Stories of Breece D'J Pancake (10 page)

Bo put the food on the table and was about to shovel pork into his mouth when his mother asked for her medicine. “It’s in the winder above the sink.”

“Has been for eight years,” said Bo, scooting his chair out. As he gathered the bottles of colored pills, his glance went once again to the car. The tires were flat.

“I need my medicine,” said his mother, while mashing her food into a mush between the fork prongs. She spoke over a mouthful: “When you gonna junk that thing like your Momma ast?”

“Never,” he said, setting the bottles and himself at the table. “Probably die workin’ on it. Enoch’s got…” He did not want to mention the wreck at supper.

“Enoch’s got what?”

“Got some parts, but I need more.”

“It’ll get snakes next spring.”

“It al’s gets snakes, and I al’s run ’em off. Now will you leave my car be?”

“TV movie looks like a good ’un tonight,” she said in penance.

“Gotta date at the dance in Helvetia.”

When the supper dishes were finished, Bo dressed quickly while his mother rested from the walk back to the bedroom. Once wrapped, he slipped to the hall closet and took the .45 from its hatbox. He checked the clip: it was loaded with brightly oiled brass shells. The gun even smelled good. Shoving the weapon into his pocket, he shouted, “Night, Momma,” and heard her whimper instructions as he closed and locked the door.

The sun was not setting, nor was it seen. It hid behind the western slopes so only a hint of sun rose upward, firing the ridges with a green fire, and leaving everything in the hollow a clean, cold shadow. Bo knew a freeze was coming. It was too cold to snow. He would have to go now.

Bo watched the trees and houses go by as he only half-listened to Enoch’s chatter about his two blueticks, Mattingly and Moore.

“Now Matt, he knows how to run, but Moore can figger if a fox is throwed the pack and he knows just where to look for him.”

Bo thought: “I shoulda stayed and watched that movie. Wish Spanker hadn’ta run off. Couldn’t stand to be tied up, though.”

Houses and tales drifted by. Bo looked back at Matt and Moore, wobbly legged and motion sick.

“I was younger’n you the first time my daddy taked me ahuntin’.” Enoch shifted down, and the transmission rattled like a bucket of chains. “Got drunk on two spoons of shine an’ half a chew. Man. That was a time. Sittin’ back… listen to them ol’ honkers, and sittin’ back. I growed up quick. Had to to stay alive. You ever know my daddy?”

“Nope,” said Bo, thinking, wonder what that movie was.

“Your daddy knowed ’im. Meaner’n a teased snake. Got me laid when I’s eight. Took me t’ a house in Clarksburg—ol’ gal said I couldn’t come in—so he left me in the car an’ went back with a tire tool—then he come an’ got me an’ showed me that ol’ gal an’ her man conked out on the floor.”

“Musta been some excitement,” Bo said, looking at the patterns trees threw against the sky as the truck passed.

“Yeah, an’ that ain’t all. He taked me t’ this room an’ busted in on this gal an’ made her lay real still till I’s finished. Then she called Daddy a SOB cause all he give her was fifty cents, an’ he knocked her teeth out.”

Enoch laughed wildly, but Bo only smiled. Old Man Enoch was dead, but the rumors of strangers’ graves found in pigpens still grew.

“When’d ya git yer first?”

Bo told the afternoon dream as a fact, adding color and characters as he went until he was only inches out of shotgun range when “the sweet thing’s old man cut down on me with his sixteen-gauge.”

“Damn, who was she?”

“Think I’d tell you so’s you could go an’ tell on me an’ get me killed?”

“Just never figgered you for the type. Guess I been takin’ you all wrong.” Enoch added in consideration: “Yer pretty slick.”

Once they topped the hill, small slashes of light broke through the trees; enough to see rabbits and the road without headlights. Bo was about to mention his gun, but they pulled so quickly off the timber trail, he forgot it. The truck rumbled into a small room in the forest: it was walled with trees, hearthed by a pit of cold ashes, and furnished with broken car-seats. Now, Bo thought, climbing from the truck. Now loose. Alone. Smell power in the air—smells like good metal in temper. Dawn never brush against me again. Alone.

“Git some firewood,” Enoch ordered.

Bo swung around. “Look, I work for you from the time I git there till when I leave. You want somethin’ t’night, better ask like a friend.”

“Cocky, ain’t ya?”

“I gotta right.”

“You ain’t actin’ like a man.”

“You ain’t treatin’ me like one.”

Bo and Enoch combed the littered hill for shed-wood and abandoned timber.

Two miles beyond, an owl watched a meadow from the branches of a dead hickory tree. Hidden in the underbrush, the fox watched the owl and the meadow. Both saw the rabbit meandering through the dying ironweed and goldenrod, and both waited for the best condition of attack. When the moment came, the owl was on wing before the fox had lifted a pad.

The wind changed, and the fox changed cover while keeping close watch on the feasting owl. The fox crept carefully, judged the distance to the nearest cover, then rushed the owl with a bark. The bird flew straight up in alarm, aimed at the thief, and dropped, only to bury its talons in ironweed and earth. Fox and prey were under cover, leaving the bird robbed and hungry in the silver dusk.

Bo built a fire while Enoch tended the dogs. Mattingly and Moore sniffed the air as they overcame their sickness. They pranced and bit the chains as Enoch checked their feet for stones or cuts. As the fire came to life, Bo felt a baseness growing within himself, felt he knew the forest better than the man with the dogs, and, for a moment, wanted to run into the darkness.

Bill began to honk his horn at the foot of the hill and continued to honk his way up the hill trail. The dogs barked from the pain in their ears. “Drunk already,” Enoch shouted, laughing. Under a persimmon bush, the fox gnawed rabbit bones and rested, pausing between chews to listen.

The truck lunged into camp; Cuffy fell out, the other men stumbling behind, leaving the frothing dogs tied to the bed of the truck.

“What the hell’s he doin’ here?” said Cuffy, pointing at Bo.

“I invited him,” Enoch said.

“Hey, Enoch,” shouted Virg, looking from man to dog and back again. “You an’ Matt are beginnin’ to look alike.”

Cuffy sauntered to the fire, took the seat opposite Bo, and they eyed each other with disgust.

“Wha’s Nutsy doin’ here?” he taunted.

“I like it here,” Bo fired back.

“Don’t git too used to it.”

Bo left Cuffy to join the group.

“B’god, don’ tell me that dog can run,” Enoch yelled at Bill.

“Bender’s the best runner. Bet he sings first
and
leads ’em,” Bill answered.

“I’ll bet on Moore to sing out first,” said Bo. “And Bender to lead.”

“Least you got
half
a brain,” said Bill.

“How much?” asked Bo.

“Dollar.”

“Done,” said Bo. Enoch bet Bill on his own, and they shook hands all around before releasing the dogs.

The men brought out their bourbon, and Enoch gave Bo a special present—moonshine in a mason jar. Then they retired to the fire to swap tales until trail broke.

From his post in the brush the fox could hear sniffing searches being carried out. Dabbing his paws in rabbit gore for a head start, he darted over the bank toward the hollow. Queen, Bill’s roan hound, was first to find the trail. Instead of calling, she cut back across the ridge to where cold trail told her he was prone to cross. Moore sang out lowly as he sniffed to distinguish fox from rabbit.

“Moore,” Enoch shouted, “I’d know ’im anyplace.”

“Dog’s keen-mouthed all right,” said Virg.

Bill paid each man the dollar he owed.

“Made a mistake about that boy,” Enoch bragged, embarrassing Bo. “Tell ’em ’bout yer first woman, Bo.” The men leaned forward, looking at Bo.

“You tell ’em, Enoch, I ain’t drunk enough.”

Bo corrected Enoch’s rehash from time to time as the listeners hooted their approving laughter.

“Fred said he couldn’t go ahuntin’,” said Cuffy, watching Bo for some reaction. “Seems somebody’s been messin’ whit his wife whilst he’s gone.” Bo stared Cuffy down, then took a full drink from his jar.

“Maybe ’twas that hippie back of Fred,” Virg offered.

“Hippie just screws animals,” said Cuffy.

“Or other hippies,” Enoch added.

“That’s what he means,” Bo explained, and they all broke into a wild wind of laughter.

The last of the firewood was burning when Bill was finishing his tale. The dogs had been forgotten.

“Like I said, we’s all drunk an’ Cuffy an’ Tom got to argyin’ ’bout the weight of them two hogs… had ’em all clean and butchered an’ packed. Them two bastards loaded ’em on the truck—guts an’ all—an’ took ’em to Sutton to weigh ’em. Got the guts all mixed up, an’ fit ober what head went to what hog.”

“Weren’t much kick to that hog when I gutted ’im,” Cuffy reminisced.

“ ’Bout like you kicked when they brained you,” Virg spouted. And the men belched laughter again.

The fox was climbing the trail to camp, the pack trailing behind. Queen waited in the brush near the men, cold-trail sure the fox would cross here. The fox circled trees, his last trick to lose the pack.

Bo was woven into the gauze-light, torn between passing out and taking another drink. He caught bits of conversation, then his mind drifted into hollow sleep, and the voices jerked him awake again.

“He’s sittin’ in the Holy Seat,” said Bill’s voice in Bo’s darkness. Bo kept his eyes closed.

“That was one helluva wreck,” said Enoch. “Way I figger it, she drowned.”

“Whycome?” asked Virg.

“She was all wrinkly—sorta scrunged up.”

“The Holy Pole is in your hold, so work yer ass to save your soul,” Cuffy proclaimed.

“She was damn good, all right.” Enoch’s voice drifted away.

“Hell,” said Virg, “I al’s went last.”

“First come, first served,” said Bill.

“Shut up,” said Cuffy. “I’m horny again.”

“Hell, we all are,” said Virg. “Let’s dig her up.”

“Maybe she’s still warm,” added Cuffy. The men giggled until they were coughing.

“Told her old man she had a job,” Enoch laughed.

“I miss her,” sighed Virg.

“I don’t,” shouted Cuffy. “She coulda hung us all if’n somebody didn’ marry her. Nosir, I’m glad she’s dead.”

Bo fingered the .45 in his pocket.

But the men had whittled the time away telling lies mingled with truth until Bo could no longer distinguish between the two. He had told things, too; no truth or lie could go untold. It was fixed now; the truth and lies were all told.

The fox broke through the clearing, pausing at the sight of fire and man. Queen burst to attack just as the confused fox retreated toward her. There was a yelp, and the fox dashed for the hollow with Queen running a sight chase.

“That damn cutter,” Bill shouted. Bo drunkenly swung the .45 from his coat pocket, shot at Queen, and missed. Cuffy screamed as the shot echoed from the dark western ridges. Queen paused to look at Bo, then went back to trail. Virg jumped up and kicked the gun from Bo’s hand.

“Try’n save foxie,” Bo slurred.

“You stupid son of a bitch,” said Cuffy, and Bo looked for the pistol to kill him, but it was lost in the leaves and darkness. His head throbbed, and he looked stupidly at the men.

“Leave ’im alone,” said Enoch. “Nobody never teached ’im no better.”

Bo stood wavering, and said to Virg, “I’s sorry, but I’s tryin’ to save foxie.”

Cuffy spat on Bo’s shoe, but he ignored it, walked to the bushes, and threw up.

“You guys piss on the fire,” said Enoch. “I’ll call the dogs.”

Bo nearly missed the clearing in the strange, misty-gray light of Sunday afternoon. Dried oak leaves whispered in the sapless branches above him, and an autumn-blooming flower hung limply on its stem, frostbitten for its rebellion.

The remnants of the night lay strewn about the leaf-floor like a torpid ghost. The mason jar was empty, but his head felt fine—only an ache of change, like a cold coming on. He could smell cold ashes and vomit in the air, but the molten smell was gone from the wind, or perhaps the wind had carried it on.

He found his father’s pistol, laced with rusty lines from the wet leaves, and shoved it into his coat pocket. As he lurched down the clay timber-trail toward the secondary, he wondered if the Impala would be ready to roll by spring.

M
R
. Weeks called me out again tonight, and I look back down the hall of my house. I left the kitchen light burning. This is an empty old house since the old lady died. When Mr. Weeks doesn’t call, I write everybody I know about my boy. Some of my letters always come back, and the folks who write back say nobody knows where he got off to. I can’t help but think he might come home at night when I am gone, so I let the kitchen light burn and go on out the door.