Paddy Plays in Dead Mule Swamp Read online

  Paddy Plays in Dead Mule Swamp

  Joan H. Young

  Published by Books Leaving Footprints at Smashwords

  Copyright 2012 Joan H. Young

  Discover other titles by Joan H. Young at Smashwords.com

  and at Books Leaving Footprints

  ISBN: 978-0-9765432-7-5

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  Reader Comments

  "The story is delightful and heartfelt.”

  ~~Martyn vanHalm, author of Reprobate

  "Ana has more emotion and depth to her [than in the previous books of the series].”

  ~~ Ellen Lightle

  1Paddy Plays in Dead Mule Swamp

  Chapter 1

  “Knick-knack, Paddy- WHACK, give your dog a bone,” I sang, thumping the rubber bone on the rug. The large Irish setter named Patrick, nicknamed Paddy, lunged for his toy, but I pulled it out of his reach, and sang the line again, this time thumping the bone on the other side of the overgrown puppy. Paddy wasn’t my dog. He belonged to my second cousin, Vic, who was on a trip to Egypt, doing research for the University of Chicago. Since I was the one family member with lots of space, and a house that could stand the dirt, I agreed to keep Paddy for all of July, and part of August.

  My name is Anastasia Joy Raven, and I live at the end of East South River Road, at the edge of Dead Mule Swamp. I’ve been here in Forest County since early spring. Most of my time has been spent trying to revitalize an old house that I bought with money from my divorce settlement. My ex, Roger, and his new friend, Brian, now occupy my former home in the Chicago suburbs, so I moved north and moved on. At least, I’m trying to move on. Some parts of that are going well, renovating the house, for instance.

  The building is a basic L-shaped farmstead with a two-story section at right angles to a single-story. I finished the living room project in June, and the result is a large cheerful space. I painted the walls in two shades of blue with white board-and-bead wainscoting and trim, then sanded and varnished the wide pine flooring. The revitalized room is clean and inviting. So far, the furnishings consist of a few secondhand pieces from the thrift store, set on a cheap area rug, but I have dreams of a country-comfortable look. When July began, I was still hunting for the right fabric to make curtains, but without close neighbors, having the windows covered didn’t matter very much.

  I stood up and tucked my light brown pageboy behind my ears, then tried to convince Paddy that his play time was over. He was just over a year old, full of energy, and large. He shed hair like a yak and shook mud balls from the swamp all over the house, including on my new wainscoting. But I couldn’t resist his cheerful disposition and deep, love-filled gazes. Paddy-WHACK seemed to be his favorite game, but he’d only been here a few days.

  That morning I faced the first real problem that Paddy brought to my life. I didn’t know what to do with him when I needed to go out, and I had a commitment to drive out to Hammer Bridge Town and meet Corliss Leonard. I expected to be gone for hours. I didn’t think Paddy would tolerate being tied in the yard, and there was no fenced area of any kind on my property. I supposed I’d have to take him with me.

  As soon as I opened the front door and stepped onto the porch, the neat and finished look disappeared into apparent disorder. The entire yard was covered with piles—piles of lumber and plywood, a stack of new shingle bundles, a dumpster full of old shingles, gray two-by-fours that could be salvaged, a stack of pre-fab trusses, and a row of new window sashes leaned against a tree covered with plastic sheeting. The porch was littered with tools not currently in use, and walkways made of damaged plywood snaked across the yard between the piles.

  This spring I had gotten an itch to add an upstairs screened porch off my bedroom. I wanted to watch the sunlight play over the swamp in the mornings and evenings, and listen to the bird songs and the frog voices. Since the roof was also in bad shape, I decided to roll all my dreams into one huge project. Thus, the mess around my house was impressive. Somehow, my upstairs porch project had grown into a full second story over the living room. I had to borrow some money to do it and put off a kitchen makeover for a while, but the roof couldn’t wait.

  I wove carefully between saws and containers of supplies. Paddy simply waded through, tipping over a carton of nails on the way. While I was scooping nails back into the box, he began to drag a strip of the plywood walkway across the yard. The dog certainly brought an extra level of chaos to the mess.

  I’d continued to employ Gorlowski Construction for projects I couldn’t do myself. I’m quite handy, but some work is beyond my abilities. Robert Gorlowski and crew had ripped off my old roof, and the trusses from the single-story. So far, the framing for the new second story had been put in place, and I already liked how much bigger it made the house look. The enclosed porch would provide a cover for the lower slab terrace, and the porch would have access doors from the new large room and from my bedroom. The terrace would also become a more useful outdoor space as a result.

  I had to endure a couple of lectures from Robert about why this should have been done before I finished the living room. However, no one who owns a construction business in an underemployed county was going to turn down a chance to do a major overhaul on an old building, knowing that the bank had already approved the loan.

  I smiled as I recalled that day. Gilbert Messler, Vice-President of the locally owned State Bank, had beamed as brightly as fresh-minted coins when he escorted me into his paneled office. His philosophy was that newcomers to the county were easy to welcome when they were low-risk and wanted to borrow money. When he heard the particulars of my settlement with Roger, it took less than thirty minutes until papers and a pen were set before me. I signed, and became even more financially committed to the community of Cherry Hill.

  Paddy barked as two Gorlowski Construction trucks pulled into the yard, and five men spilled from the doors. One truck was pulling a trailer carrying a large hog hoe. The pup bounded over to them and planted his front feet on Robert’s chest.

  “Down, Paddy!” I ordered. But the dog ignored me. Robert gently pushed Paddy aside, as he had every morning this week.

  He laughed. “Good morning. I think you are going to have to work a little harder on Paddy’s training before he gets as big as a pony.”

  “I know. He’s quite a handful, and it’s been a long time since I had to deal with a puppy.”

  Robert’s tone became more serious. “We’re going to set the trusses today, and it won’t be good for him to be running around loose. That’s a dangerous enough job as it is. I’d rather not have to watch out for him all the time.”

  That settled it. “I’ll just get his leash and take him with me for the day. I need to find out how he behaves in the car, so we might as well give it a try.”

  “Sounds good. Take your time. You should really be able to see the shape of your ‘new’ house by the end of the day.”

  Chapter 2

  Fortunately, Paddy liked to ride in the car, so he sat quietly on the passenger seat of my navy blue Jeep Cherokee, sniffing the light breeze that blew between the open windows. His leash dangled from his collar where I would be able to grab it easily should the need arise.

  This was my first time traveling over to Hammer Bridge Town. I’d been told it w
asn’t much of a town, but the remnants of a settlement that had sprung up for the construction crew when a bridge had been replaced in the 1980s. I wasn’t quite sure what to expect from the town or from the man I was planning to meet. Corliss Leonard was my first assignment.

  Not long after Cliff Sorenson’s funeral, I had decided to start attending Crossroads Fellowship church. The people seemed genuine and caring, and although I value my independence, I was ready to find a group of people who would be friendly. I hadn’t been attending church for quite a few years—Roger really wasn’t interested—but so far I was enjoying the upbeat worship times. The church also provided a way for me to be of service to the community, since they sponsored a family help program, called Family Friends.

  My friend, Adele Volger, coordinates the program, and she had just assigned Mr. Leonard to me. Corliss had called the church and asked to be enrolled in the adult literacy program. I wasn’t yet qualified to be a reading instructor, although I did have some experience teaching at a community college. Instead, I would be the first contact to find out if the church might be able to help in other ways. All I knew so far was that Mr. Leonard was in his mid-fifties and had called requesting a tutor, and he was open to other types of assistance.

  Hammer Bridge Town is in the northeast corner of Forest county. Hammer Bridge doesn’t span the Petite Sauble River, but rather Hammer Creek, a tributary that flows in from the north and runs deep in the springtime. Most of the land east and north of my property is in the Thousand Lakes State Forest, on both sides of the Petite Sauble River, and includes a lot of Dead Mule Swamp. There aren’t many roads that run through the area, and it’s wise to choose which side of the river you want to reach before heading into the State Forest because there are only two bridges. One is on Centerline, about three miles west of my house, and the other is far to the east on Kirtland Road, which is also the county line.

  “We don’t have time to take the long way today, Paddy,” I said, patting the dog on the head as we turned off South River Road onto Centerline. “Adele says Centerline north to Sheep Ranch Road, and then straight east is fastest. Do you want to go fast?”

  Paddy stuck his long nose out the partially open window and as his ears began to fly in the wind, I swear he grinned. Paddy was fine with fast.

  Adele had written on a page from a small notebook, “Just before Hammer Creek look for a blue trailer on the right with Snow White and three Dwarves in the yard.” These directions seemed sketchy to me, but she assured me I’d find it easily enough.

  Sheep Ranch Road was paved. It looked like the main east-west road north of the State Forest, and in just about twenty minutes the road began a gradual descent which suggested I was approaching Hammer Creek. On the right, splayed up the face of a gentle hill were about thirty old trailers, mostly in a sorry state of repair and widely spaced. I could see the variety of shapes and every single peeling, flaking and fading facade. One main driveway accessed the entire complex, but once the drive crossed the ditch a maze of sand paths wound to the fronts and backs of every trailer. Other than the trailers, the only thing that made this settlement look like a town was a building on the north side of the road that had once been a gas station and convenience store. Grass grew between the cracks of its pavement, several windows had been boarded over, and subsequently the plywood had rotted and broken into a jagged patchwork. Beyond the settlement, the road dipped again, and I assumed the creek was beyond that. The entire tenth-mile sprawl of the “town” was faded, broken-down and immensely sad.

  Although I had already been contemplating what had prompted a man in his fifties to decide to learn to read, the desolation of his living situation further piqued my curiosity. But I didn’t have to wait long to answer that question. There were several trailers with some blue on them, but only one was painted in a pure garish sky blue with ceramic Disney figures in front. Snow White and her dwarves leaned at precarious angles, just beyond the edge of an unpainted, plywood-enclosed porch attached to the front of the trailer. When I say the blue was “pure,” I only mean that it had once been a solid color. The paint was now curling in large flakes like a pine cone opening on a warm day.

  I drove into the bare yard and turned off the engine. The porch door opened and two girls arranged themselves on the unpainted steps. The taller girl was clearly a teenager. She came down a step, while the younger girl stayed at the top. This put their faces at about the same level, and I realized they looked very much alike, and were almost certainly sisters. I wondered about their relationship to Corliss Leonard. The girls seemed neither friendly nor hostile, they just stood there, grasping the railing and staring at me. They wore t-shirts with sparkly decoration—one in pink, the other in green—and short cut-off denim shorts. Their young café-au-lait skin was smooth and clear, and their thin limbs were set off attractively by the skimpy clothes. The one difference, other than size, was their hairstyles. The younger girl’s hair was braided and beaded into multiple cornrows, while the older girl had a wild, medium-length, cap of loose kinky ringlets.

  I suddenly felt insecure. I wondered how it was that one group of people thought they had a right to claim the ability to “help” another group. On the other hand, Corliss Leonard had called requesting a tutor, and invited this visit. I definitely wanted to find out who these girls were and, strangely enough, looked forward to entangling myself even further in the mysteries of life in Forest County.

  Chapter 3

  The girls weren’t exactly staring at me. They were fixated on Paddy, who was now bow-wowing with excitement and trying to climb out of the four-inch window opening. I pulled him toward me with the leash. I really needed to get more control of this animal. Here I was facing two girls I didn’t know, with an irrepressible puppy who was almost as big as the younger child. I opened my door just enough to be able to stand beside the car and still keep Paddy inside.

  “Hi, girls,” I began. “My name is Ana Raven, and I’m here to see Corliss Leonard. Is he here?”

  The older girl answered, “He’s our grandpa. He’s inside. What kind of dog is that?”

  You can count on teens to be concise, at least when responding to an adult. “He’s an Irish Setter. He likes to play, but he’s just a puppy. He might jump on you if I let him out.”

  “Let him out, we want to play!” the younger girl suddenly chimed in, clapping her hands.

  A man’s voice came from the porch, and I assumed it was their grandfather. It carried authority, but did not sound unkind. “Sunny, you come in here and change your clothes first. He might scratch you by accident.”

  “That’s a good idea,” I said. “Do you have long pants you could put on? I’d feel bad if he hurt you, even if he didn’t mean it. He’s really large, and he has to learn to be careful yet. Your name is Sunny?”

  “Yes. I’m Sunny and this is Star.” She pointed to the older girl, then turned and ran into the trailer.

  The teen who had been identified as Star said, “I’ll change too, and we can teach the dog some tricks. What’s his name?”

  “Paddy, it’s short for Patrick. Just remember that he’s only a puppy, so you need to be firm with him. Don’t let him get away with being naughty.”

  Star flashed a sudden smile, and rolled her eyes toward the direction Sunny had gone. “I know how to do that, no problem,” she said.

  I laughed and nodded. “You’ll do fine, I’m sure. Thanks for being willing to help him burn off some energy.”

  Star also slipped back into the trailer, and the man whose voice I had heard now appeared at the door of the plywood porch. “I’m Corliss Leonard. We’ll just get the girls and the dog acquainted, and then we can visit. I guess you’re here from the church?”

  “That’s right. Is this a good time to talk?”

  “Any time’s fine by me. My only job is to herd those girls,” he said with a chuckle.

  He worked his way down the steps somewhat painfully. Here was a man to whom nature had not been kind. One couldn’t
help but notice his large and round hips, which made him look very much as if an oversized beach ball had been stuffed inside his pants. Judging from the way his suspendered jeans flapped, the heavy hips were supported on skinny legs. His back was bent from the waist at about a forty-five-degree angle; he apparently couldn’t straighten up, and he balanced himself with a cane. His arms were skinny too, protruding from the short sleeves of a brown work shirt. His face was long and thin, but he had a full head of straight salt-and-pepper hair and a short grizzled beard. His skin was ruddy and mottled, not an attractive complexion. Forest County is not very diverse, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he was the girls’ biological grandfather, or if they had been adopted by one of his children.

  The girls, now clad in jeans, burst out of the house together and ran toward the car, setting Paddy to barking once again. “Slow down,” I admonished, easing the dog out of the car. “Let him get used to you first.”

  It took some organization, but soon the dog had sniffed the four extended hands and decided the girls were good people. No surprise, I hadn’t known him to dislike anyone yet. Within minutes, Star was stroking his silky head, and Sunny was giggling, with her arms around his neck, while Paddy licked her face.

  “You take him over the hill to the creek, away from the road,” Mr. Leonard said to the girls.

  “That sounds great,” I added, and handed the leash to Star. I’m 5’5” and she was nearly the same height, but toothpick-like compared to my average forty-something build. The three youngsters sped up the slope and disappeared over the crest of the hill in just a few seconds.