Mud Creek

by Kelly Ferguson

  Willard thought, my only hope is to survive his attack long enough to allow time to expire.

  He brought out his knight, attacking Carl’s queen, and hit his clock.

  Carl’s flag hung. Willard’s flag hung.

  “I can’t stand this,” one of the boys muttered.

  An electrifying energy pervaded the room. Carl moved with the precision of a surgeon. He lifted his knight and placed it on a square attacking Willard’s king. When Carl moved his knight, a hidden attack by the queen materialized. He attacked Willard’s besieged king on two fronts. Carl hammered his clock.

  “Check!”

  Carl’s cold stare reappeared.

  Willard’s mind raced. The time pressure crushed.

  Willard thought, If I move left, it’s over. My only choice is to move my king to the right. Willard grabbed his king and shoved it to the right and slammed his clock. Sweat glistened across his forehead.

  Carl lifted his queen and sent her into the back row of Willard’s army, a sacrifice, but a brutal attack directed on the king.

  Carl’s boys let out a collective gasp. Carl banged his clock down and once again announced with an icy proclamation, “Check!”

  Willard, with no choice, killed the attacking empress with his rook.

  Willard hit his clock.

  Carl’s knight survived in the enemy camp. And for Carl, the powers of the knight were enough. He swung his knight over to a square attacking Willard’s king while remaining unmolested himself. Carl used Willard’s own pieces to trap the monarch.

  Carl leaned forward with a twisted smile. “Check mate.”

  Carl’s boys erupted into a roar. The bubble of tension exploded.

  Carl nodded toward Mizel and Junior. Junior jerked Willard from his chair.

  “No, Mr. Carl! I fought hard!”

  “Yes, you did, son.”

  Willard kicked and screamed. He grabbed the center support pole of the store. Mizel and Junior tore him away.

  “Aren’t any of you son of a bitches gonna help me!”

  Willard screamed to the muted room. Heads stared at the floor.

  Junior struck Willard across the head with his pistol and Willard’s body went limp. They drug him through the front door. The screen door slammed behind them.

  Carl packed his precious chess set away with great care in its ornate box. He placed the clock in a protective cloth cover and announced, “Boys this meeting is over!”

  Say It Isn’t So…

  Alice Fae awoke. The morning light filtered through the blue floral cotton window drapes made from used flour sacks. Mavis threw nothing away. She and Jessie shared an old cast iron bed her friend made available in a small adjacent room off the kitchen. Jessie spent a fitful night sleeping and Alice Fae stared at the ceiling when the first rooster crowed. Her mind raced with fears of home, of being a burden to Dalton and Mavis, of Miss Lillian’s wrath, of Jessie’s trauma, and of her anger toward Bully.

  The smell of bacon interrupted her tortured thoughts. Mavis was awake. Alice Fae slid from the bed, careful not to wake Jessie, and covered herself with an old robe Mavis had provided. She made her way around the bed and stubbed her small toe on Jessie’s Civil War books. She bit her lip, swallowed a scream, and opened the door leading to the kitchen.

  “Good morning, girl.” Mavis made breakfast. “Coffee?”

  “That would be great, Mavis,” she said, favoring her toe.

  “Can I help?” Alice Fae offered.

  “No. You just sit down and enjoy this cup of java while I rattle these pots and pans. Did you sleep?”

  “A little,” Alice Fae answered.

  “Mavis, what am I going to do? I’m scared to go home. I don’t have any other place to go.”

  “You hush your mouth, girl. You and that young’un of yours can stay here till the cows come home.”

  “I appreciate that, Mavis, but it ain’t right. A body should be able to go home. I don’t want to be a bother.”

  “Well, you can’t go home till something is worked out with Bully. Somebody’s gonna git hurt.”

  “I don’t want Miss Lillian to find out. She might let Bully go and then we would be worse off. We are just making it, now. It’s Willard’s fault. Bully never acts like this, except when Willard’s round.”

  “Alice Fae, you drive me crazy when you run off at the mouth like that. Hon, I love ya, but your thinking has gotten a little sideways ‘bout that Willard character.”

  Mavis got louder despite her efforts to let the house sleep.

  “Nobody’s holding a gun on Bully when he drinks that Wild Cat whiskey. No one had a gun on him when he beat Jessie senseless, no one had a gun on him when he left those marks across your back.”

  Mavis threw a dish rag in the sink.

  “But, Mavis, he didn’t do these bad things when Mr. John lived. He didn’t run with Willard then, either.” Alice Fae attempted to defend her point. “There’s got to be a reason.”

  “Hon, if you knew the reason, it wouldn’t change a damn thing. Listen, if you’re in a pen with a 2000-pound mad bull, why he’s mad is of small comfort. How to get your ass out of the pen is a better question.”

  “I don’t want out of the pen. I love Bully. He’s not bad all the time, just when he’s drinking that Wild Cat and running with Willard.”

  “Well, all I know is every bucket has got to sit on its own bottom, and Bully’s getting worse and you can’t fix him.” Mavis said, “Alice Fae, Jessie’s getting worse, too.”

  “I didn’t want to bring it up last night, but you ain’t the only one suffering in this deal. Dalton said Jessie wasn’t making any sense last night. Like he was talking out of his head.”

  “Jessie’s fine, Mavis. He’s a good little boy, and he takes care of his mamma,” Alice Fae shot back, surprising both she and Mavis.

  Mavis shook her head in disbelief. She surrendered. Alice Fae clung to her point of view. Mavis loved her anyway. “Here, eat your breakfast. That hussy, Miss Lillian, will work you like a dog today. You’re going to need your energy.”

  Alice Fae knew she frustrated Mavis. She wanted all this to go away. Jessie stuck his head into the kitchen.

  “Mamma, where are we?”

  “Jessie, darling!” Alice Fae got up and met Jessie.

  He made his way across the kitchen. He clutched his Civil War books. She gave him a hug and brought him to the table.

  “We’re at Mavis and Dalton’s, dear. How is your eye?” Alice Fae brushed the hair from the swollen eye and sat him in her lap.

  “Ouch! Mamma, what happened to my eye?”

  “You don’t remember? Alice Fae looked surprised. No. A bear got you,” Alice Fae said.

  Mavis rolled her eyes and threw a pan in the sink. Dalton came into the kitchen. He rubbed sleep from his eyes with one hand and pulled up his bib overalls with the other.

  “Hey, soldier, seen any Yanks this morning?”

  “Mamma, what is he talking about?” Jessie asked.

  Mavis cut her eyes toward Dalton. Dalton missed the cue.

  “What am I talking about? You and me had those Blue Coats on the run last night.” Mavis slapped Dalton in the back of the head.

  He did not miss that cue.

  Mavis fed everyone breakfast. Alice Fae helped Mavis clean the kitchen while Dalton finished dressing. Before Dalton left for work, he asked Alice Fae if he could have a word with her. Alice Fae sent Jessie outside to play with Rover, who had slept by the door.

  “Alice Fae, it’s none of my business, but I’m here to tell you, what I saw and heard from Jessie scared me last night.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about a little boy acting like somebody else. Alice Fae, he asked me what the dog’s name was. He didn’t know ole Rover’s name. And today, he’s acting like it didn’t happen. Like he has no memory of last night.”

  “And Alice Fae, he doesn’t remember Bully whooping him, either,” Mavis added.
/>   “What are you saying? That Jessie’s gone crazy or something?”

  “We’re just saying that something ain’t right.”

  “Like I said, Alice Fae, it’s none of my business, but, if he were mine, I’d mention it to Doc Grasson,” Dalton said,

  “It’s so embarrassing, though.”

  “Embarrassing or not, you need to talk to Doc Grasson, Alice Fae,” Mavis said.

  “Well, maybe.” Alice Fae looked down at the table and played with her hair.

  “And another thing, Bully needs to know he can’t go off on you and Jessie without hell to pay. If it’s all right with you, I’m going to talk to Jarvis and Cleo. They like Jessie, and Bully will listen to a two-hundred and fifty-pound field hand or two.”

  “Oh, Dalton, I don’t know about that. I don’t want any trouble.”

  “Alice Fae, you already have trouble. It ain’t going to get any better by itself. Besides, you and Jessie got to get back in your house and it ain’t safe left the way it is.”

  “I don’t know.” Alice Fae wrung her hands.

  “Alice Fae, I’m going to talk to Jarvis and Cleo first thing this morning. You get to work, and Mavis can watch little Jessie. If you run into Doc Grasson, talk to him. He’s a doctor.”

  Dalton stood up, gave Mavis a peck on the cheek and walked out the front door.

  “Ain’t he a stud, Alice Fae?” Mavis said.

  Alice Fae blushed and took her last sip of coffee.

  Willard regained consciousness to the stench of wet dog and exhaust fumes. His head banged on the floor of a metal dog pen with each pothole the old truck hit. Dim light filtered through a burlap bag over his head. Rope choked blood from his hands tied behind his back and the taste of electrical tape filled his mouth. When the engine throttled down, he recognized the distinct sound of a fabricated well pipe exhaust. It was Junior’s truck—a 1949 Mercury cut in half and converted into a pickup truck. The truck crossed a wooden bridge, and Willard knew where he was. The cadence of the loose timbers impacted by the tires gave the clue; the Lime pit. He knew nothing good happened at the lime pit.

  Willard thrashed and contorted his body in every direction in failed tries to free himself.

  The truck came to an abrupt stop.

  Willard heard Mizel ask, “You want to kill him, or do you want me to?”

  “I can’t do it, Mizel. You do it.”

  Willard heard the passenger door spring open. Footsteps approached. He detected the unmistakable sound of a 12-gauge pump action shotgun. Willard’s muffled screams and struggle ended with double aught buckshot.

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  Mizel threw an old tarp over the dog pen bolted to the truck bed and got back in the truck.

  “You got a light?” Mizel asked. Junior’s hand trembled and fumbled for a match in his shirt pocket. Mizel lit a cigarette.

  “Let’s go.”

  Alice Fae’s Revenge

  Anyone of any importance gathered at Jill’s Café, a popular hangout for the residents of Tupelo. Located across from the courthouse: bankers, lawyers, merchants, and country folk congregated each day for breakfast and lunch. The smell of country cooking mixed with the red and white checkered tablecloths and straight-backed cane bottomed chairs gave the hole in the wall café a place in the hearts of the locals. The heart and soul of the café belonged to one person: Beatrice Hogue. Beatrice’s warmth and genuine charm attracted city and country folks alike. While she loved everyone, her first love belonged to her daughter, Jill, hence the name of the café. Many business deals culminated over Ms. Beatrice’s ribs and a handshake. C.C. Bates frequented the café and intimidated most of the patrons, Ms. Beatrice excluded. Word spread about C.C.’s encounter with Miss Lillian’s German shepherd, Killer. Ms. Beatrice played to the crowd with C.C. and the dog story. Some lesser brave souls joined in and C.C. Bates found himself the brunt of many jokes and exaggerations. The dog story would not go away.

  C.C. didn’t do himself any favors, either. He huffed, reacted, threw tantrums, and scoffed, which fueled the crowd’s comments even more. One rainy Tuesday, Mr. P.H. McDonald and C.C. were having lunch when the country banker’s old friend said the obvious.

  “You know, C.C., this Lillian Watson thing has gotten way out of hand. It’s got a hold on you like I’ve never seen.”

  “Don’t mention that witch while I’m eating ribs, P.H.”

  C.C. looked around to see if anyone overheard their conversation.

  “Well, all I know is you haven’t been yourself since, and as a friend, I hate to see you lose your composure and make a damn fool of yourself.”

  “Nobody treats C.C. Bates like that and gets away with it, P.H.”

  C.C.’s pressured speech came through a mouthful of ribs.

  “C.C., we went out there as good stewards of the bank. We had genuine concerns regarding our exposure. Lillian, well, you know Lillian. She’s cantankerous anyway, and she’s suffered a lot. It was an unfortunate incident. To her credit, C.C., she’s almost got that crop out of the field, from what I gather, and she did it her way, not our way.” Mr. P.H.’s voice of reason paled C.C.’s venom and the dense noise of the lunch crowd.

  “You don’t seem to get it, P.H. Nobody treats me like some low white trash, especially not a woman. This thing has gotten personal. If I let her get away with this, then every Tom, Dick, and Harry will do the same.” C.C. remained impenetrable.

  “Well, C.C., I don’t know how good this is for the bank and business. I sure wish you could get this thing behind you.”

  P.H. fired his last bullet of reason. Then, Ms. Beatrice walked to their table and addressed C.C. in a voice loud enough for all to hear.

  “C.C., Tommy and Butch want to know if you’d be willing to loan a little money on a prize hunting dog they came across!”

  Ms. Beatrice looked toward two toothless boys at a back table who grinned through a mouthful of ribs.

  Mr. P.H. dropped his head in disbelief. His well-constructed argument for reason disappeared with one well-placed comment from Ms. Beatrice. C.C. came out of his chair.

  “You boys just better hope you’re not one day late on that damn pulp wood truck payment, and you best forget about harassing me about some damn dog. I’m sick of it!”

  He threw his napkin and three dollars on the table.

  “It ain’t a German shepherd, Mr. C.C. It’s a hound!” Butch yelled out from the back of the café.

  The lunch crowd exploded in laughter. Mr. C.C. stormed out. Mr. P.H. shook his head.

  Dalton had no luck meeting Jarvis and Cleo the next morning. But, while walking home after picking cotton all day, his ear caught the distinctive sound of an “M” Farmall approaching from the south. A dust cloud appeared on the graveled road, announcing the imminent arrival of machine and humanity. Dalton’s mind snapped to Jarvis and Cleo. A covey of quail flushed from the nearby ditch bank. The red iron mule came around the curve with Jarvis at the wheel. Cleo rode in the exact position where Mr. John had died weeks earlier. Dalton waved down Jarvis A broad grin appeared on the field hand’s face.

  Jarvis spoke first, “Afternoon, Mr. Dalton! Y’all ‘bout to wind it up?”

  “I reckon, Jarvis. How ‘bout you folks? I been watching your progress. Seems like you’re making a good showing.”

  “Miss Lillian believes we can finish up by the end of the week. We be burning it at both ends, Mr. Dalton. Oh wee! Mr. Dalton, we all going to be glad when this crop is in the barn.”

  “Listen, Jarvis, I need to talk to you and Cleo for a minute. I won’t take much of your time, but I need you to kill that motor for a minute.”

  “Well, Mr. Dalton, we can’t be tarrying long, but I reckon we could spare a bit of time.” Jarvis hit the kill switch and the Farmall’s engine smothered from the lack of a spark.

  Dalton moved to the rear of the tractor. Cleo and Jarvis joined him in the shade of the wagon.

  “Jarvis, you and Cleo know little Jessie, right?”

&nbs
p; “Yes, Mr. Dalton, he helps us pick cotton most afternoons.” Cleo responded, with fondness in his voice.

  “He’s a good little worker and he makes the time go by faster when he’s ‘round. Come to think of it, I don’t recall laying eyes on him today,” Jarvis added.

  “You ain’t seen him ‘cause Bully beat the hell out of him and Miss Alice Fae last night” Dalton answered.

  “You don’t mean it, Mr. Dalton. Lil Jessie is a mighty fine young man. He shouldn’t be beat up on. He’s just a young’un.”

  “That don’t sound like Mr. Bully,” Cleo added.

  “Bully ain’t been himself since Mr. John’s passing,” Dalton said, “He has beat Alice Fae and Jessie on several occasions, and there has been Wild Cat whiskey in him each time.”

  “Well, I don’t have a thing against a nip of good whiskey from time to time, but a man shouldn’t be going off on his family ‘cause he’s drinking,” Jarvis responded.

  “Well, what I want to ask you fellas is this. You know Bully better than me. I was wondering if you would be willing to have a little talk with him. I’ll be there if you want me to. I got Miss Alice Fae down at my house. She’s scared to go home, and I don’t blame her. That little boy talked outta his head last night. It scared me.”

  Jarvis and Cleo backed up at Dalton’s suggestion. “Mr. Dalton,” Jarvis spoke as he took his hat off and began scratching his head with a grimace on his face. “It ain’t normal for black folks to be messing with white folks’ business. Especially when it be ‘bout the chillens and women. Mr. Bully might just go off on us poor black folks, too.”

  “Listen, Jarvis, this ain’t ‘bout black or white; this is ‘bout a drunk beating the hell outta his family.”

  “Why don’t Miss Alice Fae git Miss Lillian to straighten Mr. Bully out?” Cleo suggested.

  “Well, that was my first remedy to the problem, too. Alice Fae shied away from that one ‘cause she fears Miss Lillian might let him go and they’d go from the frying pan to the fire.”

  “Why don’t we git Rev. Strawrack to speak to him?” Jarvis offered up.