First, he needed lather. He stirred the brush fast and made a white cream appear and then stepped up onto the bale and looked straight ahead into the mirror. He could not see the top of his head. He had grown. He lifted the mirror from the nail and held it high, then closed his eyes and remembered his papa’s moves, the way he had brushed on the lather, covering up his bones.
He brushed on the lather, stopping just beneath his eyes. All that white made his eyes of green more green. That’s what he got from his papa.
He picked up the razor and began covering territory.
MARCH 11, 1952
Luther that early morning, standing on his back porch, shoved his hands into the pockets of his suit pants, hoping no one would notice them shaking. But then he wondered if the suit would draw attention to him, to his hands, since judges wore suits, dark ones, as if they were going to a funeral. Mr. C. V. Richbourg, too, the man who always bought Charles’s grand champion, would wear a suit. Always before, Luther had worn allover khaki that Modern Cleaners had prepared just right with medium starch, but the show was at his place today, and he wanted to look the part, so he remained in his suit and claimed that exclusive territory.
He stepped out from his house, the sun having cleared the horizon but God seeming a tad stingy with his daylight. Where was the promised blue? In two hours, the 1952 Fat Cattle Show & Sale would begin, and in less than an hour after that, the grand champion would be named. He had sent Charles a letter the month before, asking him to come home to help put the final touches on LC’s steer, making sure it stood four-square and giving any tips for calming the animal in the ring. Luther did not mention the straightness of the steer’s back, but if Charles had any assessment of its structure, he would welcome it. Charles had not responded.
Luther headed for the lot to see LC and look over his steer one last time, when two trucks, transporting contenders and boys sporting big smiles like they could break into laughter, drove past him. Luther pushed his hands further into his pockets and retreated to his hammer-mill shed, where he stood beside his machine, now silent, its pitiful work done. He kicked it. LC’s steer had weighed in at 987 pounds the day before and should be at 990 today, but that was at least twenty pounds lighter than Charles’s winners.
The smell of manure drifted towards him, as more trucks were coming in now. But it was the smell of something else, its tanginess, that not only found Luther’s nostrils but burrowed inside. The smell of pine. Luther had hired a man to cut down the row of pines that grew alongside Luther’s house and grind them into sawdust to coat the lot, enough to outdo the fairground people, who were stingy with their scattering of the lumber castoff. He stepped a few feet to where the first pine beyond the shed used to loom tall. It was now a stump, flat on top, and on it grooves from the man’s chainsaw. Luther put his foot there, his dress shoe, new wingtips, and thought he saw a ladybug. He bent towards it, only to see another one climbing up the three inches of bark. He looked towards the lot, thinking he could spot LC, thinking the two of them could look at the bugs and share a laugh before things got so serious. Couldn’t they share a laugh? And this time, he wouldn’t hurt the bug, he’d be tender the way LC would be.
He would practice before he called his boy. And this would steady his fingers, his hand. The one cresting the stump now and on the flat surface, that one Luther chose, the bug having done the hard work of climbing and now could relax for the level, straight surface. His finger against its red shell, the dots of black arranged in rows. Luther would count them as his boy would, one, two, three and then one, two, three all the way up, Luther hearing his boy’s counting ring out. Luther’s finger now pushing, but the bug having no place to go with the high wall of the groove to its right and left, but Luther wanting to play, so he moved his finger behind the bug and pushed it forward. The animal survived. Luther laughing.
He ran towards the lot now. An automobile drove past him carrying three men in suits. These were the judges. Luther thrust his hand into the air. “Welcome, gentlemen,” he said and noticed the other men, the farmers, in common overalls or khakis like Paul Merritt, who had just pulled up.
He waited until the judges stood on his land and then scanned the lot for LC and saw him with his steer near the post where the animal had lived most of his days in the last few months. “Hey, boy!” he said and looked to see if any of the judges were listening. One looked his way, Luther now calling to LC, “Run that hand of yours over its back and tell me if it’s not straight as a gun barrel.” His eyes juggled between the man and his boy. “Wouldn’t hold a drop of water, would it, son?” He listened not only for his boy’s words to confirm but the conviction in his voice to carry his words.
“No, sir,” LC yelled.
There it was. Both.
But the judge’s back was turned.
His boy was running now towards the gate, and Luther thought running to him, but it was to the Creamer boy and his steer. The boys stood so close, Luther thought they were going to hug, but then they extended their hands and shook them like men, like gentlemen. Luther’s eyes, though, concentrated on the Creamer steer, larger than LC’s and its back as level as level could be, the one to beat cycling through Luther’s head. He moved to the front of the lot, just out from his barn, where he’d paid a man to build a platform, part of the $200 he’d sunk to get his place ready. He climbed the steps, taking two at a time, and soon stood perched high above. “A palace,” he told himself, “a by God palace,” and watched the contenders below him scurry like ants on the thick coat of his sawdust.
Merritt stood in the back left corner, where the boys, including LC, and their steers were gathering, some of the animals head butting. The judges would mark them down for that behavior, this Luther knew. LC’s steer looked to be well-behaved. A short woman carrying a notepad and a big camera approached the boys. This was Martha Sheely from the newspaper. Sneezy, she went by. She had covered all of Charles’s wins.
Luther made his way there and picked up Merritt saying, “I told y’all at our first meeting that your only job was to finish your steer. Animals have a purpose, and part of growing up is understanding the greater purpose of livestock. You’ve all done your part and done it well. You should be proud.”
Luther wasn’t sure he’d told his boy how proud he was of him, but he would do that.
“Some quick reminders,” Merritt said. “Keep your steer’s head up with your rope pulled tight.” He demonstrated with his arm up in the air. “Your arm might get a little tired, but the judges look for head up, even when you’re walking with him. And he needs to walk like he’s free and not on a rope and certainly not being pulled.”
“Round, roly-poly, and short legs, like my boy’s steer here,” Luther called out. “That’s what judges like.” He waited for everyone to look at him, and then he put his eyes level with his boy’s steer’s back. “They’ll be looking down its top ridge here and feeling of it.” Luther put his hand there. “Three to four inches of fat, pure fat, people. That’s what they want.” He slapped where he’d been touching. “Like my boy’s here.” He looked to see if Sneezy wrote that down.
Her pencil didn’t move.
“Soft like jelly and with muscle hard like a spreading knife.” It was Thrasher. He wasn’t wearing his hat. “That’s quoted verbatim, ma’am, from a judge’s mouth in your own newspaper last year.”
She moved her pencil.
“And when you stop with your beef,” Luther called out, “make sure its feet are four square, especially its back feet. That’ll make their haunches look bigger, so the judges can see the kind of meat cuts they carry. And I’ll go on record now and say that it’s going to take a whole lot of onions to smother the T-bones the butcher’s going to get from my boy’s good deep freeze steer.”
“Excuse me,” the newspaper woman said and held her notepad in the air. “Do we have any first-timers here?”
The Creamer boy raised his hand. The woman stepped his way. Luther did, too.
“So, what have you been doing to get him ready?” she asked the boy.
“Petting him,” he said, his fingers fumbling with the rope.
Luther rolled his eyes. All his worry for nothing. The steer might have the right frame to hold the product, but he wouldn’t know how to behave during the show. He would drag that boy from one end to the next.
“Then after the show,” the woman said, “what are you going to do?”
The boy’s lips began to quiver, and then he took his eyes off the woman and put them on his steer beside him. The boy could have been Luther’s the year before, LC’s lips right before the show, but Luther had clenched his hand and hit LC’s arm and yelled for him to stop. Luther took his hand from his pocket now, opened it, and moved it the Creamer boy’s way, while the Creamer boy placed his hand on the animal’s neck and brought his eyes back to the woman. “I’m going kill him.”
Sneezy lifted her pencil.
Luther’s hand froze. He shifted his feet.
“You love me, Daddy?” It was LC.
Luther turned towards him and took in his boy’s face, his eyes held open. “Come with me,” Luther said and started through the crowd, LC following.
“Boys, if I could have your attention, please,” came from the megaphone. It was Merritt on the platform, where the men in suits now stood. Luther continued on through the crowd, his eyes fixed beyond the hammer-mill shed.
“If y’all would go ahead and bring your steers to the front here,” Merritt was saying, “we’re going to have our official weigh in, and then the show and sale will commence in a few short minutes after that.”
Luther was thinking they’d have time to see the ladybugs and share a laugh and then his boy’s steer could be weighed. Luther running now. But his boy was not following. Luther stopped and stretched up on his tiptoes to see. No LC. Luther started back through.
“Hey, think you’ll get your dynasty going again this time, Luther?” some man said.
“Have you seen LC?” Luther asked him.
The man shook his head.
“Have you seen LC?” Luther began asking as he passed through, his voice getting louder.
“Where’s Charles?” someone else said.
“Folks,” Merritt was saying, “while the steers are being weighed, we’re honored to have Miss Anderson, Miss Virginia Marie Lollis, perform her winning talent number, “Jesus Paid It All.”
The crowd became quiet.
“Anybody seen LC?” Luther yelled.
“He’s getting his steer weighed, Luther,” Merritt said from up top.
Luther heard snickers. He stayed still.
The woman began singing. She wore a crown on her head, her hair blonde and plentiful and arranged like a note of music above the words in the Baptist hymnal. On her feet, high heels sparkled in the same color as her dress, a turquoise blue with a shine to it. She sang without music with a voice that Luther had heard better, but she sang as if she was free. He was standing near his water trough. He had made sure LC filled it to the brim. The water glistened.
CV Richbourg himself and the Dixie Store man and two buyers for big meat companies in the Midwest, Steve Prater and Bob Cathey, along with Jeremiah Allgood, all stood around Luther. He could see LC now near the scale. They had run out of time for the ladybugs. They would do it after the show.
The woman finished singing, and Merritt took the megaphone. “Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the 1952 Anderson County Fat Cattle Show & Sale. We begin with the show and then will move into the sale, followed by the removal.” He called the boys and their steers to line up in the large open space in front of the platform. Luther moved to the front and off to the side near the fence, where he could set himself apart.
His boy stood on the opposite end from Luther and in the number one position, exactly where the judges always placed Charles. The Creamer boy stood on the end closest to Luther and afforded Luther a sustained look at the steer. He could feel himself relaxing. The steer had a definite dip in its back. It would hold tons of water.
The boys moved with their steers in what Luther thought of as the beef parade, one at a time parading their finished beef in front of the judges, who stood with their clipboards at the edge of the platform. Nineteen steers, a record number, had entered this year. Luther needed a better view. He took the steps up high. Merritt shot him a look, but this was Luther’s place. He saw Thrasher and his sidekick woman standing way in the back where they belonged. Her automobile out behind his barn had weeds growing up through it. The afternoon before, he had positioned his truck longways in front of the eyesore to hide it. Beside them stood another woman, Mildred.
One of the judges moved to the far end to Luther’s boy, another somewhere in the middle and the third to the opposite end with the Creamer boy, whose steer was standing in a perfect four square with his head up. The animal stood so still that, if his eyes weren’t open, Luther would think he was dead. The Creamer boy, though, had his eyes closed.
Luther felt sick to his stomach. He looked down at his own boy, whose eyes were on his judge, his steer moving like it was dancing. The judge’s hands were on the animal, checking for fat under its ridge, then moving to the shoulders and feeling for pot roast and short ribs, then down its front legs for brisket and then rising to feel along its ribs for rib eyes and T-bones and sirloin. The final check came for rump roasts on the animal’s rear. Luther had schooled himself well in the meats. Charles would be proud of him. Luther tried to read the judge’s expression and thought he saw a smile. Luther imagined he was checking the boxes for outstanding. In all areas, outstanding.
When the judges finished examining the steers, they walked outside the lot to a large dogwood tree that was just budding in white. The men huddled like football players. Luther watched them to see if any looked back towards his boy, which they had done with Charles.
None did.
But, when they climbed back onto the platform, one of them, Luther was sure, looked at LC. His boy had it.
That same judge took the megaphone. “First of all, we want to say that all of the steers have a bright future in somebody’s deep freeze. We judge on a level back, hind quarters that run deep on the leg, a full chest that drops between its two front legs, short-legged, and a raw-boned frame.”
Luther nodded his head. That summed it up. These men knew what they were doing.
“The Grand Champion we’ve named has the body I’ve just described and, besides that, his coat has a nice sheen. The kicker, though, is we find him very quiet and broken to be led.”
Luther felt like he’d taken a knife to his stomach.
“The 1952 twelfth annual Fat Cattle Grand Champion belongs to young Emerson Bridge Creamer of the Centerville 4-H for his Hereford steer, weighing in at 1,032 pounds. All three of us find this animal perfectly finished.”
The flash of the newspaper woman’s camera went off as applause broke out everywhere.
Luther shot a look at his boy, who already had his eyes on Luther and who held on him, as if he was looking for an answer. Luther raised his fist. There was his answer.
The Creamer boy stepped out of line, rubbing his winning in everyone’s face and saying, Look at me, I won the big blue ribbon. Then he and his steer turned back into the crowd, which parted for him like Moses did the Red Sea. They went to Luther’s water trough where the animal began splashing its head.
Luther looked down at his boy, but he was no longer there.
“What do you know!” Merritt said, his voice booming. “Looks like our Grand Champion likes to play in the water.”
Laughter filled the place, moving in waves and growing larger as more people joined in and gathered around the winning steer. Luther snatched the megaphone from Merritt and yelled into it, “Y’all shut up!”
The laughter stopped. And so did people’s movements. Everything went still.
Luther looked out over the crowd. He still did not see his boy. Just like him to tuck tail and run.
A gu
nshot rang out.
Luther jumped.
The sound came from behind the barn in the direction of his truck, the crowd no longer quiet but deafening loud with its screams.
He saw Mildred running. He dropped the megaphone, saying, “Oh, God, oh, God,” and hurried down the steps towards his truck, where people were running like cattle being herded, mothers and fathers screaming their children’s names, even the Creamer woman, with arms outstretched and calling out, “Emerson Bridge! Emerson Bridge!” A man with wild eyes running up to Luther and saying, “He had his knees bent like he was riding a horse or something. And then he said something about some kind of shortcake and I saw the pistol. I’m sorry, Luther!”
Luther threw the man to the ground.
Up ahead, a crowd gathered in tight, layers stacked on layers. Several people looked Luther’s way, their hands pressed to their mouths. They began stepping back, pulling others with them, and then others more, until there was a parting, giving Luther a clear shot of what lay twenty yards in front of him, just outside the open door of his truck, Mildred, clutching LC, who lay in her arms as limp as a coat.
Luther charged towards them but stopped. He felt all eyes on him. Mildred’s, too.
“You did this!” she shouted. “You did!”
His pearl-handle lay just out from them in a puddle of blood.
She rose to her feet. She did so in one fluid motion, their boy still in her arms.
She came to stand a foot away. Blood covered her face and neck and hair. A drop fell from her nose. “You killed my boy,” she said.
Sounds of shrieks peppered the air.
“I should have stopped you,” she said. “God forgive me for not.” Her hand shot into the air and found Luther’ face, the hard tips of her wet fingers wiping down his left cheek, then his right.
Luther smelled blood.
One Good Mama Bone Page 32
