Pure Dirt

by Francis Adams

  Doc opened the lid of the cooler next to the outdoor table and closed it. “I’m going to run up the road for more beer,” he said. “Here, take my wagon,” Joe offered reaching into his pocket and handing Doc the keys. The ladies gossiped about Hollywood scandals. Joe took the baseball glove that Jeremy handed him and began a game of catch in the driveway. Charlie lounged in the lawn chair, hands locked across his paunch stomach, mouth open, drawing in huge breaths of country air. Hank drew a coke bottle out of the cooler and popped the bottle cap. He drew a long sip from the cold glass bottle then belched. “Excuse me,” he said. He watched the small herd of free-range chickens wandering around in the driveway pecking at the dry feed that Betty had thrown there.

  “That’s enough. Take a rest,” Joe begged Jeremy.

  “Just a little more?” Jeremy pleaded.

  “I’m tired. Time to take a rest,” Joe said.

  The station wagon rushed into the driveway. The chickens scattered, and the front tire swiped one of the birds. Slamming the car door, Doc went over to the limping hen. “This one won’t make it,” he pronounced. Doc carried the bird by its legs, its wings flapping. He grabbed a rope from the barn, tied its legs, and hung the bird from the crossbeam at the center of the barndoor opening. He disappeared into the barn and returned with a pair of pliers. Reaching above his head, he clasped the pliers over the bird’s tongue and yanked the tongue out of its head. The bird began flapping its wings furiously as blood dripped from its throat forming a small pool on the dirt below. The chicken screeched bloodcurdling screams while its body began to shake and convulse in writhing pulses. Hank stood planted with eyes fixed on the dying bird, He watched as the life slowly dripped out of the bird.

  “It’ll be over in a few seconds,” Doc pointed out, “Sunday dinner,” he added.

  The bird bled to the ground, the wings losing their strength, went limp, and swayed in the breeze. Doc cut the bird from its tether and handed it to Betty. Hank continued to observe as Betty plucked the feathers out of the dead bird’s carcass.

  “What’s the matter, Hank?” Uncle Charlie asked, “cat got your tongue?” He chuckled from the lawn chair.

  The next morning, Hank stared out the window from his school desk. Sister Anesthesia, Hank’s nickname for the nun, lectured the class about the agricultural crops in South America. He tried to think himself awake: Don’t close your eyes. Don’t close them. Lift your chin. You’re nodding. It’s hot in here. Please bell, ring. Ring! Hank quietly reflected as he watched the second hand of the clock above the door circle the numbers like radar. “The principal crops of Uruguay are rice, wheat and soybeans, and there are five hundred farms and seven-hundred thousand hectares of farming land,” the nun pointed out. Hank’s neck felt moist against his starched shirt. “Paraguay’s crops, on the other hand, are principally wheat and cassava…Moving on to Brazil…” the nun continued. The queasiness started in the stomach. His forehead began to sweat as his body felt chilled. His vision faded into a sheet of white. Panicked, he rose from his desk, stretched his arms in front of him, and began walking towards the front of the room.

  “Sister, I can’t see,” he cried walking towards the nun.

  Anastasia escorted him to the nurse’s room as his vision returned. “I don’t know,” he explained, “I felt sick and everything turned white.”

  “When was the last time you ate?” the nurse questioned her patient.

  “Last night,” he replied.

  “What did you eat?” she continued her examination.

  Hank lifted his head, “Chicken.”

  He sat through the morning in the nurse’s office until the lunch bell clanged in the hall. Danny greeted him on the street at recess.

  “What was that about?” Danny asked.

  “Nothing,” Hank replied, “I just got sick.”

  “My brother has to go to court,” Danny said.

  “Why?”

  “He was busted for smoking pot.”

  “Your brother smokes pot?”

  “Sure. I tried it. My mother is sore. My father lashed him. It’s been all hell.”

  “Is he going to jail?”

  “I don’t know,” Danny said shaking his head, “He was called in the draft lottery. He may be going to Viet Nam.”

  Viet Nam, the words conjured images of soldiers in the jungle, body bags returning on military transports, protests in the streets. The evening news reports fell on deaf ears. Hank blocked the words from his mind, yet he still caught glimpses of horror coming from the television set.

  “Maybe he won’t have to go. Maybe it will end by then,” Hank consoled his friend.

  “I hope Robert stays out of prison,” Danny mumbled, “pot is harmless.”

  “That’s not what I heard,” Hank blurted.

  After the school day ended, Hank walked along Grand street towards home. Three black youths approached from the opposite direction. The junior high students left no room on the sidewalk for Hank to pass. When the boys closed in, the shortest youth swiped Hank’s head with the back of his open hand, landing a blow on his left temple. The youths kept walking. Hank ducked down the narrow alley between two row homes dreading that they might follow him.

  Changing his clothes, he rode to the public library and leaned his bike against the iron fence at the entrance. He perused the titles on the shelves. Having been tasked with another book report, he pulled a book from the shelf about the Beatles. Hank loved their music and saw the group perform on the Ed Sullivan show when he was seven. He remembered watching the first worldwide satellite broadcast when they performed All You Need Is Love. Their mop-top hairdos, flamingo boots, and slick guitars set them apart, but especially, their music. Their songs captivated millions of people. He randomly read through passages about their beginnings, and he flipped through the pages of photographs in the middle of the book. When he left the library, his bike was gone. A wave of dread spread through him, and his mind began to race:

  How am I going to explain? They’ll throttle me. Why didn’t I use the bike chain? Thieves! It’s not yours!

  Hank walked the three blocks back to his home, worrying what his mother would say, mourning the loss of his two wheeled freedom. Walking up the slate path, he was confronted by Rose.

  “What’s the matter?” Rose asked, “you look upset.”

  “Someone stole my bike,” Hank grieved.

  “Stole!” she blurted. “Who stole it?”

  “I don’t know, Rose! If I knew, don’t you think I’d get it back?”

  “Call the cops,” she said.

  “Maybe.”

  Rose and Hank sat down, side by side, on the concrete edge of the porch.

  “You OK?” he asked.

  “I’m going to work at Rizzo’s market. Mr. Rizzo said he’d hire me soon as I’m old enough.”

  “Is that what you want to do?”

  “No, I want to be a nurse.”

  “Rose,” Hank confided, “We’re going to move to away. I’m going to a public school.”

  “I’ll miss you.”

  “I’ll miss you too, Rose. I’ll never forget playing red light.”

  Rose smiled.

  “Well, I’ll give them the news.”

  “What!” Hank’s mother shouted when he told her the news, “You don’t know how to take care of your things, Henry. Why wasn’t it locked?”

  “I forgot to lock it. I’m sorry!”

  “You’re just going to have to walk from now on. We’re not buying another one,” his mother chided.

  “Should we call the police?” he asked.

  “I don’t see what good it would do. Do you think that the police have so much time on their hands that they will go searching for a boy’s lost bike?” Hank surrendered and walked to his bedroom.

  On Saturday, while the numbers spun on the gasoline pum
p, ringing up a sale, Joe dipped a squeegee into a pail of water and wiped the customer’s windshield. The tire pressure was checked, and the hood lifted open. Hank watched as his father pulled a dip stick from the engine’s side. He wiped it on a cloth, and stuck back in. He pulled it out again lowering his arm to show the stick to Hank.

  “See this? This shows you whether the car needs oil,” he said. “When it’s low, you need add a quart. The oil cap is on the engine, up here. Don’t open this cap here. It’s the radiator cap. Wait for the car to cool down. If you open it right away, you’ll be sprayed with hot radiator fluid. It’s under pressure. Got it?”

  Hank shook his head, “You showed me before.”

  “Do you think you can watch the place for about twenty minutes? I have to drop something off.”

  “Sure,” Hank replied.

  “All you need to do is pump gas and wash windows. Anything else, just tell them I’ll be back.”

  Joe handed his son a roll of one-dollar bills. “Put this in your pocket. If you need change, just pull the handle on the side of the register.”

  When his father left, Hank opened the newspaper sitting on the desk. He leaned back in the banker’s chair and placed his feet on the desk. The smell of stale tobacco and filthy oil rags filled his nostrils. Paging through the newspaper, he saw a photograph of a young girl above a caption that read: Missing Girl Not Found. The girl looked familiar. He continued reading: “Mr. and Mrs. Spivak have reported their daughter missing since Tuesday, May 14. Anyone with information regarding the missing girl in this case is asked to contact the Trenton police. All calls will be kept confidential. Call 396-1111.”

  Hank continued to study the picture when the bell rang in the garage. Looking over the top of the paper, he saw a car waiting at the pump.

  “Fill ‘er up. High test,” the customer said.

  Hank grabbed the nozzle, cranked the handle to zero, removed the cap and inserted the hose. Pulling on the handle, the numbers began spinning. He dipped the squeegee and washed the windshield.

  “Can you check the oil?”

  “Sure,” Hank returned.

  He fumbled for the latch to release the hood. Lifting the hood, he searched for the dip stick and wiped it like his father had shown him. As he placed the dip stick back into the engine, he had a flash of insight. “Annette!” he spoke aloud.

  “What’s that?” the customer asked.

  “Nothing. Just talking to myself. The oil is good.”

  The customer paid Hank and drove off. When Hank’s father returned, he vacated the banker’s chair. “How’d it go?” Joe asked.

  “No problems,” Hank replied handing him the wad of bills, “not busy at all.”

  “Now you see why I keep telling you, don’t be a grease monkey.”

  Joe sat in the banker’s chair and opened the top drawer of the desk. He pulled out a pile of receipts. “See these?” he said, “these are all of the people who owe me money.” He handed the slips of paper to Hank. “You try to help the next guy,” Joe continued,” but you can only extend your arm so far before you don’t have an arm.” Hank flipped through the papers of scribbled ink, “They do pay you, right?” he asked. “Some settle up at the end of the month, others keep a rolling tab going, paying when they can. I don’t make a lot of money pumping gas…pennies on a gallon. My money is made on labor, repairs, spark plugs, tune ups, new tires, grease jobs.”

  Hank placed the receipts in the drawer and closed it.

  “The Sisters tell me that you have ability, but you don’t apply yourself. Do you know what you want to become?”

  “I don’t know,” Hank replied, “no clue.”

  “Well, you better start thinking about it. You have all the opportunities, more than I ever had. Take advantage of them. You don’t know how lucky you are. I can only point it out to you. You have to do the work yourself.”

  “Can I ask you something, Dad?”

  “What is it?”

  “Are you a bookie?”

  Joe sat forward in the chair, “Where did you hear that?”

  “People are always asking you for the number and giving you money to play.”

  “I’m not a bookie, Hank. I just help someone. I take bets and drop money with the numbers off to someone else. When I was your age, I used to hang around the magazine store on Broad street. The older men used to have card games in the back room. I’d run errands for them, and they would tip me. Times were hard then, and I’d bring home extra money for your grandmother. She had to feed nine kids.”

  “Isn’t it against the law?”

  “Down here, it’s best to know who your friends are. One hand washes the other, Hank. It’s the way business works. A lot goes on that you don’t stick your nose into, and that’s good business.”

  Hank wanted to ask a dozen questions but kept quiet.

  “That’s why I don’t like you hanging around here. I don’t want you to pick up any bad habits. Some of these men cuss like sailors. I want you to become a gentleman. Just remember,” Joe said as Hank turned towards the door. Hank turned around and looked his father in the eyes. “I wrote the book,” his father said, “You can always come to me, no matter how bad you might think it is, you can always come and talk to me.”

  The last day of class arrived, and the graduating class gathered their books, removed the brown paper covers, and piled them on Sister Anastasia’s desk. “I want to wish you all success in your life, and I hope that you will always remember me fondly,” the nun announced. The students rustled through papers, discarding them into the trash can at the front of the room, the dismissal bell rang, and they rushed to the door chattering like birds.

  “Hank!” Anastasia beckoned, “Would you wait a minute?”

  Hank watched the room slowly empty. He approached the desk. “Yes, Sister.”

  “I just wanted to thank you for singing in church alongside Mr. Miller this year.” She paused and changed the subject. “Someone told me you were in the boiler room during the dance and were very upset over a girl.” Hank was surprised that she knew. “I want you to promise me something,” the nun insisted. “What’s that, Sister?” Hank asked. “I want you to promise me that you will never let another female hurt you like that again. Promise?” Hank looked her in the eyes and nodded.

  “I promise, Sister.”

  Summer vacation was like parole. Hank daydreamed about sleeping late, lounging around the house, playing the guitar, taking trips to the ocean. The coming days brought a rush of pleasant imaginings

  Checking out a hunch, Hank went to Bow Hill and climbed through the cellar window. Turning the handle of the doorknob, he pushed on the door. A glass bottle rolled along the kitchen floor, breaking the dead silence, bumping into the base of the counter across the room. He walked through the empty dining room and faced the staircase. Looking up at the landing, he placed one foot after the other until reaching the top. he stopped and listened. Creeping down the upstairs hall, he reached a partially closed door. He slowly pushed the door open and peered into the room. Underneath the front window, a mattress, blankets, and pillows were spread across the floor. He stepped into the room and approached a wooden table. A candle with a burnt wick, an ashtray with cigarette butts, a mirror, drinking glass, and newspapers were strewn across the tabletop.

  “What do you want?” a voice calmly questioned from behind.

  “Hank turned and let out a howl. The missing young girl from the newspaper peeked through the space of a fake wall.

  “I had to find out,” Hank answered in a startled voice.

  “Find out what?” the girl asked.

  “If you were real,” he replied,

  She stepped out from behind the hinged wall and closed it.

  “What’s in there?” he asked.

  “It’s a secret passageway, a place to hide.”

  �
��You were the ghost,” he said.

  “Boo!” she shouted, “We wanted to scare you, to keep you away. It worked.”

  “I saw you in the newspaper. Your family is looking for you. So are the authorities.”

  “I’m not surprised,” she answered, “I left home.”

  “What did you do?”

  “My parents caught me with grass. My father threatened to throw me out, so I made it easy for him.”

  “You use drugs?”

  “It’s weed. It’s not as bad as you think. What are you, a square?”

  “How did you know I was here?” Hank asked.

  “The empty Coke bottles behind the door. When I hear the glass roll, I hide.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Heather,” the young girl answered.

  “Who are you?”

  “Hank.”

  “Sit down. Do you want to do me a favor?” she asked.

  “Maybe,” he replied cautiously.

  “I need someone to run to the market and pick up groceries. I’m low on supplies, and I’m on the lam.”

  “Do you have cash?”

  “Of course, I do,” she affirmed, pulling a wad of twenty-dollar bills from the pocket of her blue jeans.

  “You’re loaded!” Hank gasped.

  “You’re not going to tell anyone about me, are you, tight ass?”

  “It’s Hank.”

  “Sorry.”

  “What about school? Did you drop out?” he asked.

  ‘You know, you ask a lot of questions, Hank. My boyfriend was drafted into the war,” she divulged.

  “Sorry,” Hank followed.

  “They send boys to a foreign land with guns, and they can’t even vote, some don’t even know their own rights.”

  “I don’t know much about that,” Hank confessed.

  “Well, you should, because soon you’ll be old enough. They’ll send you over there or threaten you with prison.”

  Hank’s head dropped picturing himself in army fatigues. Heather pulled a cigarette paper from her shirt pocket and grabbed a plastic baggie off the table. She bent the paper in half with her left index finger and spread a line of crushed herb along the bottom. Carefully rolling the contents in to a tight cigarette, she licked the edge with her tongue and sealed the paper. Hank watched as she pulled a lighter from the pocket of her jeans. She lit the cigarette and inhaled holding her breath. After holding her breath, she extended the cigarette to Hank.