The Waking

by H. M. Mann

  You got luck all right. Bad luck.

  “Howdy,” I say.

  Howdy? You think you’re a southern boy now?

  Shh.

  “Saw your fire from the road.” He smiles and heaves again. “A bit hot and wet to be out here with a fire, ain’t it?”

  “The bugs were bad.” I shift my weight from my left foot to my right foot, just in case I have to start running. An old guy can’t catch me like this. He just can’t.

  “You ain’t lyin’ about the bugs,” he says, finally catching his breath. “All this rain. Never seen it rain so much. Mind if I sit down? It’s a bit of a haul from the road.”

  Hughes sits his hulking body down near the base of a burned-out stump. He withdraws a can of snuff from the breast pocket of his shirt and holds it out to me.

  “No thanks.”

  “I ought to quit, but …” He shakes his head, laughing heartily, and puts the can back into his pocket. “Where you headed?”

  Which is a nice way of saying, “Don’t be here tomorrow.” I relax a little. Maybe he’s not going to bother me. “Atlanta.”

  “Hotlanta, huh? Got a good ways to go then. Terrible travelin’ weather, huh?”

  I nod.

  “You mind me asking how old you are, son?”

  “I’m twenty-nine.”

  “Yeah? You don’t look it.”

  Maybe I’m growing younger or something.

  “Got any ID?”

  I shake my head. Here we go.

  “No ID. Hmm.” Hughes spits on the ground. “Summer cold. Just can’t shake it.” He coughs. “And if I asked you your name, would you give it to me?”

  “Emmanuel Mann.”

  “Emmanuel Mann. Related to any folks around here?”

  “Don’t know for sure. I know I’m related to a bunch of folks down in Mobile, though. I just discovered them yesterday. I rode the bus up from Mobile to Opelika today.” Just looking for my roots, Mister. No crime in that.

  You talk pretty durn fast for a quiet, southern country boy, I’ll give you that.

  He smiles. “From Mobile to the big swamp. That’s what Opelika means in Creek.” He waves in the direction of the creek. “And that’s Halawakee Creek roarin’ out there. A Creek name for a creek.” He laughs. “This used to be Creek Indian land.”

  “Oh.”

  He shifts his weight. “You don’t sound like you’re from around here.”

  “No sir. I’m from Pittsburgh.”

  “And you’re way down here?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hmm. Emmanuel Mann from Pittsburgh. Now where have I heard that name connected to that place …” He snaps his fingers. “That’s right. We got a bulletin on you.” He squints. “Somethin’ about you beatin’ up a white boy over in New Orleans. You really do that?”

  If you didn’t have that lighter, you wouldn’t have thought to build that fire, and you’d be safe now. And you said those ladies were wise?

  “Uh, yes sir, I did.”

  “But the bulletin said you were bigger.” He laughs. “That APB said you were six-two, two-twenty with tattoos all over your body.”

  I look at my skinny arms, the cross shining in the firelight. “I only have two tattoos, and I barely weigh a hundred fifty.” That boy was trying to make himself look better by making me bigger than I am. As for the tattoos, though, I guess it looked like I had a thousand tattoos with my arms flying like that at his face.

  “You beat him good?”

  Is there any other way to beat a person who you don’t like? “Yes sir.”

  “Good.”

  I blink. That’s not the response I’d expect from a deputy sheriff.

  Me, neither.

  “You been runnin’ now, what, a week or so?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ve lost track of time. I think so. I’ve been away from Pittsburgh for over a month.” I think. But do you really need to check a calendar when you’re rebuilding your entire life? Like Maxi said, we have no clock here.

  “A whole month?”

  I nod. It’s the running that keeps me going.

  He wipes his dripping brow. “And you ain’t tired yet?”

  “No sir.”

  “Well, I ain’t gonna chase you, now. I’m too old to do that.” He purses his lips. “And I ain’t gonna take you to the jail either cuz I have yet to see a person fittin’ the description on that bulletin.”

  This is weird. “So … I can just go about my business?”

  “Bet you could use a bath and a hot meal. My house is just a little hike from here.”

  A bath and a hot meal? There’s got to be a catch. “Wouldn’t that mean that you’d be, uh, harboring a fugitive?”

  “What fugitive?” He acts like he’s looking around. “I don’t see none here.”

  But if his house is just a little hike away ... “Am I on your land?”

  “No. I don’t own any land. I barely own the house.”

  This makes no sense. “And you aren’t going to arrest me?”

  “Boy tryin’ to get right, find his people, whuppin’ some white boy … There ain’t nothin’ wrong with it as far as I’m concerned.” His eyes narrow. “Long as you ain’t into no mischief and ain’t plannin’ any.”

  “No sir.”

  “Well, good. It ain’t much, my house, but least it’s got screens to keep most of the bugs out.”

  I clear my throat. “I could just stay here, right? I’m clearing out in the morning.”

  “Well, you could, but then I’d have to deal with the Old Major.”

  “Who?”

  “The Old Major. You’re on Major Johnson’s property, son. Old Major gave me the call about a fire on his property, and he’s sort of my neighbor. You’re kind of guilty of trespassing, so …”

  “But you’re not going to arrest me.”

  “For trespassing? Nope. I have a healthy dislike for Major Johnson, and I wished I’d have whupped him good when I was younger. I’ll just tell him I arrested you to shut him up.”

  I smile. “Does your house have a shower?”

  “Tub okay?”

  A hot bath? Yes! “Anything.”

  What were you saying about those wise old ladies?

  You just got lucky.

  “Okay then.” Hughes clicks on his flashlight. “Mind your fire.”

  I kick up some of the looser dirt near the embers, putting out the fire. Then, I pick up my backpack, turn, and head out of the clearing.

  “Wait a sec,” Hughes says, turning off the flashlight. “I have to make sure the fire’s out or old Major will call out the National Guard.”

  “It’s out.”

  “Have to be sure.”

  We stand in the darkness for a few minutes, watching for a stray spark to leap out. Then, it begins to rain steadily.

  “Well,” Hughes says, turning on his flashlight again, “I ain’t got the constitution to stand around in rainy weather. Just follow me, son.”

  He slides his way down through the stumps in the clearing toward the darkened road. I follow behind him, taking care not to trip over the same roots he stumbles over.

  On the road, he takes out his snuff can, taps it, opens it, gouges out a chunk of tobacco, and lines his lower lip without missing a step.

  “See this can lid,” he says, shining the light on the lid so that its reflection crosses my face. “This was given to me by my daddy.” He hands the can to me. “They don’t make lids like that no more, no sir.”

  A finely detailed twelve-point buck peering out between two trees is engraved on the heavy silver lid. I hand the can back. A strange family heirloom, but at least he has one. I only have memories. Those memories are strong, but I can’t hold them in my hands. Though I now have some pictures of some strong people. At least I have them.

  “You’re more than welcome to have some, son.”

  “No thank you.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Why didn’t you want none of his ter-backy? You ai
n’t tryin’ to fit in very hard.

  I won’t fight one addiction with another.

  We move in unbroken silence as the rain filtering through the dark sky lightly glazes Hughes’s hat. About a quarter mile down the road, he turns up what looks like an old delivery cart path with deep ruts on the sides and grass growing in the middle. The trees semi-circling overhead create a tunnel, and we tightrope along the drier grass strip. The tunnel soon ends, and the road grows into a gravel driveway. We pass a split-rail fence covered with ivy and approach a graying farmhouse that has two solid stories, a shiny tin roof, no gutters, a front and a side porch, and one towering red brick chimney.

  He stops at the steps to the front porch near a white police car with blue and gold stripes parked in front of an old railroad tie. He turns, stretching out both arms to me. “Step right this way, Emmanuel Mann.”

  I pass him and creak up the steps, checking out the lonely porch swing. I take off my crusty boots and set them under the swing.

  “Don’t leave them there,” Hughes says, straining the worn steps. “Never know what critter will make off with them. Got me a ‘possum that lives down the path that ain’t quite neighborly. Bring ‘em inside.”

  I pick up the boots and walk inside. Standing in the hallway, I check out the first floor. To my right are a fireplace, a gray couch covered with a green and blue quilt, a wooden lamp stand, a crackling police scanner resting on the window ledge, and a pockmarked coffee table. To my left are a simple kitchen with a white Formica table and four smartly placed metal pipe chairs. On the table sits one plastic rose jutting out of a brown Tupperware cup. Straight ahead is a staircase shrouded in the darkness.

  “‘Tain’t much, but it’s home.” He motions to the couch. “Actually, it’s all I can afford. Have a seat, make yourself at home. I’ll bring us some lemonade.”

  “Thanks.”

  Before I sit, I check out some dusty newspapers in a bin next to the fireplace and find that they’re all from way back in the day. The headline from an August 5, 1974 issue of the Columbus Ledger reads: “NIXON RESIGNS!” I check out a few other papers at random and find that they’re all from 1974. He must have cancelled his subscription. Either that or I’ve stepped back in time.

  The back door or at least I think it’s the back door, crashes open. A few seconds later, it crashes closed. “Shoo-ee!” Hughes yells.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah.” He brings in two tumblers filled with lemonade. “Just that old ‘possum makin’ an appearance. I’d shoot him, but then we’d have to eat him.”

  He’s kidding, right?

  I hope so. Just the thought.

  I take the glass from him and take a sip.

  “Not too sweet?”

  I try not to scrunch up my face too much, because this is the sourest lemonade I’ve ever had. “No. Not too sweet.” How long has this stuff been fermenting in the refrigerator?

  He settles into a chair opposite the couch. “I remember one night that ‘possum tried to out-stare me with his beady little eyes. Gutsy little thing.”

  I take the smallest little sip of lemonade. This lemonade is liable to make me thirstier!

  “You hungry now?” he asks.

  Are ‘possum gutsy in Alabama?

  Hush.

  “Yes sir.”

  “Thought you might be.”

  He stands and presses his back. “You can help me get dinner ready by cleanin’ up in the sink and settin’ the table. Knives and spoons and such are in the drawer on the left, plates and glasses in the cupboard above, and napkins are on the counter.”

  I’ve been sentenced to worse. “Sure.”

  “Hope you don’t mind steak and eggs.”

  Meat! “Not at all.”

  I walk across the shiny wooden floor to the sink. After washing my hands up to my elbows with yellow lye soap, I dry them on a hand towel. Opening the drawer, I snatch two knives, forks, and spoons and lay them on the table. I find two chipped plastic plates and some spotted glasses in the cupboard and place them in front of the chairs at the ends of the table. Grabbing the napkins from their holder, I hastily fold them in half and slide them to the left of the plates. I deposit the forks on the napkins and the spoons and knives to the right of the plates.

  “Looks like you’ve done that a time or two,” he says, a thick red steak already sizzling in the pan. “You like greens? They’re from my garden.”

  I nod, but I don’t smell them cooking. Maybe he’ll warm them up, but I don’t see a microwave.

  “We finished up the lemonade, and I’m afraid the milk in there might rattle, but I do have some cider from last year. It ought to be all right, although,” he chuckles, “the last gallon I drank was a bit hard. Cider is down in the root cellar. You’ll have to go ‘round back to the door in the ground to get down there. Take the flashlight.” He points to a flashlight on top of the refrigerator.

  Hard cider, huh? I hope my stomach can handle it on top of all the sweet food I’ve had today.

  I get the flashlight, and once outside in the crisp, cool, misty air, I see that some of the sky has opened revealing a few bright stars. It can’t rain forever. Walking across the slick grass, I find the cellar door, heave it open, and descend the crumbly concrete stairs, careful to shine the light in front of me. A mouse skitters in front of my foot as I reach the cellar floor. I smell musty air and catch wind of the cider, noticeably hardened. My light finds a row of brown jugs, each dated in chalk, resting on a rickety pine shelf. Scanning the dates to find the freshest cider, I hear Hughes singing above me. I can’t tell what he’s singing, but maybe it’s just as well. I lift the heavy cork-stopped jug with my right index finger and thumb, flash the beam around in search of more mice, and make my way for the stairs. Pausing at the base of the stairs, I watch a spider sliding down from the ceiling, a strand of its web trailing behind. “You’re kind of like me,” I tell it, “only my web is a lot more crooked.” The flashlight beam getting dim, I climb the stairs, shut the door behind me, and walk, swinging the jug back and forth until I’m inside again.

  You really could be Huck Finn now.

  Shut up.

  “Dinner’s ready!”

  And it smells good. I haven’t had red meat since … Tupelo? That was two days ago, wasn’t it?

  “Just set the jug on the table, son. Mmm-mm. Don’t that smell good?”

  He brings over his version of steak and eggs, and it’s still in the pan. At first, I’m not sure what I’m looking at. He has cooked the steak into the eggs, or maybe it’s the other way around, and it’s about the lumpiest-looking concoction I’ve ever seen. He clunks the pan and a bowl of fresh, uncooked greens on the table, uncorks the jug of cider, and fills both glasses.

  Who doesn’t cook their greens?

  Deputy sheriffs in Alabama, I guess.

  I wait until he sits before seating myself at the far end of the table.

  Before I can get myself comfortable, he folds his hands, closes his eyes, and begins to pray. “Great God, Giver of all that is on this table, we thank You for Your kindness. Thank You also for my guest here, and I hope he’s hungry because I sure am. Amen!”

  “Amen,” I say.

  I hand my plate to him, and he dishes out the greens first then the lumpy steak and eggs. He gracefully hands my plate to me, and I shovel whatever my fork hits into my mouth.

  “Not so fast, son. Chew it up, or you’re liable to get indigestion.”

  “It’s so good,” I mumble, trying not to slobber. I have missed red meat so much!

  “When’s the last time you ate?”

  “A few hours ago.”

  “And you’re this hungry?”

  I shrug. “I must be growing or something.”

  “Hope I cooked enough.”

  After scraping the last of the steak and eggs onto my fork, I inhale it and lift my plate toward Hughes, mumbling, “Can I have some more?”

  “You haven’t finished your greens yet, son.
”

  Oh yeah. I stare down at the untouched greens that are staring up at me. Literally. A greenish-brown bug stares up at me from the greenery. “They sure look, um, fresh.”

  “Watch out for bugs.”

  I flick the bug off my plate to the floor.

  “Told you they was fresh.”

  Gulp. Alternating gulps of cider and mouthfuls of greens, which taste just like dirty weeds, I finally clean my plate and motion to Hughes for more steak and eggs.

  “Now, weren’t those greens good?” Hughes asks. “Took me a lot of trouble and pain to get them greens growin’. Now, let’s see. Last summer, it was too hot. Ground was all cracked, and nothin’ but thistle come up. Then this summer, it’s too wet. Most of my greens drowned out there before I could rescue them.”

  My bicep is getting tired of holding this plate. “They were good.”

  “And you’re a liar, Emmanuel Mann. They taste like dirt.” He laughs and dishes out some steak and eggs.

  “Why don’t you cook them?” I ask.

  “And ruin the flavor?” He laughs again. “Boy, I know you’re supposed to cook ‘em and serve ‘em up with lots of vinegar. I’m just not here all day long to cook ‘em cuz of all this rain. We’ve had floods goin’ on two months now, especially on the Chattahoochee, and folks along there blame Atlanta for it for some reason. We’ve had more rain than in over a century, they say. Eleven inches fell in just over two hours near Birmingham. Can you imagine that?”

  “No.”

  “We’ve had tornadoes, too. And here you come at the tail end of all that.” He stabs a hunk of egg … or is it steak? “Only things thrivin’ out there are the bugs, and that was one of the biggest bugs I’ve seen yet. Might have been good to fish with.”

  When we finish, we sip some cider, which burns a little going down, on two rockers out on the front porch.

  “How long have you been a deputy?” I ask.

  “Seven years now. Started on patrol, worked my way up.”

  I blink. He has to be pushing sixty, and he’s only been a deputy for seven years? That’s a long time to wait for a promotion.

  “The stories I can tell you.” He smiles. “But you don’t want to hear none of that noise.”

  “Got nothing better to do.”