Mud Creek

by Kelly Ferguson

  “Bully, if you don’t knock it off, I’m gonna drop your crippled butt right in this here cow pond!”

  “Ok, ok, Curtis, I quit.”

  Bully did not want to get wet. They made their way out to the ole Ford, and Curtis placed Bully upon the truck.

  “Curtis, you see any sign of Willard?”

  Bully looked down inside the truck as much as possible.

  “Bully, Willard ain’t nowhere to be found!”

  Curtis reported looking through the truck. In an instant, Bully eyed the largest water moccasin he had ever seen. It made its way around the back of the truck straight for Curtis.

  “Curtis, you love animals?”

  “Except snakes, why?”

  “Curtis, git up here on the truck with me, for a minute.” Curtis turned to address Bully when he saw the moccasin.

  “Mr. snake, don’t git me! Mr. snake, don’t git me!” Curtis came out of the water like a shot from a cannon. He landed on top of the truck with Bully.

  Bully laughed. He reached out to offer Curtis a hand. Curtis didn’t need a hand. He occupied the iron island of refuge, and held on to Bully with an iron grip.

  “Damn, it, Curtis! I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.”

  Bully fought Curtis off to remove his huge arms from around his neck.

  “Bully, I told you there were snakes in this pond. You were supposed to scare ‘um off.”

  Curtis sucked air and tried to talk at the same time.

  “Well, Curtis, I was, but I didn’t mean baby ones.”

  Bully caught a second wave laughter.

  Curtis’s hug for survival transformed into a hug of revenge. He locked down on Bully with all his might. Curtis become very, very strong with years of farm work.

  “Curtis, please!” Bully went red in the face. Time seemed to stop for Bully. His eyes bulged. He mustered enough precious breath to blurt out, “Uncle!”

  Curtis broke his death grip and began to lecture.

  “Bully, you know I don’t like snakes. You said you would scare snakes off! You said!”

  “Yea, I know what I said.” Bully inhaled several large quantities of air.

  Meanwhile, Curtis looked for the snake.

  “You think he’s gone, Bully?”

  “Yea, he’s gone.” Bully continued to recover from Curtis’s bear hug.

  Both Curtis and Bully fell silent. The sun started to warm, and the mules were getting restless.

  “Curtis, you ready to git going?”

  “What do ya mean, git going?”

  “I mean, git to the barn. You said we had a lot to do. Besides, Willard probably walked home. Anyway, I want to check on Alice Fae when we go by Miss Lillian’s.”

  “I ain’t moving,” Curtis replied, looking off into the distant.

  “You ain’t moving! How are we getting off this truck?”

  “I’ll die here before I git in that water with that snake.”

  “Curtis, that snake is a thousand miles away from here by now!” Bully said.

  “You don’t know that! Besides, he might have a brother,” Curtis argued.

  “A brother! Curtis, we got a thousand head of hogs that’s waiting, we got five hundred head of cattle to check on, and five hundred head of horses and mules to feed.”

  “They are going to miss breakfast if it means me getting in that water with that snake.”

  In total exasperation, Bully climbed off the truck. He hit the muddy water of the cow pond and trudged through the water, cast and all, cursing the gods, snakes, hogs, and Curtis.

  “Bully, you’re going to get that cast wet!” Curtis hollered.

  “Curtis, don’t talk to me!”

  Bully waded through the mud and water and reached the bank. The plaster of paris caste turned to mush around Bully’s leg. He sat down and ripped the thing off in total frustration. He hobbled over to the mules and drove them out into the cow pond toward the truck.

  “Curtis, get your ass in this sled and don’t talk to me!”

  “Bully, I love animals, except snakes.”

  “Curtis, shut up!”

  Dust particles floated down long golden rays of light that found their way through the cracks in the oak boards of Carl’s back shed. The faint outline of a body mixed with the shadows, shapes, and an odd collection of forms created by the random junk scattered across the floor

  It was Willard.

  Willard squinted his eyes, held his head and prayed to die.

  The clanking of a chain interrupted Willard’s prayer.

  The door flew open, and the light exploded into the small darkened room. Willard fought the light with his hands. Voices came from the doorway.

  Mizel and Junior, a two-hundred-fifty-pound gorilla of a redneck with a shotgun, entered the shed.

  “Willard, you slept most of the day away. Mr. Carl wants to see you.”

  “What for? What about my truck?” Willard fired question after question. He struggled to get up from the hard-oak floor.

  “Just get moving, Willard. Mr. Carl doesn’t like to wait.”

  Willard’s body recovered from the abuse of the hard floor with each movement. His head did not.

  “Mizel, I’m starving. You fellas eaten breakfast?”

  “Willard, it’s ten minutes ‘till two in the afternoon. You missed breakfast and lunch. There’s no time to eat, now. We’ve got to go.”

  Junior poked the shotgun in Willard’s ribs and nudged him toward the store.

  “Junior, you need to be careful with that gun before you hurt somebody.” Willard laughed.

  When Willard, Mizel, and Junior approached the storefront, Willard noticed a closed sign over the door. Mizel knocked, and the door sprung open. Shotgun toting rednecks guarded the store’s doors, shades covered each window, and the twenty-five to thirty member cadre of Carl’s thugs milled with nervous idle chatter. When Willard and his attendants entered the room, dead silence struck. Willard tasted vomit in his mouth. Carl’s famous “Jesus is coming” meetings struck fear in the bravest soul. He used these meetings to refine his bootlegging empire which ran on greed and fear. Willard once witnessed Carl beat a young man unconscious with an ax handle when he failed to repay a loan on time. Carl demanded fierce loyalty and strict discipline. Willard held on to what little denial he could muster.

  Carl sat in his customary chair, which looked like a crude throne. He wore a small panama hat cocked over one eye; his shirt was unbuttoned, and a revolver hung under his arm. Mizel and four of Carl’s cousins made up the inner circle. They owned the blood and shotguns and everyone else dropped their guns and knives in a former salt box near the door. The room overflowed with tobacco smoke, sweat, and tension.

  Mizel and Junior brought Willard to the center of the circle to face Carl.

  Carl rose from his throne and paced back and forth in a measured gait, looking at the floor in thought.

  “Now boys, here we have an individual who has gotten on my shit list.”

  Carl addressed the crowd without acknowledging Willard or making eye contact. Carl whirled and back handed Willard across the face. Mizel and Junior caught Willard.

  “But, Mr. Carl…” Willard tried to speak, but Carl drove his fist into Willard’s stomach. Willard doubled over. Mizel and Junior held firm.

  “Don’t you talk while I’m talking, boy! That’s disrespectful.”

  Carl’s voice rose and fell. He spoke through a twisted smile on his face. He loved the stage.

  “Now, as I was saying before I got interrupted…. Where was I?”

  Carl paced back and forth. He directed his attention to the 60-watt light bulb hanging from the ceiling. He rubbed his chin.

  “Oh, yes, shit list. See, I carry this shit list and none of you boys ever want to get on my list. Well, this boy,” pointing to Willard, “has gotten himself at the top of that list!”

  Carl’s booming voice dropped to a near whisper.

  “A small thing, yet, a costly thing. See, I got to trus
t a man, or I get a little crazy.”

  His voice rose again. “I’m getting a little crazy.”

  The tension rose by the moment.

  “See, this boy has done gone outside the circle and got all cozy with someone who said no to Carl Butcher. No one says no to Carl Butcher and lives.”

  Carl picked up a beer bottle and threw it toward the back wall of the store. It exploded with a shower of glass.

  Ears rang with silence. A cockroach made its way across the floor. Everyone in the room knew Mr. Carl had referenced Bully.

  “Now, I don’t know which way this boy is leaning. Loyalty is everything. I speak it. Breathe it. Live it. Preach it. This boy didn’t have his ears on. It’s dangerous not to have your ears on around me. It can get you killed!”

  A strange laugher erupted from Carl Butcher’s gut. Willard’s nose bled from the vicious blow across his face, and his knees struggled to support his weight. Junior’s grip cut the circulation off in his arm and his head pounded. Willard looked around the room and no one would make eye contact. He spent his whole life in the company of a few individuals in the room but now he felt alone. A short few moments ago, his concern was food; now it was survival. His denial abandoned him.

  “Now, in my younger days,” Carl continued to pace, “we wouldn’t be having this little meeting. This boy would be floating face down in the Tallahatchie and that would have been that.”

  Carl paused for effect. “I guess I’m getting a little softer in my old age.”

  No one in the room believed that.

  “I care about you boys like you are my children, and I want to see you prosper.”

  No one in the room believed that, either.

  “I know everyone makes mistakes. I made one myself back in 1936.” The tension broke and a roar of laughter went up in the room.

  Willard did not laugh. Fear wired his jaws shut.

  “Just to show you boys I’ve got a soft side, I’m gonna give this boy here a fighting chance to redeem himself. Mizel, git my chess set and that clock I ordered from the magazine.”

  Mizel jumped toward Carl’s office.

  “What’s he doing?” a whisper came from the boys huddled together.

  “Mr. Carl’s going to play Willard,” a young man spoke while an older one’s hand grabbed the young man’s mouth.

  “See, the Royal game fascinates me because of the struggle. God knows I have attempted to instill a modicum of culture among you.”

  Carl’s boys broke into laughter.

  “Two opposing armies on 64 squares with the same intention: to kill the king. Kill or be killed is the brutal imperative that drives the drama.”

  Carl didn’t know if his boys understood what he said, and he didn’t care.

  Mizel produced the board, pieces, and the double-faced chess clock. He set up the pieces. When Mizel finished, the two standing armies, one black and the other white, faced each other. Carl turned to Willard and looked him in the eyes. Carl’s eyes were the eyes of a warrior.

  “Son, I’m gonna give you a fighting chance for your life; you against me. You win, you walk. You lose, well, we’ll just have to see, won’t we?”

  Willard jerked away from Carl. Junior’s grip doubled.

  “Mr. Carl,” Willard spoke. “You…you… know there ain’t no way I can beat you. Nobody’s ever beat you in these parts.”

  “Boy, life ain’t always fair, is it? I didn’t say anything about fairness, I said you have a fighting chance. Now, if you don’t want it, we can end this little meeting right here.”

  The boys in the room became more animated. Someone in the back shouted, “Play him, Willard! What have ya got to lose? Sides, you whipped up on me.”

  The boys laughed. Junior pushed Willard toward the chess table and the room broke out into a low murmur.

  Carl picked up the chess clock and gave each clock ten minutes.

  “Now, boy, this clock has got two buttons up here on top. One for me and one for you. When I push my button, your clock starts. The only way for you to stop your clock is to make your move and press your button. Then my precious time begins to slip away. Time is such a precious thing. Always remember that, boys. Time is such a precious thing. Son, if you look close, we got these little flags at the twelve spot on the clock. When the hands move within three minutes of doomsday, the flags are raised by the sweeping hand. Boy, if your flag falls before mine, and you have not killed my king, then I guess you lose.”

  Carl relished the stage.

  “Now, we have twenty minutes, ten minutes each, to decide this matter. I guess this game can be called a sudden death match, so to speak.”

  Carl let out a laugh. He picked up two pawns, a white one and a black one. He placed his hands behind his back and brought them out.

  “Pick a hand, boy. Choose an army.”

  Willard’s hand trembled. He pointed to Carl’s right hand.

  Carl opened his palm and the black pawn rested in his out stretched hand.

  “I get the first move, son. Gives me a slight edge. You better be scrapping, son.”

  Carl took a seat behind the white pieces and pulled his chair close to the table. Willard took a seat opposing the mighty Carl Butcher with a push from Junior.

  “Mizel, would you start the game?”

  Mizel walked over and pressed the button nearest Willard and the second hand on Carl’s clock started to move. Carl thought for a few seconds and pushed his king pawn two squares forward. Carl’s choice communicated a fighting mood. There would be no slow build up in the offering on this afternoon. A street fight approached. Carl slammed his hand down on his button, which started Willard’s clock. Willard knew enough from the two years of playing every day since working for Carl that he had to challenge the center or die. He responded with his king pawn two squares and started Mr. Carl’s clock. Carl pushed his king bishop pawn, a flank pawn, two squares, attacking Willard’s foot soldier and offering his own. Willard knew Mr. Carl did not offer a pawn for nothing. Fear and greed battled for control within Willard. Willard’s hand reached for the gift. He withdrew it. Again, he reached for the unprotected foot soldier. With a shaking hand, Willard slid his pawn over and took Carl’s sacrificial pawn off the table, while hitting his clock. Greed won.

  “Well, son. You took my gift of a pawn. Just beware of gifts, boy.” Carl grinned.

  Willard squirmed. Carl brought out his king knight to a square that allowed it to attack the center and claim space. Carl hit his clock. Willard, wanting to protect his prized foot soldier, sent another one to support it and hit his clock. Carl brought out the other half of his equestrian force toward the front and attacked the center. He reached over and hit his clock. Carl’s boys closed the circle around the board. Some broke away from the circle to whisper their thoughts and then return. Willard seized an opportunity to harass Carl’s cavalry and pushed his pawn. Willard calmed down and got into the game. He hit the clock with authority. This harassment by Willard’s foot soldier called for a response. Carl grimaced. He taught, lectured, and preached to his boys do not waste time with frivolous moves. Now, Carl felt obligated to punish Willard’s chess sins. Carl thrust the attacked knight into Willard’s territory for the first time, attacking the harassing pawn. Carl hit his clock. The crowd buzzed. Willard’s eyes lit up. He grabbed his queen and sent her into battle attacking Mr. Carl’s king. He slammed his clock.

  “Check, Mr. Carl.”

  “You want to attack my king, I see.”

  The crowd stirred and came alive with excitement. They elbowed each other and whispered. Willard’s toothless grin appeared behind his hand. Carl did not flinch. He took his fingers and pushed his pawn forward, blocking the attack. He reached over and pressed his clock. His eyes locked on to Willard. Willard, oblivious at this point, empowered by his ability to attack Mr. Carl’s king, charged on. He captured the interposed pawn and hit his clock with authority. A subtle, yet detectable smile appeared on Carl’s face-- a time of reckoning. He brought
out his queen, capturing one of the harassing pawns, and attacked Willard’s queen at once. Willard’s legs bounced up and down; he bit into his lip.

  “Looks like you want to promote that pawn of yours to a queen,” Carl said.

  Willard, two moves from this prized event, charged headlong. He would sacrifice his queen to gain another one. He advanced the ambitious pawn. Willard needed one move to queen his pawn. He pounded his clock. The crowd gasped.

  “Check, Mr. Carl!”

  Carl ignored Willard’s comment and spent much of his precious time before he moved.

  Willard looked around at the crowd. He and the crowd knew; Mr. Carl had lost. Carl’s clock ticked away, but he paused to ponder. He captured Willard’s queen and hit his clock. Willard captured Carl’s rook and won the right to promote his pawn.

  “I’ll take that queen back, Mr. Carl, if you don’t mind.”

  Willard pounded his clock and broke out in a big toothless grin for the first time. Carl’s boys began to wink at Willard and communicate their glee.

  “Mr. Carl, looks like you might have to get your pocket book out after this game!” A brave soul shouted from the back of the circle. Mizel cut his eyes in the direction of the heckler and showed his displeasure. Carl showed no reaction. He focused on the battlefield before him. After thinking for thirty seconds, Carl moved his queen one square forward. Willard’s exposed king’s defenses made porous by the adventurous pawns were threatened. Carl hit his clock. With one innocent move, the momentum and the initiative shifted toward the white pieces of Carl Butcher. Willard’s desire to advance the pawn to its ultimate reward became his undoing. Willard’s new queen floundered out of position. His king exposed to attack and his army out of position, Willard fought on.

  The awareness of Willard’s crumbled fortunes permeated the crowd and swept away his euphoria. Time ticked away with unmerciful precision. Willard, oblivious to the crowd, brought out his bishop and placed it on the square in front of his king. The boys buzzed with hushed conversation. Willard’s bravado disappeared. His hand shook. He reached forward and pressed the button on his clock. Carl swept in with his cavalry and gobbled up the defenseless pawn. Carl hit his clock and once again stared his cold stare at Willard.