Your cryptic pal,
Robert
June 25, 1939
Sunday night
Dear John,
How about this? Two letters from me in the same day. I wonder if they’ll both get to St. Paul at the same time. Let me know if they do or don’t.
I wanted to tell you about a couple of things that happened today, one more or less normal and one that’s pretty wild, which means “normal” for Mackaville, I guess. I’ll take them in order.
First, I finally gave in to Ma Stean’s urgings and went to church. Well, the real reason I went is that Patricia brought it up last night after our date, and at this point I’d probably do anything she asked me to do. Don’t tell Ma Stean, but the beautiful sweet Patricia is why my bony ass was fitted into a pew at the Mackaville Presbyterian Church this morning. It’s one of the three big churches in Mackaville, the others being the Methodist and the Baptist. I wrote you real early on about the Baptist church; it’s the one near downtown, the first one I saw after I hit Mackaville. Since then, I’ve found out there’s a little bitty Catholic congregation, too, and some splinter churches in converted houses or under brush arbors outside of town around the foothills. Probably more out in the mountains.
The Presbyterians have a nice old building of gray granite blocks, what I’d call colonial style, with great columns in the front and a tall tower steeple. The main part is a big hall – a sanctuary is the proper term, I think – with a couple of wings in the back for Sunday school classes. In front was a place for people to park their cars and tie their horses, and both jalopies and horse-drawn wagons – along with a couple of saddled ponies – occupied most of it by the time I pulled up, chauffeuring everyone in Ma’s car. Patricia pointed out a nice house next door where the preacher and his family lived, telling me the church provided it.
The message and order of worship were all kind of like we used to get back home at the Lutheran church in Hallock. Maybe I expected some pulpit-pounding and hellfire and brimstone, and I guess I would’ve gotten that from the Baptists or holy rollers, but this guy never even raised his voice. His message was about how we’re going to be surprised at who we see in Heaven, so we’d better do like Jesus said and treat everybody like we would ourselves.
You’ve heard that line about preaching to the choir. Well, this congregation seemed to be practicing what he preached, especially when it comes to treating black folks as equals. I looked around a couple of times during his sermon and noticed several what looked to be full-blooded Negroes sitting with everybody else, not in back or anything, but scattered throughout the pews. Here I am in the South, a region very tough on colored people, and I’m witnessing a mingling of the races we don’t even see up in Minnesota. I remember hearing or reading something about how the Presbyterians split into Northern and Southern branches on account of slavery and the Civil War, and this has to be one of the Southern churches, but they treat coloreds just like anyone else. Of course, this is Mackaville, and I’ve found out that different rules apply in this burg than they do in the rest of the whole damn country. I guess since most of the population is at least some black, having full-black people as their equals makes sense. And now that I think about it, I’ve seen blacks and whites together in town, and Pete always treats them just like he would anybody else. Of course, he’s got those full-blood colored relatives and so does just about everybody else here. Even Patricia.
So it might not make sense anywhere else on God’s green earth, but it does in Mackaville, and by damn, if you hold it up and look at it, I think it makes pretty good sense to treat everybody the same, like you’d want to be treated. The Golden Rule, that’s all this is.
Or maybe I’ve just “gone native.”
The preacher, a middle-aged guy with a full head of curly hair who had that same coffee-and-cream skin color as most of the townspeople, went from talking about heaven to talking about FDR, and how we had to be our brothers’ keepers and that meant keeping the Democrats in office. I’m not kidding. This guy talked about the good works Roosevelt was doing, God protect him (I can’t help but agree), and how we all needed to support his efforts. I was pretty surprised by this blatant politicking, but the congregation seemed to take it in stride.
I guess I was the only one in that crowd of maybe a hundred who hadn’t been there before, and when the preacher asked if there were any announcements Ma Stean stood up and introduced me as a visitor.
“This here’s Robert Brown,” she said, her voice slightly raised. “Some of you might already know ‘im.” Everybody started clapping then, and she whispered to me to stand up. I did, nodding my acknowledgement and feeling a little self-conscious about my black eye, which was already rimmed with yellow. I don’t know if they were clapping because they knew about the fight yesterday or just due to the fact that they didn’t get many visitors. Either way, it was a neat moment, shiner and all.
During the last hymn, “God be With You ‘til We Meet Again,” the minister walked up through the congregation and stood at the door to say goodbye to everyone. There was an informal aspect to that and I liked it. I followed Ma, Mrs. Davis, and Patricia out. I was wearing civilian clothes, khaki slacks with a shirt and tie – except for the tie, just what I wear when I take Patricia to the movies – but even dressed up I felt, I don’t know, a little unworthy of the luminous young lady in front of me. She is just beautiful, and smart beyond her years. I really want you to meet her.
Anyhow, when it came my time, the preacher grabbed my hand with enthusiasm and pumped away. “Son, I sure wish I’d had a bet on that fight!” he said. “You really surprised those ol’ twins.” He was loud enough that several people milling around on the steps looked at me, and I could see that if they hadn’t yet made the connection between this duded-up guy and the fellow in the CCC uniform who’d fought the Blacks – even with the cut on the cheek and my blackened eye to give it away – they understood it now. Before I could get down the steps, I was surrounded by well-wishers, some of whom I recognized from the day before. One of them was an old guy dressed all in white, with white moustaches and a little Van Dyke beard. I’d seen him in the drug store, waiting on customers, and sure enough he turned out to be Mr. Foreman, the owner. He thanked me for taking the fight outside and added something about how I gave “those stinkin’ Blacks” a lesson they needed.
Truth to tell, his words and all the attention kind of embarrassed me. “I got real lucky,” I said, and then, “Anyone know if they’re all right?”
At that, the talking around me just kind of paused. After a couple of moments, the preacher stepped over and took me to one side. “No bones broken, I understand,” he said softly. “Seth, the one who started it, is gonna be sore as hel – I mean, the devil – for a week or two. Sam, the one with the bad arm, is bruised up a little, but he just mostly had the wind knocked out of ‘im. That’s how I hear it, anyway.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“You really care?” he asked in the same gentle tones.
“Yeah,” I said. “I do. It’s like you said in your sermon. I try to treat people the way I want to be treated, and I’m not really a fighter. I mean, I’ve learned how to fight in the past few years, because I would’ve gotten the bejabbers knocked out of me if I hadn’t. But I grew up real skinny and I’m used to settling things with words. I still think that’s the better way.”
He clasped me on the shoulder and grinned. “That’s a good attitude to have, son,” he said. He probably wasn’t any older than Sheriff Meagan, who called me “son” sometimes, too. But I didn’t mind. “Glad to have you with us,” he added, and that made me feel pretty good.
He went back to working his flock and I was looking for Patricia in the crowd when someone tapped me on the shoulder. It was Mr. Foreman. “Do you have a minute?” he asked, almost whispering.
“Sure,” I returned, wondering what he wanted.
I soon found out. Mr. Foreman took me out to a nearly new Chevy Coupe pick-up and led me around t
o the driver’s side, where we were more or less out of sight of the rest of the folks. Climbing in, he reached under the seat and held out a paper sack.
“Here,” he said, “Rights of combat, and well-earned.”
It was good bourbon, smooth-drinking, especially after that alcohol-flavored kerosene that Dill Jolley and the Gabbers had shared with me. I took a good pull, and when I handed it back to Mr. Foreman I realized that a crowd of men had gathered around. I even saw an ebony face or two.
There was an old man standing next to me, and I passed the camouflaged bottle to him. He took a solemn drink and passed it to the next man.
It was the ritual we’ve seen back home, growing up, watching our dads and their pals coming in from hunting or fishing or some other big group activity, but this marked my first time as a participant. And not only that. Mr. Foreman and the rest were honoring me by giving me the bottle first. I expect you’ll laugh, but I was real proud.
The bottle passed around and went back to Mr. Foreman, who held it out to me again. “Thanks,” I said, grinning, “but I’ve got some women to escort home. I’d better be able to drive in a straight line.” I reached in my pocket and pulled out a little envelope. “Lucky I’ve got some Sen-Sen,” I added, shaking out a couple of squares.
They laughed, and I felt pretty damn happy with the world as I offered the Sen-Sen around. As far as these fellows were concerned, I was a good man, no matter where I was from, good enough to be one of them. It was a hell of a feeling that stayed with me all the way to Mrs. Davis’s house, where Ma and I had been invited for a pork-roast dinner.
It was delicious and I could’ve hung around there until dark, just to be near Patricia, but I didn’t want to overstay my welcome. Also, I had a full schedule of interviews I wanted to get done in the next week, and I knew if I didn’t get up to the Gabber place for my jar of ‘shine today, I’d likely not be able to make it for several days. These hill folks take commitments seriously, and I’d made one to the Gabber boys.
So, reluctantly, I excused myself about an hour after dinner. Patricia followed me out to the big Indian.
“What’s so important that you have to leave me?” she asked coyly, smiling a youthful smile that could’ve melted Adolf Hitler’s heart.
I couldn’t help it. I leaned over and kissed her on the lips, right there in daylight.
“Robert!” she said, pulling away – but not immediately – and glancing back at the house. “You want Gramma to see us?”
“I’ll bet Gramma knows. She’s pretty foxy.”
“Still.” She put a hand on my shoulder, squeezing it. “You need to be more careful. You’re not very careful at all.”
“I’ll try to do better. For you,” I said. “Look here.”
From the sidecar, I pulled out a leather aviator’s helmet, with goggles, which I’d mail- ordered from a military surplus catalog. “Just got it in.” I put it on, adjusting the chin strap. I turned to her.
“What do you think?” I asked.
She smiled again. “Very handsome. Like Charles Lindbergh.”
“Thank you.”
As I climbed on the bike she looked back at the house, and then damned if she didn’t lean over quick as a wink and kiss me again. I just about floated all the way to the Gabbers’ place – and it wasn’t a short trip. They lived up on Witch Mountain, although the name isn’t as portentous as you might think. So far, I’ve heard about or driven on at least four other Witch Mountains within ten miles or so of Mackaville.
I wanted to think a lot about Patricia on the trip, so I was trying to keep all else out of my head, including the sense seeping into me that something wasn’t right – that I might be heading for something bad again. As the old Indian growled up the road, I was sure I saw something moving in the brush at least a couple of times, down low. I felt eyes on me. Was it the seventh sense? Not to give anything away, but taking into consideration what happened later on, I think there’s a good chance.
This Witch Mountain made for a beautiful drive, with steep drop-offs, rocky cliffs, and plenty of sharp curves to keep me on my toes. The road that wound up to the Gabber boys’ place seemed lonely and more tree-shaded than usual, but when I got there I saw they had a good-sized farm, spread across the head of a beautiful green valley. The second thing I saw was that there were all kinds of pigs running wild behind their whitewashed picket fence. I say “wild.” What I mean is, they were like big friendly dogs – most of them.
I didn’t know that at first. The farm and its two nearly identical houses – considerably bigger than their grandmother’s place but not particularly ostentatious – sat a few hundred feet apart, back from the fence down a long pathway. When I opened up the gate to let myself in, all of a sudden I was surrounded by these porkers. There must’ve been fifty of them, and while they didn’t attack me or anything like that, they showed no fear at all.
I can’t say the same for me. I had never seen pigs so unafraid of a human, and their boldness gave me the creeps. A couple of big black boars even nudged my leg as I climbed back on the Indian. Remembering the pigs at the Murray farm back home, I pulled off my helmet and waved it at the two. They backed up then, and I drove on up on the gravel drive to the house on the left. When I got off the bike, those two big boar hogs were right there behind me, hanging back, watching my every move with bright little eyes.
Jube, the clean-shaven one, was standing on the porch, a white-haired woman in a faded-blue flour-sack dress holding onto his arm. He was grinning. I stopped the bike and looked around at the pigs.
“They figured you brought ‘em something,” he said loudly, above the noise of the pigs. “Either that, or they wanna see how the WPA tastes.” He laughed then, just like he’d done when I’d taken that gulp of ‘shine down by their still.
I had to laugh, too. Hell, John, those pigs surrounded me, acting just like farm dogs. I swatted one gently on the butt with my leather helmet and they all squealed. The one I’d hit drew up next to me like he was grateful for the attention. The only ones that weren’t friendly were those two bristle-back boars, practically as big as my motorcycle, who stood off to the side watching with what seemed to me like an ugly attitude. I wondered what they’d do if I made a serious-looking grab at one of the smaller pigs, but I didn’t want to know badly enough to actually do it.
When I stepped up onto the porch, the pigs drifted away, still hanging around near the house. I shook hands with Jube and introduced myself to his wife, who kind of uncertainly took my hand as well. We talked a little bit about the pigs – many of them, I found out, with upcoming dates at the Mackaville packing plant – and then Jeb wandered over from the house next door with a jar full of white lightning.
“You sure that stuff won’t eat through the glass before I can get it home, Mr. Gabber?” I asked as he approached.
Jeb looked at his brother and they both laughed.
“Why, hell, we told you this is triple-distilled,” he said, climbing up the steps and holding the jar out to me. “Smooth as sanded wood.”
I looked dubious as I took it, holding it up into the sunlight. Still playing the big-city tenderfoot, a character they seemed to enjoy, I squinted at the jar, turning it one way and then another.
Finally, Jube bit. “Looking for something?” he asked.
I shrugged, setting the jar on the wooden railing of the porch. “I don’t know. I guess if there were any foreign objects or rocks or anything else, they’d all be dissolved by now.”
Knowing there was a fine line between kidding and criticism, I hoped I wasn’t laying it on too thick, but they laughed again and I knew I was all right.
“I do appreciate it, gentlemen,” I said, taking on a serious tone. “You have the reputation for distilling the best whisky in the entire Ozark Mountains, and it’s an honor to buy your product. What do I owe you?”
Jube told me there would be no charge, “you being such a good sport and all,” and I had thanked them both and turned to go when I
heard his brother exclaim, “Well, I’m damned if it ain’t old man Black!”
My hair stood up at that. Turning toward the gate, I saw Black shaking a big gunny sack over the fence. Even at that distance, I could see twisting and slithering and I knew he was emptying a bag of snakes onto the Gabbers’ property. In just a few seconds, he’d gotten back on his horse and turned it around. He was all bent over in the saddle, like he was in pain, but he felt good enough to turn the horse toward the house, pull up the reins, and point at me before galloping off. When the horse reared and turned, Black’s hat fell off. He didn’t stop to pick it up.
“Damn,” I said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring any trouble to you.”
“That old fool ain’t broke the rules like this in a long time,” Jube said. “Guess he wants you that bad. But you don’t need to worry. Look yonder.”
As he pointed to a place on the driveway about halfway between the house and the yard, I saw the pigs, gathering up again. They were acting real strange, standing around looking at the two big black boars, who were grunting, harsh and sharp. It was like they were telling the others what to do. In a moment, all the pigs scampered out of the drive and – yeah, I know how this sounds – lined up on either side. The gravel drive down to the gate was clear and I could see the grass undulating at the far end. A couple of snakes slithered onto the driveway. Damned if I couldn’t hear their rattles, echoing dustily in the summer air.
Then it hit me: those damn pigs were making a lane for the snakes to come and get me. I’d been suckered into getting killed. Hell, the Gabbers were probably in cahoots with Old Man Black and his idiot sons!
Without thinking, I vaulted down the steps to the sidecar and jerked out my H&R .22 revolver, knowing that it probably wouldn’t be able to kill every snake that was headed my way. But I damn sure was going to get a few, and maybe a Gabber or two!
All of a sudden, Mrs. Gabber was at my side, softly touching my arm. “You don’t need that,” she said softly. “Just watch.”
Seventh Sense Page 16
