by Sarah Tomp
There were still way too many hours of the night ahead of us that I didn’t know how to navigate. I said, “Let’s all go for a walk. We can look for stars. And the moon. I think seeing the moon would be good luck. For tomorrow. A moon before moonshine.” My nerves made me babble.
“I’m only going two places,” said Roni. “To bed and to sleep.”
I’d never felt quite so wide awake as I did when Bucky followed her into the tent. Every nerve in my body was on high alert. I got up and poked the fire. Brushed off the rocks. Straightened the pile of wood. Kept busy moving and rearranging. Fiddling and putzing for no particular reason. Except to avoid looking at you.
“I think the fire is low enough to leave it,” you said. “It’s pretty damp out here. Let’s look for your good luck moon.”
We each brought a flashlight, but you led the way, walking too fast to be friendly. I shined my light at the ground, trying to keep your footsteps visible. We walked toward Aunt Jezebel, but closer to the stream. The trees grew so thick it was hard to see anything above us, but you moved as though you knew where you were going.
When we reached the place where the stream pools into an eddy, the sky revealed itself, wide and open, sprinkled with stars all around. But no moon.
“It must not be up yet,” you said. “We could wait and see if she shows.”
Your face was hidden in the shadows, but my eyes followed the outer line of you—your broad shoulders, arms, the stance of your legs. I thought about you shaking from the smell of fermentation. I squatted and poked a stick into the dark, unsettled swirls. “Is this going to be too hard for you, Mason? You sure you want to stick around tomorrow?”
I thought you were avoiding my question when you said, “I looked up San Diego. It’s by the ocean, right?”
I nodded.
“I saw the ocean once. When I was about six. My father took me with him when he had to make a delivery down in South Carolina. He set me up on the beach to wait while he did his deal. Told me not to go in the water any higher than my knees.”
Six years old and left by yourself on the beach. That’s a hard thing to picture.
“So I’m standing in the water, letting the waves roll up over my feet, when a gust of wind blows off my hat. It flies into the deep water before I can do anything about it. I’m just a dumb kid, so I start crying.”
For the record, you were a kid, period. A kid alone on the beach.
“I know my hat is as good as gone and I’m worrying what my daddy’s going to do to me for losing it, when all of a sudden this big wave crashes over me, gets me completely soaked. But it brings me my hat, washed up on the dry sand.
“I was sure it was some kind of magic. Or God himself. Because all I knew was the river, and if you drop something in it, then you better start running downstream. The ocean, even though it’s huge and terrifying, and there’s no way to follow the water all the way out, the waves come back. It gives you a fighting chance.”
I quit poking the mud with my stick and stood up.
“I already lost my future once, Lu. But ever since you came along with your crazy plan, I feel like I might get something back.”
Just above the treetops behind you, the moon, enough to hang a wish on, peeked out. I pointed. “The moon’s here.”
“Our good luck.”
“Or at least a fighting chance,” I said.
Back at the campsite, there was an awkward moment of saying good night. You looked for a spot to put your sleeping bag. “Mind if I lie on the edge of your tent?”
We lay down on opposite sides of the nylon wall, me inside the tent and you out with the moon and the stars. I listened to your rustles as you settled in.
“Good night, Mason.”
“Yes it is, Lu.” Your voice was so close, yet not.
I heard you roll over. I could see the shape of your back and shoulders pressed against the tent. I felt the pressure and warmth of you beside me. My thigh was already there, but I leaned ever so slightly into you. You pressed back.
“Hey, Lu?”
“Yeah?” That touching without really touching made it hard to breathe.
“You think you can tell me something from school?”
“Like what?”
“Doesn’t matter. School always put me to sleep.”
If I was Roni, I could have sung you a lullaby; but I don’t sing. I don’t tell stories either. Instead I said, “One, hydrogen. Two, helium. Three, lithium. Four, beryllium…”
The periodic table is a steady list of things to build with. Little bits and pieces of the universe, all in a row.
17
I woke to birds gone wild, like I was in the jungle. I never knew there could be so many different sounds and songs.
As I crawled out of the tent, you greeted me with a generous gaze, almost enough to make me forget I looked a mess, then turned back to the coffee you were brewing over the fire. The early morning air felt thin during that line between night and morning. The thrill of what lay ahead sent shivers along my skin.
I called into the other tent. “Wake up, sunshines.”
Roni grunted and Bucky cursed.
Adrenaline waves coursed through me—probably through all of us—as we ate a quick breakfast of Mom’s apple empanadas and your strong coffee. Maybe it was the caffeine, but you were jumpy, revved up, several beats ahead of the rest of us.
Aunt Jezebel sat waiting beneath the white-gray sky. Remnants of the skunk scent lingered, but the brew smelled rich and funky. There was no escaping it.
Roni said, “I can’t tell if that smell is making me hungry or sick.”
I watched you for any sign of the wreck I’d seen the day we turned the mash. But you smiled with clear eyes. Anticipation reverberated off your skin. “We have to caulk the joints,” you said. “Any leaking vapors will catch fire in a flash.”
The gluey mixture of flour and water seemed awfully primitive, but you swore it was best. “It’s got better give and take than any chemical mixture. Even the pros come back to nature for this.”
You made deliberate, methodical checks of all the joints, pointing out where I should add the paste. Then you went back and rechecked my work, sometimes slapping on more gunk.
We’d already cleared all the dried leaves and twigs from the fuel connection area, but the bucket of sand sat ready in case of fire. I relaxed into your compulsive checks.
“What happened to your neck, Mason?” I pointed to the line of red bumps.
“Lonely mosquitoes snuggled up with me last night.”
Did that help when I coated those bites with our paste? Did we invent a new treatment? You didn’t complain about those bites after that, but you’re not one to fuss.
When you looked to the brew tank, I caught a second of hesitation. If I’d blinked or turned away, I might have missed it. “Hey,” I said. You looked at me almost like you’d forgotten I was there. “Let me help. Tell us what to do.”
You raised your eyebrows. “I think we’re ready.”
As the four of us circled together I realized there weren’t any other anyones anywhere I’d rather be with.
You said, “So far, what’s going on up here is all organic. We haven’t done anything illegal yet. We could sit back and let that mash turn to vinegar. It’s not until we start running the still that we’ve crossed a line.”
“You, maybe. The rest of us stole a still,” said Bucky.
“We’re only borrowing it,” I said lamely.
“Last chance to step out,” you said. Of course we all shook our heads.
Roni said, “We need some kind of ceremonial start. Let’s hold hands.”
I was between you and Bucky with Roni across. Her two blond braids hung down over her shoulders.
Bucky farted, long and loud. He said, “What? You have something else in mind?” Then, “All right, all right. Auntie J, please be generous and don’t blow your top.”
Roni said, “I think we should have a real prayer. Lulu?”
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I froze up. All those prayers I’d memorized for catechism didn’t seem to fit. Then you said something that sounded exactly right: “Dear God, you truly are the higher power. We humbly ask you to help us to stay safe and sane today. Help us be successful so that we might be able to go out in your beautiful world to do the good you expect.”
“Amen,” we all responded.
I’m glad we divvied up the starting steps. Roni turned on the gas, and I lit the flame. You and Bucky managed the tank. We were in this together.
Our giddy giggling eventually settled down, since it took hours of watching and fussing and tending to coax Aunt Jezebel’s mash to the right temperature. I’d helped Mom in the kitchen enough to know it can be a split second from barely hot to stuck fast in the pan.
At one point you cooked sausages over the propane flame. You told us, “One time my uncle Sampson used a poison ivy stick to cook like this. Couldn’t figure out why he had hemorrhoids at both ends.”
Ew and ouch.
You told us funny stories about your family’s moonshining, and even though I think it’s practically child abuse, I could see the hints of golden memories you kept. Your good and bad were mixed together so completely that it was almost impossible to tell one from the other.
Maybe that’s what I’m looking for right now. A way to measure what’s good and what’s bad. Maybe it’s as simple as holding on to the silver and gold while letting the ash blow away.
I thought I heard a tremble in your voice when you said, “Bucky, lean in there by the faucet and check the smell.”
“Wooo-hoo, sweet baby Jesus.” He wiped his eyes and said, “I think I’m drunk off the fumes.” He giggled a little maniacally.
You and Bucky heaved buckets of icy river water near the holding tub and set up siphons to keep the liquor cold so it could condense and the flavor would come out smooth, like what you’d called liquid silver. I watched the muscles of your back and arms working as you moved up and down, from spot to spot, checking on each and every facet of Aunt Jezebel.
All of a sudden she let off a metallic boom. I jumped back, Roni shrieked, and Bucky spilled coffee down his front. “What the…”
“That’s a sweet fine sound,” you called out over the deafening thuds. “If a still thumps in the woods and no agents are around to hear it, does it make a sound?”
“It’s too early for philosophy,” yelled Bucky over her bangs and crashes.
“Who cares about a sound—it’s making moonshine!”
As suddenly as she started, Aunt Jezebel was done with her complaints.
“Here we go.”
In a flurry of movement, you and Bucky moved in, ready to collect.
The release spot let out a gush, steam puffing loose all the while. Aunt Jezebel settled into a rhythmic rumble with the sound of liquid hushing along the pipes. As the steam hit the condensing worm, the sound turned fluid. She settled into a steady flow—one step higher than drips.
“This here’s pure poison,” you said. The scary chemical smell made it easy to believe. We couldn’t simply dump it on the ground for how flammable it was. We put it in its jar labeled HEADS, marked with a skull and crossbones.
After a bit, the smell shifted and mellowed. Or maybe my smell receptors had been dulled to drunk. I checked you for any sign of meltdown, but I didn’t see any hesitation.
You called this part the hearts, the best of the batch.
At one point Bucky asked, “Are we rookies holding you back at all?”
“It’s definitely different working with people who are sober and intelligent. But it’s also weird to think about it so much.” You probably meant my charts and diagrams.
The last bit—the less potent tails—was visibly more cloudy and oily. You said we could use it to start our next batch; it would add flavor and richness to the mash. I heard next batch, as in we’d do this again.
By the time we were running the hearts for the second time, you seemed to be feeling a timing urgency. You said, “We can’t run under the noon sun.” All your advice was two parts practical to one part superstition. Who’s to say what’s what if it works?
As Aunt Jezebel finally slowed and creaked to a stop, we turned off the heat.
You stood on top of an empty Coke can, balanced on one foot, wearing a big, dopey grin. Then you bent over, and tapped the side of the can beneath you. It instantly collapsed into a thin aluminum pancake.
“And that,” you said, “is what’ll happen to Aunt Jezebel if you don’t open her up and let her cool. Her tank might implode.”
So many problems we might have had without you.
After we cut the alcohol with spring water, Roni and I devised a jar-handling system: Hand a jar, fill a jar, set the jar, lid the jar. You showed us how to check the bead. Roni couldn’t get over the idea that an air bubble could show the alcoholic proof.
“It’s because of its density,” I tried to explain.
Moonshining is pure chemistry, but Roni didn’t care about the why. She just liked tipping the jars to check the bubble-beads. Finally, we spread out the swarm of jars in the shade.
“Now if we were pros,” you said, “we’d let this age for a better flavor. But our buyers can do that. If they care.”
I picked up one of the jars. The moonshine was impossibly clear. Except for the weight, I might have thought it was empty. This invisible something was my ticket out of town.
When I held it to the sunlight, the whole thing shone.
After cleaning the gunk out of the tank, we headed back to the campsite for lunch and a break. Besides my sore muscles and a nasty bruise on my shin, my skin itched and felt laced with tiny scratches. I know it doesn’t make sense, but even my hair hurt. Being that physically tired, where every inch of me, inside and out, ached—but mixed in with the thrill of what we’d accomplished—worked a little bit like drinking. Made me feel silly and light. Even though it was hard to move. “We did it,” I said as we sat around the charred remains of our fire.
“Hell, yeah,” said Bucky.
You leaned forward in your chair and said, “Roni and Lulu, you are by far the most pleasant looking—and smelling—shiners I’ve ever worked with.”
Roni said, “That’s not true anymore. It’s a good thing we all stink enough to not care.”
“Speak for yourself,” said Bucky. “Some of us are smart enough to sit downwind.”
You said, “I think we did real well today. The first batch is always the hardest.”
“When do we start a new batch?” I had to ask.
Roni groaned. “Mother-of-a-chain-saw, I’m going to kill Lulu right here and now.”
“Isn’t that the plan? This isn’t enough,” I said. To you, in particular, “Is it?”
“If you want to sell more, then yeah, you need to make more mash.”
“We should have brought more sugar and cornmeal,” I said.
“We need to make some money first,” said Bucky. “So we can afford more ingredients.”
“One other thing,” you said, and then paused. “Someone needs to taste it.”
Silence.
Eventually Bucky said, “Is it safe?”
You frowned, your face an unfamiliar collection of lines and edges. “We can’t sell it if it’s not. Someone’s gotta make sure it’s good.”
“Be my guest,” said Bucky.
“He can’t,” I said.
Roni said, “I don’t want to either. I don’t even like the smell of it.”
“Who usually has the first taste?” I asked.
“That’s not usually a problem,” you snapped.
I guess most moonshiners aren’t afraid of what they’re making. Liking it too much is a more common problem. You’d set up the rule we shouldn’t drink on the job, and we’d listened to you. None of us wanted to be the guinea pig or canary or dead drunk. As in actually dead.
You stood up, started pacing. At first I thought you’d stepped on something when I heard that crack. Then it
was obvious it came from the thick woods around us. You froze. Put a finger to your lips and raised your other hand to silence us. Squatting, you pulled a gun from the ankle holster under your jeans.
You were wearing a gun.
A real gun.
Had been all day. Maybe every day.
You pulled it out so quick and easy—it wasn’t your first time.
My heart thumped in my ears almost as loud as Aunt Jezebel getting ready to work. When I couldn’t see whatever you were looking for in the trees, I locked my eyes on you. At the junkyard we see shotguns. What Sal calls the Don’t Make Me Shoot You of guns. All threat, no accuracy. A smaller gun, like a pistol, requires aim and intent. It’s itching to fire. Yours made you look unfamiliar. Your furrowed forehead shone with beads of sweat; your lips pursed together as you pointed it toward the bushes.
At the same moment, we all saw what had broken the stick. A deer, now frozen, stood about twenty feet away. Roni begged, “Don’t shoot it, Mason.”
You lowered the gun but looked wary.
I couldn’t stay quiet any longer. “Who did you think was out there? Why do you even have that thing?”
You looked at the gun in your hand, then back at me.
“Don’t you know it’s the people who have guns that end up shot?”
“Oh, honey.” Roni laughed. “Here we go.”
Bucky said, “Mason, you might as well quit right now. Lulu’s senior debate topic was gun control. You get her going, she’ll never stop.”
I never got much support for my ideas. Not in a place like Dale, where everyone and their mother has some kind of gun; but that didn’t keep me from saying what I thought if I got the chance. Right then I was simply too pumped up and too exhausted to stop. “What or who would you be okay with shooting?”
Bucky said, “Give it up, Lulu. Nothing happened. It’s over.”
“Guns only cause trouble.” The adrenaline rush kept me running my mouth without my brain attached. “It’s so… so… stupid. And redneck.”
“That’s right,” you said, your voice steady. “That’s me.”