Moonshiner's Son

by Carolyn Reeder

  At least she sounded like herself, Tom thought. She was still pale, but she seemed stronger than she’d been when he’d visited her two days ago.

  When everyone was once again looking expectantly at Andy, he announced, “Today I’m going to tell some stories for the youngsters. The first one’s about a little red hen who wanted to make some bread but didn’t have any cornmeal. ‘Who will help me plant the corn?’ she asked. ‘Not I,’ said the cat. ‘Not I,’ said the dog …’”

  By the time Andy came to the end of his last story, he and Pa were cranking the freezers more and more slowly. “And now, who will help June and me eat all this ice cream?” Andy asked.

  “I will!” chorused the small children gathered around his feet.

  Smiling, Mrs. Taylor spooned the ice cream into dishes, and the older girls passed them around. As the first taste of the creamy sweetness melted on Tom’s tongue, he thought enviously of Ol’ Man Barnes’s granddaughter Mary riding into Buckton to the ice-cream parlor with the bootlegger a couple times a week.

  Two hours later, a second batch of Ice cream had disappeared and people were starting home. “That was real nice, Miz Taylor,” Tom said as he and Pa left.

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it,” she said. “Everybody’s invited back next Saturday evening for a sing, so if you have a musical instrument, be sure to bring it.” Then she turned to Pa. “I want to thank you for preventing any trouble over who was the strongest. I hope I can count on you again next week.”

  As Tom and Pa started home, Tom said, “Miz Taylor’s the nicest woman I know. Next to the Widow Brown, of course.” How glad he’d been to see her.

  “Smart, too—a lot smarter ’n her husband,” Pa said. “She knows you catch more flies with honey than vinegar.”

  Tom wasn’t sure what that was supposed to mean, but he knew Mrs. Taylor’s social had made everyone forget the preacher’s last sermon. And next week there would be a sing. He was wondering what that would be like when Cat Johnson’s little boys called for him and Pa to wait.

  The Johnsons caught up, and they all walked together, moving to the edge of the narrow road so that the Rigsbys’ wagon could go by, and then passing a young couple carrying two small children.

  Tom was sorry when it was time to tell the Johnsons good-bye. It seemed that everybody else was in a family, he thought as he followed Pa across the footlog and started up the steep path. “Pa, do you ever wish you was married?” he asked tentatively.

  “I was married,” Pa said. “Still am, I guess, when you come right down to it.” He walked in silence for a few steps before he added, “Be sure you pick yourself a mountain girl, and not some flatlander, when the time comes. Then maybe your marriage will stick. Bein’ married takes right smart pullin’ together, you know.”

  Tom blinked in amazement. “Ma was a flatlander?”

  Pa gave a grunt that Tom took for “yes” and began to walk faster, but Tom refused to take the hint. “How’d the two of you meet, then?” he asked, scrambling to keep up. This was the closest Pa had come to mentioning his ma since the day she left.

  “She grew up on one of them big farms just the other side of Buckton,” Pa said reluctantly. “I worked there at harvest time the year the revenuers caught your grandpap at our still an’ sent him to jail for six months.”

  Tom had never known anything about that. “So you an’ Ma ran off and got married?”

  Pa whirled around so quickly that Tom almost bumped into him. “How come you’re askin’ so many questions, boy?”

  “‘Cause I want to know,” Tom said, backing up a few steps and trying not to let the expression on Pa’s face force him to look away. “How come you don’t want to tell me? You ashamed or somethin’?” His heart pounded wildly—he’d never challenged Pa like this before.

  Pa glared at him, and something about the set of his jaw took Tom back to the day they’d walked down to the store and Pa had announced, “Polly’s gone, an’ she ain’t comin’ back. That’s all any of you need to know, so don’t be askin’ me—or Tom—no questions.”

  Tom felt six years old again. “Don’t tell me, then,” he said in a thin voice, looking away from Pa’s fierce gaze. The silence seemed to stretch to the breaking point, and then it was shattered by the scrunch of Pa’s boots on the rocky trail. Hands in his pockets and eyes downcast, Tom followed, determined not to cry. He was almost startled when Pa spoke.

  “One day late that winter I heard a knockin’ at the door, an’ there she was, her face all streaked with tears and plumb tuckered. Her pa’d turned her out, and she’d walked all the way up the mountain to find me—stopped at the settlement an’ asked somebody where I lived at.”

  “But why’d her pa turn her out?”

  Pa looked back at him impatiently and said, “Why d’you think? ’Cause you was on the way.”

  Tom’s mind reeled. He stumbled along in a daze, straggling to sort out his thoughts. No wonder Ma left, if she was used to living in a house like the ones he’d seen along the road to Buckton. And no wonder Pa didn’t think much of flatlanders, if the one he knew best had gone off and left him with a six-year-old to raise up by himself.

  “How come Ma didn’t take me with her?” Tom asked, finally putting into words the question that had troubled him for half of his life.

  “‘Cause she knew if she did, I’d come after her an’ take you back.”

  Tom felt as though a burden had been lifted from his shoulders. Ma hadn’t left him behind because she didn’t love him enough, and Pa didn’t wish she’d taken him with her.

  “So how’s it feel, knowin’ you’re half flatlander?” Pa challenged.

  “I ain’t no flatlander,” Tom objected. “I’m mountain bom an’ mountain bred, an’ I’m gonna live in these hills all my days.”

  Pa gave a grunt of satisfaction and turned to look back at him. “Just like your ol’ man, eh?” he said.

  “Just like my ol’ man,” Tom echoed, adding silently, except I ain’t gonna be no moonshiner. But how—and when—was he going to tell Pa that?

  29

  “I want you down at the still soon as you git through school t’morrer afternoon,” Pa announced when Tom came home on Thursday.

  Tom felt as though a huge hand were squeezing his heart. “What about Andy? I thought he—”

  “Workin’ at the still’s as much a part of your education as goin’ to that school, an’ you ain’t done nothin’ for weeks now.”

  “I can’t—” Tom began.

  “What do you mean, you can’t?” Pa asked roughly. “You be there! Understand?”

  His resolve gone, Tom nodded.

  “I asked you a question, an’ I ain’t heard your answer yet, boy.” Pa’s voice was deadly quiet.

  “I understand,” Tom said, turning away and stumbling out the door. Patting his pocket to make sure he had his knife and new block of wood, Tom headed up the path. He’d walk up to the ridge, to the rocky outcropping folks called the overlook, and sit there awhile, whittling, until Pa got over his anger.

  Tom was breathing hard by the time he reached the overlook and perched on the edge of the shelflike rock. He let his legs dangle while he watched the ravens soaring below him, and then, squinting against the glare of the late-afternoon sun, he counted the mountain ridges stretching into the distance. The blazing gold foliage on the slope across the hollow was blotched by dark clumps of evergreens, but farther away the colors blended into a mottled blue that grew paler on each successive crest until the mountains seemed to fade into the sky.

  The remoteness of the view made Tom feel powerless and alone. Pulling out his knife and the wood, he decided to carve a dog like Princess. He’d hoped to lose himself in his work, but his mind was as busy as his fingers. He was determined not to give in again tomorrow when Pa raised his voice—or used that quiet, threatening tone. Tom tried not to think about what would happen when he refused to help at the still.

  Finally, in the chill of approaching dusk, Tom put
away his knife, straightened his shoulders, and started home. Pa’s flashes of anger never lasted long, so he wasn’t worried about this evening. He was worried about tomorrow. Tomorrow, when he’d have to face Pa and not back down, when he’d have to keep the promise he’d made to himself.

  “What’s that you’re sewin’?” Tom asked when he stopped by the Widow Brown’s cabin on his way to the still the next afternoon.

  “Baby quilt,” she replied, biting off a thread.

  “Who’s havin’ a young’n?” Tom asked, interested.

  Mrs. Brown smoothed the square she was working on and said, “It’s for Miz Taylor.” When Tom’s mouth fell open, the old woman grinned and explained, “She wants it for somebody she knows that sells ol’-timey handmade things.” Then, gesturing to a small, cloth-wrapped bundle on the table, she said, “Now take them ham biscuits for your supper an’ go along. Your pa won’t be happy if you’re late gittin’ to the still.”

  That wasn’t all Pa wouldn’t be happy about, Tom thought glumly as he left the cabin. The farther he walked, the more apprehensive he became. But in spite of the dryness of his mouth and the thudding of his heart, he kept up his pace. Knowing for sure that Pa wouldn’t have let Ma take him away with her gave him the courage he needed, Tom realized.

  When he finally made his way through a maze of laurel to the small area Pa and Andy had cleared so they could set up the still, Pa grumbled, “Took your time gittin’ here.” Hauling himself to his feet, he said, “I’ll be back in a couple of hours to see how you’re gittin’ along. You know what to do till then.”

  He knew what to do, all right, Tom thought as he watched Pa leave. He just wasn’t going to do it. Hunkered down in front of the furnace, Tom listened to the sound made by the thin stream of apple brandy as it flowed from the worm, filtered through the hickory coals and flannel lining the funnel, and dripped into the jar. When he noticed a subtle change in the sound, he knew the liquid had just about reached the top.

  Almost hypnotized, he watched as the brandy began to trickle out around the funnel and ran down the outside of the jar. The wet stain it made on the ground was hardly as big as a dinner plate when Tom realized it had stopped growing. The fire in the furnace had died down and the liquid in the still pot had cooled, so there was no longer any vapor to condense inside the worm and drip out.

  Pa expected him to keep the fire in the furnace hot enough to evaporate the alcohol but not so hot it would scorch the apple pomace. He expected him to replace the jars as they filled up, too. Tom’s determination wavered, and he glanced at the two long logs. All he’d have to do was push them further into the furnace and stir up the embers so they’d catch fire. And then if he real quick capped that jar and put another in its place and kicked some pine needles over where the brandy had soaked in—

  No. He wasn’t going to make moonshine ever again. He’d learn some other craft or trade, one that he could do out in the open. One that couldn’t possibly lead to harm. Tom swallowed hard and tried to blot out the image of Preacher Taylor stumbling from the burning bam with a small, limp figure in his arms.

  “That night rained stillin’ for me,” Tom whispered. Until then, he’d never actually seen anybody drank. He’d heard of men being drank, of course, and heard of the things they did. He’d even seen Emma Baker’s braises. But it wasn’t until he saw Sol Mowbray go after Cat Johnson with a knife that it meant anything to him. It was only when he felt himself caught up in the terror of the fire and its aftermath that what he knew about became real.

  It wasn’t just the promise he’d made to himself, Tom realized. He wasn’t risking Pa’s fury simply because of a few words no one else had heard—he really didn’t want to make moonshine anymore. Tom felt a little better. He ate his ham biscuits and settled down to wait, half dreading the sound of Pa’s step and half wishing he’d come and get it over with. Whatever “it” might be.

  Darkness fell, and the cold seemed to settle over the silent woods. Tom buttoned the lightweight jacket Pa had bought him at the clothing bureau and wrapped himself in Pa’s blanket. It seemed like hours had passed before he heard a twig snap nearby. His muscles tensed, relaxing only a little when he heard a low voice mutter, “Fire’s out. Dadburn boy must of fell asleep.”

  “I ain’t been asleep, Pa,” Tom said quietly as a dark shape moved into the small clearing.

  “Then how come you let the fire go out?” Pa’s low voice shook with rage.

  “’Cause I ain’t helpin’ you make moonshine no more.” Tom had trouble making his lips form the words.

  “I don’t think I heard you right, boy,” Pa said in a voice that was deadly quiet.

  Tom’s heart pounded against his ribs, but he forced himself to repeat, “I ain’t helpin’ you make moonshine no more.” The next thing he knew, Pa was on one knee beside him, jerking him up by the front of his jacket.

  “Did that preacher put you up to this?” Pa demanded harshly.

  Tom could hardly breathe, but he managed to choke out, “I decided m-myself.”

  Pa’s words came from between clenched teeth. “An’ how come you decided that? Decided to go against your own father? Against your birthright?”

  “Because of—of what ha-happened at the cornhuskin’. I—” But Tom never had a chance to finish. Cursing, Pa slapped his face with the back of his hand. Tom’s head spun, and he tasted the saltiness of blood.

  “Now you git up an’ light that there fire,” Pa demanded, releasing him.

  “I ain’t gonna do it. I told you I—” Another powerful backhanded slap cut off Tom’s words and made his ears ring. He felt himself start to slump sideways.

  Grabbing the front of Tom’s jacket again, Pa jerked him back up and said, “Light the fire.”

  Tom’s head was throbbing so hard he couldn’t shake it, so he forced his braised lips to form the word “No.”

  “Light it!” Pa roared. “Light it, I tell you!”

  Tom gasped as the blows rained down on him, and with Pa no longer holding his jacket, he felt himself falling … falling … until he realized that the pummeling had stopped. From the edge of consciousness, Tom heard a strange sound, a kind of sobbing: “What have I done? What have I done to my boy?”

  Tom moaned a little as he felt himself being lifted up, and with his ear against Pa’s chest, he felt as well as heard Pa’s labored breathing. He was dimly aware of low branches tearing at his pants legs as Pa pushed his way through the dense woods, and then, through half-closed eyes, he saw the pale splash of lantern light that shone from the Widow Brown’s window.

  Tom felt a bed beneath him and heard Mrs. Brown say, “Git some cold water for the poor boy’s face.” The door slammed, and Tom heard the old woman’s voice again. “We gotta make sure news of this don’t get ’round, Andy. We can’t have folks losin’ respect for June.”

  Andy’s voice was serious. “You’re right, of course. He would lose a lot of his authority if people knew about this.”

  Tom’s head still pounded, but now that he was lying still, he didn’t feel quite so groggy. Instead, he felt a growing anger toward his father. Pa was sorry now, but what good did that do? What happened at the still was bad enough, but it was over with. Now, though, if folks weren’t going to find out what Pa had done to him, he’d have to stay out of sight. He’d miss school. And, he realized with dismay, he’d miss the sing at the mission tomorrow night. Pa would go because Mrs. Taylor was counting on him to prevent trouble, but he would have to stay home. It wasn’t fair.

  Pa came back to the cabin with the bucket of spring water. “Is he gonna be all right, Miz Brown?” he asked plaintively.

  At that moment, Tom realized the tables had been turned. Pa was at his mercy now, and he was going to make the most of it.

  “I’ll see if I can bring him ’round,” Mrs. Brown said, and Tom felt the cold shock as she began to sponge his face with a wet cloth. He lay motionless even when water dripped down his neck and he wanted nothing more than to wipe it
away. After a few minutes, Mrs. Brown muttered, “I don’t rightly know why he ain’t stirrin’.”

  Pa’s voice sounded remorseful. “He was scared, but he stood up to me. Even when I hit him, he didn’t back down. I should of been proud of him, but instead I hit him again.”

  Proud of him! Sudden tears mingled with the cold water from the Widow Brown’s cloth. “Pa?” Tom said, blinking rapidly as he tried to sit up. “Pa?”

  “I’m right here, boy,” Pa said, awkwardly touching Tom’s shoulder. “Lay down an’ rest yourself.”

  Tom eased his aching head back onto the pillow. The showdown was over. It had been awful, but it had been worth it. Pa respected him. And now that he had faced Pa’s anger at its worst, he’d never have to fear it again.

  30

  Even with the Widow Brown’s poultices, two weeks passed before the braises on Tom’s face were gone. Most of the trees had lost their leaves now, and as Tom and Pa set off for church in the crisp late-autumn sunshine, the bare branches were silhouetted against the brilliance of the cloudless sky.

  “The way you’re hurryin’ down this mountain, I’d say you’ll be right glad to see somebody other ’n me and Andy for a change,” Pa said.

  “Them two weeks seemed so long,” Tom said seriously, “I don’t see how a man could live through a whole year in jail.”

  “Wal, we don’t have to worry none about that since I ain’t makin’ moonshine no more.”

  “Couldn’t you figure out some way to work alone like Eddie Jarvis did?” Tom asked.

  Pa shook his head and said quietly, “If drinkin’ moonshine makes a feller violent, he hadn’t ought to drink it, right?” Tom nodded, and Pa went on. “Wal, if makin’ moonshine makes a feller violent, then he hadn’t ought to make it.”

  Tom didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t even imagine Pa not making moonshine.