Mud Creek

by Kelly Ferguson

  “Do I see what I think I see?”

  “Yep, my gold tooth! After six months with Mr. Carl, you get a gold tooth. It marks you as one of his boys.” Willard pulled back his lip revealing his golden left canine.

  “Well, at least you’ll never be broke.”

  Bully gulped the clear white liquid, which flowed out of the hills in Northern Mississippi.

  “Jesus! Where did you git this stuff?”

  “Made it myself. What do you think?”

  “What do I think? How can I think while I’m on fire?!” Bully took another long drink.

  On the record, people didn’t drink in north Mississippi in 1954. Off the record, if you wanted it, you could get it. Bootlegging was big business. Bully met Willard through Mr. John. Mr. John rented a farm from one of the largest bootleggers in Lee County, Carl Butcher. Willard, who worked for Mr. Carl, would bring Mr. John a sample of the latest batch from time to time, courtesy of Mr. Carl. Bully and Willard just hit it off.

  “So, how’s farming?” Willard asked, flashing his gold tooth.

  “Shut up! This has been the worst month in my life. I keep thinking things got to git better, but they ain’t. I sure miss Mr. John. I can’t get him off my mind. It’s messing me up, Willard. It’s messing me up real bad.” Bully took another drink. He didn’t notice the pain in his foot anymore.

  “Shit, boy! You need cheering up. Git yourself together and let’s go for a ride.”

  “Suits me, anything to get outta this dump.”

  Bully got up and the pain pushed through the whiskey.

  “Augh! Damn!” Bully twisted, buried his head in the sofa and bit into the worn fabric.

  “Easy, buddy. Let me help you.”

  After a long silence, Bully regained some of his composure.

  “I never thought I’d be asking you for help, Willard.”

  Bully knew he shouldn’t be moving around, but his heart hurt more than his foot. He needed relief. He didn’t care where it came from. Willard, with some effort, helped Bully into his old black Ford pickup, and they drove away from the shack on the Vinson place. Bully, looking through the dirty side mirror, saw Rover sitting on the porch guarding Alice Fae’s mamma’s dresser.

  Twenty-Mile Bottom

  Twenty-mile Bottom was a raccoon’s paradise. On the north end, a six inch Artesian well rose out of the ground with a continuous flow of water that flooded the wooded bottom land for miles and miles. Twenty-mile Bottom was filled with cypress, oak, sweet gum and cottonwood trees.

  Willard and Bully left the Vinson place, turned east and headed for Twenty-mile Bottom. The sun was at ten o’clock.

  Bully continued to drink the Wild Cat whiskey, making him oblivious to the pain in his foot. Folks between Euclatubba and Jug Fork thought anything East of Saltillo was backwards. Twenty-mile Bottom was East of Saltillo.

  Bully felt giddy, like he was skipping school. Willard’s Ford made its way around the tight curves. Bully could feel the cool breeze and the warm sun on his face. Hank Williams blared from the radio; that coat hanger for an antenna didn’t look all that good, but it was doing the job. Wagons, with cotton heaped high, were parked at the edge of the fields. Willard looked over at Bully and smiled a gold toothed grin. Bully couldn’t help but laugh. He had not laughed in a long time.

  “Let’s go over to the old sawmill site and shoot the guns,” Willard suggested.

  “Sounds good to me. It just feels good to get out.” Bully liked Willard leading, drunk or sober. He just wanted to tag along.

  By the time they reached the old mill site, Willard was intoxicated. He started to drink with his cornflakes. Willard stopped the truck, opened the door, and fell out into the rotten sawdust that covered the ground around the mill site.

  “Boy, that’s good whiskey!” Willard slurred, He staggered to his feet.

  “You ought to slow up a bit, Willard. We got to git home.”

  “Shit, boy! Don’t start getting righteous on me! This is our day off!”

  Willard took another drink, and surveyed the scene. He stumbled around to Bully’s side of the truck and stuck his head in the window. Deep furrows in his brow revealed a very serious expression on his face.

  “Bully, can I ask you a personal question?”

  “Sure, Willard. What?”

  “I mean a personal, personal question? He got even closer.

  Bully saw blood vessels in the whites of his eyes and smelled the Wild Cat whiskey on his hot breath.

  “Sure, Willard. You and me are friends. What is it?

  “Have you ever fucked a farm animal?”

  “Jesus! Willard! Shut up! Your drunk.” Bully jerked away, hitting his head on the rear-view mirror, knocking it down into the floorboard. Bully found himself a bit more sober.

  “No, I’m serious.” Willard’s patented goofy look crossed his face.

  “Hell, no. To answer your question.”

  “Hand me my rifle.”

  “Willard, what the hell are you thinking?”

  “Just hand me the rifle.”

  Bully knew Willard, whiskey, and guns didn’t mix.

  He’s a wild boar at a prayer meeting, Willard thought.

  The old mill site was once a prosperous sawmill owned by the Langford brothers. They moved in, cut thousands of cypress trees from the bottom, then moved on. The dilapidated mill shed, the slab pile, and the mountain of sawdust were the only remnants.

  Willard took a prone position across the hood of the old Ford and took a bead across the mill site.

  “What are you aiming for, Willard?

  “A chicken.”

  “A chicken? What chicken?”

  Bully looked in the direction of Willard’s intentions. Near the fringe of the clearing, a big red hen and several chicks scratched in the sawdust.

  “Willard, don’t shoot that chicken.”

  “This is something I’ve always wanted to try.”

  His rifle wobbled. Willard’s cocked eye struggled to zero in on his prey.

  “Don’t tell me what I’m thinking.”

  “Fuck a chicken,” Willard slurred.

  Bang!

  Bully jerked. Willard hit the chicken. The bullet passed through the poor animal’s leg and she flopped around on the ground. The chicks scattered. Pitiful squawks echoed through the woods. Willard threw the rifle down, staggered across the sawmill site and lunged for the wounded chicken. She flopped. Willard dove. The chicken darted. Willard zigged. The chicken zagged. Willard geed. The chicken hawed. The drunk Willard, with a diving lunge that would have made any football coach proud, made a spectacular move and grabbed the chicken by her good leg.

  Bully was in disbelief. He laughed at Willard and cried for the chicken, all at the same time. Willard got up, huffing and puffing, and staggered back to the Ford. He carried the flopping chicken by the feet. Sawdust ran down his pant legs.

  “Let her go, Willard! You had your fun.”

  “Hell, no. I’m going to see if what I have heard all my life is true.”

  “What?”

  “That there is nothing like fucking a chicken.” “Jesus! You’re sick, Willard! That damn whiskey has gone straight to your head, Willard.”

  “Sorry, we only have one chicken, Bully too bad.”

  “Willard, leave me alone. It’s my day off.”

  Bully poured another Mason jar of Wild Cat. Willard held on to the side of the truck with one hand and clutched the struggling chicken in the other. Bully watched through the side mirror. Willard dropped his pants. Bully took a drink, slid down in the seat, and turned the radio to maximum volume.

  “Hey, good looking. What ya got cooking? I got a hotrod Ford and a two-dollar bill…”

  The truck shook, and the gut wrenching shriek of the tortured chicken drowned out the music. The shaking stopped, and Willard let out a yell, echoing down the bottom. The chicken’s head, detached from its body, hit the top of the Ford and slid down the windshield, leaving a bloody trail.


  Bully grabbed his stomach, lunged for the open window, and wasted his Wild Cat down the side of the truck.

  Willard passed out with his headless chicken.

  Bully missed supper. By the time Willard awoke, he’d gotten a terrible sunburn on his privates. He passed out in the back of the Ford and had been there for three hours.

  Willard created a terrible situation for himself. His naked and battered body ached from severe sunburn. He abandoned all modesty and sought comfort. They made progress toward Jug Fork until Willard saw the red light and heard the siren of Sheriff Bigelow’s vigilant deputy. Willard pulled over, and the deputy approached.

  “Willard, I need you to get out of the truck.”

  “You see I’m in an awkward situation, James.”

  “You need to show me some respect, Willard, and get out of the truck.”

  “Yes, sir!” Willard exited the truck to the contorted facial expression of the deputy.

  “I got to call for backup.”

  “Backup, what the hell do you need backup for?”

  The deputy retreated to his car and sounded the alarm.

  Before the ordeal ended, there were fifteen to twenty patrol cars around the old Ford. Willard’s interest in poultry faded along with the sun on his special day off.

  Jessie’s Piano Lessons

  Miss Francina possessed more clothes than most Southern families combined. They all needed to be washed. Alice Fae separated the clothes in piles across the back porch: colored ones, white ones, delicate ones, miscellaneous ones. Miss Lillian’s new ringer washing machine clanked in high gear. By noon, God’s clothes dryer made a dent in the mountain of clothes.

  Miss Lillian insisted on using soap made on the farm. Mr. John always killed ten hogs after the first frost. His crew placed the fat taken from the hogs and put it in huge black pots. When cooked, the fat produced grease. The grease, with Merry War Lye, created a concoction that when cooled, became soap. When cut into squares, it created a year’s supply of general-purpose soap. Special hand soap, made by a mixture of general-purpose soap mix and corn cob ashes, completed the day. Alice Fae enjoyed a special relationship with the soap she sprinkled into each wash. She helped make it.

  Miss Lillian and Francina spent most of the day in the parlor catching up on details of Mr. John’s tragic accident, the future of the farm, Europe, relatives, etc. Alice Fae, ghost like, remained in the background; there, but not heard or seen. All the while, she missed nothing. She possessed an uncanny ability to expect Miss Lillian’s moods. Perfected over the years, she become chameleon like.

  Alice Fae struggled to stay awake. Up at all hours the night before with Bully and a move, she felt spent. Also, she worried about Bully.

  “Alice Fae!” Every cell in Alice Fae’s body exploded into upright attention.

  “Yes’um!”

  “Come in here!” Miss Lillian demanded. Alice Fae entered the parlor where Francina and Miss Lillian were having coffee.

  “Tell me about Jessie, Alice Fae,” Francina asked.

  “What do you want to know?” Alice Fae straitened her hair and dress.

  “What’s he interested in? How’s he doing in school?”

  Miss Lillian appeared bored.

  “Miss Francina, he’s a wonderful little boy. He’s my pride and joy. He loves to read, chase rabbits, throw rocks, and bark like a dog. You know, all those boy things,” Alice Fae glowed.

  “Listen, Alice Fae. One of my courses of instruction at the conservatory focused on the techniques of teaching music. It gave me all kinds of ideas. But I have a problem. I need a student. I wonder if Jessie might like to take piano lessons.”

  “Oh, Miss Francina! That’s wonderful!”

  “You have to make sure he’s cleaned up before he comes into this house!” Miss Lillian said.

  “Mother!” Francina’s face flashed disapproval.

  “Send Jessie to see me tomorrow afternoon after school and we will see if he’s interested.”

  Alice Fae swelled with excitement. For a moment, she forgot her exhaustion. Alice Fae gathered her belongings and turned toward the back porch.

  “Alice Fae, where is Bully today?” Miss Lillian asked.

  “Bully hurt his foot somehow, Miss Lillian. You should see it. It’s awful. He’s down at our new place you were kind enough to give us,” Alice Fae said.

  “You tell him I want to see him, foot and all, in what is now my office in the morning at six o’clock. I’ll send Jarvis after him.”

  Miss Lillian knew he couldn’t walk. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Doc Grasson dropped by Bully’s new place after hearing he had moved. He wanted another look at his foot and to drop off a few more days’ worth of morphine. Doc feared Bully might lose his foot without proper medical care. Bully refused to go to the hospital. Doc found Rover on the porch still guarding Alice Fae’s mamma’s dresser, but no Bully.

  Alice Fae turned the corner and headed for her new home. The sun faded. The walk from the “Big House” to her new place was now about three miles. When she entered the drive, Jarvis and Cleo met her in the Diamond T. They had dropped Jessie off and were headed home. Jessie assisted in the fields after school, during cotton harvest. Jarvis and Cleo waved. No one spoke; they were too tired. Jessie met his exhausted mother with excitement, a cartwheel, and a hug.

  “Where’s Daddy?”

  “What do you mean? Isn’t he in the house?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, that’s not good. He doesn’t need to be on that foot.”

  “How did Daddy hurt his foot, Mamma?

  “I don’t know. I tried to ask him last night, but he was so out of it that he didn’t make a bit of sense.

  “Maybe he was fighting a bear.”

  “Well, whatever he was fighting, might as well have been a bear. Come in the house and let’s get some tea. I’ve got something to ask you.”

  “What, Mamma! What?”

  “Let me catch my breath, get some tea, and we’ll talk.”

  Alice Fae looked at the total chaos surrounding her: the hanging ceiling, the swaying floors, and the broken windowpanes. Her spirit faded, and the broken home’s image blurred through her tears. Her thoughts turned to Jessie, Bully, Mavis, and Rover; she shook the feelings off. She turned away from Jessie and poured two large jelly glasses full of sassafras tea. Alice Fae, tea in hand, headed for the swing on the front porch. Jessie followed.

  “Jessie, sit by me and let’s enjoy our tea and this nice breeze. I have something I want to ask you.”

  “What, Mamma, what?”

  “Jessie, do you like music?”

  “Like church singing and stuff?”

  “Well, kind of but not hardly. No particular kind of music.

  Just music. I notice you sing to yourself a lot.” “Yeah, Mamma. Why?”

  “Well, Miss Francina is back from overseas, and she wants to know if you’d like to learn to play the piano.”

  “Whoa! Tell her, yes! Double yes!”

  Jessie had a tremendous crush on Miss Francina. She was always polite and nice to him.

  He would have signed up for anything she taught.

  Alice Fae banged plates and saucers into the crude cabinets. Cold beans and corn bread sat on the stove. Lights appeared around the curve and approached the house. It was Bully and Willard. Alice Fae seethed and her mind raced.

  Bully shouldn’t be on that foot. If he felt good enough to go out, he felt good enough to work around the house, she thought. Jessie tried staying up until his daddy got home. He wanted to tell him about the music lessons, but he fell asleep.

  Bully’s whiskey and morphine were depleted. Each bump in the road reminded him of his pain. Willard stopped at the cotton gin and got a flour sack to protect his privates. The thought of a social encounter repulsed Willard. He pulled to a near stop by the porch, offered Bully no help. Bully stumbled out of the truck and grabbed the porch railing.

  Willard drove away.

  Bully h
obbled in, still drunk, but he could feel the chill Alice Fae cast in his direction.

  “What’s your problem?” Bully said.

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing, huh?”

  “Bully, you shouldn’t have gone out today, and you know it.”

  “Don’t be telling me what I outta be doing, Alice Fae! I got enough people telling me what to do. I sure don’t need another ‘un.” Bully said..

  “Well, Miss Lillian wants to see you at six o’clock in the morning. Sounds serious. I don’t know how you’re going to work on that foot. But we got to eat.”

  “Look, bitch, I don’t see anybody going hungry around her. So, why don’t you just shut the hell up!”

  Jessie, in the adjoining room, heard his mother and father yelling. He remembered his music lessons. He came out with his pillow, squinting his eyes from the light.

  “Daddy.”

  “Jessie, get back in the bed,” Alice Fae said.

  “Daddy, I wanted to tell you about my piano lessons.”

  “Piano lessons! No boy of mine is gonna take no sissified piano lessons!” Bully came out of the seat.

  “But, Daddy, Miss Fran”

  Wham! Bully backhanded Jessie across the face. His frail sixty-seven pounds went flying into a pile of boxes.

  “Bully! Don’t!” Alice Fae screamed.

  Bully half hobbled, and half staggered across the room, taking his belt off. He grabbed Jessie by the hair and began to beat him. Jessie screamed and tried to protect himself but was no match for his drunken father. The leather cut into Jessie’s flesh with each blow from his powerful, work hardened arms. His arm tired. He switched hands with no loss of effect. He did not relent.

  Alice Fae ran through the house, hysterical. She pleaded, screamed, prayed, ran to the porch, and then back into the house.

  “Stop, Bully! Please, stop!”

  The only response was the sound of leather on flesh. Then silence.

  Bully threw his belt across the room, went to a small churn where he kept his whiskey and found a half pint. He took the lid off, emptied it and threw the empty bottle across the room toward the belt. He hobbled off the porch, reeking of whiskey, pants sagging, and foot aching. He faded into the darkness.