Three Rivers

by Tiffany Quay Tyson

  On the eighth day, Obi returned to his box and spent a day gathering things he thought they would need. He picked up his paycheck from the construction crew. His boss, a small, quiet man, told him he would be missed and to come back if he ever needed work. He was supposed to contact Social Services, but he could just imagine what the woman would think of his plan to live in a place where the floor wasn’t just dirty, it was actually dirt.

  He cashed the paycheck and emptied out his bank account and found that he had plenty of money. They would be able to live for a long time if they were careful and ate food they hunted or harvested from the wild berry bushes that grew along the river and from the gardens so carefully planted in neat rows behind people’s homes. Obi knew he could find work when he needed money. People always needed a fence mended or a roof repaired.

  Traveling with a small boy proved fortuitous. Women wanted to get their hands on the child, to make sure he was well fed and healthy. They wanted to hold the boy and coo at him, poke his round tummy, tickle his dancing feet, stroke his rust-colored hair, peer into his green marble eyes, kiss his freckled cheeks, and smell his wild child scent. Obi was happy to let the women hold Liam while he worked or talked with the men and figured out the best places to camp. The biggest problem he ran into were single women, who would offer Obi a bed for the night. It felt good to sleep with a woman and he could trade his freedom for one night or even a week in exchange for that pleasure. Soon, though, the women wanted him to stay. Liam needs a mother, they said, a home, a schedule. What about school? they asked. Obi wised up and turned away from the single women. He sometimes slept with other men’s wives while the men were at work. The wives didn’t want him to stay, and Obi, satisfied, could move on without guilt.

  The money he carried with him plus the cash for odd jobs kept his truck filled with gas and allowed him to purchase the few items he couldn’t capture or take. Every month he bought cornmeal, flour, powdered milk, a few canned goods, and a surprise for Liam. The surprises were small: a box of lemon cookies that made Liam’s mouth pucker when he ate them, a bag of oranges, a loaf of fresh bread. Liam loved the treats. Once it was a package of bubble gum. Obi and Liam spent an entire afternoon chewing the gum and pushing their tongues through the rubbery sweetness to blow bubbles. Liam spat the first piece out onto the ground with his effort to create a bubble. His face screwed up and the corners of his mouth drooped; the gum was covered in dirt and twigs. Obi unwrapped another piece and popped it in Liam’s mouth before he could cry.

  Obi met other people who lived as they did, single men who traveled along the rivers in canoes and families piled into trucks and campers. The single men were outlaws or deadbeat parents. On the river, though, they were just men, strong men who lived freely and from the land. The families Obi met traveled for many reasons, but it all boiled down to this: They couldn’t bear to live in a box, to raise their children in the cold, generic suburbs of America.

  Sometimes luck or fate or the weather brought a group of them together in the same area and then it was a party. Tonight would be one of those nights, Obi knew. The smell of the stew and the salty smoked meat filled the air with invitation. Once the river people set up or returned to camp for the evening, back from a day of fishing or hunting or just floating along the river, they would follow the scent of Obi’s stew. The sun dipped its white light into the green tips of the pine trees on the far side of the river. They would be here soon.

  “Liam!” he called. “Come and put some clothes on.”

  Liam ran over and pulled a pair of jeans from a duffel bag in the bed of the truck. He shimmied into them and slipped a T-shirt over his head. Obi had taken the clothes from a charity donation bin outside a Goodwill store just south of Batesville. The jeans were a good fit, but the T-shirt hung on Liam’s small shoulders like a nightgown. The shirt was dark blue with flaking red and white letters that read OLE MISS on the front. People were always throwing out perfectly good stuff and Obi figured they needed the clothes as much as anyone who might visit the thrift store. He figured that by taking the clothes directly from the donation bin, he was saving someone the trouble of paperwork.

  This was the kind of thinking that got Obi in trouble. He and the other people along the river shared a philosophy. Some things could not be owned; some things were ripe for taking. Corn and tomatoes, sacks of pole beans, heads of lettuce, and the occasional live chicken disappeared from homes in the small towns along the Yalobusha, the Tallahatchie, and the Yazoo rivers. Obi never took more than he needed and he never took the best of anything. People blamed deer or a fox or some other wildlife for the loss. It was the price of living in a place where you could grow enough food in a backyard to feed a small army. Sometimes, though, homeowners and farmers called the sheriff and accused the river people of stealing. It was not a crime to live as Obi did, but sometimes crimes were committed.

  In the same way they believed living things could not be owned, whether it be animal or vegetable, they believed some things must be shared. There was no hoarding food on the river. Money, scarce as it was, belonged to the individual. Guns and vehicles and boats were owned. Food and drink and smoke were shared. Most people provided for themselves by fishing or hunting or foraging, but when someone struck it rich, as Obi had done this morning, they were obliged to share. Obi made a point of sharing a big meal every so often, just to keep on the good side of all the river people. Most of them were solitary men who didn’t want trouble and who wouldn’t cause trouble. Lately, though, there had been an influx of young, brash men who looked at living off the land as an adventure rather than a life. These new men—boys, really, in Obi’s opinion—did not understand how important it was to be inconspicuous. They were the children of the wealthy and they had been to college and dropped out, or they had graduated and decided work didn’t suit them. They lived off their parents’ money. They drank too much, drove recklessly, smoked excessive amounts of marijuana, took pills, manufactured drugs that smelled of cat piss in old trailers they set up by the river, swung from the trees in imitation of Tarzan, left trash on the riverbanks, left fires smoldering, chased women who didn’t want to be caught, and generally terrified everyone in their path. These boys brought unwanted attention to the river people, and attention turned into trouble. The small-town sheriffs and their deputies were capable of violence and cruelty. It was best to avoid their attentions. People who lived in boxes and liked it didn’t understand why anyone would choose to do otherwise.

  * * *

  Obi waved to a couple approaching the campsite. Samuel carried a bucket in one hand and it sloshed as he walked. His wife carried a cast-iron dish with a towel across the top.

  “Glad you came,” Obi said.

  “We smelled the stew starting around lunchtime, and Margie said she knew it was you.”

  Margie set the dish she was carrying on the tailgate of Obi’s truck. “I love a man who knows how to cook.” She kissed Obi on the cheek and rubbed Liam’s curls. “The boys are right behind us.”

  Obi watched as the two young boys wrestled their way toward the fire. They looked like puppies fighting to get the first sip of milk. The boys were older than Liam by a few years, but they included him and made him feel a part of their games.

  “I caught a mess of bream today.” Samuel set the bucket down on the ground. “Thought I might add to the meal for anyone who wants a bit of fish.”

  “Appreciate it.” Obi nodded.

  “Still need to clean ’em and fillet ’em.” He gestured toward the bed of Obi’s truck. “Do you mind?”

  “Not a bit.”

  “John David! Sam! Cut it out.” Margie watched, to be sure her sons quit doing whatever it was she didn’t want them doing, and turned back to Obi. “I made a berry cobbler. We can stick it on the fire for after dinner.”

  “Mmmm, that’s perfect.” Obi had very little interest in another wife, but if he did settle down again, it would definitely be with a woman who could make a good cobbler.


  Before long, there were a dozen people in Obi’s camp. Many brought something to share—a bottle of whiskey or jug full of lemonade or a salad of wild, bitter greens. Obi’s stew was delicious and Samuel’s fish was just right. Everyone made a fuss over Margie’s cobbler, and more than a few people wished for ice cream. Liam and John David and Sam carried around fish eyes like talismans, rubbing the slimy orbs across their palms and looking at them closely to uncover their secrets. One of the older men pulled out a guitar and strummed on it without evoking any sort of melody. The night grew darker and the stars came out, hanging like ornaments in the black sky. The air cooled and there was almost a breeze if you stood still enough to feel it. Mosquitoes swarmed and dispersed, biting flesh that had been bitten too many times before.

  One by one, the men drifted off, back to their own campsites along the river or to sleep in the cradle of canoes. Samuel and his family stayed on longer than the rest. The boys played an elaborate game of tag.

  Samuel and Margie and the boys had a camper, which practically made them of another world among most of the river people. They were traveling for one year, Samuel told Obi, one year of freedom from television and movies and from working like a dog for money to pay for the things Samuel hated.

  Samuel and Obi sat side by side while Margie cleaned up her cobbler dish in the river. A loud whine and the tinny sound of music blared through an old radio, distant at first and then louder. A light bounced toward them. Obi jumped up first. The light split in two and grew bigger, revealing a vehicle careening through the woods before coming to a stop just inches from Obi’s own truck.

  “Good God Almighty Christ in Heaven!” Samuel rose up. Obi almost laughed at his friend’s choice of words, but there was nothing funny about the young men climbing from the Jeep. Obi looked to make sure Liam and the two boys were safe. Margie had all three of them in her arms.

  Three boys spilled from the Jeep, young men with wild eyes and wild hair but wearing clothes that probably cost more than Obi’s truck was worth.

  “Hey,” one of them said. The boy was tall and looked strong if a bit soft around the middle. His hair was blond and curly and his eyes were glassy with drink or something stronger. His face was scratched, four long red gashes across his right jaw, fresher than the wound on Obi’s cheek. “Got anything to drink?”

  Obi shook his head. “We have clean water and a bit of orange juice. You are welcome to the water, but the juice is for my son.”

  “Naw, man.” The boy looked at his friends and grinned.

  Samuel spoke. “We don’t drink alcohol and we don’t have any, so move along.”

  “See,” the boy said, as if Samuel hadn’t spoken. “We just need a little shot of something and then we’ll head on down the river.”

  “We don’t have any liquor,” Obi said.

  “Okay.” The boy sighed like Obi was dense and he was just trying to be reasonable. “Okay, then how about you run into town and buy us a bottle? We got money.” The boy who had been speaking nodded at one of the others, the smallest one. The small boy lowered his head, his face shaded with a baseball cap, and reached into a pocket to pull out a wad of cash.

  “You have money, buy it yourself,” Samuel said.

  Obi studied the smaller boy, the one with the money. Something about him was different from the others. His skin was darker and smoother, not a trace of a beard. His denim shirt would fit someone twice his size. His blue jeans were rolled up and cinched tight at the waist. Obi wondered how old he was. He looked to be a teenager—a runaway, perhaps.

  “You know,” the first boy spoke. “We would. We really would. But there’s been a, uh, misunderstanding. We can’t be seen in town right now.”

  “Move on,” Obi said. “Go to the next town.” If there was going to be trouble, he wanted the boys far away.

  “It’s a pretty big misunderstanding.” The boy reached up and touched the scratch on his jaw. “I’m gonna have to stay low for a while and I need a drink. I really need a drink, man.”

  “Looks to me like you’ve had plenty to drink already,” Samuel said.

  “Aw, man, don’t give me that and don’t tell me you don’t got anything to drink either. See, I know you guys drink. Everyone drinks on the river.”

  Plenty of people drank on the river, it was true, but these boys managed to find the one camp with no liquor. There was not even a bottle left over from the party. People who brought whiskey to pass drank until the bottle was dry.

  One of the other boys spoke, a boy with brown hair and a face with features so vague that he looked like an unfinished sketch. “Yeah, you’re all a bunch of drunks.”

  “We have children here,” Obi said. “Can’t you see that?”

  The first boy, the blond, laughed. “So what? I didn’t tell you to bring your bastard kids out in the woods. You want your kids safe? Keep ’em indoors.”

  “Yeah,” said the featureless boy. The small one didn’t say a word, just kept staring down into the fistful of cash he held.

  “Daddy!” Liam yelled. Margie tried to grab him, but she was already holding on to her own sons, and Liam was quick. He raced over, wrapped his arms around Obi’s legs.

  Obi touched Liam’s soft curls. “It’s okay, son.”

  “Hotty toddy, kid,” the blond boy said.

  “Huh?” Liam pressed his face into Obi’s thigh.

  “Your shirt,” the boy said. “Ole Miss Rebels. Hotty toddy, gosh almighty, who the hell are we?”

  The featureless boy joined in. “Flimflam, bim bam, Ole Miss by damn!”

  The smaller boy smiled, revealing a row of straight white teeth.

  “Okay, that’s enough,” Samuel said. “You’re scaring the kid. You can see that. You don’t want to scare a kid, do you?”

  The blond boy laughed. “Hey, kid, are you scared?”

  Liam kept his face turned into Obi’s leg.

  The blond boy reached behind his back, and Obi knew what he was going for; he intuited the cold steel glint of the blade before he saw it. “I don’t want to scare a kid, man,” the boy said. “I just want one of you to get us something to drink. It’s not such a big deal. I don’t know why everything has to be such a big deal.”

  The whine in his voice told Obi everything he needed to know about this boy. Obi pulled Liam’s chin up, looked him in the eyes. “I want you to go with Margie. When I say so, I want you to run to Margie as fast as you can, you hear me?”

  “I wanna stay with you.”

  “It’s just for a few minutes,” Obi said.

  “Come here, baby,” Margie cooed. “Come see Aunt Margie.”

  “I wanna stay with Daddy.”

  “Daddy’ll be right along,” Samuel said.

  “Go on,” Obi gave him a push. He wished more than anything that his rifle wasn’t stuck behind the seat of his truck, but Obi kept his best knife strapped to his belt. It would have to do. He let his right hand float up to the level of the knife, keeping his eyes on the boy.

  “Hey!” the featureless boy yelled.

  The blond boy charged at Obi, holding his knife out in front of him like a sword. It was ridiculous, but too dangerous to mock. Obi crossed his left forearm in front of his body to deflect the blade. He grasped his own knife firmly in his right hand and arced his arm around in front of him. The boy’s blade glanced off Obi’s arm and drew blood. Obi barely felt a thing. He yanked the boy’s head back and held his knife to the boy’s throat.

  “Let go of me.” The boy’s voice squeaked.

  Obi’s blade rested against the boy’s pale throat. Up close, Obi saw how dilated and glassy the boy’s eyes were; his skin glistened and a bubble of saliva danced on his bottom lip. The boy’s pulse thrummed against Obi’s wrist, hard and erratic.

  “Look,” Obi said. “Why don’t you move along and sober up? Whatever the trouble is, it’s probably not as bad as you imagine.” The boy grimaced and flailed his arms.

  “Look,” Obi said. “Even if one of us drove into t
own for you, how do you know we wouldn’t bring back the sheriff? How is sending one of us any safer than going yourself?”

  “You wouldn’t dare get the sheriff,” the featureless boy said. “You’re all criminals, too. Look at your face. You’re telling me you got that cut doing something legal? Hell, you’re probably a killer. You’re a monster. You’re hiding out here just like we are.”

  Obi was no monster, but he didn’t intend to invite the law into his life. “If I’m a killer,” he said. “How come I haven’t killed your friend yet?”

  “Oh, God.” The blond boy struggled to break free.

  Obi told Samuel to take the boy’s knife. Disarmed, Obi figured he’d move on. The boy shook under his grip, terrified. Obi laughed, not because he was amused but because the whole situation was ridiculous. These boys were playing at being men; that was all. They were scared and in trouble. Obi knew what it was like to be scared and in trouble, but he couldn’t allow anyone to threaten his son. When he laughed, the boy screamed and writhed violently. The knife Obi held at the boy’s throat slipped, spilling a warm, wet gush across Obi’s hand. Samuel stepped away, looked at Obi with shock or anger or fear. The boy fell to the ground. He twitched and moaned. The featureless boy screamed and ran into the woods. The smaller boy, who hadn’t spoken yet, ran to the boy on the ground. “Reese?” he said. “Are you okay? Oh, God, please be okay.” The boy on the ground responded with a desperate gurgle; a low rattle escaped from his bleeding throat.