If a few of these old-timers I’m interviewing really are trying to communicate something to me, then I wonder what to make of the yarn I got yesterday. I put some brand-new carbon paper in the typer and punched out that damned second carbon copy for you, which I will send along in this letter so you can see it for yourself. Maybe you can give me some insight.
It came from an old woman named Mrs. Gabber. I’m pretty sure I wrote you earlier how I ran into one of the Gabbers about a month ago – the old boy who asked me if I was writing “hurtful” things – and how Pete explained to me about how Gabber was a big name in Mackaville. She must be kind of a shirt-tail relation because she lives out in the hills under fairly modest circumstances – not dirt poor, but not rich either. She’s got a clean little house and some pigs and chickens and a fair-sized truck patch, so I guess she does all right. She told me she’s got lots of “relations” around. I know of at least two, because I accidentally made their acquaintance on the way up to her place.
I had taken a road that cut across the flank of one mountain, then hooked across a small saddle and wound on up and over another. The outlook was beautiful, and I was on some really lonely roads, the kind with grass growing up through the middle. Although I was keeping an eye out for snakes and Blacks, there didn’t seem to be any, so maybe I got a little careless.
I’d bought a couple of bottles of Cleo Cola at Sparky’s Market in town on the recommendation of old Sparky Winters himself, who told me “it’s made right cheer in Arkansas, and it’s better’n Coke.” So I took a flyer on it. It’s not “better’n Coke,” but it’s not half bad. “The Queen of Sparkling Drinks,” according to the bottle, which also has a hotcha drawing of Cleopatra on it to make sure you get the idea.
I broke one out early, finished it in a few gulps, and swerved off onto the cliff side of the road and stopped, pitching the bottle out into space and listening to it crash on the rocks below. Then, out of my profound, natural modesty, I stepped across the road and into a bunch of pine trees before unbuttoning my fly to take a leak. Everything was kind of on a little flat or plateau here and the country dropped away gradually on the other side. The trees kept me from seeing that slope until I stepped into the woods. Then I realized I was peeing on a little path, not quite as wide as the road, running through the trees. Looking around, I saw a couple of sets of tracks, like train tracks, curling back and down through the pines, going out of sight behind a huge rock to the right of me that thrust up about twenty yards down the slope.
Well, that was interesting. Although I knew the Blacks or even snakes could be hiding behind it, and my .22 and shotgun were back in the sidecar, I was intrigued and stupid enough to step off down that little trail. Then I smelled something familiar – kind of like creamed-corn gone bad – and suddenly heard a “CLLLIIICK” behind me.
We’ve both read the books, seen the movies, heard the radio shows, but nothing, nothing, sounds as clear, as crisp, as deadly and purposeful and personal as a gun being cocked behind you. I raised my hands and then turned, very slowly I assure you, to face the music.
Even in those few seconds, though, I knew in my heart that it wasn’t the Blacks. And the seventh sense was right again, along with another sense – my sense of smell. The odor, which had become familiar to me over the past few weeks, was that of sour mash. I’d stumbled onto a moonshine operation.
The man was middle-aged or a little older, dressed in overalls and a brown shirt, a soft cap pulled down over his forehead. At least a decade’s-worth of handlebar mustache hung over his mouth and above the biggest damn Winchester rifle I’d ever seen.
“Whatcha doin’ here, gummint man?” he asked, his mouth hanging open so much that I could see a huge chaw of masticated tobacco inside. It wasn’t pretty. Neither was the tone of the question. In that moment, I questioned why I thought it was a good idea to still be wearing my CCC duds.
I swallowed.
John, there are times in life when God touches you. You and I have both been there, when we knew whatever we said would have a profound effect, good or bad, on our immediate situation and so the words had better be perfect. When that happens, sometimes you’ve got no choice but to throw a little prayer heavenward, open your mouth, and hope the exact right thing comes out. You and I have both wondered just how much God has to do with the minutiae in our lives, or anyone else’s, but I’ve got little doubt that in a terrifying or life-threatening situation He might give a little aid.
I sure as hell figured this was one of those situations, especially when I blurted out, before I could even form a thought: “I’m lookin’ to see if I kin buy some of thet ‘shine.” Just like that, in the vernacular and everything.
Were those words divinely inspired? I thought at the time that they were. I also thought that the grin that I suddenly felt on my face came from the same place. And I’d like to believe that together, the grin and the words saved me from a lonely unmarked grave deep in the Ozark Mountains. After all, I was still in the clothes I’d worked in from the beginning of my time in Mackaville; CCC outfit and boots and newsboy cap. For all they knew, I was a uniformed government agent come to bust up their still and haul ‘em off to the pokey.
“Jube!” the guy hissed.
Jube? Now what the hell did that mean? I was racking my brain for obscure hill-billy terms when I heard a second voice behind me.
“It’s that writer feller, I reckon,” it said.
I resisted the impulse to whirl around, keeping my eyes on the man in front of me. His rifle hadn’t moved.
“He’s right,” I said. “Mr. Jube is right. I’m on my way up to see Mrs. Ezekiel Gabber for a story.” I’d inadvertently dropped the corn pone accent, but it was too late to pick it up now. “Then I got a whiff of your mash, and it smelled awful good.” I actually licked my lips then – pure minstrel show but what the hell – before continuing.
“I figured to slip up on whoever was mixing up this first-class hootch and see if maybe they wouldn’t sell me a jar.”
Were he and the guy behind me buying it? I wondered. If they weren’t, it wasn’t because I hadn’t thrown everything I had into it.
The hill-billy stared at me for a moment, the rifle still aimed right at my clockworks.
“You couldn’t slip up on nothin’ ridin’ that damned ol’ motor bike. Sheeet, we heared you a mile away.” He looked over my shoulder, speaking to the man I figured was Jube. “Granny say anything about this fella comin’?”
There was a step, and Jube materialized right beside me. His tanned, deeply wrinkled face was clean-shaven; that was about the only difference between him and a man I guessed was his brother. He wasn’t carrying a rifle, though, which gave me some small comfort.
I jumped, doing my best Edgar Kennedy reaction. “Damn!” I said. “You sure move quiet.” I was playing to my audience now, and I figured flattery couldn’t hurt.
“Yeah, Jeb,” he said, looking me up and down. “‘Member? She’s all fared up about it. Gonna tell ‘im a damn good true story. ‘Bout pigs and cats.”
A freighted look seemed to pass between the two of them then, and Jeb lowered his Winchester.
“Yeah, I recollect that now,” he said. “Guess he’s all right then.” He turned his gaze to me. “Ain’t got none but our own personal supply right now, but we’ll be pullin’ a new batch in a couple of days. But we’re businessmen, you know. We’ll give you a snort for free, so you’ll know what yore gettin’. C’m’on.”
He turned and started down the hill and I followed, wondering why he had suddenly lost his ignorant hill-billy accent. And I realized then that his flannel shirt had looked both new and expensive. I looked back at Jube, trailing behind us, and saw that his clothing fit that same pattern.
Then I suddenly got the distinct impression that these guys had just been screwing with me, putting on the exaggerated hill-billy talk and mannerisms to maybe throw a scare into this Yankee interloper. In fact, I realized these two could very well be the rich Gabbe
rs who ran the town.
Within about fifty yards, we dropped into a deep ravine with a good-sized stream running through the bottom. The still was built into a rocky cleft above the water, the mash tanks up on the bank. The creamed-corn odor here was very nearly overpowering.
When we stopped, he turned toward me, holding out his hand, rifle cradled in his other arm. “Jeb Gabber,” he said. “Gabber Meats.”
So I was right.
“I’m Robert Brown,” I said, “and I’m very glad to meet the men behind Mackaville’s No. 1 employer.”
I turned and shook hands with Jube, too, and they both broke out in laughter until tears came into their eyes. It kind of pissed me off, but I knew better than to say anything. In fact, I played right along and grinned at them like the Cheshire Cat.
“Didn’t fool you, huh?” asked clean-shaven Jube between bursts of laughter.
“Sure you did,” I said. “I don’t mind saying you scared the hell out of me. If you’d tightened the screws just a little bit more, I might’ve run all the way back to Minnesota.”
My statement brought on another round of mirth, and Jeb was still laughing as he reached down into the stream and produced a jug.
“This here is the special stuff – triple-distilled,” he said, uncorking the jug and passing it to me.
I nodded. “Thanks,” I said, and tipped the jug up.
The mountain dew at Jolley’s Mercantile had tasted like gasoline. This stuff made it seem as meek as sarsaparilIa. I had no choice but to suck it down, taking Lord knows how much of the lining of my mouth and throat along with it. Tears erupted in my eyes. If someone had waved a match front of my face, my breath would’ve exploded.
“Gentlemen, have mercy!” I gasped, adding only a little theatricality. “I’m just a tender child. You must’ve squeezed that panther piss out of a rattlesnake!” I hoped they didn’t mind the mixed metaphor.
They didn’t. I guess they’d expected a reaction from this uniformed city boy, because they’d been watching me pretty intently when I took hold of that jug. After my histrionic response, they both exploded with hilarity again, and I joined in the laughter myself, tears still rolling down my cheeks from the gulp of ‘shine. Then they each helped themselves to a snort, and by the time Jube recorked the jug and set it back in the stream they had told me how to get to their farm – just down the road from Mrs. Gabber’s, where I happened to be headed – and to show up there Sunday or Monday if I wanted a Mason jar full of fresh triple-distilled shine.
“It’s the least we can do,” Jube said, with barely a hint of Arkansas drawl, “seeing as how we had a little fun with you and all.”
I thanked them both and climbed up on the big Indian. As I roared away, my feelings were curiously mixed. It had all been a joke, sure, but I wanted to like those two more than I did, if that makes any sense. In this town, it’d be best to stay on the good side of the Gabber family. But still, there was something about them that I just didn’t like. Maybe trust describes the feeling better.
I headed on up to my interview feeling weirdly light-headed. Just one gulp of that witch’s brew had been enough to kind of disconnect me from reality, and then Mrs. Gabber insisted I try some of her wild grape wine, which was damn good. Luckily, I didn’t partake until I’d taken down her story; even then, thanks to the ‘shine and the wine, that weird shorthand we invented came out even weirder, and I found it damn near impossible to decipher it when I got back last night. So I arose early this morning, a little bit worse for wear, and typed it up. There were a few words I wasn’t sure about, but I think I got it ok. You be the judge.
By the way – that old Gabber I encountered last month at Pete’s Skelly station. He’s one of her first cousins, she told me. Jube and Jeb are sure enough her grandkids. Hell, everyone in this whole damn neck of the woods is likely related in some way or another.
Funny, though. You’d think with rich grandkids that the old lady would live more palatially than most of the other folks I’ve interviewed. But her home, while clean and comfortable, isn’t very big or splashy. Maybe it’s got a little more space, but otherwise there’s nothing about it to make it stand out.
I’m headed into town now, so I’ll get this mailed – even though I can’t shake a growing mistrust of Postmaster Gibson – and then take a gander at the rack of used pulps at Sparky’s Market. Since I’ve got a little bit of dough threatening to erupt into flame in my pocket, I might go by the town’s other restaurant and get a hamburger. I’ve been in a couple of times and I really like the proprietor, an older Greek man named Castapolous who’s had some adventures in his life.
All this government geetus makes me think like a Rockefeller. Hell, I might even drop by the drug store and see if there’s a pulp I want badly enough to pay full price. I know if I was to buy one – or even two – I’d still have enough left over to take Patricia to the local movie palace tonight (admission is 50 cents at the Palace, as opposed to 25 at the Maribel) and buy her a box of Jujubes or whatever she wanted. (When we’re at the Palace, she gets Sno-Caps, which they don’t have at the Maribel.) And she is a whole other story that’ll have to wait for another day.
Let’s just say that when you visit me in Washington there’s a chance someone else could be there, too.
It’s funny. Right after I typed the part about going into town, I had a little bit of seventh sense blow through me like a zephyr. Probably it was warning me about something.
I guess I’ll find out. And if whatever it is doesn’t kill me, you will, too.
Let me know what you think of the enclosed tale, supposedly true.
Your pal and faithful correspondent,
Robert
WORKS PROGRESS ADMINISTRATION
FEDERAL WRITERS’ PROJECT
Official Form
DATE: 23 June 1939
INTERVIEWER: R.A. Brown
STORY TOLD BY: Mrs. Ezekiel (Alta) Gabber AGE: 90
ADDRESS: Star Route 2, Mackaville, Arkansas
Hit was 1846 when Jon Bodeen up and as’t Silvee Lower to marry ‘im. Jon Bodeen was my gran’pappy. They wuz a handsome couple. He was a big man, nigh onto six feet, and she was a cotton headed li’l woman with snappin’ blue eyes. In due time, a big bouncin’ boy wuz borned to ‘em and they wuz as happy as two humins ever wuz. They made over they chile like everything and ‘loved he was the most beautiful boy ever borned.
He had a li’l crib of a bed right night to thar bed and eny sound a’tall would fetch one uv ‘em up to his little side. He was a-doin’ jest fine ‘til one night in a rain storm a big crack o’lightnin’ woke up Silvee and she woke up Jon ‘cause she’d all of a sudden heered this big cat yowl right nearby. They looked and they was a big ole white cat a-sittin’ on thet baby’s chest jest a-suckin’ out its breath.
Jon swooped his arm acrosst the crib an’ threw thet cat a-squallin’. Afore he could get to his feet, it had clumb up th’ door and squeezed through th’ keyhole. Yep. A big ol’ cat like thet. Ain’t no tellin’ how it happened, some kinda witchery he figgered, but my gran’pappy swore ‘til he wuz in th’ ground that he seen it jest that way.
Then he seen granny cuddlin’ th’ little baby an’ screamin’ like a banshee. Thet baby wuz stone cold dead and them two just about pined away with it.
Howsumever, Silvee had annuther baby boy th’ next year. But they was powerful skairt that ole witch-cat, which is what they figgered it was ‘cause of goin’ through th’ keyhole an’ all, would come back an’ try ta get they second child.
Now Jon’s daddy lived pret’ near ‘em, and he knowed all about what had happened to that there first-born of Jon and Silvee’s. Onced they second babe was borned, he tole ‘em he was gonna move in with ‘em and take care of thet ole witch-cat himself. Silvee weren’t none too sure ‘bout that, they cabin bein’ so small and all, but Jon’s daddy jest laughed and said he prob’ly weren’t gonna be there long an’ jest fer the nights.
So he started comin’ down ev’ry night
, jest as th’ sun were goin’ down, and stayin’ right by thet baby’s crib. I ‘spect he’d been a-stayin’ there ‘bout three-four months when another big gully-washer come up durin’ a pitchy-black night and Silvee and Jon woke up to the yowl of a cat.
‘Course, they was skeered to death it was happenin’ agin, so they jumped up like they was one and saw that same ole cat a-sittin’ on they dear baby’s chest, just like before.
Then, like he’d come in on the wind, outta nowhere, the front door flew open an’ a big ole razorback hog jumped up into thet little crib and snapped his jaws around thet ole cat’s head.
Thet ole cat screamed as the jaws crunched down, and then that beast shook his head and threw th’ cat plumb outta th’ crib onto th’ dirt floor. Afore either Jon or Silvee could say anything atall, thet big hog had whipped outta there, took up thet dead cat in its mouth, and scampered out th’ door inta the storm.
By this time, thet baby was a-wailin’ fierce and Jon and Grandmammy Silvee was a- fussin’ and cryin’ and carryin’ out, so glad they boy weren’t dead. It took ‘em a while afore they realized Jon’s daddy weren’t there neither.
They sat there for a long time, makin’ over th’ baby, and then suddenly they was a thund’rous knock at the door. Jon grabbed up his rifle afore openin’ up, and when he did there standed his daddy, my great-grandpappy, and he told ‘em that ole witch-cat was roastin’ in Hell and wouldn’t be botherin’ ‘em no more. He said he’d go back to his own cabin as soon as th’ rain let up.
Silvee, holdin’ her child tight, thanked her daddy-in-law oh so pretty. Then she taked a corner of her night shirt and cleaned the blood offen the side of his mouth.
June 25, 1939
Sunday morning
Dear John,
Thanks for your latest missive. Although you didn’t say anything to make me think this way, I realized as I was reading it that I haven’t always thanked you for being a pal and supporting me and not thinking I’m crazy as a tree full of hoot owls – or, if you do, not telling me about it. I’ve been so full up with what’s going on with me that I’ve hardly acknowledged the news and observations you’ve sent in your own letters.
Seventh Sense Page 14
