A Bird on Water Street

by Elizabeth O. Dulemba

  I looked across the river to the bank on the other side. She was right about that. I couldn’t see more than a hundred feet from the forest being so thick, full of ferns and bushes covered with flaming orange flowers. But I liked that better.

  As I stared, the biggest bird I ever saw swooped down right in front of us with two smaller birds flying tight on its tail, squawkin’ up a storm.

  “Whoa!” Piran said. “Was that a hawk?”

  “I think so,” Mom said. “The smaller birds must have been chasing him out of their territory.” It was so graceful and strong—I couldn’t believe something that big could fly through the trees without crashing into them.

  Everything around me was moving. Leaves swayed in the breeze, scattering light between them. Birds and squirrels jumped from branch to branch, bugs and butterflies zigged and zagged, busy with their work, and the river gurgled and changed colors in the sun. Coppertown was so incredibly quiet and still in comparison. I was overwhelmed by so much life surroundin’ me.

  “Wish I had my fishin’ pole,” Piran said and pointed to a huge trout as it slipped through an eddy. “I bet we could eat the fish here.”

  Across the road I saw a trail cutting into the woods. “Hey, Mom, mind if Piran and I explore some before we go?”

  “Okay,” she said and lay back on the rock. “I wouldn’t mind soaking up some sunshine. But don’t be too long, and yu’uns be careful, y’hear?”

  I smiled. “Yes, ma’am.” It was nice to see Mom relax for a change.

  Piran and I pushed branches out of our way and hiked up the trail about a quarter mile.

  “What is that?” he asked and pointed to a light brown shell of a bug clinging to a tree. It had two front legs like pinchers, and a split down the back. I gently pulled it from the bark. It was so fragile. I cupped my hands around it to keep from crushin’ it.

  “Oh, that is gross,” Piran said.

  “No it’s not. It’s neat!” I replied.

  I collected three more shells as we walked. The air was cool and smelled spicy with blooms. Layers of leaves and pine needles crunched softly beneath our feet. We were surrounded by sounds. I couldn’t stop smiling—a forest was an amazing thing.

  We followed the trail as it sank down into a shallow little valley and came to a small clearing with an old stone chimney covered in vines.

  Piran stepped down and crack! “What the…” He pushed some leaves out of the way. “It’s a mason jar.”

  The closer we looked the more we saw. There were dozens of them scattered all around the chimney.

  “Y’know what this is?” I said. “This here is the site of an old moonshine still. I remember Grandpa Chase telling me about ’em.”

  “You think?” Piran asked.

  We looked around at all the man-made signs of times past. There was a barrel, a bucket, and some pipe, but it was all rusted or broken.

  “I bet the still sat right here,” I said.

  I imagined I could smell the sour mash and hear the gunshots as the revenuers chased the bootleggers away. I found a mason jar that was in perfect shape except for being a little dirty. I put the bug shells inside and brought it back to Mom.

  “It probably was an old moonshine site,” she agreed. “Like I said, there used to be a lot of that around here.” She held the jar up to the sun. “These are cicada shells. See where they crawled out?”

  “Is that why there’s a split down their backs?” I asked.

  “Yup. This is an exoskeleton.”

  “Gross.” Piran shivered.

  Mom just smiled. “Yu’uns ready to go?”

  I wasn’t. I could have stayed there forever.

  At home, I helped wash the berries through a strainer and put them in bags for the refrigerator. The sink was filled with purple juice. I popped a few more berries into my mouth but Mom swatted my hand.

  “Don’t eat them, Jack!” she said. “I’m gonna can whatever I don’t use for the pies.”

  Sure enough, when I went in the kitchen for lunch the next day, I found it covered in purple juice, glass jars, and tall cooking pots full of jam and boiling water.

  “You want to help?” Mom asked with a grin.

  “It’s burning up in here!” I said. She had all the doors open and fans stationed at the front and back tryin’ to cool things off, but it didn’t make much difference. “No thanks.”

  Sweat dripped down my face as I ate my sandwich as fast as I could.

  I watched Mom use tongs to lift jars of hot jam from the pot of boiling water. She lined them up on the counter where they twinkled like purple jewels.

  Pop! Pop!

  “Pops o’ joy.” She smiled.

  “Why do they make that sound?” I asked.

  “When I boil the jars and then cool them, I’m creating a vacuum,” she replied. “The pop means they’re sealed.”

  “Can I try some?”

  “Oh, they’re too hot right now, but I’ll put a jar in the fridge for later,” she said.

  The newspaper lay on the corner of the kitchen table. I couldn’t help but notice the mug shots that took up most of the front page. “Two Men Arrested for Growing Marijuana Near Hell’s Holler,” the headline read.

  Marijuana. Although neither mug shot was of Eli Munroe, it all suddenly came together in my mind. That’s what Eli’s been up to. It explains everything…

  “Mom, did you see this?” I asked. “Isn’t Hell’s Holler right near where we were in Devil’s Den—like a ridge away?”

  She put a kitchen towel on top of the paper to cover the headline. “Yes,” she said in a fluster. “We’ll just go back to my old blackberry patch next year.”

  “I guess Devil’s Den hasn’t changed much after all,” I said. No more moonshine—nowadays it was pot.

  Chapter 27

  Independence Day

  Saturday was the Fourth of July. Nobody could celebrate our nation’s birthday better than Coppertown, Tennessee.

  We went to the church first thing in the mornin’ for homemade buckwheat pancakes and hot cane syrup. Piran and I went back four times each. Everybody seemed to be in a good mood for a change. Happy conversation bounced off the cement block walls of the community room. There was so much red, white, and blue everywhere, I grew dizzy with the colors.

  Mom made Dad promise not to talk about the strike for the day, so he didn’t say much of anything. Meanwhile, she chatted with friends and slipped me some change for the fair. “Don’t spend it all in one place,” she said sarcastically and laughed. I knew it was more than we could afford, so I smiled and thanked her. She squeezed my hand.

  My stomach felt like a water balloon about to pop as we left the church and headed for the ball field. I threw my shoes into the back seat of our car on the way. Mom could make me wear a shirt, but there was no way I was gonna wear shoes all day.

  As Piran and I walked over, I told him about the newspaper story and my theory about Eli. “It’s the only thing that makes sense. Why else would his Jeep have been up there? And do you remember all those light bulbs that fell out of his car last winter? He was growin’ seedlings—just like I was doing, only his were illegal. I bet he was growing ’em in that trailer.”

  “God, Jack! What are we gonna do about it?”

  “I don’t know. But remember what I heard Sheriff Elder sayin’ about the pot fields? One was in Hell’s Holler and the other was in Devil’s Den. It’s only a matter of time before they bust Eli too. His field has to be right near where we were pickin’ blackberries.”

  “This sucks. I wonder if Hannah knows…”

  We were silent the rest of the way over—each of us deep in thought. But the excitement of the day couldn’t keep us quiet for long.

  They were still setting up tables and tents at the ball field when we got there, but the air buzzed with promise. Mom
had already dropped off her blackberry pie for the baking competition. Piran and I watched as they turned the city’s flatbed wrecker truck into a stage for gospel and bluegrass. The hamburger stand fired up their grill, and despite my full belly, I couldn’t wait for lunch as I breathed in the mouthwatering smell.

  The Boy Scouts set up a demonstration campsite. Piran and I walked quickly by to avoid the director, Mr. Brown. Two years before, Buster got in a fight with his son. We’d all gotten in trouble for cheerin’ it on, and Mr. Brown still held a grudge.

  With tinny chugs, antique cars lined up along the outfield fence. We walked the entire length, checking under the hoods like we knew what we were looking at. I oohed over a candy-red ’57 Corvette with a white leather interior. Piran tried to grab the wheel, but the owner barked, “Don’t touch!”

  So we headed for our favorite thing—the dunkin’ machine.

  “Who do you think we’ll get to dunk this year?” Piran asked.

  “It was Principal Slaughter last year,” I said. “How they gonna top that?”

  “No way!” Piran said. “Sheriff Elder is getting in! Let’s go!”

  “Piran, you can’t sink the sheriff!”

  “You watch me!”

  I swear Piran reminded me of Buster sometimes—he just didn’t think things through. With Eli’s future in jeopardy, now was not the time to be attracting the sheriff’s attention, maybe puttin’ pieces together in his head: Piran led to Hannah, who led to Eli, who led to pot. It was all too close for comfort and put Hannah in danger besides. Piran may not have liked it, and I didn’t either, but Eli was still his brother-in-law—family.

  Despite my protest, Piran bought three tries for a quarter each and got into his pitcher’s stance.

  “Is that Piran Quinn there?” the sheriff asked as he perched atop the little ledge, his toes barely touching the water below. “You think you can take me down, son?”

  “I’m gonna try!” Piran wound up and threw as hard as he could at the round red target on the side of the bin. The ball whizzed by without touching it.

  Sheriff Elder guffawed. “I think I’ll be stayin’ dry through this one!”

  Piran’s ears turned red and he wound up again. This time he nicked the edge, but not hard enough to trigger the lever.

  “Yup, dry as a bone,” Sheriff Elder said and smiled menacingly.

  “Don’t do it,” I whispered, trying one last time.

  Piran looked at me with a glint in his eye and nodded. “Don’t worry, I got it now.”

  He spit, straightened up, and wound the ball. It flew from his hand like a bullet, straight at the target.

  Kasploosh! Down went Sheriff Elder.

  “Good arm, Quinn.” The sheriff coughed as he came up and looked at Piran with a smile that wasn’t altogether friendly. I could almost see the wheels turning in his head. That’s the boy whose sister married that troublemaker, Eli…

  “C’mon, let’s get out of here.” I tugged at Piran, who walked away struttin’ like a turkey. “I don’t think that was a good idea,” I said.

  “Ah, that was great!” Piran crowed.

  The music was firing up, so we ran to the stage. Piran’s dad was up there playing clawhammer banjo with his group, Dreadful Noise. They played “Wayfaring Stranger,” and then “Cluck Ole Hen.” I couldn’t keep still when they got to “Arkansas Traveler.” I tried to buck dance with the crowd growing in front of the stage, but my two left feet wouldn’t let me do more than stomp around and kick up dust. Piran danced until the dust got to be too much.

  “I gotta sit,” he gasped and pulled out his inhaler.

  “I’ll get us some colas,” I hollered over the music.

  We watched the print skirts and overalls whirl by as the band played “Cold Frosty Morn.” Through the crowd, we caught a glimpse of…

  “Oh man,” Piran groaned.

  Speak o’ the devil.

  Eli was walking with Hannah. She was barely showing—you’d only notice if you knew she was pregnant, but of course everybody did. She and Eli ignored the stares and whispers and walked at the edge of the crowd. I couldn’t take my eyes off them. From a distance, it looked like they were arguin’. Maybe she does know about the pot.

  “How are they doing?” I asked.

  “She doesn’t talk to us much,” Piran said, “but I heard through the grapevine that he’s gone a lot.”

  We looked at each other and I was sure we were thinking the same thing: He’s been at his pot field. Something in me tugged.

  Toward midday we figured we could probably pack some more food into our bellies. The burger stand smelled so good, I could’ve chewed on the air. We both bought cheeseburgers and loaded them with ketchup, mayonnaise, lettuce, tomatoes, onions, and Mrs. Spencer’s pickle relish. Our burgers were twice as tall by the time we left the fixings table and made our way back through the crowd. The ketchup squished out the sides of my burger and ran down my hands, but I didn’t care.

  “I bet I could eat this whole thing in three bites,” Piran said.

  “I bet I could too, but I’m not gonna,” I replied. I only had enough money for one burger and planned on making it last as long as possible. I took tiny, little bites to prove it.

  When I got home, I actually took a nap. I felt like a baby doing it, but being so full knocked me right out. I awoke several hours later with my stomach growling. Okay, maybe it was more upset than hungry, but I wasn’t done yet.

  Dad squirted lighter fluid on the coals, creating a four-foot-high flame on the grill in the backyard. I helped Mom set up a card table and placed a rock on the pile of napkins threatenin’ to scatter in the light breeze. Everybody on the south side of the river gathered in our backyard since we had the best view of Tater Hill, and they all brought food. We had to set up three card tables to hold everything.

  Macaroni and cheese seemed to be the most popular dish to bring this year—yum! I was enjoying being full for a change and went back for a second helping. To top it off, I had a slice of Mom’s blackberry pie, which had won first place at the fair, of course.

  “It’s my secret ingredient.” Mom smiled. Even Dad didn’t know what it was.

  She’d made three pies—one for the church raffle, one for the judging, and one for us, so there was plenty for us to judge for ourselves.

  She deserved the prize all right.

  Little kids ran around with sparklers while everybody set up their folding chairs facin’ town. The men made bets on whether the volunteer fire department would catch everything on fire again this year. Grandpa Chase played a few reels on his fiddle while we all waited for it to grow dark.

  About that time, Eli and Hannah made an appearance. They put out two folding chairs next to Mr. and Mrs. Quinn—obviously at Hannah’s insistence. Nobody looked too comfortable about it.

  I kept staring at ’em—watching Hannah. Even with her married to another man, I couldn’t help how I felt. I wanted to protect her. So when Eli went for seconds, I went back for thirds.

  I waited until Mr. Dilbeck got a hot dog and left—and we were alone. “Hey, Eli,” I said as I pretended to peruse the food.

  “Huh? Oh, hey…Jack, right?” Like he didn’t know who I was.

  “Yeah. Hey, you see that article in today’s paper about the marijuana bust over in Hell’s Holler?”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “Well, I overheard Sheriff Elder talking last month. They’ve been monitoring a growin’ field over in Devil’s Den too. He said they had cameras set up and were just waitin’ for enough evidence to bust whoever is growin’ there. Whoever it is, next time they show up, they’re probably gonna get arrested.”

  Eli stopped putting food on his plate and coughed. “Why you tellin’ me this, Jack?”

  “Because Hannah’s pregnant. And she needs a husband who’s around to take care of her.”
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br />   We stood there in frozen, awkward silence for a moment, until I couldn’t stand it anymore. “Anyhow, I’ll be seein’ ya.” Even though he was smart as a bag of hammers, I hoped Eli got the message.

  I went over and grabbed a folding chair next to Piran.

  “Hi, Jack,” Hannah said as I sat down. I guess what they say about pregnant women is true—she glowed like a light shone from right inside her, and I knew I’d done the right thing.

  Long before the actual show started, the battle of the bottle rockets began. Coppertown straddled the state line, so roadside fireworks stands were plentiful. Even in tough times, people splurged to celebrate America’s birthday. Since the town sat in a bowl, people could shoot fireworks back and forth from the houses on the slopes until the sky was lit up from every direction. It was like watchin’ a tennis match with explosives.

  “That must be the Dilbecks’ house,” somebody said. “They always buy the big ones.”

  “That must be the Pritchards’ over there,” somebody else said and laughed. “Those are some piss-poor fireworks!”

  Finally the main show began. Booms echoed off the storefronts in town and throughout the valley. We oohed and aahed and named each one our new favorite. Occasionally the wind blew our direction carrying the burnt smell of gunpowder—it didn’t smell nearly as bad as the clouds from the Company, though, so it didn’t bother us. The smoke created light gray patches against the dark blue sky. For the grand finale, the VFD launched blooms of green, red, and blue along with a rocket that shot up with a high-pitched whistle and showered the sky with long white sparkly tails.

  I couldn’t help but watch how they reflected in Hannah’s eyes.

  Everybody declared it the best show ever, although it was much smaller and shorter than in previous years. Piran and I agreed the year the VFD accidentally lit the entire box of fireworks at one time was still the winner. It was amazing that nobody had gotten hurt.

  The crowd slowly broke up as people grabbed blankets and chairs and meandered home.