Miss Mae would sit in the rocker and talk to him: "The Good Book says for you to mind your mama and daddy. The Good Book says for you not to ever steal anything, not to never tell a story, not even a little story, to do unto others as you would have them do unto you. The Good Book says believe in the Lord Jesus Christ and thou shall be saved. The Good Book says ..."
One day Miss Mae had to go inside and Miss Bea sat down and looked him in the eyes and said, "Don't you ever play with yourself, you hear me, and since you don't have no brothers and sisters, you're going to have to take care of your mama and daddy. Do you understand that?"
"Yes ma'am."
"Somebody might try to take you away from your mama and daddy. Do you understand that?"
"No ma'am ... Yes ma'am."
"Well, you better understand it. Don't you ever leave your mama and daddy, do you hear me?"
"Yes ma'am."
"Now, do you want to learn how to shoot a chicken?"
"Yes ma'am, I think so."
"You're going to be our helper-outer. Follow me on down to the chicken pen and I'll show you how. Go tell your daddy first." Stephen wondered if the skin around her ribs was maybe green. He went to the door of the grocery and told his daddy what Miss Bea wanted.
His daddy came out on the store porch and Miss Bea said over to him, "Remember I told you I was going to hire your son to be our chicken shooter?"
"Yes ma'am."
"The time is here."
"Oh, well, okay. You mean now?"
"Right now. This minute."
"Let's go, son. I'll go with you."
Amongst the chickens, Stephen watched as Miss Bea picked one walking straight away from her. "If you do it from the side," she said, "then she's apt to walk off. So you get behind her, you save some time. Watch me." The chicken stepped away, bobbing its head. Miss Bea stepped closer, put the gun to her shoulder, aimed, and pulled the trigger. The gun clicked. She handed Stephen the gun while still holding on to it, pulling back the hammer and helping him raise the stock to his shoulder. The shotgun was heavy and had an adventure in it and some kind of death.
"Just practice aiming a little bit there," she said. Then to his daddy. "He needs to learn to shoot a gun and my aim ain't getting no better."
"Yes'um, I was planning on teaching him pretty soon."
"He ever shot a shotgun?"
"No, not yet."
Harvey wanted to be taking care of this matter of his son shooting a shotgun for the first time. Both these women at one time or another seemed to him a little bit off, somehow. They sure were different from his mama, who always stayed in the house and did all her work in there—until she got sick, and now she just sat in her chair or lay in her bed in his sister's living room while they all took care of her and brought her snuff and chocolate-covered cherries every once in a while and listened to her say things they all repeated to one another. She, like his father, was one of the wisest people on earth and all the offspring knew that and knew to treat them that way, so harmony could prevail.
"Can I shoot the rooster?" Stephen asked.
"We don't shoot the rooster," said Miss Bea. "We need him for his services."
The comment troubled Harvey. It was about sex, spoken in the wide open. He laughed a little laugh, half funny, half worry.
Stephen looked from chicken head to chicken head. Some of the chickens had little tender-looking red skins hanging from their chins and head. Little dribble things. None of them would look at him. They'd look off, and then if you got too close, bob away with high steps. One of them looked kind of wise. Stephen didn't want to shoot that one. "Which one?" he asked. It was almost like they were people. They could even be people in the Bible. Or people from the city.
"I'll show you which one in a minute," said Miss Bea.
His daddy said, "She'll flap around all over the place once you shoot her. Don't let it scare you." Then his daddy said to Miss Bea, "He won't much over three when Papa got rid of all his chickens."
Stephen looked and saw the new man in the yellow shirt, the gypsy man, Mr. Jones, walking down there. He figured Mr. Jones would start talking, telling a funny story or something. His daddy would more or less stand quiet.
"Is that a four-ten?" asked Mr. Jones.
"Sure is," said Miss Bea. "Little Steve's going to be my chicken shooter. A penny a chicken, and he's about to shoot his first one."
The big people were watching him. Stephen eyed a chicken, a white chicken. The white ones might be connected to God or Jesus. He remembered getting run at by a great big old mean rooster when he was at his granddaddy's house one time. If this rooster came at him and the gun was loaded he could shoot it right in the face.
"He ever shot a shotgun before?" Mr. Jones asked his daddy.
"I was aiming to teach him before his next birthday."
"Go ahead and practice, son," said Miss Bea. "Just aim right down the barrel and pull the trigger. Lift it right up to your shoulder. Get up close to their head but come in from the rear, now, else they'll shy away from you."
Stephen brought the gun up to his shoulder and started for a nearby chicken. The chicken darted behind him and Stephen turned, still holding the gun up to his shoulder, swinging it around toward the onlookers.
Mr. Jones ducked. "Whoa. That's what kills people, Budrow."
"It ain't loaded," said his daddy.
"The gun is not loaded, sir," said Miss Bea to Mr. Jones. "You stick to your business and I'll stick to mine—whatever yours is."
"Son," said his daddy, "don't point the gun at anybody no matter if it's loaded or not."
"It ain't loaded," said Stephen. "She never put the bullet in it."
"It's a shell," said Miss Bea.
"And don't point it at anybody no matter what," said his daddy.
Stephen's ears felt hot. He wanted to go ahead and shoot. He felt just a little bit like he might cry. He wanted to get this on over with. Miss Bea walked up behind a chicken very slowly. He felt like he was getting asthma.
"See there," she said. "Once you get behind him you got a better chanst."
"Why don't you just chop his head off?" said Mr. Jones.
"You got to catch them to do that, and I can't get around like I used to. Pick that one right over there, son. See that one? Walk up right behind her and aim at the back of her head and pull that trigger."
Stephen walked up behind the chicken, kind of aimed, pulled the trigger, which clicked.
"Okay," said Miss Bea. "Now we can load it. Let me see the gun. There we go. Now. I've got the safety on. That's right there. See. Before it'll shoot, you're going to have to push that, like this."
"My grandma used to choke chickens," said Casey Odell, walking up. "Sit down on the ground, get them between her legs, and choke them. That's what she used to do when she got real old."
"I've choked my own chicken," Mr. Jones said to Casey, "but I ain't ever choked nobody else's."
"That reminds me of a joke. These two fellows were..."
Stephen held the gun to his shoulder and walked behind the chicken. The chicken took a step, then another step. He brought the gun to his shoulder, aimed, pushed the safety forward, closed his eyes and pulled the trigger. He felt the explosion and kick. He opened his eyes. Chickens were squawking and scattering. The chicken he'd almost hit was climbing onto the backs of two other chickens—all three flapping their wings. He'd missed and blown a hole in the ground.
"You can't close your eyes," said Mr. Jones. "See that little BB on the top of the gun barrel, Budrow? Put the safety back on. Hold it straight—"
"We don't need any help," said Miss Bea. "I already showed him that. You just keep quiet while we take care of this, now why don't you, sir."
Miss Bea held the gun to Stephen's shoulder. "Look through that V and get that BB right in the V and hold it there and be sure the BB looks like it's right on the chicken's head. Then pull the trigger. That's right. See, you got the little V, then the BB, and that makes it pointed at some
thing. Keep the BB in the V and the BB on the chicken head. That's all you do." She took the gun, loaded it, handed it back to Stephen, who got behind a chicken, brought the gun up, aimed, and pulled the trigger. ka-blaow.
The chicken had no head and blood was there. Its wings beat so hard it raised dust. It flapped and bounced in a circle, then straight for Stephen. He tried to step away from it but it tumbled against his leg. He stepped back. The chicken shivered, then lay still.
"Bull's-eye," said Casey Odell.
"Chicken's eye," said Mr. Jones. "That took about a hour longer than it needed to."
"I think it took about the right time," said Miss Bea.
"The right time for you."
"You don't even live around here."
"I do now."
"You don't even have no family."
"I do have a family."
"Not that you live with."
"That's none of your business."
"Well, then don't come butting in if you don't have no responsibility for anything."
"At least I didn't marry my sister. Or brother."
Bea raised the gun. "Get off my property."
"Gladly."
Leland's first cousin, Tim Triplett, Jr., was in the northeast corner of the north pine woods with a bow and arrow. His arrow was a hollow reed with a nail in the end. He shot it into a pine tree, retrieved it, shot again. / Selma Michaels had taken Paul Hilderbrand outside her and Raymond's house and was showing him the ten little streaks down the tin roof, fading to eight, or fading out altogether to reappear again lower down the roof. It was where Raymond fell off the roof and broke his leg. "He was trying to hold on all the way down," said Selma. "He didn't have much fingernails left. I'm real sorry about his leg, but it can't help but be funny when you come out here and look at them ten streaks."
After the chicken shoot, Stephen, standing on his front porch at home, fingering the penny in his pocket, saw Terry and Leland at the top of the muddy bank between Mrs. Odum's and the grocery store. He walked over from his house and watched.
"If you want to ride down," said Terry, "you got to get you a piece of cardboard."
In the kitchen, Stephen asked his mother.
"Who's doing it?" she said.
"Terry and Leland."
"Well, I guess that'll be all right. Just be careful not to get in the road. There's a cardboard box in the garage. Come on, I'll cut you out a piece. We'll get you a big piece."
Stephen stood at the top of the bank and looked down the narrow mud path. He sat on the cardboard, slid himself forward a foot, another foot, and he was off: slow ... fast, faster. He slid into the road ditch, stood, picked up the cardboard, and headed back up top again. It was Terry's turn, then Leland, then Stephen. When Stephen reached the bottom the second time and started to stand, Terry slammed into him. "You got to get out of the way," Terry said.
"I was fixing to."
Then Leland almost slammed into Stephen.
Back at the top of the bank, Leland said, "It's my turn. That one didn't count because you got in the way."
"It's my turn," said Stephen.
Leland pushed Stephen, and tripped him at the same time. Stephen went sliding down the hill, down the mud path, backward. He hit bottom, stood up. "Why did you do that?" he yelled.
"You little prissy."
"I am not."
"You better not come back up this hill."
The gypsy man, walking by, stopped.
Stephen started along the ditch for home. Leland said, "You better not tell your mama."
"I am, too."
"You better not." Leland started running down the hill at Stephen. Stephen started running toward home. Stephen had a good head start. Leland got up too much steam going down the bank and fell.
In the kitchen, Stephen's mother knelt and looked Stephen in the eyes. "I don't care what he did. Don't you run from him if he pushes you. Next time you tell him to stop and if he don't, you push him back, and then if he does anything else you fight him as hard as you can. Do you understand?"
"Yes ma'am."
"I mean it."
"Yes ma'am."
When the crape myrtles had lost their color in the near darkness, Alease came out by the garage to empty and burn the trash. Harvey and Stephen were at the store. She was thinking she might just go down there and get Stephen so they could read some or listen to the radio.
June Odum was at her clothesline getting some clothes in. June walked over. "Have you seen that man sitting out there by the fence at the Settle Inn?" she said.
"I don't think so."
"Wears a yellow shirt every day?"
"Oh, yes, I did. I saw him the other morning. I think that's the same one. He was walking down to the blinker light."
"Blake told Urleen he said he was kin to some of the Joneses other side of T.R. Said he called it Traveler's Rest instead of T.R. Course you know some do. But not many. Not natural-born people, anyway. But somehow he knew about Train's mule-truck wreck."
"Which Joneses?"
"I don't know. Wonder why he ain't staying with them?"
"I was wondering the same thing."
FAINT YELLOW
At about noontime on Friday, Jack Umstead sat on the bench at Train's Place, drinking a Blatz. Beside him sat Casey Odell, drinking a Tru-Ade orange and eating a honey bun.
"Where did Trouble take his morning nap?" asked Umstead.
"I don't know. You can ask Train. But don't bet no money on whether or not it's going to rain."
Across the road, a woman was approaching the front door of the barbershop. She held a tray of hot lunch under a red-checkered cloth. There was a sign over the door: shower, 25 CENTS.
"I tell you one thing," said Casey, "I hope I can get me a wife that'll bring me a hot lunch every day. She does it every day, too. Ever single day, rain or shine, cold or hot. Yessir."
"Where they live?"
"Top of the hill, back that way, fourth house on the left. She don't ever miss a day neither."
The barbershop was just not a place for hoarding money, thought Umstead. Their house might be.
They sat for a while. A dump truck with a load of gravel came to a long brake-squealing stop at the blinker light.
Umstead said, "I guess the blinker light cut out some accidents."
"Oh, yeah. One of the worst was when this woman pulled out from right over there about time this guy started passing coming from down that way. And I want you to know: It was headlight to headlight. Headlight to headlight. I was under my truck in that pit around there, and it sounded like a atom bomb exploded and if you ever see that woman, Bernice Gallager, she's got a big scar acrost her forehead and walks with a limp. She had a dog in the car that was killed outright and a baby in there, her cousin's baby, didn't get a scratch. The man was from out in Bailford. She's never got over it. Never will.
"Then like I said what made them decide to go ahead and put in the light—the final straw—except it didn't have nothing to do with the intersection directly, was the mule-truck head-on. That's the wreck everybody talks about."
"Does anybody ever go to the picture show down at the school on Friday nights?"
"Oh yeah, they usually have a right good crowd."
Train came rolling out. "Trouble. Sic ... sic."
Trouble stood with some effort and started his journey around the store.
"Where'd he take his morning nap?" asked Umstead.
"Out here. I bet you two dollars it don't rain today."
"Naw. I been warned about that."
Stephen came running across the backyard. Leland was chasing him. Stephen opened the screen door, half fell onto the porch as he turned and hooked the screen door just before Leland grabbed it and pulled.
"You scaredy-cat. You chicken," said Leland, breathing hard. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand.
Stephen turned to go on into the house. But he was face to face with his mama. She grabbed his shoulders, backed him against the porch wa
ll. Her hands were wet. "Don't you run from him again. Ever. Now you get back out there and fight him. You hear me? Get back out there right now and don't you come back in this house until you're finished one way or another. Now get out there." She unhooked the door and pushed him out, hooked it back, and went inside, over to the window to watch. With her apron she wiped dishwater off the back of her hands.
Stephen faced Leland. He saw Leland's fists ball up. He balled up his. Then Leland was right up in his face. Stephen smelled him. He smelled like danger. Stephen's legs were trembling. Leland pushed against Stephen's chest with his fist. Stephen felt a good deal of strength in the push. He put both fists against Leland's chest and pushed. It didn't seem to make a lot of difference somehow. Leland pushed him again, harder, and reached for the Gene Autry pistol at his side. Stephen saw he was about to get hit with it. Leland was swinging it right toward his head. He ducked, the pistol grazed the top of his head. Stephen reached with both hands for Leland's face. He grabbed flesh and squeezed. One hand was knocked loose. He grabbed back, tried to scratch at Leland's eyes. Leland swung the pistol again without Stephen seeing it coming and it hit him upside the head but it didn't hurt at all. It just stopped the hearing on that side. He felt some success. He turned and grabbed the screen door. It was locked. Leland grabbed his shirt. Stephen pulled loose and started to run toward the garage, remembered, stopped, and turned. The thrown pistol hit him in the chest. It didn't hurt a bit. He picked it up and ran several steps toward Leland with the gun over his head, ready to throw. He threw it, missed, but as Leland backed up he tripped. Stephen jumped on top of him, letting his knee drop as hard as he could, felt it sink into Leland's stomach, heard the rush of breath, scratched at Leland's face with his left hand, swung with his right. It was blocked. Leland was giving up, looked like he couldn't breathe. A great rush of energy. Stephen swung hard—his hand got through, made a hard splat sound on Leland's nose. Blood came freely. Stephen stood up, alarmed. Leland rolled over onto his side, finally got his breath, put his hand to his nose, and looked at the blood.
"Leland," said Stephen's mother, through the window, "you go on home now, you hear."
WHERE TROUBLE SLEEPS Page 10