by Doug Kelly
Dylan pointed to a hacksaw and knife on the floor. “If you don’t mind.”
Kevin wasted no time. He picked up the tools. “So you don’t think it will freeze up there in the winter?”
“Yes, I expect it would freeze at some point, and the spring water that I plan to connect to the outside spigot would surely freeze during winter.” Dylan tapped on the barrel with his fingers. “But when it gets that cold, I’ll disconnect the lines and drain the system. Then it’ll have to be buckets of melting snow and stream water for us again.”
“Could the water up there get stagnant?” asked Kevin.
Dylan went to the stack of cardboard boxes against the farthest wall and proclaimed triumphantly, “Chlorine.”
“You’ve thought of everything, Dylan. I better go earn my keep.” With tools in hand, Kevin went toward the driveway, and then spoke as he walked slowly backwards. “When this is done, I’ll go to the bartering lot with David. You should come, too.”
Dylan shook his head. “When this is done, I’m going to give my son his new bow and work on the other bows that I have already promised to people in the neighborhood. I’ll teach him to shoot it as soon as he’s awake.”
“Okay, just us two then. Should I take the rifle?”
“I think you should take the pistol. Don’t draw any attention to yourself. Just see what’s going on.”
Kevin waved, turned, and walked away.
Dylan looked around to see that his son had silently crept into the garage and was standing by the hole in the drywall, staring at the plumbing and loose insulation. Curiosity had frozen the young boy in place.
“Where’s your sister?”
“Mary is brushing her hair.” Brad was transfixed on the insulation, pink like cotton candy. He extended his hand to touch it.
“Hold on. That’ll make you itch.”
He retracted his hand and stepped back, not comprehending the risk of touching something that looks so much like a delicious treat. He balled his hands into little fists, put his fists under his armpits, and looked up at his father for approval of his actions.
“That’s fiberglass. Don’t touch that stuff.” Dylan placed his hands on his son’s shoulders and turned him toward the alcove at the end of the garage’s third bay. Brad’s eyes grew wide with excitement when Dylan retrieved a bow that was just the right size for him.
“This is something you can touch.” He handed Brad the bow.
“Is this for me? Is it mine?”
“Yes, it is. I want you to hunt for rabbits and squirrels while I’m busy doing other things. Sound okay to you?”
Brad smiled wide as he held the new bow like a trophy. “Yes. Can I go now?”
“Hold on, I want you to practice first.” Dylan showed him how to string the bow and then he handed him three blunt-tipped arrows. “Go to the big walnut tree in the backyard. Shoot at the tree for a while until I’m ready.” The young boy ran to the backyard with his new bow and the arrows in hand.
Dylan moved the rain barrel up the steps and into the attic. There was a large sheet of plywood already up there, and he moved it to rest on the crossbeam where a vertical post, bolted to the concrete garage floor, supported it. He attached the hose to the bottom of the barrel, threaded the hose through a hole in the ceiling and let it dangle freely, ready for attachment.
Kevin returned with several lengths of plastic tubing, cut free from a partially constructed home in the neighborhood, and a handful of copper connecting inserts and clamps for securing the tubes. Dylan cut, spliced, and clamped the tubing together. Finally, he wet the plumbing to lubricate it, and it slid into the hose that he had attached to the barrel in the attic. After he dropped two chlorine tablets into the empty barrel and placed a large funnel through the opening on top, the project was almost completed. All that remained for them was to acquire water and fill the barrel.
Dylan took the rectangular piece of drywall he had removed and positioned it to cover the spliced tubing and loose insulation. He screwed the drywall onto the exposed studs to hold everything in place.
“That’s it.” Dylan rubbed the palms of his hands together. “Go get Jim and have him show you where David lives.” Kevin nodded and picked up his bow to take to the bartering lot. “Do you have the pistol?” asked Dylan. Kevin nodded and slapped his right front pocket. Dylan returned the nod and said, “Stay out of trouble.”
“I plan to do that.” Kevin stepped onto the driveway and looked to his right and left, hoping to find Jim easily. He looked back at Dylan.
Dylan pointed upward. “When you find Jim, ask him nicely to get some water in that rain barrel.”
“I think he’s sick of hauling water for us.”
“Tell him what we just did.” Dylan began to laugh. “Tell him he can take a hot shower, and I guarantee you that you’ll never see him move faster in your life.”
The laughter was contagious, and Kevin laughed harder when he imagined Jim running through the field, pushing the wheelbarrow across the bumpy terrain as he did, and cutting through the tall grass toward the stream, faster than he ever had. He kept laughing as he walked away.
Dylan found his son at the far end of the backyard, shooting at the trunk of the tall walnut tree.
Dylan yelled, “Are you ready?”
The young boy ran to his father.
“Let’s walk to the field and find some squirrels,” said Dylan. “They should be around the nut trees.”
Brad smiled, then enthusiastically darted toward the field.
“Slow down, wait for me,” yelled Dylan.
Dylan caught up to his son and, standing behind him, grabbed under his armpits and sat his son upon his shoulders. The boy felt too light. Dylan held each ankle tightly as they dangled in front of his chest. Brad was bouncing with each of Dylan’s steps through the prairie grass, as he dodged thistles and rabbit holes. He stopped at an oak tree on the forest’s edge. He was close to where the bike trail crossed the stream and continued under the tree canopy. Then Dylan lifted his son back off his shoulders, placing him on the ground.
“This is an oak tree.” Dylan pointed to the tree and made eye contact with his son. He looked at Brad in a way that his son understood to mean what he was going to say was important. “And these are acorns.” Dylan pointed to the ground and kicked up the acorns and leaf litter. “They are nuts, and squirrels love to eat them, so that’s why I brought you here.” Dylan walked closer to the trunk and looked up into the tree canopy. His eyes shifted from branch to branch and stopped when he saw a clump of brown leaves high in the branches. Dylan pointed to the cluster of dry leaves. “Look, that’s a squirrel’s nest.” Brad strained his eyes and nodded when he saw it. When the boy brought his eyes lower, he noticed a thick rope tied to a low branch, worn and weathered, the frayed end tied into a large knot.
Brad pointed at the rope. “What’s that?”
“If I had to guess, I’d say it was a rope swing.” The finding jogged his memory. “I think I have a swing in the garage. I bought it when you were too young.” Dylan scratched his head. “I’ll look for it and attach it to our tree if I can find it. Do you want a swing?”
“Sure!”
Dylan began to walk backwards, away from his son. “Are you going to get a squirrel?”
“Yes.”
Dylan was farther away, still edging backwards. “A big one?”
“Yes.”
“You better, because I’m getting hungry.”
Dylan could see Brad trying to puff his chest out, feeling confident.
“How about two?” Dylan was farther away and speaking louder.
“Three!” Brad held up the three blunt arrows given to him by his father.
“That’s my boy.”
Kevin and David walked the length of the road to the lot of the abandoned grocery store that was now a place of barter. They paused at the intersection of the four-lane road and the highway to observe their surroundings. Kevin was wearing a light backpack. He ho
oked one thumb under a strap, pulling it forward, and held his bow with the other hand. The pack had binoculars, a can of peaches, and a quart plastic jug that originally contained milk. The jug’s label had peeled away a long time ago, and it held his water now. David only had a bottle of water that he held in his hands, passing it from palm to palm, sipping occasionally to keep something in his stomach to quench the burning fire of hunger.
“Hey, Kevin, do you care if we sit for a minute,” asked David.
“Are you okay?”
“My stomach is in a knot.” He twisted the cap off his bottle and sipped the water.
Kevin heard David’s stomach growl from hunger and watched in pity as the man clutched his stomach and winced.
“You better sit down.” Kevin put his hand on David’s shoulder and directed him to the curb.
David sipped again. “That’s a lot of walking. I feel a little weak, kind of dizzy.”
Kevin dropped the backpack, retrieved the can of peaches, and handed it to him. David hooked the tab on the can’s lid and quickly pulled it back. He licked the syrup from the bottom of the lid and drank the thick liquid inside. He jerked his head back and, with the open can to his lips, devoured each slice of peach whole. When all of the sliced fruit was gone, David poured water into the can, swirled the mixture, and drank it completely empty. Holding the empty can with both hands, he leaned forward as he sat on the curb, head tilted down and eyes closed. The only thing left in the can was the sweet odor of peaches, and he sat there quietly and consumed that, too.
Kevin looked through the binoculars at the crowd ahead of him. He saw the undulating mass of people pulsating with life around each table, flatbed trailer, pickup truck bed, and open car trunk. He watched the people trading, transacting, and negotiating fervently. Hands flailing in the air, heads shaking, fiery eyes filled with desperate emotion. Sometimes, all of this concluded in a handshake and an exchange of goods.
“Feel better?”
David quickly opened his eyes and came back to reality. After taking a deep breath, he leaned forward to maintain his balance as his body straightened. Still feeling weak, he pushed on what remained of his thigh muscles with the palms of his hands and completed the process. “Yeah, I’m good. Let’s get moving.”
Kevin put the backpack on, holding the bow with one hand and his jug of water with the other. They crossed the street and stopped at the first table. A man sat next to a folding card table beside a flatbed trailer that was attached to the hitch of an old truck. He displayed his goods for trade, but at this moment, no takers were near him. The man’s eyes quickly shifted over all the merchandise and back to the open truck door, constantly looking for business and at the person sitting in the truck. Sitting near the truck’s open passenger-side door, there was another man who looked like a younger version of him. They both wore denim overalls. The younger man was petting a goat tied to the passenger door’s side-view mirror. Kevin moved a little closer to the table, unaware that the man was intently watching Kevin’s jug of water, dangling on one finger. The man stood up and nervously began to run his thumbs up and down the straps of his overalls as he tried to wet his cracked lips with a dry tongue.
“Excuse me,” said the man behind the table. He hands stopped moving, and he gripped the straps of his overalls tightly as he spoke. His eyes narrowed at Kevin’s jug of water.
“Yeah?” Kevin replied.
“Could I bother you for a taste of that water?”
Kevin moved closer to the other side of the table to face the man.
“You see, my son over there, bless his heart, he’s a good person.” The man tilted his head toward his son, sitting near the truck and petting the goat. “But he just don’t think right sometimes.”
When the son noticed that they were talking about him, he stood, and he was enormous. He brought his giant body over next to his father and imitated the way his dad was standing. The younger man grasped each one of the straps on his overalls, just like his father.
“This here boy, when I asked him to give that goat some water, well, what do you think he did?” He only paused a moment, never really intending for Kevin to answer. “That’s right; he gave that damn goat all our water.”
“All our water,” repeated his son.
He slapped his son on the back and his son did the same to his father, imitating every gesture. His father smiled, revealing a gold-capped incisor, and the son smiled in return, revealing enormous teeth. That was when Kevin realized there was something different with the son’s appearance.
Kevin began to twist the lid off his jug of water. He looked around for a cup and then quickly changed his mind. “I think you want more than a taste, don’t you?”
“Somethin’ to cut the dust. We’s parched.”
“Somethin’ to cut the dust. We’s parched,” repeated his son.
David sat in an empty chair, still fatigued, and watched the two men talk.
Kevin held up the jug, hanging from a single finger, and swung it back and forth.
“Are we trading here?” asked the man.
“Are we trading here?” repeated his son.
“I think we ought to.”
“Damn, I was hoping for some charity, mister.”
“Some charity, mister,” repeated the son.
“It’s Kevin.”
The man extended his hand. Kevin put the jug on the table and shook his hand.
“I’m Pete, and this here’s my son, Pete, Jr. He goes by Junior most of the time. Since he was born, I’ve been goin’ by Ol’ Pete on occasion, but mostly by kinfolk.” Pete dropped Kevin’s hand and hooked his thumbs back under the straps of his overalls. “I don’t care what ya call us, but just don’t call neither of us late for supper.” Pete grinned, and Junior did the same.
Junior, the first-born, was tall, large, and strange, always with a calm but puzzled look on his face. He had never been angry in his life. He looked in wonder at angry people, wonder and uneasiness, as normal people look at the insane. Junior moved slowly and spoke rarely. When he did speak, it was so slowly that people who did not know him often thought he was stupid. He was mentally challenged, but he worked hard and never complained. He cared deeply for his father, and imitated him in the clothes he wore and the way he spoke. He repeated everything his father said. It was so common for Junior to duplicate his father’s words that his schoolmates gave him the nickname, “Repeat.”
Junior seemed misshapen because his head was not normal. It appeared awkward and off balance, positioned on the summit of a large body between his broad, muscular shoulders. Pete thought he knew why Junior was strange, but Pete was ashamed and never talked about it. On the night that Junior was born, Pete, living out in the country with his laboring wife, became overwhelmed with his wife’s screams of pain. They had no health insurance, but it was too late to get her to a hospital anyway. Using his hands, his strong fingers as forceps, he pulled and twisted the baby through his wife’s birth canal. When they did arrive at the hospital, postpartum, the obstetrician found that the baby's head was pulled out of shape, his neck stretched, his body warped, and that is what Pete always remembered. The memory haunted him. He was kinder to Junior than to his other children. In Junior's broad face, with eyes too far apart, and long protruding jaw, Pete always saw the twisted, warped skull of the baby he had pulled into this world.
Academically, Junior could barely do that which was required of him. He had trouble reading and writing, but worked devotedly for his father. He did not seem to care about anything. There was apathy in him toward the things that normal people wanted and needed. His misshapen skull, balanced at the peak of his large body, trapped his silent intellect. He was a stranger to the entire world, but he was not lonely because he had his father
Kevin scanned all his goods. He went through the flatbed trailer, the open trunk, and the pile of junk under the card table. Kevin was ready to make an offer and he wanted to see how far he could push his luck.
“Ho
w about that goat?”
“Think again,” said Pete.
“Think again,” repeated Junior.
“Take another look. I’m sure we’ve got something you fancy.” Pete kicked at the pile of junk under the card table, knocking the heap forward and revealing a bag of eating utensils that Kevin had not noticed before.
“We’ve got something you fancy,” repeated Junior.
“Maybe you do.” Kevin picked up the plastic bag of metal spoons, forks, and knives. “I’ll take the spoons.”
“Spoons? Take the whole damn bag. Nobody’s got food. Hell, I couldn’t give these away.”
Junior did not repeat anything that time. He heard his father say, “food,” and remembered his father talking about the goat being food. He liked the goat, understood what that meant, and went back to the passenger seat to pet his animal friend.
Kevin poured his water into Pete’s container and, when it was full, said, “Deal.” Kevin put the plastic bag into his backpack and then held up his bow. “How much is this worth?”
“I’ve never traded for one of those. What people really want is food, medicine, guns, and ammunition. But if you could get me some liquor, and I don’t care if it’s moonshine or factory liquor, we’d make a killing.”
“You can get food with this. Isn’t that worth something?” asked Kevin.
“You’re preaching to the choir. I’m following where you’re going with that, but I’m telling you what I’ve seen. People are scared. I’ve seen ‘em trade everything for a shitty rifle and a handful of cartridges.” Pete’s eyes went up and down the bow. “When they come back to me with a gun and no cartridges, I know they don’t have a damn thing left, and I can get it back for nothin’. They’ll trade their world for a can of beans or a bottle of hooch.”
“If they’re that desperate, what stops them from taking it from you?” asked Kevin.
“There’s militia in that crowd. They make us pay for protection, but I don’t want it. They get a cut from everybody, but they don’t take everything, just enough to piss you off.” He sat back down in his chair and took a slow drink of water from his container. “It’s the cost of doing business.”
