would never give so much without receiving something in return. Perhaps she might have done it when we were children. Time has a way of severing charitable tendencies.



I don't mind the rumors. A man like me would amass legend in such a small community one way or another. I'm glad it isn't only over my appearance.





I avoid town as much as possible, so it still surprises me to see Coopersville is mostly dark windows now that the mines have all closed. Crooked politicians promised a return to work and some voters sold their souls to those unworthy men, but I think we all knew the days of descending into the earth seeking frozen fire were gone. The few surviving stores look defeated. I take stock of whatÕs left: the Goodwill, a used bookstore some well-meaning fool opened that wonÕt last till Christmas, two bakeries in constant rivalry and a jewelry store thatÕs almost certainly a front. Shift bosses no longer have the means to spoil mistresses and coal wives with diamonds. ThereÕre few people left to shop anyway. Maybe it should hurt more, but town has never meant anything but ridicule to me. My father thought even less of it. Preached hard about the evils found in pavement and streetlights. If The Reverend had lived to see such decline, heÕd have proclaimed it GodÕs punishment.



Caroline turns into Cherry Tree, a stretch known for the ramshackle beer joints and prostitutes who stroll the road looking for rides. Legitimate residents either stay clear or roll through the single stoplight with their windows up. I don't spot any girls prowling this early, but a few unemployed miners and their wives stand on the side of the road waving picket signs. They've been camped out for the last three months protesting the chemical companies that poison our creeks. A few college girls from Marshall or West Virginia University, their skin still bronzed despite an overcast April sky, stand alongside them. Each sign shows mountains with the tops sheared off, banners reading BOYCOTT WATSON CHEMICAL and PROFIT DOESN'T JUSTIFY POLLUTION. I admire the spirit, but the college kids are never in it for the long haul. They always return to campus after a month or so.



The Blackhawk Pawn Shop sits on the right side of a wide turn, its shuttered windows and gated front door closed. A neon sign flashes Open and a plastic banner fluttering in the wind reads WE BUY SCRAP GOLD! The building was a dirty bookstore in the town's more formidable years, but Internet porn and the church crowd caused it to fold. Rumor is the pawnbroker bought out the remaining stock. Most of his revenue comes from a back room of dusty adult novelties sold online. I asked Murphy about it once, but he denied it.



Caroline parks in the lot beside a Pontiac.



"Will you wait here?" I ask. My hands are shaking at the idea of being seen. Some child will point, or an old woman will give me a look. I don't want Caroline to see that. To be honest, I'm afraid she won't bother defending me.



"Like hell," she says.



It's better not to argue with her. The pills are in full effect now. A cool tingling has replaced the dull throb until all my extremities feel loose. I'm hollowed out like a rotten log. It took three doses this time.



An electronic bell announces our entry. The floors inside are concrete. The center of the room is filled with rows of aluminum shelves covered in leaf blowers, chainsaws, DVD players, even a full set of Ping golf clubs. Mounted animals hang on the walls. Pheasants frozen in midflight and deer with dazed marble eyes. I keep my own eyes low, avoiding the patrons who I'm sure are looking at me. Caroline leans on the display case housing the pawned engagement rings. She taps on the glass that's trapped all that tarnished love inside.



"Can I help you, miss?" Murphy, the owner, comes forward and rests his arms on the case. He sucks in his gut to look more robust.



"I hope so." A hint of honey sneaks into Caroline's voice, but she doesn't need to pour it on too thick. Some implication in her stare has always let me forget my body. If those eyes can erase my maladies for even a moment, I can't imagine what they do to the average man.



"Hey, Murphy," I say, stepping forward. "Busted it good this time."



"Let me look," Murphy says. He takes the guitar and turns it in his hands, inspecting the scratched pickguard and checking to see if the pickups wobble inside the frame. He twists a tuning peg and listens for the string to wind tighter.