We made a big loop through pine trees and laurels back toward the driveway. The path snaked through more jaggers and over slippery, moss-covered rocks. The stream came really close to the path, and I had to use saplings growing closest to the stream like a handrail. Jesse was a talker, but there were times I could barely hear his low, soft voice over the rush of water in the stream.
Jamie paused for a second, letting Jesse get ahead a bit, and quietly pointed out a dead tree eerily porcupined with hundreds or thousands of needles and nails sticking out at all angles. Cut nails and roofing nails and tiny paneling nails. Some were galvanized, some had rusted nearly to dust. In some instances, two nails shared a hole. Some came straight up from roots that disappeared into the patchy snow. The highest were about the height of Jesse's raised arm, like he was the one torturing this old oak. Jamie said he'd tell me about it later.
Jesse pointed down into a field that disappeared over a hill. The surface seemed to squirm with a multitude of starlings. They sang and called out and jumped in the air at each other.
"I'll show you the pasture after we see the woodpile, if you want," Jesse said, and continued back down the lane toward the barn where we first met him. His woodpile sat just past the bridge on the left, between the barn and the house. It looked like a grand affair, a neatly stacked mass covered with a corrugated tin roof.
I recognized Jamie's show of astonishment as only mildly patronizing, but in the kindest way possible. "You cut all this yourself?" he asked.
"From God's ear, I did." Jesse balanced against the stack. The man shook like a goddamn house of cards. He pointed at me, "Give it a try."
I stood there, not sure what he wanted.
"You ever split wood?" he asked.
I pulled the ax from the stump. Jesse balanced a log with a finger then stepped away. Jamie laughed.
I took a huge swing, splitting the log on my first try.
"He's good at it, sure enough. Try again." Jesse put another on the stump. "Make sure you take turns," he said to Jamie, specifically. With that, he wobbled back toward the house.
"I think I got played," I said as Jamie put another log on the stump.
I lifted the ax over my head. "You said you'd tell me about the tree?"
He pulled his fingers away and raised an eyebrow.
I brought the ax down on the log, splitting it neatly in two. "With the nails?"
"Oh, yeah. I guess I did say that." He put another log on the stump. "Well, some folks think it'll make a tree bear fruit—putting nails in it like that. Some think it'll stave off a blight."
"That dead tree? Some of the nails were really new."
Jamie said, "I suppose you're right. Well, in Old England they drove nails into a tree to heal a toothache. Probably comes from ancient Egypt where nails signified prayers. You know, like transferring illness or problems to the tree."
"That makes zero sense to me. That's a lot of nails for a toothache or a missing calf or whatever." I rested the ax head on my toe.
Jamie put another log up. He had a hard time hiding his reluctance to continue. "The crown of thorns worn by Christ during the crucifixion came from the Thorn Jujube tree. Its leaves are said to best the best natural protection from demons. I suspect the Currences do it to attach the power of the devil to that oak tree up there . For protection."
"Why didn't you just tell me that in the first place?"
Jamie smiled. "I thought you might buy one of the other explanations."
We took turns with the ax all afternoon, and I built up a nice sweat. When I took my hat and jacket off, steam came off of my arms and head. When Jamie finally figured we'd done enough to keep to Jesse happy for a while, we wrapped up. He said he had to 'cross the stream' before dinner, as he put it, so I said I'd meet him inside.
I sat on the porch for a few minutes, letting myself cool down, but really stalling because I didn't like being in the house. I picked up a few handfuls of snow and held them to my face, then let a bit melt on my tongue.
When I pulled the thin front door open and stepped in, I stopped. Another man, not Jesse, sat at the table. I stood in the door, unable to say anything. He was a younger version of Jesse except for a bit of disfigurement near his right eye. He looked like a ghost. I couldn't speak.
The man said, "Who is it?"
My mouth got really dry.
"Ernie, this is one of the boys I told you about. They come up to do some recording." Jesse came out of the spring house with a bag of flour.
I stepped over to the table and the man stood up. He grabbed the air, I placed my hand into his. He laid his left hand over top of mine and slid it up to my wrist, my forearm, my elbow, then finally my shoulder.
"Preston Black. Nice to meet you." I stood there waiting for a reply.
"Preston Black. That ain't a name somebody gets by accident." He let his hand slide over my collarbone and rested it on my chest, like feeling for a heartbeat. He turned around and felt for his chair before sitting back down.
I tripped toward the sink. To make like I'd meant to do that I turned around and washed up. The spigot released a trickle of ice-cold water from a gravity-fed spring—the breath of the mountain itself. Then I beelined for the back room where I could hide for a minute. In my bag I found a dry shirt and threw it on. I grabbed the bottles of whiskey, went back out and sat down at the table. "I brought you something, as a way to thank you for your hospitality. I didn't know what you drank..."
I held both bottles up for Jesse to choose from. He said, "Thank you," and took them both. "We drink just about anything." He put them on the counter next to the sink and said, "Go ahead and shake down 'them' ashes."
I went over to the coal stove and stood there, not sure how to shake down anything. Jesse talked me through it while tending to the top of the stove. Red beans bubbled in a big old pot.
When Jamie came in, washed up, and met Ernie, I finally relaxed. Just before dinner Jesse said a really long grace, blessing nephews, nieces, cousins, the departed, farm animals, his preacher and his wife. By the time Jesse wrapped up and everybody else served themselves I was good and hungry. Pinto beans with ham and cornbread wasn't a T-bone, but I ate as much as I could, which wasn't much. I kept waiting for Jamie to steer the conversation toward my song, but they talked about everything besides. Things like the people they had in common, things that weren't there anymore. Ernie stared at me, nodding to the rhythm of his own chewing.
I'd hoped for whiskey, or music, didn't matter which. But after we cleaned the kitchen Jesse went upstairs to get his checker board. He whupped Jamie's ass game after game. Jamie could barely get a king. Even after it got dark and they had to play by the light of an oil lamp, the games went on.
I fell asleep at the table. But it wasn't real sleep, their voices and conversations infiltrated my brain. I knew where I was at, and my mind never quieted. The smell of wood smoke reminded me I'd be sleeping a long way from my own bed.
CHAPTER TEN
Sleep without sleep.
Jamie snored. Jesse came down the stairs a couple of times to shake down 'them' ashes, and the old house made sounds of its own, like whispering, or some kind of murmuring. Like the old ladies praying the Rosary before mass. Maybe the wind had been blowing against the walls. Outside, branches snapped from the weight of the heavy, wet snow. And birds just outside the window whistled and screamed all night long. The sleeping bag didn't feel like my bed, the floor didn't feel like home.
And the more I thought about it, the more it sounded a lot more like murmuring than it did the wind.
Halfway through the night, after Jesse tended to the stove the second time, I hovered on the verge of real sleep when my phone rang. I knew I heard it, and dug through my bag as fast as I could before it woke Jamie up. The phone had settled to the bottom, right up against the Pancake book Jamie lent me. My hands buzzed with surprise. I took the book and my phone into the kitchen. I pulled a few handfuls of cold spring water to my mouth from the spigot. Even in t
he dark I could see the snow piling up outside. It showed no sign of quitting.
I looked at my call log. Dani. 5:37AM.
This morning.
"Shit," I whispered. I tapped my foot while the phone tried to connect. Sounded like when you hold a seashell up to your ear. But I kept listening.
Nothing happened. It never rang. I never got to hear her voice. I put my head on the table.
At 6:14 it rang again. "Hello." The ring seemed so loud in the quiet house. Adrenaline hit my veins like espresso.
"Hey." It was Dani. I stood up and went over to the window. She said, "I just wanted to say 'hi'."
I couldn't think of a reply. So I said, "Really? After the last time we talked?"
"I know."
I waited for her to apologize.
She said, "The snow makes me a little lonely. I just wanted to hear your voice." She paused. "You are on the verge of having the life you wanted." Her voice sounded sleepy and very far away.
I didn't say anything.
She said, "Stýská se mi po tob. But you'll hear from me soon."
I said, "Goodbye," but she'd already hung up. For the longest time my ears rang with the echoes of her words. I wanted to text her or call her back, just to tell her how much I missed her. Thousands and thousands of things to say to her. I put my head on the table.
When it got light enough to read by, I cracked opened the Pancake book. I read the shortest story in the book, a story about a guy hunting squirrels. About how his brother ran off to start a church about as far away as he could, leaving the main character all alone with his old parents. Pancake's character seemed real. Like me. And the farmhouse seemed like a real farmhouse, like this one. I believed the story could happen for real.
I read another, "Trilobites," but liked the first one better and reread it one more time before Jamie got up.
He crept into the kitchen, smiling as he rubbed his eyes. "Isn't this great?" he said, before going to the sink and splashing cold water into his eyes and onto his cheeks. "Katy would've just ruined the whole thing," he joked.
"How's the book?" He pointed at the Pancake.
"Pretty good, I guess." I flipped through the pages thinking the words might just fly off like water drops from a wet dog.
"I'd put on coffee," Jamie said, "but I don't see any." He opened the drawer to the firebox and stoked it a few times real good. "Did I hear a phone this morning?"
"Yeah, sorry. I got a call. Didn't think I'd get a signal here." I flicked the phone with my finger and it spun lazy circles on the table.
Jamie looked at me, like I was supposed to say more. I was about to apologize, and he said, "You getting a signal now?"
I picked up the phone. "Not anymore."
"Preston..."
I thought he was going to scold me, but he just sighed, nodded, then forced a smile. He took his time to think of his words, then went on like he'd changed him mind. "You ready for some music today?"
"Heck yeah. I was ready last night."
"Be patient," Jamie said, almost interrupting. "It'll happen today. With all that snow there's not much else to do. Did Jesse like the bourbon?"
"Sure did."
Jamie laughed, then hushed up when somebody shuffled upstairs. After Jesse's voice assured us he was awake, I said, "I wonder how long I can hold my pee. You take a look out there?"
Jamie walked over to the sink, "Holy macadamia nut, would you look at that. You bring snowshoes?"
"That's a lot of snow."
"That's a lot of snow," Jamie reiterated.
The steps creaked, but the creaking could've just as easily come from the old man's knees or hips. "How's that fire look?" he asked before he even fully came into view. "And how come I don't smell bacon yet?"
Jamie assured him that the fire was fine, and asked Jesse what we could do to lend a hand. Jesse went into the storeroom for cornmeal and a few eggs. Jamie asked me, "Ever make Johnny cakes?"
I didn't, and that was how I ended up bringing wood in. The cold gave me a shiver. I had to stand next to the fire for a long time to get blood pumping again.
Breakfast lasted forever. Jamie primed Jesse for what would come later this afternoon, like previews before a movie. Even though he never mentioned my song directly, I knew it was coming. Jesse had plans for Jamie on the other side of the creek after breakfast. I was to go with Ernie to feed the cows, unless I wanted to kill and pluck two chickens for dinner, which I didn't.
I dressed warm and met Ernie on the porch. Ernie lead me straight through the yard, more or less following the footprints I'd made toward the outhouse earlier. When he got to the little bridge he didn't hesitate. He went across like a squirrel on a power line.
We got to the barn and Ernie dragged a bale of hay over to the stalls where the cows waited. The smell of manure filled my nose—the strongest thing I'd smelled in weeks. Ernie stripped the twine from the bale, and I helped him bust it up.
After a few quiet moments just listening to cows chew, he turned toward me. His eyes drifted up and toward the light, for the first time letting me see the full extent of his disfigurement. He said, totally without irony, "Preston Black, you don't say much."
It startled me a little, so my reply came out quickly and incoherently. I mumbled an apology—I didn't want to make a bigger ass out of myself by telling him I thought he was deaf and dumb, too—and said something about not being a morning person.
He said, "I have to keep an eye out for my brother, you know. He's all I have. People'd take advantage of a man like him."
"I understand. We have only good intentions." I grabbed a chunk of the bale and dropped it over the fence. "To be honest, I'm the one who got us into this. Don't get me wrong, Jamie loves this kind of stuff. But I'm looking for a song. I got it in my head that this song is important and personal to me. At first I thought it'd help me find my dad. But now I wonder if it's not more about me. I know that sounds stupid..."
Ernie just nodded.
"But I'm afraid learning the whole thing will change me." I didn't know if he was waiting for me to go on or not, because I really didn't leave much of a segue for anything else.
"It's just a song, you know?"
"I know," I said.
"You go to church?"
"Used to. A long time ago." After a few long minutes of watching Ernie feed cows I already fed, I said, "I hope this doesn't come off rude..."
He smiled, the first time I'd seen him smile since we got here. "Korea, 1951. Nothing exciting really. Caught the fast end of a loose cable. That's all."
A mixture of rain and snow really started coming down, so we finished and rushed down the lane and over the other bridge. The rush of water almost drowned the sound of the birds. I walked real close to Ernie, figuring if he stumbled I could give him a hand, but he crept through the heavy wet snow like he was on skis.
Back in the kitchen Jamie had his mic boom fully extended and checked the batteries in his digital recorder. Whiskey sat on the table. Jesse stripped a flour sack away from his fiddle. In a pot by the sink two chickens had been cleaned and quartered, a feather near the stove the only evidence that a double homicide had taken place.
When I shut the door, Jesse, now rip-roaring and ready to go, said to me, "See that old spot on the wall right there? To God's ears my elbow's shadow wore that hole in there I practiced so much." He laughed, then said, "Where's that old guitar of yours?"
Jamie told me to tune to Jesse and gestured to take my time while he got his recorder running. Even I could tell Jesse sounded flat, so it must've been driving Jamie absolutely crazy. Ernie cracked open the bourbon, pouring us each a few fingers with a little spring water from the spigot.
We drank and played right through lunch, almost right up to dinner time. We didn't get through any new or groundbreaking material. My untrained ear couldn't even determine if Jesse really sounded as good as Katy said. Even Jamie seemed a little disappointed. Every time Jesse started a new song Jamie'd sigh, and tell me the cho
rds. He'd say, "'Forked Deer', that's a D, G to A, then a dad, gad gad," or, "'Boatman'. D to an A7. There's a G in the second part, just listen for it."
At one point Jamie even turned off the recorder. Jesse didn't take any notice. He played right through like nobody's business. Then Ernie started giving suggestions. He said, "Stop acting the fool and play 'em something good, Jess. Play 'em that "Yew Piney Mountain." Sometimes at night I'd be in the bunk getting a little homesick, and I'd think about that song and cry myself right to sleep, so I did."
Jamie hit record and Jesse got right into it. We sounded like a sawmill tearing through that old kitchen. Jesse lit up, too, for the first time smiling instead of holding himself tight like a pill bug. "To God's ears, that's a good one," Jesse said when he finished. "I thought you fellows wanted to hear all them popular ones first."
Jamie said, "Anything you play is wonderful. But what we really like are the ones nobody wants to hear. Or ones you don't hear too often. You know 'Black Mountain Rag' or 'Old Sledge'? Maybe that old 'Ballad of Preston Black' even?"
I sat up straight and my cheeks got warm. Jamie gave me a nod and a wink.
Ernie interrupted, the tone in his voice stern. "That song ain't no good. Matthew says to get thee behind me, Satan. Thou art an offense to me, and if you believe in God, the devil ain't going to bother you."
My heart sank. Jamie looked down at his strings. Maybe he'd shot his cannon off a little too soon. Maybe that was why he said to bring the whiskey.
Ernie drank what remained in his glass. He poured himself another and said, "Play them that 'Cuckoo's Nest'. Used to be when Jesse'd play that 'Cuckoo's Nest' your feet'd come right up off of the ground."
Jesse picked it right up where Ernie told him to. Jamie could see my disappointment even though I tried to hide it. He patted me on the leg as soon as the song ended. He whispered, "When I get back home I'll start calling around again."
The Devil and Preston Black (Murder Ballads and Whiskey) Page 18
