by Stan Hayes
When they were level at five thousand feet, Gene Debs tapped Moses on the head. “You’ve got it,” he said. Moses banked the J3 into a shallow right turn, and the years fell away. It was as if he’d never stopped flying. The gently rolling green fields south of Bisque swept underneath them as Moses completed turn after turn, each one smoother than the last as he felt more and more at home with the little yellow bird. “OK, I’ve got it,” said Gene Debs, with a slight shake of the stick. Making two successive ninety degree turns to the left and right, he immediately cut the power and brought the nose up, holding the stick back until the aircraft shuddered slightly and the cockpit became very quiet. Then the nose dropped as the stall occurred. Gene Debs popped the stick forward, letting the plane lose altitude as it regained the speed necessary for flight, the airstream making its rigging sing. Bringing the nose up to level flight and adding power, he began a climb back to five thousand feet. “You try one,” he called to Moses, tapping him on the head again. “You’ve got it.”
The stalls, spins and touch-and-go landings all having gone well, Gene Debs gave Moses the aircraft back as they rolled down the runway after the flight’s final landing. As he taxied to the hangar, he thought that the hour of flight time seemed more like five minutes. They exchanged big grins as they stood by the plane. “Looks like it all came back to you,” said Gene Debs. “You’ll be soloin’ before you know it. J’you hang onto your log book?”
“Unfortunately not. Guess I’ll lose those few hours.”
“Too bad; I hate to see anybody not get credit for flight time. Well, if it’s gone, it’s gone. We’ll start you up a new one. Come on up to the house; you’ve earned a drink.”
They sat in Gene Debs’ kitchen, in the back of the old farmhouse that sat on the high ground just north of the airstrip. A fifth of Jack Daniels’ Black Label sour mash whiskey sat on the enamel-top table between them. They drank it straight from a couple of jelly glasses, chasing it with water that Gene Debs had poured into more jelly glasses over slivers of ice from the large block in the icebox. “Gotta get a ’lectric reefer;” he’d said as he chipped, “just haven’t had th’ time. Linin’ up my dustin’ customers’s takin’ longer than I thought it would.”
“What’s the problem?” Moses asked.
“Oh, hell,” he said, leaning his chair back against the wall, “anything and everything. It just ain’t in the average farmer’s nature to make quick decisions, particularly if it involves spendin’ money. Most of these ole boys’ve still got the first dollar they ever made.”
“Well, if they hate to spend money, they sure as hell must not like to lose it. Seems like they’d be glad to have one less thing to worry about.”
“Mm-mm-mm-fuckin’-mm,” Gene Debs chuckled, in that deep-down-in-the-throat way of the Redding family. “What you ain’t factorin’ in is a farmer’s built-in love of worryin’. If they didn’t have it, they’d be in some other line of work. No, I take that back. Lovin’ to worry’s just part of it. These people farm because they’re bound to. They love the land. Daddy’s always said that most of the cotton farmers he’s bought from all these years would’ve been way better off doin’ something else, but that the only way they’d leave the land would be feet first. It’s in their blood.”
“And a good thing, too. The economy in this part of the country wouldn’t amount to much otherwise.”
“Yeah, that’s for sure. It’s changin’, though, slowly but surely. And people like you are helpin’ to make it happen. People can see from your example that workin’ smart’s a lot better than just workin’ hard.”
“What the hell are you talkin’ about,” Mose said, picking up the bottle and topping up their glasses. “I work goddamn hard.”
“I didn’t say you didn’t; but you work smart, too. You don’t mind takin’ a risk to get ahead. You been here, what, three years?”
“Three years in August.”
“And you took a failin’ business in a town full of strangers and made it succeed. You spent money to make money. Farmers understand that, because they have to do it every year, borrowin’ from the bank to put seed in th’ ground. What’s different’s th’ payoff. It’s th’ same for farmers, year after year, and if your farm’s big enough, you got enough left over to live fairly well. But the people who’re comin’ back to the farms from all over the world’ve seen different ways of life. A lot of ’em won’t stay on the land for the rest of their lives the way their parents did. They want more, because they’ve seen more, and a lot of ‘em’ll leave the farm to get it. And every time they see someone like you makin’ good in a hurry, with your brains instead of your back, it pushes against that inherited love of the land and tells ’em that they can do it too.”
“Well, I hope enough of ’em’ll stick around to give you the dustin’ business ya need.”
“Oh, hell,” Gene Debs said, “Ain’t none of this gonna happen overnight. People’ll still be workin’ this land when you and I’re in the ground. Agriculture ain’t goin’ away; it may change a lot, but people gotta eat, and the bugs’ll always be with us. I’ll do all riit.”
“I’m sure of that. And have a damn good time doin’ it, too.”
“If I don’t, I’ll damn sure die tryin’. For a lotta years I thought this’d be th’ last place that I’d wanta live, but the older I got th’ more I could see that there was lots worse places ta be.”
“No shit,” Moses said. “Hey, one of these days maybe you’ll check me out on dustin’. I’d know I’d love that kinda flyin’.”
“And th’ way you flew today tells me you could do it. Some day. But I won’t be th’ guy to teach you; that’s too big a job for me, with one sprayer that’s got to fly for money every day possible. You could take a vacation some day, though, and go out to the place I where I checked out, in Waco. They’re set up ta do it right, and you’d be a certified duster six weeks later. You need to log a few hundred hours of normal flyin’ before you start thinkin’ about that, though.” Gene Debs grinned as he refilled their glasses again. “And since you’re not gonna be my brother-in-law, I wouldn’t have to take a lotta shit from Ríni if you did have bad luck and auger in.”
“Yeah, but if I did auger in, you’d still prob’ly get stuck with the funeral speech.” This struck them both as being very funny, and they laughed like hell. Moses’ mood sobered as he caught his breath. “Just so you know,” he said, “I’da been your brother-in-law if I’da had my way about it. But it looks like your sister’s had all the husbands she wants.”
“Hey, looka heeunh,” said Gene Debs, staring solemnly at Moses from underneath bushy eyebrows, “My sister’s always known what she wanted. And it’s not that enjoyable to be in her company when she don’t get it.” He held up his hand like an Old Testament prophet. “It’s not that I don’t love her; I do. But she’s the most determined woman I ever knew.” He took a long drink and set his glass down with a thump. “Flyin’, fuckin’and drinkin’ve brought me most of the joy that I’ve known in this life; wives, in my experience, are generally against these activities. I think that’s the way Ríni feels about husbands, except art’s in th’ place of flyin. She won’t rein in for nobody but Jack. I know you wanted to marry her, but I personally think that you’ll be a helluva lot happier with her as a friend. She can be a damn good friend.”
“Well, that’s where we are at this point, and the world’s still on its axis. How about pourin’ a little more of that Jack while I take a pee?”
“Sump’m I’ve meant to ask you, and never gotten around to,” Gene Debs said as Moses sat down again. “We coulda used you in ’41. Why didn’t you come back in the Navy when the war broke out?”
Moses looked at him, his eyes tightening. “They weren’t takin’ 33 year-olds with one leg shorter than the other,” he said. “Or maybe you thought I just walked this way for the hell of it.”
“Oh. Sorry, but I didn’t think you walked all that funny. What happened?”
“Cab clipped me
crossin’ the street one day. By the time they got my leg straightened out,” he straightened the leg in front of him, slapping the knee with the back of his hand, “it came up a little short.”
“Too bad,” said Gene Debs, peering up and down the length of the leg. “Now that I look at it, I see your shoe’s built up a little. Well, it sure as hell hasn’t hurt your flyin’ all that much. I was just curious.”
“That’s understandable,” said Moses. Ríni had told him that Gene Debs had won the Navy Cross for shooting down three Jap planes during the battle of the Coral Sea. “What outfit were you in, anyway?”
“VF-2, for most of it.”
“Flying Hellcats?”
“Not ’til late ’43. Most of my time’s in F4F’s- Wildcats- of one kind and another.”
“And all in the Pacific.”
“There and the West Coast. Never made it down to Gitmo, or anywhere else in th’ East, except Pensacola.”
“Good ol’ fuckin’ Gitmo. Well, here’s another one for you.”
“What?”
“It may be none of my business, but what’re you gonna do with that bazooka in the hall?”
At the end of a healthy pull of his drink, Gene Debs smiled the laziest of smiles. “You saw that. Just picked it up last week, along with eight crates of six rounds apiece, if a ‘round’ is th’ riit word for a fuckin’ rocket. Traded out with a Marine corporal over at NAS Atlanta for a Jap NCO’s sword. I guess he thought it was sump’m special, which of course it wudn’t, but since he no doubt stole the bazook, he didn’t have a lot in it.”
“Ever fired it?” asked Moses.
“Notchet, but I got ’im to show me how. Wanta do it? It’s a lot easier with two people.”
“Now?”
“Shitchyeah.” He waved an arm at the door. “There’s a bank over yonder about ten foot high. We’gn shoot inta that.”
“Hey, beer man,” said Jack, sliding into a chair opposite Moses in the Bisque Café.
“Hello, sport. What’s up?””
“Friggin’ school. This new English teacher, Ol’ Miz Brady? She sho didn't waste any time loadin’ us up with work.”
“What's the problem, bud?” Moses asked, easing a last bite of silky chicken and dumplings into his mouth.
“Ah, a damn old book report. First crack outa the box. That's some welcome to high school, idn't it?”
“Sounds like she's tryin’ to get y’all's attention,” said Moses. “What book you readin'?”
“The Return of the Native, by Thomas Hardy,” Jack said, holding the book up with a grimace.
“Hm. Thomas Hardy. He's good, but that Victorian language of his could put you off at first. Have you read much of it?”
“Not any, yet; you've read it, huh?”
“Yeah, but it's been awhile.”
“Well, see if you remember this:
‘Indeed, it is a question if the exclusive reign of this orthodox beauty is not approaching its last quarter. The new Vale of Tempe may be a gaunt waste in Thule; human souls may find themselves in closer and closer harmony with external things wearing a- ’
He paused, staring at the book.
“uh- ‘sombry-ness’- ”
“Let 's see,” said Moses, taking the book from him. “Where're you reading?” Jack put his finger on the word. “Oh. That's sombreness. SAHM-ber-ness. means seriousness. “
“OK.
‘a sombreness distasteful to our race when it was young. The time seems near, if it has not actually arrived, when the chastened sublimity of a moor, a sea, or a mountain will be all of nature that is absolutely in keeping with the moods of the more thinking among mankind.’ ”
“Sounds like Hardy, all right,” Moses said with a grin.
“And that's right at the start of chapter one,” the boy said in dismay. “How’m I gonna get through this?”
“Oh, you'll get through it, bud. It's just a matter of pullin’ the story out of all that old time language and sayin’ and what you think about it. Last time I checked, you sort of liked tellin’ people what you thought about things. I reckon that’s still the case.”
Jack thought for a moment, grinned and said, “Yeah. Yeah, it is.”
“Well, why don't you give this a try; spend about an hour tonight seein’ if you can’t get the basic story out of the book. Don't try to read every word; just try to pick out the main story without getting hung up on the flowery language. Then I'll meet you back here around this time- how ’bout day after tomorrow? -and we'll compare what you got out of it with what I remember about it. OK?”
“I'll give it a try,” said Jack. “but don't expect all that much. This thing’s over four hundred pages long.”
“I know. Just treat it like a puzzle, and look for his main story,” Moses told him. “You've got a lifetime to appreciate how people like Hardy use language.”
“Whaddaya got there, buddy?” Flx asked from his perch on Jack's chest of drawers.
“Flx. When'd you get here?”
“Oh, not that long ago. Not that you’da noticed, with your head in that moth-eaten book.”
“I've gotta read it for a book report. Mose says I oughta be able to get the main story outa the damn thing in about an hour, but I get bogged down in these damn old-timey words.”
“Lemme see. Aha! Thomas Hardy; that old rascal. These old English teachers just love ’im. I know this book; want a little help?”
“You betcha. Flap on over here, bud.”
“I can see just fine from right here, thanks. Let's see; which of the characters do you know anything about, so far?”
“Well, I've been jumpin’around in the book the way Mose told me to do, and it looks like this guy Diggory Venn- the reddleman? He looks like one of the key people.”
“Yeah, he is,” squawked the bird. “One of the good guys. That there Egdon Heath's fulla characters, and he's so straight it hurts, red skin and all. And, like most of us, a sucker for a pretty face. Who else you like?”
“Well, that Eustacia Vye seems interesting.”
“Yeah. She's definitely the other side of coin. And the only character in the book named for a body part.”
“A body part?”
“The Eustachian tube. Part of the inner ear. Not really; I'm just havin’ fun.”
“Speakin’ of fun, I wonder if they ever made a movie of this.”
“Don't think so; anyway, you don't need the Classic Comics approach to this one; I told you, I know Hardy's stuff.”
“Hey, bud; had your dinner?”
“Yeah, but not dessert; how ’bout you?”
“I guess I could choke down a piecea pie,” laughed Moses. “Whaddl’ya have?” he asked, waving at Reba.
“So, “Moses asked him, “How'd you do with The Native?”
“I think I've got the basic story, “Jack said. “Took me a little longer than an hour, though.”
“Sounds like it may have caught your interest. Guess you're startin’ to get used to the lingo.”
“A little bit, I guess. He's got a lotta people millin’ around on that ole heath.”
“Yeah, he does. But I imagine you've seen already seen that just a few of ’em’re really important.”
“That's for sure,” said Jack. “a few good ’uns and a few bad ’uns. Some happy with their lives, and some not so happy. Not all that much different from Bisque, when you think about it.”
“Yeah, I guess you could find pretty close copies of Clym and Eustacia and Wildeve around here, if you looked around a little bit.”
“And don't forget old Diggory,” Jack said with a grin.
“Oh, yeah, he's a pretty key guy. Be interesting to see what that caravan of his looked like, wouldn't it?”
“Yeah; he'd be a sight to see if he was as red as the red clay we've got around here. There something else I wanted to ask you about, too.”
“What's that?” Moses asked him.
“I got the feeling that Hardy was sort tryin’ to make a cha
racter out of the heath itself. Whaddaya think of that?”
Moses pushed his chair back a bit and looked closely at the boy, not trying to disguise the the excitement in his gray eyes. “You're exactly right, buddy, “he said. “You're a very quick study. I didn't realize that's what he was doing until a friend of mine tipped me off. According to her, the heath's the main character. And just to make sure the reader gets it, he's got Diggory there to, in a way, be the heath's human counterpart.”
“I guess that's why he makes him such a straight arrow, “Jack mused. “you've gotta be a really good human bein’ to measure up to the ol' heath.”
“Seems like he thinks more of the heath then he does of humanity, doesn't it?”
“Yeah, you could say that, “Jack said, nodding thoughtfully. “Wonder if anybody feels like that about Bisque?”
Chapter XIII. It’s Made to Sell
“…after all, beer’s made to sell, not to drink.”
-Harvey Fulford, late of the Hamm County Beverage Company
Trucks in the barn, their pre-holiday deliveries complete, Moses leaned back, feet on his desk, in his chair at the Hamm County Beverage Company. It was a good day, he reflected, to be in the beer business; President Truman ordered U.S. troops into South Korea last Friday, and the town was in an uproar. Speculation was afoot about how many Bisquites would be drafted to go to a place that few of them have ever heard of, let alone know where it is. Lots of talk, though, means thirsty talkers, and I’m thinking that we set an all-time one-day record today.
Didn’t take the world long to get back into the war business; when I think of what’s happened in the last ten years, I have a hard time believing it. Jesus, I’m not here four yet, and look what’s happened. It would’ve been a hell of a different story if that radiator had blown out ten-twelve miles up or down the road, instead of here. But here’s where I am, at the age of 42, unlucky in love and pretty damn fortunate in every other way. Wish Mama and Papa were around to see their boy in “high cotton,” as people around here like to say.
