Mud Creek

by Kelly Ferguson

  “This was not in my Hippocratic oath,” Doc muttered to himself.

  Children smashed their faces against the three back windows of the Chevy.

  The field hands helped Bully place Mr. John in the back of Doc Grasson’s Chevy. Bully drove the Farmall back to the equipment shed. Doc Grasson drove the children and the field hands out of the bottom, down Ginny Ridge, over the nearest bridge crossing Mud Creek, and on to Mr. John’s place. Miss Lillian didn’t handle Doc Grasson’s news well. She threatened to kill Bully. She slapped and bit Alice Fae in the face. She was restrained by the field hands. Doc Grasson gave her a strong sedative and called her sister, who stayed the night with the despondent woman.

  The Funeral

  There is something about a southern funeral. The telephone party lines buzzed for four straight days up and down the ridge.

  What was going to happen to Miss Lillian?

  How awful that Miss Francina was at that highfalutin’ music school in Europe.

  Was she going to miss her father’s funeral? Had anyone seen Bully?

  Was he and Mr. John drinking that night?

  Whose idea was it to hitch a tractor to that mule wagon?

  Was this God’s way of saying Mr. John got too big in the farming business?

  Was this Mr. John’s punishment for taking in that bastard child, Bully?

  The Reverend John Strawrack preached Mr. John’s funeral. His mighty frame lost only to his booming voice. He stood six foot, six inches and weighed two hundred and fifty-five pounds. The deep lines in his face and his full shock of grey hair reflected his age. A huge wart affixed itself to his right cheek. The children gawked at the reverend’s wart and his mangled right hand; a victim of a mule drawn mower accident. His middle three fingers were missing, leaving only his thumb and little finger. When “caught up in the Holy Spirit,” he waved that hand around and beat on his frayed Bible. On occasion, his mangled hand hit that wart, which caused massive bleeding. His voice resonated across the hills when possessed with the Spirit. Children fought for a front row seat; any ploy to get a close look at his mangled hand and his bleeding wart.

  People packed Mt. Zion church that Saturday afternoon. Mt. Zion was a beautiful, yet simple small church hidden back in the woods. The church men kept the grounds neat, and it always had a fresh coat of white paint. Old timers told how Confederate troops used it for a hospital during the Battle of Brice’s Cross Roads. A cemetery behind the church flourished with stately dogwood trees. People drove for miles to see the fragrant white blossoms each spring.

  Word got out folks drove all the way from Memphis for Mr. John’s funeral.

  Women folk banded together and brought enough food to feed Christian and heathens alike. Baked chicken, BBQ, fried chicken, cornbread dressing, black eyed peas, mashed potatoes, pickled peaches, fried okra and every cake imaginable. The whole community planned on feasting at Miss Lillian’s after the funeral.

  The parishioners buzzed with concern over the where abouts of Bully. Rumors flew: had he gone and killed himself? Was he drunk in the hills? Had he gone off to be by himself and suffered an accident? Alice Fae and Jessie worried. Bully exuded dependability and punctuality in family matters. Mr. John had stressed these qualities to Bully.

  The heat radiated off the ground creating distorted images of the azaleas and irises planted in neat rows near the church, reminiscent of the dreaded afternoons of July. Church windows were flung open. Folks, in their Sunday best, trying to stay cool, used funeral home fans and last Sunday’s bulletins to fan themselves. Miss Tillman, sweat dripping, was positioned at the piano where generations of members passed through the small church. No one could remember how long she’d been there, and the unspoken rule was, don’t ask. Doc Grasson took his usual seat over by Miss Tillman. Jessie and Alice Fae, a small bandage over her right eye, was behind Doc Grasson. Alice Fae guarded a space for Bully, though people were standing along the walls.

  A hush fell over the congregation when Miss Lillian, dressed in black and looking gaunt, entered with her sister. Reverend Strawrack met the widow, placing his huge arm around her and offered his condolences. She made her way to the front row where Mr. John lay in a simple open casket. Most people said he made a mighty handsome corpse. Miss Lillian maintained her ridged posture throughout the ordeal until she saw Mr. John’s ashen face. She crumbled at the sight. Mr. John was dressed in his favorite suit; he wore his gold 32-degree Mason pin on his lapel. The minister and her sister, Beatrice, assisted Miss Lillian to her seat The Reverend Strawrack nodded to Miss Tillman. She opened the hymn book and began to play, “Just a Closer Walk with Thee.”

  Everyone in the congregation eyed the widow and the door. Tension rose by the minute. Where was Bully? How could he not attend Mr. John’s funeral? He idolized Mr. John.

  “We have come here today to bury Mr. John Watson!” Rev. Strawrack boomed across the congregation. “Who was this man, John Watson? There are those of you who might say he was a good father! There are those of you who might say he was a kind man!”

  “Amen!” shouted Mr. Percy.

  Mr. Flavous Percy, the oldest member of the church, led the Amen corner. The Amen corner was comprised of an esteemed group of old men who were past giving a damn what people thought. They provided the minister with much needed feedback while he preached.

  “There are those of you who might say he was a gentleman.” Rev. Strawrack’s voice fell like a hog on a frozen pond. “I’ll tell you who John Watson was! John Watson was a sinner in the eyes of the Lord!” Rev. Strawrack’s voice resonated off the back of the church.

  “All of you are sinners in the eyes of the Lord!”

  “Amen, that’s good preaching!” shouted Mr. Percy, which was like turning a pit bull loose in a chicken house.

  The Reverend Strawrack rocked back and forth. His eyes rolled. His rising and falling cadence seduced the congregation into a synchronization just short of mesmerizing. Sweat and spit flew. The minister’s mangled right hand flailed. His wart bled. His left hand clutched his Bible.

  “In ISAIAH, Chapter 33, verse 10-12, the Bible says, ‘Now I will arise, says the LORD, now I will lift myself up; now I will be exalted. You conceive of chaff; you bring forth stubble; your breath is a fire that will consume you. And the people will be as if burned to lime, like thorns cut down, that are burned in the fire.” The minister railed with veins protruding from his neck, reminiscent of muscadine vines trying to strangle a water oak tree.

  “Amen, that’s good preaching!” shouted Mr. Percy during a brief lull in the pious storm.

  “And you, young ladies,” the Reverend said, pointing to two young pubescent girls on the front row. “Cross your legs and close the gates of Hell! Yes, you too are sinners in the eyes of the Lord.” The two young girls started to cry; their mothers led them out with tissues in abundance.

  This was more like a mugging than a funeral. He took every advantage; the large congregation braced for his righteous licks.

  Reverend Strawrack pounded the altar.

  The eyes of the congregation grew wide. A collective gasp erupted from the audience. Bully entered the sanctuary through a door behind the pulpit.

  It’s hard to say what makes a man do what he does. There are certain checks and balances that hold behaviors and actions within a limited number of predictable responses. Then there is a shift, a disturbance in the balance, which calls all bets off, and a new order emerges that is both unknown and sometimes terrifying.

  This was one of those moments.

  Bully stuck a double-barreled shotgun to the back of the minister’s head. “Shut up and sit down!”

  The congregation froze. Miss Lillian fainted with a thud. Bully’s eyes, glazed over from huge amounts of alcohol and nights with no sleep, glared. He wore the same pair of overalls he wore the night of the accident. Lime mud was caked in his hair and around his legs, and his boots were long gone. His voice trembled, and his hands shook. He held the cocked shotgun with a glare;
he knew no friend. The reverend cowed in the preacher’s chair. Alice Fae cringed. She sunk down in the pew clutching Jessie.

  “That’s my daddy, Mamma! I want my daddy!”

  Alice Fae pulled Jessie toward her. “Hush, child! Stay with your mamma.”

  “None of you knew Mr. John! I’m the only one who knew this man! Not even you, Miss Lillian!” Bully’s voice resonated strong and burned with emotion.

  “We worked together! We rode home from the fields every night together! You were asleep! We figured out how to fix things, make things, do things. We coon hunted together.”

  Bully turned to the quaking man of God. “Do not ever let me hear you say you knew John Watson. I’ll shoot you like a dog! You did not know John Watson. He took me in when the rest of you would have run me and my momma outta town! For years, you made me feel like an outsider. I always tried to be a part of this place. Would you let me in? No! Hell, no!”

  Frustration and hurt poured from Bully.

  “I jumped your goddamn cars off! I helped you get your goddamn cows back home!” Tears streamed down his face. “I stopped and helped you fix your goddamn flat tires! Mr. John, you always told me to give them time,” Bully cried. He stared at Mr. John’s corpse. “Well, to hell with’um, Mr. John; times up!”

  The first shot took out the new chandelier, which hung in the center of the small church. It crashed into the center aisle. The second shot meant for the piano missed and hit the baptism. Water cascaded through the church. Bully threw the shotgun. It hit a stained-glass window glass and chaos exploded. Bully left the way he came.

  C.C. Bates Meets Killer

  Folks were in a talking frenzy down at the store the following Monday morning. The whole county read about the funeral incident in the Gazette. Rumors and questions flew. Some said Sheriff Bigelow picked Bully up without incident and booked him at the county jail. Others said Bully missed the meal at Miss Lillian’s house. What had happened to Miss Lillian? What was it like for poor Alice Fae having to endure the embarrassment of Bully’s actions? What a poor example to set for young Jessie! Who was going to oversee Mr. John’s farm during the critical harvest season? Folks up and down the Ridge could not stop talking.

  Two weeks passed with no activity on Mr. John’s farm. Miss Lillian spent a few days in the hospital at Doc Grasson’s suggestion, and Bully sat in jail. The bankers and cotton buyers in the county were restless with the fall harvest season ending. Mr. C.C. Bates, a powerful banker in Tupelo, the county seat of Lee County, sweated the most.

  Fifteen hundred acres of cotton standing in the field can make for some strange circumstances. One afternoon, Mr. C.C. Bates and Mr. P.H. McDonald, a prominent cotton buyer in the county, rode out to Miss Lillian’s place. The two men turned off the gravel road onto the long drive. They encountered acres and acres of cotton, waiting to be harvested. The chickens headed for cover. The black Cadillac made its way toward the farmhouse. Although, Mr. John Watson was a very prosperous farmer, he maintained a very comfortable yet modest residence. Most of the resources went back into the farm. Idle tractors and farm machinery were seen down at the equipment shed. The two gentlemen were met at the door by Alice Fae, who was busy washing clothes when she heard the knock.

  “Miss, my name is C.C. Bates, and this is Mr. P.H. McDonald. We would like a word with the Lady of the House, Miss Watson.”

  “Miss Lillian, there’s some gentlemen here to see you,” Alice Fae announced.

  “Tell ‘um to have a seat in the parlor,” Miss Lillian answered, She sounded almost like herself again.

  “Can I get you a glass of tea?” Alice Fae asked; excited to have someone in the house besides Miss Lillian.

  “Yes, thank you,” the two men responded in chorus.

  Alice Fae disappeared toward the kitchen. The two men took a seat.

  The parlor was filled with antiques, which went well with the hardwood floors. Over the fireplace was a large picture of Francina in a gilded rococo frame. A beautiful Steinway piano that Francina played sat in the corner. Only a new Victrola betrayed the semblance of a parlor from the 1930s.

  The two men rose and greeted the new widow when Miss Lillian entered the room. They shared their heartfelt condolences, which were received, with graciousness. Miss Lillian wore a simple blue cotton dress, her graying hair placed in a bun.

  “What do you two gentlemen want?” Miss Lillian asked; a slight edge to her voice.

  She despised cotton buyers; bankers even more.

  “As you know, Miss Watson, your husband, Mr. Watson maintained a long relation with the bank and died owing us a rather large sum of money,” Mr. C.C. stated very businesslike. “To the point, we are concerned that our investment is in jeopardy. We are aware that no cotton was harvested the past two weeks.”

  “What happens on this farm is none of your business, you damn crook!” Miss Lillian exploded. She was back.

  “On the contrary, Miss Watson, we have first mortgages on the crops and livestock, and a second mortgage on the farm equipment. Our institution has a vested interest in what happens out here, and we have one stipulation necessary to continue our relationship with you,” Mr. C.C. retorted, digging in for the bank.

  He was the largest stockholder. Mr. McDonald was the second largest stockholder.

  “Stipulation? What damn stipulation, you low life?”

  “We want you to put Bully in charge of running the farm.”

  Mr. Bates spoke in his best banker tone.

  “Over my dead body!”

  Two large glasses of tea hit the floor in the hallway.

  “Get the hell out of my house and don’t you dare show your face around here, again!” Veins protruded from Miss Lillian’s neck. She rose and pointed the two startled men to the door.

  “Miss Lillian, listen to reason,” Mr. McDonald spoke up, trying his luck.

  “Like it or not, Bully, is the only one alive who knows enough about this farm to run it.”

  “Out! Out!” Miss Lillian fired back.

  The two men backed out onto the front porch. Miss Lillian’s one hundred ten-pound German Sheppard, Killer, came around the corner of the house to access the commotion.

  Call it a reflex, nature, or just a bad habit, but when a German Shepard, named Killer, sees two bank stockholders running across a yard toward a strange black Cadillac, the primitive encoding in the DNA overrides any recent efforts toward domesticity. The cotton broker made it. The banker almost made it. When dealing with Killer, almost didn’t count. Killer nailed Mr. C.C. in the ass when he attempted to climb into the passenger seat of the Cadillac. Killer drug the terrified banker from the car.

  Bang!

  Killer froze with his teeth dug into the banker’s neck. The smell of gun powder permeated the air from Miss Lillian’s 45 caliber pistol. Killer, eyes fixed, dared the banker to move.

  “Killer let him go,” Miss Lillian said. “Bates, get your hat and get this damn car outta my yard.”

  A slight smirk emanated from her face.

  The distraught banker gathered up his hat and jumped into the Cadillac. His shorts hung out of a gaping hole in his hundred-dollar suit. Killer got an extra biscuit from Miss Lillian at supper.

  Three days after Mr. C.C. Bates lost his dignity to a German Shepard, Sheriff Bigelow drove out to the Watson place. Horace Bigelow was a former student of Miss Lillian during her teaching days at Saltillo High. He had occupied the sheriff ’s office for the past four years. Prior to law enforcement, Sheriff Bigelow was in the trucking business. He had lost so much money and was so in debt, to the powers that be, Mr. C.C. and Mr. McDonald, pooled their considerable influence and helped Horace win the election to the high sheriff post—a sure fire way to recoup their investment plus receive a residual benefit.

  “Afternoon, Miss Lillian,”

  He struggled to get his considerable girth dislodged from the new 1954 Pontiac.

  Miss Lillian and Alice Fae shelled dried butter beans under an oak shade tree. Miss L
illian was cool toward the sheriff. This was not a social call.

  “I heard you had some banker company out here a few days ago,” Sheriff Bigelow said, tiptoeing up to the subject.

  “Sheriff, if you’re referring to that crook C.C. Bates and his crony, McDonald, yes,” Miss Lillian flared.

  “Now, don’t get upset, Miss Lillian. We’ve got this little problem of what to do with Bully.” The sheriff said.

  Alice Fae did what she was best at doing: scooting down in her chair and pretending to be invisible.

  “Sheriff, if you are coming out here with the same intentions as those two crooks, the day before yesterday, we don’t have anything to talk about.”

  “I know you’re mad at Bully, but he did not kill Mr. John, Miss Lillian,” the Sheriff explained. “A run away mule wagon killed Mr. John. Besides, Bully is up there in my jail beating himself up more than you could ever do. It’s killing him that Mr. John didn’t forgive him before he died. He keeps saying over and over that he told Mr. John a hundred times that he was sorry, and he can’t understand why Mr. John died without forgiving him. I told Bully that when you’re busy dying, sometimes you just forget to do things.”

  “Sheriff, if I allow Bully to come back to the farm, would you give me custody of him in return for not filing charges for his antics over at the church?” Miss Lillian questioned.

  “Miss Lillian, I can’t do that, but I’m sure Judge Claxton and the Mt. Zion deacons will cooperate in anything we decide. I just want to get this matter cleared up,” the sheriff said.

  “Sheriff, bring Bully to me tomorrow afternoon at three o’clock and I’ll sign the necessary papers.” Miss Lillian’s eyes glared.

  Alice Fae felt giddy about Bully coming home, but she never said anything.

  Bully paced back and forth in his small cell; animal-like, He chewed his fingernails down to the quick and. now, he was going for second helpings. He read the newspaper accounts describing Mr. John’s funeral; it all sounded foreign. He only recollected bits of the four days prior to Mr. John’s funeral, and he had no memories of what he had done at Mt. Zion church.