by Shelly Frome
Bubba’s cries, as Roy recalled, came on top of a crack of wood and another cry back aways as the dog tore off after whatever it was. Roy followed suit, right after checking out Bubba’s body to make dead certain.
All of which, the way things now stood as the drizzle continued to trickle down his face onto his overalls, left Roy with the same set of loose ends.
Planting the shovel at the spot where he’d fired his rifle, he tied a red bandana to the handle to approximate his position. That done, he crossed back over the creek. The hound followed in his wake and then skedaddled after something rustling in the brush. Paying the dog no mind, Roy threaded his way through the tangles of saplings and vines till he reached the tree and the hunter’s blind. He steadied the straight ladder he’d propped up beside the rotting old rungs. Then he picked up the binoculars; the old beat-up ones with the strap he’d found that must’ve slipped through the thicket when she fell, along with a silver whistle. With the binoculars dangling around his neck, he climbed up to the edge of the broken perch, adjusted the lenses till he got a bead across the creek and, sure enough, even in the low-hanging mist and drizzle, even in the fast-dimming light he could spot the red bandana with no trouble at all. From this spot, anyone could’ve heard, “To hell with the rebel yell, you say?” shouted out twice. And certainly heard the shots and Bubba’s cries and moans.
Meaning that, taken together—Roy’s call last night to the hospital and a girl answering the description newly arrived in the emergency room; Bubba’s old rickety flat-bed truck behind a stand of trees close by; no sign of the girl by the time Roy got there—taken together, Bubba’s witness was a real problem. Especially if you add the whereabouts of the cigar box and old muzzleloader, where she and Bubba might’ve hidden it, and who she told or might be in cahoots with.
But that was getting way ahead of the game and could lead to chasing around. Never a good idea when, slow but sure, the quarry will like as not backtrack and come to you.
6.
As the bus rolled south toward Memphis, there were now only four passengers: an elderly couple seated far up the aisle close to the driver and Josh seated right next to the girl across the aisle and about ten rows back. Still trying to keep her eyes open, the girl peered through the spattered rain-patterns by her window.
Realizing she might start to doze off again, Josh broke the silence. As if any stories he could tell would ensure her wakefulness long enough to dispel his concerns over her “no-worries concussion.” Her “big worries,” what she’d erased from her memory, was another matter. Uncle Billy’s response to this surprise intrusion would only add to the conundrum... For the moment, snug in the dryness, drone of the bus motor, and dark stretch of highway, all Josh could come up with to keep her from nodding off was a snippet from Huckleberry Finn.
He started in with the part when Huck decides to escape from his crazy drunken Pap who locked him inside the cabin.
The girl gave Josh a look and returned to the rain patterns. Undaunted, Josh cut to the escape scene and made it as lively as he could.
Huck’s plan, the way Josh told it, was to shed himself of the widow who was probably just like the runaway girl’s bible-thumping aunt—shed himself of her, his Pap and every other adult.
Assuming he now had the girl’s attention, Josh went on to say that, in quick order, Huck drilled a hole through the cabin and hauled off a sack of corn meal, side of bacon and a whisky jug, plus fishing lines, a skillet and whatnot to where a canoe was hidden. Then he snatched an old rifle, ammunition and some wadding to hunt birds and other critters. To fool all pursuers into believing he was set upon and murdered, he dispatched a wild pig, stuffed it in an old sack full of rocks, trailed it through the woods down to the river and dumped it. Next he paddled down river as they dragged the waters for his corpse clear over on the opposite Missouri side.
At this point the girl winced, pulled the hood of the parka over her head, scrunched herself up and yelled, “Cut it out, will ya?”
Noticing the abrupt turn of the old lady’s head far up the aisle, Josh said, “But I haven’t gotten to the good part. Where he has the whole island to himself. Gets his traps out, makes camp, catches catfish, sets out to kill game and have a high old time.”
“I told you to goddamn cut it out!”
“What’s the matter? It’s perfect, fits you to a T.”
Uncovering her head, the girl sat straight up and said, “What is that supposed to mean? And what do you know about me anyways? What are you now, some kinda weirdo mind peeper? I mean, where do you come up with this crap? What are you tryin’ to do?”
Catching the horrified look on the old lady’s face, the girl started slapping Josh on the shoulder. “Hey, didn’t mean it the way it sounds, ol’ pal, ol’ buddy, ol’ cousin. Don’t think I don’t appreciate the stupid story and going out of your way and all.”
When that didn’t do the trick, the girl added, “You know, if some people would learn to mind their own business, a person could take care of hers without having to deal with a pair of bulging eyeballs to boot.”
Before the woman could counter, her husband gave her a yank and with a little jostling finally managed to make her face forward again. With this little incident over, the girl turned back to the rain drops.
In the interim, Josh began to question his motives. What was he trying to do? Was this bus ride yet another way out? Like the time he had the goods on the English professor who skipped classes and went on a bender with a nubile undergrad? Resulting in pressure to keep it under wraps and avoid a libel suit against the campus paper. Resulting in Josh’s withdrawing the story. And after that, always withdrawing, always cutting out like Kerouac and Dean Moriarty in On the Road. What next? Another auspicious beginning and then, when it gets a little dicey, cut out yet again? Turn his back on the kid and leave her to her own devices? Why was this time any different?
“So, Jack,” the girl said, giving up altogether on the spattering rivulets and whizzing nighttime view.
“Josh, the name is Josh.”
“Whatever. Like I said, where do you get this stuff? Or did you just now make it up?”
Pulling himself together, Josh said, “I read it when I was your age. Around twelve or so.”
“Well, Josh-u-a, for your information, I am all of fourteen. Just so happens my brain is way ahead of my body.”
“Ah.”
“So, what else did you come across?”
Josh rattled off titles like Woody Guthrie’s Bound for Glory and other accounts of highwaymen and free spirits.
“All books?”
“No. Listened to a lot of folk and blues.”
“Like?”
“Cross Road Blues . . . Ramblin’ Boy . . . ”
“Why?”
“Wanderlust. Channeling another lifetime.”
“Channeling a what? Boy, you really are some fruitcake, you know that? Really full of it.”
“Well, kid, guess you found me out.”
“Alice. Just make it Alice.”
Alice slumped down again and soon began to nod off. He shook her arm and reminded her she still had a little under two hours to go. Then, assuming she’d gotten past the concussion issue and he’d gotten around his uncle, she could sleep it off in the spare room in Billy’s digs above his Blues Bar and Grill.
“Gotcha,” said Alice, yawning, widening her eyes and pinching her cheeks. “Wherever, whatever. Now what?”
“Well, seeing how my Huck Finn rendition fell flat, you tell me.”
“Well, seeing how I’ve still got some control over my life, how about filling me in? Like what am I getting into here? Or is this uncle of yours another creep like Scooter?”
Off the top of his head, he began telling her things like how Billy always said that outside was more real than inside. That riding the rails at high speeds atop a rusty flatbed makes the whole world vibrate. Hopping a freight was called “catching out” meaning catching life on the fly. Billy met tramps wi
th names like Denver Dude and Fan tan, traveled from the wheat country down to scruffy grazing land to the desert along the Mexican border. From El Paso near the Big Bend country searching for some legendary silver mine; then along the Rio Grande to the foot of Burro Mesa; then continuing his rambles along old wagon roads up to windswept rocky hills. Billy also spoke of Jimmy Rodgers, the country singer and brakeman who learned country and blues from black railroaders.
“Don’t tell me,” Alice finally cut in. “You owe that wander-whatchamacallit—”
“Wanderlust.”
“Yeah. You owe that wanderlust crap to your good ol’ uncle. So what does that make him and what does that make you? And besides a place to crash for the night, what’s down the road for me besides what’s rattling around inside my stuck head?”
Josh had no answer. He whipped out his French harp and did a half-hearted riff on Rambling Boy. This annoyed the busybody up front no end, but by this point Josh didn’t care. To disarm Alice and hold her attention, he continued to make his uncle seem like the second coming of Woody Guthrie: a simple, defiant man wandering around the country, encouraging the common folk to fight back. A dusty little man found of saying, “I don’t ever intend to sell out or quit” until the day age caught up with him and forced him to settle down. Not at all the swindler, liar and bootlegger Uncle Billy really turned out to be.
Josh told Alice some more of Billy’s tall tales to continue to keep her from dozing off again. He did so also to get his mind off why the mention of Huck’s trick with the pig’s blood and rifle set her off. And what it might have to do with what was hanging over her head and waiting down the road.
7.
Roughly around the same time, Roy had given up tramping around in the rain and drizzle, digging here and there looking for the new hiding place. Chances were the cigar box and muzzle-loading shotgun wrapped in oilcloth was nowhere near Wolf Creek. How Bubba or that bony little girl got by him, dug it up and stashed it somewhere else was a puzzle he was not about to solve.
Wiping the moisture off his brow, he thought again about Bubba’s dumb move, figuring he had Roy over a barrel down in the deep woods across the creek; counting on some tomboy to scurry up to the blind with a pair of binoculars, get the both of them in her sights and . . . He must’ve been drunk out of his mind. But who was she and how’d she get sucked into a fool thing like that? How’d she hook up with Bubba in the first place?
Roy grabbed the shovel and made his way back up the tangled, soggy trail. He paused for a moment at the tamped-down brush to his left. A pathway some real skinny kid could knife through if she could get by the briars and such, hide the stuff in the oilcloth and . . .
Roy shrugged the notion off. At the rate he was going, if he pursued every maybe and what-if he’d be worn to a frazzle and no good for anything. So he kept on till he reached the verge where the foraging coonhound lay panting and frustrated.
Locked into his pull-back mind set, Roy reassured himself that he’d followed standard procedures. Hunting accidents and incident reports weren’t ever public. After a shooting incident Roy always made bystanders like Bubba and Rowdy rehearse their stories, erase tracks and destroy any physical evidence. But Bubba was no more and Rowdy was as good as gone after that dumb shooting spree. And since there’d been no call for rehearsed stories this time, Roy had taken care of any telltale signs. But that still left a possible informer like the girl. Something he’d always been able to foresee and handle till now.
Putting that loose end on hold again, he ran the drill past his mind. Weapon cleaned, modified or hidden. Check. Hands, clothing or other items with trace evidence or gunshot residue cleaned or destroyed. Check.
With the hound in tow, he trudged over to the cabin. He left the shovel leaning against the porch railing, hung the binoculars on the post, mounted the wet, slippery steps, shoved the slatted door open and entered. He tossed some more hickory logs onto the grate, raked the coals and stoked the fire as the dog plopped down by the hearth anticipating the warmth and glow.
Over the years, once a problem had been dispatched, this old-timey cabin never failed to do the trick. After all, the place hadn’t changed much since the war against Yankee aggression when it was used as a scouting post and retreat during raids and skirmishes. The stone fireplace was exactly the same, taking up most of the wall immediately to the right. The oak beams overhead were the same, the planks underfoot, the pine walls leading back to the makeshift kitchen and a few bunks. Only the bit of electricity, fridge and gas-fired stove, chipped rotary phone and the shingles on the roof and all that Roy had added made any noticeable difference. Even the root cellar out back, dug down deep with its warrens for hiding out was the same.
He lit a Coleman lantern and ambled over to the cedar closets that lined the far wall. He pulled out the butternut grey slouch cap, the one with the narrow leather visor, CSA pin in gold and silver, high crown and round flat top that flopped forward. The one that also served as a handy bag for carrying foraged eggs and blackberries and such. The one Corporal Roy Holloway, the kin he was named after, wore it as the Ole Colonel’s lookout. Always on top of things, it was the original Roy who brought the news that the Federals were slogging through the swampy bottomland below. Came back with the message their escape route was blocked by the empty wagons from their supply train across the creek. Though badly outnumbered, the Colonel had the bugler ride up the line at full gallop sounding the charge from different directions. Then he gave the order to hit the bluecoats from the rear, forcing them to abandon their weapons, caught out in the muddy waters, drenched and flailing their arms, retreating for miles. “You keep your plans secret,” Corporal Roy wrote back. “Or, as the Ole Colonel would say, you always strike where they least expect it.”
In a way, the line between the Ole Colonel and the Roy of yesteryear and today was as fine and strong as ever. Catching his reflection in the dingy front window, Roy noted the same sinewy figure. Much older now certainly, but still the tracker in the shadows from the Civil Rights ruckus time at Ole Miss. When the U.S. marshals came down to force the enrollment of that black man. When the army brought in as many troops to Oxford as General Sherman had during the Ole Colonel’s day. When Roy saw it just as plain, though he was just a kid then, as one more Federal encroachment on a sovereign state with trigger-happy troops.
Grinning despite himself, Roy recalled how those peckerwoods Rowdy, Bubba and Bubba’s cousin Darryl showed up wearing store bought Confederate costumes waving flags, while Roy—just as wet behind the ears but with a helluva lot more savvy--hunkered down with his .22 and put out the floodlights. And started a fire in front of the old library while those marshals, those Yankee Civil Rights lovers, sat on their butts not knowing what to do.
Then, grown up a little more, standing tall, striking out against more outside agitators, those damn Freedom Movement people trying to pull that voter registration bull. Grown up a little more, standing tall and striking out where they least expected it, while dumb-ass Rowdy and Bubba and Darryl come roaring around at night with hoods and a burning cross on Bubba’s flatbed truck like they was in a movie.
And that’s where Roy must’ve miscalculated lately. Taking Bubba and Rowdy for granted. Figuring they’d be on hand for grunt work, as usual. Like that night of the wheel barrow when Roy was called in. And like dozens of times ever since.
He winced as the scar across his jaw line from Bubba’s knife started to burn again. He reached inside his overalls, pulled out the tin of salve and rubbed some in. Tossing the slouch cap back on the hook, he drifted out onto the porch, snatched up the binoculars and trained them on the tire tracks in the mud leading off the slope of the front yard and narrow track to Piney Woods Road. That was where the girl must have driven off, zigged and zagged till she hit Route 4, had to pull over and staggered the rest of the way to the hospital. Then got spooked by Roy’s phone call and hitched. If she was long gone, way past Memphis to Illinois or someplace, fine. But if she was in an
y way licking her wounds, figuring on easing her way back over the line, picking up where Bubba left off, or blabbing her mouth or worse . . .
Coming full circle, it was back to don’t-ever-jump-the-gun and best-let-the-quarry-come- to-you.
Roy traipsed back in, pulled the chipped rotary phone out of the cupboard and was about to plug it in when he changed his mind.
He snatched the shiny new Palm gizmo instead with the multi-touch screen and all. He stuck it in his overalls pocket and headed out the door in the direction of higher ground and the old water tower. He was down to one flunky, had to at least touch base, surf the websites and Twitter and check for incoming messages. Make sure nothing else slipped-in under the radar. Just like his namesake Corporal Roy would’ve done. Wondering if some Yankee counterpart might be doing the same, sifting through signs and signals, hovering somewheres close by over the borderline like days of old.
Despite everything, now wouldn’t that be somethin’?
8.
“If this ain’t a kick in the head, I don’t know what,” said Uncle Billy.
“Will you keep it down?” Josh countered yet again. “She needs to sleep.”
“Yeah, terrific. What the hell is this? You leave me high and dry and, out of the blue, you’re back here tonight with some Raggedy Annie you met in a boxcar. Surprise, surprise. Not to mention the call I get from my sister wondering about the crazy phone message from Paduca about her footloose flaked-out son. But what the hell?”
