by Chris Offutt
In fifteen minutes he’d hear the principal’s car. For all his sixty-two years, Zeph had never owned a watch but always knew the time, an essentially useless skill. He sat and worried about his mother. Beulah had been the most sought after granny-woman in the hills until a problem birth made her decide to quit. Zeph was the youngest and she taught him about the woods, lessons she’d learned from her grandmother: Eat poke root but not the berries, plant crop so it flowers in the new moon, let dipper gourds get frosted on twice to harden their shell. Now she was slipping away, her body and mind dwindling daily, her knowledge of the hills evaporating like the creek.
Children who lived on the hill walked to school, including Jo, who accompanied her six-year-old brother along a path through the woods. She’d felt funny for a few days and this morning she’d barely been able to move, cramped bad in the belly. In science class she stood abruptly and left for the restroom, hurrying along the school’s dim hall. She hadn’t eaten breakfast, but felt as if she’d messed herself. She pushed open the restroom door, grateful that no one else was there, and lifted her dress. Her underpants were soaked with blood. Jo cleaned herself with an entire roll of toilet paper, then prayed. She begged God to let her live through the day. She wanted to be alive when her father got home from prison.
During lunch break, her teacher found her.
“Oh my dear Lord,” Mrs. Crawford said. “You poor thing.”
“Am I going to die?”
“No, honey. You got your monthlies is all.”
Mrs. Crawford hugged Jo awkwardly and studied her tear-stained face, the tension of misery etched into her skin.
“Didn’t anyone tell you about this?” Mrs. Crawford said.
Jo shook her head.
“Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Jo nodded. She trusted the teacher but decided to continue praying in case she was wrong. Mrs. Crawford used hand towels to daub the blood, explaining in halting terms that what Jo had undergone was perfectly normal, that it happened to all girls and would continue until she was much older. Jo listened quietly. It seemed preposterous and unfair but at least she wasn’t dying.
“We need to get you home,” Mrs. Crawford said. “We’ll call your mother.”
“Ain’t got a phone,” Jo said.
“All right, we’ll call a neighbor then.”
“They ain’t none right close.”
They walked to the principal’s office, where Mrs. Crawford explained the situation to Mr. Lawton. He sent her to the second-grade classroom for Jo’s little brother. Mr. Lawton went to the boiler room and asked Zeph to drive the kids home.
Zeph led the children outside, unable to recall the last time he had a passenger. Mainly he used the truck as storage for scrap metal, lumber, and tools. The tailgate wouldn’t latch correctly and he’d tied it off with bailing wire. Zeph opened the passenger door by lifting hard on the handle, and giving it a yank that released flakes of chrome. A tattered sheet lay in creased wrinkles over the upholstering. The boy climbed in and scooted over for his sister. Zeph closed the door, its hinges shrill in the still air. He circled the truck and slid behind the wheel.
Zeph realized how much the boy resembled his father when he was a sprout—the nearly perfectly rounded skull with ears protruding like dippers cocked forward, the sharp eyes and sly mouth. His hair was cut short, the scalp appearing to glow from the blond hair.
“You’uns are Tuckers, ain’t you,” Zeph said.
The boy nodded.
“You his first boy?” Zeph said.
The boy shook his head and Zeph realized his error. He drove onto the blacktop. “You’re his first boy, his second boy, and the last one all rolled together, ain’t you. What’s your name?”
“Shiny.”
“Like a new penny shiny?” Zeph said.
“On account of my head.”
“Well, I’m danged. You’re right. It does shine. About like a full moon.”
“Mommy says Daddy named me it.”
“All right, Shiny. Can you drive a truck?”
“No. I’m too little.”
“Maybe you are. But if you was to tie some sticks to your legs, why you’d be able to reach the pedals.”
The boy looked at the floorboards as if measuring the distance. Zeph grinned and placed his palm on the gearshift, a long rod with a knob he’d carved from a hickory knot.
“This here’s how you change gears to go faster. You grab this metal pole here. It’ll shake but won’t hurt.”
The boy tentatively grasped the gearshift, feeling the vibration travel along his arm, through his shoulder, and into his chest. It was like holding something alive and strong. Standing on the seat, he placed his weight on his toes and leaned forward until he could peer through the windshield. The black metal hood glinted in the sun. Shiny turned to his sister in triumph, but she was sick. Their mother got the vapors and took to the bed for weeks, and he hoped it wasn’t the same and it wasn’t catchy. He didn’t know what the vapors were but the result left him on his own for days. He could eat what he wanted, climb all the trees he felt like, and wander the woods till dark.
“Hold on tight,” Zeph said, “I got to pull your hill.”
Shiny nodded, eyes wide. Zeph downshifted, wishing the truck had one more lower drive. The hill slanted steep and scrabbly as if God was mad the day he laid the land out. The road rose sharply, forcing Zeph to find the precise point of acceleration where the truck would continue without spinning out. Junk in the truck bed slid backward and struck the tailgate. The wire snapped, the gate dropped, and cargo spilled into the road. Zeph hunched over the wheel. If he stopped, he’d lose all momentum. The road made a hard turn and vanished, grown over at the only semi-level spot, but Zeph continued through a stand of softwoods. Branches scraped the cab, leaving torn leaves on the windshield. Zeph swerved around a young hornbeam tree that had gained sufficient hold in what passed for the road.
The pickup broke through the final overhang of maple into the sudden light of midday. Weeds and brush grew in a yard that ended at the house. Zeph honked the horn twice in standard greeting. He drove through the yard and parked near the porch with the passenger door facing the house to make it easier on the girl.
Inside, Rhonda heard the engine followed by the horn. She was looking at the dull mirror in the bathroom. One edge rippled like water. Flecks of silver had fallen away, revealing the flat black surface behind. She tucked hair behind an ear and smoothed her dress.
Six years ago, Beanpole’s wife had visited to explain that Tucker would be kept in prison longer—it wasn’t Tucker’s fault, just bad luck. Rhonda waited season by season, telling her son stories about his father so he wouldn’t forget he had one. She maintained the family as best she could but neglected the house and property, planting a smaller garden every year. She’d gained weight and lost weight, and been unbearably sad.
Last week Beanpole’s wife came by and said he’d sent a man to Eddyville to fetch Tucker. Rhonda cleaned the house and listened to the radio. She imagined her husband striding across the yard to see them waiting on the porch, Rhonda standing in the middle, her hands resting on her children’s shoulders. They’d all look at each other, smiling and happy at last.
This fantasy was crucial to her, especially the joy that Tucker would feel. She’d planned several ways to tell him that Bessie, Ida, Velmey, and Big Billy were gone. She blamed herself and feared he would, too. She’d let her children be hauled away by officials of the state—a man in a suit, three men in white hospital clothes, and a persnickety woman who never looked Rhonda in the eye. Rhonda asked about Hattie, her previous social worker, and the woman in the dress said she’d quit.
Three men carried the girls to a modified van and belted them into special seats. A separate vehicle, an ambulance with the emergency lights removed, was designated for Big Billy. After a great deal of hemming and hawing, the men moved Big Billy onto a gurney they’d wheeled into the house. One man was in charge of his head. Big
Billy didn’t make a sound or move, his limbs devoid of muscle, his eyes unseeing. Rhonda stared at his feet, his soft precious feet, and leaped from the chair. She grabbed the end of the gurney and clenched it tightly. The men tugged, but she wouldn’t release it. The man in the suit gave an order and one man held Rhonda’s arms while the others pried her fingers free, one by one. She collapsed on the floor. Through the open door she watched the men load Big Billy into the back of the vehicle like freight. The woman asked for signatures on twelve forms, three for each child, then left. For the next seven months Rhonda didn’t leave her bed and rarely ate. Daily she aimed fierce recriminations at herself—she shouldn’t have let it happen, she shouldn’t have signed those papers, she shouldn’t have answered the door.
Rhonda heard a car door open outside and knew her husband was finally home. She checked her lipstick one more time, lifting her lips to make sure none was on her teeth. Her body felt light and airy as a milkweed pod. Rhonda yearned for the coarse feel of his face on her neck, his callused fingers brushing her shoulders, arms, and thighs. It’d been a long six years of celibacy. She hoped everything still worked right, that the front of her behind hadn’t dried up.
She walked briskly through the house, moving with purpose for the first time in years. Everything was tidy and in its place. She stepped onto the porch, immediately perplexed, then alarmed. Instead of her husband, old Zeph stood in the yard. His arm was propped like a handle for Jo to hold as she slid from the bench seat, her feet reaching for the side step. Behind her, Shiny stood in the truck, grinning like a possum.
Rhonda had experienced disappointment enough times that its quick arrival was familiar, something she knew how to endure.
“Shiny, get out of that truck and help your sister,” she said. “Zeph, what is it—chicken pox, mumps, or measles?”
Zeph shrugged and shook his head. Jo stood unsteadily on the dirt, clinging to his arm. Blood trickled down her leg and Rhonda understood that she had waited too long to talk to Jo, that her daughter had somehow gotten old enough to menstruate. Zeph patted Jo’s hand until she released him, leaving crescent imprints of her nails in his skin. Rhonda led Jo into the house with Shiny following.
Zeph looked around, unsure what to do. He wanted to leave but Rhonda might need to send him for a doctor. He wondered how long he should wait.
Chapter Twelve
Jimmy was tired of Tucker’s long silences and occasional orders—turn off the radio, go this way, drive slow. A car like his needed to move and Jimmy wanted to prove his skill to the man considered the best driver in the hills. They stopped for gas and Jimmy’s metal heel taps rattled on the concrete as he walked inside the station to pay.
Tucker closed his eyes and listened for his return, trying to predict when Jimmy would open the car door. He guessed right within two seconds.
“What do you wear them heel taps for?” Tucker said.
“So folks know it’s me,” Jimmy said. “They hear them taps, they by God know they’re in for trouble.”
“Gives a man plenty of time to hide. Or run away.”
“Everybody runs from me,” Jimmy said.
“You ever been in a knife fight?”
“Once or twice,” Jimmy lied. “Ain’t everybody?”
“The way you win a knife fight is not show the knife. It’s the same with heel taps. You can’t surprise nobody.”
“I ain’t fighting with my boots.”
“You got me there, Jimmy.”
Jimmy drove, more irritated than ever. The way Tucker acted, he thought he was shit on a stick, and would be if he had a peg leg. Jimmy wanted to eat at the window diner in Salt Lick, the best food around, and the site of a murder where the man got away. Tucker flatly refused. The detour added two hours around Salt Lick, then the son-of-a-bitch wanted to drive slow as an old lady through Morehead, along Railroad Street, then back on Main Street, and Railroad Street again. Town had one movie theater, a pool hall, a bowling alley, and a couple of restaurants, all of which Tucker ignored. He seemed to be looking for something and when Jimmy asked what it was, Tucker said, “Change.”
“You’d best look in seat cushions,” Jimmy said. “You’ll find more change there than town.”
Jimmy laughed at what he considered a pretty good joke. Tucker never smiled or said a word. Jimmy left the blacktop and crossed the creek on an oak bridge. It had been built of green lumber, bowed and warped, the boards themselves drawn far apart from each other. Jimmy winced each time the tires bounced across the wide cracks. Two hollers up, he turned onto the remnants of a dirt lane. Poke encroached the edges, fighting milkweed for water and light. The center of the road was humped by horseweed, raising the earth in spots that scraped the undercarriage. He stopped at the foot of the steep slope to Beanpole’s old house, where Tucker’s family lived. No one had maintained the road since Beanpole moved out.
“Uh-uh,” Jimmy said. “Ain’t about to try and pull that. It’s half creek, half road, and half gully.”
“That’s too many halfs,” Tucker said.
He left the car and Jimmy watched him go, disgusted that Tucker hadn’t looked at him or thanked him for the ride. Worst of all, Jimmy had to scoot awkwardly across the bench seat to close the passenger door. Tucker hardly talked and then made no sense. The way Jimmy saw it, a man couldn’t get enough halfs. The more you had, the more chance to make a whole. He turned the volume high on the radio and hoped it was loud enough to scare a snake into biting Tucker. He backed down the road, searching for a wide place to turn around.
Tucker climbed the hill, feeling the tightness in his legs, familiar and comfortable after five years of walking on flat concrete. He knew the radio sound was aimed at him and chuckled silently. One day someone would beat that boy into a cripple, but not Tucker. The satisfaction wasn’t worth prison and he was never going back.
Midway up the hill was a slight turn, then an increase in the steepness. Tucker halted, surprised at the amount of junk scattered in the road: a rotted tire on an old rim, roofing tin rusted through in spots, several lengths of lumber, a concrete block, and a carburetor. An engine sounded from above, an old V-8 straining in first gear, the brake pads shrieking against bare metal. Tucker sidestepped swiftly into the woods.
A late-1930s Ford pickup appeared from up the hill, wheels skidding as the driver braked to avoid the junk in the road. The truck halted at an angle, the front end aimed away from the edge of the hill. No man could have surprised Tucker more than Zeph. He was too old to be chasing after Rhonda and too gentle for trouble. Tucker had known him all his life. His mother had grannied Tucker into the world, and Big Billy, too.
Tucker moved into view.
“Hey, Zeph,” he called.
Zeph nodded once in greeting.
“This stuff in the road yours?” Tucker said.
“Fell out on the way up,” Zeph said. “I can’t get past it.”
“You want any of it?”
“Lumber, maybe.”
Tucker nodded and began throwing the debris over the hill. He carried four oak boards, fifty years old by the width and weight of them, and placed them in the truck bed. He lifted the tailgate and tied the baling wire.
“Ort to do her till you get home,” he said.
“Appreciate it,” Zeph said. “I’d give you a ride but I’m heading the wrong direction.”
“It’s good to see you’re still on your hind legs.”
“Ain’t just me. Mommy’s alive, too.”
“Getting up there, ain’t she,” Tucker said. “How old is she, a hundred?”
“Ninety-seven or ninety-nine. She was born a odd-numbered year and ain’t for sure which one it was.”
“Come Judgment Day, the angels will knock her in the head to get her to go, my opinion.”
Zeph nodded.
“What are you doing up at the house?” Tucker said.
“Brung them kids home from school. Your girl’s sick. That boy is nigh ready to start driving.”
“Driving.”
“He ain’t a-feared of it.”
“Well,” Tucker said. “I’d best get up there. Tell your mom hidy for me.”
“You might want to get behind me. Ain’t for sure which way this rig’ll go when I let the brake off.”
Zeph waited until Tucker was clear, then started cutting the wheel and easing pressure on the brake. The truck jolted, tried to stall, backfired, then continued downhill. The Tuckers were a good bunch with bad luck, same as a lot of hill families. You helped when you could, but he hoped he was clear of the Tuckers for good. Trouble came their way like sideways wind in winter.
At the top of what passed for a driveway Tucker stood in the woods and watched the house. Five and a half years was long enough for the dogs to forget him and he didn’t want to fight his own animals. He moved closer, waiting for them, thinking maybe they knew his smell, then realized there were no dogs. He stepped into the yard, clumped by weeds, a car with two flat tires beneath a tree. Ivy tangled the shed. He remembered sitting on the same porch making a deal with Beanpole.
In prison Tucker had resisted the impulse to think about his return. It was a dangerous habit that let vigilance erode. He’d witnessed the results in other men, a precursor to despair. Nevertheless, he succumbed every few months, indulging the fantasy of his triumphant return: his wife graceful and radiant, the children miraculously cured of ailment, Jo at the top of her class, Shiny confident and tall.
Now he looked at the house and knew something was wrong. The porch step was split, the wood trim paint-peeled. Leaves overflowed the gutters. The downspout was missing. A ripple of anxiety passed through his body. He opened the door and yelled a greeting.
The house held a surprising stillness that was contrary to the perpetual clangor of prison, the howling men. He checked Big Billy’s spot but the crib bed was gone. Rhonda slowly descended the stairs, hand against the wall. There was no rail and she took each step carefully as if it were her first time on steps. Tucker thought she was beautiful, unchanged, dark hair wisping from a clip. She wore a dress. Upon reaching the floor she moved fast, her arms around him in a hug tighter than he’d ever felt. A deep tension loosened in his body as if each muscle were a leaf shock on a run-car, easing pressure with removal of the load. He squeezed her until she gasped. He had the sensation that the two of them were a single tree split by weather, the exposed bark finding itself and fusing. The past few years seemed to evaporate from his body.