Howard slipped the coil over his shoulder and started back through the woods. He licked his lips and thought of a drink. Howard had discovered what every drinking man knows: that quality liquor can make time stop. For a few hours the world comes rushing back, the fields roll under your feet, your hand locks steady around the handle, your back like a piston again, the mountains rise up and form a sparkling crown around you. Anyone could tell it was no way to live, this daily illusion, a phantasm of possibility, followed by blind retching, churning gut, bleary mornings, black heartsickness. But it was better than nothing.
He would pay his debts to his brothers and that would be it. Jack would understand and give him time. His younger brother always seemed to believe in him, always loyal. He thought then he ought to tell Jack about what he had seen during the war. He ought to tell Jack about the ocean and how it moved, how small it made you feel, how it shrank your world into a single droplet. Howard stood beside a tall elm and rested a moment, one hand on the mottled trunk. He closed his eyes and confronted his latest humiliation: that his little brother knew he was drunk in a ditch at the foot of Turkeycock Mountain when Forrest got his throat cut. Howard knew that this was something that hung inside his youngest brother’s chest like a rusted knife.
THE RUN WAS finished overnight and the next morning when Jack rolled out of his bedroll he saw Cricket squatting on the porch and smoking a cigarette. A few wisps of smoke still drifted from the house as if it were lightly steaming, the way a sweaty man’s head will steam in the winter. Cricket’s face was still blackened, and when Jack approached he showed his rotted teeth and clasped Jack’s hand.
Come see what we got here, he said, and led Jack into the house.
Cricket and the twins had run the liquor directly into an old water-heater tank they’d sealed up. Using some extra copper piping they hooked the tank into the house’s well-water lines. Aunt Winnie had a gravity pump set up to bring in water from a cistern in the basement, piped in from a deep well just behind the house. Upstairs in the bathroom she had a water closet with a flush toilet and a water basin with hot and cold taps. The hot-water tank had a sixty-gallon capacity, and over the last few days they’d just about topped it off.
See, Cricket said, this here is how it’ll work.
They were standing in the upstairs water closet. Outside the twins were still sleeping, lying together in the sun like barn cats. Jack’s head pinged a bit from the whiskey he had consumed, just enough to knock him out, his last memories from the night before of the twins rolling around the small fire, wrestling and shouting, someone’s pant leg catching fire followed by sobbing and then deep snores. The bathroom had a pull-chain toilet scarred with iron stains, and a shallow basin of tin nearly rusted through at the seams. On the wall hung a crudely painted landscape, a set of hills, a fence line, what might have been a cow or a horse.
Aunt Winnie did that, Cricket said, nodding to the picture.
You don’t say.
What happens is, Cricket said, man comes in for some liquor, brings his own container.
Cricket brandished a glass pint bottle.
Everythin’ seems normal, Cricket said, just a nice little mountain house here, us fellows here watching the place, whatever. Well, at some point, after sittin’ a spell, the man asks if he may use the water closet, and we say yes, ’cause he already done paid. And we say, try the hot water, it’s real nice, or something like that. So he comes in here.
Cricket held the open bottle under the hot-water tap, and turned the valve. A few squeaky turns, a dull rumble in the wall, and then some murky gray water followed by a thin stream of steaming whiskey. Cricket filled the pint bottle, turned the tap off, and corked the bottle triumphantly.
Man tucks his bottle away, Cricket said, and out he goes.
Hell, Cricket, Jack said, that is the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen.
Cricket looked at the stained sink. He swished the pint bottle around a bit, then stuck it in his back pocket. Jack walked back outside onto the porch. At the edge of the clearing one of the twins squatted with his pants down, straining like a dog, one hand on a tree trunk. The other stood a few feet way, seemingly unsure of what to do with himself while his partner was so engaged. Jack knew that Cricket and the twins wanted his help particularly because his presence would keep the sheriffs away and keep the thing orderly as far as customers were concerned.
C’mon, Jackie, Cricket said from the doorway. It’ll go. Just wait.
The twins watched him expectantly, one with his pants around his ankles.
Guess we’d better go get some customers, said Jack. Damn, Mitchell, pull up your pants. Nobody’ll buy any liquor with your goddamn gonads hanging out.
IT WASN’T LONG before men started to show up. The Mitchells spent the morning driving Cricket’s Pierce-Arrow and dropping the word at various filling stations in Sontag, Penhook, and Burnt Chimney. By four o’clock they had a dozen men shuffling around the dusty parlor, a few in the yard, talking in low tones, bottles sticking out of their pant pockets, each waiting their turn to use the washroom. Fifty cents a glass, a dollar a pint. A few men brought demijohns and Jack calculated the price accordingly as he sat in the rocking chair on the porch and collected money. Cricket squatted just outside the washroom door, grinning and sipping from a jar. Thin streams of smoke drifted between the floorboards and the smell of mash was overpowering in the house. The twins were posted down the road as lookouts. Jack didn’t know what they were looking for, as many of the men who wandered up the road afoot or on horseback and in various jalopies could’ve been anyone.
They had collected nearly forty dollars when the old ladies showed up. It was getting darker, and men loitered about the clearing, drinking, a few card games going, and music from the radio was playing through the open door. Jack was sitting on the porch counting the small change when the wizened lady in beaten leather boots came up the steps. She had a couple of other ladies in tow, all of them appearing at least eighty years old.
The Mitchell twins came running through the yard up to the porch, both of them shirtless and sweaty, their faces twisted with fear, crowing in odd, boyish voices.
Aunt Winnie!
Aunt Winnie, what’re you doing here?
Aunt Winnie paused to scrutinize the twins, her ancient face folding up on itself into an escalating fan of wrinkles. She was a statuesque woman with a high shelf of shoulders that bunched about her ears. Her dress looked rough-hewn from standing gingham, with stitches like staples roaming across the heavy fabric. Her hair was whittled down to a patch of thin strands that hung in a swatch, barely reaching her collar.
Who you? she said.
It’s us, they chimed.
Uh-huh, Aunt Winnie said.
Your nephews, one said.
Cal and Eddie, the other said.
Men on the porch and in the yard began to sidle off, looking like they were idly wandering or they had seen something of remote interest out in the yard. The two women behind Aunt Winnie peered at the twins. They were clearly related to her. After glaring at the twins for a moment Aunt Winnie shrugged and stomped up the porch and into the house, the two ladies following.
Nattie’s boys then, Aunt Winnie said. Woman was a crooked liar but that don’t mind.
The twins looked at Jack.
Ain’t this a damn fine mess, Jack said.
Men were now streaming out of the house. Jack was slightly drunk, and the euphoric feeling was quickly mutating into a cloudy annoyance. Aunt Winnie trooped directly into her bedroom without seeming to notice anything unusual. The two ladies in tow sat on the couch and after working their dresses around their legs properly took out knitting needles from large bags. Aunt Winnie came out and stood in the door to her room, her hands on her hips.
Aunt Winnie! the twins cried.
Someone ought to get out a bite to eat around here, Aunt Winnie said, for the company.
Jack went into the hallway to the bathroom, where Cricket crouched by the do
or, jar in hand.
What? Jack said.
Something ain’t right with this liquor, Cricket said, shaking his head sadly.
You better come and see who’s out here, Jack said.
Gotta old boy in there, Cricket said, gesturing with his shoulder.
Well, get him out.
Don’t think I can, Cricket said, smiling weakly.
Jack opened the bathroom door and it swung in a few inches and hit something. Jack forced it with his shoulder until it gave and a man yelled. Two old-timers stood there by the sink, holding jars of whiskey. One of them was a scraggly fellow with a tobacco-stained beard and he had his pants down around his ankles. At least the tap wasn’t running, Jack thought, and closed the door again.
You old fools get the hell out, he hissed through the door. We’re closed!
When he came back into the kitchen Aunt Winnie was opening a giant can of government-surplus beans. The twins, still shirtless and running with sweat, stood there with their mouths open. The other two women knitted while Cricket squatted by the sofa. He was stone drunk. Smoke drifted through the floorboards around Cricket’s feet like he was squatting in a smoldering campfire. Aunt Winnie shot Cricket a nasty look.
I know you, boy, Aunt Winnie said.
Yes’m, Cricket grunted.
His eyes were watery and he swayed in his low crouch.
Backslider, Aunt Winnie said. Why ain’t you been to church like you should?
I done tried, Cricket said.
You ain’t tried enough, Aunt Winnie said.
Cricket looked like he was about to cry. His arms were folded across the tops of his narrow knees. The house was quiet except for Aunt Winnie’s struggles with the can of beans and the creaking floor-boards under Cricket’s rocking feet. The twins stood by the door and looked like they were ready to bolt.
You gotta find the Lord, Aunt Winnie said. Then your life’ll straighten up.
I done tried, Cricket said softly.
Cricket’s head hung between his knees. He was only twenty-one and had a bald spot developing in the greasy swirl of his hair.
Was working out fine, Cricket said. Until the damn preacher ran off with my wife.
Cricket began to cry. One of the other ladies stood up and walked into the bathroom.
Aww, that ain’t gonna be good, one of the twins said.
What’s that stink? Aunt Winnie said. Smells like skunk nailed to a dead man.
THAT EVENING WAS payday at the lumber camp and the men lined up to receive their money. Forrest stood behind the large table saw with his metal cashbox and ledger, ticking off names with a pencil stub. Howard stood in line with the rest, his stomach knotted in spasms as he waited for Forrest to finish his tallies. He fingered a slip of paper in his pocket. Milk, three quarts, thirty-five cents. Bread, three loaves, twenty cents. Round steak, two pound, ninety cents. Flour, one dollar. Shortening, eighty-five cents. Formula, two dollars fifty. Nine dollars for medicine and doctor bill. Along with his own money Howard picked up Jack’s wages to hold, twelve dollars and some change.
After the money was dispersed Howard broke down the heavy saws, wrapping the blades in the oiled canvas bags and locking them down in the heavy boxes. The other men milled around, joking and laughing, making plans for the night. Howard began to sweat, his skin prickling. He hadn’t had a drink since yesterday and his calf muscles felt wound like taut wire.
Up the hill in the woods by the campsite, Howard standing by the remains of the campfire. His back ached slightly, the thick sap of labor running down his neck into his gut. He watched the spinning leaves of the poplar trees; they waved palm-up, the pale undersides shifting silently side to side in spots high in the tallest part of the canopy. There must be another layer of wind, Howard thought, that plays through the highest parts of trees, small streams of wind. As he watched the poplars begin to vibrate hard, accompanied by the rising whine of cicadas, or is it the remembered scream of the power saws echoing in his mind? His calf muscles felt ready to snap, his whole body straining. Howard bent his head to the ground, fingering the roll of bills in his pocket, shifting his jaw, grinding his teeth.
It grew cooler, the sun behind the mountain and the shadows long and Howard turns and strides down to the sawmill site and caught a ride up to Rocky Mount with some of the other men. The men called out with blurred voices; they moved before him like ants across a broad piece of asphalt. Sitting on the gate of a truck as it banged down the dirt road Howard felt like a statue in a storm.
Howard was quiet in the company of the sunburnt men as they rolled into a filling station, somebody’s brother made up a fresh batch of apricot brandy, a free jar, and the men stood around a storeroom passing the jar till it was empty. Men slapped him on the back, poke his fat biceps, telling stories that he doesn’t quite hear, their voices muffled as if through thick water. He glances at their shining faces but mostly watches the jar of copper liquid as it passes hand over hand. Then back in the truck and off to another man’s house in a run-down neighborhood of Rocky Mount. Bathtub gin, crude stuff, but Howard takes his share. Like swallowing hot mud, men cough and spit, then rolling cigarettes on a dusty windowsill, cobwebs, wadded insects, someone tunes in a radio to WSM and Olaf the Swede crackles to life, singing barn-dance songs in his nasal accent though nobody laughs, while in the dirt yard outside a man wretches pitifully, then collapses, curling up against a fence post, face smeared with vomit. A coon hound twisting on a line, staked down, yelping in fury. Howard opens a fresh jar and sent the lid spinning off into the darkness. The burning knot in his back begins to fade, the words come when he wants them; he feels in step with the motion of the world.
A few hours later Howard found himself in another car, the driver Talmedge Jamison chewing long leaf and spitting in the footwells, the other men jostling each other as smoke fills the cab. Talmedge grinding the gears as he churns up Grassy Hill to the north of the town. When they pull into Forrest’s filling station Howard barely registers. He is thinking of the cards, the way he can see them ahead of everyone else. His hands feel light and fast; he has overtaken the world and now is the primary element, the thing that drives the fuse, and he can win. He’s got the wad of money in his fist deep in his pocket. These goddamn hayseeds, Howard thinks, they have got batter for brains. He strides into the station, nods to Maggie who stands smoking at the grill and taps a finger on the bar. Forrest comes out from the back with a plate of salami and apples and, seeing him, pauses and gives him a long stare. Howard stares back, grinning now, and taps the bar again with a blunt finger. Forrest nods and walks over to the table where the other men are already crowding around, eating hunks of the greasy meat with their fingers, scraping chairs, arranging themselves around the table, laughing, their eyes bright with the excitement of the game. The first jar is handed to Howard and he spins off the lid and flips it over his shoulder before taking a deep swig and the men all laugh.
Howard knows he will win. He stretches his broad back, his fingers locked over his head. He feels supple, clean, his mind quick. The perfect throw, the cards line up, the perfect line. He can feel it in the flashing rot of his bones.
AUNT WINNIE WAS boiling greens on the stove when the three men came in. They kept their hats on, and Jack could tell right off they didn’t have the look of men who wanted to buy liquor, mostly because two of them carried axes over their shoulders. The third man carried a shotgun and all three men wore pistols on their hips. Jack froze, sitting on the couch next to the two knitting ladies, the cigar box of cash between his feet. Cricket was in the bathroom and the twins had disappeared. He had just finished counting and was trying to figure if they had even made a profit, a task muddled by the occasional swigs from a jar. One of the men was a portly fellow wearing a fat tie and suspenders.
Who’s in charge here? Charley Rakes said, swiveling around on his heels.
His egg-shaped face was flushed with heat and exertion. He shrugged the ax off his shoulder and let it fall, the blade thun
king into the floor. Aunt Winnie turned from the stove, eyeing the new men for a moment, the quivering ax stuck in her floor, then returned to her greens. The other man with an ax, slight and tired-looking, was Henry Abshire. The third man who held the shotgun across his chest was wearing a full suit and bow tie, with moons of sweat under the arms and around his neck. Jefferson Richards tugged at his collar and motioned Rakes to check the rest of the house.
’Spect no biscuits coming outta air round here, Aunt Winnie mumbled.
The room became quiet, the only sound the scraping of Aunt Winnie’s wooden spoon in her pan, the faint clicks of knitting needles. Charley Rakes walked into the back. The other two didn’t seem to notice Jack sitting there on the couch with the knitting ladies, and Jack was thinking that it would be best if he just sat there quietly and didn’t move. There was the wrenching of a door and a squawking sound and Charley Rakes came back into the room dragging Cricket by his ankle who flopped like a worm in sunshine. He sat up and rubbed his eyes and stared at the men and their axes.
Three things you gotta tell us, son, Charley Rakes said. Where’s the still, where’s the liquor, and where’s the money?
Cricket looked at him uncomprehendingly. Jack knew this was bad and with the slightest movement of his feet he began to inch the cigar box under the couch.
Shit, Charley, Henry Abshire said. The still is clearly in the basement.
Abshire wiped the back of his neck with a rag and shifting the ax on his shoulder pointed to a snake of smoke that flowed through a knot-hole in the floor.
Look at the smoke there. Excuse me, ma’am?
Aunt Winnie ignored him, slopping her greens around.
You ladies mind stepping outside?
Forget it, Richards said. Let ’em stay.
Rakes hoisted Cricket to his feet by his collar. Cricket promptly collapsed again, sinking down on his haunches, his head hanging low.
The Wettest County in the World Page 10
