Moonshine

by Justin Benton

  “She wasn’t cured though,” I said.

  “No, she wasn’t. It would come and it would go and then it never left. But something happened while she was sick.”

  “What?”

  “She got pregnant with you.”

  I turned toward Pa and I could see the shadows moving on his face as he smiled.

  “She was scared you were going to be sick too, but you came out strong. Doctor himself said you were a miracle.”

  He settled back against the log. I was quiet, my thoughts on what to say rising and drifting away like the embers off the fire. It was hard to imagine Pa living anywhere but our little cabin, or really right there at the clearing. He’d been in a heck of a hard spot and done what he’d seen best. That was a long time ago, though. We sat for over an hour, Pa dozing and me thinking.

  When he finally stirred and sat up, I asked, “Pa, what do you think Ma would say about shining?”

  Pa rubbed a hand over his face and sighed. “I reckon she’d be happy I kept you from starving. Kept you here in Hidden Orchard.”

  “I don’t think she’d like it.”

  Pa gave me a look and started to say something, but then all of a sudden his wrinkled face looked too tired to even argue.

  The moon was sitting up above the far pines, so I knew it was about 3:30 in the morning. I could catch an hour of sleep here before we walked back home.

  Pa moved the water bucket out from in front of the fire, and I pulled off the giant red flannel shirt we shared and pushed all the fabric down into one of the sleeves. With that shirt pillow under my head I got comfortable there on the ground. Pa walked over and looked down on me.

  “You’re pretty creative with that shirt there. I mostly just use it for body-wearing,” Pa said.

  I smiled and said, “One time I made it into a pillow and a blanket. Can’t remember how I did it though.”

  “This year I’ll get you one of your own. A brand-new flannel from Grayson’s downtown.”

  He had been saying that on cold nights for years.

  “It’s okay, Pa. I don’t mind sharing.”

  “I know you don’t,” he said quietly and walked back around the fire.

  I closed my eyes and tried to figure if everybody who broke the law could put such good reasoning behind why they did it. And if the reasoning was good, were they really criminals? Or were they just fooling themselves?

  He nudged me awake before the roosters crowed, and we didn’t say a word on the walk home. The lantern burned itself out, but the sky was still bright and fuzzied up with stars. Pa was going slow so I walked on past thinking how if he had gotten into shining because of me in the first place, then maybe I’d have to be the one to get him out of it too.

  MOST EVERY GUY BUT ME PLAYED in the lunchtime kickball game. They would play with a lopsided ragball in the dirt scrub behind the schoolhouse, while I sat by myself under an ash tree. Besides that Black Tuesday game, where I got my legs kicked out from under me, I hadn’t made much of an effort to join any of the games. These recesses and lunches were getting harder though because it didn’t feel so good always being alone. I’d even asked Pa what to do in those recess times and he just said, “Run around, chase girls, play ball. Normal stuff.”

  I figured the kickball game was my best bet. I’d even walked up to join once, but changed my mind at the last minute and instead wandered between third base and shortstop like a moron before veering off through the dandelions in left field with everyone staring at me. After seeing bowlegged Bobby Ray ground it back to the pitcher like he did every at bat, I decided today was going to be different.

  I finished my cheese sandwich and walked over to Russ, the captain of the kicking team. He was off the first base side getting ready to bat and watching the bottom of the first inning.

  “Russ, you think I could get in the game?”

  He turned halfway toward me, trying to keep one eye on the field.

  “You know how to play?”

  “Sure. I am a champion player,” I said, not knowing a thing.

  “All right then. Pinch-hit for Bobby Ray next time up.”

  I was walking behind the catcher to wait my turn when I heard yelling.

  “No, no, no! He’s not playing. He’ll try to steal the ball or something.”

  Shane, the redheaded preacher’s son, was sprinting in from right field.

  He ran up on me and Russ, pointing and shaking his head. “Don’t let him play. His pa’s a drunk and a criminal and he’s no better.”

  “He is not!” I said.

  Shane got in my face and I was looking straight up into his chin whiskers. The game stopped and everyone in the yard ran up to circle around us.

  “He’s not playing,” Shane said to Russ, then turned to me and said, “We don’t want your kind here. My father told me what kind of trash you Jennings are.”

  “Yeah well, I heard your father uses the collection plate money to buy hog feed for your mom.”

  To be honest, I had never heard anything about anyone, but I was starting to understand how this game was played.

  Shane did not flinch at my dig. In fact, he smiled bigger, like he was happy I’d fought back.

  He leaned in and said, “Well my pa says the best thing about your family is that most of it’s dead.”

  He could have said anything he pleased about me and I likely would’ve ended up slinking out of there with my tail between my legs. But he wasn’t talking about just me. Those words burned like fire, and I decided to kill him right there and then, preacher’s son and all.

  I rocked back on my right leg, loaded up my right hand, and before I even knew what was happening I had swung on him. I pivoted good in the dirt and just pistoned my right hand straight down the pipe and into his breadbasket. I put my heart and soul into that punch, and it hit him square in the gut, knocking him back maybe a quarter of an inch.

  Next thing I knew I was on the ground getting walloped on and everybody was yelling and there was dust all in my eyes and I could taste blood hot in my mouth. Shane was sitting on top of my chest with my arms pinned under his knees and I couldn’t wriggle free. He was hollering something or other and just punching and punching on my face. When I opened my eyes and could see through all the dust and the punches, he looked like he’d gone out of his head. He was slobbering and crying and yelling as he rained down punches on me. Then Miss Pounder had me by the ear and was dragging me out of the circle.

  I don’t recollect the next part too good on account of being in a daze, but I heard the door slam behind her, and before long she had a hickory switch in her hand and was wailing on my backside and the backs of my legs. I just slumped over her desk and let her finish off what Shane had started. That was the first switching of my entire life. Shane wasn’t going to get one, supposedly because I’d hit first. I wondered if it was more because of who his father was.

  Miss Pounder gave me a minute to get myself together before calling the class in, and I tried to wiggle around on my stump seat to find a way to sit there that didn’t feel like my pants were on fire. I looked up and she was staring at me from behind that big desk of hers, shaking her head.

  She said, “I can’t imagine how confusing all this is for you, having lived hidden away your whole life.”

  I squirmed around some more and nodded.

  “It’s just so many things I didn’t know and I can’t learn it all fast enough.”

  Miss Pounder went out to clang the bell, but my class was already pouring in, all babbling about the fight. And for once, folks were actually making an effort to sit near me, if only to have a better view of my lumps. Shane walked in scowling, but we didn’t make eye contact and he sat on the far side of the room.

  Russ gave me a half smile and said, “Good game, huh?”

  “I told you I was a champion player. I got lots of hits.”

  He chuckled and I laughed a little too, just so I wouldn’t cry.

  “ ‘Lots of hits,’ he says. Well you
did, but maybe next time go for hits on the field instead of hits on your face.”

  Russ had said “next time,” which was a speck of hope on a hopeless day, but then Shane’s buddy Jackson came up and ruined it.

  “You’re even uglier than before,” he said, and pressed his dirty finger into a bump on my forehead.

  I pushed his hand away and tried to think of a comeback, but my brain was rattled from the brawl and I said nothing.

  Rebecca, however, leaned back from her desk and said, “Those little scrapes aren’t nothing. Cub popped him in the gut. Shane only got face shots in. The gut is where the real damage is done.”

  There was a murmur in the class as people considered this.

  Rebecca added, “Matter fact, Cub won that scrap.”

  The murmurs turned to scoffs and laughter, and I hung my head.

  Shane said, “That’s dumber than dumb. Even for you, gravedigger.”

  Jackson and Shane were well aware that calling Rebecca “gravedigger” was her one weak spot. I guess she was like me in that family insults cut deep.

  This time though, she just smiled and said, “How do you think I know so much about gut shots? When a dead body comes in from a beating, nine times out of ten it’s from a hit to the innards. That’s where all the kidneys and vitals are. Maybe you won’t feel the pain at first, but then one day, boom! You’re dead.”

  Someone gasped and the class’s attention swung to Shane, who was on the other side of the room sulking. Rebecca’s opinion on such matters was highly respected, and though I knew I had definitely lost the fight, I was glad the attention was off me until Miss Pounder finally came in and I could make it through the rest of the day.

  I arrived home not really walking straight because of the switching and then Pa of course asked why my face was bumped up. I told him a rough version of what had happened—that I had gotten into a ruckus playing ball. There was no need to trouble him with details. He laughed and put his hand on my head and mussed up my hair and just walked out back to the still. I stood there gritting my teeth and waited for the pain to pass from him shaking my throbbing head.

  The rest of the week at school, folks still didn’t say much to me. Miss Pounder was strict as ever. The only thing Shane said to me was that his preacher father was going to make sure I went to hell. The excitement over the fight died down, but when the topic did come up, Rebecca was quick to remind people of my big punch. She was the only person I felt halfway natural around, and she could talk like nobody’s business, which somehow put me at ease. Even so, sometimes I wondered if she actually liked being around me or just pitied me like I was some stray dog. Either way, I was glad to have the company.

  We took to walking home together down Elm until our paths split, then we’d stand there under the big yellow poplar talking. From time to time the chugging of a car would sound in the distance, and I’d edge farther off the road, praying the sheriff wouldn’t come while I was with her.

  I listened for that mechanical rumble constantly, straining my ears to make sure it was nowhere near. That Wednesday while helping Pa rake out the henhouse, I heard it. We both froze at the sound, Pa cocking his head up like a startled whitetail. The noise was close, practically on top of us, then stopped.

  “Get inside,” Pa whispered.

  As he crept around the corner toward the front of the house, I ran in the back door, straight to the front window to see who had come.

  It wasn’t the sheriff’s Model A. It was a long, sleek vehicle, dark and expensive-looking. Its glossed-up fender was sitting nearly on top of the front porch. A hefty man with slicked-back hair stood watching Pa stumble around the side of our house, brushing chicken feathers off his overalls. The stranger wore a formal suit and was leaning coolly against his vehicle. He did not look like police.

  I could not make out a word between them, the stranger apparently doing all the talking while Pa shuffled back and forth in front of him in the dirt. Slowly I saw Pa’s face relax a bit and the trace of a smile appeared as he turned and headed for the front door. I darted away from the window before he could catch me spying. I stood as calmly as my twitching muscles would let me.

  “Are we in trouble, Pa?”

  Pa chuckled and shook his head.

  “No, no. Fella with an interesting proposition.”

  He crossed into the kitchen and ladled some water into a glass jar.

  “What’s he want?” I asked.

  “Ah, just some business. Clears a lot of things up.”

  “What things, Pa?” I nearly yelled. His calmness was giving me a fit.

  He took a sip of the water and looked down at me. “Want to come out?”

  The stranger had already seated himself in one of our rockers on the porch when we went out. Pa handed the water to the man and then sat next to him in the other chair. The man took a sip and set the glass jar on the very edge of the porch railing. I stood between the door and Pa.

  “How you doing, kid?” the stranger asked as he rocked slowly back and forth. His gut slumped down almost between his knees. It was hard not to look at it.

  “You look like a man who has a sweet tooth, am I right?” he asked, closing one eye and pointing a finger at me.

  I nodded and smiled. He smiled back, his ruddy cheeks squeezing up into his eyes.

  He shook his finger at me and said, “I knew it, I knew it. I can always spot a fellow candy man.”

  He pulled a plastic bag of candies out of his coat pocket and offered them to me. They were store-bought caramel creams, wrappers and everything.

  “Thank you, sir,” I said, taking one for me and one for Pa.

  The man smiled even bigger. He had a hair tonic on his head that looked greasier than warm lard.

  “Soon enough your pop here is going to be able to get you all the candies you want,” he said.

  Pa laughed and waved a dirty hand in the air. “Hold on there, mister. Let’s not get too ahead of ourselves before we talk money.”

  The man acted like Pa hadn’t even spoke and kept looking at me.

  “He’ll get you some Slo Pokes. Some Almond Roca. Big bag of Violet Mints.”

  I turned and looked at Pa, hoping he would say something. Rocking back on my heels, I wished I hadn’t come out.

  “This here is Mr. Salvatore. He’s from up North,” Pa said finally.

  “I was just offering your pop here an opportunity to make some money. Big stacks of it.”

  “Doing what?” I asked.

  “Making liquor,” Mr. Salvatore said.

  “We don’t do that,” I said as fast as I could.

  Mr. Salvatore leaned over and slapped Pa’s leg like they were old friends.

  “You taught him well!” he said to my pa.

  I thought I saw Pa kind of flinch at the touch. His face was still calm, but his eyes looked uneasy. Or maybe it was just me feeling that way. This Salvatore guy certainly looked comfortable though, and sure wasn’t scared to speak his mind.

  “Your pop here said the same thing at first,” Mr. Salvatore said. “But a little birdie told me you cooked up something special here. Your own blend. A secret flavor.”

  “A family recipe,” Pa said.

  “What flavor?” Mr. Salvatore asked.

  “I’m afraid that information is for customers.”

  Mr. Salvatore eyed him hard, but didn’t press.

  “Can you do fifty gallons?”

  Pa brushed his hair back over his ears and smiled.

  “We’ve already got over eight hundred.”

  Salvatore stopped rocking and looked at him with renewed interest. He leaned toward him with his forearms resting on his knees. A clunky gold watch slid out from under his cuff and rested against his meaty hand.

  “You’d be working for me directly. The law won’t bother you. You work hard and provide what I need, you’ll be a lot better off than you are now.” He flicked his wrist and waved his hand at our little cabin.

  Pa shook his head and said
, “I don’t think you know the law around here. They don’t care much for shining. Told us that a couple times now.”

  Mr. Salvatore laughed. “Oh I know ’em, all right. Sheriff Bardo. And I know he told you to stop shining. I’ve convinced him otherwise. He’s not going to make trouble. I get the liquor I need and things go on just like they always have.”

  I wondered if this man was telling the truth. Would the sheriff leave us alone? If anybody knew how to get around police I reckoned it would be this fella.

  Mr. Salvatore went on, “So it’s your lucky day. You get to be a part. And since you’re working for me directly, I make sure the sheriff leaves you alone.”

  I looked at Pa, who was staring at the floorboards and pressing his lips together. He looked like he was fighting to keep a smile off his face, which seemed crazy because I was fighting to keep from running out of there. No one spoke for a long time, the only sound the dry creaking of Salvatore’s rocker.

  Pa said finally, “We appreciate the offer, sir. It’s mighty generous of you. I will of course need some time to think it through.”

  Mr. Salvatore stared hard at him, then turned to me and smiled.

  “Tell your pop here not to be foolish.”

  I looked back at him and thought how all day at school, every day, and every night how I had been just praying for a way to keep the sheriff away. And the solution had driven right up our drive and was now sitting on our front porch. The sheriff would disappear and we’d keep on shining like nothing had ever happened and it was all just such a perfect way to keep from having to change that it made me want to throw up.

  “He’s not foolish,” I said to Mr. Salvatore.

  I looked into his eyes and saw a man capable of great violence. He did not reply, but rose and straightened his suit.

  “You think about what I said. I’ve got some other people to see. I’ll be back Wednesday,” he said.

  His black dress shoes tapped on the porch boards as he walked away. He slid behind the wheel of that big black automobile, backed away from the porch, and sped off down the drive.

  “I hate when people come here,” I said. “Hate it more than anything.”