Lightning Bug

by Donald Harington

  “There was another man asking about you,” Donny was saying.

  She didn’t know at first what he meant, then she asked, “When was this, Dawny?”

  “Right after dinner,” he said, “up at Aunt Rosie’s.”

  “Oh,” she said.

  “He was riding a horse,” Dawny said. “Just like that one.” He pointed at the roan mare tethered in the yard.

  “Oh?” she said.

  “Yes. He asked Aunt Rosie what was the name of the lady who ran the post office, and Aunt Rosie told him, and then he asked when would the lady’s husband be coming home, and Aunt Rosie said you never had no husband, and he said ‘Thank you ma’am’ and rode off.”

  “Oh,” she said.

  “And after he rode off Aunt Rosie said to Uncle Frank, ‘Now I wonder what he’s after?’ and Uncle Frank said, ‘Moosey, maybe.’ What is moosey, Latha?”

  “Oh,” she said, “it’s…it’s just a brand of chewing tobacco. I know the man you mean. I sold him a plug of Moosey.”

  “Why did he leave his horse?”

  “Well, Dawny, he said he wanted to hike up the mountain and look for wild turkeys.”

  The boy seemed to accept that. But after a while he smiled and said, “You tell better stories than I do.” Then he got up and said, “That reminds me, Aunt Rosie told me to come right back and help her shell some beans.” He walked down the porch.

  “Dawny…” she said.

  He stopped. “Huh?” he said.

  “You’re not…you won’t…tell on me, will you?”

  “Aw, Latha,” he said. “I told you I won’t ever, ever tell on you.” Then he went on towards home.

  She was alone then, and stayed alone a good long while. She wondered where Dolph had gone off to, without his horse. She wondered when, and if, Every would be coming back.

  So much excitement in one day, she thought. She was used to sitting alone, oh, she had so much practice at it, but somehow it was hard to sit still after the excitement had started.

  I am still slated to bawl before supper, she realized, remembering: Sing before breakfast, cry before supper. When will it be?

  She had not wept since her father died, eighteen years ago.

  As the afternoon was waning, Tearle Ingledew came walking—tottering—down the road. Climbing the store steps, he tripped, but staggered onward and grabbed hold of a chair and got himself into it.

  “Good momin, m’love,” he said to her. “Real fine and fragrant mornin, aint it?”

  “It is,” she agreed.

  “I’m clean out a aspreens,” he said, “and my ole noggin feels lak two dozen dawgs fightin over a rutty gyp. Reckon ye could lend me the borry of a couple a aspreen?”

  She got up and went to the kitchen for a dipper of water, then came back through the store and picked up a package of aspirin and opened it and went back to the porch and ministered to Tearle’s hangover.

  “Jesus Christ A-mighty, that’s fine water,” he said. “Cool dipper a water from yore well’s the best drink on earth. Wush I could stick with it.”

  She wished he could too. No, she realized, she used to wish he could; now she knew he had only one liberation. There were three, she reflected: drink, madness, religion. Tearle had chosen wisely. Without the whiskey he had been the most handsome of all the Ingledews, and he wasn’t a man who had any use for being handsome.

  “You know what, by jimminy cricket?” he said. “Ole Luther Chism’s done went and caught hisself a revenuer! A real live one, too! Got him locked up in the smokehouse.” And Tearle had a fit of laughter that became a fit of coughing.

  “I heard about that,” she said. “What does he plan to do with him?”

  “Whut kin he do with him, fevensakes? He shore caint let him go. Reckon he’ll just have to slice the pore feller’s throat and bury him some’ers.”

  “He’d better not do that. Too many folks already know about it.”

  “Wal, he’d better do somethin quick. Old Luther don’t know it, but that revenuer is a-tryin to sweet-talk his gal Lucy. I heerd im. I was up thar last night when he cotched that revenuer, and when I woke up this mornin I was in thet same smokehouse, and thet gal Lucy was feedin thet revenuer with a spoon, and he was shore a-sweet-talkin her. But I reckon Lucy’s old enough to take keer a herself.”

  “Tull,” she said, “have you heard Every’s back in town?”

  “Who?” he said.

  “Every,” she said. “Every Dill.”

  “Naw,” he said. “Naw, now. NAW!” He stood up, unsteadily, and began looking in all directions. “Whar is the low-down dawg? Jist let him show hisself!”

  “He’s a preacher now, Tull.”

  “A whut?”

  “He’s come to Stay More to give a revival.”

  “Latha, hev you maybe been out in the sun too much today? I seen them bills tacked up on trees along the road but I never bothered to read one. Are you sure you wasn’t imagining things when you read it?”

  “There’s one right there,” she said, pointing. “Read it for yourself.”

  He did, squinting fiercely at it for a long time. “Hmmm,” he said. “Must be somebody with the same name. Don’t look lak ole Every a-tall.”

  “It’s him, Tull. I met him.”

  “You did? What did he say?”

  “Oh, we just had a little chat. Seems like he’s honestly reformed, and he’s been a gospel preacher for about eight or nine years.”

  “You don’t mean to say. Does he have any family with him?”

  “No. I don’t believe he’s married.”

  “How d’you know? Did he tell you he wasn’t?”

  “No, but I just—”

  “Did he perpose to ye again, right off?”

  “No, but—”

  “But whut?”

  “But he might.”

  “Wal, if he does, you jist let me know, will you? If he even mentions anything about marriage, you jist tell me and me and the boys will run him clean out a the country this time.”

  “Why, Tull! He’s not the same old Every. You’ll get used to him.”

  “Dang if I will,” he said. “I won’t ever in my life git used to Every Dill.”

  Tearle stayed on her porch for the rest of the afternoon. Countless times he had spent the whole afternoon on her porch, but today he seemed to have a special reason for it, as if he were waiting to see if Every would dare appear before him. Every wasn’t mentioned again; they talked idly of matters general, nothing significant, the weather, the bold capture of the revenuer by Luther Chism, the mess those Germans were making again over there, E.H. Ingledew’s own teeth falling out after thirty-five years as a dentist, the relative merits of the Dinsmore corn and the Chism corn for the production of Luther’s liquor, the progress of construction on the W.P.A. bridge. Latha did not tell him that the post office had been ordered to close down. No need to send him to the bottle over that.

  Dolph’s horse, tethered to her hitching post all this time, began to fidget and whinny. Tearle noticed it and asked, “You or Sonora got company?” No, she said, the horse belonged to some surveyor who had hiked up the mountain. When’s he coming back to get it? she wondered.

  Late in the afternoon Every reappeared. One of his eyes had turned black from his fight with Dolph and he had red bruises on his jaws and temples.

  “Howdy,” he said, studying the creased face of the man scowling at him. Then he said, “Why, I do believe it’s ole Tull! How you doing, Tull?”

  Tearle only scowled.

  “Well, I declare,” Every said, smiling, “your face is sure a lot friendlier than the last time I saw it, on the other end of a shotgun barrel. Latha, is this really ole Tull?”

  She nodded.

  Every wagged his head and said, “I swear, it’s good to see you again after all these years, Tull.” He held out his hand for a shake. “What do you have to say, you ole cuss?”

  Tearle continued scowling. He did not take Every’s hand.

&
nbsp; “Come on, put er there, Tull,” Every said. “Bygones are bygones. Let’s forgive and forget. The past has passed like yesterday’s snows. Come on and press the old flesh with me.”

  “I aint so damn sartin I’m ready to,” Tearle said. “Whut hev ye come back fer?”

  Every withdrew his hand and sat down on the porch rail. “My third chance, Tull. Everything comes in threes. I’ve been run out of town twice. I’d like to see if anybody wants to run me out once more.”

  “Boy,” said Tull, “you’ve fergot whut you was tole the second time you was run off. You was tole you’d be shot on sight if ever you come back.”

  “You’re right, I forgot, Tull. I forgot because it was such a long time ago. Long enough for a man to forget all kinds of things. But I’ll tell you something I aint forgot, Tull. I aint forgot how it took five fellers ganging up on me to get me out of town. I aint forgot that no one man could have done it all by himself without his brothers. But I’ve forgot everything else. I don’t harbor any grudge against you, Tull. I’ve made my peace with the Lord and I’m ready to make it with you.”

  Tearle broke his scowl long enough to make a short laugh. “Hoo,” he said, “it’ll be the day if I kin ever feature you havin anything to do with any Lord.”

  “I’d be right proud to have you come to the meeting tomorrow and see for yourself.”

  “Not me,” he said. “Never been near a churchhouse, nor never will.”

  “Now that sounds like a ’shiner I knew once who was offered a taste of eight-year-old store-boughten bottled-in-bond real McCoy, and he said nearly them said words, he said, ‘I never drunk government stuff, nor never will.’ Have you ever sampled the pure quill, Tull?”

  “Naw, and I aint got no use for that neither.”

  Latha said, “If you boys will excuse me, I’ve got to go start supper.”

  She went to the kitchen and left them talking—and bickering—on the porch. From time to time, as she rolled out dough for a pie, she could hear their voices raised against each other, but after a while it grew so quiet that she thought one or both of them had left. She wiped her hands on her apron and went through the store to peer out the window. They were still there. Every in a quiet voice was telling some kind of anecdote to Tearle, and Tearle was grinning fit to split his jaws.

  After she had all of supper on the stove or in the oven, she rejoined them.

  “…during that big freeze last winter,” Every was saying, “I was at this big revival over in Kentucky, with preachers there from all over the country. Well, there was a boy staying in one of the boardinghouses over there and he told everybody that he’d had a dream of hell. One of the preachers kind of smirked and said, ‘Sonny, what is it like in hell?’ And the boy answered him, all right. ‘Just about like it is here,’ says he. ‘I mighty nigh froze. The preachers was so thick, I couldn’t get near the stove.’”

  And Tearle let loose one of his pealing guffaws, pounding his knees with his fists.

  Every wrinkled his nose and said, “I’ll wager my shoes that there’s a wild cherry pie baking in Latha’s oven, and it sure smells good. Tull, if me and you just hang around long enough, she’s bound to invite us to stay and eat.”

  “Sure,” she said, “Both of you boys stay more and eat supper with me.”

  “Supper?” said Tearle. “Shoot, I aint even et my dinner yet. Anyhow, thank you kindly, but I tole Lola I’d eat with her this evenin.” He stood up, placing a palm on the storefront to steady himself. “Well, Every,” he said, “I reckon maybe I’ll just go and have a little talk with Oren Duckworth, and if he won’t let ye use the meetin house, why, then I’ll just come early in the mornin and help ye cut branches to make a brush arbor.”

  “That’s awful good of you, Tull,” Every said, emotion in his voice. “I’m much obliged.”

  “S’long,” Tearle said, and shuffled off.

  When Tearle was out of sight, Every exclaimed, “Good land! He sure has changed. I’d hardly know him. Makes me feel old, to think he’s not but eight or nine years older’n me.”

  “He’s mellowed considerably, too,” she said.

  “You’re telling me. When I first saw him, I started quaking in my boots. I never told anyone, but he used to be the only feller in this town I was ever afraid of. When did he start drinking so hard?”

  “Right after he lost most of his money when the bank was robbed.”

  “Oh.”

  A full minute passed before another word was spoken. She sat down in the rocker, thinking, Supper’s nearly ready, and I haven’t felt anywhere near like crying yet.

  “You know,” Every said, “I just took it for granted that that mare there was his. When he walked off on foot, then I recognized the mare. Has Dolph moved in on you?”

  “No,” she said. “I don’t know where he is.”

  “Why’d he leave his horse, then?”

  Is this what I’m supposed to cry about? she wondered. Is this going to lead up to me crying? If so, she decided, then supper was going to be awfully late. “I don’t know,” she said. “Really, I don’t have any idea.”

  “Have you invited him to supper?” he asked.

  “No, and I don’t intend to. I reckon it’ll be just you and me and Sonora, when she gets back. I think she went swimming with some of her friends up the creek a ways.”

  “Latha—” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve been wanting to ask you—”

  “Yes?”

  “Who is Sonora’s father?”

  “Vaughn Twichell, who used to live at Hunton. I thought you knew Mandy had married him. They live in Little Rock now. You used to know him, didn’t you?”

  “Knew him right well. Knew his first wife too.”

  “Really.”

  “Yes, and I wonder why Mandy married him. She used to always brag so about how many children she was going to have when she grew up. Wonder why she settled for just one.”

  “Well, maybe she thought Sonora was enough, or too much.”

  “Latha, are you positive she’s theirs?”

  “No. Maybe they adopted her.”

  “They must have. Did Mandy know why Vaughn’s first wife left him? Did she know that Vaughn was sterile?”

  She did not answer.

  “Latha, I’ve got a strong suspicion that that girl is yours.”

  “I swear she’s not!” she said, and realized, Oh no, it’s coming.

  “And maybe mine too,” he said.

  “You’re mistaken! I swear she’s Vaughn and Mandy’s!”

  “‘Thou shalt not bear false witness…’”

  “I swear it! I swear it!” she said, and felt the first hot tear drop down her cheek, and then another from the other eye. I am going now. “I swore to them I’d always swear it!” She collapsed in sobs.

  SUB THREE: Seventeen Years Ago

  Cry, Bug. This is a happy story, and at first glimpse your tears would seem most unwelcome, but I’ve persuaded myself that they are called for, even required. Let them flow. I’m sorry you had to wait so long before you could have a good cry, with a strong man beside you to comfort you through the deliverance.

  I’ll tell you about the last time I myself shed some tears. It was during my last visit to Little Rock, a few days after that evening I had clandestinely found my way into the Records Office of the State Hospital. On foot I went out and located 2120 West Nineteenth Street, that Taft era bungalow in the shotgun style. A family of blacks is living there now, as I discovered when a large and kindly woman came out and said to me in a mild voice without any indignation, “White man, whut you standin out here fo and gawkin at my house fo and waterin yo eyes so fo?” I told her a friend of mine had lived there long ago, and asked her if I might come in for just a moment. “My house a messy wreck,” she protested, “but if it make you dry yo eyes, you jus come on in.” I went in, but it did not make me dry my eyes. I found the room which I was almost sure was the room.

  You were sitting in
a chair with your feet propped up on the window sill; your legs were aching painfully again and you were trying to rest them. The view through the window was of a vacant lot next door [door? no door] grown high with rampant weeds. You had counted all those weeds; had you the desire you would have given a personal name to each. Your hands were together in your lap, almost out of sight below the bulge, your fingers were stripping tiny shreds of flesh from around your fingernails.

  Beyond the field of weeds rose a single large sycamore tree; you had studied the configuration of its branches endlessly and you were beginning to read the language hidden in that wild calligraphy. God or Whoever It Was had been putting up these trees as signboards, as posters, for millions of years, but nobody until now had learned how to read the script of the twisting branches. You were finding a long message there, and understanding it; without that message you could have closed your eyes and ceased to exist.

  You were three weeks overdue, and Vaughn had begun to make smart remarks. “It’s just costiveness. Let’s dose her with a big gulp of prune juice and she’ll unclog.”

  That man, he was needing to be spiteful. For seven months now he’d been unable to forgive you for so violently rejecting his charitable offer to screw you on the sly for mercy.

  Your sister was not being much better. At first, when you were very happy to be carrying a child, she had hated you bitterly for it, and abused you constantly and said things to you like, “If you had any sense at all you’d run a coat hanger up you and rip it out.” Her real motive had been that she was maddeningly envious of you; but she pretended that you were bringing disgrace on your whole family, even though she was the only one of your family who knew about it. “If I were in your place,” she would say, “I would just wear my head in a sack.”