The Wettest County in the World

by Matt Bondurant

  Two of the men drinking in the front room were waiting to purchase eighty gallons to take northwest across to Shootin’ Creek in Floyd County. His brother Howard was late, and if he wasn’t on the road already he wouldn’t make it in time. He would have to ask his counterman Hal to back him up with the shotgun. Forrest thought of the stock in storage, more than two hundred gallons. A few convoys had come through that week and Forrest had over six hundred dollars locked in a cashbox hidden in the kitchen under an old stove. He fingered a small gnarled lump of wood in his pocket. Too much goddamn money on hand, he thought. A fool thing to do.

  The weather was due to break open; all day the sky had been gathering and folding along the ridges, and Forrest had a good twenty miles to travel through the mountains to get home. The County Line Restaurant stood astride the Franklin County and Henry County line, just down off the western spur of Thornton Mountain, where routes 19 and 21 met and turned into the hard road that led on to Martinsville, west to Patrick County and Floyd, and on south into North Carolina. A simple place with a wooden counter and stools in front of a grill, a few tables, curtainless windows looking out onto a muddy lot. Most people in that part of the state knew that it was a place where a man could sit and get breakfast, a sandwich, a piece of ham, biscuits, and a drink or two of decent mountain liquor. On a regular night for a half dollar the counterman Hal Childress would set you up with a quart of corn whiskey or brandy, good stuff, not the heavily sugared rotgut they sold to the convoys taking it up north. A single snort would cost you a dime. You could sit close to the box stove and listen to the radio for the whole afternoon as long as you didn’t make any trouble. Evenings men would play a few hands of cards at the tables and Forrest held regular weekly games that ran late into the night in the closed restaurant. If you wanted a larger order of liquor Forrest Bondurant could handle that too; the real business at the County Line was late at night or early morning when small convoys of cars and trucks pulled into the lot and men swung crates of liquor, in half-gallon fruit jars and five-gallon aluminum cans, some heading south, others east to Richmond or west into Tennessee, some men with muddy boots and sleepy, sunburnt faces, mountain men bringing their still whiskey down out of the hills, and other men in long coats and crisp hats who spoke in clipped phrases, picking up booze and headed for points north, Washington, Baltimore, Philadelphia.

  Or men came into the County Line Restaurant to watch Maggie, the woman behind the counter who fried eggs and bacon and made biscuits and sandwiches. Maggie was a tall, angular woman around thirty years old with long features and wide shoulders. She carried herself with a strange bearing, a wariness, aloof, as smooth in her movements as a housecat, and there wasn’t much anything like her for miles around. She had long auburn hair that during work hours she often kept in a high bun, and Maggie wore new dresses and frocks, dresses with lace and machine-made patterns and exotic fabrics, all the latest fashions ordered from catalogs and delivered to Rocky Mount. Men sat at the counter and watched over their jars of apple brandy, her shoulder blades twitching under her fancy dresses as she worked the grill and when she turned they inspected her long neck, downy with dark hair, resisting the urge to finger the glistening fabric that slid like liquid over her hips. Maggie didn’t seem to mind and men would sit and stare brazenly at her, a line of men’s heads following her down the counter as she stooped for some butter or across to the cooler for a hunk of cold meat. When it was quiet Maggie would lean on the sink and smoke a cigarette, blowing plumes of smoke from her nose. Maggie always looked a bit over the shoulders of men as they gazed at her, like she was looking a long way off.

  Forrest put two fingers in his mouth and whistled low and Hal stepped through the swinging door into the kitchen, wiping his hands on an apron. Hal was a slight man, hair combed carefully over his bulbous scalp, who uttered perhaps a dozen words a week.

  Shut ’er down, Forrest said.

  Hal nodded and returned to the front room.

  As Forrest began to put on his coat to return to the storage shed he heard a shout from the front. He stood with one arm stretched out in his coat sleeve and listened. The pop of shattering glass; he could tell someone had thrown a jar into a wall. A clatter of wood and the heavy sound of struggling bodies; a man yelped in pain. Jefferson took his hands out of the soapy water and began to dry them on a rag.

  A man was stretching a bloody hand across the bar trying to get hold of Maggie’s waist, her back against the grill, hands behind her back. His hat was on the floor. Another man in dirty coveralls stood next to him; their stools lay on the ground. It was the two Shootin’ Creek men who came to make the buy. The men at the card table were all standing now as well, still holding their cards. On the radio Jimmie Rodgers sang

  Gonna buy me a pistol, just as long as I am tall

  Hal stood at the end of the counter, holding the wooden club they kept under the bar in his hand, watching the two men. His hair hung in limp hanks by his ear and he was breathing heavily.

  That’s it! Forrest shouted. Everybody out!

  The man leaning over the bar twisted around. His face was streaming with sweat. He tried to grin, his mouth shaky and wet-lipped.

  I done paid for another and she won’t give it, he said. Then the bitch done cut me!

  He held up his bloody hand, a deep slice running across his knuckles, the skin peeling back.

  Forrest looked at Maggie and she shook her head slightly. He looked back at the two men.

  You didn’t, Forrest said.

  Buy me a pistol, just as long as I am tall

  We gonna buy near a hunner’ gallon, the man said. Now you ain’t gonna throw in some extra?

  You ain’t buying a damn thing, Forrest said. Get out.

  Hal bent down behind the counter and picked up a long-barreled Colt cavalry pistol, flecked with blood, and held it out to Forrest.

  He pulled it on her when she wouldn’t give him one, Hal murmured. She brought the knife around and caught him.

  Forrest looked at the two men blankly.

  Did you pull a gun on this woman? he said.

  The man pounded the bar with his fist and seized another jar.

  Throw that damn jar and you’re gonna get yourself seriously hurt, Forrest said.

  The cardplayers were putting on their hats and coats, sweeping change on the table into their palms, stuffing half-empty quart bottles into their pockets, and tumbling out into the night, the door slamming. Forrest glanced at Maggie who stared over the heads of the men, her right hand still behind her back gripping the carving knife she used for slicing cold ham, the blade smeared crimson.

  Gonna shoot po’ Thelma, just to see her jump and fall.

  The man hocked a wad of mucus onto the bar and then heaved the jar just to the right of Maggie, into the large mirror. When the mirror exploded, raining glass into her hair, Forrest felt the flaring up inside. He could tell these men hadn’t come to buy anything. Too much cash on hand, it was a foolish thing, as was coming out here to confront what he knew was trouble without the shotgun or his pistol. It was lucky these men only seemed to have the one gun and this pinned them as desperate fools. Howard’s very presence would have made this whole thing a lot easier. They must have been waiting to see if he was going to show up; late enough now and they would take their chance. Didn’t matter, Forrest thought. If it was punishment they sought then they would get it.

  All right, the man said, and he squared up to Forrest and the man in the dirty coveralls stepped up behind him. This second man was medium height but thicker than most. He had a flaming goiter under his jaw that swelled out like a turkey’s comb, and his face was set in a grim line. That ol’ boy ain’t drunk, Forrest thought to himself. That’s the one to watch for. It was in the sizing up of a man, when you could tell how it would go—that foreknowledge was what made Forrest’s ears crack and his knuckles go white. Forrest saw in his head the anger in a triangle of fire floating in a field of night sky. He focused on it and put a dark box aro
und it, making it smaller until a cold blankness ran over him like water and he wanted to fling himself onto the back of the world with both fists crashing down. When he looked at these two men they were like animals standing on their hind legs.

  Forrest stepped away from the bar to give himself some space. Hal stood behind him holding the cavalry pistol but Forrest knew they would charge and the old man wouldn’t fire. The four of them stood there for a moment and then the sweaty-faced man came at Forrest with both fists, howling, and Forrest sidestepped him and pushed him into a table and the man crashed to the ground. Jefferson rushed out of the kitchen in his apron and sat on the man’s kicking legs and Hal put the pistol to the man’s temple and told him to lie still.

  When Forrest turned around the man in the coveralls was driving at his face and Forrest twisted and caught the blow on the ear, moving with the momentum, covering up with his elbows, and then the man was on him. The man got both arms around Forrest’s midsection and was trying to pick him up, grunting, his lips curled and his mouth open, his breath foul and hot and Forrest felt himself come off his feet and then he knew that this was real trouble. The man lifted him and staggered into the bar and when his grip loosened for a moment Forrest got a hand free and brought the heel of his hand up sharply under the man’s chin, into the soft pouch of the goiter. The man’s teeth clacked hard and he let go of Forrest and stumbled back, his eyes wild. A fleshy sliver of tongue dribbled over his bottom lip followed by a sheet of blood that ran down his chin and neck. He caught the piece of tongue in his palm and groaned. In a fluid motion Forrest slipped on the iron knuckles he had in his pocket, jerked him around by his collar and caught him with a crunching overhand right between the eyes, laying his forehead wide open to the bone and dropping him to the floor.

  They dragged him out by his ankles and threw him into the ditch beside the road and when he hit the muddy snow he moaned and clutched at his bloody head. Then Forrest and Jefferson threw the sweaty-faced man out into the parking lot and he rolled about cursing and crying as Forrest kicked him with his heavy boots for a while. He waited for the man to turn or move his arms to get a kick in at his ribs or head, walking around his body and winding into him with a few steps for momentum, his boots slipping in the snow. It was a cold night, clouds building from the east range of mountains and the pines across the hard road standing tall in the darkness. When Forrest’s boot found a soft part the man grunted and wheezed. Forrest felt tired and irritated by the whole thing, though he was not surprised. The word was out about the money and desperate men would always show up to take a chance. Forrest rubbed his split earlobe with his fingers as he aimed a short hard kick to the man’s kidneys. Goddammit, Howard, he thought, why bother even say you’re gonna do something?

  Maggie was sweeping up the glass from the mirror and the jars when Forrest came back in. The radio was still playing and there wasn’t another sound for miles. Forrest felt a bit ashamed suddenly and he thought of saying something or apologizing but instead turned away and went into the back with Hal and Jefferson to finish up in the kitchen. She’s no child, Forrest thought, and she’d seen worse it was certain.

  In the kitchen Jefferson was washing his hands in the sink again and Hal was smoking as he paced the floor, mumbling to himself, still keyed up. Forrest took out his money clip and peeled off two fives and stepping in front of Hal he placed one in the old man’s trembling hand. Hal nodded, and Forrest clapped him on the back. Jefferson dried his hands and folded the other five neatly and placed it in his shirt pocket.

  Much appreciated, Mister Forrest, Jefferson said.

  Well, I appreciate your help, Forrest said. It won’t happen again.

  Jefferson scratched his head and looked at him thoughtfully.

  I’d like that, Jefferson said.

  That makes two of us, Forrest said.

  LATER MAGGIE was standing in her coat and men’s felt hat counting the money in the till. The restaurant was quiet and empty. Jefferson and Hal had both gone home, Hal driving south down the hill into Henry County, and Jefferson Deshazo striding off into the snowy darkness to his cabin that lay a few miles south. Maggie had her own car, a cut-down Model T truck that was her father’s before he died, and she always insisted on driving herself wherever she wanted to go. She usually stayed late, counting out the till and collecting the receipts. Forrest had a place on Cook’s Knob, to the north up in central Franklin County, but it was a long drive and it had been snowing hard in the mountains. On nights like these he would stoke the stove hot and have a few knocks of white mule and sleep in the back on a bedroll between the racks of canned goods. Forrest stood there watching for a moment but she didn’t look up, her eyes intent on the small pieces of paper and stub of pencil.

  Whata you doin’? Forrest asked.

  Eatin’ ice cream, Maggie said.

  She took a cup down from the cupboard and poured herself coffee and tucking her long hair behind her ear she gave him a tight smile, her dark eyes smudged with weariness. Her coat hung open and Forrest could see a fine spray of dried blood across the waist of her dress.

  You better get on, Forrest said. The roads are fillin’ up.

  I’ll be out in a minute, she said.

  Forrest stepped out into the parking lot to check on the snowfall. It fell slowly and in fat shapes, large torn pieces drifting so slow you could catch any one you wanted to, and this meant that it wouldn’t last much longer. Still, there was far too much on the road for him to get up across Thornton Mountain. There was a splash of blood on the snow and Forrest pushed some fresh snow on top of the mark with his foot. Across the lot Maggie’s truck stood next to his pine-green 1928 Ford. Something seemed wrong with the shape of it, the outline of it against the falling snow, and so Forrest walked across the lot to his car and as he neared he could see that there was a body slumped against the front fender. It was the man he had hit with the knuckles, the blood coagulating on his forehead in a dark smear. He must have dragged himself there. The other man he had kicked into unconsciousness was gone. The car lot was empty other than his car and Maggie’s truck. There was no wind and Forrest could hear snow falling softly through the trees and the whine of a truck engine somewhere high up in the mountains.

  Then he saw his hood slightly ajar and the hot anger returned and he figured he’d toss this man into the ditch and break his legs for it. He’d prop his ankles on a stone and stomp until his shinbones cracked. The thought of it made him tired and he sorely wished the man hadn’t done it. He bent down to feel the man’s neck for a pulse and felt the steady pull of blood. He was alive, and that meant he would suffer much more before the night was out. It amazed Forrest that so many men seemed to wake up in the morning needing some kind of beating or another, men saying and doing fantastic things for the sake of getting another man to smash his face. Perhaps it was the aftermath, the burning humiliation of it they sought, when the aching morning came and they rolled over in the dirt and felt their mouth for teeth or lightly touched the split ear, the face in the rearview mirror swollen and crusted with blood. Forrest figured if these men wanted it he might as well give it to them. Either way he would push him off into the ditch and break his legs and if the man died then it was his own fault.

  He squatted down and grasped the man’s lapels and was about to shift him off the running board of his car and drag him to the ditch when the man’s eyes shot open and his cold hands gripped Forrest’s wrists. His face curled into a snarl, blood still surging between his lips as Forrest twisted his hands to free himself.

  Damn, son! Forrest said. You want more?

  Suddenly he felt another man close at his back and hands around his collar. The man behind him leaned on his back and the weight kept Forrest from standing. The man holding his hands grinned, sticking out his stump tongue like a mottled piece of bloody sausage, his eyes wide, his swollen goiter flopping against his chin and collar. The man behind him hooked a forearm under Forrest’s chin and pulled his face up to the sky. Low cloud
s rolled dusky gray and charcoal.

  Forrest felt the razor being drawn across his neck, a cold sensation like the line made by a piece of ice on skin, a cool tracing of metal, and for a moment he marveled at how smooth and painless it was, watching the specks of stars through torn clouds, knees in the cold snow, feeling the dampness of his boots, the man behind holding him tight, the man in front holding the wrists of his outstretched arms and leaning his face in close, grinning. Their combined breath billowed around them. A weight drained out of him and a sudden weakness took its place. Then he felt the blood pouring down his chest and down his throat, swallowing the stuff in salty gulps—that was what got him: Down my throat? My God, he is cutting through, he will cut my head clean off! The man behind him was sawing roughly at his neck and Forrest lurched and bucked, pulled an arm free and stuck it into the face of the man behind him. He felt a cheekbone and an eye socket and pried his thumb into the soft part and the man cried out and was off him and Forrest got his feet under him and staggered a few steps back toward the restaurant, then fell heavily in the snow on his hands and knees. He marveled at the quantity of blood that poured from him like a watery bib onto the snow, making a steamy slush between his hands. He crawled across the lot to the wall of the restaurant. There was the splintering sound of a door kicked open and shouting from inside the restaurant and he knew they had gone inside.