by James Still
“You’re not talking to me,” said Riar. “I’ve had a sample of you at the wheel.”
“I’ll stay on my side of the road, act to suit you.”
“Everything has a stopping point,” said Riar. “I’ll not court a wreck.”
“My opinion,” said Godey, “when affairs get tough enough you’ll break over.”
Godey and Mal ate in a café while Riar munched cold bread outside. Before setting off again, Godey held a match to the gasoline meter and said, “You’d better take on a gill. She’s sort of low.”
“She can read empty,” said Riar, “and still be carrying a gallon.” Godey would bear watching.
“See do the tires need wind.”
“They’re standing up,” said Riar, pressing the starter.
Riar didn’t pause until he reached Fletcher. He had the tank brimmed, for businesses open after midnight were scarce. And he tightened the cap himself. He climbed the rack, the while cocking an eye at Godey. Riar watched Godey so closely Mal had to do the mischief. Mal caught a chance and scooped up a fistful of dirt, crammed it into the tank, and stuck the cap back on.
They passed through Arden and Skyland and Asheville. And nothing happened. The truck ran smoothly. At Weaverville, Riar halted at a closed station to replenish the radiator. A bulb inside threw a faint light. He left the engine idling, but as he poured in water it quit, and feeling for the key a moment later, he found it missing. He spoke sharply: “All right, you boys, hand over.”
“Hand what over?” Godey made strange.
“The key. You don’t have to ask.”
“Why hallo to us. We haven’t got it.”
Riar struck a match and searched the cab. He blustered, “I don’t want to start war with you fellers.”
Stretching, Godey inquired, “Are you of a notion we stole the key? You can frisk us.” They stepped out and shucked their pockets.
Mal said, “I never tipped it.”
“Couldn’t have disappeared of itself,” said Riar. “One of you is guilty, and I think I know which.”
Godey chuckled sleepily. “Why, it might be square under your nose. Scratch around, keep a-looking.”
Riar made a second search, and then he said, “Let me tell you boys something. A load of peaches generates enough heat a day to melt a thousand pounds of ice. They have to be kept moving or they’ll bake.”
“That makes it mean,” said Godey.
“Rough as a cob,” agreed Mal.
Riar couldn’t budge them. He had no choice other than to wire-over the ignition. He got out pliers and a screwdriver, but it was pitch-black under the hood. Offering a penny matchbox to Mal, he said, “Strike them for me as they’re needed.”
“Do that,” warned Godey, “and I’ll hang you to a bush.”
Breathing deep to master his anger, Riar chuffed, “You jaspers don’t care whether my family starves.”
“Not our lookout,” said Godey, yawning.
Lighting match after match, Riar peered to the farthest the key could have been tossed. He felt along the cab floor again and on the ground beneath. When the matchbox was empty he groped with his fingers.
Godey and Mal were soon asleep, but Riar didn’t leave off hunting the rest of the night.
At daybreak Riar loosened the ignition wires and hooked them together. The boys stirred as the truck moved, but did not rouse. Beyond the town limits Riar smartened his speed to an unaccustomed forty-five miles an hour. Then, on the grade north of Faust, the engine started missing, and he had to pump the accelerator to coax it to the top.
Halting in the gap, Riar decided gasoline was not getting through to the carburetor, and inspecting the sediment bulb, he found it choked. His breath caught as he reasoned he had been sold dirty gasoline. In a hurry he cleared the bulb and blew out the fuel pump. Already the truck bed seeped juice and the load was drawing hornets. The day had set in hot.
He rolled down hill, and at the bottom it was the same thing over. The engine coughed and lost power. Again the bulb was plugged, the pump fouled. This time he checked the tank, and the deed was out. The cap barely hung on, and the pipe was rimed with grit. Riar gasped. His face reddened in sudden anger. He threw open the cranky door and glared at Godey and Mal. For a moment he had no voice to speak, but when he could he cried, “You boys think you’re pistol balls!”
Godey and Mal cracked their eyelids. Godey asked, “What are you looking so dim about?”
Riar sputtered, “You’re too sorry to stomp into the ground.”
“Has she tuck the studs on you?”
“Filled my tank with dirt. Intending to make me lose my peaches.”
“Are you accusing us? Daggone! To hear you tell it, whatever happens to your old scrap heap we’re the cause.”
“Don’t deny it. You’re the very scamp.”
“If you mean me,” said Godey, “that’s where you’re wrong. Bring me a Scripture and I’ll swear by it.”
The veins on Riar’s neck showed knots. His cheeks looked raw. “Then you put your partner up to it. Besides, you got my key last night.”
Godey chirped, “Where’s your proof, Tightwad?”
“I have evidence a-plenty,” bumbled Riar.
“I’d take oath,” vowed Mal, “I never tipped the key.”
“When I get mad,” confided Godey, “I can see little devils hopping in front of my eyes. How does it serve you?”
Riar was getting nowhere. Slamming the door, he went to work on the pump. He saw the cure was to purge the whole fuel system with fresh gasoline. But getting to a filling station was the question. He tried again and the engine struggled almost a mile before dying.
Godey said, “Give me justice on my peaches and we’ll help.”
“All you’re good for is to gum up,” blared Riar. “You’re as useless as tits on a boar.”
Godey shrugged. He sang, “Suit yourself and sit on the shelf.”
“Don’t contrary me,” Riar begged. “You make me speak things I don’t want to.”
“Then hurry and fix the old plug, and let’s get to some breakfast.”
The sun beat upon the peaches as Riar labored. He jockeyed the truck two miles after unclogging it, a half mile next, and each holdup used three quarters of an hour at least. Then several blowings gained less than five miles altogether, and mid-morning found them still in North Carolina and no station in sight. As the day advanced the load settled slowly, the seep of juice became a trickle. Hornets swarmed, and the fainting fruit seemed to beget gnats. Around eleven the truck made a spurt, crossing into Tennessee jerking and backfiring.
They reached a garage at noon. The mechanic came squinting into the sunlight, inquiring, “What’s the matter?”
Godey said, “We’ve run out of distance.”
Riar did the job himself, sweat glistening his face and darkening his shirt. He unstrapped the tank and drained it, flushed it with water, and rinsed in gasoline. He removed the fuel line, pump, and carburetor and gave them the same treatment. The mechanic said, “If I had a pump messed up like that I’d junk it and buy a new.”
Godey laughed. “Did this gentleman turn loose a dollar the hide would slip.”
While Riar strove, he knew without looking that the lower half of the load was crushing under the weight, the top layers sickening in the sun. The hundred or so bushels in between would hold firm only a few hours longer, and he would never get them to Kentucky. He would have to try selling them in the next town.
Toward three o’clock Riar finished and set off grimly, raising his speed to fifty miles an hour. The machine would go no faster.
Godey crowed, “The old sister will travel if you’ll feed her. Pour on the pedal.”
Mal asked wryly, “Reckon she’ll take another Jiminy fit?”
“Stay on the whiz,” cheered Godey, “and maybe she’ll shed the rust.”
It was fortunate that a rise had slowed them when the tire blew out. As it was, Riar had to fight the wheel to keep to the road. H
e brought the truck under control and pulled onto a shoulder. He sat as if stricken, his disgust too great for speaking. His stomach began to cramp. Presently he said bitterly, “I hope this satisfies your hickory.”
Godey and Mal wagged their heads, though their faces were bright. Godey said, “I reckon it’s us you’ll blame.”
Mal said, “Everything that pops he figures we’re guilty.”
“Your talk and your actions don’t jibe,” Riar suffered himself to speak.
On examining the flat, Riar discovered a slash in the tread as straight as a blade could make it. He walked numbly around the truck and took a look at the Elbertas. They had fallen seven slats, the firm peaches sinking into the pulp of the bad, and they were working alive with gnats and hornets. They would bluff any buyer. He said, “You have destroyed me.”
“What do you think I’m getting from the trip?” asked Godey. “Nothing but a hole in my breeches.”
Riar said, “I’m ruint, ruint totally.”
“Tightwads never fill their barrels,” blabbed Godey. “They want more.”
Riar swallowed. His stomach seemed balled. “I swear to my Maker,” he said, “you have the heart of a lizard.” He took his time repairing the tube, using a cold patch and covering it with a boot. He idled, trying to feel better. The shade was over when they started again.
Godey asked, “What are you going to do now?”
Riar was long replying. Finally he said, “If I’ve burned a blister I’m willing to set on it.”
They entered Virginia at dusk, and the evening was hardly less torrid than the day. Ground mist cloaked the road like steam. The boys were snoring by the time they reached Wise.
The enormity of his loss came upon Riar as he neared Kentucky. Cramps nearly doubled him. When he could endure no more he pulled off and cut the lights, and leaving the truck, he walked up the highway in the dark. He pursed his lips and whistled tunelessly. He strolled several hundred yards before turning back.
Riar dumped the peaches at the foot of Pound Mountain. Once he thought he heard his key jingle but was mistaken, for he discovered it later inside the cushion.
It occurred to him that a little food might quiet his stomach, but rummaging the toolbox he found the last crumb gone. He came upon the fuzz and lifted the poke to get rid of it but still didn’t let loose. Stepping into the cab he switched on the lights. Godey and Mal slept with heads pitched forward, collars agape. Their faces were yellow as cheese pumpkins in the reflected gleam. Riar untied the poke and shook the fuzz down their necks.
For a distance up the mountain the trees were woolly with fog, but as the truck climbed the mist vanished and the heat fell away. Riar’s spirits rose as he mounted, the cramping ceased. The engine pulled the livelier. They had crossed the Kentucky line in the gap and were headed down when the boys began to wriggle.
Afterword
After six years of schoolkeeping at the forks of Troublesome Creek in Knott County, I moved nine miles farther back in the hills to a century-old log house between the waters of Dead Mare Branch and Wolfpen, on Little Carr Creek. These streams boxed me in. I raised my own food and stored vegetables and fruits for the cold months; I kept two stands of bees for their honey, and for the ancient custom of “telling the bees.”
In those days the post office was called Bath, named after the oldest Roman town in England, and the mail carrier travelled on horseback. I joined the folk life of the scattered community, attending church meetings, funeralizings, corn pullings, hog butcherings, box suppers at the one-room school, sapping parties, and gingerbread elections. There were two goods stores within walking distance, one at the foot of Little Carr, the other a mile above. These were the social centers where local happenings and human doings were discussed.
A neighbor said of me, “He’s quit a good job and come over in here and just sot down.” I did sit down and finished writing the novel River of Earth. And I wrote many a poem and short story, most of which found their way into national publications. A number of the stories were reprinted in Best American Short Stories and in O. Henry Memorial Prize Stories. One gained an award.
My writings drew on everyday experiences and observations. I only wrote when an idea overwhelmed me. Such as when the waters of Dead Mare Branch dried in August to a series of diminishing potholes of water, crowded with minnows. Although I drew water from my well and replenished the holes daily, it was to little avail. Few survived until a rain could wash them to the freedom of Little Carr.
LEAP MINNOWS, LEAP
The minnows leap in drying pools.
In islands of water along the creekbed sands
They spring on drying tails, white bellies to the sun,
Gills spread, gills fevered and gasping.
The creek is sun and sand, and fish throats rasping.
One pool has a peck of minnows. One living pool
Is knuckle deep with dying, a shrinking yard
Of glittering bellies. A thousand eyes look, look,
A thousand gills strain, strain the water-air.
There is plenty of water above the dam, locked and deep,
Plenty, plenty and held. It is not here.
It is not where the minnows spring with lidless fear.
They die as men die. Leap minnows, leap.
Besides growing my own food, I introduced vegetables new to the area. And I began experiments with the wild strawberry and the wild violet, an attempt by natural selection to discover superior plants. The leaf-miner became a subject of study. I found John Muir’s observations sound: “When we try to pick out anything by itself, we find it hitched to everything else in the universe.” My lamp-lit evenings were spent reading in the fields of literature, history, and science. The classical age in Greece, the American Civil War, and primitive life the world over interested me. The library of Virginia Polytechnic Institute supplied by mail any book I wished to borrow.
Although my stories and poems were appearing in The Atlantic, The Yale Review, The Virginia Quarterly Review, and a variety of other publications and I had three published books, I do not recall encountering anybody during those years who had read them. I wrote in an isolation which was virtually total. Whether that was good or bad I cannot say. More than one rescue party came to try to persuade me back to “civilization.” I didn’t leave for any period of time until I joined the army in 1941. I was on another continent and longing for home when I pencilled this verse of recollection:
How it was in that place, how light hung in a bright pool
Of air like water, in an eddy of cloud and sky,
I will long remember. I will long recall
The maples blossoming birds, the oaks proud with rule,
The spiders deep in silk, the squirrels fat on mast,
The fields and draws and coves where quail and peewees call.
Earth loved more than any earth, stand firm, hold fast;
Trees burdened with leaf and wing, root deep, grow tall.
When I moved from Troublesome Creek to the backwoods of the county I had expected to stay only for a summer. I have remained forty years. As the past withdraws it may be that the stories in this volume amount to a social diagram of a folk society such as hardly exists today and may even include some of the uncharted aspects of the Appalachian experience.
JAMES STILL