Rakes started slapping Cricket on the face, back and forth.
The money, son, where’s the money?
Jefferson Richards cursed under his breath and with a slow turn he lowered the barrel of his shotgun into Jack’s face. The open barrel seemed abnormally large and Jack knew it was because he had never looked at the business end of a gun before.
You, he said. Where’s the money?
Jack brought up his hands slowly and shrugged. Richards stared at him, moving the barrel of the gun in short circles around Jack’s nose.
What’s your name?
Jack.
Jack who?
Jack Bondurant.
Richards smiled and whistled slightly through his wet lips.
I’ll be damned, Charley Rakes said. Hey, Henry, this dumb polecat is one of them Bondurant brothers!
Yeah, Abshire said, that’s the youngest one there.
We were told we’d find you here, Rakes said. And look, here you are. You are some kind of stupid.
You show him, Richards said, show the deputy where the still is.
Jack got up slowly, his hands at his sides. Between his feet half of the cigar box was wedged under the couch. Abshire reached over and grabbed Jack’s shirtfront.
C’mon, son, he said. Let’s see it.
In the basement Abshire inspected the still, walking around it slowly, feeling the bead on the joints, rapping on the tubing, following the lines that went into the hot-water tank. The deputy looked tired and washed out, like he had just woken up from a long nap. Abshire knocked on the tank and the dull reverberations of liquid echoed through the basement.
Well…that’s a first, Abshire said. Don’t that beat all. Almost hate to stick an ax in it.
When they came upstairs Richards and Rakes were ushering Aunt Winnie and the knitting ladies into the bedroom. Just wait here, ladies, they said. Official police business. Won’t be but a minute. Aunt Winnie carried her pan of greens and her forehead was drawn up in a vicious look of annoyance. Cricket was still folded in a heap on the floor. The cigar box lay on the kitchen table.
You gotta see this, Jeff, Abshire said. This is a new one.
Jeff Richards handed the shotgun to Rakes and picked up the cigar box and held it out to Jack in one hand like a Bible.
Thought you said you didn’t know where the money was.
You didn’t ask me, Jack said. You asked him.
He pointed to Cricket.
As he said this, Jack felt the swimming, airy feeling that comes with strong fear, the loosening of the bonds. Jeff Richards smirked and gave a slight nod before turning and going down the stairs with Abshire to see the still. Charley Rakes grinned at Jack, his bottom teeth stained from tobacco, like a row of acorns in his mouth. He poked the shotgun against Jack’s chest.
You boys don’t get it, do you? There’s a new system, and you gotta play along.
Rakes brought the gun down and held it across his legs. He looked at Jack and shook his head.
You gotta weapon on you of any kind? he asked.
No.
Gun, knife, anything?
No.
You tellin’ the truth?
Yes.
You are a damn fool.
There was a sharp clang from the basement, the sound of metal punching through metal, and the next moment Rakes shifted and brought the barrel of the gun up quickly in a short arc. Jack flinched and the barrel landed in a glancing blow across his cheek. He stumbled back but retained his footing, rubbing his jaw, checking his hand for blood. Rakes seemed upset that he didn’t catch him cleanly and he pointed the shotgun at his face again.
Come here, he said. Step forward.
More shots of metal rang out from the basement as the men attacked the still with axes. Jack came forward slowly, and when he was a foot from the barrel pointed at his face Rakes lunged and jabbed the end of the shotgun into Jack’s teeth. Jack managed to get his head turned slightly and he felt the edge of the barrel bite into his upper lip and crunch against his gums. He turned and went to his knees, cupping his hands at his mouth as the blood began to flow.
Get up, Rakes said.
Jack was afraid to look at him, to look at the end of the gun any longer. He didn’t want Rakes to hit him in the face again. The clanging in the basement was increasing in tempo, each blow ringing through the floorboards. Jack got up, his body a quarter turn from Rakes, hands up around his mouth. The front door stood partly ajar and outside in the yard dark shapes moved about. Jack thought about calling out to them. He knew that Rakes meant to hurt him bad.
You ain’t so damn tough, Rakes said. I thought they said you Bondurant boys was supposed to be a bunch of hard-boiled son of a bitches?
Then Rakes reared back and hooked Jack in the ribs, a haymaker that flung Jack against the door frame and gasping and stumbling Jack went out onto the porch. Rakes was right behind him and swinging the shotgun low he crunched the side of Jack’s knee. Jack stumbled and fell, rolling off the porch and into the dark yard. Shapes scuttled in the black, the noise of footfalls, muttering voices. The aunts? The twins? Somebody please God help me, he thought, please God. A churning-stomach sensation made his mouth water. The light from the doorway shone across his face and he could see Rakes’s bulky silhouette standing there on the porch, the gun swinging from his hand. The nausea swelled and Jack began to retch in the dirt. In the distance two gunshots rang out, echoing across the hills. Rakes stiffened and squinted into the dark.
This is terrible, Rakes said. This just won’t do.
He stepped back and set the gun inside the door of the house, leaning it against the wall.
I’ll give you at least one good shot, Rakes said. Get up.
Jack curled himself into a fetal position in the dirt. I can’t stand, he thought. No way I can stand and if I could he’ll hit me again. Was that the twins firing off two shots? Was someone else coming? Please let it be Forrest or Howard. Please God.
I said, get up!
Rakes seized him by the shoulders and yanked him to his feet. Jack kept his chin to his chest and his arms in front of his face. One side of Jack’s mouth was numb and swelling, and the blood ran down his neck under his shirt. The cicadas took up their chorus in the dark trees.
Gonna get you, Jack slurred. They’ll kill you.
S’at so? Rakes said. That ain’t gonna help you right now, is it?
Rakes smacked him with an open hand across the face, a spray of blood like mist.
So much talk, Rakes said, about the goddamn Bondurant boys. Hell, you ain’t shit. You tell those two brothers of yours we’re coming for them next. You tell’ em.
Jack couldn’t think about anything other than the next blow. Rakes had handfuls of Jack’s shirt and jerked him back and forth like a child. For a brief second Jack glanced up and saw how his arms, doubled up, were inside Rakes’s arms and he would just have to drive straight out with a fist or elbow and he would catch Rakes square in his fat face. This is it, now now now, Jack thought to himself. But his arms remained tight and his chin down and then Rakes held him with one hand and began clubbing him with his other, the blows landing on the side of Jack’s head, his neck, smashing his ear, Jack twisting away struggling, Rakes shuffling with him, his arm working in an even cadence, until he landed one flush on the temple and Jack’s spine went numb and he crumpled to the ground. Before he lost consciousness he heard himself sobbing, crying out please no more, no more and the final sensation of the world was this gush of blood-hot humiliation.
Chapter 10
FORREST WATCHED HOWARD come in with the sawmill crew, grinning like a fool, the group of them loud and faces askew with drink, men in mud-spattered coveralls, stained undershirts, crushed derby hats, a pork pie, chewed cigar ends, bloodshot eyes, Howard’s bulk looming over them all, looking like the blasted freaks of a lonely road circus. When they reached into the pockets of their dungarees for their crumpled wads of money streams of sawdust spilled onto the floor.
Forrest deliberately avoided any interest in the games, particularly when his brother was playing, but he knew that Howard had Jack’s wages on him. As Maggie emptied the ashtrays she looked at Howard’s small pile of bills and coins that lay between his meaty forearms. As she passed Forrest at the counter she would scribble a number on the pad, an update on what his brother was losing, and as the game went on Howard appeared to pant with the effort of breathing. Forrest stood behind the bar and worked his figures at the register. The other men at the table watched Maggie as closely as they dared, her dress of pale cotton with golden flowers, her bare arms. She never gave them a direct eye or a smile, and when she left the room they swore under their breath. Damn if she don’t gotta face that belongs on a coin.
The radio played the National Barn Dance from Chicago. “The Blind Newsboy,” Andrew Jenkins sang “The Death of Floyd Collins” in a watery voice. As she passed Forrest, Maggie gave him a simple blank look that told him his brother wasn’t going to quit until he lost everything.
It was almost morning when the men left Blackwater station, and after the card game Forrest fried up a quick omelet, eating it out of the pan standing at the sink. After washing up he shut off the lights and went upstairs. He paused in Maggie’s doorway to watch the breathing straggle of dark hair on the pillow, the outlines of her long legs under the quilt. If Forrest had been drinking more than usual, after a while his hand would slip on the door frame or his knees would buckle and he would stagger back to his room and collapse on his cot for what was left of the morning. Sometimes he actually slept standing in that doorway, leaning on the frame, his eyes narrowed, hands hanging loosely or fingering the small lump of wood he carried in his pocket. Sometimes he stood there so long he forgot to sleep at all and the light through the curtains and the dog barking down the road made Maggie shift, and Forrest would go into his room for a fresh shirt and walking out back he would pump icy water from the well, strip down and scrub his body with fresh water and a lump of pumice. When Maggie combed her hair and came downstairs Forrest already had bacon and potatoes frying on the stove, his face impassive, his eyes clear. Whether he slept or not, it was impossible to tell by looking at him.
That night Maggie woke, stirred by something, and she saw Forrest standing in the doorway. She was folded into the shadows of the bedding so that Forrest could not see the expression on her face. She pulled back the covers but Forrest turned away and walked back into the sitting room. After a few moments Maggie got up and walked out to him and when he turned he saw her naked body glowing in the dark.
On the couch Forrest held her face in his rough hands and brushed his lips across her forehead, cheeks, and throat. He smelled of sour corn, dirt, and sweat and she put her chin and mouth into the crook of his neck and softly kissed the scar, from one end to the other.
In the dim starlight through the window he watched her eyes as he struggled to hold her tight to him. Forrest wanted to stay light on her body, to hold her softly like you might hold a bird in your hands, and on his chest he could feel the warm, thrilling beating of her heart. When she looked up at him it was like a question formed on the soft lines of her forehead.
They said nothing to each other and when it was over and he finally slept she covered him with a blanket. He slept like a small boy, twitching and kicking, and she waited with him until his breathing grew even and his body relaxed before returning to her room.
PART 2
I got a letter from Hemy. This after he had written and published the book called The Torrents of Spring, and I thought it the most completely patronizing letter I had ever received.
In the letter he spoke of what happened as something fatal to me. He had, he said, written the book on an impulse, having only six weeks to do it. It was intended to bring to an end, once and for all, the notion that there was any worth in my own work. This, he said, was a thing he had hated doing, because of his personal regard for me, etc., but that he had done it in the interest of literature. Literature, I was to understand, was bigger than both of us.
The Memoirs of Sherwood Anderson
Abshire, who asserted he did not have his own gun out of its holster, said he then walked toward the boys and told Jack that neither he nor Rakes was afraid and that although one car had gotten away the best thing for them to do was to surrender and “take their medicine.” Rakes then drew his gun, Abshire continued, and told the boys they were under arrest, but Jack turned sideways as if to draw his gun and Rakes fired as Abshire failed in his effort to catch Jack’s arm.
Forrest, hearing the shot, ran toward them and Rakes shot again, dropping him in the snow covered road.
“Deputy Abshire Gives Version of Shooting of Bondurant Boys,” The Roanoke Times, June 11, 1935
Soon there will be no such thing as individuality left. Hear the soft purr of the new thousands of airplanes far up in the sky. The bees are swarming. New hives are being formed. Work fast, man.
The Memoirs of Sherwood Anderson
Chapter 11
1934
SHERWOOD ANDERSON stopped at the Blackwater station in the early afternoon. He had on his old farmhouse coat and mud boots and hadn’t shaved in days. The three days previous he had spent sprawled in his room at the boardinghouse, reading letters and writing to Eleanor, picking his toes and daydreaming, putting off this clear lead. He didn’t actually admit to himself he was afraid until he pulled into the lot. Of course you are, he thought, you old fool. The day had turned hot and he was sweating in his coat. Two cars were pulled up to the side of the building, one covered with a cloth tarp, but clearly some kind of sleek roadster. A young man with a thick shock of black hair stood on the shaded porch watching Anderson drive up. When he parked in front of the petrol tank the man jogged out to him.
Ya need fuel, mister?
Anderson slid out of the car and adjusted his hat in the sunlight. The inside of the station looked dark and empty. The young man cranked the pump energetically, filling the glass globe with gas.
Y’all got something cold to drink inside? Anderson asked.
Sure.
Inside the station was dark and cool, and Anderson took off his hat and stood in the doorway until his eyes focused and he could see where the counter was. The smell of bacon and tobacco; a radio on a shelf by the window played low music. Anderson took a seat at the counter and drummed his fingers until he realized there was a woman standing at the far end, reading a magazine and smoking.
Hello, Anderson said.
Hello.
You got something cold to drink?
Pop?
You got orange?
Sure.
She put her magazine down and walked over to the cooler. Her hair, straight and dark, was tied back behind her neck. The station was otherwise empty. She set the bottle of pop before him and Anderson put a quarter on the counter. Her dress was neatly pressed, scalloped at the neck, the color of October leaves. It worked agreeably around her legs, giving a long line to the shape of them. Anderson hadn’t seen a dress like it in months. None of the old obsessive Puritanism of the American spirit around here, he thought.
She picked up his quarter and rang the register and when she put the change down Anderson shook his head and pushed it back to her. She tossed it in a can by the register and headed back to her magazine.
What’s the name of this place?
What?
What do they call this place, this station?
Most call it the Blackwater station.
Blackwater is the creek? The one just down the road at the bridge?
That’s Maggodee Creek. But it’s part of Blackwater.
Anderson sipped his pop. It was flat and old and sickly sweet. This must have been sitting in the cooler for years, he thought. Nobody bought pop here, that was certain. Maggie picked up her magazine. It was a mail-order catalog—Montgomery Ward. He figured he might as well jump right in.
My name’s Anderson.
She arched her eyebrows at him for a brief se
cond. It was the first time she had actually looked directly at him.
Maggie, she said.
Say, Maggie, Anderson said, I’m not trying to be a bother but I was wondering if maybe you had something a little stronger to drink.
She gazed at him with a beautiful, blank expression. It reminded him of gypsies, or Indians. The long, thousand-mile stare that said nothing. A hell of a poker face, he thought.
You know, he said, if a fella wanted something a bit stronger to drink.
We got Cokes, coffee, or some ice water. That’s about it.
Anderson drank his pop.
You from around here? Anderson asked.
She put the catalog down again and blew smoke toward the ceiling.
Not really.
Where from?
Not too far.
Anderson drank more pop and looked about the room. There was grease shining on the grill. Perhaps they did a morning business, he thought. But I’ll also bet the boys came around just to see Maggie, to watch her work. There was a hardness in her face, like she had lived a bit more than others her age, which Anderson put at about thirty, and this maturity lent a cold beauty to her features.
How long you worked here? he asked.
Been some time now.
You married?
No.
Look, I’m not some rounder, I’m a married man myself. I’m just trying to talk. I do a lot of travelin’ and don’t get to talk too much, you understand?
Sure.
What’d you do before this?
Lots of things.
Like what?
Farming. Mill work.
You worked in a textile mill?
Yeah.
Where?
Martinsville. And some in Carolina before that.
What was that like?
It was all right.
Tough work?
Not so bad. We was treated okay.
Union shop?
Yeah.
How were the other girls?
Fine. They was mostly real nice.
The Wettest County in the World Page 11