Lightning Bug

by Donald Harington

  “He’s working over at the canning factory,” she answered.

  “I’d be pleased to meet him,” he said challengingly.

  “He’d make worm food out of you so fast you wouldn’t know it.”

  “Naw, now, I don’t ’low he would. Leastways, not ’less you’d done already tole him bout me’n you, and I reckon you wouldn’t never a done that or else you’d already be worm food yoreself. I figger yo’re smart enough not to tell him, ’less you aim to persuade him I raped ye.” He paused and took a deep breath and then resumed, speaking rapidly. “But even if you had tole him, he’d never whup me with his bare hands, he’d have to use a gun, and if he did that I wouldn’t keer, because I’d just as soon be daid as not to have you. But may be I could persuade him anyway, if you’d just tell me where to find him. But maybe he aint even there. Because maybe he just aint.”

  “Don’t you be talking such foolishness, Dolph Rivett,” she said sternly. “I’m a respectable married woman and here you are coming around to try and start a scandal and I won’t stand for it. Now you just go right back where you came from.”

  “No, honey, I reckon I caint do that. I been roamin around these hills for the last week or more, looking for you, and now I’ve found you I aint gonna quit so easy. I shore don’t aim to go home. I’ve seen all I’m gonna see of that wife of mine. So I will just tell you plain: I aim to have you for my own, and if I caint git you then I’m better off daid. Now’f you’ll just kindly tell me whar that cannin factry’s at….”

  “Just right up the creek there and take the first road to your right.”

  “Thank you. Now, you mind tellin me yore man’s name?”

  She thought. What would his name be? Then she thought of something and smiled and said, “Luther Chism.”

  “And yore real name aint Sue, but—”

  “Sarah.”

  “Thank you. And yore gal’s name is—”

  “Lucy.”

  He climbed on his horse. “Well, Sarah, my darlin, I will see you later, or else you will see me later, in a coffin.” He began to ride away.

  “Don’t be a fool, Dolph!” she yelled after him. “Don’t do anything rash!”

  He kept on riding away. She did not watch him ride out of sight. It is bad luck to do so, to watch somebody go out of sight. Sometimes it means that person will die.

  But would he die? Of course not. She smiled as she envisioned the scene;

  “Which one of you fellers is Luther Chism?”

  “Whut d’ye keer to know fer?”

  “I’d just keer to know, just lak to ast him a question or two.”

  “Mister, if yo’re another revenuer, I kin tell ye y’aint gonna leave this valley alive.”

  “Sheeut far, do I look lak a revenuer to you fellers?”

  “I seen all kinds of lookin revenuers. You caint never tell. I seen a old lady schoolteacher who was a secrit revenuer.”

  “Boys, I swear on a pile of Bibles, I aint no revenuer. I’d jist lak to ast Luther Chism a question or two, and it aint got nuthin to do about no moonshine or nuthin. Strak me daid if I’m a revenuer.”

  “We will strak ye daid.”

  “Lord tear my tongue out if I’m lyin to you boys.”

  “All right, mister, I’m Luther Chism. Whut d’ye aim to ast me?”

  “Sir, hav ye got a black-haired wife name of Sarah?”

  “Yeah, I happen to. Whut about her?”

  “Hev ye also got a growed daughter name of Lucy?”

  “That’s right. Whut about her?”

  “Then yo’re the feller I’m a-lookin fer.”

  “Mister, if ye’ve went and got Lucy inter trouble, I’ll—”

  “Naw, naw, this don’t concern her.”

  “What are you laughing about, Latha?” asked Sonora.

  “Him,” she replied.

  “What did he want with you?”

  “Oh, he’s just another one of those cagey fellows with snatch on his mind,” she said, and both of them laughed.

  “Is that why you told him I was your daughter?”

  “Yes, and it worked.”

  “Did you have much trouble getting rid of him?”

  “Not much.”

  “I am your daughter, aren’t I, Latha?”

  “Why land sakes, honey! What makes you say that? Just because I told that feller—”

  “I don’t much favor Mother at all. I look a lot more like you than like her.”

  “My goodness, that doesn’t mean anything! Why, I favor my Aunt Robie more than my mother, but that doesn’t mean I ever thought Aunt Robie was my mother. Whatever put such a notion in your head?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve just been thinking. Folks say I resemble Daddy, but I don’t especially think so. Gee, I don’t look any more like him than like…like…like somebody like that fellow Every Dill!”

  “Now, Sonora! People can’t help who they look like. You’re a very, very pretty girl, and it might be a wonder how Mandy and Vaughn Twichell could have such a pretty girl, but you ought to just let it go at that.”

  “How come I don’t have any brothers or sisters?”

  “Hasn’t your mother ever told you?”

  “Never a word.”

  “Well, when you were born it was a bad delivery so the doctor tied up your mother’s tubes so she couldn’t have any more children, for fear they couldn’t’ve been delivered.”

  “Well, okay, but how come Daddy’s first wife didn’t have any children?”

  “I didn’t realize you knew your father’d been married before.”

  “I found some old letters.”

  “Well, you nosy kitten, I reckon you’re going to find out everything by and by.”

  “Will I find out who my real mother is?”

  “Mandy Twichell is your real mother.”

  “Will you look me in the eye and swear that you are not my mother?”

  “I will look you in your eye and swear that I am not your mother.”

  “Cross your heart and hope to die?”

  “Sonora, what’s got into you? Your mother would be hurt if she could hear you talking like this.”

  “I think she can hear me talking like this, and she does not look very hurt,” Sonora said, and then she turned on her heel and went back into the house.

  My, my, thought Latha, what could I say?

  A while later Luther Chism walked up and asked, “Store open?”

  “Just finished my dinner,” said Latha.

  “Need me a bag a Bull Durham,” he said.

  She got it for him and made change for his quarter.

  He stood on the porch and rolled a cigarette and lit it.

  “How’s things over to the factory?” she asked.

  “Slow. Aint many termaters been comin in today,” he said. He took his cigarette out of his mouth and frowned at it for a while. Then he said, “Latha, you happen to know any fellers named Rivett, any chance?”

  “I might,” she said.

  He shook his head, back and forth. “Funniest durn thing,” he said. “We’uns was sittin under a tree over to the cannin factry just a little while ago, eatin our dinner, when this here stranger rode up. He got off his horse and ast which one of us was me. Said he wanted to ast me some questions. Well, we took him fer a revenuer at first, but I figgered I’d jist find out what he wanted. So I tole him who I was. And he ast me did I have a wife named Sarah, and I says yes. And you’d never believe whut that feller said then!”

  “I can imagine,” she said.

  Luther stared at her. “You mean you put him up to it?”

  “I wouldn’t say it like that. Anyway, just tell me: what happened to him? What did he do?”

  “Well, one of the boys said to Bob Witter, he said, ‘Bob, you git in yore car and ride over to Parthenon and tell em to let you use the telephone, and you telephone the state loony bin and tell em to git up here quick, cause we’ve caught us a feller who thinks he’s fell for ole Sarey Chism!’ And ev
erybody just belly-laughin fit to bust a gut.

  “And this feller got right pervoked, and he says, ‘I don’t aim to let nary man make fun out a my true love, and I’ll whup ye one at a time or all put together, come on, ye bastuds, and put up yore dukes.’

  “Well, some of the boys was about to take him up on it, but that’ud spiled the fun. Most of em was jist hollerin, ‘True Love! True Love!’ in prissy voices. And Fent Bullen was a-slappin me on the back and sayin ‘Aw, come on, Luther, and be a sport. Give ole Sarey to this feller. You’ve had her long enough.’ And other boys sayin ‘Charge him fifty dollars!’ and ‘Swap him for his horse and saddle!’

  “Well, I got that stranger calmed down and tole him none of us wanted to fight with him, and then I ast him, ‘Mister, jist tell me, how long has this been goin on?’ And that set all the boys to splittin their sides again.

  “And he says aint been nuthin goin on. And I says, ‘Well, mayhap ye jist seen her ridin by on her mule and was smitten at fiist sight?”

  “He says naw, he’d jist seen her twice, wunst up fishin on Banty Creek and wunst just now on the storeporch.

  “So I knew fer sartin right then and there that it warn’t nuthin but a bad case of mistook identity. Fer one thing Sarey aint never been fishin on Banty Creek, leastways not that I ever knowed about, and fer another thing she’d have no business to be on no storeporch today. So I says to the feller, ‘Would ye mind tellin me what this Sarey a yourn looks lak?’

  “He got plump rapcherous. ‘She’s got eyes like a startled doe’s,’ says he, ‘and a mouth like a pink morning-glory just openin, and hair like the smoke in a kerosene lantern, and she’s nearly tall as me and built like a young cat.’”

  Luther Chism chuckled and flicked tears from his eyes. “Well, I tell ye, I said to him, ‘Mister, I know of jist one gal hereabouts who’d fit that description, but it sho aint Sarey. My Sarey’s got eyes like a sow’s, and a mouth like a dried persimmon, and hair like a black rooster a-sittin atop her haid, and she’s half as short as you and built like a brick outhouse.’

  “Well, by this time I figgered that pore feller had reckoned somebody’d put him on a false trail, and he says, sour-like, ‘Thank you. I’m sorry to’ve bothered ye.’ Then he turned and got on his horse. Then he ast me, ‘Could I trouble ye to tell me the name of that one you mentioned that fits the description?’

  “‘I could, but I won’t,’ I says to him.

  “‘Thank you, anyhow,’ says he. ‘I reckon I kin find it out someway.’ Then he spurred his horse and rid off. But he didn’t turn his horse down this way. Headed up the creek. So I come right on over to see if you was the one he had in mind.”

  “Guess I am,” she said.

  “Well, if he shows his head again, you just let me know, and I’ll round up the boys and run him clean out a the country.”

  “Thank you, Luther. I just might have to do that.”

  He turned to go, but turned back again. “Say!” he said. “Did ye know who’s all of a suddent turned up again?”

  She pointed at his poster tacked on her store.

  “Yeah,” Luther said. “He come and put one up on the cannin factry this mornin. Everbody over there aint stopped talkin about it since. What do you make of it?”

  She shrugged. “He’s the last person I would have taken for a preacher.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I been thinkin.” He moved closer and lowered his voice, although there was nobody around. “You don’t suppose he might could be a revenuer?”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me as much as him being a preacher.”

  “Hmmm,” said Luther. “We’ll have to keep a sharp eye peeled. Every always was kind of ornery and standoffish, just like his dad. Them Dills never did seem like true Stay More folks.”

  “Nobody ever gave them much of a chance to.”

  Luther was squinting out at the road. “Speak a the Devil!” he said. “Yonder he comes.”

  Down the road Every came walking, holding the hammer she’d loaned him. He approached the store, and stopped at the steps and looked up at them. “Howdy, Luther,” he said.

  “Howdy, Ev. We was just talkin about you.”

  “Nothing bad, I hope.”

  “Not exactly. Just been wonderin if yo’re really a genuine preacher or not.”

  “Well, Luther, actually I’m a special agent of the United States Revenue Office, and they sent me out to find one of our men that you’ve got locked up in your smokehouse.”

  Luther turned purple and his legs gave away and he sat down on a chicken crate. “Great jumping Jehoshaphat!” he croaked.

  Every smiled. He pointed the hammer at Luther and said, “This here Colt revolver is loaded and ready. Will you come along peaceable or do I have to shoot you?” he laughed.

  “Dangdarn ye, you varmint! Are you a-pullin my laig?”

  Every reached out and pulled his leg.

  “But dadblank it all!” said Luther. “How did you know I got a revenuer in my smokehouse?”

  “Everybody knows it. You told Fent Bullen and he told Bob Witter and he told Lawlor Coe and he told somebody else who told his wife who told me.”

  “Dodgast that Fent Bullen! I got a mine to go wring his neck.”

  “What are you going to do with your revenuer, Luther? Train him to tree squirrels?”

  “I’m still studying on it. I aint figgered out nuthin yet.”

  “Why don’t you bring him with you to my revival meeting tomorrow?”

  “I aint a-comin myself.”

  “Why, Luther, you yourself just said you were wondering if I’m a genuine preacher or not. Why don’t you just come and find out. I might even save your soul for you.”

  “You just might even try to talk me out of moonshinin, mightn’t ye?”

  “Why, no, that aint part of my business, Luther. I hear tell you make some of the finest whiskey to be found. I imagine you’d rather die than make a run of bad whiskey, am I right?”

  “You bet yore boots.”

  “I really doubt that anybody’s ever got fusel-oil poisoning from drinking your whiskey, have they?”

  “Nary a soul.”

  “If I were a drinking man, I’d even be mighty proud to be your customer myself.”

  “Aw shucks, preacher, I aint all that good.”

  “Making pure whiskey’s your business, Luther, and making pure souls is mine. If I would go to you for whiskey, you ought to come to me for religion.”

  “Well, uh, look, I got to git back to the cannin factry,” Luther said, and began walking away. “I just might,” he said. “I just might come, Brother Dill.” He went on off.

  Every called after him, “Tie a collar on your revenuer and bring him along!”

  Latha, laughing, remarked, “If you can get religion into Luther Chism, you might even get it into me.”

  He smiled. “I’d sure like to try.”

  “Pull you up a chair,” she offered.

  They sat together on the porch, he in the straight-backed chair, she in the rocker. A long moment of silence drifted by. Then he clapped his hands together, once, and said, “Well, well, well.” Another moment of silence passed before he said, “Sure has been a right smart spell.” Then he turned to her and said, “I’ll swear, Latha, I’m pleased as punch to see you looking so good. You haven’t changed a smidgin.” At length he asked, “How you been?”

  “Tolerable,” she said with a smile, pronouncing it “tobble.” “How’ve you been, Every?”

  “Tobble too,” he said. “I’ve sure seen some places. Been all the way to California and back.”

  “And been all the way to Heaven and back too?” she said.

  He looked at her, momentarily puzzled, then said, “Oh,” and laughed mildly. “No, I haven’t had a chance yet to inspect the Kingdom, though I’ve had a couple of words with the King.”

  “Really?” she asked.

  “Believe it or not,” he said.

  “It is a little bit dubious,” she said
.

  “Remind me sometime,” he said, “to tell you how I got converted.”

  “I suspect there are a lot of things I will have to remind you to tell me how you got.”

  He did not comment on that. He was not looking at her but at the old ruin of the bank building across the road. “You’ve not changed at all,” he said, “but this town sure has. This old place is sure dead on the vine.” In a reminiscent tone he continued, “Last time I was through here was back in the spring of ’25, and it was late at night and I didn’t stay very long at all. Just made one stop. Just dropped in for a few words with Lawlor Coe.” He dropped the reminiscent tone; his voice became earnest. “You recall Lawlor used to be just about my only pal back in the old days, so I didn’t mind talking to him. There was only one reason I had for talking to anybody. I want you to know what that reason was, Latha. I will tell you: the only reason I come through here that night was to try and find you.”

  He stopped. After a while he said, quietly, “Lawlor told me they’d had you locked up down there in that state hospital for going-on three years. Three whole years. So I reckon there are a lot of things I will have to remind you to tell me how you got.”

  She did not comment on that.

  “Latha,” he said, “you and me are going to have to do an awful lot of talking, sooner or later, but there’s just one thing I’ve got to ask you right now: are you boiling mad at me, or just plain mad at me, or just peeved at me, or what?”

  She smiled. “A little bit burned, maybe.”

  “Well, is it just a first-degree burn that I could put some ointment on, or is it a hopeless fourth-degree burn?”

  “Hard to tell, Every. It’s an old burn with a lot of scar tissue grown over it.”

  “I will heal it,” he declared. “I promise you.”

  “All right,” she said.

  “Last night…” he said. “Last night I couldn’t hardly believe it when I found out you were back here again. I went up to the old home place and tried to sleep on an old pile of straw in the corner, but I couldn’t. Not a wink. I swear, I had a hard enough time talking myself into coming back to Stay More in the first place, to give a meeting. But after I found out you were here, I just didn’t know if I could ever get up my nerve to go and do it. I tossed and turned till the crack of dawn, and then I got up and went out into the yard and asked the Lord if He could give me any help, but He just said to me, ‘Son, this is something you’ll have to settle on your own. This is your Big Trial, and you’ll—’”