The old-timer working the register at the marina is of little help to them. About the only thing useful they get from him is when Jeremy asks him how long Stokely Farm Road has been routed in this direction. He has a long white beard which reaches the plastic countertop, a mess of sweaty hair the same shade tucked under a red trucker cap. So he certainly looks like he should know. Maybe in retrospect Jeremy shouldn’t have supplied him a readymade answer by suggesting, “twenty-five, thirty years?” To which the old man had nodded and said, “somethin like that, somethin like that.”
Yet he is either reluctant to discuss or is just plain ignorant about any reason the former route was closed. He also claims no knowledge of the artist’s retreat in any of its guises, or the Allensworth incident or the fire. Jeremy is reduced to asking if this lake is manmade, and if so how long ago.
“Well now yes, it is, you know, they dammed that river – really no more than a crick – up there a ways. But now I couldn’t attest as to the year.”
“Do you at least know its name? Because I’ll tell ya, none of the maps I’m consulting seem to know the first thing about it. Granted this is really deep in the holler and they’re not up to date everywhere, but…not to mention why would they reroute a perfectly good road to go over the lake, instead of leaving the one that was already beside it? You see what I mean?”
“Yeah…,” the old man croaks and nods, slowly now, “but see now, it just depends what era yer talkin. I’ve heard it called by many names, pretty much any you can think of,” he adds with a chuckle.
“What was your boy Clay calling it earlier?” Marcus jokes.
“Mmm, I wouldn’t exactly call him my boy.”
“Spinning…”
“Yeah, that’s right. Spinning Rock Lake,” Jeremy says, chuckling himself.
“Well I can’t say as I’ve ever heard that one, now…,” the old-timer replies.
Changing tacks abruptly, Jeremy thinks to ask, “do you happen to know of an Owen and Maggie Hazelwood?”
The old man tilts his head upward, squinting at Jeremy as though suddenly suspicious, even as he’s amused by the question. “Owen and Maggie, huh? Well now what would make you wanna ask about them?”
Jeremy is about to answer, but the clanging of some metal trays, and some other conversation, whips his and Marcus’s head around, to the little café area in back. They can’t see the counter for that side of the operation from here, though this was clearly the source of those sounds. Without a word said, Jeremy and Marcus both instantly drift back to that portion of the marina, and around that corner.
Here they encounter a craggy faced, middle aged woman with spiky blonde-grey hair. She too is eyeballing them with an open distrust, albeit from the outset. Marcus has just laughed to observe they already have a poster up about some Super Bowl party. But Jeremy just knows somehow that this has nothing to do with her expression, and it isn’t race related, either. They can see some fisherman looking type who just exited via the back screen door, though, onto a wooden patio bordering the lake, his ponytail swishing behind as he walks away. So presumably this guy just ordered something, or made some comment to upset her. When asking about theoretically ordering some food themselves, she shakes her head and tells them the kitchen shuts down during these hours to prepare for dinner. She has the body language of someone in motion, wordlessly hinting that she has other work to do and was about to leave this room.
Ever the networker, and in this instance already feeling sorry for his parents, Jeremy asks her if she’s ever heard of this artist’s retreat. She shakes her head and says no, but he presses on anyway, questioning if she likes it here, or might be open to other career opportunities involving their kitchen.
“No,” she shakes her head again, and continues inspecting them with curious wariness, “I don’t believe I would be interested in that.”
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