Christy

by Catherine Marshall

  With one foot, Mr. Taylor lazily pushed a straight chair across the floor in my direction, then sat down on another beside the one table. The tabletop was so warped and bowed that any plates placed on it would slide downhill toward the center.

  “Hello Lundy.” I tried to put as much warmth as possible into my voice. The hulk of a boy so much larger than his father had still not moved from Mr. Taylor’s side. “When are you coming back to school?”

  “Dunno—”

  The slits of eyes were ogling me so that I felt as if he were undressing me. For the first time I was afraid and realized how foolish I had been to place myself in such a defenseless position. What was worse, no one at the mission knew where I was.

  “Mought as well tell ye,” Mr. Taylor said, “don’t confidence wimmin teachers none.”

  How was I to answer that? I started in lamely, “Mr. Taylor, I know you must want Lundy to have some schooling so he can get on in life. I’m not the best teacher in the world. But I think I can teach Lundy something.”

  He ignored my speech, rubbing his hand over his stubbled chin. “Want t’ whop my young’uns my own self. Don’t want no gal-woman a-doin’ it.”

  “Mr. Taylor, I didn’t whip Lundy.”

  “Didn’t hide him?”

  “No, I didn’t. Lundy is bigger than I am. How do you think I could whip him?”

  Lundy was sidling toward the door. His father’s hand shot out to whack at him but the boy ducked. “Consarned fool. Ye lied t’me.”

  “Ah, Pap, I jest—”

  “I’m a-goin’ ketch a-hold of ye and smoke yer britches till the fire catches.”

  But Lundy was already out the door.

  “Don’t be too hard on him, Mr. Taylor. Lundy was testing me out, that’s all. I have had a little trouble with him, talking and wandering around the room, changing seats and playing mean tricks on younger pupils. Finally I had to talk sternly to him. And I did jerk him by the hair.”

  For the first time there was something close to a thaw on Bird’s-Eye ­Taylor’s face. He did not seem to think yanking Lundy’s hair such a bad idea.

  “Lundy will be all right. I hope you’ll send him back.”

  “Oh, law! Dunno if schoolin’s any use to Lundy. He may be twitter-­witted. His Maw was.”

  Cautiously I asked, “How do you mean, Mr. Taylor?”

  “His Maw was fitified and addlepated. Acrost the line in North Carolina that was. Pulled out from thar. That’s why I’m a-raisin’ Lundy.”

  “I see. Well then, seems to me you need help. That’s what the mission’s here for—to help.”

  “Ye can’t squeeze milk out’n a flint rock.”

  “No, but don’t give up on Lundy. He can learn.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Look-a-here, churches and their goings-on ain’t fer us. Always been a sinner myself. Ain’t never been a hypo-crite though. Never lied to the Lord. Ain’t no sech can enter the king-dom of heaven. Course I know that ain’t the edzact words.”

  “But I’m a sinner too. Everybody is. As I understand it, that’s what church is all about—to save sinners.”

  “Don’t want savin’. Always been a sinner. Always will be. I disgust churches.”

  There seemed little point in pursuing this. “Mr. Taylor, I’d better be going. You’ll send Lundy back to school then?”

  “I’ll study on it.”

  “And drop by the mission house yourself sometime. We’d like to be friends.”

  He did not respond to that, but then said slowly, “I ain’t got no rocks to throw at nobody.”

  What an odd comment, I thought. Then I remembered what Ruby Mae had said about Bird’s-Eye Taylor “rocking” both animals and humans at times.

  “Well, good-bye—” I called over my shoulder, and I hurried down the slope as quickly as I dared. I had the feeling that somewhere near Lundy was spying on me from behind a bush or a tree-trunk, but I did not wait to find out.

  More than a week went by. Then one day at school I looked up from my desk and there, to my astonishment, stood Lundy looking at me. “Could I clean the blackboard for ye, Teacher?”

  He seemed like a new Lundy, not so sullen or obstructive, only now there was a new problem: It was plain that his attitude toward me had changed. He looked at me differently; he came up to my desk as often as he dared; he hung around after dismissal time, talking and ogling.

  Lundy was obviously more hostile than ever to David, however, and greeted him each day with scowls and muttering. David, on his side, still did not trust Lundy. He thought that there was little material in this boy to work with and that my optimism about the change in Lundy’s attitude was premature: I had not made as much progress with him as I believed.

  On the following Friday I was at my desk during noon recess, working out some assignments for Rob Allen and Bessie Coburn; the children were happily playing hide-and-go-seek outside. Suddenly above the usual playground noises, there were shouts followed by angry voices. I dropped my pen and rushed out to see what was happening.

  The children were out of sight around the corner but the voices came through, “I’ll crunch you, you little b——”

  “Dirty bully!”

  “Shut your mouth, I’ll knock your block—”

  “Oh, shinny on yer tintype!”

  “Weasel—”

  A tight circle of children hid the identity of the fighters.

  “Hit’s Teacher! Better stop it—”

  “Stand back, you-all. Let her through.”

  As the children made a path for me, I saw Festus Allen and Lundy Taylor fighting. Festus, only eleven, was using his feet as well as flailing with his fists, but he was getting the worse of it. Already blood was streaming from his nose. “Quit that. This instant!” I thrust myself between the two boys and only barely missed getting a fist in my face. Festus was shaking mad. “No Taylor’s gonna lay out my brother and git by with it.”

  Then I saw! It was Little Burl, white and limp, stretched out on the ground. I bent over him. He was unconscious.

  Frantically, I ordered, “Someone run quick, anyone! Dip a rag in cold water and bring it to me.” My hands felt the little boy’s heart. Beating, thank God! I could see no cuts or bruises on his face. Then I lifted his shirt. There it was, a round red mark on his stomach. No skin broken, but it was going to be a bad bruise.

  One of the girls thrust the wet cloth into my hand. I took Little Burl half into my arms, putting his head a little lower than his body, then gently put the cloth to his forehead. “Burl! Little Burl, can you hear me? It’s Teacher. You’re going to be all right. Burl! Burl—”

  Behind my back I could hear someone snuffling. Festus, I thought. Rob Allen had been kept home to tend mill today or this might not have happened.

  It seemed a long time before Little Burl’s eyelids fluttered open. “Hurts, Teacher,” he moaned. “My stummick hurts.”

  “I know. Just lie still. I’ll hold you.” As I sat there on the ground, I looked up at the circle of faces over me, but Lundy’s was not among them. “One of you go to Lundy,” I told them. “Don’t let him leave. Tell him I want to see him.” But should I try to handle this alone? Perhaps David—

  “Lizette, Ruby Mae, can you tell me how this happened?”

  Ruby Mae looked frightened. Lizette answered, “Dunno, ma’am. Some of the little ’uns was playin’ hide-go-seek. Next thing I knew, Lundy was takin’ out after Burl like a streak of greased lightnin’. Took a runago at Burl, kicked him flat. When Festus saw that, he took a fit, got fightin’-mad, started punchin’.”

  Ruby Mae crept close to me and lowered her voice. “I’m a-dyin’ sure, Teacher, wasn’t exactly like that. I was standin’ behind one of them gopher trees thar. Little Burl was a-scroungin’ around under the schoolhouse someway. Lundy seed him under thar. Give a panther-shriek, took out after Burl, started kickin’ him.”

  The situation was beginning to be clear now. “Ruby Mae,” I asked her, “would you go to the house and ask Mr.
Grantland to come here? It’s early for his classes, but tell him I need him.”

  Finally Little Burl seemed to be feeling better and thought that he could walk, though he said his stomach still hurt. I helped him to his feet and we walked slowly to the schoolhouse. I was relieved to find Lundy Taylor in the classroom by himself off in a corner. “Lundy, get in your seat and stay there. I’ll be back in a minute.” Then I put two of my junior teachers in temporary charge of the room.

  Outside I met Ruby Mae and David coming up the hill.

  “Thanks, Ruby Mae. Don’t know what I’d do without you. My best helper.” I patted her on the back. “Now will you do me another big favor? Go back inside and help keep order until I can get in there.”

  “What’s happened now?” David asked, as Ruby Mae’s back retreated.

  I told him briefly about the fight, ending with, “But David, why would Lundy kick such a little child?”

  “I can’t answer that one. Lundy’s big—and sometimes brutal. But even Lundy would need a powerful reason to kick a little boy unconscious.”

  “But why would Lundy get that angry over Burl accidentally finding a hole under the floor?”

  David made no attempt to answer my question. “Christy, I think you’d better let me handle this. I’m going to have to do some quizzing.”

  I was relieved. “That’s fine with me, David. You don’t know how fine.”

  He was already off to see Lundy.

  All afternoon I waited for some report from David on what he had learned during his conversation with Lundy Taylor. David was nowhere to be seen. Finally, toward dusk I decided to investigate under the schoolhouse for myself. As I reached the edge of the playground, a pig walking oddly, almost on the slant, came from under the building and crossed near me. I had no great knowledge of pigs, but I had never seen one look like that.

  Something else was odd too. I stood at the foot of the schoolhouse steps, trying to think what could be giving me such an uneasy feeling. I tried the door. It was locked, with everything apparently in order. Then I realized . . . What was missing was the usual background noises of the hogs rooting and scratching and snuffling under the building. And there was a strong smell, not of pigs. Suddenly I was panicky about what I might be about to find. I’d best go get David, I thought. Wherever he’s been, perhaps he’ll be back for supper by now. So I picked up my skirts and walked rapidly, almost running, toward the big house.

  David met me on the porch. “What’s the hurry, Christy?”

  “I think something’s wrong. At the schoolhouse, I mean. Will you have a look, David?”

  I trailed his long strides across the yard and up the hill. Borne toward us on the evening breeze was that same strong odor. Then as we turned the corner at the back of the building, I almost stumbled over a broken jug. Nearby were several hogs stretched out asleep—too sound asleep. They did not stir as we approached; they were breathing heavily and rhythmically.

  David stopped and stared at the pigs, walked around them, even poked first one and then another with his foot, but they responded not at all, just snored on. “This is strange. I don’t get it.” Then he walked on a few paces and stooped to look under the floor. “It’s almost too dark to see anything. I’ll have to go in under there.”

  Already he was crouched over, making his way under the building. I could hear his fingers groping, then some boards being moved, then he whistled loudly. “Holy thunder! Christy, you should see this. This is something!”

  “What, David?”

  “Somebody’s fixed a place under the floor like a little storage room. There are a lot of jugs in here. Moonshine whiskey. Christy, can you take them from me? I’ll hand them out one at a time.”

  The jug he thrust into my hands was full—and heavy. I set it on the ground and reached for another, and another, and another. Finally David came out, rubbing the dust off his hands. He stood staring at the collection of jugs, a puzzled crease between his brows. “So this was what Lundy didn’t want Burl to find! But Christy, this can’t be all Lundy Taylor’s doing. That little room was well planned. No boy could have done the carpentry work either. Adults are involved. Blockaders, that’s who!”

  “But what did Lundy say when you talked to him?”

  “I never got the chance. He slipped out. I spent the afternoon searching for him.”

  “David, is this meant to be a joke?”

  “Certainly not! How could it be?”

  “Well, I mean under the church is a crazy place to store moonshine. And there isn’t space for many jugs either. You should see Bird’s-Eye’s cabin. I think he’s built it against a cave where he could store a hundred jugs.”

  He looked at me thoughtfully. “If you’re right, Christy,” the words came out slowly, “then the blockaders are trying to make me look like a fool. Well, could be! I suppose they think that the church-schoolhouse I built is my pride and joy. So they’ll store their moonshine practically under the altar. Sap-heads! What I wouldn’t give for the chance to knock their heads together! I could too, if they’d lay down their blasted shotguns and fight like men. Well, I’ll show them!” David was speaking from between clenched teeth.

  He grabbed a jug, uncorked it, sniffed it with an expression of distaste, turned it upside down and the amber liquid gurgled and spattered as it poured onto the ground. I backed away.

  He uncorked another jug and swung it upside down. He was shouting now. “I’d like to heave this infernal stuff right in the face of some people I know! Pickle their brains in it!”

  I had never seen David so angry. His hands were trembling and even in the murky light, I could tell that his face was flushed, while the little dip where he had broken his nose was dead white. The yard was beginning to smell like a brewery. “David, will this smell go away before church Sunday?”

  “I don’t know and I don’t care. If the building smells like a distillery, then maybe that will alert some sleepers to what’s going on around here. But you and I should act as if we don’t notice a thing.”

  “You mean we smell moonshine and pretend it’s roses?”

  David was silent a moment, breathing hard. “All right, Christy, bring me back to earth. I shouldn’t lose my temper that way.” He went on uncorking jugs and pouring. “Tell you what I’m going to do. I’ll put the empty jugs back in their hiding place but leave this big hole. Then tomorrow and Monday we’ll watch for reactions. We’re bound to get some clues.”

  “David, those pigs still haven’t moved. Do you suppose—? No, that couldn’t be.”

  “Oh yes, it could. Remember I told you that horses like Prince won’t drink a drop of water with mash in it. Well, pigs like nothing better. Only this time they got more than they bargained for. Those hogs are drunk!”

  “Drunk pigs! That one we saw walking across the yard wobbling from side to side. How funny!”

  He managed a wry smile. “The pigs are funny,” he said, “but the situation isn’t.”

  Sunday passed without our gaining any new information about the cache of blockade liquor. The men and boys who ordinarily spent as much time wandering and lounging in the yard as they did in the church service, confined themselves that day to the front yard.

  Then that evening as we were leaving the dining room after supper, David tapped me lightly on the shoulder. “I need to talk to you. Not inside the house though. How about a walk?”

  Outside it was a clear night with a brilliant canopy of stars. Silently David took my arm and steered me across the yard toward the wide trail that paralleled Cutter Branch and led on down the narrow valley. On our right the dark bulk of Pebble Mountain loomed over us; to our left the branch gurgled and sang as always.

  David was sunk in his own thoughts, so I waited for him to break the silence. “I’ve talked to Lundy,” he began.

  “Where did you find him?”

  “I rode up toward Bird’s-Eye’s place. Lundy was hunting squirrels in the woods. This time he couldn’t escape.”

 
“So—?”

  “He was defensive. Sullen. Wouldn’t say much. It took some doing but finally I pried out a little. Two other boys are in on it: Wraight Holt and Smith O’Teale.”

  “Smith! But Smith’s only fourteen.”

  “I know.”

  “But you thought that storage room was their fathers’ doing. You mean these boys are really involved, David?”

  “Afraid so. Only Lundy wouldn’t give me details.”

  Neither of us spoke for a moment. I was thinking of the O’Teale boy, undersized for his age, with his big black eyes that always seemed to be pleading for something.

  “When Lundy finally refused to say another word, I got angry again. I admit it. What I really wanted to do was to punch Lundy Taylor right in the nose.”

  “Did you?”

  “No. What stopped me was that I was too mad. So I warned Lundy that he and his two friends might have to leave school. Told him that their punishment would have to be decided by their parents and the entire mission staff.”

  David paused for breath. “At the mention of parents, Lundy started smirking. It was a dead giveaway about his dad. So that told me I’d been right all along. Adults are managing that setup under the building. Anyway, that sickly smirk was more than I could take. Lundy took one look at my face and lit out for home like a coon with a hound in pursuit.”

  “But David, I still don’t understand the point of the liquor being hidden there in the first place.”

  “I think I do. The pieces are beginning to fit. You remember Uncle Bogg saying that he was pretty sure the men who followed the three of you through the woods that night were not Cutter Gap men? Well, I’m afraid we’ve got a little blockading business going on right under our noses with schoolboys as the go-betweens.”

  David let go my arm. I stood looking at him, trying to grasp what he was saying. The moonlight put deep hollows in his cheeks, gave him a look of gauntness. “David, are you suggesting that someone has a moonshine whiskey business going? That strangers are coming into the Cove to get it and that Lundy Taylor and the others are front men?”