Storms

Fiction Friday: Last week we met a group of men gathered around a wood stove in a country grocery in 1947. It was rural Arkansas and a tragic tornado had just ravaged their part of the county. Their reveries stopped when one said, "Speaking of hell to pay, look coming yonder." And …

(Apologies for some language of time, place, and people.)

______

The men all turned in time to see a woman burst through the door of the store. She stopped just inside the door, and turned toward the men, saying nothing. She eyed each one. When none of them spoke, she turned and walked to the counter.

           "Good morning, Miss Sheila," the Grocer said.

           "Ricky needs some stuff," she said, and slapped a piece of notebook paper down hard on the counter.

           "How's Arthur doing?" the Grocer asked.

           "He died last night," Sheila replied. "You got all this stuff?"

           "Would you tell Ricky that we're certainly sorry to hear that," he said.

           "You can tell him yourself. He'll be by after awhile," she said. "You got all this stuff?"

           "I'll just have to see, Miss Sheila," the Grocer said. "The storm disrupted all the supplies and I'm trying to ration out so everybody can get what they need 'til things get back to normal."

           "What everybody else needs ain't my concern," she said. "Can you fill this order or not?"

           "Miss Sheila, I'll just have to see. Some of the stuff's in the storeroom," he said.

           "I'll be back in a little while," she said, spinning around and strode out of the store in long strides.

           "That gal's as cordial as she ever was, ain't she?" said Rufus.

           "I guess if you was as rich as she is, you wouldn't worry about being cordial either," said Odell.

           "Rich? She ain't rich," said Rufus. "She married the poor Maleson boy, not the rich one." He searched for words. "She married the sorry one."

           Thomas Hyatt leaned forward on his nail keg. "Don't guess you've heard the news, have you, Rufus?"

           "What news?"

           Thomas leaned back. "You heard her say that oldest Maleson boy died last night, didn't you?"

           "Yes," said Rufus, "but what's that got to do with Sheila and Ricky?"

           "A whole lot," said Thomas. "Lawyer Wingate explained it to me. See, Arthur and Mr. Dunk Forrestor's daughter was farming that fifteen hunderd acres down off Frenchman's Bayou. They say that's the best fifteen-hunderd acre farm in the State of Arkansas."

           "Yeah, but that belonged to Ole Man Dunk. Arthur was just farming that for him."

           "Don't you see though," said Thomas, "Ole Man Dunk only had that one daughter. He was out at Arthur's house when the storm hit. It kilt him right off. The daughter lived for two days. And Old Man Dunk never trusted lawyers enough to have a will made out."

           "So," said Rufus, "what does that mean?"

           "Well that means she inherited everthing the Ole Man had."

           "Well, what's that got to do with Sheila," said Rufus impatiently.

           "Well, when she died, Arthur lived for, what now..., three more days?"

           "And?" said Rufus.

           "That means that Arthur inherited everything Ole Man Dunk's daughter owned."

           "So what are you trying to tell me?" said Rufus.

           "I'm trying to tell you," said Thomas, "that when Arthur Maleson died, Ricky inherited everything he owned. Ricky and Sheila have that fifteen hunderd acre farm now, plus everything that Ole Man Dunk had," he paused. "And he had a lot."

           "What about Mr. Dunk's brothers and sisters? They helped him buy his first farm before he ever got rich."

           "They got about the same claim to it that you and I have," said Thomas. “Lawyer told me yesterday that if Arthur died, Ricky was going to be one rich man.”

           No one spoke for several minutes. Finally Odell spoke, as much to himself, as to anyone in the room, "Things change pretty fast after a storm, don't they?"

           "I tell you whut," said Thomas, "If I was to inherit that farm, I'd sell it and buy me a freight truck, and I'd haul freight from here to California and back."

           "Well, Tom, if you inherited that farm, you could buy a whole fleet of trucks," said Rufus. "And you could hire people to haul for you."

           "And them steal half of everything they haul?" said Thomas. "No thanks. I'd just buy me one and drive it myself."

           "Well, you'd know about that sort of thing," said John. Then he asked, "Have any of you'all seen what happened to Arthur Maleson's house when the tornado hit?"

           No one spoke but Odell. "No, I ain't been hardly past Armistead since it happened, have you?"

           "Boys," said John, "I tell you, it turned that house completely upside down, in one piece, and set it out in the middle of that Bayou. Hit's a wonder Arthur lived as long as he did."

           The Grocer walked by to retrieve a hoe from several that hung on the wall.

           "Don't bother giving it away to Ricky and Sheila," said Thomas. "They got plenty of money now."

           "Maybe they'll just pick up what you owe me too, Thomas," said the Grocer, walking back to the counter.

           "I reckon they just might," said Thomas. "I was always right fond of Miss Sheila."            The men laughed. The room was quite for a minute, then John said, "That was a shame about poor Arthur. He was a fine man."

           "Yeah," said Odell. "He wadn't but about nineteen when his momma and daddy died. They left him and Ricky by theyselves."

           "He shore had his share of trouble raising Ricky," said Rufus.

           Thomas leaned forward again. "They tell me that he was about to fire Ricky, right before the storm hit."

           "What for?" said John.

           "Being so mean to the coloreds, is what I heard," said Thomas. "He made old Roedock Tiggens so mad he quit, and old Roedock 's the best worker in Armistead County."

           "Yeah, Ricky's a bad 'un, all right," said John.

           "No," said Thomas, "he was a bad 'un. He's a rich 'un now. He can do whatever he wants to, and ain't nobody gonna say nothing about it."

           "Ain't that for shore," said John.

           The mood that settled on the group now was different. Perhaps they seemed expectant. Or maybe with the new knowledge there was a new importance. The discussion itself took on loftier aspects.

           "Boys it ain't often in a man's life that he gets to see something like what that storm done," Rufus observed.

           "We was a real part of history all right," said Thomas.

           "Hell I didn't even think you were in the county when it happened," said Odell.

           "I was just as much a part of it as anybody," said Thomas. "I was just a little late getting on the scene."

           The men all laughed.

           While they were laughing, Ricky Maleson walked in.

           None of the men spoke. When they had noticed who it was, each turned his eye on the stove in their center and said nothing. Ricky seemed scarcely to notice them and walked to the grocery counter. Nodding to the Grocer, he asked if Sheila had been in.

           "Just a few minutes ago Ricky," the Grocer answered, then added "We're all mighty sorry to hear about Arthur."

           "We appreciate your prayers," Ricky said and then seemed to notice the group of men for the first time.

           "How you boys doin'?"

           Odell answered for the group. "Depends on who you're asking. Some of us better that others. John here lost just about everthing he...."

           "Any of ya'll want work?" Ricky interrupted.

           None of the men spoke. Thomas reached for the poker and leaned forward to open the door of the stove. He moved slowly, deliberately, as he first studied the progress of the fire and then began, slowly, to rake the poker across the top of the burning coals. The others watched him intently.

           "We need some more wood," he said after a few strokes, and began to rise.

           "Wait just a minute," Ricky said, "I asked if any of you men wanted work."

           Thomas stopped after rising and looked at the other men. Each in turn looked and Thomas and then cast their eyes on the floor directly on the floor in front of the stove. He sensed that he had been trapped, elected.

           "What kind of work?" he finally asked.

           "Supervising work" Ricky said. He walked slowly to the group of men until he stood near, not in, the center of the circle and stopped. He reached into his shirt pocket and removed a packet of cigarettes and a piece of folded paper. The men could see that the paper was rich and formal, with tightly spaced lines of type. Folded into a shape the size of the cigarette package, it was clear white on one side and a grimy brown on the other where it had been in contact with Rick's shirt.

           Ricky left the paper folded and held it in one hand as if it were folded money while he shook a cigarette from the pack with the other hand. He placed the pack in his pocket at looked at the men. After a few seconds, Thomas handed him a match and Ricky nodded. He looked at the fire which was hissing and roaring hot. He walked farther into the circle and placed the match against the stove. It immediately popped as the head exploded into a small flame. Ricky watched the match briefly and then raised it to light his cigarette.

           He drew from the cigarette, looked toward the ceiling, exhaled and then looked back at the men. "I come into some money boys." He held the folded piece of paper high in his hand as if it were holy. "Big money."

           The men stared at the paper, their eyes bouncing almost in unison as Ricky shook it for emphasis. No one spoke until the Grocer asked, from behind his counter, "You talking about Mr. Dunk's money?"

           Ricky wheeled. "It ain't old man Dunk's money no more. It's mine now! If'n you don't believe me, read this," he said as he waived the paper toward the Grocer.

           "It may belong to you now, but it's still Mr. Dunk's money," the Grocer said, locking Rick's eyes with his own.

           "I tell you it's mine," Ricky shouted, almost shrieking. "It was Arthur's and when he died it wasn't his'n no more. It's mine." You read what Oscar Wingate, Attorney at Law, says about it." He was unfolding the paper.

           "Why Ricky," Odell said, "We already know about it. Hit's a bad wind that don't blow somebody some good."

           "Let me see it," Thomas asked. "I done told them about it, but I'd like to see what Lawyer Wingate said, exactly."

           Ricky turned and handed Thomas the letter. He opened it and read slowly as the others looked at the one soiled rectangle in the back of the paper. As his eyes reached the bottom of the page he spoke softly. "And if the facts are as you stated, it is my opinion that you would inherit the entire estate of Arthur Maleson in the event of his death, there being no will or other legal claim upon the property. This would, as far as the facts are ...," Thomas stopped.

           "Ascertainable," said Ricky.

           "Ask-er-taintable," Thomas continued, "...include the estate of the late Dunk Forrestor which passed to his daughter, Ellen Forrestor Maleson upon his death and which subsequently passed to her husband, Arthur Maleson, upon her death."

           Thomas folded the paper gently into its original shape and handed it to Ricky. The small circle where the men sat was hot now as the fire reached its peak and the air seemed dark and heavy. Thomas leaned back on his keg so he could watch Rick's face.

           "You mentioned work," he said. "What would a man supervise, say he was intersted?"

           "Why blacks of course," said Ricky. "White men supervisin' niggers. That's the way it's always been, ain't it."

           "I don't know... I've been supervised an awful lot in my day and I ain't no nigger," said Thomas and the men all laughed.

           Ricky glared and the laughter stopped. "This ain't funny," he said. "Ever since the war ended, more and more of them are movin' north. Now a bunch of them around here got killed. They's want'in to build plants around here now for the whites to work in. What's it all gonna mean to us farmers?"

           The men looked at Thomas who looked at the Grocer who merely sat watching intently. Thomas looked back at the men who turned to Ricky.

           "I'll tell you what it means," he said. "It means we all gonna be out chop'n cotton right along side what hands is left."

           "What's wrong with that?" asked the Grocer. "That's what we did in the old days...that's what Mr. Dunk did."

           Ricky ignored him and spoke to the men again. "I thought about this all durin' the war," he said. "It was good that I stayed stateside. Good for us all."

           "How's that," asked the Grocer. "I thought what we did in France and Germany was good for us all."

           "Because I had time to think," said Ricky. "I spent the whole war thinking about how I would run things if'n I had money and now, by God, I got the money."

           "How's money gonna keep us in field hands if there ain't no field hands?" Thomas had leaned forward now and was watching Ricky intently.

           "Organization." Ricky said.

           "Organization?"

           "Organization. We'll have a cooperative that can hire the hands that are available and you men can be the supervisors. We'll move them from farm to farm and you keep them busy. You know how field hands is."

           "Dumb and lazy?" Odell asked.

           "Hell no, they's smart enough to get by without working a lick if'n somebody don't make ‘em."

           "And Lord knows they work hard when somebody like you is around to make them, don't they," said the Grocer.

           "I got my ways," Ricky said. "You keep a boot up one’s hind end and they'll work plenty hard for you."

           "Until they get enough and move up north," said the Grocer. "Ain't that right?"

           "I got an answer to that problem that might interest you," said Ricky. He turned to look at the Grocer and then turned back to look at the men again.

           "If we handle it right, we can see that they stay too far in debt to move anywhere."

           "How's that?" One of the men asked.

           "We own the stores and someday the bank too," Ricky said. "As long as they have to buy from us, we can keep them as far in debt as we want."

           The men looked embarrassed. Not a one of them would look at the Grocer who sat watching Ricky's back. Outside the sun moved toward the horizon and the store was becoming darker. The stove still burned with a hum, the only sound except for a periodic creak as one of the men would shift his weight. Each made an attempt to appear thoughtful. Each looked more discomfited as the effort increased. Ricky waited and the Grocer smiled. He eased into a more comfortable position with his back resting against a shelf stacked with canned goods. Then he reached into his pocket and produced a partial block of tobacco. From another pocket he pulled a knife, opened it, cut a cube from the block and, holding it between his thumb and the blade of the knife, placed it in his mouth. To the men, who could see him behind Ricky, he seemed to be enjoying himself.

           "I need to know who I can count on," Ricky said. "Let me know today so I can start my list. Overseers - you'll all be overseers." He turned to the Grocer stared for a second as if the Grocer might have something to add. "Sheila will be back for them supplies," he said and then he turned and walked to the door. Turning around, he looked once more to the group of men. None of them spoke and he nodded his head as if he were counting them. He opened the door and left the store.

           "Life's funny, ain't it?," Thomas said. He waited for an answer but nobody spoke. Heads turned slightly toward the Grocer and watched for a reponse. He chewed slowly and stared back. A smile appeared briefly. Still saying nothing, he walked from behind the counter, crossed the length of the store, walked outside and spat. Stopping to look both ways along the country road, he left the men alone.

           "He ain't for it, I can tell," said Rufus. "I watched him the whole time Ricky was talking and I could tell he wasn't going for it."

           "Why should he?" Thomas asked. "Ain't nothin' in it for him except competition. Man that's rich already could drive another man out of business if'n he wanted to."

           Otis spoke next. "Bet Ricky would be just the kind to want to, don't you reckon?"

           "Ricky's rich now. He sets his own rules," said Thomas.

           Outside the afternoon sun began easing toward nightfall. Inside, the group of men sat quietly. There was a heaviness in the room now, as though a peace had settled in but at the cost of draining the vitality from the room. The interlude was not unpleasant and the men stared silently at the stove in the center of their circle. Every so often one would raise a cigarette to his lips and pull smoke slowly into his lungs. Expelling silently, he would seem to drift, as though his mind and body were so linked that the floating away of one would pull the other. It was the sort of moment that would usually produce a joke from Thomas, but this time nothing came forth. This time the mood was altered by the Grocer who pushed the door open with a crash and strode into the store with long, heavy steps.

           "Here comes your new princess," he said.

           "I got to be goin........ Thomas began. It was too late. The truck was already squealing to a stop in front of the store. The entire group froze as the door opened and, seconds later, slammed shut. They couldn't see but felt, sensed, Sheila approaching. The only person moving was the Grocer. He busied himself behind his counter, safe, it seemed to the others, from the approaching storm.

           The door burst open and Sheila was in the store.

           "I Come for the supplies," she said. "You got them ready?" Looking at the group, she nodded. "One of you boys help me load this stuff."

           "Sure, Sheila," John said, starting to rise.

           "Here," Sheila said, reaching for one the sacks that the Grocer had stacked waiting. Suddenly she stopped. Still holding the sack, she turned to the Grocer. "Did you have everything?"

"Not quite," the Grocer said, reaching for the list she had left. "Some of these things I'm rationing so we don't run out. They's still folks counting on me for supplies until the deliveries are on a regular schedule again. You come back in a couple of days and I can finish you up."

           "I told you, by God, that I wasn't intersted in other people."

           "You may not be, but I am."

           Thomas saw it coming first and had time to duck. The others stood stupefied as the sack of groceries flew toward them. Cans, wrappings of meat and assorted packages flew into their midst, bouncing of the stove, the walls, the floor and, in the case of Rufus Thomas who was hit smack in the face with a can of peaches, the men themselves. The contents of the sack spun, crashed, slid, bounced and careened in all directions as the group scattered in a direction for each participant.

           "Goddam you! Didn't you talk to my husband," she shrieked at the Grocer.

           He said nothing. He waited for a long time as Sheila's breath came in heaves, her face red with anger home of not being obeyed. The Grocer seemed to wait, making sure that there was not more. Then rising, he began to walk around the counter. He moved slowly, as a man finishing the last tasks of a long day. Crossing in front of Sheila, he began to retrieve the contents of the sack, now scattered around the room.

           Sheila watched him without seeming yet to comprehend that it was over. "I'll give you one more chance," she ventured. "Give me what I want and I'll be gone." Then she added - "I won't say anything to Ricky."

           The Grocer ignored her and continued to place objects in a sack. Sheila watched him, unbelieving. They watched her as she became calmer. She took a breath and turned to the men. "I guess it's over here." She turned to the men and stiffened slightly. "Ricky wants your answer."

           The men stared back. Not one of them spoke. Gradually they turned to the Grocer who was standing just behind them. He looked at them one by one and each, in turn, lowered his eyes. The grocer then looked past them at Sheila.

           "Tell him that he's won," he said. "And that the old days is done fer."

           "I thought so," said Sheila. Then she turned and left the store.

           Somewhere near the group a fly buzzed. Smoke from the cigarettes was thick and heavy in the room. The Grocer finished gathering his produce and laid the crumpled bag on the counter. He circled the counter and returned to his seat behind it. Still chewing the cut of tobacco, he listened as the men continued talking. They stopped after a minute and Thomas said to the Grocer. "You know this may be the end for you."

           "I reckon," he said.

           "Ain't you worried?"

           "I may move up north myself."

           "They have storms up there too, I guess." Rufus offered.

           "There'll always be storms," said the Grocer and he began to place the groceries back onto the shelves.

           "Hit was some storm all right," said Thomas. "You going back home John?"

           "I reckon. Ain't much left." He looked into the stove. "Do you want to know what the oddest thing was?"

           "What?" Rufus asked the question and the other men leaned forward.

           "When I come out of the storm cellar," he began. "I had the family stay put while I took a look around. I could see right off that it was all gone. Purty much so, anyway." He stopped. The men waited.

           "I walked over to where the house stood. Hit was gone. So was the barn. Pens, cribs, everthing." He stopped again. He reached in his pocket for a cigarette and lit it before he spoke

again.

           "I walked over toward where the big oak tree in our yard used to be and then I noticed."

           The men watched with total silence. He puffed on the cigarette again.

           "The kids had been playing under that tree. They were playin' with mud pies. Had them made up in some fruit jar lids on an old board they had propped up on some concrete blocks. Them lids was laying there like nothing ever happened. Still had the little mud pies on them. Just laying there. Hadn't even been moved by the whole storm. That was all that was left. No house. No barn. Just those little jar lids layin' there like the kids would be back any time. I reached down and flipped one with my finger. Just a flip and I knocked it off the board but the storm didn't touch it."

           He reached forward and put the cigarette out on the hearth of the stove.

           “Just seemed funny," he said. "That's all."

           "Hell John," Thomas said. "Storms is like women... you figure them out and you'll be the rich one.”

           The men all laughed.