“You ain’t telling me nothing I don’t already know,” I said sternly.
“Well,” he continued, “I finally knew something was wrong with what we were doing when we started out as usual down by the fields one day, you know, the parts where they already picked and cleared. Because she turned to me and just start laughing. She smiled and said she had figured it out. When we got closer to the house, she begged me to write notes to her instead of us meeting like we did. She said Mr. Kern didn’t like it that she wandered off so much, but that we could still talk and write letters, but only if nobody saw, and that she would keep it secret. Now, I know secrets are bad but I did it, afraid of what she would do if I didn’t. I knew it was wrong, but I had no choice. It was gonna be her word against mine. She made me say all those things I wrote to her. She told me she love me. And so I said it back. But I ain’t never touch her. And she knows it.”
Jesse looked up, frightened, his eyes a well of tears that had spilled over and poured down his face. I took him outside immediately, in the dark of night where no prying eyes could catch sight of us. There I told him of the Missus’s wrath, omitting that troubling notion that Fletcher was indeed Mr. Kern’s son but instead telling Jesse of how the Missus had it out for everyone, myself included, a lie I had to tell.
“You can’t see her anymore,” I said adamantly. “When she returns from Little Rock, you stay away. You hear? Let me spend time with her, but you stay with Floyd at all costs. Don’t ever stray from his side, Jesse.”
Just then Floyd arrived, his grumbling truck signaling to both Silva and Fletcher that he had returned. Fletcher shot out the door, a bolt of lightning, white-hot, with sights on that steel contraption.
“Lord, when did this happen?” Floyd shouted. “I thoughts ya were ya brother, how talls ya are!”
Floyd embraced the youngster as if the boy were his own son. He held him tight and didn’t let go, the veins in his arms snaking like vines on a dogwood that encased the boy in its reach.
“Why, I bets ya growed every time ya ate something,” Floyd continued, proud of him for those same inexplicable reasons we all held.
Floyd raised his hands well above his head as if showing the height of a giant.
“Ya goin’ let ’im beat ya, huh?” Floyd cackled to Jesse who was still in no condition to laugh although he did appear in better spirits than he had mere seconds before.
“People says I eat like I got a tapeworm in me,” Fletcher bragged.
“That’s how it always is,” Floyd laughed. “Ya goin’ get even taller, I bets, God willing.”
God willing, I thought. God willing a lot of things would happen. God willing, we’d find peace in this miserable land. God willing, that home wouldn’t confine us to hate and disgust forever. God willing, we’d forgive and finally let die. God willing, we’d make it to see tomorrow. God willing.
“Come on, Fletcher, before Mama start yelling,” Jesse finally said, pulling Fletcher by his shirt collar and stretching it just slightly, which left a large portion of the boy’s shoulder exposed.
The two of them turned toward the house quietly, older and younger both appearing just as juvenile as they returned to the poverty that awaited them, and Floyd and I returned to the plantation under the resolution of night, its blessings bestowed upon us by the half-moon, God willing.
CHAPTER 14
The Missus was gone for three weeks, finding her temporary home in Little Rock more than accommodating to her mood. The house sat empty most days with Silva in the back stables and my duties leading me to the fields where I assisted with the final picking of the season. Fall approached and that coolness could be felt in the air just before the sinners woke, that time of morning when only the righteous were up so early and stirring about the fields in preparation for the day. The Lord must have lent us a smile for His grace could be seen in the roundness of the sun, that pink mass that sat out over the oaks and made the rest of the sky as some watercolor canvas that sank upon us in slow, steady drips. Truly nothing in Mississippi happened swiftly and this, too, was a sight that none of us wished to hurry, especially not with the noonday heat fast approaching.
Mr. Kern lay dead to the world, had been that way for a while, unmoving for several days in his parlor. He had grown fussy during those weeks of the Missus’s absence, and that temper of his as quick as lightning and just as hot too. Floyd mostly conducted the duties of the house during this tantrum, as he was the only person the old man could stomach. Although Mr. Kern reserved nothing but kindness toward Silva, her indifference toward him made her insufferable in his sight and did nothing but stir his anger. Soon he became that which he hated, wandering the fields, indeed, just like the Missus, as one who had lost something in perpetual search for anything to replace it.
For a spell, I assumed it was religion he had found out there, Floyd insisting to me that one could only avoid the Lord for so long before He somehow finds you.
“It’s at the strangest time,” Floyd vowed as we watched the old man wander, “it binds ya helpless ta the floor, exposin’ your vulnabilty for the whole worl’ ta see. Makes ya like a child all over agin, turnin’ ya ta that age where ya jus’ learnin’ ta walk an’ talk, that it might mold your entire thinkin’ till even your words are no longer your own.”
He swore Mr. Kern had somehow found it that night as the old man gazed up at a sight that could have surely been the Rapture, for how long he stared. At the middle of the field, the old man rested, the small of his back pressed against the smooth stone as his head rested against the bark of that oak or magnolia, as it was hard to distinguish this time of evening when everything looked the same underneath the persistent shroud. Over the whine of cicadas came the sound of distant tractors. The sun had long disappeared to that place it always ventured, and the clouds were colors of orange and gold out toward that fading direction, leaving the rest of the sky dark as that minute right before sleep. The old man watched and waited, never knowing when that sliver of light would completely disappear but convinced it would, out of repetition or habit, I was sure. Mr. Kern rested in this state for hours until the sky gave birth to distant galaxies and the wind sat too cool upon his skin to feel contentment, for only then did he return to the house and Floyd’s company there.
Inside, the two sat around the fireplace, the crackle of splintering wood growing louder before them, its red heat filling the room and indeed slowly causing their arms and legs to back away from those glowing embers. Mr. Kern stared distantly, waiting, waiting for death to come, waiting for judgment to reign, waiting for his friend to finally give up on him, for God to send some ultimate decree that would see his empire fall. It was as the fire quelled and the cold returned to the room that he finally stood and gathered a log to his chest, removing that burned cinder with a swipe of his foot as he then replaced it with the other, acquiring that bit of chewing tobacco from his back pocket and placing the lump inside his cheek, tissue and all, as he sat again. Then he was quiet, and those thoughts paved a swift return to his mind as the heat grew once more in the room.
Several days later, I would spot the old man down by the lake, his fishing gear with him and a sense of calm about him, even if his line never moved an inch in the water other than by the toss of those waves. In the week that followed, I would often see him in this position, his tackle box opened and a small fish tucked inside. He’d rest it entirely in his palm before beginning with the head, following that crescent curve around the gills with a sharp knife. Snap! it’d cry. The body he’d then cut into eighths, big enough pieces to attract those bass or crappie or maybe even a catfish, if he was lucky. It was always wiser to go larger rather than smaller, and so he’d cut the pieces big enough so that his hook fit entirely within the fleshy parts.
The sun was a fixture on its own, even without the sky, an ever-growing mass that swelled around us and caused our eyes to squint and our hands to shade those affected parts,
although Mr. Kern seemed quite content to indulge in its pervading light without a flinch or peep. His lure dangled from the head of the fish like some fanciful tail as, with his reel baited, Mr. Kern approached the more shaded area along the southern end of the lake and cast his line there. This corner he loved more than any other, an area that was mostly brush and known particularly as a spot to avoid by novice fishermen because of the poison ivy that grew rampant. Yet Mr. Kern walked freely amongst it, having fished this spot many times and innately knowing exactly where to step in order to avoid troublesome areas.
He felt good there, like some people feel in church and others in juke joints and some with their families at home around a warm meal. He cast his reel and watched it fly to the center of the lake, a beautiful sight for any fisherman and especially one of such low spirits as he was lately. Plop! it shouted as it hit the water, creating the tiniest splash, which rippled along the banks and eventually back toward him as he watched contentedly.
Down it immediately went. He tugged at his spinner, cranking its handle until a stalemate occurred between the line and the fish, that point where the old man’s strength met with that of the fish somewhere in the middle and caused them to both stand completely still. He held the line, continuing to pull although he was well aware that a broken line would do him no good, and so it was then that he eased up from his current stance.
“Yer gonna lose her,” a voice warned, seeming to emerge from the lake itself.
Mr. Kern turned, as limping toward him was Floyd with his own pole and tackle box by his side. Mr. Kern appeared pale and his clothes as sickly as death, although everything about the old man seemed to fall to the weight of gravity nowadays, his sweater drooped at his shoulders and his pants layered around his ankles.
Floyd positioned himself alongside Mr. Kern with his own line cast into the water.
“Don’t you worry,” Mr. Kern said. “She ain’t going nowhere.”
“If ya pull thatta way she will, sir,” Floyd insisted.
“She’s fine,” Mr. Kern barked back.
The line drifted just slightly as Mr. Kern attempted to hold it steady.
“Either ya pull ’er, or she gonna pull you,” Floyd fussed, completely disregarding his own line for that of Mr. Kern’s. “Ease ’er to ya just slightly, sir.”
The fish tugged as Mr. Kern yanked back, easing the fish toward him in that manner Floyd had instructed.
“They can be tricky little devils can’t they?” Mr. Kern said.
“She won’t get ’way from ya,” Floyd replied. “Just take ’er slow.”
The line now stretched toward the opposite side of the lake, dangerously approaching a log that waded amongst the brush.
“She knows what she’s doing,” Mr. Kern said.
“She wanna tangle ya,” Floyd acknowledged.
“She got some fight in her,” Mr. Kern said, now pulling the line even harder.
Both men watched with fearful eyes as the line darted beneath the log, holding their breaths as it eventually stopped moving altogether, and Mr. Kern knew it was over. He pulled, yet his strength was useless as the more he pulled the more that line wrapped around the log and refused to budge.
Mr. Kern scoffed, holding the line steady as it now dragged him toward the water’s edge.
“She’s got ya now,” Floyd snickered.
“Seems like it,” Mr. Kern replied.
Mr. Kern retrieved his knife from his back pocket, that same knife he had used to dissect the fish earlier. Then, with that ever-present sun watching from above, he cut the line, seeing those ripples spread along the opposite side of the lake as the fish swam away.
“You’ll get ’er next time,” Floyd said.
“My hook back, too,” Mr. Kern fussed.
“Just like ol’ Mason down there,” Floyd cackled. “He ain’t seen that hook ever since.”
“He ain’t found his johnson either,” Mr. Kern added. “That old blowfish gottem good.”
The two were like this all afternoon, sitting in the peace of each other’s company as the fish bit or did not bite—it didn’t really matter. They had conversation and that was enough. They had sunshine and wind and laughter and of course more stories of old Mason down there who was said to have once been stung by a jellyfish on his manhood, or so they say.
There was nothing left of the morning as they sat, no lingering minute to break the fixed spirit of conscious thoughts and make it last longer, no moment that could be recovered to stop the pecking click of that incessant clock on the wall. The cold descended rapidly, yet they found peace in this world where time did not matter and calamity sat far away. Neither of them did move until the sun was almost gone, when Mr. Kern finally pulled his line from the water, or what was left of it, laughing as Floyd also retrieved his line to find a tiny fish clinging to the end along with that flimsy worm that had died a long time ago, if it was ever alive to begin with. Mr. Kern laughed even louder. Floyd then pulled the fish from the hook, adjusted the worm’s soggy body, and once again cast the whole thing into the water. Floyd repositioned himself on his overturned bucket and watched as Mr. Kern repaired his broken line.
“Have some?” Floyd said as he removed a bag of peanuts from his tackle box and began to chew loudly, the dirt from his fingers mixing with the nuts in the bag.
Mr. Kern reached in and ate the portion he gathered.
“Ya need your strength out here today,” Floyd insisted. “Don’t starve yerself ’cause the fish surely won’t.”
And with this, he continued to chew loudly, licking the salt from his fingers and adjusting his line.
CHAPTER 15
Whatever ailment Mr. Kern suffered, Floyd during those three weeks delivered him from it. In his recovery, Mr. Kern took to his parlor once more, finding no more need to spend all his day in his upstairs quarters. He found the outside air refreshing and once more delighted in walking the grounds both at sunrise and just after the blistering sunset, right when the humidity subsided yet it was still warm. He found contentment in song, humming a tune that was familiar to these parts as his stroll lingered and his eyes lagged amongst the trees. All, that is, before the Missus returned.
A stiff wind struck the fields, lifting the mulch that Jesse had placed that very afternoon and tossing it wildly. Silva yelled from within the main house for Jesse to close the back shed or else the hogs would flee, and there was no easy way of getting them back if they got spooked in this wind. Jesse rushed to the double doors and spread his arms as far as they’d go. He pulled one side then the other, glancing above his head at the windmills that spun like fans and seemed to propel the wind forward. His arms quivered as he placed the middle latch, coaxing the long, wooden board into place between two handles that just barely fit the wide mass. He then pulled the rubber strap around the fat end and pressed it hard into the dented cavity.
Within the shed, the hogs and chickens amplified their back-and-forth rampage, kicking up dirt that rose where Jesse stood.
“Quiet, Jubba!” he shouted, pounding his fist on the door. “You too, Roxy.”
The shed fell silent, if only for mere seconds, as the wind increased, and the hogs fought the invisible enemy once more. In the house just yards away, Silva rushed to the kitchen with her arms loaded. She placed the handful of dishes in the sink then turned to the counter with a large spoon. There she gathered the remaining pills into a pile and crushed them because by this point, Mr. Kern would not swallow them whole even if the doctors insisted these pills be adhered to daily, the old man just did not care, concerned even less whether he came or went.
“Jesse!” Silva shouted from the window, her drawl lapping in the wind several times before it reached him. “Don’t forget that outhouse! Make sure them locks on there real tight!”
She leaned forward, searching the mix of flying objects when she finally spotted him by the wat
er barrel, his contorted body bracing against its steady base as he placed a wooden board over the wide mouth and knocked whatever was loose on top onto the ground. He sucked in a deep breath then tore himself from the drum, pushing toward the outhouse that sat at the very edge of the farm.
“Jesse!” I called, meeting him halfway. “You get one side, and I’ll get the other.”
It was completely dark as we walked. The countless rows of cotton rose beside us with full, fat blooms opened to reveal their white hearts. Yet, even with their glow, it was amazing how dark this place could get, how the stars seemingly sprinkled, as if we were sitting in heaven. The rocks crunched loudly beneath our feet, that final stretch of road seemingly the only place on earth that could keep up so much noise.
Beneath the awning of magnolia trees sat the frumpy outhouse that should have been condemned a long time ago, a place now empty except for Mr. Kern’s tools and some broken trinkets the old man’s father found on the sides of the road.
We discovered the door already opened, the mess meeting us outside where all around once-filled boxes lay spilled, many of the items now broken, although some had already been broken well before the storm. Mr. Kern’s carpentry work lay in ruins, a craft the old man toyed with every so often when a neighbor needed something built, and they called on him because he was just that good. Jesse pressed the lock while I took charge of the other door, turning the squeaky latch then pushing the handle forward alongside the doorframe that jammed with any change in the weather. Jesse stood there for a moment once this was done, somehow as aware as I was that Mr. Kern’s life’s work was all but over and any remnants of that life he had was now destroyed. Jesse sighed, kicking the broken items at his feet. He then looked above him at the heap of stars all gathered together in one place.
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