Mud Creek

by Kelly Ferguson

  Jessie returned from his trance.

  “No, ma’am,”

  “You, Jessie.”

  She took her long index finger and touched his nose. She giggled and smiled.

  Jessie levitated, floated up near the ceiling and floated back to earth at least in his mind.

  “Jessie, would you like to learn to play the piano?”

  “Yes, ma’am!”

  Jessie’s consequences for saying yes to piano lessons were far removed from the moment.

  Alice Fae, always invisible, worked in the next room. She hung to each word muffled by the wall. She ironed, dusted, swept, cleaned; the adjoining room sparkled. She experienced excitement for Jessie, but there was fear. too.

  Miss Francina introduced Jessie to his first piano instruction book and told him not to worry about his lack of a practice piano. She arranged with Miss Lillian, over her initial objections, for him to practice three days a week on the Steinway.

  Darkness settled on another hot Mississippi autumn day. Doc Grasson dropped Bully off at the barn.

  “Two things, Bully. You’re going to be in that cast for at least six weeks, and don’t get any water on my handy work, you hear me?”

  “Yes, sir. And thanks for all you have done for me today, Doc.”

  “Not a problem, Bully. And when you are ready to tell me the real story about your foot, I’m ready to listen.” Doc winked and climbed into his truck.

  Bully watched Doc’s green Chevy fade around the curve.

  “Bully, I just love animals,” Curtis said.

  “I love animals, too. Curtis.”

  “But I really love animals, Bully.”

  “Okay Curtis, you really love animals. You win.”

  “Bully, I really, really love animals.”

  “Okay, goddamn it! You really, really love animals.”

  “Bully, I really…”

  Bully put his hand over Curtis’s mouth.

  “Curtis, shut up or I’ll… kill you.” His lips pressed against his teeth.

  Curtis’s eyes bulged, and his face reddened. Seconds ticked by.

  “Now, I’m going to take my hand off your mouth, and you are not going to say it. Right?”

  Curtis nodded his head in the affirmative. Bully lifted his hand and Curtis’s lips did not move. Bully’s eyes dared him to utter a word. Curtis remained silent for twenty seconds: then thirty seconds. Bully’s threat seemed to be working.

  After a minute, Curtis whispered, “Bully, Miss Lillian says you’ve got to do what I say.”

  “Yeah, you’re the boss, Curtis. I’m just a third-class peon and a slave to your every demand.”

  “Well, the first thing we got to do is haul three dead hogs off. They been laying back there in the stall for three days.”

  “What the hell are you talking about, Curtis?”

  “One job we’ve got is hauling dead hogs off. With as many as we got, bound to be one or two dead every day.”

  “Curtis, I ain’t hauling no dead hogs off.”

  “Miss Lillian said you have to do what I say, and I say we’re hauling dead hogs off.”

  “Curtis, do you have to spit and get bug eyed every time you tell me what I’ve got to do? At least stand back!”

  Bully stepped back.

  “Okay, Curtis. It’s getting late and I want to get home. Let’s haul dead hogs off. Get the tractor and wagon.”

  “Miss Lillian won’t let us use a tractor. We’ve got to use mules and a sled.”

  “Mules and a sled? Jesus!”

  “Nothing wrong with mules, Bully. I love mules. And don’t be rolling your eyes and shaking your head every time I say something,” Curtis directed.

  “I know I’ve arrived in Hell,” Bully whispered and walked away.

  Curtis went around behind the barn. After a few minutes, he returned. He stood in the back of a homemade sled fashioned from bridge timbers and pulled by two sorrel mules. He pulled up to Bully and motioned for him to get in. Bully hobbled over with his new cast and climbed in.

  “This is a bad dream, God. You know that.” Bully raised his hands toward the heavens.

  “I’m staring into the ass of two mules and the eyes of one idiot!” Then the thought occurred: This is better than staring into the ass of one idiot and the eyes of two mules.

  Curtis grinned. “I just love animals, Bully.”

  Bully shook his head, laughed, and surrendered. He knew defeat.

  Curtis’s mules made their way to Bully’s house. Rover’s barked,. No lights were on and Alice Fae’s mamma’s dresser still sat on the porch. Alice Fae and Jessie were not home.

  “Whoa, mule!” Curtis brought the team to a halt.

  Bully made his way off the sled. When he stepped off the platform, Rover rounded the corner of the sled and hit Bully in the chest.

  “Damn it, Rover! Knock it off!”

  Rover knocked him down, licked him in the face, and barked with excitement. Curtis laughed and cheered Rover on. Bully grabbed the side of the sled and pull himself up. Rover made wide circles in protest around the mule team.

  “I just love dogs,” Curtis said.

  “Curtis, go home.” Bully rolled his eyes and laughed.

  “I’ll pick you up in the morning, Bully. We are bound to have another dead hog or two.”

  “Damn, Curtis. You need to find out who’s killing all them hogs. Or maybe they’ll kill’um all and get it over with.”

  “Bully don’t say that! I love hogs.”

  “I know. I know. You love hogs. See you tomorrow, Curtis. Now, go home.”

  Bully hobbled to the house. Curtis turned the mules around and drove away. Bully listened to Curtis talking to the mules. His voice faded.

  Bully entered the cracked door and walked into the clutter: boxes were scattered, and what little furniture Bully and Alice Fae owned was in disarray. His childhood baseball glove protruded from a hole in a tattered box; it was the one Mr. John had given him years ago. Bully sighed and lifted the box with some effort. He unloaded the box in a back room along with Alice Fae’s favorite dress—the one Mavis made for her on her eighteenth birthday. He moved some furniture around and even got Alice Fae’s mamma’s dresser off the porch. He pulled the dresser through the living room toward the bedroom.

  Rover barked and focused on the driveway. Bully hobbled toward the front door and met Alice Fae and Jessie on the steps.

  “Hey, sugar. Where you been?”

  “Down at Mavis’, Alice Fae stared at the floor.

  “How’s your buddy Mavis doing?”

  “She’s doing good, Bully. Bu… Bully, you don’t remember about last night, do you?”

  “What about last night?”

  “Jessie, darling. Come here.” Alice Fae reached out for Jessie.

  Jessie made his way toward his mother.

  “Mamma, it’s all right, we don’t have to talk about it.”

  “Talk about what?” Bully said.

  Alice Fae turned Jessie around and lifted his shirt. Jessie grimaced when the material pulled away from the open wounds.

  “Who did this!?”

  “You did, Bully.”

  “No! No! Alice Fae are you out of your mind?! I would never do anything like that.” Bully reached over and hugged Jessie.

  “Bully, you did. You were drunk, but you did it last night.

  You don’t remember, do you?”

  “No, no.” Bully’s voice trailed off. He sank down into the nearest chair.

  “It’s all right, Daddy, you didn’t mean to,” Jessie said.

  “I was scared to come home, Bully,” Alice Fae said.

  “Scared to come home? Alice Fae, I’m your husband.”

  “Not last night, Bully. I didn’t know that person.”

  “Alice Fae, I don’t know what to say. I know the last two or three weeks have been the worst time of my life; like a bad dream.”

  Bully turned to Jessie.

  “Jessie, I’m sorry. Your daddy should nev
er have done that. It won’t ever happen again, Jessie. I promise. Please forgive me, both of you. You are all I’ve got.”

  Bully’s voice trailed off. Jessie reached over and gave his father a hug. Alice Fae joined in. Rover stuck his nose in Bully’s crotch.

  Several days passed. Bully and Curtis fed, watered, and doctored livestock: and they hauled dead ones off. Miss Lillian transformed into a hellcat, making a huge push to get the crops out before winter. Jarvis, Cleo, and the field hands prayed for rain and relief from Miss Lillian. Jessie and Miss Francina made great progress on their music lessons.

  Mr. Simmons, the school bus driver, spotted Rover a half mile from Jessie’s house. Like clockwork, Rover hid under a group of plum bushes waiting for Jessie. When the bus passed, Rover gave chase toward Jessie’s stop. Mr. Simmons flopped the old bridge bolt down, which he had fashioned into a lever for the red hand painted Stop sign. The brakes screeched, and the old converted milk truck came to a halt. Jessie departed the bus and greeted Rover. Doc Grasson’s green Chevy pulled behind the bus. The old truck pulled away with a cacophony of screaming kids and a cloud of dust. Doc eased the Chevy alongside Jessie and Rover.

  “Hi, Doc. Somebody sick?”

  “No, Jessie. I was looking for you.”

  “Me? What for?”

  “Let me ask you something.”

  “Long as it doesn’t have anything to do with nasty tasting medicine or needles.”

  “No Jessie, nothing like that.”

  “Okay, go ahead.” Jessie leaned into the truck window.

  “Your mother said you like to read. Is that right.?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I brought you a few books, if you’re interested.”

  “What kind of books?”

  “Civil War books.”

  “Oh, boy. Yes sir, I’m interested!”

  Doc Grasson reached over and retrieved a box with several books. He handed them to Jessie.

  “Look through these, Jessie. If you like them, I have plenty more.”

  “Gee, Doc, you sure are nice. Thanks.” Jessie beamed with a warm smile.

  “How did you bust your lip, Jessie?” Doc Grasson asked, forever the sleuth.

  Jessie’s smile faded. “Got into a fight at school,” Jessie lied.

  “I hope you got in a few licks yourself.”

  Jessie did not respond.

  “Well, Jessie, I got to be moving up the road. Your daddy called me and wanted to know if I knew anything about sick hogs. I tell you, Jessie, don’t be like me. You must learn to say No when you need to. I’ll go by the barn and see if I can help. See you later, son.” Doc’s Chevy disappeared around the curve.

  Jessie gave Rover his book satchel; a ritual. Jessie carried the box of books with his left arm while flipping through the pages of the top book with his right. When his boot hit the first rung on the steps to the porch, a drop of rain hit the worn brown leather. A broad grin appeared on Jessie’s face. Rain meant no cotton picking. Rain meant playing with Rover. Rain meant reading Doc Grasson’s books. Jessie placed the books on the bed and got down on his knees.

  “Dear God, please let it rain. I won’t play with my food. I’ll take more baths. I won’t talk in church if I go, and I’ll quit calling Rebecca Smith a sow. Amen.”

  The sky opened and the most beautiful, slow rain fell. Jessie flipped backwards off the porch. He performed cartwheels. He and Rover spent all afternoon in the swing. Jessie read Doc Grasson’s books and Rover slept. Jessie’s life took a dramatic turn on this fall afternoon. From that porch swing, Jessie learned he could transport himself to another time. He devoured Doc Grasson’s books. He learned names like Jackson, Mead, Longstreet, Burnside, Stuart, Grant, and Lee. He learned places like Antietam, Chancellorsville, Manassas, Shiloh, Fredericksburg, and Gettysburg. Jessie promised Doc Grasson a hug the next time he saw him.

  Summoned

  Bully’s second week with Curtis started with a question.

  “Bully, you ever heard of a blowout?” Curtis asked.

  “Sure, our tractor tires have them all the time.”

  “No, Bully. I ain’t talking about that kind of blowout. I’m talking about a hog blowout.”

  “Curtis, what the hell are you talking about? Hogs don’t have blowouts.”

  “Got two back there in that pen and we’ve got to fix’um.” “Curtis, I don’t want to ask, but I better. What’s a hog blowout?”

  “See Bully, hogs like to stay warm at night. It gets cold quick after the sun goes down, starting in the fall.” Curtis’s cadence slowed. His eyebrows furred. He pulled Bully closer.

  “They get into piles of twenty to thirty.” Curtis lowered his voice; he grew grave and solemn. “The ones in the middle stay warm. The ones on top sleep cold, and the ones on the bottom get blowouts from the weight of all the hogs on top of them.”

  “Curtis, I’m afraid to ask, but here goes: what the hell is a blowout?!”

  “It’s when a hog’s guts blow out their butt.”

  “Jesus! Curtis, that’s the most disgusting thing I ever heard!”

  “Well, besides feeding and watering, we’ve got two dead hogs and two blowouts. Want to see one?”

  “Not especially.” Bully rolled his eyes and sighed.

  “Well, we got to fix’um so, we might as well get to it.”

  Curtis led Bully past several stalls filled with assorted calves and goats, to a side shed that provided shelter for the hogs. When Bully and Curtis turned the corner, the word went through the herd it was feeding time. A stampede of two hundred hogs erupted toward the side shed. They squealed, shoved, bit, and rooted. Bully’s thoughts ceased to function.

  “Curtis!” Bully screamed over the porcine chaos. “We’ll die if we go in there!”

  “Got to feed ‘um first! Settles them down! See, there’s one,” Curtis pointed to a two hundred-pound red Duroc hog in the corner. It wheeled around to get a better position in the feeding frenzy. When it turned, Bully saw about six inches of its intestines hanging from its end.

  “Damn, Curtis, that terrible. How can we help him?” Bully’s compassion and nausea battled.

  “Got to feed them first.”.

  Curtis and Bully spent the next thirty minutes pouring shelled corn in long V-shaped oak troughs. The two placated the mass of hungry hogs. The squeals and shoves gave way to munching and chewing.

  “I’ll be right back!” Curtis said.

  He disappeared around the corner. After several minutes, he returned with a three-foot length of garden hose.

  “Curtis, now what are you doing?”

  “Mr. John showed me how to fix a blowout. And I’m about to show you. If we don’t fix it, the other hogs will kill the one with the blowout by chewing and pulling on its guts.”

  “What?”

  Bully’s thoughts drifted to the days of sunshine, the expansive fields, the roar of powerful tractors, and the camaraderie of the field hands. Curtis pulled his Case knife from a pocket and cut the hose into four-inch lengths.

  “Now what, Curtis?” Bully’s curiosity grew.

  “The first thing is, you need a garden hose. I like the green ones. Then, we cut about this much off.” Curtis cut another four inches off.

  “Then we stick the short hose up the hog’s butt.”

  “Jesus Christ, Curtis!” Bully pulled his red handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped the sweat from his brow.

  “Don’t say we when you’re talking about sticking a garden hose up a pig’s ass. And I don’t care what color the damn hose is.”

  Curtis grinned.

  “Bully don’t butt in while I’m explaining what Mr. John taught me! Now, where was I? Oh, yes, the hose goes up the pig’s butt. Then we take these.” Curtis restated the plural with authority. He then pulled a handful of rubber bands from his bib pocket.

  “We wrap the rubber band round and round the hose real tight. This squeezes the gut to the hose, cuts off the blood, and makes it fall off in about a wee
k. The hose got to stick out a bit. Heck, Bully, a picture’s better than a wagon load of words. Just watch this.”

  Curtis jumped over the fence and made his way to a big red Duroc. He eased behind the hog with great care. While it ate, Curtis, with the dexterity of a surgeon, performed the procedure. Bully watched in disbelief.

  “Bully, you try one.”

  Bully felt queasy, but he didn’t want to be outdone by Curtis, either.

  He crawled over the fence and made his way out into the sea of hogs toward Curtis. Curtis extended his offering to Bully’s trembling hand: a length of green hose and a rubber band.

  “Dark one over there.” Curtis pointed to a big Hampshire near the watering trough.

  Bully made his way over to the hog. Curtis moved to the fence and crawled over, leaving Bully in the pen.

  “Curtis, you tell anybody about this, and I’ll shove this hose up your ass. I promise.”

  Curtis laughed.

  Bully approached the rear of the hog. His hand trembled and his tongue dried. Bully took the hose and pushed it into the hog. The hose disappeared.

  “Curtis, I’ve lost the hose. Bring me another one.”

  “Can’t, Bully, you got to find it.”

  “Find it!? What are you talking about find it?”

  “Find it, Bully. The hog might die if you don’t find it. Feel for it with your fingers, Bully.” Curtis smiled.

  Bully probed the warm, bloody flesh with his fingers: over to the left, no; to the right, not there. Sweat dripped from Bully’s nose onto the back of the hog. Bully’s knees trembled. He looked up to see Curtis sitting on the fence, his teeth sunk into a Moon pie.

  “Augh!” Bully wretched, losing his breakfast on top of the Hampshire. Curtis screamed out in laughter. Two hundred hogs exploded in a porcine wave. Bully’s feet flew toward the havens, cast and all. Hogs carried Bully on their backs until he disappeared into the chaos. They knocked down a key support structure on the side shed. Timber and roofing pelted the hogs only to make matters worse. One corner of the shed collapsed. When the last hog escaped, Bully lay in a fetal position, covered in hog manure.

  Bully trudged toward home. Cuts and bruises marinated in hog manure covered his body. Every orifice contained hog feces despite washing in the now familiar horse trough. Vulgar sound emanated from the wet shoe of his good foot.