The Angels' Share

by James Markert

  Startled, William looked up. “I’m drawing you.”

  He was doodling his father’s shadowy profile under the rainbow glow of a stained glass floor lamp. Barley rarely moved from his oddly shaped favorite chair. “Nature’s way of relaxing,” the magazine had called it. Since Henry died, every morning after he suited himself up from wing tips and spats to suspenders and tie, he’d sit in the La-Z-Boy all day. The wreck had killed both of them. It was just taking Barley longer to stop breathing.

  Smoke spiraled upward from a cigar stub wedged between the index and middle fingers of Barley’s right hand. He’d removed his fedora after dinner and placed it on the end table beside his chair, right next to the half-eaten bowl of stew Samantha had delivered after the rest of the family had eaten in the dining room without him.

  William added another couple of lines to accentuate his father’s chiseled jaw and then a few swirls of shade to capture the mystery in his deep-blue eyes. He sketched when he couldn’t write. Earlier, he’d attempted to type out some details about his father but didn’t get very far.

  “Bring it over here.” Barley took a drag on his cigar and then smothered the stub in what was left of his stew.

  “Did you hear the St. Louis Hawks beat the Detroit Tigers four games to three in the World Series?” He’d memorize things from the paper about baseball as conversation starters.

  “It’s the Cards, William. Not the Hawks. And I know.” Barley gestured for him to come over. The attempts never transformed into anything meaningful.

  William’s footfalls were heavy across the wood-planked floor. He handed over the sketch.

  “Why are your hands shaking?”

  William shrugged. He was shaking. He never expected Barley to see his picture.

  Barley squinted at himself, then handed it back. “What were you so busy typing earlier?”

  William rubbed his hands on his pant legs. “I was writing about what happened today,” he answered with caution. “At church. Thought maybe a story could be made from it.”

  “No story I’d want to read.” Barley tilted his head back, downed the rest of his Old Forester, and then reached for the bottle next to his Colt .45. “You get to the part where the Calloway broad fainted?”

  “I did.”

  Barley flashed a brief smile. He poured two glasses and nudged one toward William. “Go on, take it. Helps calm the nerves.”

  William had seen enough drunkards in his life. He’d heard people claim distilleries were arms of the Devil. But his family’s distillery had built this town. Still, he felt reluctant: he’d sworn to Mr. Browder next door that his first sip of bourbon would be Old Sam.

  “Might be an old man by then,” Mr. Browder had said. Along with William, Mr. Browder also dreamed of rekindling the distillery. But Mr. Browder’s hair was now as white as his skin was black.

  William had seen Fitz Bannion down the road take a sip of some home brew and vomit. But this wasn’t bootleg. Old Forester wasn’t Old Sam, but it was the real thing, aged and survived. He swirled the amber liquid inside the glass and brought it to his nose to inhale.

  “It’s not wine, William.”

  William wrinkled his nose and rubbed emerging moisture from his right eye.

  “Don’t be so delicate. Breathe in through your mouth—smell the vanilla?” Barley asked. “And caramel?”

  “No.”

  “It’s from charring the oak barrels. Brings out the flavors in the wood. By the taste and smell, I’m guessing the mash bill on this is at least seventy percent corn. Twenty and ten, give or take, with rye and barley.” Barley poured himself another. “Coat your tongue with it.”

  William hesitated. Since Henry’s death, he’d made a daily promise to himself not to end up a drunk like his father had become. But one drink wouldn’t hurt. He tilted his head back. The bourbon slid smoothly across his palate, but then liquid heat went both north and south, burning his chest and sinuses with equal measure. He coughed into his fist and then put the glass on the table.

  Barley dumped another two fingers of bourbon down his gullet and eyed the typewriter across the room. “If you insist on being a journalist and not getting a real job, do me a favor.”

  William’s throat felt raw, his voice raspy. “What?”

  “Pick a new target. Stories about me will get you nowhere.”

  “Because you’re a vault,” William said, understanding for the first time the line his mother used to describe Barley at social gatherings. It’s the whiskey talking. He did feel calmer and more relaxed.

  “A vault. That’s a good one.” Barley poured more Old Forester. “I’ll give you one tidbit then. And you can write this down. For the record. Are you ready?” He leaned forward. “Do you know why my father named me Barley?”

  “No,” said William, ready for a golden nugget.

  “Because if I’d been named Corn or Rye, I would’ve gotten pasted on the schoolyard.” Barley leaned back, proud of himself. After thirty ticks on the grandfather clock, he leaned forward and the recliner closed with a snap. He pointed out the window toward the potter’s field, where a lone lantern hovered at a man’s height from the ground. “You see that?”

  William stepped closer to the window. “I do.”

  The initial light was followed by another, and a few seconds later three more lantern lights emerged from the whiskey trees, bobbing like fireflies. Barley bumped into the end table on his way closer to the window, nearly spilling everything on top of it. “William, lock the doors.”

  “What . . . why? What’s going on?”

  “Lock the door,” Barley said. “And get my shotguns from the bedroom.”

  THREE

  Samantha, still sopping wet from the tub, returned upstairs to put Annie to bed, mumbling about paranoia as she climbed the steps. Unconcerned about the crowd in the potter’s field, Johnny returned to whatever he’d been doing in his bedroom before he’d rushed down the stairs moments ago. It was just William and his father again, watching the lanterns and torches and all the bums who held them—close to two hundred now. Barley was still convinced they were dangerous.

  “Is it the Krauts, Dad?” William had decided to play along.

  Barley turned, peered over the window ledge. “Worse.”

  William faced the window, giving a clear view of his head and shoulders to the shadowy figures outside. None seemed to be paying the McFees’ home any attention. The potter’s field was rarely used for Twisted Tree residents; the town’s deceased were buried on family farms. Most of the indigents out there in the ground came from Louisville. How far did these people travel?

  “Get down,” Barley said. He was tired, his eyes bloodshot. “Get down, Johnny. They’re gonna blow your noodle off.”

  William ignored the command, especially because his father had called him by the wrong name. Outside, many had dropped to their knees, their heads bowed. They prayed in unison—a drone like a swarm of bees. He’d witnessed hundreds of burials in the potter’s field, and not once had anyone come to pay respects for the deceased. Who has drawn such a crowd of mourners?

  They prayed. They cried. They consoled like one great family.

  “I can’t hear, Johnny . . .” Barley’s eyes closed, his fingers limp around the empty bottle of Old Forester. “Where? Where’d . . . his shoes go?”

  William let Barley ramble. They’d gone over the mysteries of the accident endlessly. Henry’s shoes were never found, the ones he called his dancing shoes. Barley had gone through the windshield first, breaking the glass for Henry’s passage. According to the blood trail, Henry had landed in the middle of the road. But when Barley came to, Henry was on the side of the road, in the grass, with his hands peacefully crossed atop his chest. Both of his legs had been broken. The only other person there, besides Barley, was wedged between his seat and steering wheel. So if someone had helped Henry off the road, it hadn’t been Preston Wildemere.

  William patted his father’s shoulder, and soon he was snoring�
�a deep, throaty rumble. He’d be out for the night. Was Mr. Browder witnessing this strange pilgrimage from his cottage? Probably so; Mr. Browder didn’t miss much.

  William tried another sip, following Barley’s directions. He breathed it in through his mouth. Maybe he did catch a hint of vanilla. He sipped enough to cover his tongue, winced as he held the flavors in his mouth. He took another swallow. It burned a trail down his throat, but the finish was crisp and smooth.

  One day barrels will roll across the runs again.

  William McFee, Master Distiller. He smiled at the thought, then sipped again.

  “What’s going on out there, William?” His mother was padding across the floor, barefoot and tying the strings of a nightgown around her waist. “I’ve been watching from the bedroom.”

  She sat on the other side of Barley. By the looks of her attire, she was home for the night, which gave William comfort. She mourned for Henry deeply, but she also went out of her way to prove her toughness, taking pride in showing she’d overcome the tragedy. He heard her weeping at night with no one to console her, because Barley, if he didn’t pass out in his recliner, was sleeping on the couch. Deep down, William knew she blamed Barley for Henry’s death.

  “A prayer service of some kind,” William said.

  “This is quite the spectacle.” She stared out the window. “Will you need the car in the morning? After you take your brother and sister to the schoolhouse?”

  “No, Mother.” She was one of only a few women William knew who drove. Barley had been on the road so often during the twenties, she’d felt it necessary to learn. He watched her. “Do you need the car again for groceries? Because we seem to need a lot of groceries of late.”

  Samantha studied him. “Is there something on your mind, William?”

  He wanted to ask her about the glances with Mr. Bancroft during church. The times he’d seen them sharing laughs and walking together. The man was a hack from the Post. “No.”

  “Then quit gumshoeing.” She tucked a strand of loose sandy-colored hair behind her ear. “Have you given any more thought to what we discussed yesterday? Father Vincent could hire you at the church to paint and clean the grounds . . .”

  “I doubt the offer is still available after what happened today.”

  “Yes, you’re probably right.”

  “I want to write.” William thought of what the man had said earlier in the day—“It’s just the way he was”—and said, “I was born to be . . . I wasn’t born to be average.” And then he added without thinking, “Just like Henry wasn’t.”

  Her glance at Barley spoke volumes. She feared if he didn’t find paying work soon, he would turn into his father. Most of the boys—young men—his age had already secured work years ago, mostly hard summertime labor that required sweating in the fields, coal yards, or horse farms. William didn’t mind the sweating, but if he was going to do it, he didn’t understand why it couldn’t be at the distillery. He didn’t understand their stubbornness on the matter.

  For him, writing filled the void. But if journalism was a realistic option, he’d be writing for pay by now.

  His mother must have read his thoughts. “How many rejections is it from the Courier now?”

  “Eight . . . nine. I don’t remember.”

  “Sure you do,” Samantha said, serious.

  “Please give me a chance to prove myself.”

  She reached over Barley’s head, squeezed William’s hand, and then let go. “Prove yourself then, William. But there comes a time when growing up should come first.”

  “The Courier says I need something more gripping.” William ran his hand through his hair. “Breaking news happens, Mother. When it does I need to be ready.”

  “Going to college is still an option. And don’t forget, St. Meinrad is not far—”

  “I don’t want to be a priest. Why do you and Father all of a sudden think I’d be a good priest?” I don’t even believe anymore. And so what if I’m not as smooth with the broads as Johnny.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to needle you.” She watched him. “I don’t need the car for groceries tomorrow. I plan to see Mr. Bancroft. I want to give him money for the bullet hole your father put in his car door. If you want, I can talk to him about your writing—”

  “No,” he said quickly. He’d never take advice from a Post reporter. Especially not someone who wrote as sensationally as Bancroft. “Is that all?”

  “Is what all?”

  “You’re just going to see him about the car door?”

  “Of course that’s all.” Her cheeks flushed. “What else would it be?”

  She was not a good liar. It roiled him to think she couldn’t see through the man. Since the accident, Bancroft had been penning articles hinting that there was more to Barley’s part in the wreck than the Courier let on. Now he was attending their church, pretending to care about her well-being. He was a leech, taking advantage when Samantha was most vulnerable.

  “We’ll cover the cost of the church window as well?” He didn’t want an argument, and part of him didn’t want the truth either.

  “I suppose we should.” Samantha reached for William’s glass of bourbon, downed it in one swallow, and banged it down on the window ledge. Barley snorted but stayed asleep.

  There was a low rumble of thunder, and then it started to rain.

  “Mother? Tell me about the day Henry was born.”

  “You remember the storm, don’t you?”

  “How could I not?” William had been terrified. “I thought we were going to die.” But it wasn’t what he was interested in hearing about.

  “We all did.”

  “I mean, it got so quiet in your room. And then Father screamed.”

  “Your father thought Henry was stillborn.” She smiled with the memory. “Because he didn’t cry. All babies cry when they come out—you wailed for an hour.”

  “But not Henry?”

  “No, not Henry.” This smile was broader. “And then he suddenly opened his eyes and looked around like he’d just awoken. Like he was playing a joke on us all.”

  “And then what?”

  “The midwife snipped the cord, cleaned him off, and passed him around the room. And Henry did what he’d do for the next four years. He left us in awe.”

  “Made everybody smile.”

  “Yes,” she said. “He made us smile.”

  The crowd at the potter’s field was gone the next morning, leaving no evidence, other than some trampled grass, that they’d ever been there at all. Perhaps the rain had driven them away. It left William with a hollow feeling in his gut.

  Barley snored on the floor beneath the bay window, so William stole a moment in his father’s chair, facing the wall where Henry’s closed casket had rested for eight long hours before the burial. Sunlight bled through the window just as it had on that day, detailing all the grains in the wood. Annie had knocked on the coffin and said, “Alright, Henry, come on out now. It’s my turn to hide.”

  Samantha stormed from the room crying, brushing right past Barley who’d tried halfheartedly to console her. He’d been nearly catatonic as over two hundred Twisted Tree residents funneled into their home to pay respects, filling the dining room and kitchen with homemade casseroles and soups whose wonderful smells made everything feel wrong.

  William had wanted everyone out. He hated shaking hands and accepting hugs; all he wanted to do was wallow. Johnny had cried his eyes out the night before and was the only member of the family to have his wits about him. The entire afternoon he stood in suit and tie at the door greeting.

  William’s heart rate accelerated and the sweats started. He clenched his fists as he remembered walking Annie away from the casket to explain again that Henry was gone.

  “Can’t we open the box?”

  “We can’t, Sugar Cakes.”

  “Then I don’t believe he’s in there.” She went into the dining room to eat a biscuit from Miss Stapansky’s basket. William watched her, e
nvious of her ignorance.

  But since she’d said it, not a day had gone by that William didn’t wonder.

  FOUR

  So how come Dad had all his shotguns out?” Annie asked as William steered the car down the driveway. The grass was covered with red and gold leaves—wet paint strewn across a green canvas. Johnny was tapping the dashboard to a beat only he could hear. Annie sat in the back middle seat because she liked to look at herself in the rearview mirror.

  William couldn’t wait to drop both of them off at St. Michael so he could get over to the potter’s field and find out who the deceased was. Frank sometimes painted names on the wooden crosses; the seeds of a story might be there.

  “To clean them,” he said. Barley was still asleep on the floor when they’d left.

  “Liar,” said Annie, which made Johnny laugh.

  William grinned, watching her through the mirror. “How do you know I’m lying?”

  “I just can tell.” She shrugged. “You’re not as good at it as Johnny.”

  Johnny put his fist in the air.

  Annie raised her hand. “I’ve got another memory.”

  William looked at Johnny. “Let’s hear it, Sugar Cakes.”

  “One day I was in the bathtub with Henry and he passed gas and bubbles came up.”

  “Good story,” said Johnny.

  Annie smiled proudly, and so did William. The give-and-take reminded him of the playful banter they’d once shared—evidence that seeds still remained.

  Wet, gnarled tree limbs overhung the gravel road. William drove slowly past the abandoned distillery buildings—the shed for storing the grains, the water well, the milling barn and cooking house, the fermentation house and distilling barn, all pitch-roofed and missing shingles. White oak barrels stood empty all over the grounds, home to mice and coons, the bilge hoops rusted around rain-warped staves, some resting horizontally on steel runs that connected the buildings, cross-hatching the property like a train depot.