Moonshine

by Justin Benton

  Holding a finger up to his lips, he tried to place the smell. He cocked his head and stared off into the distance, like the answer was in the cloud of smoke over the bar.

  He turned and said, “It smells like…Christmas?”

  The baffled look on his face only intensified once he took a sip.

  “What is that?” he asked, licking his lips. With his free hand, he was windmilling his fingers in front of him, trying to churn something out of his memory.

  “Sir, it’s pumpkin—” I started, but he smacked his palm down on the table.

  “Pie!” he cried, his face lighting up. “Pumpkin pie! I knew it! I smelled it and plain as day I was at my Aunt Birdie’s on Christmas Eve with my four brothers and we’re stringing popcorn and cranberries on the tree…”

  “And eating pumpkin pie,” I finished for him.

  “And eating pumpkin pie,” he said, still smiling off into the memory. “And this is the stuff you’re selling?”

  “All fifty gallons.”

  Elbows on the table, Mr. Bridges leaned in conspiratorially and smiled.

  “Look, kid. I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. Six bucks a gallon. And between you and me, I never do six. But this moonshine is something special. What do you think?”

  “I think you must not like Christmas.”

  Someone kicked me under the table, possibly Mr. Yunsen, but I ignored him. I was not there to haggle. Seven fifty a gallon, no more and no less.

  I said, “You can keep the Cokes. Seven fifty is firm though.”

  Mr. Bridges shook his head and said, “You drive a hard bargain, kid,” then stuck his hand across the table for me to shake. “But you got a deal! I’ll take everything you’ve got.”

  He whistled between his fingers and the doorman appeared at the table.

  “Go unload the hearse out back. And get the kid another round of Cokes for the road.”

  Mr. Yunsen went out with the workers, and me and my new friend walked around to the back of the bar. This was my first sale. My first and my last. All these years I’d been busting my hump in the clearing, and Pa had been having all the fun.

  Mr. Bridges glanced around then pulled a fat wad of green bills out of his trouser pocket. I couldn’t help but smile.

  “All right, kid, fifty gallons. And uh, fifty gallons at seven fifty each, that’s…”

  “Three hundred and seventy-five dollars, sir.”

  Mr. Bridges shook his head and laughed. “I’m not even surprised anymore, kid. You really are going to save this country,” he said as he counted out the bills.

  He handed me the money, which I folded into a roll the size of a baseball and stuffed deep into my pocket with my left hand. With my right, I shook Mr. Bridges’s hand.

  His face grew serious once more and he said, “Kid, you forget you were ever here, all right?”

  I nodded fast as I could. His message was clear as crystal.

  As I turned to go, he added, “Unless you need work. Then you come see Mr. Bridges.”

  “I don’t think my teacher would like me working in a bar, sir.”

  “Maybe not here, but in your area. I’ve got people who owe me favors all over the state.”

  “I will keep that in mind, sir.”

  One of the men who had unloaded the barrels returned with an unopened Coca-Cola bottle and walked me out the metal door and back to the quiet of the city, the music still buzzing in my ears. Mr. Yunsen had turned the Buick around and was waiting for me.

  “You sold it all,” Mr. Yunsen said as I climbed in.

  “I guess that side of the shine business was born into me too.”

  “You handled yourself remarkably well. I’d never have guessed that was your first time in a speakeasy,” Mr. Yunsen said as he edged the hearse back onto the city street.

  “What’s a speakeasy?” I asked.

  “It’s a secret club like the Blind Tiger. You’re supposed to keep quiet and speak easy so the secret doesn’t get out.”

  “But that was the loudest place I’ve ever been.”

  Mr. Yunsen chuckled.

  “That’s how the best ones are.”

  “You think my pa did all right?”

  Mr. Yunsen said, “I just hope he did half as well as you. We’ll know in a few minutes.”

  AS WE PULLED INTO THE parking lot of the Federal Department of Justice, I spotted Pa stretched out on a grassy patch in front of a long line of official-looking black cars. The second I saw him sprawled out there with his pant cuffs nearly up to his knees, bobbing his head to some unheard music, I knew things had gone at least partly well. He was outside and he was free, so that was at least one gamble we’d won.

  The brakes on the Buick squeaked as we slowed and Pa cracked open an eyelid, then popped up and jumped in with us.

  “You’re all right, Pa,” I said, smiling.

  “Of course I am.”

  “And they’re going to get Mr. Salvatore?”

  “You know what?” he said, biting his lip and smiling. “They are. You were right.”

  “And you didn’t even get in trouble for shining, huh, Pa?”

  “They didn’t know what to make of me at first. They thought I was trying to trick ’em,” Pa said. “Told me they had never seen a shiner come tell ’em where shine was.”

  I gasped. “They knew you were a shiner?”

  “I tried to play it slick, like I had just happened to hear some information. They didn’t seem to take me too seriously, and I got to worrying they wouldn’t go after Salvatore at all. So I just laid it all out there for them.”

  “You told ’em we shined,” I said.

  I couldn’t believe it. Pa had confessed.

  “Told ’em I shined,” he corrected. “They had heard about gangs coming out of Chicago and bootlegging. And the Feds will be in Hidden Orchard tomorrow night, looking for Salvatore.”

  “But what about you?” I asked.

  “I made a deal. They won’t take me to jail. I’ve just got to help them in their case against Salvatore. So they catch him and we’ll be fine.”

  Pa and I were staying together. That was the important thing. And they were going to catch Mr. Salvatore.

  “And if they don’t catch him?” I asked.

  “They’ll get him. How’d you do?”

  At this, Mr. Yunsen chuckled from behind the wheel. “The casket’s empty. You two no longer have any moonshine.”

  I nodded and said, “I sold it all.”

  “Well I’ll be,” Pa said. “No more shine.”

  “And I got us free Coca-Colas,” I said, holding up a bottle. “I drank one though.”

  “That’s great! Did you get any money?”

  “Oh yeah, three hundred and seventy-five dollars.”

  Pa slapped his knee and said, “Now that is hard to beat.”

  Mr. Yunsen had packed a lunch of fried chicken and we ate it cold with salt as the hearse climbed back into the hills toward Hidden Orchard. The Cokes were warm, but still delicious. We ate the chicken and tossed the bones out the window. As we got closer to town, I asked, “So tomorrow we’re taking the still to Creamville, right?”

  “You got school, Cub.”

  “What? We’ve got important work to do. I figured I’d take the rest of the week off.”

  “We’ll load the still early. Then you got to get to school.”

  “Come on, Pa.”

  “Nope.”

  No matter what I said to get out of school, Pa just shook his head. We rode on in silence until the hearse edged up the drive. No other cars were in sight. We arranged to meet with Mr. Yunsen the next morning and then headed out back to bring up the parts of the still.

  Lugging the still out of the woods was harder for us than I’d thought it would be, and the two of us cursed our injuries and cursed Mr. Salvatore for causing them. The new flesh on Pa’s hands was coming in around the scabs, but it was clear he would always have the scars. And as I tried to grip the big copper kettle, I felt s
omething give way, like a coiled-up spring had popped in my cut hand.

  “Agh!” I yelled, thinking one of my fingers had gone flying off.

  Bracing myself for the worst, I looked down. There was enough daylight left to see where Mr. Yunsen had sewn me up, the little black tracks marching across my palm. One of the stitches had popped and was flapping loose in the wind.

  I broke out laughing and showed Pa.

  “It looks like you’re holding a caterpillar,” he said. “We got a little banged up. But we didn’t let anybody stop us.”

  * * *

  ● ● ●

  As day broke, Mr. Yunsen arrived for the final collection. The casket had been removed from the hearse to fit all the pieces of the still. We fought the big kettle for a half hour before the three of us got it up and into the back.

  “Just make sure she gets a good home, Herbert,” Pa said. “And tell ’em to make sure the drip tube stays clean or it’ll foul the taste.”

  “Sure, Earl.”

  A whole team of engineers couldn’t have built a better still than ours, and Pa had done it himself with nothing but a heap of scrap metal and his own two hands.

  Pa turned to me and said, “The still is dead.”

  “Better it than us,” I said.

  I slammed the door shut with my good hand.

  With the sun hitting the back of my neck, I stared off into the woods, thinking how there was no longer a still, no stockpile of barrels in the tree, no more nights shining. Any trouble we had left would come rumbling into town tonight, and then hopefully be gone for good. I turned and saw Pa was looking in the same direction as me.

  “Kind of sad, huh, Pa?”

  “Kind of sad I didn’t see that I should have done this a long time ago. I’m lucky to have a son like you.”

  That made me feel real good inside, like me and Pa had both gotten set on a straight course. We walked back in and I grabbed my pencil, a biscuit, and an apple and started to say so long, but Pa was at the door in his coat, waiting for me.

  “I’m going to walk with you a while,” he said.

  “What for?”

  “Beats sitting here all day with that gun in my hands.”

  We headed out, bracing against a strong wind.

  I asked, “So the government men are going to get Mr. Salvatore on the road, right? So we probably won’t even see him.”

  “That’s what they said. Called it a ‘sting’ or a ‘stinger’ or something like that. Said they’d have a couple men in town. So long as they know he’s carrying shine, they can arrest him when he’s away from the houses and whatnot. In case he goes shooting up the place.”

  “You think he’d do that?”

  “Ain’t no telling what a man like that will do.”

  We walked on down Elm, Pa nodding to people who ignored him back, me lost in my thoughts. Even if we didn’t have to see him, just the thought of Mr. Salvatore being in town made me plenty anxious.

  “What are we supposed to do then?” I asked.

  “Mr. Yunsen said you could wait it out at his place with him and Rebecca. I got to hunker down at the house in case they can’t take Salvatore on the road. Feds said for me to make everything natural-looking, light a lantern out front, all that. They’ll arrest him the second he turns in the drive. That way they can prove he was going to buy shine and not just passing through town.”

  I shook my head. “That’s a terrible plan.”

  Pa sighed. “That’s the way the law says it’s got to be done, and I’ll tell you, I feel a bit like a worm on a hook. But I had to make a deal with ’em. And if they don’t get Salvatore, well I ain’t got a leg to stand on.”

  I stopped walking and jerked his sleeve. “It’s the part about me going to Mr. Yunsen’s that’s terrible,” I said. “I’m not leaving you at the house alone.”

  We were standing in front of Beckwith Methodist and Pa looked at me hard, studying my face.

  I said, “I’m staying. You send me to Yunsen’s, I’ll run right back. You can’t stop me.”

  For a long moment neither one of us spoke. That big clock was ticking in the bell tower up above us and it felt like we were gunslingers getting ready to draw.

  “You can’t stop me,” I repeated.

  He finally nodded and said, “I reckon I’m starting to see that. All right then, son,” and we kept on walking.

  As we neared the schoolhouse, I stopped short and pulled out my pencil.

  “I need a note, Pa.”

  “A note?” he asked, scratching his head. “What for?”

  “I don’t get it either, Pa. But I need a note from you saying I missed school. They’re crazy about notes here.”

  “Come on, you know I’m no writer. Get your teacher to come out. I’ll tell her you had important business yesterday.”

  I hesitated, wondering if Miss Pounder would tell him I was a bad reader, or that I did foolish things in class. I had enough going on already without embarrassing Pa. But he stood waiting, then motioned to the door with his chin. With a sigh, I headed in, coming back out in the cold with Miss Pounder. She looked at Pa’s overalls and long hair and frowned.

  “Are you Cub’s father?”

  Pa gave her a long, dramatic bow and said, “Earl Jennings, at your service.”

  My mouth fell open an inch and I stood there like I’d taken root in the ground, wondering if Pa was going to kiss her hand or twirl her around or something.

  “Yesterday Cub was assisting me with important family matters. He will not be absent again,” Pa said. I’d never heard him talk so fancy.

  Miss Pounder stood there looking confused, and finally muttered, “Oh, okay. Thank you for telling me.”

  Inching back toward the schoolhouse, I nodded goodbye to Pa. But as me and Miss Pounder headed in, Pa called, “Make sure you challenge him good. He’s real skilled with numbers. Make him as smart as you can.”

  Miss Pounder looked back and smiled, something I had seen only once or twice in weeks of school, and said, “Of course.”

  As Miss Pounder and I walked into the classroom, she said, “You’re lucky to have a father like that.”

  WITH MR. SALVATORE COMING that night to collect, I couldn’t even begin to focus on the penmanship lesson at school. Thankfully, Miss Pounder just stood at the chalkboard drawing lines with her straightedge.

  I was copying the sentences when Shane leaned over from his desk.

  “Everybody was hoping you’d never come back to school,” he whispered.

  For a long while that was exactly what I’d hoped for as well, and yet there I was.

  “I don’t care,” I muttered.

  Miss Pounder was still writing on the chalkboard, and Shane leaned over again, leering at me.

  “Yesterday we had a party to celebrate you being gone.”

  I turned away and kept copying the words, but his red hair was flashing in the corner of my eye.

  “Rebecca said she was happy you weren’t here so she didn’t have to babysit you.”

  I gritted my teeth and leaned toward him.

  “Look, you doorknob, I got real problems. I got people after me that would leave you puddling the floor, so you’re crackers if you think I’m scared—”

  There was a thunderclap in the front of the room and I jumped and saw that Miss Pounder had slammed her yardstick down on her desk. The talking behind her back had set her off something fierce. She glared at the class, her nostrils flaring big as a Clydesdale’s. She was showing the first signs of a full-blown conniption fit.

  “Who was talking?” she shouted, storming down the aisle, yardstick in hand.

  Shane smirked and leaned back in his chair. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him point a finger toward me.

  Miss Pounder was almost upon me. The kindness I’d seen in her outside was a distant memory.

  “After-school detention! Plus ten across the hands,” she said.

  I couldn’t stay after school on the most important night of my l
ife. And my hand was already full of stitches. Why couldn’t I have just shut up?

  “Cub, you hear me?” she said.

  From behind me, little Myrtle said, “It wasn’t him, Miss Pounder. It was Shane.”

  My mouth fell open. Myrtle. Sweet Myrtle. Sweet little buck-toothed Myrtle.

  From across the room, Russ said, “Shane’s been talking all class, Miss Pounder.”

  Shane’s eyes bugged out of his ugly head and he said, “They’re liars. Cub was—”

  Rebecca turned and said to him, “He was trying to concentrate, Shane. Some of us are actually smart enough to do the work.”

  Miss Pounder turned away from me and stuck the yardstick in Shane’s face like she was going to bayonet him.

  “You, ten after school.”

  Sitting there on my stump, I looked around at all the other students as they went back to their penmanship. They still thought I was peculiar, I knew that. It would always be like that. I’d grown up too different—they didn’t have to work nights or worry about going to jail or burning buckets of gasoline. But if things went okay tonight, I would at least have that in common with them. And even if they didn’t particularly care about me one way or the other, they liked Shane a lot less.

  Finally free from school, I hurried Rebecca to her turnoff, and she made me promise that tomorrow I’d tell her everything that happened. I half-ran down Elm Street, keeping an eye out for any cars, but once I got past Gibbons Drugstore, the energy inside me got to be too much and I flat-out sprinted the rest of the way home.

  Rounding the end of our cornfield, I could just make out a figure sitting in a rocker on the porch. The shade coming off the roof made it too dark for me to see who it was, but two steps later I saw the chair rocking so hard it was about to take flight and I knew it was Pa.

  “Hey there,” Pa said as I ran up the steps. “Have a seat. I got some good news.”

  I angled my chair so I could see Pa and watch the drive at the same time.

  “The still sold,” he said. “Two hundred and ten bucks. Yunsen already came by.”

  We were no longer moonshiners. I felt a lightness in my stomach, like an excitement rising up in me that life was heading into new territory. We now had a chance at good, honest living.