PRIORITIES

 I remember reading somewhere that, in late 1944 into early 1945, as Nazi Germany was collapsing:

The Allied bombing campaign had crippled Germany’s rail network.

German troops at the front were desperate for transport of fuel, weapons, and reinforcements.

Despite this, Heinrich Himmler, head of the SS and a central architect of the Holocaust, continued to prioritize deportations—especially in 1944 during the destruction of Hungarian Jewry. Trains continued to deport Jews to concentration and extermination camps as a top priority.

I dunno. Just thought about this the other day on a trip into lower Arkansas, i.e. LA.

Passing by bald areas where farm communities once stood and concrete-pad strewn strips where downtowns once thrived, I thought about us.

Conditions now suggest that those areas may be facing a drought of Biblical proportions, threatening the only industry left to those communities.

Then I saw where our president said we couldn’t afford to address the health of our people anymore because we need the money to make bombs and kill people. Actually, it wasn’t money but debt-capacity, which he equates with money.

Leave saving humanity to the states, he said.

In our state, they want to direct resources to the destruction of public schools and construction of a monumental prison facility.

Is this what y’all voted for? Is this what y’all want?

Really?

Sometimes visiting places from where your roots grew is like taking a calming dip in a pool of warm memories. It was for my sister, brother, and me yesterday.

 We started out from our home place, a site much altered from our youth. It once contained a small country grocery store with a home attached to it. Our parents bought it and opened for business on January 1, 1940. They reared the three of us there. It disappeared long ago with all the other country stores. To date, no politician is promising to bring them back along with the employment they provided.

 Driving south into what is lovingly referred to as “L.A.,” or Lower Arkansas, we passed a site where, in a small shack in 1918, a frail woman was struggling for her life after giving birth, somewhat prematurely, to her eighth child, a girl. The woman was so near death that the doctor laid the infant aside to die, and concentrated on saving the woman with, among another tools, Vick’s Salve, the WD-40 of the medical world at that time. It worked, lucky for us.

 The woman was our grandmother and the infant was our mother. This, and much of our family history, was provided by her oldest sister, Hallie Harris Harden, the matriarch of our clan, and a character of great enjoyment until her death at near 100 years of age. I thought of her as we passed a small country church, for I remembered the time I was driving her around and she pointed at it and announced, “There’s where Jesus saved me from going to hell, and your Uncle Carl saved me from being an old maid.” I’m not sure about the timing of the first event but the second occurred when she was 15 years old.

 Three years after my mother survived childbirth, her father died. My grandmother was left alone in a harsh rural environment with no means of support, and three young children in hand. Mother never talked much about those awful days except to relate the story of when the local church members acquired new curtains for its windows. My grandmother begged the castoffs from them and made underpants for the girls. My mother never forgot the day she fell on the playground and that embarrassing secret was revealed to a group of cruel schoolchildren. The horrible mask of poverty forms many faces.

 Life goes on. Not long after, the kids' older brother married the daughter of a widower whose wife had given birth to 13 children, and then died. The couple carried messages back and forth, and my grandmother ended up marrying the widower and caring for his children that were still at home. The son of one of those children is now Mayor of Mansfield, Arkansas and I see him from time to time. He never fails to say, almost with tears in his eyes, that my grandmother was the only grandmother he ever knew.

 We visited the gravesites where our grandparents are buried, near their fathers, one a veteran of the Confederacy and the other a veteran of the Union. The unit of the latter saved my hometown, Pine Bluff, from a Rebel assault and the city erected a small monument to it. The obituary of the former stated that he was a “good man who never took part in any of the neighborhood brawls.”

Don’t ask.

 It was a good day. One final surprise caused me to chuckle. Now first understand, my sister started out in her professional life punching data cards for the state’s electrical utility in the basement of a building in Pine Bluff. She ended it in an office near the top of a high-rise office building in Little Rock running a major department for that same company. She is a serious person, and highly respected as a professional by her former colleagues. She is considered a good person by all, and I doubt she would ever take part in a neighborhood brawl, if they have those where she lives. Did I mention that she is a serious person? We lovingly call her “The General.”

 Imagine my amusement when, as we passed over a railroad track near our old neighborhood, she began telling me how she and her girlfriends used to put bags on sticks, walk down those tracks, and pretend they were hoboes. What an image. Times reserved for memories are full of surprises like that.

 Overall, the day ended on a happy note to be filed in the “Ps” under “pleasant.”

 But … my sister a hobo? That still cracks me up. It really does.

 July 12, 2017

The Old Homeplace, gone forever.

 THE ROOTS THAT CLUTCH

By Jimmie von Tungeln

This day showed promise. Sheila knew it when she saw a pair of turtle doves courting in a tree before she started to school. Their soft cooing caught her attention and she stopped to watch the male nuzzle the female in the morning fog. She watched quietly as their heads bobbed in ancient ritual. In the mist the two appeared as a single gray organism, joined in an almost musical rhythm. Sheila bobbed her own head, smiled once and then sailed a rock into them. It caught one squarely in the chest—the first direct hit of her life.

"Be damned," she said as she watched feathers drift to the ground, following the body in a slow, orbiting motion.

"Why'd you want to do that?" Robert asked. He jumped a ditch bordering a cotton field, swinging a rusty lard bucket that carried a small lunch for him and Sheila. “Doves is in The Bible."

            "Don't care," his sister said. "I'll kill 'em ever by god chanct I get."

"That don't hardly seem right," Robert said. Then his attention was caught by a blur on a far away county road. It was an automobile and he stopped to stare.

"Model A, I'll bet,” He said. “Ford Motor Company."

“Who cares?" was Sheila's answer as she scanned the fencerow for birds, a well balanced rock in hand. Straining, she failed to see the Hinson boys approaching.

           "Ya'll ain't pickin' cotton today?" asked Timmy, the older of the two as they joined the others. He also carried a worn and much dented lard bucket, hanging at his side like a burden of the world thrust upon the young.

           "Mamma said cotton still ain't opened up on account of the rain. So she said we might as well go to school. Papa may hire some hands to help us." Then she said "I kilt a bird."

           "You ain't never," said Roland, the younger. "Girls can't hit no bird, can they Robert?'

           "She oughten not to have done it but she did," Robert said and then asked "Know what makes an automobile run?”

           "Motor, I reckon." said Timmy with caution, looking at Robert sideways. "Ain't that right?"

           "It's internal combustion. That's what does it. They say that someday we'll all have one. Everybody in the world will have one...their own car to go places in. Can you picture that?"

           “Golly snot," said Roland, He was struggling with that image. He had trouble seeing himself even riding in a motor car, much less driving one. He looked to Sheila for validation but, seeing none, turned back to Robert.

           "Could I ride one to your house any time I wanted to?

           "Heck, you could drive it to Little Rock," said Robert.

           "Golly snot," said Roland.

           "I ain't havin'one," said Sheila. The conversation had strayed too far from her, a situation that she began to correct the way a person might direct a stray calf back into a herd. "My husband will have a buggy with a fine red mare to match my hair. He'll take me anywhere I tell him to, even Little Rock." 

           "But them cars will pass you right up," said Timmy absentmindedly, immediately regretting it as Sheila twirled upon him with the fury of one of those storms that descend sharp and wild, from time to time, upon the helpless delta. She was thin, but two inches taller than the boy and she swelled above him.

           "Well I wouldn't by-god worry about it if I was you!"

           "No, no I won't," Timmy said, and he dropped several steps behind the group.

           They walked in silence for awhile, the Hinsons hoping for Sheila's wrath to subside while Robert contemplated the mysteries of the internal combustion engine.

           Finally he looked up. "I'm sure gonna have me one."

           "You're a real dope," said Sheila.

           Robert didn't respond. He felt the cough coming and he needed his energy. He had spotted something on the edge of the ditch and was forcing himself to keep from looking at it directly. He turned to Timmie and asked him to hold the lunch bucket.

           "A dope like you couldn't ever afford a pair of mules, much less an automobile", Sheila said, hoping for continuity.

           "Look what I found", said Robert. He had leaped into the tall grass suddenly and claimed his prize: a long length of chain dropped from a wagon or bounced from a truck and laying unmissed by its owner.

           "I saw it first," cried Sheila. "Give it here."

           "We'll use it for the bridge," said Robert, ignoring Sheila. "This is what we need." Then he began to cough.

           "That's what you get," said Sheila. "You know you ain't supposed to get excited."

           Robert didn't answered and the coughs came deeper from his lungs as he struggled to stand erect.

           "Golly Robert, you sound worse than ever," said Roland.

           "I'm okay," Robert said as he knelt on one knee next to his new belonging and wheezed, fighting the pain. Finally catching his breath, he added, "Let's hurry and get to the bayou. We got time to make some progress today."

            “A brand new chain,” said Roland. “Golly snot.”

           "I'm gonna bust you up if you say that again," said Sheila.

           The four of them started off down the road.

           There were two routes leading to school, each leading through fields that today drooped with unopened bolls of cotton needing to be picked but waiting as the rains persevered day after day. Today a soft grey mist covered the fields and the world seemed mysterious and unchanging as the four moved through it. Soon they would be at the turning off place.

The main road to the school passed the small farms that covered the delta like the squares on a giant quilt. It served as a collector for the minor roads, paths, and finally trails that connected each farm with the world. It, itself, connected to the state road on which, it was said, a person could go all the way to Memphis.

The school was a simple white building sited on a small patch stolen from the corner of a cotton field. It sat just beyond a bridge that crossed a wide bayou in a low spot too wet for farming. The road made a wide arc toward the bridge whose builders had sought the narrowest crossing.

           The other way ran straight on a tangent to the old road led directly to the school across a wide stretch of bayou. It could only serve in the dry months since it crossed a bayou too deep to be forded during wet weather. Created by the impatience of youth, it was hardly more than a path. It was said that the children favored it more for the adventure of the crossing than for the short distance it saved.

           The two paths diverged just past the home of Fate Johnson and as the four came near, Sheila attacked.

           "You ain't speaking to them people today are you?"

           "I might," said Robert.

           "I'll tell; you know what Mama said. Why you want to anyway?"

           "They ain't hurtin' anybody, they just like to wave at us, that's all."

           "They's black and it ain't right. They don't know us."

            “You may not know them but I do.” 

“I told Mama that you ate their food. She said for you not to and for you not to be talkin' to them."

"They ain't hurtin' anybody, they just want to be friendly."

"Somebody told me they just got married," said Timmy.

"That's crazy", said Sheila, "They's colored."

"They get married too", said Timmy, defensively.

"But not like everybody else, do they?" asked Roland.

"No, they do every thing different from us", Sheila said, silencing Roland with a glare so severe that he felt its force hot upon his face. He stumbled to the rear and walked quietly.

Robert stared ahead, thinking of how, with the addition of the chain, they could complete a bridge across the bayou.

"I didn't know they got married like white people do," said Roland. "Do they really, Robert?"

"Shut up," Robert said.

            He walked for some time and then he realized that Timmy Hinson was walking beside him. Sheila and Roland walked a few yards ahead. Tommy kicked a dirt clod into the ditch and looked at Robert. He held the chain in his hand and it dragged behind them in the muddy road.

            “Do you really know them people?” he asked.

            “I reckon I do.”

            “How?”

            “That man’s daddy used to work for mine sometimes. I didn’t know him until one day he yelled at me when I was riding our mare by here.

"Mamma says you keep hangin' out with coloreds, you start actin' like one," Sheila yelled back.

            Robert ignored her and continued. “What he wanted me to do was let him milk our mare. He said that a mare’s milk could cure a baby of the whooping cough and that his little brother was about to die of it. I didn’t see any harm that could come to it and he looked like he was about to cry. So I let him. I can’t see no harm in helpin’ anyone if you can.”

            “Golly snot,” Timmy said. “I never heard of such in my life.”

            “Anyway, he was thankful. He said the baby would be fine now, and that it would be my baby from here on. I just told him not to tell my daddy I let him. You know what?”

            “What?” Timmy asked.

            “It worked. He told me later,” he said and walked a little farther. “A real mystery… knowin’ that could come in handy some day.”

            “Is that why him and his wife do it?”

            “Do what?”

            “Run out on the porch and wave every time you come by?”

            “No, I just think they get lonesome.”

            Robert looked up in time to see Sheila walking back towards them.

            "They're waitin' on you and you better not talk to them today. And don't eat nothin' they offer you. We got food."

"Shut up," Robert said again. "Timmy, when we get to the bayou, we'll tie this chain to that big log and we can all four pull it down to the water. That'll finish the bridge."

"Don't you look at them Robert. If they got a biscuit, you don't eat it. You just keep walkin'."

Robert wanted to stop and speak but as he reached the corner of their fence, his breath failed and he felt the coughing coming again. From the corner of his eye, he saw the young couple sitting on their porch as always, the man waiting for the wagon that would take him to the field if the rains stopped and the woman waiting with him to wave at the children.

Walking without surrendering to the cough took the last measure of Robert's effort. He took each step with a resolution that exacted full payment in effort and he stared ahead. He could think of nothing but the pain and effort of breathing.

Sheila watched from the corner of her eye, her strength and determination ready. When Robert stumbled, she darted but he regained his footing and concentrated his entire consciousness on holding the chain.

The young couple held hands and waited, smiling and eager.

Only this morning there would be no greeting. There would be no chance to offer their gift. The boy stared straight ahead as he walked by, dragging a chain and gasping for breath. He tossed a hand at them but just barely, weakly. The girl walked backward in front, waiting to grab the chain if he faltered or turned to look at the couple. She stared at them victoriously, and the two younger boys followed obediently behind. They were gone quickly.

"I'll be," the husband said. Then he stood up, turned, and walked through the dark door of the house, leaving his wife alone on the porch as the soft rain began falling again over the fields.

"You all right?" Timmy asked.

"I'll be fine, just leave me alone."

"Last one to the bayou's a nigger baby," said Sheila, and she starting running, first along the road and then veering along the path that led to the trees that bordered the water. Roland started after her and then Timmy, who first checked to see if Robert was coming. Robert continued to walk, dragging the chain and struggling to breathe. The rain framed a curtain before him and he walked through it into the woods.

The place was quiet and seemed of another place and time to Robert. Giant oak trees towered above the lesser vegetation. Even in the middle of summer it would be a dark, sunless place and never quite dry. The forest floor was smooth with the tracks of millennia buried beneath its mud. It seemed as if he had entered a large, dark building. It was a mysterious place, suitable only for gathering, communing, and, today, planning.

When he reached the edge of the water, the others were gone. They had followed one on the many paths, some made by animals, and others by people, that followed the edge of the bayou. They were looking for wood - logs, limbs, pieces of broken lumber - that they could use to finish the bridge.

Robert sat on the stump of an ancient cedar and coiled the chain at his feet. He watched the flow of water and knew that it was higher, and faster, than before. He watched eddies as they sucked and whirled in the coffee brown water and he knew the flow was unstoppable.

The spot where he sat, the spot where they had chosen to work, had once been a large grove but the bayou had shifted over the years and now ran in a narrow course between the spreading trees. It was the right place to build a bridge, he was thinking, even though the water was too high today. He began to sing – aloud, but just barely and to himself, as the waters rolled by.

           "On the Jerico road....there's room for just two,

           "No more and no less....just Jesus and you."

           Roland had returned and was standing behind Robert now, waiting and watching as if he didn't quite belong in what was going on. Finally, hearing the others coming, he spoke.

           "How long we got to work today?'

           "Robert finished a verse and then replied, "Prolly half and hour. We'll have time to go back around the other way if we start when we hear the first bell sound."

           "We won’t finish today?"

           "No, not today, water's too high," and he started to sing again.

           "Oh brother to you ... this message I bring

           "Though hope may be gone ... he'll cause you to sing.

           "At Jesus' command ... sin's shackles will fall.

           "On the Jerico road ... will you answer his call?"

           "Shut up that goddam singing," Sheila was shouting as she and Timmy returned from upstream. "Let's get this stupid bridge built so I don't have to walk so far .... how much time we got?"

           "Not much," said Robert. "You find any wood?"

           "You dang sure didn't," she screamed, and then addressing the group "We don't need any more wood."

           "Why?" asked Timmy.

           "I figured out a new way since we found the chain."

           "Robert found the chain," said Roland.

           "It's half mine and I know how to finish the bridge with it," said Sheila. "You piss ants gonna help or not?"

           Robert still sat on the cedar stump with his feet resting on the coiled chain.

           "We'll finish next week," he said. "Water's too high today."

           "We'll wrap the chain around this tree here and tie the other end to that one there", said Sheila. "Then we'll push it over and it'll fall upstream. That'll stop the water 'til we finish," and she leaned against a tall, full, cedar whose roots were so damaged from erosion that it leaned far out over the stream.

           "Golly snot," said Roland, "That might work."

           "Damn right it'll work. Now let's get busy." Sheila turned toward Robert and waited.

           "We'll build it like we planned...water's too high today," Robert said and as he said it, he felt something terrible begin deep in his body and move toward his chest.

           Sheila took a step toward him. "You don't even have to help, just give me the chain and you can watch us."

           "We'll build it like we…," Robert started, but he never finished. The sickness sprang into his lungs and turned his world into a red nightmare. He dropped from the stump onto his knees through the redness saw the chain snake toward Sheila's hand and then knew it was in her hand and following her like an obedient child. Then he could see nothing but the redness and feel nothing but pain.

           When the coughing stopped, he was still weak, but managed to stand, and then to sit on the stump. He watched, wanting to speak but not able. In his mind spun the secret formulas and vectors that defined the danger but when he tried to distill, to coalesce, the thoughts into words they swirled and become part of the mist that rose from the spinning brown waters of the bayou.

           He watched helplessly as Timmy and Roland secured both ends of the chain and he forced damp air into his lungs desperately while Sheila directed the boys.

           "Goddamit hurry up!" she yelled as she began to push against the leaning tree as if her energy would complete in that moment the process that erosion had been working for years. She hurled herself against the tree again and again as Timmy and Roland completed the securing of the chain. "Help me", she screamed and the boys ran over to join the frantic assault.

           "That tree won't fall", Robert started to say but before he had finished, Sheila conceived another plan.

           "Timmy, get your ass up that tree."

           "What?"

           "You get up the tree and we'll push from here. When it starts to give, slide down and we'll catch you."

           "Why me?'

           "You're the heaviest, stupid."

           "I ain't gonna."

           "Yes, by God, you're gonna!" and with this she shoved him backwards into the muddy bank where he sat looking, alternatively, at her and Robert, waiting for the decision that he knew he deserved, knew was waiting, and knew that he feared in the very depths of his heart.

           "Don't", came softly from Robert, not spoken as much as aspirated into the mist where it lay without force or power.

           "You heard me damn it", said Sheila and the words flashed within the grove like the hiss and crackle of lightening.

           Timmy stood slowly and walked toward the tree.

           "You’re one of the saints now, brother," said Sheila proudly. "You just get it started and watch out!"

           "Timmy, don't", said Robert as the other boy inched his way up the tree.

           Sheila twirled upon him. "Shut the hell up!" Then she turned and joined Roland as they began to push against the base of the tree.

           "Roll Jordan roll", she began to yell as she pushed and then Roland joined her.

           "Roll Jordan roll," they yelled.

           "Roll Jordan roll."

           "Roll Jordan roll."

           Robert stood up now and walked toward them. He was only a few feet away when he heard the crack of the roots giving way and the sound of Timmy’s screaming.

           "Hold on Timmy", Robert yelled and as time slowed he formed the arc of the tree in his mind and calculated its destination. As the tree fell, he spun in a half circle and ran obliquely to its base, past the horrified faces of Sheila and Roland and then into the sliding waters of the bayou as the tree, and Timmy, hit the water at once in an brown liquid explosion of water, tree, and boy.

           Timmy sank completely beneath the water as the tree crashed in a wild boil, but then Robert saw him surface as the trunk of the tree sprang back straight. Timmy held to the very end of the branches as if taking some ride. His hair was plastered on his forehead and Robert noticed bubbles forming around his nose. By some miracle, Robert thought, his head stayed just above water.

           "Don't move," Robert yelled and began to slide his way further into the water which was becoming more turbulent as it sped into the tree. Just beyond his reach he could see Timmy and it seemed to Robert that his eyes were bulging so they might pop from his face.

           "Hold on, I'm almost there." To Robert's great relief, the bed of the stream did not fall steeply at this spot, and he was soon able to grab the boy's hand and begin to work him toward the bank.

           "The chain held," said Sheila as Robert and Timmy reached the edge of the bayou. "Roland, help your brother out of the water."

           "Golly snot", said Roland.

           "Just shut up, the both of you," said Robert as he and Timmy walked up the bank. The bank was wet and slippery and the younger boy stumbled several times as Robert helped him forward. Timmy was numb and he stared straight ahead as if led by some light that the others didn't see.

           "I didn't wanna," he said, "She made me," and for the first time his fear found expression and he began to cry, the tears marking a trail on his face through the brown mud of the bayou. "She made me do it Robert. I didn't wanna."

           "It's okay," said Robert, leading him farther away from the other two. "Don't let them see you cry," and he and the other walked out of the darkness of the woods back towards the main road.

           "It's time for school to start," shouted Sheila from behind them. "Where ya'll goin'?"

           Neither Robert nor Timmy answered. He removed his coat, wet nearly to the chest, and covered the younger as they started home.

           Sheila's screaming became fainter and more distant with each step. "By God you tell 'em he fell in. You'll be sorry if you don't." Robert heard Sheila but neither he nor Timmy acknowledged her commands. "Me and Roland are goin' on - you mind what I said." Then they couldn't hear her anymore.

           They walked back slowly, the two of them. The soft rain fell again upon the fields of cotton rotting for lack of sun and the fields lay damp and dying in the dullness of the delta. They passed Fate Johnson's house again but this time there would be neither smile nor wave. Those were gone now and so were the plans for a bridge across the bayou. Soon they would be home and they expected heat and dry clothes there. But for now the cold settled into them like a vapor. The trip seemed endless.

           The younger boy still cried softly. As he walked he looked at Robert through his tears as if a veil had been pierced in the fall and the crash and he mourned that he could not make it never have happened.

           "I didn't wanna, she made me."

           "I know," said Robert. "You go ahead and cry because of it if you want to," and he put his arm around Timmy's shoulder. In the direction of the Hinson home he saw a thin slice of blue sky emerge from the clouds. As they walked, he began to sing:

           "On the Jerico Road,

           "There's room for just two,

           "No more and no less

           "Just Jesus and you."

 

 

Fruits of Silence

By Jimmie vonTungeln

©2006

             The boy leaned forward on the wagon seat and shrugged. He twisted his face the way young boys do, not so much for the sake of doing anything but more to relieve the monotony of childhood. The rubber wheels rolled with a smooth hum in tune with the crunch of the horse’s shoes striking gravel. The boy nodded with the pattern. “What’s an Arkansas, Daddy?

            When they were in town selling the pig, one of the ladies said that 1948 had been a hard year for Arkansas and maybe that was why there wasn’t much pork. It was a conversation the boy didn’t understand.

            “Ain’t no thing, just where we live, that’s all,” the man said.

            “Why we live at Arkansas, Daddy?”

            “We just do, now hush talkin’ or I ain’t bringing you with me again, you understand?”

            “Yessir,” he said, and shrugged again.

            They contrasted, the man was thick and dark—the darkness made more so by a white stubble of whiskers—and the boy was lighter brown and dusty. He was quick in movement.  The man was slow and deliberate.

            The wagon was also a contrast, a piece of the recent past of wood and horse grafted onto automobile tires. It was as if the new was stealing in upon the old and whatever gods ruled the backwoods could not hold back the future. Man and machine moved together, sliding slowly into the land of dark woods and scattered homes like a stream flowing into the lowlands.

            “Why did we sell the pig, Daddy?”

            “We need the money, son, I told you once.”

            “We got money now?”

            “Hush boy.” He saw the trap opening and slammed it shut.

            With the slamming he returned to thinking about the day and the day was like something coiled around his neck, threatening to strangle him.

            He made himself focus and then he could see the thing from beginning to end. He remembered the killing and the sticking. He saw the smoke-like steam in the late autumn air, first from the blood then, later, from the innards that spilled out as he started the butchering.

            Lost in himself, he was trying to calculate—trying in spite of the hugeness of such a task. There had been but one hog this year. The rest of the hogs had burrowed into the shack where he kept the arsenic and, in their search for food, spilled the arsenic and licked it in their greed.

            “What are we going to do?” his wife had asked.

            “I don’t know,” he said and he despised himself for not knowing.

            They might have thought it was salt, he supposed, though it had been for the killing of boll weevils and not for hogs. So they had been punished, punished like you might punish a child with one reprimanding stroke, but dreadfully punished and punished in a final way.

            He felt weak and played out when he found them, curled like fallen leaves, cold dead, and—worst of all—unfit. That was the terrifying part: both his winter’s wages and his winter food unfit, except for the one he had butchered at the beginning of the week. He had divided it and kept half and had ridden to town with the boy and had sold the other half.

            “Not a lot to choose from this year,” one of his regular customers said. He said it as much in accusation as in observation. His face narrowed as he waited for an answer.

            “Nawsuh, jes one hog this year, das all. Be mo fo sure next year.”

            “Well I hope so,” and then, in front of the boy, “You better git your mind on your business out there.”

            “Yassuh,” he said as he and the boy rode away.

            Maybe there was some luck, he was thinking. The hog that had been spared was spared because he was the biggest one and couldn’t follow the others through the rooted-out hole and into the shed and onto the poison.

            So he had butchered the hog. His older boys helped him, the four of them straining to hoist the dead beast into a barrel of water half buried in a slant in the ground and fired to bring the water to a boil. Then they scraped the hide and then wrestled the thing onto a board nailed at the corner of the shed, hanging it by a stick sharpened at both ends and thrust through the tendons of the legs.

            While the carcass hanged there, twisting slowly, almost delicately, like a bottle tied in a tree, they finished the butchering while the youngest boy, the one with him now, watched in fascination. He asked no questions but watched quietly as if he were witnessing a sacrifice and, not understanding the purpose, was forming his own.

            Ya’ll put up our half and we’ll peddle the other half in Armistead,” he told his wife and sons.

            “How much you reckon it will bring?” she asked and he knew the unasked question—the one he had even asked himself: how long will our half last?

            “Church, Daddy!” the boy yelled suddenly, pointing across the other’s chest. “There’s the church.”

“That’s right,” the man said. Then he looked over his shoulder toward town as if he left something there, something that he needed back.

            “Why ain’t nobody there?” the boy asked, pointing toward the lopsided white building positioned between the road and a dark forest beyond.

            “It ain’t Sunday. No reason to be there.”

            “Can’t you go ‘cept Sunday?”

            “Won’t do no good. Ain’t nobody there,” then turning to the boy, “If you don’t hush, I’m going to take a trace belt off and wear you out.”

            The boy turned to look at the church as they rode by. The building looked small and harmless with no wagons pulled around it, no children bouncing in front, and no families proceeding in a slow march to the entrance. He tried to imagine it filled with the saints and bulging with the sound of singing. He tried hard for a moment and then shrugged. He moved his legs toward the front and looked ahead.

            The man settled on his seat, hunched with his thoughts curled before him like a dog at slumber, bringing him neither rest nor peace.

            He was thinking that white people seemed to know when you were up against it and he knew that he had come out short in the trading. Most years, he rode home with the tight role of bills resting in pile of loose change with it all bulging so he could feel it through the worn money purse he carried in his pocket. This time he felt nothing and it was exactly that nothing, that non-feeling where there should have been something that brought the fear.

            Then he was thinking about the cold months ahead and how the faces of his family would look when the hunger really set in, not at first when they would simply do without for that was easy and they were used to it. Later, when the hunger was hurting and wouldn’t go away, they would ration the flour and the meal and they would forget how it felt to be full. Then they would look at him and accuse with their eyes and not speak, particularly the youngest for he had not been through it before.

            He thought about the church then and about a Sunday the preacher told about the life of Job.

            “The land is like that,” he told his wife after the service. Then he had thought about it some more. “No, not like that at all. It don’t do it like a test. No bet. No joke. It does it all the time, like it was trying to keep you off balance and unsteady so you can’t ever see quite straight and like you ain’t never going to draw a breath that ain’t been bought and paid for with your life’s blood.

            “It’s the Lord’s will,” his wife had said.

            The road stretched on along lengthening shadows. A half-mile or so before they reached the white settlement, just before they crossed Bayou Dupree, they met Happy Bill. The boy saw him first as Bill emerged from hiding at the far end of the bridge, as if he had been waiting for them. The boy sat straight in his seat.

            “Happy Bill Daddy, there’s Happy Bill,” he said.

            The man stopped the wagon to allow the figure to cross the bridge. As the stranger approached the wagon, the man nodded. “Brother Bill,” he said in greeting.

            “God bless you gentlemen,” the figure studied the man’s face briefly and, bowing low, added: “Dead pigs, dead pigs. Everybody knows, too bad, too bad.” He rose to his full height. “And how are we by fine Christian brothers. He smiled and the smile revealed a mouth alternating with strong white teeth and black gaps where teeth had once been.

            “We’re fine,” answered the man as he began to calculate in his head how much this would cost, what the least amount that it could cost without loss of face. Happy Bill could not be ignored. He was a fixture on this rural, southern landscape who commanded much respect in an ancient tribal sense flowing back to those dark ceremonies that first held young boys in check and later opened the door of manhood to them. He knew his power, understood it, and seldom misused it.

            He was crazy, no doubt, but it was widely held that when the seizure hit, he spoke the truth. Doubters said it wasn’t the truth, just what happened to be in his head at the moment. Some said he could see the future and some said he could make things happen. The whites tormented him so he avoided them when possible. They knew they could induce the seizure with a poke to his ribs. So they did it when a crowd was present to witness the torment. His own people honored him, never taking chances in this harsh land.

            “Came from Canaan’s Land today my brothers where I journeyed to sup in the presence of mine enemies. I am sanctified and holy. How about you? Are you ready, quite ready, to pass to glory today good friends?” And then, quickly, as if all in one motion, came the twitch and the bowing. “Did you see Sis Ella’s bloomers in church last Sunday. Fell, yes fell she did. Right between the sister-holders. White they were, I promise you, white as the heart of a lily, praise god almighty.”

            The boy nearly laughed, but the man looked hard at him and then addressed the other.

            “Evening Brother Bill. Can we help you today?”

            “Would be nice for me and good for your soul. Yes, would be nice,” he said. “Maybe just a nickel so old Bill could say to Jesus, “I have met a man of faith.” He consulted the sky. Then he looked into the man. “Just a nickel please.”

            “Most assuredly,” the man said. “Most assuredly,” and he reached for the money purse. Producing a coin for the other man, he handed it from the wagon. “Will you pray for me brother?"

            “You be blessed,” said the other. He jerked and the jerk bent him over. “That boy, he’s the one, he must bring the wrath down for sure. He the devil Christ, he is.”

            He stepped away from the wagon, his arms swooping like the boy had seen hawks do on a cold day. Still spinning and swooping in a fluid, mocking motion, he moved behind the wagon.

            “Git hoss,” said the man and he snapped the reins hard upon the horse’s back.

 

 THE SECOND COMING

III

               "Dammit, I thought you was shot," said Clifton.

                "No, I think he just got scared and pulled the trigger."

                "I don't blame him," said Clifton as he watched the light in the sky. "I don't like the looks of this at all."

                "Neither do I," I said. "Do you really think it's the end of the world?"

                "Could be," he said. "Got to happen sometime. Let's head down to the Church."

                "That ‘age of accountability thing,’" I asked, "Are you sure about that?"

                "Oh yeah," he said. "Besides, we never done nothin'. Don't reckon they can get you for just plannin' to do something can they?"

                "Heck, I don't know," I said. “They can tell what you’re thinking can’t...”

                "Dang, look at the people!"  Clifton interrupted. Sure enough, with a full moon out now you could see pretty clearly. There was a file of people ahead, and every time we passed a house, another family would emerge from the front door and join the throng. They seemed to be in a trance of some kind. They walked stiff legged, like they were walking in their sleep maybe. Nobody said much and everyone just looked straight ahead except for the kids, who were taking everything in.

I began to recognize so many shapes on the road up in front of us that I guessed the whole county was turning out, white and black alike. They were all in the same group. Nobody said anything. They still just looked straight ahead.

 We stayed behind the line so we could see. We eventually got to the Centerville crossroads. At this point, the black families peeled off to the right towards their church. As they reformed, I could hear them beginning to sing. Then I could hear a shout or two. It seemed to me at the time that they almost sounded happy. Clifton and I stopped to allow the stragglers to get ahead of us. I glanced around, sort of hoping it had gone.

It was still there – if anything it was even closer.

                "Maybe it is the end of the world," I said.

                "Look at Grandma and Grandaddy!" said Clifton, pointing at Uncle T. J. and Aunt Hallie who were in a crowd about twenty feet in front of us and visible now in the.  "They still got their nightclothes on!"

                Sure enough, both were dressed like they were ready to step right into bed. We surmised that they, like everyone else had been surprised by the spectacle in the sky and, assuming the worst, had rushed out without bothering to change. As we began to recognize more of our friends and relatives, we marked a variety of dress as if the end of the world had truly caught everyone unprepared.

                "Let's hang back, I got to figure this out," said Clifton. We sat down under a tree. Then he looked at me like there was some the answer to some long-hidden problem surfacing in his mind. "By the way, who was that man come to meet Gehaw?"

                "You wouldn't believe it if I told you," I said.

                "God almighty, look a yonder!"  Clifton said, pointing to the shy where the light had appeared again, this time making a beeline for the crowd of travelers who filled the road. There was a mixed chorus of screams, halleluiah’s, prayers and singing as some dove for the ditches on either side, some grabbed one another, and some just fell to their knees to wait for the worst.

                Clifton and I just stood back behind the rest, taking in the scene.  I guess we felt a little secure because of our age. Or maybe we relaxed in the knowledge that the most important sin of our lives to this point had been curtailed before it really got under way. But I also think maybe there was a slight flash of understanding, some hint of familiarity in the movement of the light that the others, occupied as they were with the prospect of such an imminent and lasting judgment, missed. We each guessed it at the same time.

Clifton grinned. Nobody else seemed to have noticed.

"This is going to be good," he said.  "Let's get to the Church and get a good seat for it."

                "All right," I said, and we set out across the open cotton fields.

                When we got there, we didn't go inside. Instead, we went to the dark side of the building and found a good strong limb in an oak tree. From there we could see almost the whole inside. The windows were open, so we wouldn't miss a word. This was going to be some show all right.

By the time we got settled, the Church was half full and people were still streaming in. Preacher Hargraves was already in the pulpit, his face flushed red like it did when he got filled with the Spirit. His wife, Preacher's Gracie, was pounding the piano like it was the devil itself. She was one of the fattest women in the county and watching her bouncing around on that piano seat sent Clifton into a spell of laughing that I just knew was going to get us caught.

“Shut up,” I said. He just laughed harder.

                "Fall down and repent!" Preacher was saying, and several people took him right at his word. They fell right down in front of the pulpit. A couple of them began to shake and jerk uncontrollably.

This seemed to satisfy the preacher, so he continued.

"I have seen the light of salvation in the eastern sky." 

                "Gloree!" someone shouted from the pews.

                "Praise his name brother!" Preacher said.

                "Oh Lord, have mercy," said another, "I been a bad sinner and I ain't ready."

                "He hears you Brother.” Preacher was getting warmed up now.

“Who's next?"

                "Been a liar," said another.

                "Oh Lord I've stole from my neighbor."

                "Pray to Him brother"

                "Lord I'm a drunkard."

                I recognized that voice. Before I could get a good look, I heard another just as familiar.

                "Lord I just got done lyin' to you that my husband was sick when he was dead drunk instead,"

I could see the two of them, Mamma and Papa kneeling near the back with Uncle T.J. and Aunt Hallie who had just come in. I couldn't hear the rest of what they said on account of Clifton was laughing so hard.

                "Stop it," I said.  "They're going to come out here and get us."

                "I can't help it," said Clifton who had tears streaming down both cheeks and snot starting out of his nose he was laughing so hard. I wouldn't look at him now for every time I did he busted out all over again. Then I would get the giggles.  Inside they were heating up so that we could just hear snatches.

                "Stole a hog!"

                "Adultery!"

                "I ain't been to Church....."

                I can’t quite describe it. Clifton was limp by now. He laid back against the limb and just watched, sort of like he was daydreaming. The noises and the music reminded me of a carnival. Maybe like when you stand beside a carousel and watch the people glide by to the music. It all began to flow together.

                Then we heard another voice we recognized, this one clear and strong above the rest to the point where the other voices stopped and even Clifton sat up. 

                "I thank I kilt my daughter tonight."

                It got real quiet. There was no sound but for the insects.

                But Preacher didn’t seem to want things to calm down. He took over again before things got too quiet and addressed old man Ratliff from the pulpit.

"Ain't nobody gonna die ever again, brother." He added quickly, "Help me pray for this man!"

                Then the din started up again and we couldn't hear any single voice, just the crying, singing, praying and shouting of a hundred voices seeking salvation in that delta night. It was if the earth had opened and the sins of the earth were being poured out of that little country church.

Clifton and I just sat back in amazement, knowing that we would never see anything like this again. 

                "Is he in there?" Clifton whispered over to me.

                I didn’t say anything. I guess I didn’t have to. I guess it was just the way I was watching him and laughing.

                "You're lyin," he said, but when he looked and saw I wasn't I could tell that he was as shocked as I had been although being older than I was and all, he didn't shock as easily.

                "I'll be damned," he said.

That seemed to end it for him.  "You reckon we ought to stop them?"

                "Guess somebody ought to so's they can go home,"

We slid off our perch and walked around to the door of the Church. Actually, they had begun to wear down a little themselves, having gone at it for nearly an hour. They heard us open the door and, all at one time, looked around at us. Here stood two young boys instead of the heavenly hosts that they had expected so earnestly. You could see surprise as if it had been painted on their faces.

The noise had died away like a summer storm does when it moves off into the east.  Even Preacher's Gracie quit playing the piano. She just leaned over against it and you could hear her breathing real heavy above everything else.

The preacher was the only one who seemed to want to keep it going after we walked in.

                "You boys better get in here and pray," he said. "Ain't you seen the Lord on his way here?"

                "Where?" said Clifton from the back of the room.

                "In the sky, boy. Ain't you seed it?"

                "I seen a buzzard with a fire tied to its leg," said Clifton.  "That's all I saw."

                "A what?" said a voice in the crowd.

                "A buzzard," said Clifton. He looked toward the pulpit. "If you can't tell the difference between a buzzard and the Lord coming, you ain't much of a preacher."

                "Oh lord.  Hush Clifton," said Aunt Hallie.

                There was this funny sound like everyone in the room drew a quick breath at once.  They stared at us like they expected us to bust into flames. I expected them to start up again with us at the center of things.

                Then I think the truth must have pierced that room for I heard Uncle T.J. "You hush woman. By God I thank the boy's right."

                The room got quiet again.

                "I thought there was something funny about it myself," said a voice I didn't recognize."

                "Are ya'll goin to listen to a couple of sneakin' kids over a man of God?" Preacher was pleading now but he knew it was over, too. Then I heard Papa.

                "I wanna go home and go to bed, Mamma."

                “Sure you do,” she said quietly. “Let’s get on back to the house.

                We moved away from the door as she and Papa walked out. She didn’t say anything to me but gave me a look that said plenty. The main thing it said was to never mention this again. I watched them disappear into the night. She had her arm around Papa and was leading him home like he was her son instead of her husband.

                Then it all began to break up.  It was pretty plain that no one wanted to talk to anyone else, didn't want to see anyone else really - just wanted to get out of there and without once raising their eyes to meet anyone else's. Preacher eased toward the back door with his Gracie behind him. Clifton and I faded back into the darkness and waited in the hope that something else of a lively nature might occur. But it was all over.

                Everyone has realized by now that it wasn't the second coming that they saw in the southern sky that night but just a coal-oil soaked rag set fire and tied to a buzzard's leg by, as it turned out, Fish Johnson who thought it was wondrously funny until they almost sent him to the penitentiary over it.  We all walked home a little thoughtful, though, having been forced by the events to confront our own personal sins, or, in the case of Clifton and me, our intended sins.

                As I said at first, nobody ever mentioned it much. I never talked about it at all as long as Mama and Papa were alive. He, by the way, never touched whiskey again. Preacher disappeared the next day. He left Gracie and she taught piano lessons for a while and then disappeared herself. The harrow handle that Gehaw ran into when the shotgun went off was, we found out later, bent over even with the ground and people used to walk by the house just to look at it.  She wasn't dead at all but was all right after a few days and back with the mules.

Of course we never did see her take a bath, or even want to, really, after that night. We never mentioned it again. I never even told Clifton what her real name was, not that he would have had any interest.

                Clifton and I had more escapades but I never saw him with as much spirit. In fact, I think he sort of lowered his sights after that. It was as if he knew he had been part of something big, maybe even bigger than Hog Eye Bend itself for that matter. We might find it dangerous to try to top it.

                I've thought about Clifton a thousand times, I guess, particularly as he looked that night going home, his hands stuck in the pockets of his overalls and his feet shuffling along and the dust of the delta rising in the full moon's light behind him to form a diamond-like mist that seemed to want to hang there so it, too, could glory in the moment.  It was a grand one for him and I'm glad he had it before the Japs got him.