Bryson City Secrets: Even More Tales of a Small-Town Doctor in the Smoky Mountains (5 page)

One of the most gratifying results of the embryonic beginning of my spiritual journey with God was that it manifested itself in a number of noticeable changes in my character. Where I had tried so hard to change myself and had so miserably failed, his Spirit living in me succeeded. The most poignant example I can recall was with regard to my feelings toward men and women of other races. The environment in which I and my brothers were raised was blatantly racist, and everything in that culture supported and fostered bigotry and intolerance — even hatred. However, not very long after awakening to my spiritual life, I had a remarkable experience.

I was the first team scrum half on LSU's varsity rugby team and was pleased that the team was racially homogenous — at least until Alvin made the team. He was a magnificent athlete, but his African-American heritage doomed him not only to my wrath but to the ire of several of my team members as well. I worked as hard as I could to make his life miserable. My disgust and contempt for him was palpable.

Then my new spiritual life began. I remember the excitement of beginning to experience what the apostle Paul called the fruit of a life changed by God:
“love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control.” To my shock, this fruit manifested itself completely unexpectedly one day at rugby practice. I remember looking over at Alvin and feeling both an admiration for and appreciation of him. These thoughts stopped me in my tracks. This impression was utterly uncharacteristic of me. My “old man” hated this black man; and yet, in an instant, it seemed that a “new man” loved him. I was stunned, and at that moment I knew, for sure, that my heart had been changed. The dark cell in which I had been imprisoned by my own evil heart had been unlocked and opened by Someone who had paid the price for my freedom — Someone who brought light into a heart that knew no good.

In those early days of my spiritual expedition, I memorized a verse penned by the ancient prophet Ezekiel, and it came back to me now as I sat on my favorite bench overlooking Deep Creek Valley: “I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit in you; I will remove from you your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh. And I will put my Spirit in you and move you to follow my decrees and be careful to keep my laws.” I knew that apart from a divinely directed metamorphosis, my heart and the heart of the handyman were absolutely no different.

That night my heart overflowed with gratitude for my Creator — for how he had begun, during my college days, to change my heart, and for how he had shone ever-brighter beams of light into my heart's darkest recesses, for how the lantern he had lit nearly a decade before still shone. One of the evidences of that illumination became clearer to me that evening — just like the stars in the sky. I found my heart aching for a man I had only just met — a man likely to go on trial for his life because he had stolen the life of another man and polluted, if not stripped away, the future of that man's wife.

I bowed my head and prayed for the handyman — that even in his dark, dank jail cell his heart might someday be freed, that even in his incarceration he might be unshackled, and that in his darkness a light might begin to dawn.

chapter four

SATAN AND BACON

I
t was Saturday morning and I had risen early, fixed myself a cup of coffee, and settled into my favorite armchair to read the Bible. I called the old overstuffed chair my “quiet time chair” — while Barb quite heartlessly referred to it as a “hunk of junk.” Nevertheless, the longer I practiced as a family doctor, the more I felt the need for the advice and guidance of the Great Physician. My morning time with him had become a necessity for me — a source of daily comfort and guidance.

“Daddy?” said a little voice coming from the kitchen.

I heard the shuffling of Kate's feet as she walked across the kitchen floor.

“In the living room, sweetheart,” I called out to her.

As she walked in, I felt myself smiling like a Cheshire cat. After all, my girl was walking — nearly normally! And without any of the clunky braces she had worn for several years. Her surgery at Duke Medical Center, the subsequent weeks in a full leg cast, and the months of laborious physical therapy were paying off handsomely.

When Kate was first diagnosed with cerebral palsy at six months of age, the pediatric neurologist predicted she would never walk or talk. Now she could do both — and quite well. She ran over to me, and I scooped her onto my lap.

“What's on your mind, precious?” I inquired.

“Breakfast!” she exclaimed.

I smiled. “How about a breakfast date? Just you and me!”

Kate squealed. “Super Swain's?”

“You bet. Let's go!”

After dressing quickly and quietly, we walked toward our yellow Toyota while Barb and Scott slumbered. We headed out the driveway and down the backside of Hospital Hill toward Everett Street — one of the two main thoroughfares in Bryson City.

Our town was proud of its two traffic lights, two elevators — one in the Federal Building and the other in the hospital — two bridges across the Tuckaseigee River, and, most recently, our first two national chain fast-food establishments — a Pizza Hut and a Hardees hamburger joint. But I, for one, was always more comfortable supporting our local restaurants. Besides the three most famous ones in town — the Fryemont Inn, the Hemlock Inn, and the FreyRandolph House — our family enjoyed Sneed's Restaurant, Na-ber's Drive-In, Family Restaurant, and J. J.'s Ice Cream Shoppe. But more times than not, when we weren't at home for breakfast or lunch, we'd be at the grill run by Becky Mattox at Super Swain Drugs.

When we walked into the grill that morning, Becky was the first to see Kate. She shrieked to her husband, who was the pharmacist, “Oh, my goodness! Look who's
walkin'
into our store, John!” Suddenly I realized this was the first time I had brought Kate to the store since her surgery.

Both Becky and “Doc” John, the longtime proprietors of the drugstore and grill, quickly walked out from behind the counter to proudly watch and comment on Kate's new skills. It was Kate's turn to smile from ear to ear as she walked and then turned like a Miss America contestant on the beauty pageant runway.

“Katie!” Doc John exclaimed. “You are a beautiful sight for old, sore eyes. Choose your booth, honey. Breakfast is on me!”

Becky and I smiled as John took Kate's hand and escorted her to her favorite booth and helped her get situated. I walked over and sat by her. As I purposefully plopped down hard on the cushioned seat and heard the whoosh of escaping air, Kate's side of the bench seat sprung upward, flinging her a few inches into the air as she giggled in glee.

Before long, Becky brought our breakfast. Kate had her longtime favorite — a biscuit smothered in sausage gravy, with a side of smoked bacon and a glass of chocolate milk — while I had scrambled eggs, buttery grits, and whole wheat toast.

I heard the front door open and looked up to see the younger John Mattox — Becky and Doc John's son — coming in, wearing his National Park Service uniform, which looked as though he had been sleeping in it all night. He took off his ranger cap and placed it under his belt, behind his back.

“How ya doin', Son?” cried Doc John.

“Doin' all right, Pop!” called the ranger. The family resemblance was always striking to me.

John walked over to Kate and squatted down so they were eye to eye. He and his wife, Rita, attended church with us, and he had always been fond of Kate and Scott. “Good morning, Miss Kate.”

“Good morning, Mr. Mattox,” Kate answered, not taking her eyes off her fork as it moved toward her open mouth, carrying a large bite of biscuit and gravy.

“You married yet, Kate?” he asked.

The fork stopped in midair as Kate looked over at him, scowled, and then continued the advance of her fork.

“I'll take that as a no!” laughed John. “Mind if I join you, Doctor?”

I looked at Kate, who vigorously nodded her approval as I answered, “We'd be pleased if you'd join us, Mr. Ranger.” John sat across from us.

Looking over his glasses, now perched perilously on the tip of his nose, Doc John shouted across the store, “Becky, you might not want those two boys sittin' together. Purty soon they'll be schemin'.”

“Mr. Pharmacist, you mind your own business or I might have to arrest you!” John shouted out over his shoulder. “Mom, I'll take the same as the Doc. Plus, some home fries.”

“OK, Johnny,” she answered.

“Son, you saved any lives this week?” called out Doc John.

“Pop, come have a seat and I'll tell ya all about it,” John Jr. called back. He turned to me and whispered, “I gotta admit it's been a rough week and a
long
night.”

While he was waiting for his food, John
Jr. began his story. “Well, we're always having trouble with the poachers. As you know, many of the locals see the federal government as having stolen their family's hunting land. So we have folks in the national park trapping and hunting bear, deer, turkey, and hogs all the time. Recently we've been having a bunch of hog poaching going on.”

“How do you know?” I asked.

“The main way is just hearing the gunshots at night.”

“At night?”

“Yep. The locals call it ‘spotlighting.' They carry powerful spotlights and either drive the roads or hike the trails while training the lights on the edge of the meadows or stream edges. If an animal gets caught in the spotlight, it will usually freeze up. Then the spotlighter will just shoot the poor, defenseless thing. If they're in the park, they'll field dress the game, and we'll find what's left of the carcass at some later time. If they're near a road, they just haul the whole carcass and drive off — hoping someone won't stop them to search the car or truck.”

“Do you catch them very often?”

“Not really. They seem to know where we're at and what we're doing. The saddest thing is to find the corpse of a bear that's had just the paws and head chopped off.”

I was astonished. “Why's that?” I asked.

“Some of the locals think there are magic powers to those parts of the bear. Others sell them illegally to the Japanese, who will pay huge dollars for them. They believe that when these parts are dried and ground up into powder, it makes a powerful aphrodisiac.”

“Really?” asked John's dad as he slipped into the booth beside his son and began sipping a milkshake he had brought with him. “Maybe I oughta start sellin' that stuff. I hear it's purty profitable.”

“Then I'd have to arrest you for sure, Pop. Probably have to send you off to federal prison and make Mom a widow who has to run this entire operation by herself. Doesn't sound very wise to me.”

Doc John smiled as he looked at me and then Kate. “Walt, just raise your children right, and they'll take care of you in your old age. That's what I always say.”

“Old age!” exclaimed John Jr. “What makes you think you're gonna make it to old age, Pop? What are you doing drinking a milkshake this early in the morning? You
know
it's not good for your cholesterol.”

“Son, don't you go worryin' about my cholesterol. It's just fine. Now tell me about what happened last night.”

Ranger Mattox frowned and then continued. “Well, you remember me telling you about Satan, don't you?”

Doc John thought for a moment and then scowled as he remembered. “You talkin' about the gang that uses that name?”

“Well, we're not sure if it's a single person or a small gang — but my guess is the latter. Anyway, they've been driving me crazy. You see, these kids apparently love wild hog meat better than almost anything — other than beating us rangers. And last night they beat us twice.”

“How so?” asked Doc John.

“Well, in the case of the first hog, we set up a baited cage, and before dark set in, a big ole hog was trapped. Then we sat up all night, figuring they'd show up to check out our trap. But, as usual, we were at the right place at the wrong time. They took one of the wild hogs right out of another live trap we had set up a few miles away. How they know where we've set up the traps and where we're staking them out, I'll never know.”

“I don't understand,” I remarked. “Why do you trap wild hogs?”

John Jr. took a sip of his coffee and then explained, “You see, Walt, these wild hogs aren't native to this area of the country — or even the United States. They were brought in back in the late 1800s and early 1900s for sport hunting. Many of the hogs are Russian wild boar. They're known for their huge size, tusks, and their love of fighting man or dog or any other perceived enemy or danger. I've seen one old, nearly blind boar spend five minutes goring a tree that moved wrong in the wind. That's why they make for great hunting — with that extra element of danger.”

Doc John jumped in with more information. “Walt, you oughta see the damage them hogs can do. Five or six of 'em can dig up an acre of land in one night — worse than any tractor.”

John Jr. grinned as he looked down at his pop's belly and then back at me. “Kind of like Pop at the dinner table. They don't leave anything behind.”

“You be careful!” Doc John warned, feigning irritation. “Don't you know the Good Book says you're to honor your father and your mother?”

John Jr. smiled and continued. “Those hogs will take out every plant in their way, including rare flowers. They have no natural predators and no real enemies, except the occasional rattler, and that's led to a huge population of wild hogs in the park. So we set up cage traps along the park roads to trap and then relocate the hogs to game lands outside the park where they can be hunted legally.”

“So,” I asked, “what's the deal with this gang? Don't they help you by taking the hogs?”