The Wettest County in the World (11 page)

You gotta find the Lord, Aunt Winnie said. Then your life’ll straighten up.

I done tried, Cricket said softly.

Cricket’s head hung between his knees. He was only twenty-one and had a bald spot developing in the greasy swirl of his hair.

Was working out fine, Cricket said. Until the damn preacher ran off with my wife.

Cricket began to cry. One of the other ladies stood up and walked into the bathroom.

Aww, that ain’t gonna be good, one of the twins said.

What’s that stink? Aunt Winnie said. Smells like skunk nailed to a dead man.

T
HAT EVENING WAS
payday at the lumber camp and the men lined up to receive their money. Forrest stood behind the large table saw with his metal cashbox and ledger, ticking off names with a pencil stub. Howard stood in line with the rest, his stomach knotted in spasms as he waited for Forrest to finish his tallies. He fingered a slip of paper in his pocket.
Milk, three quarts, thirty-five cents. Bread, three loaves, twenty cents. Round steak, two pound, ninety cents. Flour, one dollar. Shortening, eighty-five cents. Formula, two dollars fifty. Nine dollars for medicine and doctor bill.
Along with his own money Howard picked up Jack’s wages to hold, twelve dollars and some change.

After the money was dispersed Howard broke down the heavy saws, wrapping the blades in the oiled canvas bags and locking them down in the heavy boxes. The other men milled around, joking and laughing, making plans for the night. Howard began to sweat, his skin prickling. He hadn’t had a drink since yesterday and his calf muscles felt wound like taut wire.

Up the hill in the woods by the campsite, Howard standing by the remains of the campfire. His back ached slightly, the thick sap of labor running down his neck into his gut. He watched the spinning leaves of the poplar trees; they waved palm-up, the pale undersides shifting silently side to side in spots high in the tallest part of the canopy. There must be another layer of wind, Howard thought, that plays through the highest parts of trees, small streams of wind. As he watched the poplars begin to vibrate hard, accompanied by the rising whine of cicadas, or is it the remembered scream of the power saws echoing in his mind? His calf muscles felt ready to snap, his whole body straining. Howard bent his head to the ground, fingering the roll of bills in his pocket, shifting his jaw, grinding his teeth.

It grew cooler, the sun behind the mountain and the shadows long and Howard turns and strides down to the sawmill site and caught a ride up to Rocky Mount with some of the other men. The men called out with blurred voices; they moved before him like ants across a broad piece of asphalt. Sitting on the gate of a truck as it banged down the dirt road Howard felt like a statue in a storm.

Howard was quiet in the company of the sunburnt men as they rolled into a filling station, somebody’s brother made up a fresh batch of apricot brandy, a free jar, and the men stood around a storeroom passing the jar till it was empty. Men slapped him on the back, poke his fat biceps, telling stories that he doesn’t quite hear, their voices muffled as if through thick water. He glances at their shining faces but mostly watches the jar of copper liquid as it passes hand over hand. Then back in the truck and off to another man’s house in a run-down neighborhood of Rocky Mount. Bathtub gin, crude stuff, but Howard takes his share. Like swallowing hot mud, men cough and spit, then rolling cigarettes on a dusty windowsill, cobwebs, wadded insects, someone tunes in a radio to WSM and Olaf the Swede crackles to life, singing barn-dance songs in his nasal accent though nobody laughs, while in the dirt yard outside a man wretches pitifully, then collapses, curling up against a fence post, face smeared with vomit. A coon hound twisting on a line, staked down, yelping in fury. Howard opens a fresh jar and sent the lid spinning off into the darkness. The burning knot in his back begins to fade, the words come when he wants them; he feels in step with the motion of the world.

A few hours later Howard found himself in another car, the driver Talmedge Jamison chewing long leaf and spitting in the footwells, the other men jostling each other as smoke fills the cab. Talmedge grinding the gears as he churns up Grassy Hill to the north of the town. When they pull into Forrest’s filling station Howard barely registers. He is thinking of the cards, the way he can see them ahead of everyone else. His hands feel light and fast; he has overtaken the world and now is the primary element, the thing that drives the fuse, and he can win. He’s got the wad of money in his fist deep in his pocket. These goddamn hayseeds, Howard thinks, they have got batter for brains. He strides into the station, nods to Maggie who stands smoking at the grill and taps a finger on the bar. Forrest comes out from the back with a plate of salami and apples and, seeing him, pauses and gives him a long stare. Howard stares back, grinning now, and taps the bar again with a blunt finger. Forrest nods and walks over to the table where the other men are already crowding around, eating hunks of the greasy meat with their fingers, scraping chairs, arranging themselves around the table, laughing, their eyes bright with the excitement of the game. The first jar is handed to Howard and he spins off the lid and flips it over his shoulder before taking a deep swig and the men all laugh.

Howard knows he will win. He stretches his broad back, his fingers locked over his head. He feels supple, clean, his mind quick. The perfect throw, the cards line up, the perfect line. He can feel it in the flashing rot of his bones.

A
UNT
W
INNIE WAS
boiling greens on the stove when the three men came in. They kept their hats on, and Jack could tell right off they didn’t have the look of men who wanted to buy liquor, mostly because two of them carried axes over their shoulders. The third man carried a shotgun and all three men wore pistols on their hips. Jack froze, sitting on the couch next to the two knitting ladies, the cigar box of cash between his feet. Cricket was in the bathroom and the twins had disappeared. He had just finished counting and was trying to figure if they had even made a profit, a task muddled by the occasional swigs from a jar. One of the men was a portly fellow wearing a fat tie and suspenders.

Who’s in charge here? Charley Rakes said, swiveling around on his heels.

His egg-shaped face was flushed with heat and exertion. He shrugged the ax off his shoulder and let it fall, the blade thunking into the floor. Aunt Winnie turned from the stove, eyeing the new men for a moment, the quivering ax stuck in her floor, then returned to her greens. The other man with an ax, slight and tired-looking, was Henry Abshire. The third man who held the shotgun across his chest was wearing a full suit and bow tie, with moons of sweat under the arms and around his neck. Jefferson Richards tugged at his collar and motioned Rakes to check the rest of the house.

’Spect no biscuits coming outta air round here, Aunt Winnie mumbled.

The room became quiet, the only sound the scraping of Aunt Winnie’s wooden spoon in her pan, the faint clicks of knitting needles. Charley Rakes walked into the back. The other two didn’t seem to notice Jack sitting there on the couch with the knitting ladies, and Jack was thinking that it would be best if he just sat there quietly and didn’t move. There was the wrenching of a door and a squawking sound and Charley Rakes came back into the room dragging Cricket by his ankle who flopped like a worm in sunshine. He sat up and rubbed his eyes and stared at the men and their axes.

Three things you gotta tell us, son, Charley Rakes said. Where’s the still, where’s the liquor, and where’s the money?

Cricket looked at him uncomprehendingly. Jack knew this was bad and with the slightest movement of his feet he began to inch the cigar box under the couch.

Shit, Charley, Henry Abshire said. The still is clearly in the basement.

Abshire wiped the back of his neck with a rag and shifting the ax on his shoulder pointed to a snake of smoke that flowed through a knot-hole in the floor.

Look at the smoke there. Excuse me, ma’am?

Aunt Winnie ignored him, slopping her greens around.

You ladies mind stepping outside?

Forget it, Richards said. Let ’em stay.

Rakes hoisted Cricket to his feet by his collar. Cricket promptly collapsed again, sinking down on his haunches, his head hanging low.

Rakes started slapping Cricket on the face, back and forth.

The money, son, where’s the money?

Jefferson Richards cursed under his breath and with a slow turn he lowered the barrel of his shotgun into Jack’s face. The open barrel seemed abnormally large and Jack knew it was because he had never looked at the business end of a gun before.

You, he said. Where’s the money?

Jack brought up his hands slowly and shrugged. Richards stared at him, moving the barrel of the gun in short circles around Jack’s nose.

What’s your name?

Jack.

Jack who?

Jack Bondurant.

Richards smiled and whistled slightly through his wet lips.

I’ll be damned, Charley Rakes said. Hey, Henry, this dumb polecat is one of them Bondurant brothers!

Yeah, Abshire said, that’s the youngest one there.

We were told we’d find you here, Rakes said. And look, here you are. You are some kind of stupid.

You show him, Richards said, show the deputy where the still is.

Jack got up slowly, his hands at his sides. Between his feet half of the cigar box was wedged under the couch. Abshire reached over and grabbed Jack’s shirtfront.

C’mon, son, he said. Let’s see it.

In the basement Abshire inspected the still, walking around it slowly, feeling the bead on the joints, rapping on the tubing, following the lines that went into the hot-water tank. The deputy looked tired and washed out, like he had just woken up from a long nap. Abshire knocked on the tank and the dull reverberations of liquid echoed through the basement.

Well…that’s a first, Abshire said. Don’t that beat all. Almost hate to stick an ax in it.

When they came upstairs Richards and Rakes were ushering Aunt Winnie and the knitting ladies into the bedroom. Just wait here, ladies, they said. Official police business. Won’t be but a minute. Aunt Winnie carried her pan of greens and her forehead was drawn up in a vicious look of annoyance. Cricket was still folded in a heap on the floor. The cigar box lay on the kitchen table.

You gotta see this, Jeff, Abshire said. This is a new one.

Jeff Richards handed the shotgun to Rakes and picked up the cigar box and held it out to Jack in one hand like a Bible.

Thought you said you didn’t know where the money was.

You didn’t ask me, Jack said. You asked him.

He pointed to Cricket.

As he said this, Jack felt the swimming, airy feeling that comes with strong fear, the loosening of the bonds. Jeff Richards smirked and gave a slight nod before turning and going down the stairs with Abshire to see the still. Charley Rakes grinned at Jack, his bottom teeth stained from tobacco, like a row of acorns in his mouth. He poked the shotgun against Jack’s chest.

You boys don’t get it, do you? There’s a new system, and you gotta play along.

Rakes brought the gun down and held it across his legs. He looked at Jack and shook his head.

You gotta weapon on you of any kind? he asked.

No.

Gun, knife, anything?

No.

You tellin’ the truth?

Yes.

You
are
a damn fool.

There was a sharp clang from the basement, the sound of metal punching through metal, and the next moment Rakes shifted and brought the barrel of the gun up quickly in a short arc. Jack flinched and the barrel landed in a glancing blow across his cheek. He stumbled back but retained his footing, rubbing his jaw, checking his hand for blood. Rakes seemed upset that he didn’t catch him cleanly and he pointed the shotgun at his face again.

Come here, he said. Step forward.

More shots of metal rang out from the basement as the men attacked the still with axes. Jack came forward slowly, and when he was a foot from the barrel pointed at his face Rakes lunged and jabbed the end of the shotgun into Jack’s teeth. Jack managed to get his head turned slightly and he felt the edge of the barrel bite into his upper lip and crunch against his gums. He turned and went to his knees, cupping his hands at his mouth as the blood began to flow.

Get up, Rakes said.

Jack was afraid to look at him, to look at the end of the gun any longer. He didn’t want Rakes to hit him in the face again. The clanging in the basement was increasing in tempo, each blow ringing through the floorboards. Jack got up, his body a quarter turn from Rakes, hands up around his mouth. The front door stood partly ajar and outside in the yard dark shapes moved about. Jack thought about calling out to them. He knew that Rakes meant to hurt him bad.

You ain’t so damn tough, Rakes said. I thought they said you Bondurant boys was supposed to be a bunch of hard-boiled son of a bitches?

Then Rakes reared back and hooked Jack in the ribs, a haymaker that flung Jack against the door frame and gasping and stumbling Jack went out onto the porch. Rakes was right behind him and swinging the shotgun low he crunched the side of Jack’s knee. Jack stumbled and fell, rolling off the porch and into the dark yard. Shapes scuttled in the black, the noise of footfalls, muttering voices. The aunts? The twins? Somebody please God help me, he thought, please God. A churning-stomach sensation made his mouth water. The light from the doorway shone across his face and he could see Rakes’s bulky silhouette standing there on the porch, the gun swinging from his hand. The nausea swelled and Jack began to retch in the dirt. In the distance two gunshots rang out, echoing across the hills. Rakes stiffened and squinted into the dark.