Moonshine

by Justin Benton

  “I thought the teachers ran the school.”

  Rebecca rolled her eyes and tugged at my arm.

  “Come on, we’ll catch a whipping if we’re late.”

  I ran in the door behind Rebecca thinking how Miss Pounder could probably swing a switch like Babe Ruth and hoping I didn’t have any more troubles with Shane or Bald-Head. It was pretty plain by then that there was more to school than the classes.

  BY THE THIRD DAY OF SCHOOL, I realized that my old suspicions about my home tutor Miss Avery having wasted my time with nonsense were correct. The other students were a lot more bookish. Arithmetic came easy to me, but the first reading examination came back to me so red it looked like it had been in a hatchet fight.

  Rebecca’s desk was right in front of mine and I whispered to her, “Somebody drew red crosses all over my paper.”

  Out of the corner of her mouth she whispered back, “That was Miss Pounder.”

  Pounder had done this? I shot her a dirty look from my stump.

  “Can she do that?” I whispered.

  “For crying out loud, Cub. It’s so you know you got them wrong.”

  I stuffed the paper in my front pocket.

  “Well I knew that when we took the test.”

  Even buck-toothed little Myrtle was out-reading me, and she was only ten. And when I tried to pay attention, my thoughts would drift to the sheriff or wondering who else knew Pa shined. Time and time again Miss Pounder would catch my attention elsewhere and force me to stand up and rack my brain for some answer that had never been in there in the first place. She seemed to take a sick kind of pleasure in watching me embarrass myself.

  That day we got our normal break from book time, recess they called it, and were all shepherded outdoors where I usually sat by myself in the shade of the schoolhouse. I was watching everyone else run around and laugh when the bald-headed guy, Jackson, called over to me.

  “Hey Cub! Come play Black Tuesday.”

  He hadn’t bothered me since him and Shane said they were going to bash my face in, but I didn’t trust him for a second. I shook my head no.

  “Come on, don’t be so yellow. We only got three and you need at least four for Black Tuesday.”

  I studied him and his group as he itched at his scalp. There were indeed only three of them: Jackson, Frankie with the weird ears, and a chubby guy who wore eyeglasses named Oliver. They were standing beside a long stick laid out in the grass. Next to the stick were three brown bags.

  “Nah,” I said.

  Jackson threw his hands up in desperation and walked over.

  When he was out of earshot of the other two, he whispered, “Dang it, Cub. I’m about to win Oliver’s lunch off him. All you gotta do is run faster than him and we will be eating biscuits with molasses for lunch. We split it three ways, you, me, and Frankie.”

  For lunch I had only brought a boiled egg and a potato pancake the size of a half dollar. I snuck a quick peek at Oliver, who was digging in his ear with his pinky finger.

  “What’s the game?” I asked.

  “Black Tuesday. It’s a footrace. From that stick to the maple tree, loser gives up his lunch to the gold, silver, and bronze medalists.”

  I’d watched the kids race before and knew I was quicker than almost all of them.

  “All right.”

  Jackson clapped his hands and whispered, “It’s good molasses. His family’s rich. Now go fetch your lunch and we’ll start.”

  I ran into the schoolhouse to warm my legs up and was back in under twenty seconds. I put my bag down with theirs.

  Oliver asked, “What’s in your bag?”

  I told the group, but didn’t mention that the potato pancake was so little it wouldn’t feed a mouse.

  Jackson announced, “For Black Tuesday we got an egg and a potato pancake, biscuits and molasses, Frankie’s fatback, and my corn bread.”

  “Plus my corn fritters,” said Rebecca, walking up and thrusting her bag at Jackson.

  I smiled at her but she ignored me.

  Jackson shook his head and didn’t take the bag.

  “That’s too many then. Not enough food for the winners.”

  “Yeah but I’m putting up nine fritters,” she said.

  Jackson rolled his eyes as Rebecca set her bag down with the others.

  “Fine, just line up.”

  I positioned myself between Jackson and Oliver, dead ahead of the maple tree. It wasn’t but a hundred yards away and I could feel my muscles twitching to get running.

  Jackson edged me over and put his foot right behind the stick.

  “On Black Tuesday we go. Gotta touch the tree with your hand.”

  Everyone leaned out over the stick. I could feel my heart pumping hard already.

  Jackson called out, “One, two, three, Black Tuesday!”

  Head down, I shot out from behind the line as fast as I could.

  I heard someone yell “Crash!” and then my legs went out from under me and I was flying. I couldn’t even get one hand down to brace myself and skidded on my face and stomach, legs bent up backwards behind me. I nearly flipped all the way over.

  As I stood and tried to figure out what had happened, I heard everyone howling with laughter. My shin throbbed, and for a second I thought I’d stumbled over the starting line stick, but when I looked ahead and saw Jackson almost doubled over with laughter I realized he’d tripped me.

  I stood there like an idiot for a second as Frankie reached the tree. Oliver strolled in for second place. Rebecca and Jackson had both stopped completely about fifty yards from the maple. Rebecca was looking back at me. Jackson was doubled over with his hands on his knees, about to bust a gut laughing.

  “You see his legs go up?” Jackson cried. “He was bent in half! Looked like a scorpion’s tail coming up!”

  I didn’t know what else to do so I started running, not home like I wanted, but toward the tree.

  Jackson laughed even harder at my efforts and jogged toward the tree. Rebecca paused a second, then started running again too. No matter how hard I ran, there was no way I could catch either of them.

  Right as Jackson slapped the maple tree, I heard a yell. I looked over and saw Rebecca hopping on one foot and clutching at her hamstring.

  She’d cramped up. I started to veer toward her to go see if she was all right, but didn’t want to look like a sissy so I kept running. I still had about fifty yards to go, but she was just hopping in circles and I was flying across the yard. In five seconds I’d be at the tree.

  Five seconds later I wasn’t at the tree. I was standing next to her asking if she was all right.

  She stopped hopping and glared at me.

  “Run, you knucklehead.”

  “But your leg,” I stammered.

  “Run or I’m gonna kick you in the head with it.”

  She made no sense, but I ran and touched the maple bark.

  Scowling at Jackson, I said, “That was a rotten trick.”

  “That’s the game, idiot,” he said. Oliver was already bringing the lunch bags so we could divvy up the prize. I looked over and saw Rebecca walking back toward the schoolhouse. She wasn’t even going to finish the race. I could give her my share of her fritters back, but she’d probably just throw them in my face and threaten to neck punch me or something so maybe I wouldn’t.

  Jackson said, “Give me the fritters,” snatching Rebecca’s bag from Oliver.

  I held out my hand waiting, but suddenly Jackson heaved Rebecca’s bag of fritters across the field at her. She was way out of range so the bag hit the grass and I smiled as a bunch of pinecones rolled out.

  Back in the schoolhouse after recess, I leaned over and said, “That was a good one you pulled in the race. You should’ve seen Jackson’s face.”

  She turned around in her desk, not smiling.

  “You need to wise up. I only helped you because I can’t stand Jackson.”

  “I think you did it because you’re a good person. I don’t care what e
verybody says, I think you’re all right.”

  She spun completely around, looking indignant.

  “Who said…”

  I grinned at her and her words trailed off.

  “Ha. I got you,” I said.

  She rolled her eyes and gave me the tiniest smile before turning back around.

  That week I watched Rebecca, trying to figure her out. I could not. In the span of three days she ate lunch with three different groups of people, slapped seven people across the back of the head, and cried because she only got nineteen out of twenty on the reading exam. And regarding me personally, I still couldn’t tell if the pinecone trick was because she knew I was about to get hustled, or because she wanted to see us all eat pinecone.

  On Friday afternoon I walked home in a strong fall breeze, relieved to put the constant chatter of the schoolhouse behind me. The jumble of noises there made me feel like I was inside a hornet’s nest. As I cut off Elm Street onto the dirt road home, the silence was interrupted by the putt-putt-putt of a motor. There weren’t but four or five automobiles in Hidden Orchard, and save for the occasional lost traveler or door-to-door Bible salesman, outsiders seldom came through in a car.

  I turned and saw the shiny grille of a Model A creeping up behind me. The glare off the windshield made it hard to see the driver’s face, but I could make out the outline of a big cowboy hat. It was Sheriff Bardo. I stopped walking, praying Pa wasn’t in the back of the car in handcuffs. The car pulled up next to me and the sheriff’s smiling face appeared in the window. He was alone.

  “Ever been inside a car?” he asked.

  “No, sir.”

  “You’re in luck then. I’ll take you for a ride.”

  I paused.

  “No, thank you, sir.”

  The smile dropped off the sheriff’s face and he said, “I’ve never heard of a boy who didn’t like cars. Especially one for catching bad guys. Get in.”

  He flung the passenger side door open. It wasn’t an offer, but an order. I walked around the front and climbed in.

  I banged the door shut and looked around. A thick wooden steering wheel stuck out from the front and reached almost to the sheriff’s belly. Gauges and levers and dials were everywhere and the sheriff made a big show of adjusting and maneuvering them and stamping his foot, but we didn’t move. The sheriff frowned and mashed a foot pedal down in a roar and wiggled some kind of driving stick with his hand. Something finally caught because the car shuddered and we went bucking down the dirt road. A month ago being inside of a car would have been aces. Sitting next to the sheriff now, I felt caged.

  We rambled down the road with only the loud chugging of the engine. Even with the two windows down, the sour metallic smell of oil filled the air.

  “You doing good in school?” the sheriff yelled.

  “Not really, sir,” I yelled back.

  “I guess you can’t help your father anymore,” he said, looking over at me.

  I looked down and swallowed hard. If I thought fast I could spin something believable.

  “School lets out late October so students can help with the harvest. I can help him farm then.”

  He laughed. “ ‘Farm.’ Your pa tell you to lie like that?”

  I didn’t answer.

  The sheriff was no fool. And he had us pegged. I sat there watching the cornstalks bounce by and wondering if he was really taking me home or we were just stopping to pick up Pa before we went to the jail.

  The sheriff went on, “If you continue down the path you’re on, I’ll make it my business to get you straightened out. Get you away from that bad influence.”

  The automobile was crushing in on me, and I was feeling so trapped I wanted to throw myself out the window. We were just one turn away from the house.

  The sheriff said, “You realize if he goes to jail, you don’t go with him. You’d go into the orphanage.”

  The car lurched forward and I threw my hands up to stop myself. The sheriff had braked to a complete stop right at the drive to our house. I pressed on the door to get out but it wouldn’t open. The sheriff started laughing, but even when I threw my shoulder into the door, it wouldn’t budge. I had no idea how to get out. He was laughing harder now, almost drowning out the rumble of the engine, and reached over me and released an opening latch with his hand.

  I jumped out and took off running down the drive. I ran as fast as I could, straight past the house. And as I sprinted out behind the eastern field, a thought hit me that was so traitorous I thought it might break me mid-stride—it wasn’t just the sheriff I wanted to get away from. It was shining and Pa too.

  THE WIND WAS SHARPER near the woods and the cold air filled my lungs like creek water as I gasped for breath. I dropped down next to Ma’s grave and tried to stop my jaw from rattling. With my knees to my chest, I sat motionless and wordless for the better part of an hour, visions of the sheriff’s Model A, Pa’s candles lit inside the tree, and my classmates’ stares all whirling through my head.

  When I had calmed a bit, I rolled over onto my side and faced the gravestone. At the base were some morning glories tied up with red string Pa must have left recently.

  “I’m not going anywhere. I don’t care what orphanages or jails they try to put us in.”

  I picked up the flowers and rolled the stems back and forth in my fingers. “Without you around, me and Pa have got to look out for each other. I mind him and do what he says because he’s all I’ve got.”

  Shaking my head, I added, “But this is about more than just shining now. It’s about splitting us up. And he’s not doing anything to help.”

  The orphanage, jail—it all meant the same thing. And for the first time, I could see it clearly. We were shining our way right out of a family.

  When I got back to the house, Pa asked where I’d been. And for the first time I could recollect, I considered fibbing to him. It had been a shameful day at school and in that police car, and for once I didn’t want to confide in Pa. I even started to think up a story about fishing by the old bridge, but other words poured out of me. I came clean about Sheriff Bardo, the orphanage, even about how I hadn’t done the best job denying we were shiners.

  Pa just rocked back and forth in his rickety wooden chair, looking past me with his jaw clenched firm. As the sun went down past the lowest corner of the kitchen window, I lit the lamp and we shared a small piece of salted pork and a boiled potato. The meal sat heavy in my stomach.

  “Don’t worry. I’m going to handle this,” Pa said.

  “How?”

  If he had a plan, now was the time to tell me.

  “Hard work. It’ll get you through anything.”

  “So the plan is to shine more?” I asked.

  That was not the plan I had in mind. In fact it was about the exact opposite.

  I said, “What if we stopped for a while. ’Til springtime?”

  “Stop? Nobody’s stopped us from shining for twelve years now, I’m proud to say. Just because things get tough, it doesn’t mean you tuck your tail and run,” he said with a shake of his finger.

  As we finished eating, he said, “I’d thought maybe you’d want to work tonight since you ain’t got school tomorrow, but we can stay in if you’re still too shook up. The mash can hold for a day or two.”

  I stared down at my cracked wooden plate. I could feel Pa waiting for me to say something.

  “We should go shine,” I said.

  “No, not tonight,” he said. “Not unless you want to, I mean.”

  “I want to,” I said quietly.

  Pa pushed his chair back and slapped his hands together. His clap popped like a .22 inside our little cabin and I nearly jumped out of my seat.

  “That’s it, boy! Can’t nobody spook a Jennings!”

  I was spooked, though. I was spooked good because it looked like one of us was dead set on being as reckless as possible. And the other was too gutless to tell him.

  Around midnight we walked the worn path through the woods
, following the yellow glow of an old railroad lantern Pa held up in front of us. In the clearing, I crumbled deadwood from a pine log under the giant kettle and it caught easily with the first match.

  We were behind our normal schedule, and as I watched Pa struggle to drag over an eighty-pound sack of cornmeal, I realized just how hard the past weeks had been for him. He had double work now since I had to sleep most nights on account of school. With the fire running hot and the steam cap fitted down tightly on the boiler, we sat down on the pine needles. We leaned against the old log, legs stretched out toward the fire just like we had done a million times before. Even so, I didn’t feel normal. I felt almost like an outsider there now, which was exactly how I felt at school too.

  “Pa, you ever think about living somewhere else?” I asked.

  He opened one eye and asked, “You mean like leaving here?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Mmm well, I did live somewhere else once. Me and your ma had a beautiful place. Big old farm.”

  “Where?” I asked.

  We were both talking into the fire, leaning back against the log.

  “Not far from here. Out towards Yunsen’s.”

  “How come you never took me to see it?” I asked.

  “It’s a little sad for me.”

  Pa leaned his head up off the log and tossed a little rock into the flames. He was remembering hard, I could tell. I let him take his time with it.

  “It was so nice there,” he said finally. “The dirt was perfect. Your mother would bring in tomatoes from the garden as big as your head. And there was a pond too, with bass in it. They weren’t too big, but big enough.”

  He chuckled, his words now spilling out. “And corn like you wouldn’t believe. Bushels to sell, corn bread almost every night, a big pumpkin patch.”

  Most of the kids at school came from farming families. They weren’t rich, but they were fed. And they didn’t have to worry about going to jail.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “A little cough happened. Your mother took sick with consumption. We tried all the treatments. Went to Memphis, went to Nashville. Took the train to Atlanta. Sold that farm so we’d have money so she could be cured.”