by James Aura
We spent another hour going over some other French and international newspapers. The people in South Vietnam were in a nightmare, no doubt about it.
Elaine decided it would be OK if I slept on her sofa, since her roommate was shacked up with a boyfriend and probably wouldn’t be around for a day or two.
We had Ramen noodles for dinner and sat outside for awhile, looking at a sliver of moon in the black sky. The stars had the upper hand that night, the moon barely visible. It was clear as could be. Nothing like the last night sky I remembered, a bright, oval moon with storm clouds rolling in over the farm while I carried Grandma to the pickup and began our ill-fated trip down the road to the hospital.
Elaine brought out a pitcher of tea and we sat, each of us, no doubt pondering what the other was thinking. I thought about trying some romantic skills on this tall, brown haired Georgia gal in blue jeans.
But Elaine steered me in a different direction.
“Russell, why don’t you let your thoughts become deeds? If you feel so bad about the people in Vietnam, there must be some actual things you could do to help.”
She was right. One smart woman and her heart was in the right place.
“I guess I need to mull it over some more, Elaine. But I appreciate you translating all of that. I got some of it off the TV news but the Paris newspaper sure had a lot more detail.”
That night I tossed and turned on Elaine’s sofa, rolling Borges around in my head, thinking about the next afternoon’s Spanish final and wondering how Borges’ writings might have been different had he not gone blind.
I ran the gauntlet past the secretary and got in to see the Dean the next morning. He was sympathetic but said it was too late to request a postponement of my finals. He also reminded me I needed to keep at least a 3.0 grade average if I was to stay on the scholarship. On the way out, against my better judgment, I stopped at the secretary’s desk, with her calendar book that looked as it if might be embossed with “Lose all hope, all ye who enter here.”
“I just wanted to let you know, since my Grandmother passed away I am not sure if I will be back in the Fall or not.”
I half expected a sneer from Madame Praetorian, but instead she nodded sympathetically, opened another book, put on her glasses and stared at the contents.
“The dean had me pull your records: Russell Teague, recipient of the Excellence Honor Scholarship for Southern Men. Two ‘A’s’ one ‘B’ and a ‘C’ in freshman Spanish. Young man, I wish you good luck on those finals and I hope you can keep your 3.0.”
I plodded over to my rooming house, spent the next two hours poring over Borges and my notes then headed for my Spanish final. I thought it went well, but much of the exam was essay and the professor was unpredictable.
The next three days were a blur. Studying, poring over notes, books and taking exams. When finals, at last, were over, I stopped by Elaine’s and we walked back up to the drugstore. She said she felt good about her tests and wondered about me.
I felt queasy about how I had done, but didn’t let on.
“Well, we’ll know in a few days, won’t we? But I’ve decided I’ve got to get back to the farm.”
“Russell, have you let your boss at the warehouse know you won’t be coming back until August? Do you think you really will be back in August?” Her voice cracked.
I told her Uncle Wallace had some plans that might turn out to be money makers, but if I didn’t come out well on my finals, this might be my last trip to Auburn in a long while. Elaine looked distraught, but she agreed to check the final exam postings for me.
We stood outside the drugstore and she hugged me and kissed me on the lips.
“So it’s back up the road to Kentucky for me. Come and see us on the farm sometime.
You’ve been a good friend, and I will miss you, honey.”
She told me I was too smart and too good to go without a college education. From her kiss, I knew she would miss me, too. I went back to the rooming house and spent another dime calling George at ‘Alabama Feed, Weed and Seed.’ I could tell he was busy and probably preparing to unload the morning truck. He told me to let him know when I made it back.
I caught the northbound bus and watched the oak trees and the red brick campus buildings glide by as the bus picked up speed. I had picked up a copy of yesterday’s ‘Montgomery Advertiser’ off a bench at the bus station. The paper had some articles on Governor Wallace and the legislature. On page six was a brief article about Vietnam and Russian diplomats coming to Saigon. No details about the fate of the people at all.
While we headed north, toward Kentucky and the farm, I kept thinking about how I had screwed up, getting lost on the way to the hospital, Grandma slipping away even as I searched for the emergency room. I wondered how I might ever atone for my stupidity. It was a sad ride back home.
When I got off the bus I walked over to Tommy’s place. Tommy Gabbert was my best friend. Tom was a little shorter than me. He had coal black hair and one of his front teeth was missing. By his own description, he wasn’t college material. Tom was the smartest mechanic I had ever known. He could assemble or fix anything.
In second grade someone stole an apple from our teacher’s desk. Miss Piper was furious. She made every student in class stand up, and then she’d ask, “Did you steal my apple?”
Tommy stood up and said, “I did it. I stole the apple because we ain't got no food at home and I am hungry.”
Miss Piper went and got the principal. He made Tommy lean on the desk up in front of the class and whipped him with a willow switch until he cried.
I told Tommy at recess that he should have lied. But Tommy said he was like George Washington and could not tell a lie. He was not able to lie, just couldn’t do it. So I taught Tommy how to lie, just now and then- when it was for a real good reason. Every day we’d rehearse a lie, or two. It took Tom awhile but he caught on. Except whenever he would lie, he would grasp his left wrist with his right hand. But only I knew that, so it was not a problem. By the time we got to high school, he could lie with the best of them.
When I told Grandma about Tommy she didn't much like the business about the lying, but she started sending an extra apple in my lunch a couple days a week, then I noticed some of the other parents were doing the same thing. We'd all put our extra food in Tommy's desk when we arrived in the morning. After awhile, Tom said things were better at home and we didn’t need to, anymore. Miss Piper acted as if she didn’t notice anything.
Tom could look at something and see it for exactly what it was, no more and no less. Sometimes his common sense would help me stay out of trouble before I leaped into a flight of fancy. But I had imagination and lots of book knowledge, so in a way we made a pretty good team.
Tommy’s room was above the corner grocery store down the street from the bus station. He had agreed to drive me back to the farm when I got back. He worked a few nights a week at the bowling alley, and had three or four Mustangs and Firebirds he was restoring in a garage nearby.
There was no answer at his door, so I walked over to the garage. I found him there, on a creeper underneath a yellow Mustang. He had the engine completely out of the vehicle, hanging from a rafter on chains.
He had Merle Haggard on the radio and one of those mechanic shop calendars on the wall with a gorgeous model busting out of a skimpy outfit posing with wrenches and cars. This one was advertising motor oil.
“Tommy, I tried to find your new phone number .Sorry I didn’t call to let you know when I’d be back.”
He rolled out from under the car and chuckled.
“Russell, I haven’t had a phone since Pop kicked me out last year. How’d you come out with school?”
“I’ll find out in a few days, but I have a feeling I’m going to be ‘Farmer Russ’ for awhile, unless I can save up enough money to go back. I’m not sure they’ll renew my scholarship. Big thing I hated, I left a smart, good looking woman down there. Actually, there’s two of them. Either one could be se
lling motor oil on one of your calendars if they wanted to.”
He wiped some grease off his hand with a red shop towel.
“One of them must be the Georgia peach?”
“Yeah, she definitely had possibilities. But I don’t see her getting excited about the backwoods life. You know, the cows, chickens and sheep, not to mention Uncle Wallace sleeping with the canned goods.”
Tommy, as far as I knew, hadn’t gotten around to dating yet. I knew some girls at the high school were interested in him, but he stayed focused on his mechanical work.
“Well, I’ve got that wrecked Shelby GT up and running. Needs some body work yet, but let’s drive it out to your place, see if we can raise your uncle’s blood pressure.”
We drove sedately through town. The Mustang, red with black stripes, begged for a speeding ticket even standing still. But once we hit the blacktop out past the water tower, he opened it up. The engine sang and the fence posts became a blur.
When we turned onto the lane to the farm, it looked like all hell had broken loose. There were three sheriff’s squad cars parked in three different directions at the edge of the front yard. You could hear police radios crackling. We seldom saw sheriff's officers. They didn't come out this way much, didn’t want to get their precious patrol cars dusty and pitted from the gravel on our roads
I looked around and saw the two cats staring out from the barn loft door, eight feet up. It was getting dark; you could see their eyes glow from the bright yard lights.
Tommy grimaced. “Damn, Russell. What has your uncle been doing out here? I didn’t know he had it in him. Looks like he’s going to raise your blood pressure, instead.”
He broke out in a grin. The look on my face must have been something between horror and panic. I folded my arms and just shook my head.
“God knows. I hope it’s not too bad. But gosh, I haven’t seen three squad cars in one place, ever.”
We walked onto the porch and into the front room. Three sheriff’s officers were occupying the furniture, along with Uncle Wallace, and they were all laughing. Pistols were in their holsters, hats were on their knees. We hadn’t had a crowd that big in the front room since Grandma hosted Wednesday night Bible study.
They each had a glass of some beverage that appeared to have come from a large glass jar sitting on the coffee table. I had been expecting some level of larceny or mayhem but not this. They looked like they were having a party.
Uncle Wallace quickly rose and introduced us.
“This is my nephew Russell and his friend Tommy. Tommy is the best darn mechanic in Kentucky, sheriff. You ought to get him to take care of those squads. And Russell’s been getting ‘straight-A’s’ in college down at Auburn.”
I winced.
The one who appeared to have the largest badge, apparently the sheriff, rose and shook my hand. He was a big rugged guy, cowboy boots and a holster tied down on his thigh.
“Russell, I am terrible sorry about your grandmother. I met your Daddy in ’Nam, must have been five years ago. He was a fine man and a hell of a soldier. Your Uncle Wallace and several of us have gotten to be good friends at the VFW. It is a shame that your father did not live to be part of the group.”
You could have knocked me over with a feather. I had no idea Uncle Wallace was a socialite on the veteran circuit.
The sheriff went on, “We were talking about how you folks are going to turn this dirt farm into a big money maker. It sounds real exciting and I am hoping everyone benefits. The raw, organic milk alone . heck I know a dozen families who will come pick it up. You won’t even have to deliver it.”
It sounded as if Uncle Wallace had been busy during my absence from the farm.
With that, the group took another sip from whatever was in their glasses and took their leave. There were handshakes all around with Uncle Wallace, the sheriff and his two deputies. The mood was oddly festive.
When they got outside, there were wolf whistles at Tommy’s Mustang. They recognized it from the wreck that supposedly totaled it outside town last year. Tommy was beaming. Appreciation from law enforcement officers for your mechanical work is not something you get every day.
They then left, and Uncle Wallace quickly went back inside and retrieved the jar, and twisted the lid back on it. He carried it into the kitchen and placed it in the cabinet underneath the sink.
“Uncle Wallace, what was that all about and what were ya’ll drinkin’?”
Tommy was hanging back near the front door. He probably felt he might be intruding on a family discussion. But he was curious, I could tell.
“Let me just get these yard lights turned off, Russell. We were out back until it got too dark, and then we came in for a refreshment.”
He walked outside and flipped off the barn lot and back yard switches, then seemed to linger while he looked around for a minute.
“Come on in the kitchen boys, and have a sandwich. I’ll fill you in while we eat. I bet you’re both hungry.”
So we took seats at Grandma’s kitchen table, and it was then I noticed the house had been tidied up. Most of the flowers and green plants from the funeral were gone, and the kitchen table was mostly cleared off. Only the salt and pepper shaker remained.
He poured us each a tall glass of milk from the fridge and commenced to fixing ham sandwiches on three plates. Oat bread, mustard, cheese and thin cut ham slices. I knew better than to rush him, but I couldn’t wait for his explanation.
Tommy and I exchanged glances when he opened the cabinet door below the sink and we caught another glimpse of the quart jar which contained the mysterious drink. He brought the plates over to the table, sandwiches with a bowl of some pickled carrots and pulled up a chair.
“I reckon that you and Tommy are grown men now, Russell. So I’ll bring you up to speed. We were drinking moonshine. Kentucky’s best, if I do say so, myself. One thing I had to occupy my time out at the trailer was a still. I’ve been selling moonshine to folks around here for a couple of years and I have a bit of a following.”
I interrupted, “But that stuff is illegal and the sheriff was sitting here drinking it?” I had visions of a carload of revenuers kicking in the door and sweeping us all off to the pen.
“Don't forget we're in a damp county. No liquor unless you want to go pay for dinner in a high-falutin' restaurant. There is no reason why a man should not be able to sit on his front porch and have a sip of Kentucky's finest, now and then.”
Tommy had a different take. “Well, you gonna let us sample some of it, too?”
Uncle Wallace chuckled. “Like the sheriff said, we’ve been friends now for awhile. And he likes his moonshine. Deputies do too. They’ve been patrons for about a year. Some of them are even selling it for me. When Sheriff Parker returned from ‘Nam, he was a different man. He, and your Daddy, saw things over there that change your perspective on life. You learn not to sweat the small stuff. You especially learn not to take everything the government says too seriously.”
I realized Uncle Wallace was speaking normally. No long pauses or hesitation between thoughts. It must have been the moonshine. I was curious to learn why the sheriff seemed so enthusiastic about our plans for the farm, and how ‘everyone was going to benefit’, but I also was not anxious to bring Tommy too much into the family business, just yet.
“You are not drinking age, and the last thing I want to be, is a bad influence. So no, I am not going to share the ‘shine for now.”
Tommy wolfed down his sandwich and started on the carrots.
He looked pleadingly at Uncle Wallace.
“The sheriff’s department sitting in Grandma Teague’s living room sipping moonshine, gosh, I don’t know how long I can sit on a secret like that. How about at least a taste?”
Uncle Wallace hesitated and glared at Tommy. Then he reached under the sink and brought out the jar. He took two small toothpick cups out of the cupboard and poured us each about two thimbles full.
“This’ll do you for now. And
Tommy, I am sure you wouldn’t do anything to harm the future financial prospects of your old friend, Russell. So enjoy your little sample.”
Tom had gotten Uncle Wallace’s goat, but he’d also gotten some ’shine. We each took a sip. I’ll tell you what. I thought it was going to clear out my nasal passages, my eye sockets and my ears. That was a potent drink. I’d only had whiskey a time or two, so couldn’t claim to be an expert, but this seemed like weapons grade alcohol. The taste wasn’t altogether bad, though. Like the smooth dude in Esquire liked to say, “It had a pleasing finish.”
Uncle Wallace said, “I only use the sweetest corn and the sweetest deep well water. I throw out the new liquor and the last of the old liquor and only keep the sweet middle. That’s why you get that nice strong flavor without much burn. I don’t want you boys going anywhere near the still, and I won’t have you hauling any around either. As far as you know, Kentucky’s Finest is a mystery.”
