Jack and Howard worked on a black-chestnut stump that had put roots almost straight down, winding around hunks of limestone and clay, the taproot like a shaft of black muscle as big around as Jack’s waist. They finally got chains under it and G. T. Washburne drove his team of Suffolk punch horses while Howard and Jack sliced at the taproot with axes.
Whadja tell Forrest? Jack asked.
Howard wrestled his ax from the taproot.
Told ’im what happened.
Water ran from each wound in the fibrous flesh, the roots covered in tiny hairs. Jack thought about how the combined effort of all these tiny hairs brought life to the tree, delicately sipping drops of moisture, eventually hauling thousands of gallons of water up the trunk and out to the leaves.
Didja say anything ’bout Bertha being there?
Yep.
Jack stopped chopping and leaned on his ax.
Well goddammit, Howard, whadja do that for?
’Cause it was a damn fool thing to do.
They didn’t follow us. No way.
A damn fool thing to do, Howard said.
Well, Jack said, we all done made mistakes.
Howard paused, just a hitch in the stroke of his ax, then made a final, heavy cut. He stepped back from the hole, tossed his ax aside. Ah hell, Jack thought, now I’ve done it. Howard looked at him for a moment, the same blank look, then turned and gestured to Washburne, who drove the horses and with a crunching roar the stump was ripped from the ground. Howard put his hands on his hips and looked at the dark hole in the earth, the twisted ends of roots, rocks, red clay, and seemed to consider something for a moment. He took off his gloves and slapped them on his thigh. He glanced around for a minute, then turned to Jack with a slight grin.
What say we go find ourselves a snort?
The brothers joined the group of men around a small pile of pine knots. Aubrie Kendrick brought a jar from his truck and the men passed it around slowly and discussed the progress of the work. Jack pulled the Mitchell twins aside for a moment.
Y’all seen Cricket?
Naw.
Haven’t seen hide nor hair.
Jack passed the corn whiskey when it reached him, and Howard grinned and took the jar and punched him hard in the arm, pointing across the broad valley. Three cars were slowly making their way from the house, the women with the food, and men began to put their coats on and after a few more quick drinks Aubrie Kendrick put the jar back on the floorboard of his truck before the women got close enough to see it.
When the women arrived they spread blankets on a patch of level grass and laid out bowls of sweet corn, greens with ham hocks, pork cracklings, hash gravy, plates of biscuits covered with napkins, and skillets of corn bread. Dick Jamison came over to the circle of men who remained clustered off to the side.
Well, set to it, he said.
Jack filled his plate and sat on a stump next to his father who was eating a hunk of corn bread. Women joined their husbands and the younger unmarried women present, mostly friends of Wilma Jamison and her daughters, made their own circle on a blanket, their soft voices carrying over to where the men sat. The light began to fade and pine-knot torches were lit and women wrapped wool shawls around their shoulders. Howard stood off a bit, speaking in low tones with Lucy. Jack hadn’t seen her in some months and was surprised how fair-haired, slight, and freckled she was, like a young girl rather than a woman in her upper twenties. Jack had spoken to her only a few times, the first at the simple wedding they had at the Snow Creek Baptist Church. Her family was from Smith Mountain, dirt-poor hog farmers, a dozen straggling kids in a muddy patch of unworkable mountainside land, and Lucy seemed glad to be rid of them and to move into the little cabin in Penhook. Lucy’s second pregnancy only seemed to waste her already-slight form even further, and as she stood in her calico-print dress and boots holding a plate Jack could see the heavy rings under her eyes as she looked up at Howard. It was clear that their second child wasn’t doing well either. They needed money and Jack knew this wore on Lucy like a sore. Lucy turned and caught his eye and Jack turned away embarrassed.
Howard walked over with his plate piled high with corn, cracklings, and biscuits, the whole thing covered with white gravy. He sat at his father’s feet and dug in with a large spoon and the three men ate together, glancing about occasionally and remarking upon the coming weather or the quality of the food. The sweat dried on Jack and his hands and feet grew cold and he wished he had worn an extra pair of socks.
How’s Lucy? Jack asked.
She’s fine, Howard said as he sopped a biscuit.
How’s the baby? Granville murmured from his stump.
Up at her mother’s place, Howard said. Same as ever I guess.
Howard chewed, his heavy-lidded eyes gazing out over the field and into the dark tree line. Women were gathering up dishes and folding blankets, and two young boys chased each other through the stubbled fields. Jack stretched out his legs, crossing his new boots in front of him. His father ducked his face back to his plate, a bit too quickly. Hell, Jack thought, the old man doesn’t miss that much. The car, the clothes, the hours up on the mountain. Jack felt like a fool for this pathetic attempt at concealment, this conspiracy to keep his father in the dark. Night was coming on and the wind picked up, scattering sparks from the pine-knot torches.
You comin’? Howard asked Jack.
Jack looked at his father who continued to study his empty plate.
I suppose so, Jack said.
Howard nodded and then wrenched his body upright and brought his plate over to Lucy who stood in a small group of women. When she took it from his hands she touched his arm and looking up into his face said something that Jack couldn’t catch. Howard nodded and then Lucy turned and gathered more dishes and bowls from the blanket. She climbed into a car with several other women, laughing and waving to the men, some of whom called out to them to stay on, to come back. Jack stood next to his father and they watched as the cars of women made their way down the hill and across the valley to the house. Jack thought about the picture of Bertha standing under the crab-apple tree, holding a sprig with one hand, her mouth set in a prim line. Hell, Jack thought, I got to get my damn self together and do this properly.
Men gathered around Howard, joking and slapping his arms. He grinned, hands jammed in his pockets.
Sitting next to Jack, Granville grunted as he chewed the stub of a biscuit.
I’ll tell you what, son, Granville said, if that boy had a mansion, he’d burn it to the ground.
He shook his head, gazing at his oldest son.
Well, Granville said, I guess I’ll leave you boys to it.
He slapped the crumbs off his dungarees and walked off to his car.
The remaining men built a bonfire and were quickly flushed with liquor, sweating again in the firelight, passing jars freely and laughing loudly. Howard sat on a fat stump, putting away twice as much liquor as any man there, his face going slack, eyes narrowing on some faint spot a few feet in front of his nose. Dick Jamison came into the circle of firelight bearing a six-foot staff of seasoned dogwood about four inches in diameter. Men cheered as he held it aloft and everyone stood, taking pine-knot torches, and followed him up the hill to where the large trees lay felled. When the right log was chosen, a sizable oak three feet across, Dick Jamison laid the staff on the ground and the log was rolled onto it to the middle point. Then the money came out and the first two men spat on their hands, hitched up their trousers, and squatted down on either side of the log, worked their fingers under the staff ends and established their grip. Money bet on the contest was placed on the log in a pile and then pinned there in a rawhide bag with a knife. Belcher Whitehead pulled out a revolver and fired it into the sky and the two men lurched and heaved upward, straining against the bulk of the log, the other men shouting encouragement. There was a slight shift, a collective shout, and the log began to move slightly, one man pulling up on his end and forcing the other man’s knuckles into the d
irt, the shifting of the log putting more weight on his end until his hands were driven into the ground and he yelped and pulled away, stumbling on his backside. Men laughed and clapped the winner on the shoulder, the loser kneeling in the dirt, a jar proffered and a sheepish grin, crumpled bills changing hands.
Then Dink Amdams called out Howard for a contest and there were howls and whistles of disbelief. Jack looked over to Howard, who swayed in the torchlight, his eyes mere slits, his brow furrowed. Dink was a robust fellow with a barrel chest and legs like stumps, short, blunt-fingered hands, a broad back and thick neck. Near forty years old, he had been the acknowledged strongest man in the county till Howard came along. Dink hadn’t had much to drink and he stripped off his coat and focused his gaze on the dogwood staff. Jack feared that Howard was completely insensible with booze and wouldn’t be up to the challenge. He’d been watching Howard drink, Jack thought, and ol’ Dink figured this was his chance. But then Howard’s body swayed forward and he took a stumbling step to the log and the men erupted into cheers. Jack helped Howard off with his coat, his arms hanging limp, tugging at the sleeves as money began to pile up. Howard put his arm around his brother’s shoulder, drawing him close, and put his lips right up against Jack’s ear. He smelled of sweat and rotten corn, his breath foul with whiskey.
Did I ever tell you ’bout the ocean? Howard whispered.
Then he drew back and for a moment Jack saw a glint of something in his eyes, the slits widening slightly.
It’s a hell of a thing, Howard said. I wish I knew how to tell it.
He clapped his hand around his younger brother’s shoulder and gave him a squeeze that crunched Jack’s rib cage. Jack fumbled in his pockets; he had two dollars and some change. The other men stood around them watching.
I’ll match all of it, Jack shouted. I’ll take all bets against my brother.
Money piled on the log until Dick Jamison put an end to it by stuffing the dollars and coins in the bag and pinning it to the log with the knife. Dink paced around his side of the log. Howard stretched his arms over his head, his feet unsteady; then slipping off his suspenders he reached down and pulled his work-stained shirt over his head. Jack stood behind him and was presented with the broad expanse of Howard’s back, his shoulders pillows of flesh. Howard bent to the staff and Dink followed on his side.
The gun went off and both men heaved, their faces turned up, necks corded with strain. Howard’s arms were rigid in the torchlight, thick veins in his forearms, the upper arms twisted masses of muscle as he squatted deeply and drove with his legs, eyes shut with effort. Dink grunted and began to jerk, heaving in regular lurches, his eyes pinched and his mouth in a snarl. Rivulets of sweat sprouted from Howard’s face and neck and ran down his back and chest. Dink’s jerking motion began to take effect, and the log began to shift, rolling side to side with each motion. The men on Dink’s side cheered louder at this development, and Jack struggled to stay behind his brother in the throng, shouting in his ear. There was nearly thirty dollars on the log.
C’mon, Howard! Goddammit, Howard! C’mon!
The waving torches sent streams of sparks spinning through the cluster of men on the dark hillside, leaping and howling.
Then Howard grunted and his legs began to move, knees straightening, his face raging crimson; like some kind of ancient devil rising from the earth, Howard raised the staff and the log rolled down onto Dink’s hands and forearms.
Dink screamed and men threw themselves against the log to keep it from rolling farther, and still Howard drove upward with his legs. Men dropped their torches and leaped over the log to stop it, Howard bringing the staff nearly up to his waist. Dink’s screams choked off and his eyes rolled back in his head as the log crushed both his hands and arms. As if waking from a dream, Jack finally sprang forward and grabbed his brother’s arms and tried to pull him off. Howard! Howard! Let it go! He shouted into his brother’s face, grappling with Howard’s arms that were slippery with oily sweat.
Howard! For God’s sake, let it go!
Still Howard kept straining, eyes closed to the night, until finally the dogwood staff splintered and shattered, and Jack was thrown to the ground.
Looking up into the dizzy light from the spinning torches, Jack saw Howard standing with the broken staff in his hand, his face a terrible twisted mask of anguish. With a strange, cracking moan, Howard reared back and flung the broken staff off over the heads of the men out of the circle of light and into the darkness beyond.
Chapter 25
1930
EVERYONE IN FRANKLIN knew that Tazwell Minnix ran a clean, orderly farm in the Boone’s Mill section of the county. In early December as the sun rolled over Smith Mountain, spilling light on the frosted hills and fields, Jack Bondurant parked his car at the edge of Minnix’s lawn. The grass crunched under his wheels, the blades frozen hard. Jack shut down the vehicle and blew into his hands.
Tom C. Cundiff had been picked up for the assault on Deputy John Horsely. In the courtroom he lunged at Carter Lee and had to be chained to the floor. He was sentenced to two years and as he was dragged out he swore violent retribution.
Cricket Pate was dead. A few weeks after the destruction of the stills he was found lying on a shallow sandbar in Maggodee Creek, his open mouth packed full of red clay. He had forty cents and a few cigar stubs in his pockets. The stretch of creek ran about twelve inches deep in a mountain downpour. The sheriff’s department ruled it an accidental drowning, which everyone knew was a complete farce. There was no funeral but Forrest paid for a plot and stone, and Jack went through the burial with a stony feeling in his heart.
When Jack got out of the car Minnix’s dogs set to a chorus of yelps from their compound behind the house. Tazwell Minnix had a dozen hounds that he had bred and trained himself, excellent hunting dogs without equal in the county. Jack straightened himself and took off his hat, smoothing his hair, wiping the excess pomade on his handkerchief. That morning he elected to go with a simple gray three-piece suit, cuffed trousers with his black brogans buffed to a high sheen, an outfit that he felt bespoke his seriousness.
Before he could knock the front door was flung open, Bertha, her face stricken with anguish.
Oh, Jack, she cried. R. L. Minnix sat at a table stirring his coffee. He craned his neck around and squinted at the door.
Who’s there?
They wouldn’t let him in, Bertha said. Why would they do that?
And she flung herself into his surprised arms.
When they came around the side of the house everything seemed to be normal, the dogs leaping and barking, Tazwell in the pen sifting through the wriggling animals. He had built a wooden shelter for his dogs to lie in at night, the floor covered with discarded blankets. Tazwell made his way to a lone dog standing near the back of the pen. It was tan and white and small, a runt that was prone to taking a beating in the yard. The dog didn’t move as Tazwell approached, and coming closer Jack could see the light, sparkling sheen on the animal, the ice in its nostrils, the eyes filmed over with gray frost. The dog had frozen to death overnight, standing outside the pen. Tazwell knelt before the dog and regarded it like an icon. R.L. tottered up beside him, squinting.
Well, I’ll be…, the old man muttered, letting the curse hang in the air unsaid.
I ain’t never seen anything like it in the world, Tazwell said.
Bertha clutched at Jack’s shoulder.
Why’d they do that? Bertha said. They didn’t let him in the house!
When they returned to the house Bertha relaxed, her grief turning to exhaustion. R.L. squinted at Jack and growled to himself.
I’m sorry for what happened here, sir, Jack said. If I woulda known…
Tazwell sat at the table with his arms cast out on the table.
What possible business you have here, son? What?
I’ve come to make my intentions known, Jack said. Concernin’ Bertha.
Jack opened his coat and buttoned it again.
T
hings are changin’, Jack said. I know’d that I caused you trouble before, and I want to say that I’m sorry for it. Things are going to be different.
Tazwell seemed to be listening but his face was incredulous and furrowed, inspecting Jack as if he were some kind of apparition.
We know, R.L. said, where your money comes from.
I want to make my intentions known, Jack said. We…we’ve seen a bit of each other now and then. I just want to put it in the clear. I’m giving you my word. I’m giving up all the other soon as I get my packet together and get a good patch of land.
R.L.’s face was inflamed with ire. Jack steadied his breathing, watching Bertha as she stared wide-eyed at the floor, blinking slowly, her face slick with tears.
That dog didn’t have a name, Tazwell murmured. Without a name the poor thing had no soul.
OUT FRONT Bertha leaned into Jack.
It isn’t right, Bertha said.
Jack put his arm around her. Their breath steamed around them.
Those dogs didn’t know better. Just plain bad luck.
No, Bertha said. Something awful is going to happen, I can feel it.
LEAVE IT, Lucy said from the doorway.
She stood nursing the baby, the light from the kitchen framing her silhouette, hips canted to the side, the baby’s head cradled in her palm. Howard was on his hands and knees by the bed. He could see the layer of dust on the ax that lay under the bed, put there before Lucy went into labor.
We ain’t out of it yet, Lucy said.
She turned and went back to the kitchen. A pan of corn bread was cooling on the counter next to a small bowl of stewed tomatoes. She slung a dish towel over her other shoulder and while the baby nursed she placed a pitcher of buttermilk on the table, two bowls, two spoons, and sprinkled some salt on the tomatoes. A pot of wild ramps boiled on the stove. The baby was asleep when they sat down but was startled awake when Howard turned away and sneezed three times, quickly. The baby blinked and gurgled before relaxing her cheek on Lucy’s shoulder. Howard spooned some tomatoes into his bowl while Lucy broke up the corn bread.
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