The Angels' Share

by James Markert

He awoke the next morning with a stiff back and a crick in his neck. The couch was empty and Polly’s blankets were folded on the far cushion. The dining room was vacant, although the table still held dishes from a breakfast that hadn’t included him. The kitchen smelled of baked apples. At the sink he splashed cold water on his face, dried it with a hand towel, and glanced out the window toward the woods.

  The crowd had grown; he recognized both Catholics and Baptists and some of the town’s Jewish population. A black man slept in a hammock. A few yards away, a white family raked leaves into a pile with their hands so their kids could jump in them. There was no sign of Polly.

  “She’s outside with Mommy.”

  William spun away from the sink and placed his hands on Annie’s shoulders. Then he hurried out of the kitchen and up the stairs. He came down fifteen minutes later, shaved, washed, and decked out in a suit and tie. He’d sprayed some of Barley’s cologne, smoothed his hair back with a glob of pomade.

  “William?”

  “Yeah, Sugar Cakes?”

  “You going to church? There’s white stuff on your chin.”

  William rubbed off a smear of shaving cream. He touched it on Annie’s nose and opened the door. Four armed men in suits and hats guarded the front porch.

  “They’re friends of Daddy’s,” Annie said. “They came this morning.”

  William jerked a nod and looked over at Barley, who tiptoed on the middle rung of a ladder, painting the top of a porch column.

  “She’s around here somewhere.” Barley said nothing about the men standing guard. “You off to church?”

  William shook his head, turned away.

  Inside the grain mill Mr. Browder was making adjustments on the hammer mill. Carly was cleaning one of the vats in the cooking house. Next door at distillation, Max was hammering and Johnny was with him.

  William eyed the woods. No sign of Bancroft. The protestors were only now arriving and they’d yet to begin their chanting.

  He found Polly inside the aging house with Samantha. “Your mother was showing me around.” Her color was better. She inhaled the lingering angels’ share and took in the expanse of naked ricks. “It’ll be beautiful.”

  Samantha looked unusually happy. “Are you going to church, William?”

  “No.” He scoffed, straightening a button on his pin-striped jacket.

  She stepped toward him, sniffed. “You smell like your father.”

  William glanced toward Polly. “Mom . . . quit gumshoeing, eh? And what’s with the suits guarding the house? Where’d they come from?”

  “I don’t know, but Barley said they’ll be here for as long as this circus lasts. I’ll leave you be.” His mother winked. “She’s been waiting for you all morning,” Samantha whispered, touching his arm fleetingly. “We’ve had a nice talk.”

  “Mom, you’re glowing. What is it?”

  “It’s your father. Out of the blue this morning, he surprised me with a root-beer float.”

  William and Polly sat side by side on empty bourbon barrels as the sun cast windowpane shadows across the floorboards. He explained the aging process, how the barrels age differently depending on the floor upon which they’ve been stored. They inhaled the angels’ share with their eyes closed, announcing the different flavors as their senses discovered them—vanilla, caramel, toasted sugars, sweet and smoky aromas, and Polly shouted out, “Butterscotch!”

  They took a walk together and ended up behind the house, on a wooden bench facing the woods where the deer gathered. William learned that Polly and the other eleven—she was not shy in calling them apostles—had crossed the river into southern Indiana, to New Albany and Jeffersonville, to speak to anyone who would listen about Asher Keating’s miracles. They preached that God had sent another son to earth. Most assumed they were lunatics, but their following was growing.

  When they ventured north to the Knobs, their sheer numbers helped sway more to listen. They were hugged, kissed, spat upon and cajoled, heckled and hated, but still they walked on, heading north toward Salem, where they found an abandoned church thirty miles south of the town, an adequate wood structure where they could camp for the night.

  “We . . . all twelve of us, slept inside, along with fifty others. Dozens more slept outside, and the mood was of cheer and promise.” Polly shook her head. “Near midnight I had to relieve myself. I ventured fifty paces into the woods for privacy, and no sooner had I dropped my drawers I heard the horses. Klansmen.”

  “Why would the Klan get involved?” Indiana once had the most powerfully active Klan in the nation, with roots that ran all the way to the governor. They spread hateful propaganda in the Fiery Cross, their newspaper. But the Klan had mostly disbanded by the end of the twenties. He thought it had dissolved even further with the onset of the Depression.

  “The Klan’s heavily Protestant, William. They hate anything Catholic. Anything to do with the pope and his influence.”

  “Asher had no claims to Catholicism, did he? Did he have any specific denomination?”

  “Your priest made them think so. Your article on his stigmata—”

  “You read it?”

  “I read it.”

  “And?”

  “I believe every word, if that’s what you’re asking.” She picked at dirt under one of her fingernails. “But it equated Asher with Catholicism. The Klansmen circled the church, condemning your priest’s sacrilegious claims. They called your distillery the true mark of the Devil.”

  “What does our distillery have to do with any of this?”

  “Prohibition was the cornerstone of their reform agenda: ‘Demon Rum.’ They attacked bootleggers. Broke up speakeasies. It united Klansmen across the country. And now this man buried on the grounds of a famous bourbon distillery where a priest claims stigmata wounds—”

  “You sound like you’re rationalizing for them!”

  “I’m only explaining where they’re coming from, William.”

  She shuddered. He put his arm around her shoulders and she leaned into him.

  “I watched as the cowards circled the church. They set it on fire and called for the apostles to watch it burn. Followers rushed out the door, others out the windows. But the apostles didn’t. The roof caught fire, and the Klansmen got nervous. It was not their intention to murder, and they shouted for the apostles to come out. I was so afraid they were going to die as martyrs! They finally did come out, praying. The Klansmen hurried off as the church crumbled.”

  Polly didn’t cry. She’d cried too much on her walk back home, across the river to the coke ovens, before she decided to return to Twisted Tree. She’d collapsed atop Asher’s grave and wept, and that was where Samantha and Johnny had found her.

  “Where did the rest of them go? The other eleven?”

  “They moved on. To continue our mission. The attack fueled their cause.”

  “But not yours?”

  “The truth is, William, I was scared. I believe in our mission, but I was tired of being scared. And I feel safe here.”

  Polly rested her head on his shoulder. He’d wanted to ask about Asher’s connection to Henry, but with talk of the Klan, he asked another question instead. “Was Asher a Negro?”

  Polly jerked her head up at his bluntness. “Why do you ask?”

  “A man named Bancroft. He’s a reporter at the Post. He’s spreading rumors that Keating had Negro blood. He’s written about it in the paper.”

  “I don’t know what blood Asher had, William. And I don’t much care. To be honest, I thought he was of Mediterranean descent. His skin had an olive-colored tone. The question was posed to him often.”

  “What would he say when asked?”

  “His answer was always the same. ‘I am every man.’ That’s what he would tell them. ‘I am every man.’” She looked in his eyes. “This worries you?”

  “I’m thinking of how bad things come in threes.”

  “Such as?”

  “The Klan burned that church because of t
heir views on Catholicism. And the link to the distillery. If they hear that Asher Keating had Negro blood—all three could bring fire to our doorstep.”

  “Then let them come, William. We’ll be safe.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Your mother. She told me about the angels’ share. They’ll keep the distillery safe.”

  After dropping Johnny and Annie at the schoolhouse, William drove to the Courier-Journal building in Louisville to deliver his article to Mr. Crone. Along with Bethany Finn’s revelation, he also wrote about Asher’s darker side. He softened the news of his drug use by proposing it stemmed from war horrors. Asher had an addiction, but he’d fought for his country and should be remembered as a hero.

  Mr. Crone asked for more, more, more, but now that the distillery had life, William found himself wanting to give him less.

  The main roads leading to Twisted Tree were clogged for miles. William knew the back roads well enough to venture off into the woods, but this extended his return trip by twenty minutes. A mile from the distillery, he slowed to a stop on a narrow path, which was partially blocked by Frank and his corpse wagon. He’d had the same idea as William, but with the cart’s rickety wheels, Frank had bitten off more than he could chew. He was stranded and the horse looked beat.

  “The wheels stuck?”

  “No.” Frank eyed his horse. “Betsy refuses to go another step.” He gazed at the colorful fall foliage. “At least it’s peaceful here. Can’t say I was looking forward to this delivery.”

  William sized up the bundle on the cart. “Suppose I take it the rest of the way for you?”

  “I wouldn’t burden you with a job like that.”

  “I can fit it in the trunk. Wait until nightfall. Get Barley to help me bury it. We’ve watched you enough to know the routine.”

  “What say you, Betsy? Should we turn back around?”

  Betsy whinnied and snorted, and Frank took it as a yes.

  William unlocked the trunk. “Does this body have a name?”

  “Afraid not.” Frank helped William lift the bulky bag. “Found in a back alley in Bricktown is all I know.”

  The body was heavy. Probably a man. William slammed the trunk closed with an urge to scrub his hands pink. “Do you need help turning the wagon around?”

  “I’ll be fine, thank you. Might even sit here for a bit.”

  Before getting into the car, William called over, “When you delivered Asher Keating’s body, did you notice anything different?”

  “He was heavier than most. But can’t say I felt anything different at all.”

  As soon as he stepped out of the car, he saw Polly. She wore clean clothes—a beige ankle-length skirt and purple sweater William guessed belonged to his mother decades ago—and her hair shimmered in the sunlight, pulled back and braided in an ornate plait against her ivory neckline.

  She waved at William, a quick wiggle of the fingers before resuming her conversation with Carly. With all her clunky layers gone, William could see her true figure, which was petite but curvy.

  She is stunning.

  William suddenly felt small. Not good enough for her.

  Barley was still painting the porch, and policemen were stationed north, south, east, and west around the house. A young black couple walked hand in hand from the whiskey trees toward Asher’s grave. They passed a white family that was returning. A few words were exchanged, then a compassionate handshake between the two men followed. Bancroft’s article had failed to produce any violence. Good. Samantha rushed an empty barrel across the run and into the door of the distillation house.

  “Hurry up and wait,” Barley said from his ladder. White paint stained the tip of his nose and fingers. He spoke to himself more than to William. “Old Sam ages four to six years.” He pointed to the hanging swing. A brown fedora rested on the seat. “That’s for you. It’s one of my old ones, but it’ll do.”

  William stepped up to the porch to try the hat on. It fit like a glove.

  Barley jerked him an approving nod. “We need to look for Asher’s friend from the war today. Oliver Sanscrit.”

  “We’ll have to go out the way I came,” William said, proudly fingering the brim of his new hat. “Roads are clogged for miles.”

  Barley tiptoed to reach the top of a column. “I’ll finish this, then we’ll go.”

  William cut his eyes to Polly. Then he asked Barley, “Why should we wait for all the bourbon to age? Can’t we sell at least some before it’s aged? Isn’t it still whiskey? We could market it as something new, something everyone should want.”

  “White lightning is nothing new, William.”

  “But ours will be from this distillery.” William breathed the corn-scented air. “We’ll call it White Barley. Or Johnny White . . . or . . . or William—”

  “We can call it nonsense.” Barley stepped down from the ladder, taking a good whiff of the air himself as he wiped his hands on a towel. He glanced over at Polly as well. “Cleans up good, doesn’t she?”

  “What? Yeah, I suppose so.”

  “Too bad she’s probably off her tracks.” Barley straightened William’s new hat.

  “Did Mother have to put her in the most unflattering clothes possible?”

  “What’s wrong with them?”

  “Not exactly the cat’s meow.”

  “You expect her to give up her glad rags?”

  William shrugged, watched Polly in the distance. “Suppose it doesn’t matter what she wears. She’s still a doll.”

  Barley grinned, watched his son. “Make sure after they distill, they use some of the sour mash as backset on the next batch. Your mother will know the amount. The rest they can sell to cow farms. Haven’t been drunk cows around here in years. And the first batch will probably be unsuitable. So don’t be too—Oh, what am I talking about.” Barley tossed his towel down. “Our coopers left us over a decade ago.”

  “Excuse me, Mr. McFee. The officer let us pass.”

  It was the fisherman from the river, and his son, Peter. He held two buckets overflowing with fish and his son carried a third.

  “I’m John Swell. We met yesterday under the bridge?”

  Barley stared down at the fish. “Dear God.”

  William’s legs wobbled. He braced himself on the porch rail.

  “Last night the fish were practically jumping at us from the river. And when I slept, I had a dream. A voice said to come visit the grave. Said to come here and earn my keep.”

  Barley’s voice was unsteady. “What’d you do for a living, Mr. Swell?”

  “I was a cooper, Mr. McFee.”

  The cooperage behind the distillation house was in fine shape, Swell said. Most of the bilge hoops were free of rust. After some easy cleanup he could have barrels rolling in a matter of days. Although many of the leftover staves were unusable, there were enough to make at least ten initial barrels.

  John Swell made hogshead barrels during his years at the Burnsley & Klingsmith cooperage on Main Street. He also had experience with wine casks, buckets, butter churns, and puncheons. As he and his son ate fried fish at the McFees’ dinner table, he spoke confidently about his ability to make the barrels needed for the distillery.

  Polly had joined them for dinner. A couple of times she’d smiled at William, but now that she’d turned gorgeous and smelled of lavender, he’d reverted to his bashful self.

  Barley, William, and Johnny grew silent when John told the story of how he’d caught the first fish of the morning—none of them was willing to admit to the table that Barley had prayed for it to happen.

  “Peter screamed, ‘I got one, Daddy.’” John took a healthy bite of fried fish and continued talking as he chewed. “He’d taken the bucket to the shoreline to gather water and an eight-inch bass leapt right into it! We sat for the next two hours and snatched a fish every sixty seconds. I knew then that I had to follow that voice in my dream. The one that brought me to that twisted tree the town was named for. Never seen such a thi
ng. But it was a miracle, those fish.”

  Polly reached down the table and touched John Swell’s hands. She held them long enough to utter a silent prayer and make William envious.

  When dinner was over and everyone stood from the table, Polly brushed William on the way to the living room. She was pretty enough to paint and he’d planned to tell her as much, but his sweats began and his neckline flushed.

  “Are you okay, William?”

  He nodded, looked away, acting all high hat.

  She grinned. “Well, would you be so kind as to escort this lady to the new cottage your mother just offered me?”

  “No.” He wiped his brow, then stammered an even more confounding, “I can’t. Not right now. I’m busy.”

  “Busy? I see.” She folded her arms. Her shoulders sagged, but she faked a smile on her way to the door.

  He watched her out the window as John Swell and his son served as her escort. For a few heartbeats they looked like a family, and the thought made William sweat more. His hands shook. His breath quickened. Tiny bee stings embraced his heart, and a tingling sensation crawled up and down his spine and neckline. Then his skin went cold and clammy, and the attack ended as Polly and the Swell family disappeared behind the fermentation house.

  William balled his hand into a fist and punched the meat of it against the window frame. He stewed for a minute, then gathered his wits and then his memory.

  John Swell’s arrival had forced them to postpone their search for Oliver Sanscrit.

  It also made William forget that he had a dead body in the car trunk.

  So later, when Barley asked him if everything was jake, William said, “No. But I do have an idea about how to kill Dooly McDowell.”

  Samantha was up reading until well after eleven, so it was close to midnight by the time William and Johnny met Barley in the driveway with a wooden cart and a Louisville Slugger. At the potter’s field, a lone man sprinted away from Asher’s grave. Access was closed after ten, but they’d begun to see “prayer robbers” stealing time after hours. Except for a few distant lanterns, the rest of the tents had turned down for the night.