The sun beat down. Bully’s bad foot pounded. He heard the familiar sounds of a Farmall. Without turning his head, he knew Jarvis and Cleo were behind him. Eyes forward, dust engulfed Bully and gasoline fumes permeated his nostrils. Jarvis backed off the throttle and came to a stop.
“Mr. Bully, you look like you been on the wrong end of ugly.” Jarvis grinned.
“Jarvis, I’ve been on the wrong end of a pig this morning.”
“We’d give you a ride, but we got to get this cotton to the gin. That Miss Lillian be watching us like a hawk.”
“That’s OK, Jarvis. I don’t want you and Cleo to get into trouble.”
“Mr. Bully, when will you be getting back to the fields?”
“Cleo, your guess is good as mine. Miss Lillian’s got me down at the barn with that idiot, Curtis, pushing water hoses up pig butts.”
Cleo and Jarvis grinned.
“Mr. Bully, it’s not the same with you and Mr. John gone. We seem to be just going thru the motions.”
There was a slight shift in the breeze and Jarvis found himself downwind to Bully.
“Whew! There are a lot of things that smell round this farm, Mr. Bully, but right now, you be the worst! We got to be getting to the gin. Watch out for those hogs.” Jarvis flashed his gold teeth, throttled up the Farmall, and pulled away.
Bully felt sad. He wanted to be on that Farmall. He wanted to be in the seat: a breeze hitting him in the face.
Bully, lost in thought, jumped when the blast of a truck horn brought him back to the present. He wheeled around on his good foot. Willard slipped behind Bully in the old Ford and his goofy grin appeared through the dirty windshield.
“Willard, you scared the living daylights outta me!”
“Man, you must have been on some other planet because I could have run you over and you would’ve never known. Shit, Bully, you smell God awful.”
“Can you give me a lift down to my place? I had a bout with some hogs and lost this morning.”
“Giving you a ride will put a strain on our friendship if I let you ride in the passenger seat. How’s about you get in the back?”
“Do I smell that bad, Willard?”
“Bully, when you’re in it, you can’t smell it. I ain’t in it, so I can smell it. I ain’t getting in it, just so I can’t smell it. Trust me, son, you flat out stink.”
“I get it. The back it is.”
Bully hobbled around and took the hooked chains from the tail gate and let it down, making a seat. He worked his way on to the tailgate and gave Willard a nod. The black Ford lurched forward. When the dust covered truck passed a clump of plum bushes, Rover jumped. He gave chase. Rover caught the Ford when Willard slowed to turn toward the “mansion.” Rover landed in the back of the truck licking Bully in the face. Bully gave no resistance.
Bully cleaned up at the pump. Willard sat in the swing and played with Rover. Bully made his way up the porch steps. Water dripped from his chin.
“Bully, why don’t me and you go for a ride?”
“Willard, the last time I went on a ride with you, it cost me two days of my memory. Not to mention having nightmares of you and that chicken. No thanks.”
“Bully, that was entertainment. This is a business trip.”
“Business trip? What kind of business trip?”
“Mr. Carl wants to talk to you.”
“Carl Butcher, that bootlegging crook you work for?”
“Now, Bully, don’t be bad mouthing my boss, Mr. Carl. No, he ain’t no saint, but the money’s good.”
“Why does he want to see me?”
“Mystery, to me. Let’s go see.”
“Well, I’ll go, but I ain’t the damn fool you are.”
There were a handful of individuals who ran Lee County: Mr. C.C. Bates, the banker; Mr. P.H. McDonald, the cotton buyer; Mr. Goldberg, the editor; Buford King and Carl Butcher, rival bootleggers.
Bully and Willard loaded into the Ford and headed toward Guntown. Bully threatened Rover with his life if he followed. Rover pretended to listen. When the truck disappeared, Rover hit the cotton field behind the “mansion,” running. Rover possessed impeccable timing. He could, via a shortcut, beat any land bound vehicle known to man, to his plum bushes.
When Willard found third gear on the old Ford, he turned to Bully.
“You might want to poke around under that seat.”
Bully fumbled from the jack, to the lug wrench, to a paper sack. He pulled the sack out and found a quart of Wild Cat. Bully groaned, took a swallow, and passed it to Willard.
“That pretty good.”
“My special blend. Old car batteries and one dead goat. Unique, huh?”
“Willard don’t torture me with the details.”
Rover stood in the road near the plum bushes when Willard and Bully rounded the curve in the road.
“That damn dog, I ought to kill him! Rover, git back to the house. Kick it, Willard. Go!”
Willard rammed the accelerator to the floor; gravel flew, and the dust rose. Rover chased the old Ford until a rabbit crossed his path.
Once past the taste, the whiskey felt warm and comforting to Bully. He settled back in the old Ford and felt the breeze on his face through the window vent. Willard drove in silence for several miles when a troubled look crossed his face.
“Bully, do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”
“Long as it doesn’t have anything to do with fucking chickens.”
“Nah, this is not like that. I’m puzzled by something. Here you are, the best damn tractor driver in these parts. Born on one. Me, they scare me. But you, you’re a natural. Mr. John raised you on one. Now, here comes the troubling part. How come you had to be the one on that damn tractor when Mr. John died? Knowing how you felt about Mr. John and everything. Why not Jarvis? Cleo? Anybody but you. Mr. John could have been on it.”
Bully remained silent. He took another drink of whiskey Bully stared at the faint blood trail from the chicken’s head on the windshield. Tears welled in his eyes.
“Willard don’t think I haven’t asked myself that question a thousand times since Mr. John died. Why did I have to be in that seat? What could I have done different? Maybe I’m not as good as I thought I was. My thoughts are like a snake with its tail in his mouth. I keep coming back to the place I started. If it had wheels and rolled, I wanted to be in the seat. Begged for it. Would fight for it. Well, that night I got what I wanted. I owned the seat. The loneliest place in the world, that night, was that seat. The sick part is, I still want to get back on one. Crazy, huh?”
“Well, somebody has to drive. Can’t everybody be in the wagon.” Willard punched Bully on his good leg. “Ole buddy, if we were going down that slick as owl shit fjord at Mud Creek one more time, I’d want you driving. No doubt. No hesitation.” Willard gave Bully a wink.
“Thanks, Willard. I need to hear words like that. The ones banging around in my head are a far cry from what you just said. My thoughts are vicious and dark. They are chopping my guts up. I don’t know how to turn ‘um off, either, except for this mule kicking stuff we’re drinking. I’ve got to get back on a tractor soon or the doubt will eat me up, Willard. Kind of like getting back on a horse that bucked you off. Mr. John always said to ‘die and go to Hell before you take a whipping.’ Well, I got to get back in that seat or it’s a whipping.”
Bully bit into his lip.
Alice Fae enjoyed her morning walks to Miss Lillian’s. The three miles gave her time to reflect, see the sunrise, and smell the freshness of a new day. Bully had been treating her better since the horrible night of the beating. She still awoke with nightmares. She tried to push the bad feelings away and lock them in the basement. But sometimes they rose through the flooring and moved over her. On those occasions, she felt nauseated and weak. Today, however, she felt stronger.
When Alice Fae approached Miss Lillian’s, she heard the old woman screaming from the road. She recoiled. Her good feelings faded. She grabbed her stoma
ch. The familiar pain returned.
“You listen to me, you ole coot! I need that fuel out here by noon today. I am two weeks from getting this crop out, and no two-bit jerk like you is getting in my way. I don’t give a damn about who died or who didn’t. And another thing: the last time that idiot driver was out here, he ran over one of my pullets. You tell him he owes me a chicken, or his ass is mine. You got me straight?”
Alice Fae slipped in the back, careful not to slam the screen door. Miss Lillian replaced the earpiece in the cradle and smiled.
“Where in hell have you been? You on vacation or something?” Miss Lillian said. She grabbed the earpiece and turned the crank on the phone. “Rose, get me the cotton gin,” she ordered the operator.
Alice Fae tried to get a word in, “But, Miss—”
“I don’t have time to mess with you, Alice Fae. Just git that washing going and see if Francina needs you. Scat!”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Alice Fae moved with haste toward the washing area and filled the tub with water. Before the water reached the first ring, Miss Lillian entered the back porch.
“That low life husband of yours walked off and left Curtis yesterday afternoon. I put him down there to help Curtis, and he can’t even do that! You two are a match made in Heaven, I swear.”
“But…”
“Don’t but me, girl. You tell Bully he better steer clear of me or the bear might just get that other foot.”
“But…”
“I told you not to ‘but’ me! Get that washing going, hang the rugs, and beat the dust out you missed last time.” Miss Lillian stormed off.
Those rugs got the beating of their life.
Carl Butcher’s reputation grew daily as the meanest son of a bitch in Lee County. He worked hard and cultivated the image. He considered a negative comment a compliment. He also excelled at what he did: making and selling whiskey. You might say Carl provided a service. He delivered a product his customers desired. The Christians attempted to drive demand down, but human nature drove it up. Carl Butcher bet on human nature. The story goes, three big shots drove down from Memphis to cut a deal on entering his lucrative market. He killed them on his front porch and shot himself in the stomach with their gun to make it appear it was in self-defense. He walked. His chief adversaries were Buford King, a rival bootlegger, and Sheriff Bigelow. After many bloody battles, Carl and Buford settled on a loose arrangement. Carl took the north end of Lee County and Buford had the south. This worked while cash flow expanded, but during hard times, all bets were off. Sheriff Bigelow posed more of a nuisance during election years. He feared Carl Butcher and Buford King, with good reason.
Carl celebrated his 50th birthday, but the years of hard living extracted a toll. The most outstanding facial feature he possessed was a long scar beginning above his right ear and ending at the bottom of his round chin. Carl loved knives and found himself on the wrong end of one in a fight many years ago. His signature items were a toothpick protruding from the corner of his mouth and a .38 snub nose revolver hanging from a holster under his arm. He made no pretense to hide the fact. He possessed a loud voice and his mood was temperamental. Carl’s most unsettling feature, however, was his unpredictability. He wrapped his arms around you in one moment and twisted a knife in you the next. Some called him a viper.
Federal agents ambushed and killed his father when Carl turned two, and his mother died of exhaustion and worry trying to raise seven children on a cleaning woman’s pay. Authorities separated Carl from his brothers and sisters and placed him in an orphanage at the age of ten. He grew defiant and the seeds of his bitterness festered.
Carl operated a combination service station and dry goods store in Guntown, which served as a front for his real business: whiskey. He employed a cadre of young men he called his boys. Carl’s boys owned a common trait: they were sick of picking cotton and willing to do anything to escape the fields.
Willard fit that description.
A steady stream of cars moved in and out of Carl’s place, day and night. A large field of corn grew behind the store. Rumors flew that his boys would bury half pint bottles of whiskey under designated corn plants to avoid confiscation of the inventory.
Bully’s watch showed two o’clock when they drove under the shade tree at Carl’s place. Bully’s curiosity and good judgement were battling it out. He hobbled from the old Ford. Over the porch, a large sign hung with Carl’s name in big red letters. Two old church pews, once painted green, were on the front porch. Four cats crouched under the pews attempting to stay cool. Two gas pumps and a red kerosene dispenser were the most prominent items making up the store facade. Tools to repair truck flats lay scattered across the porch floor. Willard and Bully walked in the front door. Bully noticed dust on the shelf items. If it wasn’t liquid, it didn’t move, Bully thought. The wooden floors creaked, and the old paddle fans struggled to stay even with the heat. They walked back to a large pot belly stove in the rear. A white man played a game of chess with a small wiry black man.
The white man spoke,
“You boys come on in.” He got up from his game and approached Willard and Bully. He extended his hand to Bully with a smile.
“Hi, son. My name is Carl Butcher. I was a close friend of Mr. John’s. Mizel, get these boys a soda.”
Carl seemed friendly, but it was the kind of friendly you couldn’t trust. Mizel jumped up and moved toward the drink box.
“Root beer or RCs, gentlemen?”
“We’ll take root beer,” Willard spoke.
He knew Bully loved the sassafras drink.
Mizel popped the tops off two drinks and brought them over to the circle of cane bottom chairs sitting around the cold stove. Bully noticed ashes from last year’s fires were still under the stove.
“Mizel, why don’t you and Willard go for a little walk. I would like a little privacy.” Mizel motioned toward Willard and pointed to the back door. Mizel enjoyed his role as Carl’s right hand man. Bully’s eyes darted toward Willard, and his heart moved to his throat. Willard shrugged his shoulders and flashed that goofy grin. Bully shuddered when the door slammed behind Willard and Mizel.
The ceiling fans attempted to break the gut-wrenching silence with little effect.
“Do you play the Royal game, son?” Carl looked down at the chess board.
“No, sir. Willard tried to teach me, but I could never sit still long enough.”
“Those sixty-four squares can produce every emotion known to man. They become a world that is finite and manageable on the one hand, yet complex and beautiful on the other. I’ve seen greed, fear, ambivalence, and joy gallop across those 64 squares. You can tell a lot about a man by the way he handles himself over that board. I’ve seen hardened men pout and spineless babies become absolute killers on that board. I learned to play in the brig, before they kicked me out of the Navy. I got pretty good.”
Carl seemed unbeatable to his “boys.” He challenged them with an offer: a thousand dollars to any man who could beat him. Carl never lost.
He reached over and tipped the white king on its side.
“A hell of a man went down when Mr. John died. I feel bad for him. All the scum in the world and I hear Mr. John is dead. Makes me sick.”
“No worse than I do, Mr. Carl.”
“Look, son. I hear you’ve been taking it hard. I want to say, for one, I do not hold you responsible for Mr. John’s death. He died doing what he enjoyed. Every man should be so lucky.”
“Thanks, Mr. Carl.”
“I also heard you gave those hypocrites, son of a bitches Hell over at Mt. Zion Church. You warmed my heart that day.”
Carl gave out a belly laugh.
“I’m not proud of my actions, sir. As a matter of fact, I don’t even remember that day.”
“Well, I do and will for a long time.”
Carl leaned toward Bully and a solemn expression moved across his face.
“Son, Mr. John and I talked many times about wha
t would happen to our land if the other died. We both agreed the farms needed to be joined—informally, of course. Son, I aim to own that land, and I would like you to help me get it.”
“What are you talking about, Mr. Carl?! I can’t even get into the fields, since Miss Lillian took over.”
“I understand she has not treated you well since Mr. John’s death.
“That’s putting it mildly, Mr. Carl.”
“That old lady cannot afford one bad crop after pissing C.C. Bates off like she did.”
Carl possessed an incredible information gathering network across Lee County. It was a powerful tool in the hands of a man with his abilities.
“I want you to help me give Miss Lillian a failed crop for next year. My plan cannot fail. I’ll cut you in.”
Bully jumped out of his chair. He thought, Carl’s lying. Mr. John would not do such a thing.
“Thanks for the soda, Mr. Carl. I think you’re talking to the wrong man. I have my differences with Miss Lillian, but Mr. John worked his whole life to put that land together, and I don’t plan on being a part of destroying it. I’ll be leaving, now.”
Carl didn’t flinch. This was just the opening move. He would win. Carl Butcher always won.
“Well, son, don’t be foolish. I would make it very lucrative for you. Besides, with a wife and a young kid, a man like yourself needs to guard against unexpected misfortunes that present themselves from time to time.”
Bully didn’t miss the hidden threat in Carl’s statement.
“You think it over. Mizel! Get Willard, and tell him to give this boy, here, a ride home.”
Carl’s lips pressed on his words.
Good Days & Bad Days
Jessie, lost in the rich past of the Civil War, finished reading Doc Grasson’s books, The life of Johnny Reb and The life of Billy Yank, by Bell Irwin Wiley. Jessie became vigilant each afternoon hoping to see Doc’s green Chevy. Two weeks passed when one afternoon, his truck appeared like a mirage from behind the school bus. He pulled into the drive. Rover climbed into the back of the truck.
Mud Creek Page 7
