Death in the Black Patch

by Wilson, Bruce;

  Wes had saved the toughest chore for himself and Anthie. The tobacco shoots had been in the field less than a week, and the entire five acres needed to be looked over to see if there were any weeds or worms and to make sure that each of the young plants had a shot of water. Wes thought that the job would get Anthie’s mind off of the girl and serve as a reasonable punishment for the things he’d done the day before.

  The sun’s torrid heat bore down on Anthie as he stood in the middle of the field. His nose was sore, his cheek swollen, and he was tired. All morning long he’d been walking up and down the rows of small plants, pouring a ladle full of water on each one and bending down, searching for weeds and worms. It was mindless work, so he had plenty of time to think about Sudie, but the images of her faded every time he thought about his pa. He’d never seen him so mean. Sometimes when he got drunk, he’d yell and swear, but most of the time he’d just get grumpy and end up falling asleep. Last night was different. Last night Anthie had been truly afraid, physically and emotionally afraid of his own pa.

  As the sun climbed higher and the temperature rose along with it, Anthie kept working. Pa thinks I’m gonna quit, he thought, but I’m not. I’ll show him that I can work longer than he can. He shouldn’t have hit me. All I did was take the mule without askin’ and come home late. What’s so bad about that? Connie’s done stuff like that before and he never got beat for it. Pa hates me. The idea saddened Anthie, and his eyes filled with tears. As the painful thought rolled around in his mind, his sadness turned to anger. Well, then, I hate him too.

  At midday, Zora brought the leftover biscuits and bacon out to where the corn and tobacco fields joined. Everyone sat under the cool shade of the trees at the edge of the field and ate the meager lunch, except Anthie, who had wandered off by himself. She watched him go and then turned toward her husband. Wes was sitting with his back against a tree, his face shaded by the brim of his hat. She knew him well enough to see that he was still mad at the boy. She continued to stare at him, but he didn’t look up. Today is different than yesterday, she thought, and I wish I knew how to make it better.

  After a short rest, Wes got up and growled, “Let’s get back to work. There’s a lot to do and the day’s not gettin’ any longer.”

  On any other day, such a statement would have generated some moaning and complaining, but everyone knew the best response was to say nothing. Anthie was the first one into the rows, determined that his pa not find fault with his work. The few worms he discovered were crushed under his foot, much like he had felt the night before. Plant after plant, row after row, he pushed on, repeating to himself, “I hate him, I hate him.”

  When the sun dipped behind the tree line in the west, Wes picked up his tools and started toward the house. All of the others, except Anthie, followed their father. It had been a hard day, and they were tired and dirty and ready to quit. Wes never looked back as he entered the barn, leaned his hoe against the stall and walked out to the pump in the yard. Afraid to disturb their father, the others waited until he finished. When he walked away, they gathered around the tub and rinsed the sweat and dirt from their hands and arms and followed him into the house.

  “Supper’s almost ready,” said Zora over her shoulder. “I’ll have it on the table in a minute.” Turning to face them, she watched as Wes slid into his chair and the children quietly found their own places.

  “Where’s Anthie?” she said. Getting no response, she looked hard at Wes and then turned to Connie. “Where’s your brother?”

  “I think he’s still workin’, Ma.”

  “Well, you go out and get him and tell him he’d better get in here if he wants to eat tonight.” As Connie walked out the door, Zora glared at Wes. She said nothing more and continued setting the food on the table. No one reached for a fork or squirmed in his seat or said a word. Zora stood at the window, looking out into the growing dusk, trying to hide her anger. She still hadn’t thought of the right words to convince Wes he’d been wrong when he’d hit Anthie.

  When Connie returned and said that Anthie was still in the tobacco field, Zora told the others to start eating. She turned away from the table and walked outside. In the failing light, she saw her son at the far edge of the field. He was bent over some shoots, his back to her, and didn’t see her walking through the rows toward him.

  “Anthie, what are you doin’, son? Supper’s ready. Ain’t you comin’ in?” Her words were soft and gentle. As she held out her hands to him, she saw that the dirt on his face was traced with tears.

  A bit startled, he backed up a step, not letting her draw any closer. “No, Ma, I ain’t comin’ in. I got more work to do, and I don’t wanna be around Pa.”

  “But Anthie, it’s gettin’ dark.”

  “I don’t care. I can see good enough and I gotta finish. I’m not gonna give Pa anythin’ more to be mad about.” He reached down to pull a barely visible weed. Zora moved to touch his arm, but he brushed her away.

  “Anthie, please son, don’t be like this.”

  “Like what, Ma? Like someone who’s been hit by his pa? Like someone who knows his pa hates him? Oh, I’ll do the work and I’ll be quiet about it, but as soon as I can leave here, I will. I hate Pa and I hate farmin’. I’m gonna do somethin’ better with my life. Maybe I’ll own a store like Uncle Mark. Maybe I’ll join the army. I don’t know what; but whatever I do, I’ll be away from him and any farm.”

  “You don’t mean that. You can’t.”

  “I can and I do.” With that he turned once again to the weeds, pulling at them and tossing them aside.

  Zora watched him until he finished the row. At the end, he stood up and faced her. For just a moment, she saw how he’d aged. Without saying a word, he stalked away from the rows of tobacco. The look on his face and the set of his shoulders as he turned from her reminded Zora of Wes. She saw in her son the temper of her husband. She continued to watch him until he disappeared in the shadows of the trees along the road. She was worried about him—his pain, his confusion and even his growing interest in Sudie—but she wasn’t concerned about his ability to take care of himself, even at night on the road. He was young, strong and smart.

  When she opened the door, Zora saw that supper was over. Mary Lula was washing dishes, with Ruthie at her feet. Mary Lula turned to her ma and said she’d fix her a plate. Clearly her oldest daughter was no longer a child, but a young woman, sensitive to the tensions in relationships and, perhaps, wanting to shield her siblings.

  “Thank you,” was all Zora could say as she sat and waited for Mary Lula to finish the dishes. Ruthie toddled over to her mother, and Zora pulled the baby up into her lap. She hugged her and idly rubbed her back. I’m a truly blessed woman.

  After wiping her hands dry, Mary Lula filled her mother’s plate with beans, biscuits and a small slice of ham. She brought her a cup of coffee and sat down across from her. She reached across the table and took Zora’s free hand. Looking into her mother’s eyes she said, “I love you, Ma.”

  “I love you, too—”

  “Please let me finish. I love you and I love Pa. I know there’s somethin’ goin’ on that’s troubling you both. I also know it’s none of my business, but it hurts to see it happenin’.”

  Zora could only nod. She knew that Mary Lula was telling her the truth. She was also silenced by her daughter’s love, insight and growing maturity.

  “So, Ma, I don’t want you to worry about us. I’ll make sure that the children get fed. We’ll all keep doin’ what we’re supposed to do. Just help Pa deal with what’s botherin’ him.”

  She released her ma’s hand, came around the table and kissed her cheek. Then she picked up Ruthie and slipped out of the kitchen. Zora sat in the quiet room, picking at the food on her plate and thinking about the things Mary Lula had said. She knew she couldn’t sit at the table all night. She had to talk to Wes.

  Zora rose from the chair and s
et her plate and cup on the counter. She smoothed the front of her cotton dress, pushed a lock of hair back behind her ear and took a deep breath. With only a hint of hesitation, she strode from the room toward the back of the house, looking for Wes. She found him sitting on the bed in the room they shared. His back was to her as he stared out the open window into the growing darkness. The only light in the room came from a candle in a dish on the top of a bureau her grandmother had given them when they got married. The soft light did nothing to hide the weariness she saw in him. Despite her quiet steps, he knew she had come into the room, and she stopped short when he spoke.

  “Don’t start in on me, Zora. I know what you’re gonna say and I don’t want to hear it.” His voice was gruff, but lacked the strength she’d expected. She walked around the end of the bed and looked at him. He didn’t turn to her, but continued to stare out the window. Zora wanted to touch him, to put her hand on his shoulder, but she truly didn’t know if she should.

  “Wesley, please,” she whispered. “I know you’ve got a lot on your mind and you’re worried about so many things. I just think—”

  “Zora, I told you I don’t want to hear it. Leave me alone.”

  “Wes, I know you don’t want to hear this, especially from me, but I’m gonna say it anyway. As wrong as Anthie was to take the mule and to stay out late, you were very wrong to hit him. That was you reactin’ to your own fear and takin’ it out on your son. He deserved punishment, but he didn’t deserve gettin’ beat up by his own pa.”

  Wes’s silence filled the room, so Zora continued.

  “What’s goin’ on with the Night Riders is very troublesome; I know that. But it has nothin’ to do with our son. Wes, you’ve got to apologize to Anthie. He just don’t understand.”

  Wes turned away from the window and looked at her. His eyes were bloodshot, his face blank, but he was listening.

  “I’ve spoken my piece,” she said. “If you need to be mad at someone in the family, then be mad at me and not our children. I’m goin’ to put the young ones to bed and then go out and sit on the porch for some fresh air.” With that, she spun around and walked out of the room. She pulled the door shut behind her and left Wes sitting on the bed, thinking about how things had been between himself and his own father.

  * * *

  Wes was born the year his father came home from the war. John Henry Wilson had spent more than three years riding with the 12th Kentucky and, like most of his neighbors, had come home a deeply changed man. He’d fought battles in Tennessee, Mississippi and Alabama and had only two short furloughs in all that time. He’d seen men die; some of them were shot, others run through with a bayonet, still more blown to pieces. But most of them died simply because they got sick from the bad water in the crowded camps.

  John Wilson didn’t talk about the war except with those neighbors who’d shared the experience. Like many of them, he sometimes had nightmares and would wake up in the middle of the night screaming. But by the time Wes was ten or so, the dreams had become less frequent and less intense.

  Like most young boys, Wes was fascinated by the idea of war and battles. When he wasn’t helping on the farm and had a chance to play with his friends, they’d run around the hills and lanes, pretending that they were soldiers. They’d use wooden sticks for their swords and muskets. They’d take turns being Damn Yankees and would try to outdo one another in the gruesomeness of their deaths. Wes wanted to ask his pa about the war, but he sensed that his pa didn’t want to talk about it. Wes didn’t understand why his pa was reluctant, so he never asked until one evening, just a few years before his pa died. Wes had come out onto the porch of their farmhouse and found his pa sitting in a chair staring off into the distance. As he did on most nights, he was drinking whiskey. Wes sat down on the porch, not far from his pa, and turned to look up at him.

  “Pa?”

  “Yeah,” he said softly.

  “What was it like fightin’ in the war?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “I dunno, I guess I was just wonderin’ what it was like. What was it like to be in a charge? What was it like to shoot at Yankees?”

  His pa didn’t answer him right away. Several minutes went by before he turned toward his son and said, “War is a nasty business, son. You’re too young to hear about it.”

  “But, Pa, I—”

  “You heard me, son. You don’t know what you’re askin’. Now get out of here and leave me alone for a while.”

  “Please, Pa, I was just wonderin’ if you ever killed anyone.”

  “Damn it, Wes, I told you to get out of here!” he yelled, rising quickly from his chair.

  Wes jumped from the porch and started to run off toward the pig pen. Before he’d gone a few yards, his pa yelled again.

  “Wait a minute! Get back here.”

  Wes walked slowly back toward the porch, stopping a few feet away from his pa. Reluctantly, he looked up, wondering if he was going to be punished just for asking questions. Instead, his pa just stared down at him.

  “I want you to stand right there and listen to what I say. I’m only goin’ to talk about this one time, and I don’t want you to ever ask me about it again. Do you understand?”

  Wes stood absolutely still, fearing that even the smallest movement might set his father off. When he finally spoke, the words sounded like a gate hinge in desperate need of oiling. “Yes, Pa.”

  “Now you listen to me and you listen good. War is a terrible, awful thing. I know, because I fought in the war for almost four years. I saw men die, and the way they died was not like it is in books. Sometimes they got shot in the belly and their guts just spilled out on the ground. Sometimes a cannonball ripped their head off. I’ve seen men just disappear. One minute they’re standin’ next to you and the next minute they’re gone. There’s nothin’ but a mist of blood floatin’ in the air. You asked me if I killed anyone. Well, I did. I killed too many to remember the number of them, but I remember every one of their faces. I see their faces in my nightmares, and I hear their screams and their groans and their cries for their mamas.”

  Wes felt like he was going to throw up, but he was able to swallow the acid-like liquid back. He still hadn’t moved from the spot in front of his pa.

  “War stinks. When men die, their bladders and their bowels empty. When hundreds or thousands of men die, the smell is a thousand times worse. And that smell is the smell that is in all of my nightmares. What you see and hear and think and smell and do in war never goes away.”

  Still not moving, Wes began to cry. Tears filled his eyes and dripped down his cheeks. He could barely breathe as he watched his pa slump into the chair and lift the jug off the porch. He tipped it up, taking two huge gulps of the potent liquid and looked at his son.

  “So there it is. That’s what war and killin’ is like. Now you try to forget about it. But know this: I can’t forget about it. If I could I would, but I can’t. I don’t ever want you to ask me about this again. Never! Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Pa,” he whimpered.

  “Now get. Leave me be.”

  Wes turned and walked slowly around to the side of the house where his pa couldn’t see him. He dropped to his knees and retched up whatever was in his stomach. His belly and his bowels kept clenching even though there was nothing left to purge. Wes’s throat was on fire and his head pounded. He crawled toward the pump, hoping that a drink of water would get rid of the awful taste in his mouth. Standing up, he dunked his head into the nearly full tub, soaking himself to his shoulders. When he came up for air, he cupped his hands and drank the soothing water. After he’d satisfied his thirst and rinsed the foul taste from his mouth, he stood and walked out into the field.

  Even though his mouth and throat felt better, his head was still pounding. As he wandered among the drying corn stalks, his pa’s words wouldn’t leave him alone. What you see and
hear and think and smell and do in war never goes away. Finally, out of sight of his pa and anyone else in the family, Wes fell on his face in the dust of the cornfield and wept. He sobbed nonstop for a quarter-hour. He’d gotten the answers to his questions, the questions he wished he’d never asked. Long after dark, Wes came into the house and crept to his bed. He lay down, but he didn’t sleep all night.

  In the few years left of his father’s life, Wes never asked him again about the war. But he believed that the whippings he got when he’d done something wrong or the angry shouts and withering stares his father sent his way were more than just a man punishing his son. They were his pa’s only way of dealing with pain that would never go away, never leave him alone.

  When Wes was just thirteen, his pa killed himself with his shotgun.

  * * *

  Zora’s challenge to Wes hung in the still air of their bedroom. Wes hadn’t moved from his place on the bed in the hour since she’d walked out. Although his body had been motionless, his mind hadn’t rested. The ever-present issue of the Night Riders had been overshadowed by thoughts of his father and of his son. As far as Anthie was concerned, Wes had decided he’d back off a bit on his punishment, that perhaps he’d worked him too hard. But he was not going to apologize to the boy. Anthie would have to learn that life wasn’t easy and that there are consequences for doing the wrong thing. He’ll get over it, thought Wes.

  Remembering these things about his pa, on the other hand, had been more unsettling than helpful. Clouded by this dark history, Wes used to blame his pa’s anger and drinking on the war. But now he wondered if the violence came from something else.

  These thoughts troubled Wes, but he had more important, more immediate things to consider. He needed to talk to Zora’s cousin Art, whose farm was northwest of Lynnville. He had to find out what Art’s plans were for his own crop, and he needed to find out soon.

  * * *

  After a restless night, he rose before breakfast, took the mule out of the barn and walked it over to the porch. Zora had sent the children out of the kitchen, and they watched Wes as he placed a bridle over the mule’s head. The filtered sun warmed their backs while the cool breeze from the west ruffled their hair where it stuck out under their hats. They stood still, their faces expressionless, waiting for him to speak. Wes took the padded blanket from Connie and put it on the mule’s back, checked to see that it was snug and pulled himself up onto the animal.