Hell Hollow

by Ronald Kelly

  “Keith,” Jasper said, drawing the twelve-year-old’s attention. “Try to behave yourself, all right? Your aunt and cousin are looking forward to seeing you and if you end up sitting in there like a lump on a log, looking mad enough to chew nails, then it’s gonna make everybody feel uncomfortable. Can’t you get over this ugly mood of yours and try to enjoy yourself?”

  The boy turned and regarded his grandfather. “Oh, you want me to crack a big smile and act like all is right with the world, like those yokels at church, is that it?”

  Jasper sighed. “Well, it’d sure be an improvement over how you’re acting now.” The elderly farmer sat there for a moment, letting his temper settle. “Please, Keith. Susan and Rusty have been looking forward to seeing you for over a week now. Try to be civil, okay?”

  Keith flashed a bogus smile that did little to match the contempt in his eyes. “Is this better?”

  “Not much,” said Jasper opening the door of his truck. “But I reckon it’ll have to do.”

  Together, they left the truck and started up the sidewalk for the house. Jasper was dressed in a gray pinstripe suit from J.C. Penney, with a starched white shirt and burgundy tie. Keith wore a pale blue short-sleeved Arrow shirt, navy slacks, and black leather shoes that probably cost more than his grandfather’s entire outfit. He had worn a tie and jacket during church, but they had been abandoned the moment he had left the building. They were now laying in an untidy heap in the middle of the truck seat where Keith had tossed them after changing.

  Halfway to the house, Keith smelled the rich aroma of food. The only scent he recognized was that of fried chicken. But the others – while unfamiliar – smelled just as appetizing. His stomach growled in anticipation.

  The front door opened and a woman stepped out on the porch. “Ya’ll come on in,” she called, waving to them. “Dinner’s already on the table.”

  A moment later, they had let themselves into the farmhouse and made their way down a hallway decorated with antique furniture and family photographs on the walls. Keith soon found himself in a cheerful kitchen decorated almost entirely in a black-and-white cow motif. How sickeningly cute, he thought with mild amusement. But then he figured it was bound to be either that or homemade crafts bearing quaint sayings and loads of cream and mauve lace.

  The woman who had greeted them from the porch was taking Blue Willow plates from a cupboard. She was overweight, with curly black hair and a sweet, moon-like face. She reminded Keith of photos he had seen of Elvis Presley’s mother, except that her eyes weren’t as sad. In fact, they twinkled in delight the moment she turned and saw Keith standing there.

  “Well, howdy, nephew!” she said cheerfully. She laid the stack of plates on the checkered cloth of the long kitchen table and headed toward him. The image of a charging rhino flashed through Keith’s mind as she came closer. A moment later, she had him in an affectionate bear hug that threatened to smother the breath plumb out of him.

  “You remember your Aunt Susan, don’t you?”

  “Uh, sure,” said Keith, his face nearly plastered against the woman’s ample bosom. For a second all he could see was the front of her flower print dress and the white cotton straps of the apron she wore over it. She smelled cloyingly of Avon perfume and baby powder.

  “My, my! I haven’t seen you in a coon’s age, Keith,” said Susan McLeod, pulling away from her nephew. She stepped back and took a good, long look at him. “And don’t you look sharp, too!”

  “Thanks,” was all that Keith said. He stood there for a moment, feeling a little disoriented by his aunt’s show of affection. He couldn’t figure out why she was so happy to see him. He hadn’t seen her in a couple of years and he sure didn’t feel the same toward her.

  She stepped over and hugged Grandpa McLeod the same way. He smiled and patted her on the back, seeming more accustomed to her smothering embrace than Keith was. “How’re you doing today, Papa?” she asked.

  “Fit as a fiddle,” he declared. “Missed you at church, didn’t we?”

  Susan nodded. “Me and Rusty went for Sunday school, but we left before preaching, on account I had a mess of cooking to do. How was the sermon?”

  “Boring,” volunteered Keith, back to his old self again.

  Jasper shot him a look of disapproval. “Oh, it was okay. It was Pastor Wilkes’ specialty, of course. Fire and brimstone, with a dash of brotherly love thrown in for good measure.”

  The woman nodded in understanding. “He can tend to be a little repetitive. As I recall, he preached the same lesson Sunday before last.”

  “Where’s that other grandson of mine?” asked Jasper.

  “Here I am, you ol’ stump turtle!” came a voice from the direction of the hallway.

  Keith turned and regarded his cousin. Rusty McLeod was a good six inches taller than he was, but leaner and lankier. He had a bushy head of orange red hair, dark freckles on his face and bare shoulders, and bright blue eyes. He was fastening the straps of a pair of faded Duck Head overalls that looked as if they bore a variety of different stains; grass, mud, motor oil, and maybe even a few drops of blood, perhaps from a scratch or scrape. And, to top it all off, he was barefooted.

  What a rube, Keith thought to himself.

  Jasper McLeod laughed and soon had the red-headed boy in a playful headlock. Rusty giggled and tried to break the hold, without luck. “Old stump turtle, eh?” asked the old man. “Grizzly bear is more like it!”

  “Okay, I give up!” yelled Rusty as the old man rubbed his knuckles across the boy’s scalp. “Let me loose before you wear the hide plumb off my skull!”

  Keith watched the horseplay between the two and, for a second, found himself feeling just a tad jealous, although he had no idea why he should.

  “You two cut out your monkeyshines now,” said Susan, setting a steaming bowl of creamed corn on the table. “You end up knocking all this food in the floor and both your hides will be nailed to the barn door out yonder.”

  “We’d best straighten up,” said Jasper, looking a little out of breath. “Your ma is a notorious hide-nailer, you know.”

  Rusty stood up straight and rubbed his sore head. “That’s right. And Daddy’s even worse, when he’s here to do the nailing.” The boy turned and grinned at Keith. He extended a friendly hand. “Put ‘er there, cousin.”

  Keith shook Rusty’s hand and tightened his grip a little. “Howdy, Hiram,” he said with a smile of his own.

  Rusty didn’t flinch, however. He increased his pressure, until both boys had to withdraw their hands at the same time. “Hiram?” said Rusty, letting out a mule bray of a laugh. “That’s hilarious. You’re a right funny boy, cousin.”

  “My name’s Keith,” said the twelve-year-old. “Not cousin.”

  “Uh, right,” said Rusty, his grin still firmly in place. “Keith.”

  “You gentlemen sit yourselves down and we’ll say grace,” said Susan, pouring iced tea into jell jar glasses.

  “Who?” asked Keith.

  “Grace means a prayer,” said Jasper. “Not somebody.”

  Keith nodded. “I knew that.”

  They all sat down and joined hands, then Jasper McLeod said a short prayer. During the blessing, Keith and Rusty increased the pressure of their interlocked fingers, testing each other’s strength and endurance until both suffered white knuckles and grimaces of pain. When their grandfather said “Amen!” the contest came to an abrupt end. They boys traded challenging glances. They called it a tie, if only temporarily.

  A moment later, they were helping themselves to the feast laid out on the table. Keith took a couple of pieces of fried chicken and a yeast roll and set them on his plate.

  Susan held a bowl toward him. “How about some butter beans? They’re fresh from the garden.”

  Keith shook his head. “Uh, I don’t like butter beans.”

  “Then try some of this sweet tater casserole here,” offered Rusty.

  “I don’t like that either,” said the boy.

&nb
sp; “You ever ate it before?” asked his cousin.

  “Nope.”

  “Then how do you know whether you like it or not?” Rusty snickered and scooped out a heaping spoonful of the casserole. “Here, just try it. Mama makes it with brown sugar and marshmallows melted on top.”

  Rusty was swinging the spoonful Keith’s way, when the boy suddenly pulled his plate away. The heap of syrupy yams ended up landing on the checkered tablecloth instead of on patterned china.

  “I said I don’t like it,” said Keith, giving his cousin a warning look.

  “For goodness sakes, Rusty,” said Susan with a laugh. “If Keith don’t like sweet potatoes, then that’s all right. Nobody’s making him eat them.” She smiled at her nephew from across the table. “How about some of this creamed corn?”

  “Betcha a nickel he don’t like that either,” said Rusty.

  Keith hated corn, but he wasn’t about to let Rusty get the better of him. “To tell the truth, I love creamed corn,” he boasted. Then he spooned several servings onto his plate, just out of spite.

  A half hour later, dinner was finished. Jasper and Rusty sat back in their chairs, patting their swollen bellies. “That sure was good, daughter-in-law,” said the old man. “I pity Frank being on the road so much. I’m sure he misses your home-cooking something fierce.”

  “You really outdid yourself this time, Ma,” said Rusty. He unleashed a belch that sounded like the croak of a bullfrog, then smiled sheepishly.

  “Pardon me.”

  Susan seemed pleased by the compliments. “Did you enjoy yourself, Keith?” she asked her guest.

  “Uh, yeah,” said Keith, trying not to show just how much he had enjoyed the meal. “It was okay.”

  “Well, ya’ll let your food settle a while,” she said, getting up and starting to clear the table. “Because later we’re gonna have homemade ice cream.”

  “Why don’t you just get it at the store?” asked Keith. He couldn’t comprehend why someone would go to the trouble of making ice cream when they could simply buy it.

  “Aw, homemade is a thousand times better’n store-bought,” said Rusty. “Besides, there ain’t no place to buy it at. All the stores are closed in Harmony on Sunday.”

  “You’re kidding me,” said Keith.

  “No, he’s right,” explained his grandfather. “Folks around here treat Sunday like a day of rest. And that means no shopping and such. Just sitting on the porch and taking it easy.”

  Cripes! thought Keith. I am in Mayberry.

  “I’m gonna help Susan clean up here,” said Jasper. “Rusty, why don’t you give Keith a tour of the farm?”

  Rusty grinned mischievously. “Yeah, I think I’ll do just that.” He stood up from the table. “Come on and I’ll show you around.”

  “Lead the way, Goober,” said Keith.

  Rusty didn’t laugh that time. He simply smiled. “Yeah, you’re a right funny fella, that’s for sure.”

  Then, together, they left through the back door, letting the screen slap loudly behind them.

  ~ * ~

  “This here is the barn,” said Rusty.

  “Well, I sure didn’t think it was the outhouse,” replied Keith. The tour of the McLeod farm was beginning to bore him. He had already been shown the chicken coop, hog pin, smokehouse, and the fifty-foot silo. The barn was just as unimpressive. It looked about the same as the inside of his grandfather’s did. The interior was dark, musty with the smell of hay chaff and dried manure. There were several stalls to one side of the barn, all empty. Their occupants were more than likely standing in the pasture out back of the big structure. The other side sported a long workbench cluttered with woodworking and mechanic’s tools. Overhead was a partial hayloft bearing stacks of bales held together with binder’s twine.

  “Well, what do you think?” asked Rusty, throwing his arms wide with pride.

  “You seen one barn, you’ve seen ‘em all, Mortimer,” said Keith.

  Rusty’s smile lost some of its friendlessness. “Anyway, me and some of my friends play here a lot,” he told his cousin. “Sometimes, when there’s a haystack here in the floor, we climb to the loft and swing down by that rope hanging up yonder. Other times we just play cowboys and Indians. You like to play cowboys and Indians, Keith?”

  “I used to play cops and robbers,” said his cousin. “I kind of outgrew it, though. But then, I suppose that’s about all you hicks have to do around here, isn’t it, Bubba?”

  Rusty’s smile faded completely. “You know, I’m getting sick and tired of that.”

  “Tired of what?” asked Keith.

  “Them names you keep calling me,” said the farm boy. “You know, Hiram and Goober and Bubba.”

  “I guess I was just mistaking you for someone else,” said Keith.

  “And another thing. It wasn’t polite you putting down my mama’s cooking like that. It was downright disrespectful. She put a lot of time and effort into fixing something special for you and you just about thumbed your nose at her.”

  “Hey, man, I wasn’t dissing your old lady,” Keith told him. “It’s just that my digestive system is a little more attuned to filet mignon and lobster, then grits, redeye gravy, and possum meat.”

  Rusty’s eyes sparked with anger. “You know what you are, cousin? You’re a dadblamed smart-ass, that’s what. I should’ve known you’d turn out to be one. A lot of city folks are like that.”

  “So what?” challenged Keith, stepping forward. “You aiming to do anything about it?”

  “Yep,” said Rusty, walking up lazily. “I figure you’re just begging for an attitude adjustment.”

  “Attitude adjustment?” said Keith with a look of mock surprise on his face. “That’s some mighty big words for you, isn’t it, Gomer? Maybe you ought to stick to simpler ones… like Dick and Jane, dog and cat.”

  “We’ll see how funny you are with a black eye and shy a few teeth,” said Rusty coming nearer.

  “In your case, it’d be an improvement,” returned Keith. He raised his fists and prepared to teach the country boy a lesson. One of the major disciplinary problems Keith had racked up on his school record was fighting. He preferred to cut down his classmates with insults and wit, but he wasn’t above using his fists. His Uncle Richard in Boston had taught him the fine art of boxing and he was pleased to say he was pretty darned good at it.

  Rusty broke into a big grin and shook his head. “You gotta be kidding.”

  “Come on and I’ll show you who’s kidding,” said Keith. He ducked his head a little and brought his fists to shoulder level, the right to punch and the left to block.

  Rusty laughed that goofy laugh of his. Enraged, Keith took a couple of steps forward and sent a jab straight at his cousin’s face. But the blow didn’t connect. Rusty bobbed his head easily to the left. Then, with one lanky leg, he kicked Keith’s feet out from under him. Keith lost his balance and fell to the dusty barn floor, flat on his back.

  “Aw, you’re a real pro,” said Rusty with a snicker.

  Keith caught his breath and slowly got to his feet. He brushed off his clothes, then glared at the boy who had tripped him.

  “Looks like you got some cow manure on the back of that fancy shirt there,” pointed out Rusty.

  “You son of a bitch!” growled Keith, starting forward.

  “It ain’t nice cussing on Sunday,” laughed Rusty taking a step backward.

  Keith closed in and concentrated on the grinning face before him. He already knew what his cousin’s next move would be. When he jabbed with his right, Rusty would pull the same dodge and swing his head to the left again. But Keith wasn’t going to let him get away with it twice. This time, he faked a right jab and, when Rusty made his move, he delivered a solid left hook. His fist connected with Rusty’s nose. The skinny boy in the overalls flailed backward and landed on his butt on the ground.

  “How’d you like that, bean-picker?” asked Keith with satisfaction.

  Rusty put a hand to his nose and
found blood flowing from his nostrils. “Damn. I reckon I misjudged you a bit.” Then he stood up and grinned. “But that don’t change nothing.”

  The two boys squared off. When Keith came in again, Rusty was prepared. He blocked an overhand right, delivering a solid punch to his cousin’s stomach. Keith doubled over with a groan and Rusty followed up with a jab to his face. The farm boy’s knuckles crashed into Keith’s lower lip.

  Keith staggered back and touched his mouth. His lip was already swelling. Angrily, he threw himself at Rusty. In response, Rusty let out a rebel yell and did the same. The force of the impact knocked both boys off their feet. Soon, they were rolling across the dusty barn floor, kicking and punching, scratching and gouging.

  They had been going at it maybe thirty seconds, when they met an obstruction and their rolling brawl came to an abrupt halt. Puzzled, the two looked at each other, then stared upward.

  Their grandfather stood over them, looking none too pleased.

  “I do declare!” snapped Jasper McLeod. He reached down and, with little effort at all, snatched the two boys up by their arms. “Cousins at it, tooth and nail… and on the Sabbath besides!”

  The two boys looked at one another again, this time trading a mutual understanding. “Uh, we weren’t really fighting, Grandpa,” said Rusty.

  “Oh, yeah? Well what would you call it then?”

  “We were just wrestling around a little,” said Keith.

  “Yeah,” said Rusty. “Just wrestling. Maybe it got out of hand, but that’s all it was. Wrestling.”

  Jasper stared at the two boys, his anger settling a little. “Okay then. But ya’ll listen up. Any more wrestling of the kind I just saw and both of you will have your turn with me in the woodshed. You understand?”