A Yellow Watermelon

by Ted M. Dunagan

When the creek was wide enough we walked side-by-side, otherwise Poudlum led the way. While we were walking along a wide part, I asked, “How come you were down here the first time?”

  “I just wanted to see where dis creek went to.”

  “We got much farther to go?”

  “Not too far—better to quit talking out loud,” Poudlum said, his last few words diminishing into a whisper.

  The creek widened and soon I could see a large expanse of water ahead. That’s when Poudlum stopped, looked directly at me, put his forefinger to his lips and whispered, “Dat be de Satilfa—be real quiet and follow me.”

  He turned left and we entered the woods which covered the point-shaped strip of land between where the two streams became one.

  After a few steps Poudlum dropped to his hands and knees, motioning for me to do the same. We crawled through the low undergrowth until we were on a high bank overlooking the Satilfa, well hidden in the thicket.

  As we stretched out on our bellies and gazed toward the opposite bank I uttered a small gasp and whispered, “You sure didn’t lie, Poudlum.”

  “Whisper real low ’cause sounds be easier to hear across water,” he warned.

  “How come?”

  “I don’t know, just does.”

  “What time was it when you were here before?”

  “’Bout dis time.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Same thing we be doing now.”

  “Let’s just lay here for a while and see what happens. Maybe he comes here every Sunday afternoon to pick up his whiskey.”

  It was real quiet in those woods. The only sound was the burbling of the creek. The Satilfa was wide and deep enough here that you would have to swim it, so I knew that even if we were detected, we could make our getaway before anyone could get across. My eyes soaked in the scene on the opposite bank. There was a cleared area with what I guessed was all the necessities for making moonshine. I supposed that whoever worked it did it during the week, took Saturday off, and Old Man Creel picked it up on Sundays.

  There was a big pot, some little pots with shiny copper pipes connecting them, and what looked like a truck radiator. Gallon jugs, buckets, and bottles were strewn about, and on a makeshift table in front of a shed, lay several funnels. Under the table were four heavy cardboard boxes.

  The shed didn’t have a front and I could see clearly inside it. There were more cardboard boxes and stacks of what looked like sacks of something. “What do you think is in those big sacks in the shed?” I whispered softly to Poudlum.

  “Probably sugar and corn. I heard tell you gots to have both of dem to make shine,” he whispered back.

  We lay still for a long time while nothing happened. Finally I started getting restless because of the aggravating cramps and occasional itching. “Maybe we ought to swim over there and get a close look.”

  “Can’t swim,” Poudlum whispered back.

  “Well, I sure as heck ain’t gonna swim over there by myself.”

  “Don’t have to swim.”

  “Course you would—that water’s deep.”

  “Dey’s a big tree blowed down a ways up de creek. You can walk all de way ’cross on it.”

  “How far?”

  “’Bout a minute.”

  “Come on, let’s go,” I whispered.

  But just as we rose to our knees, we heard the smooth purring sound of an automobile engine. It was him!

  We froze, then slid back down into our former position. Glancing at Poudlum, I saw that his eyes were big. The engine went silent and a moment later we heard the slamming of a car door, then heavy footsteps crunching on the dry debris of the forest floor. Just be real quiet, I thought, and everything will be okay, then I had another frightening thought—what if he had that big bulldog with him?

  Thankfully, he emerged from the mouth of the dim trail alone. Just like Poudlum had said, it was Old Man Cliff Creel, all right. Puffing on a cigar, he walked straight to the table, reached underneath it, and grabbed one of the boxes. After he set it on the table, he opened it, pulled out an amber-colored pint bottle, unscrewed the cap and took a long swig. “Yes sirree, mighty fine,” he said to himself and licked his lips.

  We watched while he disappeared back into the woods carrying one of the boxes. After he had made three trips, he came back huffing and puffing. But before he left with the fourth box, he reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a fat envelope, walked over to the hollow tree next to the shed, and stuffed the envelope in. Next, he grabbed a handful of dead leaves and stuffed them into the tree to cover the envelope.

  We watched him leave with the last box of whiskey, heard the car door slam, the engine start, and the sound of it fade in the distance.

  Simultaneously, Poudlum and I breathed big sighs of relief. “Poudlum,” I asked, “did he do the same thing when you saw him before?”

  “Huh?”

  “Did he stick something in that hollow tree?”

  “I don’t know—I scooted right on out of here soon as I saw him take a bottle of whiskey out of one of dem boxes.”

  “Come on. Show me where that dead tree is that’ll take us across the creek!”

  10

  The Money Tree

  We crossed the fallen tree and crept out of the woods surrounding the still. “Don’t touch anything, Poudlum. We don’t want ’em to know we been here,” I whispered.

  “I ain’t touching nothing—don’t even want to be here.”

  “Won’t take long—come on, let’s see what’s in that shed.”

  The big sacks were just as Poudlum had thought, sugar and corn. There were also several smaller sacks of yeast and a large supply of the boxes like the ones we had watched Old Man Creel tote away. I peeked inside one of the boxes and saw that it contained empty pint bottles. I quickly counted forty-eight and thought, no wonder he was breathing so hard—that had to have been a heavy load with them being full.

  Now for the best part. I meant to see what he had stuffed into that tree. I stepped away from the shed and started toward the hollow tree when I heard Poudlum say in a loud hissing whisper, “Come on, let’s get outta here!”

  “Just gimme a minute,” I said while I started digging the leaves out of the hole in the tree. To my sorrow, when I pulled the envelope out, it was sealed. I realized they would be onto us if I opened it, but I felt all around it, putting a little pressure around the edges, and knew in my heart that it was stuffed full of folding money, a lot of it. For a fleeting moment I wanted to take the whole thing, but thought no, not now. I put it back, along with the leaves. I was thinking, somebody makes this whiskey during the week, then on Sunday afternoons Old Man Creel picks it up and leaves their pay in the hollow tree.

  There was only one other question in my mind: how did he drive his car back in here? “We got to see how he gets in here,” I told Poudlum as I started toward the trail Old Man Creel had used.

  “I ain’t going in dem woods.”

  “Then wait here for a minute. I’ll be right back.”

  “Uh-uh, I ain’t waiting here by myself. You promise we’ll leave if I come?”

  “Promise. Now, come on.”

  It was just a short distance through the woods before we came on the end of an old logging road with a turn-a-round big enough for a car. I could see where the timber had been clear-cut all along the logging road and the new growth of pines and small hardwoods was only several years old.

  “Where you think it goes?” Poudlum asked.

  “It has to lead to Center Point Road on the other side of the Satilfa Creek bridge, because he couldn’t drive his car across the creek. I’ll find out this coming Saturday.”

  “How you gon’ do dat?”

  “While I’m on my paper route I’ll cross the bridge, find the first old logging road on the right, then just follow it and
see if it brings me here. Now, I’m ready to go.”

  When we got back to the Mill Creek, we ran all the way up it. At the cotton house, before we said good-bye, Poudlum and I promised each other that we would keep our secret until such time as we both agreed to tell anyone else.

  Heading home, I stuck to the edge of the woods, just keeping Center Point Road in sight. I had my stick, but I didn’t want to have to use it on that mean dog. I found myself thinking about what Poudlum said just as I was leaving: “I’ll see you in de cotton field tomorrow when we be picking together.”

  I knew we wouldn’t really be together because the colored hands would be on one side of the field and the white hands would be on the other. That bothered me, though I couldn’t say exactly why.

  But right now I was concerned about getting home before Fred, otherwise I would have to make up a story about where I had been. I knew he would have stopped at Miss Lena’s if he was ahead of me. I decided to go into the store and ask, then if he was ahead of me I could use the time while walking on home to think up an explanation.

  When I got to the store I went straight to the big red drink box and pulled out a cold Nehi. When I placed my nickel on the counter I said, “Hey, Miss Lena. You seen Fred?”

  I didn’t know much about Miss Lena, just that she didn’t have a husband and she was way past the age when she should’ve gotten one. She had a stout build and always had her hair stacked on top of her head. She did have a car, which she drove to the store everyday from wherever she lived—down near Coffeeville somewhere. No one ever said she was pretty, and I wasn’t inclined to argue the point, but she always seemed to be in a good mood. Today she smiled down at me when she answered, “No, I haven’t seen hide nor hair of that boy.”

  Then she reached into the penny cookie jar and gave me one for free. “Thank you, Miss Lena,” I said on my way out.

  I really wanted to stop and talk to Jake but I knew I didn’t have time, so I walked fast all the way to the little road leading to our house. I stopped there and waited for Fred.

  It wasn’t long before I saw him coming down the little hill. “What you doing? he asked suspiciously when he got to where I was sitting with my back leaned against a tree.

  “Waiting for you.”

  “What did you do all afternoon?”

  “I just been playing, then I went to Miss Lena’s and got me a drink.” There, I thought, I had successfully avoided telling another lie.

  He studied me a few moments, then I was relieved when he said, “Let’s go see what’s on the stove. I’m starving.”

  Right after supper another thunderstorm came roaring in. Once it passed, the clouds stayed and it got dark early. We were all sitting around the kitchen table bathed in the glow of the dim light from the kerosene lamp—the only light we had after dark. I watched my father roll himself a cigarette. He held a flimsy rolling paper folded between his left thumb and middle finger, with the tip of his forefinger stuck just inside the fold to keep it open. From a cloth bag of Bull Durham tobacco he dumped a mound of the loose contents into the fold of the paper. The tobacco looked like sawdust to me. He spread it out, then with both thumbs and forefingers he rolled the paper tight and smooth, licked the seam, and popped it into his mouth.

  Then he lifted the glass globe off the lamp, leaned forward until the tip of the cigarette touched the flame from the wick, and inhaled deeply until the tip turned bright red.

  I knew from experience that the glass globe was hot but he could get away with handling it because his hands were so rough and callused. During the winter he would pick up hot coals out of the fireplace with his fingers to light his smokes. I watched the curls of blue smoke drift up and disappear into the rafters.

  Across the table my mother was attaching shoulder straps to our cotton-picking sacks. I became alarmed when she folded two ten-pound sacks, placed them on the table and said, “There, that’s done.”

  “But that’s only two!” I said, thinking I wasn’t going to get to pick after all.

  “There’s one for you and one for Fred. I’ll be busy canning and Ned will be helping your Uncle Curtis and Robert deliver a load of watermelons to Grove Hill.”

  I was relieved and I was also sleepy. The flickering of the lamp increased my drowsiness, making my head feel heavy. I placed it across my arms on top of the table and listened as the conversation of my family became a soft blur coming from somewhere far away. I barely remembered Ned half carrying me to bed. That night, I dreamed of great expansive fields of soft, white, downy cotton.

  11

  The Cotton Field

  When I woke up I thought it was the middle of the night because it was still dark, but then I heard my mother’s voice coming from the foot of the bed saying, “Y’all get up. Breakfast is on the table and your Uncle Curvin will be here before you know it.”

  Uncle Curvin had never been married and he still lived at Pa Will’s house. He was partially crippled from being shot in the leg during the war, but he got around fairly well with a walking cane. Besides a disability check he got from the government, he made his living by growing a cotton crop every year. I had heard my mother say Uncle Curvin usually delivered about ten bales to the cotton gin each year, and that after paying for the chopping, the picking, and Old Man Cliff Creel, he would make himself about five hundred dollars. That seemed like a vast fortune to me.

  Fred and I were waiting outside, right after first light, when we saw Uncle Curvin’s old truck come rumbling toward the house. The truck bed had high wooden rails to hold the cotton in place. As soon as Uncle Curvin made a u-turn in the yard Fred began scampering up the rails to join several of our cousins and neighbors, all ranging from my age to their late teens.

  I saw that Uncle Curvin was by himself in the cab, so I opened the door, jumped in beside him and said, “Hey, Uncle Curvin.”

  He was wearing a pair of overalls, a blue work shirt, and a straw hat with a piece of green-tinted plastic built into the front of the brim. There were deep creases in his face and his mouth was all caved in because he didn’t have any teeth.

  “Hey, little buddy,” he replied. “You ready to pick some cotton?”

  “Yes, sir. How much you think I can pick this week?”

  “If you work real hard and don’t be playing around a lot, like I know half them young ’uns on the back of the truck will be, you could pick twenty-five pounds a day. If you do that, then come Friday, you would have made a dollar and a quarter.”

  “Aw, I can pick more than that.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Can I ride with you to pick up the Robinsons?”

  “Done picked them up. They already in the field picking.”

  “How come you went and got them first?”

  “’Cause I need my cotton picked, and them folks are serious cotton pickers.”

  “How much will they pick this week?”

  “They’ll probably pick seven or eight bales.”

  “How many pounds in a bale?”

  “Five hundred pounds to a bale. The old man and the old woman will each pick two hundred pounds a day, and between their young ’uns, they’ll pick another three hundred or more.”

  “How come they pick so much?”

  “Lots of reasons: They just know how to pick, had lots of experience, and most importantly, they need the money.”

  “But they got their own cotton to pick.”

  “Yeah, they do. There’s a full moon this week. I expect they’ll be picking at night, then when I get my field picked, they’ll have time to finish picking their own.”

  “How do they get their cotton to the gin?”

  “Oh, I haul it for them after I haul mine.”

  “What do they do to the cotton at the gin?”

  “Did you wake up with a question mark over your head this morning?”

  “No, s
ir, I just wondered.”

  “The gin separates the fiber from the seed before the cotton is shipped off to the textile mills.”

  “Where did the gin come from?”

  We were halfway up the big hill when my uncle had to depress the clutch and shift into a lower gear. Once he had the truck grinding on up the hill he said, “The gin was invented by a Connecticut Yankee named Eli Whitney.”

  “You mean to tell me a Yankee invented the cotton gin.”

  “I am sorry to report, little buddy, that is indeed the truth. However, he did it while he was over on the coast of Georgia, near Savannah.”

  “When did he do that?”

  “He did it about a hundred and fifty years ago, and I ain’t answering no more questions,” Uncle Curvin said when we turned onto Center Point Road. “You got your pick sack?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, shaking it loose and showing it to him.

  The truck lurched to a stop at the edge of the cotton field and everybody came tumbling off the back. Uncle Curvin got out, limped around to the back and said, “Listen up, everybody. Grab a row and start picking. There’s empty sacks in the cotton house on the back side of the field, so when you fill your pick sacks you can empty it into one of them. Be sure and keep ’em separate so there won’t be no arguing when I weigh ’em up at the end of the day. At that time I’ll be checking for rocks. First sack I find with any rocks in it, then whoever it belongs to can get out of my field.”

  I figured his last remark was directed at Fred because he was always hiding rocks in his sack to make it weigh more. Uncle Curvin continued, “I don’t want nobody messing with them darkies on the other side of the field, ’cause unlike most of y’all, they come here to work. I’ll be back here in two or three hours with some cool water. Now, get to picking.”

  Fred quickly tied our brown paper lunch bag up high on a fence post to keep it away from the ants. It contained biscuits and smoked sausage left over from breakfast. Then he motioned me to follow him and we picked two rows next to each other and began pulling the cotton out of the bolls and stuffing it into our sacks. At first it was fun, being around so many people and listening to the talk and the laughter, but soon everyone had left me behind and I could barely hear them. Fred doubled back picking on my row and helped me catch up, but before long I was behind again.