by Bill Cheng
Robert kept walking. He was in the street now. He could hear Eli calling after him from the gate, laughing.
ROBERT SPENT THAT NIGHT AT the bus station, turning over his choices. He paced the inside room, pocketing the pennies that’d fallen underneath the benches. He passed the station map again and again, pacing the length of the floor. He memorized the large swaths of unknown country, read out loud the Indian names, full of rolls and swallows—Pontotoc, Pascagoula, Natchez. He plotted the distance his money could take him. His eye found, again and again, the pale green thatch that is Issaquena County—then the bold curl of river west of it. All night, the buses trucked in and out and he watched the people in them. They were tired, as tired as he was, their journeys buzzing through their bodies. It was late and he was hungry and they smelled so much like health. A family of Mexicans came down and one of them, a small boy, was holding his mother’s hand, looking at him. Robert was sure he was disgusting to them—the filth of the swamp and sweat and dirt radiating off him. But the boy only stared, his eyes big and unreadable. He let go of his mother’s hand and moved cautiously toward the bench.
The boy came closer and Robert saw there was something wrong with him. The boy’s left eye stared away a little and had more black in it than the other one. The thought came over him that he looked kind of like a stick bug.
The boy stopped in front of him. Robert looked over at his parents, who were too busy arguing at the map wall.
Hello, Robert said.
The boy had something in his hand and he offered it up to him.
It was a wafer candy.
Cadejo, the boy said.
The candy hung there in the air for a second. Robert took it and it damn near broke him to pieces.
PART FIVE
ETTA
(1927)
When we were young, I called you My Etta and we went down to the cotton fields without our clothes, falling on each other and laughing and full of young breath. And you said what you loved was my arms, how big they were, how they could wrap you up and hold you in like a little pea inside its pod. So I’d hold you and we’d look up at the sky, almost like we was daring it to rain.
We had years together, don’t forget, years when it was just you and me and we lived only for that warm thrumming inside each other—with no worry for what was coming or what had passed. We were outside of everything.
Then time finally came and we married. I moved us down to Issaquena where the soil was good for timber and Chathams both to set down roots.
Those early days, I’d come home bone tired from hauling timber and you’d be waiting with the dinner all hot, and the air inside our little cabin so goodly warm. But there was something, even then, I saw that wasn’t right. Something in your eyes, in that faraway look that you got sometimes.
I remember the night we had Billy. You were in with the midwife, while I was outside, my gut in my throat. I was on the porch looking out into the dark evening. It was summer and there were fireflies all around, and crickets going, and everything singing out the great mystery of the world. And then there was me, my feet turned to iron and the rest of me just reed brittle and terrified. There was so much in this world and I did not know if I could measure up.
The midwife came and fetched me, and I saw you lying there, tired but glowing. And she gave me this bloody mewling thing. It was so small, I was afraid to take it, afraid that it might break somehow.
But you looked at me, my Etta, and you said, Ellis, hold your boy.
And the midwife put the thing in my arms and I knew then it was mine, that I could hold up its small weight and I would exhaust every last drop of my blood to keep us safe.
We named him William Cornelius for my father, but around us he was Billy.
We worried ourselves sick. Every cry and whimper and gibbering noise would steal away our attention and fray our nerves. We would stay up nights, made raw, listening to our little new thing kick and whine.
In time, our boy grew up. The hair came in full and black, and his face was strong and handsome. You doted on him, Etta, called him your brave boy. You’d see him jump into the bushes and wrangle king snakes and racers and you’d say my, how that boy just full of sand. But I knew my boy. How proud he was. You wouldn’t believe me then, Etta, but when those snakes slithered out of their bushes, he was as afraid as we were. He just smothered it down, never letting on.
There were days I’d drive out with my partner, Skinny, on the mule cart, hauling our load over to the mill. And there’d be something in the air, maybe, some smell of magnolia or the look of a shadow on the road, and I would feel a change. Feel it right in my body. I knew I was no longer the person I was. What I mean is, so much of my life had been spent as one man—as one person—and now I was more than that.
And I could feel it, right then, actually feel myself stretching out. Feel my fingertips spanning outward until I was like a sail, flagged out against the wind, covering you, and me and our little boy, and I’d have no memory of who I was before. There weren’t no fear in it, and no regret, but just a very real anxiousness to see our future.
And in that future came our Little Robert. Robert was so much like you—quiet, full of seriousness. He’d sit alone for long hours, his thoughts zippered up inside him. He never smiled or sought attention, except from his brother, who he’d shadow dutifully all around the house. And our oldest boy took his role as an older brother seriously. He would protect him, his small trembling blood kin, in a way that not me nor you ever could.
Where we would look at Robert and only see our little boy, Billy could see another person. Someone who could be his equal. Billy would take pains to coax his brother out of himself. He’d play with him roughly, teach him to cuss, include him in that gang of young toughs that romped around the country backwoods.
And maybe that was what I had begun to fear. That Robert would be too much like his brother. Too wild. Too smart. Too cunning.
God, it works up a sting to think this. To say this.
Some part of me knew how my son would die. I could feel it like a needle inside my heart, when first I saw my baby boy kick in his father’s arms.
Do you remember years ago, when the boys had begged me to take them hunting?
You made us fatback and grits and we set out early—your three men, our bodies burning against the cold. We drove the mule out to Skinny’s where I rousted him out of bed and bartered for the loan of his new Henry rifle.
That day we drove down a public road, rounding a thickness of woods, and came to a spot I knew. I hitched the mule to a fence post. Then we packed up and loaded the rifles, me toting my old Enfield and Billy carrying the new Henry. Little Robert I let carry the cartridges of rimfire just to give him something to do. I showed them both how to hold a gun, how to look down it, how to charge the ball.
We went in through a break in the woods. I recall it was rough travel for Little Robert—being gashed everywhere by weeds and vines and thorns, trying to keep up with Billy and me. Still, he didn’t complain too much, just kept right on behind us.
When we got onto the trails, Little Robert and Billy kept quarreling over that rifle. Robert fussed and complained—Come on, let me hold it awhile. You held it enough—and Billy would growl back.
I told them roughly to hush. We went the whole morning, sullen and quiet, down the trails, pausing here and there to study over some dirt. I could see Robert watching that rifle in his brother’s hands, the long dark hollow of the barrel. Billy cradled the stock, keeping the nose pointed to the dirt like I told him, but when he thought I wasn’t looking, he’d mug with that Henry and tease his brother, smirking and stroking the hammer or petting the stock like it was some kind of pup. By the time we stopped for lunch, the injustice had brought Robert near to tears.
While we rested, I was trying to work myself down from an already mean and low mood. Do you remember? The night befo
re, you’d told me how Billy had been fooling with some of the town girls, going with them off into the woods and getting into all kinds of trouble. You wanted me to set him straight and that’s what I’d aimed to do with this whole trip. Problem was I had not worked out entirely how.
I told him what you’d told me and he swore up and down that he didn’t do nothing with those girls.
I gathered my breath and looked down at my hands.
I told him, You almost eleven years old now, Billy. You coming to be a man and it’s time you learned. Everything—every last thing—got to be paid for. You got to understand, boy, that you can’t go around like you do. Because they’ll take it out of you. Because they’ll hate you for it, son. They’ll shame you and they’ll hate you for it.
The boy became moody and hang-dogged and I should’ve known then that those words didn’t catch. I should’ve gone at him again; instead I sighed and got up and we kept on hunting.
Billy kept a grimace on his face, and we was all in a kind of bad weather. It was beginning to look like nobody was going to get to do any kind of hunting at all, our moods all being spoiled for it.
Then we came to it, right in the middle of the trail—a set of hoof tracks crossed into the bush, bothering the undergrowth. I brought up my gun, and Billy did the same, doing like I showed him, elbows tucked, cheek against the sight. We walked on quiet as we could, me keeping Robert safe behind me. We came to where the trail bent two ways in a fork and I motioned for Billy to go on the other way.
We crept on silently till I saw the buck. It lifted its head. Its eyes were dark and wet. Its ears twitched, shifting its antlers heavily in the air. I put my hand on Robert’s back and inched him forward.
Take a look, I whispered. Don’t make a sound.
I let him stand on my shoes, and from the height he could see the buck. Its throat was dirty white and there were almond spots across its rump. It did not move. I waited, trying to find sign of Billy, but he must’ve fallen behind somewhere.
Shoot’m Daddy, Robert said.
I shushed him and prayed that Billy was getting close. You don’t know how I thrilled at the idea, Etta—our oldest boy, his first buck.
Come on, boy, I whispered. I trained my gun out. Come on.
There was a long silence. Then a shot. Just one shot. The buck fled. My first thought was that Billy had missed, but I heard a whoop from across the grass, and I saw Billy then, glowing back at me.
I waved to him. Run him!
We ran now. Even Robert. All at once, we were alive, all the tiredness tamped down into our bellies, all the mean feeling disappearing. The forest seemed to give way around us as I moved bent forward, tracks of sweat coming through my shirt, sticking to my back. We ran and ran, the air cold and harsh in our lungs.
Run him down, boys, run him down! I was laughing and shouting.
Then there was another shot and we all stopped.
All the air seemed to go out of me. I threw down my gun and gathered my boys around me, patting their bodies, their heads, their arms, their chests. We’re okay, Daddy, Billy said. We ain’t hurt.
Then Little Robert looked off into the distance.
I had heard it too. There was someone laughing.
We followed the noise down to two white hunters. They were kneeling beside the buck, lifting up its head, smirking at the hole in its neck.
The one holding up the buck said, Goddamn, goddamn, that sure was a shot.
The man took off his stalker hat and he was completely bald underneath, the top red and splotchy. The other one was unscrewing a canteen and drinking. He looked up and there we were. What we must’ve looked like just then—the three of us, dumb and terrified out of breath.
Wendell, he said. Then the bald one looked up too and they both stood up silently.
Well, afternoon, folks, the one of them said, the one the other called Wendell. What can I do you folks for?
Billy started to saying something—That’s my—but I hushed him quick.
Just passing through, boss.
I could feel my boys looking at me, feel the shame in it.
Now wait a minute. Son, you was saying something?
And our boy said, That’s my buck. I shot him.
The other man started to rear up real mean, but the one named Wendell touched his arm, smiling, his teeth all neat and bright.
Come here, he said.
He’s just a young’un, boss, I said. He don’t know what he’s saying.
Little Robert grabbed his brother’s arm, but Billy swung it free.
Let go, he hissed.
Wendell knelt down and looked him over and Billy leaned his chin forward, his eyes full of anger.
Son, we been sitting up in those bushes over there all morning. We killed this deer.
I shot him. I shot him and chased him out over here. And it was just your dumb cracker luck that he ended up over here.
Billy!, I cried.
Wendell chuckled.
Tell you what, son, we’ll cut you a few steaks you can take home with you. Would that be all right?
I chimed in, That would be generous of you, mister.
Hell no! Daddy, these pikers are trying to steal my deer!
The one man stood straight up and his face darkened. I grabbed my boy by the shoulder and jerked him back.
Sir, your boy has got a tongue on him.
I know, boss. He strong-willed. I’m trying to correct him. Billy, say sorry to the man.
But Billy would not relent.
I won’t say a damn thing! Everybody knows I shot that deer.
I clapped him hard across the mouth and for a second he was stunned, his eyes wide, full of water.
The man sucked his teeth with approval. He squatted down so that him and Billy were near eye to eye.
Matter of fact, everything in these woods is ours. You see, I don’t blame you if you didn’t read the signs but these are private lands, son, owned by my cousin Tommy over there. So if you ain’t got his permission, you can’t shoot at anything, or else it’s like stealing, you understand, son? You can’t even be here without his say-so, or else he could have you arrested. That sound about right, Tommy?
That’s right, Wendell, the one named Tommy said.
Didn’t see no signs, Billy muttered.
Wendell chuckled. Well, that’s all right, son. We all make mistakes, don’t we. And what do we do when we make a mistake?
Billy, I said sternly.
What do we do? What do we do when we make a mistake?
I pinched him hard on his neck and he glared at me.
Sorry, he mumbled.
The son of a bitch laughed and he reached out his hand and ruffled our son’s hair.
That’s a good boy, Wendell said. Say, that’s a pretty-looking rifle you got there. What is that, the new Henry?
Billy clutched it close.
Wendell looked square at me.
Is that a Henry rifle?
I didn’t say nothing.
Wendell laughed. Well, don’t that beat all? Tommy, didn’t you lose a Henry rifle in these woods just last week?
Tommy was grinning now.
That I did, he said.
Think of the coincidence! Don’t that look just like the one you lost?
Well, Wendell, I do believe you’re right. I do believe that that Henry rifle and mine are one and the same.
Our boy looked to me, his bottom lip quivering. Before I could say anything, Billy threw down that rifle, tried to smash it to pieces, but it lay there whole and solid on the grass. The one named Tommy hurried over to the gun, lifting it up, testing its weight in his paws. He couldn’t contain himself, he was so happy. He looked across at Wendell and Wendell looked back at him, laughing.
Wendell turned back to us.
Now get the hell out of here, huh?
It was a cold, empty walk home. No one spoke. I don’t recall how I squared it with Skinny that day, but somehow I squared it. When we came home, you asked us how we got on, but I didn’t have no heart to tell you. That night, when I went to talk to our boy and salve him some, there was such disdain in his eyes and it wounded me through like an arrow. But as hurt as I was by that look, what I took to bed with me that night was fear. I knew then that Billy’s tongue and hardheadedness would get him into worse trouble one day. That thought settled hard and cold in my lungs like a piece of iron.
FROM THEN ON, BILLY AND me did not get on as we had before, and I was helpless against his growing recklessness—couldn’t tamp it down with words nor whupping. And as the year passed, he became tall and manly with hair on his chin and heat in the blood. We argued often until, finally, one day he left us.
It tore me up same as you. Many a time, I’d catch you staring out the window or through the front passage out into the world while in the middle of some mending or sorting of peas. I would come behind you and put my arms around your smooth waist, hug you close, and such a terrible look would come across your face as if you were waking from some dream.
For a time, you hated me. We would lie apart from each other, the bed cold between us, not touching.
Which was fine, I suppose. I did not press you. Didn’t force myself on you. At times, when the loneliness was raging inside me, I would climb from the bed and sit down in the front room and watch the night.
Then the day came that they brought our boy home. Me and you stood outside the house and watched that wagon come up the road. Before we’d even seen who they were toting, you sensed it, moaning deep and low. I took your hand and you squeezed into mine hard. Something went loose and stringy inside my gut. The cart slowed down out in front of the house and the driver, who was red faced and dust covered, took out a kerchief to wipe himself. He was a white man and looked a little embarrassed for his cargo. Riding in the back were two boys.
I told you to wait inside, but you came down with me to the road. The two boys in the back carried down the load. They had set him on the carry-cart, wrapped in two sheets and packed under with ice. You let out a horrible cry and threw yourself against the body, sobbing. I saw that bruised, purple-looking thing, couldn’t match that bloated thing to our son. The tongue hung out of his mouth, the neck chafed and torn—the eyes not closed so they were dull and far away and looking at nothing. The same eyes that I would find you gazing out from in the coming days, as you followed our oldest son into the dark.
