Hidden Highways

Hidden Highways

©2024 Ellen Bennett

           I don’t believe in conventional ghosts. The nature of my work lends itself to being open to and understanding that the presence of spirits is quite natural. I am a professional photographer, and my compositions of choice are old, abandoned buildings; warehouses, distressed barns, burned out churches, anything that is run down, decrepit, dying or dead.

           My wife shakes her head. “Why don’t you take pictures of beautiful things? Things that are thriving? It seems so depressing!”

           She is a teacher of special education. Her life is all about positive forward movement. She sees things in vivid color, while I tend to see things within a gray contrast.

           “There is mystery and intrigue buried beneath what once was a place of life!” I explain.

           She understands. “Lucky for you I love you for everything. The good, the bad, the dark and the dead!” She kisses me on the forehead and heads off to work.

           I studied photography at The Design Institute of Chicago and went on to teach at Syracuse University in upstate New York. Before settling into my teaching job, I travelled far to capture what I unwittingly thought were going to be award-winning photographs only to find that the winning photographers—with a much longer list of accolades throughout their life—got to the shots first. Or rather, to the jurors first. I have several thumb drives of those photographs dated and categorized in neat little plastic boxes with snap-on lids on a shelf in a tiny closet in my tiny office at the University.

           I teach both digital and film. My worn Nikon and Hasselblad are always ready in my camera bag, as is a DSLR for pre-production at a site. Film affords me complete creative control in the darkroom. And while digital is manipulative, film is the bedrock of the art,

           I digress.

           When I travel on photographic journeys, I take my trusted road atlas with me. I don’t use GPS unless I am completely lost. And even then, some of the best shots I’ve gotten have been on hidden highways, and the one I am about to tell you about was just one of those: A hidden highway where life and ‘other worldly’ tottered on a thin line.

            I found myself in South Carolina in a little defunct town called Marion. What caught my immediate attention was Jessops General Store. It did not fit with the rest of the brick-and-mortar buildings that made up the town. Jessops was a wooden structure—circa early nineteen fifties, I thought? There was an aura about the place—with its sagging front porch, cracked and dirty windows, chipped paint, and weather-beaten signs—that pulled me from the car to further investigate.

           When I stepped up onto the porch—floorboards creaking where some had curled upwards, their nails long sunk—I felt something like a hand push me from behind. Nothing crazy or scary, just a gentle persuasive nudge.

           The front door was ajar.

           I went inside the store.

           Then I lost consciousness.

                                                 ***

           Folks in town say that the outside of Jessop’s Market is in dire need of a new painting job, but I liked it fine just the way it was. Mom says, “A fresh coat would make the signs pop!”

           Pop is a Coca Cola from a thick, green glass bottle! It’s the only drink in the world that tastes like the smell of summer—like the way our corn husks in the field bake in the mid-afternoon sun, or mom’s freshly washed laundry on the line out back of our big, old house. Coke is a cold fizz hitting the back of my throat then going down into my stomach like an icy wiggle worm. Mom says, “A good burp following a meal is a compliment to the cook.” I guess when I burp after drinking Coca Cola the compliments go to the people who make the best tasting drink in the world!

           My favorite time to drink Coke is with Doc Jessop at the end of a long summer day on the front porch of his market. Doc isn’t really a doctor, but he’s been called Doc since his war days because he was known as a medic in the field. He said that most of the medics were just boys right out of high school and trained in first aid when they enlisted. Doc said he wanted to be where the action was, and I think he sure saw a lot of it; my dad reminds me right off, “Now, don’t ask him about the war unless he offers to tell you. It was hard on those boys.” My dad was in the war too, but he stayed right here in the United States at a place called Los Alamos. Mom said it was “Very top-secret research for the war effort!”

           Anyhow, Doc lets me help him close the shop at night. He’d say, “You’re a crack whiz with the broom and dust cloth, and you keep the shelves nice and organized! Better n’ Helen or me!”

I liked to please Doc and Helen because they were the nicest people I knew, next to my mom and dad, of course. And he lets me pick penny candy from any jar I want after I finish my work. Chocolate BB Bats are my number one pick, but I wouldn’t throw out a banana flavored one either, followed by Root Beer Barrels or Cinnamon Sticks as a close second. My older brothers try to steal my ‘pay’ so I hide my stash in the back of my closet where they aren’t allowed to go.

           If it isn’t raining, Doc and I sit with our feet dangling over the side of the porch and listen to the bull frogs from the nearby swamp talk to each other, or Doc will ask me about my adventures of the day, or maybe we just sit quietly and listen to the heat bugs flying around in the thick of the evening stillness. Sometimes the bugs zoom right by my head and land on my back. I’m not afraid of them but they can be ticklish, especially on my neck. I know they won’t hurt me. My mom, though, she swats at them and gets this high-pitched squeal and sometimes uses swear words, “Oh these…bugs!”

Doc says it’s all about nature’s mission, that bugs have a place in this world, too.

           Doc Jessop is the kind of person my mom and dad call a good man. He rarely loses his temper and has a kind word for everyone—even if the person is not one of the better citizens of our town, like Hank Klooster—who I overheard my parents talking about one night when they thought I was asleep—and how he beat his wife and kids because his radio was broken, and he couldn’t listen to his nightly programs. Or Malvene Gittson, the boarding house owner, who snoops through her tenant’s belongings when they aren’t there then spread rumors about them. Or Everett Clancy, our town Mayor, who it was said was a ‘real ladies’ man’ even though he was married and had two children named Bart and Margaret—both snooty and what my mom called full of themselves. I saw the mayor one afternoon leaving the boarding house fixing his tie, a big smile on his face. I scowled at him, but he didn’t see me because I was at the park across the street sitting on a bench next to my bike.

           Doc named me ‘Sport’. It was the name of my bicycle, the Schwinn Sportster. And since all I did in the summer was ride my bicycle Doc thought it was a good idea to identify me with my favorite thing to do. Once a week, he would go about checking my chain and tires. If the tires were low, he’d fire up his Air Pig and from a long hose fill my tires with air. While the machine rumbled and hissed—almost looked like it might jump around on its own—he’d check the pressure with a gauge. He showed me how to use his tools—although I wasn’t allowed to use the Air Pig because it was old and who knew if it would blow at any given time—and I was right there on the pavement working hand in hand with him.

Doc said I was a fast learner, and he was right!

           I made good grades in school, better than either one of my brothers for sure! Science is my favorite subject and Miss Bray—my teacher—said I was the bravest and smartest girl in class. I could dissect a frog without fainting like the other girls usually did and I knew all the parts on the inside, too. The boys think they are so smart, but they’re actually pretty dumb—especially Jimmy Norton who had to have three stitches in his thumb because he used the scalpel on himself instead of the frog! When the boys saw all the blood, one of them fell right onto the floor and passed out cold while the other one looked green—like my Aunt Lovell looks after what my dad calls “a long night out”.

           On that hot night in July, Doc and I sip our Cokes from long white bendy straws and watch the sun slip down behind the trees in the distance. I say, “Doesn’t it look like a fire way out there?”

           “It sure does, Sport.” Doc shifts his weight around then sighs deep-like.” I have something to tell you.”

           “Is it something good or bad, Doc?”

           “Well, all depends on how you look at it.” He runs curled fingers up along the outer seam of his pantleg.

           An odd feeling spreads through my belly and it’s not pleasant at all! Like the time my mom sat us down and told us about her sister—my favorite Aunt Jewell—who was in a bad car wreck and the doctors weren’t sure if she was going to make it or not. She ended up making it but had to have her foot taken off due to gangrene. I knew what that was after a while; Miss Bray helped me to understand that! I will never have to have my foot taken off, for any reason! It was awful and hard to watch Aunt Jewell try to walk with only one foot and crutches.

Doc looks out at the unfolding night. “Me and Helen. We’re gonna have to sell the store and move down to Texas to be with her sister, Marie.”

           The darkness seems to settle faster than usual. “But why?”

           “Marie was diagnosed with cancer in her lungs and she’s not getting much better. Helen needs to take care of her. She might not have much longer to live.”

           I murmur, “So why do you have to sell the store? Can’t Helen just go down there and take care of her ‘til she,” I lower my voice, quickly making the sign of the cross on my sleeveless blouse and say, “passes.” Then add, “And then she can come back here to be with us again?”

           Doc chuckles and musses my thin fly-away hair. “Well, it’s not that cut and dry, Sport.”

           My mind goes straight to Helen. I couldn’t believe she would not be here! She always had something cooking on her big black and white stove with the three doors and six burners at the back of the store. She made stews for people who couldn’t cook for themselves, and she even delivered the food in person no matter how far away it was! Doc would start up the old truck—which he promised still had a lot of life left in her—and we’d help Helen load all the boxes of food into the back. We’d hear the rumble of the engine and the grind of the gears as she pulled out of the gravel parking lot, her face set to the business at hand, gravel spewing into the wheel wells. Helen was known to us all as the Angel of Mercy.

Well, who would be the Angel of Mercy now?

           Also, Helen baked daily; the smell so good and heavy with sugar; her cookies and breads the talk of the town. In fact, if it weren’t for Helen’s cooking, the store would smell just like any other old, musty place; the kind of place that doesn’t have what mom calls ‘a real personality’.

           “Does mom know?” I asked Doc matter-of-factly.

           “Yes, Sport, she does.”

           I am mad that she didn’t tell me. As if reading my thoughts, Doc says, “I wanted to tell you myself bein’ that you and I are such good friends.”

           “But why would you leave us to go all the way to Texas?”

           “Ah Sport, Texas isn’t that far, just two states down.”

           “But why?”

           “When a man and a woman get married, it’s in sickness and in health. Only this time it’s Marie who’s sick. But see, when you marry the one person, you marry the whole family.”

           I thought that was crazy! Why would I want to marry some dumb boy and then leave my family because someone in his family was sick? Why would I leave my mom and dad, all my aunts and uncles, even my brothers, for someone in someone else’s family?

           I look right at him. “If I was old enough you could sell the store to me then nothing would change! What if the person who buys the store is mean, like old man Hacker?” Old man Hacker was older than dirt and about as stinky as spoiled milk.

           Doc laughed, “Oh, Sport…if only you was older, I’d sell it to you no questions asked! I know you’d do right by it, for sure.”

           “You still could,” my voice sounding uncomfortably childlike, pleading. When he doesn’t respond, I ask, “Will you be leaving soon?”

           He nods his head, his lips pressed tight.

           Suddenly, it feels funny between Doc and me now. He doesn’t know what to say and my heart feels heavy. My throat closes, like it does when I hold onto a cry. I know I must be strong for Doc and Helen because they are the ones who have to leave! They’ve been here for so long; long before I was born!

           Doc sighs, slaps his open palms on the thick of his thighs and says, “Welp…” then gets up with a grunt. I give him the empty coke bottles and they clank softly as he slips them into the almost full, slotted wooden Coca-Cola case near the front door. He pulls the straws out and tosses them into the trash container next to the door. His keys, which are clipped to his belt with a chain, jangle as he chooses the right one. The night-light over the porch attracts moths; their wings flutter and sizzle as they land on the grated metal light cover. Doc checks the door twice—pull-bam push-bam—a sound I will remember for the rest of my life—then we look at each other like we do every night.

           “Goodnight, Sport.” Only this time, his eyes are sad in the yellowish light.

           “Goodnight, Doc.” I try to smile. I tell myself to be strong even though I want to run up to him, hug him, and cry into his overalls.

           When I take my bike home that night everything feels different. The air is all heavy now, like an approaching storm even though there’s a ton of stars overhead. Creatures and bugs sound like musicians playing all the wrong notes at once. My throat feels thick, like it gets when I come down with influenza. Maybe I am dizzy too. Maybe I should stop riding and walk the rest of the way. Yes, I get off my bike and walk a bit.

           Or maybe I should just get back on my Sportster and ride toward the moon as it rises over the hillside; big, pale, grayish white, just hanging in the sky like a new adventure.

                                                ***

           When I came to—what seemed like a moment later—I raced to my car, grabbed my camera equipment, then spent the next two hours photographing everything I could about the place. I used the DSLR to get prelims. I took as many angles of the porch as I could, and when I was satisfied with the lighting, I picked up the Nikon.

           What I developed when I got home was nothing short of other-worldly. In each frame of the front porch there were two pixilated areas next to one another. I employed my many darkroom tricks to bring up the shadows, but they remained pixilated. I studied the negatives; I studied the prints. Who was this little girl? I figured the man was Jessop. I thought about going to a website to investigate my family origins. I thought about telling my wife. I thought about seeking advice from a medium, or a shrink.

           I did none of the above. I locked the experience in my subconscious.

           And like Sport, I continued my journeys on those hidden highways, with the moon parked high in the night sky lighting the way.

           Like a new adventure.