The Wettest County in the World

by Matt Bondurant

  So after Emmy served them dinner the brothers cleaned up, washing their faces and changing their pants out of a cedar chest in Jack’s old room as Sissy Deshazo went trudging back over the field to her grandfather’s house. Forrest walked to his car and brought out a box of half-gallon jars of peach brandy to take along, and then fired up the car and went to the store to notify their father. Jack and Howard sat on the porch and waited for Forrest to return with Granville.

  Jack was feeling uneasy with the idea of going to a wake; the last funeral he remembered was his own mother’s, and because his brothers were all here there was something oddly reminiscent of that occasion. Jack knew that Little Bean was nearing ninety years old, an old man made of sticks who had lived a brutal life at times and by all accounts should have been dead long ago, but it still seemed to him as if some kind of injustice was done. Perhaps it was the streaked face of Sissy, normally a sullen girl whom Jack never really liked much. It upset him because he knew that Little Bean never had more than a few dollars in his pocket his whole life, and he died as poor as the day he was born, and the world seemed to be conspiring to make it so for so many others as well.

  Howard lifted a jar out of the box and looking at Jack tapped the side of his nose. Jack smiled and Howard shook the jar, packed full of sliced peaches, before unscrewing the cap and flipping it off into the yard. They sipped from the jar, the brandy sweet and heady, a truly pleasurable drink, and watched the horizon soften before them. Jack had eaten two large bowls of crumbled corn bread with cracklings soaked in buttermilk, and the brandy seemed to warm the contents of his innards and relax his bobbing knees. Howard sat silently, his mouth set, lips narrowed, as they both reddened with drink.

  We’ll have to step it up, Howard said. This ’bacca ain’t gonna come up.

  I know it.

  Howard pursed his lips and gazed at the horizon.

  You hear about that fool Wingfield? Howard said.

  What?

  Since they were busy pulling tobacco, Howard told him, their father had hired Marshall Wingfield, home from UVA, to do some plowing with a mule and colter to set the bottomland for winter rye. Jack’s father put a bell on the mule so he could hear from the house when Wingfield was working and he could pay him accordingly. Wingfield came by first thing in the morning and ate heartily of the breakfast Emmy prepared and trotted down the hill with the colter over his shoulder, the mule in tow. The bell commenced to ring steadily. A few hours later Granville was down at the spring and he’d thought he’d check and see how Wingfield was doing; this was a fresh stretch of bottomland that hadn’t been planted in a few seasons and he’d run the harrow over it and burnt the turf the spring before. It was hard, stony ground, and Granville knew that Wingfield spent more time with his books than he did in a plow harness, so he walked across the narrow creek to the other side of the thin stretch of woods that rolled like a scarf through the valley, following the sound of the ringing bell. He found Wingfield stretched out under a fat pokeberry bush, hat pulled over his eyes, the bell in his hand in the dirt, which he twitched listlessly from side to side. The mule stood blinking in the sunlit field.

  When other men kidded Wingfield about it, he denied that it ever happened and suggested that Granville Bondurant was getting senile and must have dreamed it up.

  Jack was incensed, but Howard didn’t seem to mind much.

  Look, Howard said, everyone around here know Wingfield is a pointy-headed fool.

  Still, Jack thought, thinking of the last time he’d seen Wingfield, preening with the sport ear at the Mitchell corn shucking the year before. Kissing Bertha Minnix. The way her eyes flashed as she bent her face to him. Jack had the urge to take ahold of that fleshy white neck of Wingfield’s and squeeze it like a fryer. But liquor worked differently on Jack’s mind than most and soon that image eased. The two brothers sat quietly for a while, passing the jar and watching the sky over the field. Jack enjoyed the silence between them and concentrated on the delicious transport of midday into the afternoon. It was quality brandy and soon enough what had just an hour before seemed like a pitiable situation for the Deshazos and himself now seemed like an opportunity for Jack to experience the great movements of life and this earth together in fellowship with other people. He ruminated on his life and experiences with the Deshazos and determined they were a solid people and that he would pay his respects with the honor and humility befitting a man who had lived so long. We should all be so lucky, Jack thought. And he was glad that his brother was here with him, and Emmy, his little sister, in his mother’s old rocking chair by the window, watching the road.

  I need the money, Jack, Howard said after a while. I gotta make more than what we got.

  Just soon, Jack said, as this foolishness is done we will get all the stills hot and the money will flow like a goddamn river. You just wait.

  Howard broke into a genuine smile.

  Yeah, Howard said. That’s what we’ll do.

  Forrest returned alone. Granville had some business at the store and it would be foolish to turn away good money. He would pay his respects later. Emmy didn’t want to go, and the brothers knew that the presence of death would be difficult for their sister to bear again even if it wasn’t family, so the three brothers had a good drink on the porch and then set off.

  When they pulled up to the Deshazo house, a stocky, mud-wattled cabin built on a low rise with added bits plied about by various members of the clan over the years, it was undoubtedly clear that this was not a solemn affair. A half dozen motley cars stood in the dirt yard with several clapboard hacks and a score of knobby horses and mules. Despite the fact that it was still early afternoon and over eighty degrees, smoke poured from the chimney and a large bonfire roared in the front yard, children running in circles around it, chasing one another with sticks. All the windows and doors stood wide open and streamed with light. As they stepped out of the car they could hear the unmistakable sound of wailing women, lamentations in a seemingly unintelligible tongue, mixed with shouting, singing, a screeching fiddle, and braying laughter.

  Ain’t gonna need that brandy, Howard said.

  As the children ran screaming around the fire Jack saw a man in torn pants lying facedown in the dirt yard, a dog nosing at his crotch.

  Guess I’ll bring it along anyhow, Forrest said.

  As the three men stood in the doorway, hats in their hands, Forrest holding the boxful of liquor, an immense coal-black woman in a scarlet head scarf came to greet them. She nodded solemnly and gestured them inside the crowded front parlor.

  I’m Ida Belle, she said. I’m Little Bean’s second daughter.

  Pleased to meet you, Forrest said.

  We are sorry to hear ’bout Little Bean, Jack said.

  Jack had never heard of Ida Belle, and it occurred to him then that Little Bean had probably sired some people who did not live in Snow Creek or maybe even in Franklin County. The house was packed with people swaying along to a fiddle player who hacked out a tune, thumping time with his foot on the floorboards, a song Jack had never heard before. People stood against the wall around the room, swaying lightly, and a second circle of people inside that one moved with some serious intent, stamping their feet in time and singing. Smoke hung like curtains in the room, the heavy smell of feet and yeasty crotch, incense, tobacco, wood smoke. A series of jars were being passed hand over hand and everyone drank liberally. Ida Belle set Forrest’s box down in the center of the circle next to some other things, a few jars of liquor, bags of smoking tobacco, boxed candy, whole joints of pork in paper sacks, eggs, plates of biscuits, a hand mirror, snuffboxes, beaded necklaces, a pair of obviously used boots. The brothers were the only white people there.

  I’ll be damned, Forrest muttered, and when Jack followed his gaze he saw the guest of honor in the corner, surrounded by mourners, arms around his shoulders and singing: The corpse of Little Bean was propped up in a tattered suit, his body stiff with rigor mortis, yellow staring eyes, and the skin of his face
beginning to swell and bulge so it barely looked like him at all. A burning cigarette was placed between his bloated fingers and different people took turns pouring cups of corn liquor into his open mouth, dribbling down his chin and onto his shirtfront.

  Several of the Deshazo men came forward to shake hands with the brothers and thank them for coming. They were plied repeatedly with alcohol of various types and an hour or so later Jack stood in the kitchen in the back to catch his breath. Howard sat at a table, idly picking at a lump of pig knuckles from a bowl and drinking from a fresh jar, Forrest leaning against the drain board with his arms crossed, frowning. The fiddle player was winding up some kind of a reel, the pitch and meter going higher and most of the people in the front room stomping their feet, raising a layer of dust that drifted into the kitchen like fog. Men and women leaned against the walls of the small kitchen, swaying with the music, some with their eyes closed as if they might already be asleep. As Jack stood there the sounds began to separate in his mind; he felt that he could pick out and listen to each individual mote of sound—the voices calling out a cadence, the whining violin, the creaking floorboards—he was able to listen to each thing individually and it seemed to him that this was the second time he had heard such a thing, the first coming at the Dunkard Love Feast. Jack felt that what he was experiencing was somehow part of something hidden, the spare realm of musicians; is this what Bertha heard when she played her mandolin? Rather than a catalog of sounds it sounded to him like the very construction of music, a powerful and beautiful feeling, like manipulating the basic elements of the world.

  Then the music seemed to increase significantly in volume and for a few moments Jack looked at his brothers for some sign that they heard it as well but they seemed not to notice. There was a cigarette in his hand, an ash three inches long, and Jack threw it to the floor. When did I light a cigarette? he thought. A noise like crackling tin, then a harsh, tearing sound began to build from above him, and Jack looked up at the stained and warped ceiling, wondering what was possibly going on up there. It was like some kind of hellish carnival in the attic made up of metal-rending machines plied by devils. Howard’s broad back was heaving at the table, and he held his face in his hands; he had drunk a quart of straight corn liquor and half a jar of brandy, enough liquor to kill a bull. The ripping sound in the ceiling built into a roar, blocking out the screeching violin. It sounded like something was tearing the building in half. Some of these fools get into the attic? Jack thought. They’ll bust through the ceiling. He saw Forrest giving him an inquiring look, so he pointed to the ceiling and raised his shoulders. Forrest glanced up and shook his head, shrugging.

  Do you hear it? Jack shouted above the din.

  What? Forrest said.

  The ripping sound built into something methodical, mechanical, and the ground began to vibrate. Not again, Jack thought.

  Howard tipped up his jar and drained the last few inches, his throat working hard, two, three gulps. Jesus, Jack thought, no man can do that!

  Howard’s hat lay on the table beside his heavy forearms. The crown of his head a thinning swirl of muddy hair glistening with oil and sweat. Howard held the glass in front of him for a moment, then smashed it on the table, his palm coming down flat. Forrest blinked languidly and Jack felt the floor lurch under his feet and he wanted to flee, he wanted out of that house. Howard raised his hand and appeared to contemplate the bloody shards of glass that peppered his palm.

  A bearded man leaning against the wall with heavy-lidded eyes nodded his head in time to the grinding music and when Jack caught his eye he gave an almost imperceptible nod of recognition.

  Yes, there it is. You hear it, son.

  There was a pause, when everything seemed to hold still, then Howard pushed out his chair, gained an unsteady crouch, gave Jack a tight smile, then went face-first through the table, splitting it cleanly into two parts. Howard floundered there on the floor in the detritus of broken glass, splintered wood, and cigarette butts. People standing near the table jumped back, cursing, and gave him wide berth as he rolled on the floor. Forrest picked up Howard’s hat and stepping to his back clapped it onto his square head, grabbed two handfuls of Howard’s shirt, and helped him to his knees. The kitchen was clearing out, people all busting for the door, cursing loudly, tripping on the debris, crunching through broken glass. Forrest kept his grip on Howard and pushed him through the back door, screen slamming against the side of the house with a crack.

  Outside it was pitch-dark beyond the shaft of light that came from the kitchen door and Jack felt with his hands till he found Forrest’s shirt and followed his brothers into the yard. The ripping noise was still above him, falling from the sky and the ground seemed to lurch like an earthquake under his feet. A large oak rose up out of the black, the silver-flaked bark glowing, and Howard leaned against the tree and began to retch. Inside the house people were shouting and as his eyes adjusted Jack saw the color of the sky had gone deep blue and clear and a single star showed just above the stubbled fields that spread from the yard.

  A group of men came spilling out of the kitchen and they boiled around the brothers. Jack stood with his hand on Howard’s back and Forrest stood in front of them both as the men gathered. Light from the window fell on Howard’s face and Jack saw the crimson strings that hung from his mouth. Then Howard’s body rippled and he vomited a gush of blood that seemed to come straight from his enormous horse heart. A man with no shirt on was screaming obscenities at them, his oiled torso gleaming. The other men gathered behind him. Jack’s feet were on fire and when he looked down he saw his shoes were covered with Howard’s blood.

  You got no damn respect!

  The crowd surged toward them; the men were incensed, incoherent, ravenously drunk, and Jack could tell the crowd wanted some action and would push the shirtless man into it. They urged him on and the shirtless man grinned and pulled out a short straight razor from his boot.

  Cut that got damn cracker!

  He crouched low and half circled Forrest. The straight razor was flipped open and the rounded blade flashed as the shirtless man waved it back and forth in almost feminine flicking motions of his wrist. Forrest stood straight, his hands at his sides, and Jack could see his shoulders settle and relax.

  Then Forrest brought up his left hand very slowly, reaching for the brim of his hat. When he got his fingers around the brim he carefully took it off, then with a casual flick he sent it tumbling off into the darkness. A beat after the hat left his hand, Forrest’s shoulders dipped slightly and his right hand shot out straight from the shoulder, his body torquing like a coiled spring, catching the shirtless man square in the teeth and making a tink sound that Jack would never forget.

  The shirtless man’s hands flew up in surprise and he went back sprawling into the crowd that parted as he fell. The set of iron knuckles hung loosely from Forrest’s fingers, a fine spray of blood covering his hand and forearm. The men shouted as one with the blow but then seemed struck with silence, backing away. Jack felt a presence at his back and it was Howard, upright, his face a gruesome horror of blood and bile, his eyes mere slits. He was grinning.

  Howard stepped next to Forrest and the crowd of men melted back into the dark, some running back into the house. Jefferson Deshazo stood there, his chest heaving. He exchanged a look with Forrest, who still stood in the same spot, the knuckles dangling, and in those seconds some transaction was made between them. Forrest nodded and Jefferson turned and went back to the house, corralling the women and children who gathered at the door, peering into the dark. To Jack it seemed the roaring sound coming from above was building into something like a scream. The shirtless man lay quietly in the grass, his arms stretched out, still holding the razor, his mouth a gory hole. Jack could see bits of shattered teeth flecking his red lips. Kneeling in the soft grass next to the unconscious man, Jack closed his eyes and put his hands over his ears to blot out the sound.

  Chapter 21

  1930

  THE
BANKS OF Blackwater Creek lay bare like a skirt lifted over old bones; thickened, sprawling root systems desperate for water snaked out of the bank and ran back into the flaking earth. The high walls of the narrow valley were shot through with blanched trees, nearly half of the leaves turning already, blotches of red and yellow amongst the green. Jack and Bertha stood watching the dark waters, now a trickle choked with birch leaves, their broad palms mottled orange and gold. Bertha stirred the leaves with a stick.

  It’s like autumn in August, she said. Seems out of place.

  ’Bacca won’t come up in this heat, Jack said.

  Bertha nodded. Jack could tell that unlike most people he knew she did not share the nearly unconscious association of weather with what was in the field, the progress of the season with the cash crop. This was something they had in common.

  The last of the rain, in early April, gave way to the long waste of drought, blazing blue skies, cloudless, sparkling with dust. The early shoots withered in a matter of weeks, the bony cattle following the thin licks up the creek beds, planting their muzzles deep in any soft patch of mud. Fish crowded in the deep eddies and boys waded in to grab mud cats and carp with their hands. Headlights sweeping over a field at night found them alive with glowing eyes as packs of deer came down from the mountains desperate for water, parched and defiant. The old superstitions raised their hoary heads and traveling through stands of woods in Franklin County that summer you would occasionally find a snake hanging from a tree, nailed by the head, an ancient appeal to the wood gods to bring the rains back. Fields of yellow, stunted tobacco with untopped blooms covered the county. Red clay surged to the surface through the scattered weeds, the powder rising into the air on no wind at all, like transpiration, the dry sucking up the dry, and so a fine silt of clay was worn in every crease, in the eyes of dogs, in the skillets of fatback and pintos. A matter of minutes after you swept the floor clean you could draw in it with your finger. Men stood with their hands in their pockets, heads low, scuffing their boots, dreaming of sudden, angry cloudbursts. They knew when the tobacco died the shooting would begin. By August even the children grew quiet, beyond listless, and wandered down to the dry creeks in small groups, daydreaming of ice. In the summer of 1930 women all over the southern part of the state of Virginia stood in their dusty kitchens and wept.