“Don’t kid yourself.’’ Jake reached for the top board and climbed up beside me. “They know how the world works. ‘Specially the ban ties.”
“The little ones?” I tossed a balled up piece of bread at one. Several of the other chickens raced toward it but the banty charged them and they scattered like marbles dropped on a tile floor. Jake laughed.
“See that? That’s what I’m talking about.” Jake elbowed me. “Look at all the others. How they cower to that little banty. Know why?’’Jake waited for my answer, but I didn’t offer one. “ ‘Cause he just thinks he’s tough. Look at him, chest all punched out like a bullfrog on a hot night.”
I did have a name for the one bird Jake admired. But, I didn’t say so.
“People’s the same way.” Jake spat between his knees, a mean spit, not the kind men squirt between puckered lips when they’re just chatting an afternoon away. “My old man was a banty rooster. Cock of the walk.”
I shifted my weight, slid an inch away from Jake, pretending to scratch an itch on my side. Jake kept his eye on the chickens.
‘“Only room enough for one rooster in this barn,’ that old shit told me.’’ Jake spat again. “That was the last thing he said to me as I was packing up.”
“How long ago was that?” I asked, as I flipped more seed into the corral.
“Too long to remember, boy.”
Jake got quiet. His hands gripped the rail as he leaned forward and stared at the scrambling chickens. “See how fast that one is?” He jutted his pointy chin at the one Uncle Keven and I had secretly named Jake Jr. “You gotta be fast in this world, boy. Just like that banty. Walk tough. Look ‘em in the eye. Keep movin’. Always keep moving.” Jake spat at the chickens. “They can’t hurt you as long as you’re moving.” He shook his head.
The chickens continued their squabbling. Jake Jr., however, stood stock still, broadside to Jake and me. His yellow beak sat half open and his black, glassy eye blinked calmly. Watching him made me think of Jake — as if the both of them had only one good eye.
“See the spurs on him?”“Jake asked.
I looked at the scaly heels on the rooster. “Yeah.”
“Them’s equalizers. Know what an equalizer is, boy?”
“No.”
“Something to even things out.” He leaned back and reached into his pants pocket. Out came what looked like a polished black handle with a raised silver button near the end. I must have frowned because Jake chuckled and said, “Never seen one, have you?”
I just shook my head.
“Here. Get a closer look for yourself.” His hand floated up to my face and his thumb slid down toward the button.
FLICK!
I jerked back as a flash of silver exploded out the side of the handle. It was like snapping fingers — the thumb stopping ahead of the sound — it was so fast. It took me a second to realize what I’d just seen.
“Wow!”
“Wow’s right. With this,’’ Jake said, chuckling, “I can be the banty rooster of any goddamned barn I want.”
My eyes stayed fixed on the shining blade. My tingling fingers drifted toward the knife.
“Don’t even think about it, boy,” Jake said. “It’ll cut your gizzard out ‘fore you can yell ‘Daddy!’.” He folded the knife and slipped it back into his pants pocket. Jake spat again, this time with less meanness.
“Who’s doing all the yellin’ at night?”
“Huh?” I was still thinking about the switchblade, what it’d take to get my hands on one. “Oh,” I said as I looked up at the house and shifted my weight. “Uncle Keven ... he has real bad dreams some nights. Says it’s the war.”
“Hmm. Hates them Japs, I bet.”
“He ... he doesn’t talk to me about it. Says he can’t.”
“Well, what the hell do you two talk about all day? I seen you out there on the front porch. Him whittling away. You smilin’ like a kid on Christmas morning.”
“Baseball. Uncle Keven was good.” I could feel the excitement building in me. It always started when I talked baseball. “Real good.”
“Could swing the stick, huh?”
“Boy, could he. And catch, too.”
“Shit,’’ Jake said as he hopped down from the fence. The chickens scattered, wings flapping, throats clucking at one another. Jake turned around, leaned against the fence with his arms crossed, and stared at the house. He worked up a hard spit, the kind that puffed his cheeks out and growled as it came up. He coughed it out, then kicked at it with his boot. “Baseball,” he said as he walked off, “is for sissies.”
~ * ~
June sprinted by us as if we were standing still. During the hot days, I’d walk the fields pulling rye, getting rid of it to avoid dockage come harvest. On other days, my job was to clean out the trucks, check the oil, the radiators, and get them ready for the beginning of harvest in mid-July. When Uncle Keven wasn’t looking, I’d climb the red International Harvester combine, grab the huge black steering wheel, and pretend I was driving. Nearly every morning I begged him to let me start up the green John Deere just to hear it. I thought the smell of gasoline would forever be my cologne.
Jake helped Uncle Keven replace sickle blades. From there, they’d move to the discs, always thinking ahead, even though some years Uncle Keven didn’t disc the fields because the soil was already turning into brown talcum powder. Harvesting Uncle Keven’s four thousand acres would take the last half of July and nearly all of August. Jake did nothing but complain about how hot and dry the Palouse was. I tried to stay away from him as much as possible. I even looked forward to the hotter days of late August, when Uncle Keven would be sending me out into the fallow fields with nothing but a hoe and a canteen to pull up the thistle and the tumbleweeds. Jake always said he had some other place to be. Somewhere else more important.
My father tended to his own crew, his own five thousand acres of rolling, undulating dream wheat. Mother didn’t see him from before dawn to after dusk, so she visited with Uncle Keven and me every other day around lunchtime. She’d pile out of the Pontiac with crunchy fried chicken, cold mashed potatoes with a slab of butter punched into the center, and coleslaw. She and her brother mostly talked about the weather — and me.
“As long as the boy’s eating,” she said as she nodded toward me.
“He is, Katie,” Uncle Keven answered. “Just look at him.”
“I just wish you’d get yourself a phone, Keven,” she said as she started the car.
“Haven’t the need for one, Katie. I got Amp.”
Sarah, I saw little of that summer. She’d come by on occasion — mostly in the evenings on her way into town — with mother’s car. “Two more years, Uncle Keven,” she’d remind him. “Just two more and I’m out of here.”
That one Friday, that one nearly all of Endicott would remember as being the hottest Friday they could ever remember, Sarah drove down the gravel driveway to find Uncle Keven listening to the radio on the front porch. He was bent over, whittling away at time and a crooked pine bough, shaking his head at the Yankees’ latest home run. I was trotting his roan mare between the house and the corrals when Jake came out of the barn all duded up. Payday made him walk taller than he really was. A slicked up banty rooster.
Sarah pulled to a stop when Jake walked in front of the car. He moved to the driver’s side, opened the door, and offered her a hand. Sarah didn’t get out. I trotted over.
“Hey, Sis,” I said. “Whatcha doin’?”
“Looks to be going to town,’’ Jake answered. “Nice skirt and fancy shoes.” He nodded as if in agreement with himself. I slid down off the mare.
“That I am, Jake, thank you.” Sarah reached up and adjusted the bright yellow bow behind her head. “Came by to see if you needed anything.”
“That I do,” Jake said.
“I was meaning Uncle Keven and Amp,” she said.
“Well, it is Friday night. And it is a long walk into town for a man my age.”
“I think we’re okay, Sis. Uncle Keven and I don’t need anything.” I moved behind Jake and looked into the car. Sarah was gorgeous. Hair pulled back in a ponytail. Ironed beige blouse and saddle shoes. Pleated white skirt. Even bright red lipstick. She looked like a Grace Kelly sitting in my mother’s car.
“Come on, princess. Step down from your carriage.’’ Jake made a wide sweeping motion, curtsied, and turned his good eye on my sister.
“Thank you, no, Jake.” Sarah’s hands gripped the steering wheel. She barely turned her head toward us. “But, I do have to go. I have someone waiting for me.”
“Well, let’s go then,” Jake said as he raced around to the other side of the car. I glanced up at the porch. Uncle Keven was gone. The radio sports announcer’s voice hooted and howled. I turned back to my sister.
“I think it’s okay, Sis.” I shrugged my shoulders, leaned over, looked past my sister, and saw Jake reaching for the door handle. Before Sarah could say anything, Jake had the door open. “Uncle Keven trusts him,” I said.
“Sure he does,” Jake said, drawing out the first word as he sat down. “He hired me, didn’t he?” He slammed the door. “Besides, Sarah. It’s only a ten-minute drive into town. Surely you can spare that much of your precious time.”
~ * ~
Two months later, I found Jake sitting on the bumper of the Ford, trimming his fingernails with his knife — the equalizer.
“Hey,” I muttered. Jake didn’t raise his head. “Can you take me and my stuff over to my parents’ house a little later?” The rehearsed words spilled out of my mouth.
“Why don’t you have your cute little uncle drive you over in the morning?” He chewed on his left index finger, then spat at the ground.
“Well, he’s gone. Uncle Keven’s gone up to Spokane with my parents. Remember?”
“And you?” Jake’s head swiveled toward me. I looked into that cloudy gray eye, the one that rarely blinked.
“Well, Sarah wanted me to come to the house and stay with her. She gets scared, you know. You know how girls are.” I watched Jake nibble on his ring finger.
“I thought she’d gone into town for a couple of days. Heard she wasn’t feelin’ so good.” Jake drew those last words into an accusation. A smirk peeked from the corner of his mouth as he lifted his chin and glared at me.
How, I thought, could he talk like that after what he did to my sister? My eyes felt like they were on fire. I looked away.
I shuffled my feet and stuffed my hands in my pockets. “Well, that’s why she stayed home and Uncle Keven and everybody went up to Aunt Roberta’s,” I lied, “to see about Sarah staying with her for a while.” My mouth was as dry as sawdust.
“You know, boy, I haven’t seen you talk this much in a week’s time. Somethin’ going on here you want to tell me about?” He folded the equalizer and stood up. “ ‘Sides, you can drive. Why don’t you drive your little ol’ ass on out there?”
I felt caught. Cornered. My stomach twisted itself into a knot.
“I said,’’ Jake growled, “why—”
“Uh, because . . . because —”
“Oh, hells-bells. I’ll do it, boy. Let’s go right now.”
“Right now? You sure?”
“Shut up, boy.” Jake’s mouth warped itself into half-smile, half-grimace. “You ain’t afraid to go with me, are you?”
“No, sir, it’s just that…” The knot twisted on itself. Would Uncle Keven be ready?
“What? It’s just what, little boy?” Jake leaned over and put both hands on his knees.
“Nothin’.”
“Damned straight, nothin’.” He stood back up and puffed his chest out. “‘Sides,” he added, “I like visiting with your sister.” He winked at me with his good eye. “Now go on and get your stuff.”
The Ford screeched up the driveway toward the three silos, The Holy Trinity. I said a prayer to the Holy Mother of God as Jake drove past.
Jake turned onto Highway 16 and the blacktop began snaking its way past more grain silos lining the six miles of winding road toward home. I loved to count the silos every time we drove the highway between home and Uncle Keven’s. There were sixteen total, the same number as the state highway’s.
I counted the first five silos before Jake said a word to me.
“Why you acting so strange, boy? One minute you’re babblin’ like a schoolgirl. Next minute you’re all clammed up.” Jake had to turn his head all the way around in order to see me with his good eye. “You don’t think I like little boys, do you? Is that what’s bothering you?” He turned his head back toward the highway. “Shit, boy, I like girls. I’m not like that uncle of yours, Uncle Kevin.”Jake cooed my uncle’s name, then tilted his head back and kissed the air in front of him. “No sirree bob, I ain’t nothin’ like that little queer.”
I kept counting the silos, hoping that concentrating on them would keep my head clear, focused.
Farther down the highway, Jake leaned into the door, cocking his head ever so slightly, like a man listening to his girlfriend whispering secrets over his shoulder. His cigarette dangled from his bottom lip and he draped his right arm across the steering wheel.
“Turn here,” I blurted out at the sixteenth silo. My hands shot up and cupped my mouth as if I’d just burped at the dinner table.
Jake’s right hand slapped my thigh. “Don’t you think I know that, boy? I know where your sister lives,” he said with a laugh as the Ford’s wheels left the pavement and started up the gravel road.
We topped the last hill and coasted down the driveway to the front of my parents’ house. Jake cut the engine before the truck came to a stop.
Bill and Will, our two Labs, didn’t sprint out to greet the truck as they usually did. I heard them barking from inside the barn off to the right of the house.
“Why are them mutts put up?” Jake asked.
I kept staring at the house, wondering if Uncle Keven had heard the truck.
Jake’s hand slapped my shoulder. “Hey,” he snorted. “I asked you a question.”
I pulled my hands out from under my bottom — I’d been sitting on them trying to warm them up. “Uh . . . uh . . . sometimes Sarah just puts them up. I don’t know why.” I kept searching the windows of the house, looking for a clue of Uncle Keven’s presence.
“Hold on, boy.” Jake snatched at my shirtsleeve as I leaned into the door to push it open. “I got us an idea.”
I froze. I could feel my chin start to jiggle.
“I got us a proposition, boy.” My shirtsleeve fell free. I heard Jake’s Zippo lighter click open. I pulled my stare from the floorboard and watched him suck on another cigarette, his head slightly turned to the right, that gray eye peering at nothing. His lips pinched the cigarette and the flame flickered. The Zippo clinked shut and his brown hands moved away from his face. “Why don’t you hustle on over there to that barn, saddle up one of them ol’ swaybacks your old man calls a horse, and take yourself and them dogs out for a evenin’ ride?” He took another drag on the cigarette. “A real. . . long . .. ride. Thataway,” he blew a cloud of smoke toward the roof of the truck, “I can help your sister Sarah around the house.”
My legs felt like icicles. I thought they’d snap if I tried to stand on them.
“Damn, boy. You’re shakin’ like a dog shittin’ a peach seed.” He snickered, slapped me on the arm again and said, “You ain’t afraid of the dark, are you? Now, go on, boy.” He turned and glared at me with his one good eye. “I’m tellin’ you, you don’t want to be around here while I visit with your sister.”
Tears welled up in my eyes. The dashboard, the windshield, the house — everything — went blurry. I blinked and blinked but I did not make a sound. I refused to make a sound.
I bolted through the open door and sprinted toward the barn.
“That’s right, gingerbread boy!”Jake shouted at me. “Run, run as fast as you can.”
I collapsed into a ball when I reached the side of the barn. I squeezed my
fists and pressed them into my cheeks. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t breathe. My mind swirled and spun and coiled back in on itself. Don’t you dare cry, I thought. Don’t you dare cry. I crawled my way back onto my feet and slid along the barn until I made it to the corner. I leaned my head back against the wall, drew in a deep breath, and then eased my nose around to see Jake stop on the front porch. He reached for the doorknob. Will and Bill howled furiously.
Jake twisted the knob, calling, “S-a-r-a-h.” He kicked the door open. The dogs fell silent. I held my breath. Just as Jake stepped through the doorway, it hit.
The baseball bat struck mid-thigh. I heard the big bone snap. Jake squealed. He hunched over, frantically groping at the bent leg. The bat fell again, this time across his back.
The Best American Mystery Stories 3 Page 37
