This Rock

by Robert Morgan

  Eight

  Muir

  IT SURPRISED ME as my foot healed to see how helpful Fay was. She brought me coffee, and she brought me dinner where I set in the chair. She had always seemed to favor Moody before, but I reckon my sprained foot made her feel friendly toward me. Before, she had just teased me and made fun of my drawings and my planning. Maybe she was just growing up a little. But she was still so skinny she didn’t fill out the new dresses Mama made her.

  When she drove to town with Moody in the Model T, Fay bought me a tablet of drawing paper and some colored pencils at the dime store.

  “Now you can draw a castle in Alaska,” Fay said, “or maybe a tower like the one Rapunzel is locked in.”

  For several days I sketched plan after plan, until my foot was well enough to hobble on.

  I’d been thinking about how I was going to get back to my traps. The Model T was half mine. I’d paid a hundred dollars on it, all the money I’d saved from selling pelts and ginseng the year before. Moody didn’t have but seventy-five dollars and Mama had paid for the rest. It was my car and Mama’s car as much as it was his, but because Moody was older and because he’d learned to drive first, he got to use the car more than me. The Model T set in the shed by the crib where we used to keep our buggy, and whenever he felt like it, Moody cranked the car up and drove down to Chestnut Springs to get liquor or to gamble in one of the joints there. Sometimes he come back with another black eye or a cut on his face or arm.

  By Saturday I could walk pretty good on my right foot. It itched and was sore a little. I could get around, but there was no way I could walk all the way to Grassy Creek and back. I seen that what I should do was drive the Model T to Blue Ridge Church or Cedar Mountain. From there I could walk the two or three miles to the creek and check all my traps, or at least some of them. And it was better to go on Saturday and not wait till Monday, when whatever was in the traps would be in even worse condition.

  When I told Moody I was going to take the car, he said, “You ain’t, no way in hell.”

  “That car’s half mine,” I said.

  “I’ve got to go to Chestnut Springs,” Moody said.

  “You go to Chestnut Springs every Saturday,” I said.

  “And I’m going this Saturday too,” Moody said.

  “I have to check my trapline,” I said.

  “Then you walk it, little brother.”

  “I paid more on that car than you did,” I said.

  “I’m the driver of this car,” Moody said.

  “You think nobody but you can drive it?” I said.

  Moody looked me hard in the eye. “That car is going to Chestnut Springs,” he said.

  “Not on Saturday,” I said. I was as big as Moody now, and I was determined not to let him run over me no more.

  SATURDAY MORNING WHEN I went out to start the Model T I seen all the tires was flat. The casings had been slashed with a knife. I looked at the tires, and I looked at the patching kit. Even if I took the tires off to patch the inner tubes there was only three cold patches left.

  When I went back to the house and told Mama what had happened she set her mouth in a grimace and shook her head. “The devil is having his way with Moody,” she said.

  “Moody is the devil,” I said.

  “He gets mad and can’t help hisself,” Mama said. Like any mama, she always tried to see the good in her children. When Moody done something bad she always said it was because he couldn’t control hisself. I figured he was mean because he wanted to be.

  Moody was nowhere to be found. He must have left early in the morning to walk down to Chestnut Springs, or he might have got a ride with one of his buddies like Wheeler Stepp or Drayton Jones.

  “What are you going to do?” Fay said. It scared her when me and Moody got in a fuss, but it also seemed to thrill her a little.

  “Somebody ought to teach Moody a lesson,” I said.

  “Don’t talk like that,” Mama said. “Moody is your brother. He needs your prayers, not a fight. Forgiveness is the test of a Christian. Moody has got anger in him. He blames the world, and he blames me.”

  “Don’t matter how he got that way,” I said.

  MOODY WAS GONE all that Saturday. I thought he must have walked to Chestnut Springs or Gap Creek with one of his buddies. It was a mystery where he got money for liquor and gambling and carousing at the joints in South Carolina. Except for selling molasses and a few eggs for Mama, he never did anything to raise cash. But he always seemed to have enough in his pockets to get what he wanted, and he was gone a lot.

  I spent all morning patching three of the tires while Fay walked down to U. G.’s store to sell some eggs and get new patches. I could have rode the horse down to the store, but it was better not to jump on or off the horse with my ankle still stiff and sore. I always hated patching tubes because of the stink of the rubber and the glue. I was slow at it and had to keep reading directions on the box. As I worked I got madder, thinking of what I was going to do to Moody when he come back.

  Setting out in the sun where I could see the rubber better, I found the knife cuts in the tubes and one by one stuck the pink patches over the slits. But when I got the first one done and fitted the tube in the casing, and the casing over the wheel, and tried to pump it up, the tube still hissed air. Had to take it off and find the extra slit, put another patch on that, and try all over again. I got so mad I throwed the patches and the inner tube into the weeds, then had to crawl around on my knees in the stubble to find all the pieces.

  By the time the tires was fixed it was late afternoon, too late to drive to the Flat Woods and check my traps before dark. Hard enough to see traps and reset them in daylight, much less after dark with a stiff, healing ankle.

  Soon as I got the tires fixed I heard somebody walk into the yard. Turning around, I seen it was Moody. He’d been drinking. I could tell by the glitter in his eyes and the way he walked.

  “I’m surprised you got gall enough to show your face,” I said.

  “Now hold it,” he said and waved his arm like he was trying to slow down an oncoming car.

  “Ain’t you a fine son of a bitch,” I said.

  “Now just hold on,” Moody said.

  “You have showed your ass,” I said.

  “I know, I’m just a dog,” Moody said. “Ain’t nothing but a dog.” He didn’t show any fight like I expected. He was good and drunk and loose as a rag doll.

  “You ought to have your ass kicked from here to the river,” I said. I looked to see if he had a knife in his hand.

  “Here, kick it, go ahead,” Moody said. He unbuckled his overalls and pulled them down and turned his bare hind end to me.

  “I wouldn’t dirty my toe on your rusty ass,” I said.

  “Come on, kick me,” Moody hollered. He almost fell over but caught his balance and then lost it again. He crawled with one hand and his overalls down around his ankles. “If there was a manure pile here I’d roll myself in it to show what a dog I am,” he said.

  “Quit acting stupid,” I said. “My trapline is ruined. Don’t matter that you’re sorry.”

  “Ain’t no money in furs,” Moody said.

  “More than in drinking,” I said.

  Moody staggered to his feet but didn’t pull up his overalls. He hobbled across the yard, closer to me. “You can make ten times what you do with furs,” he said.

  “How?” I said. “By stealing it?”

  “I’ll show you,” Moody said. “I owe it to you.”

  “You owe me for the tires and for all the furs in my traps,” I said.

  “I’ll show you how to make ten times that much,” Moody said.

  “By bootlegging?” I said.

  “Who said anything about bootlegging?” Moody said. “All you have to do is drive a car.”

  “Get away from me,” I said. I hit him with my fist. I hit him hard as I could, in the chest, right over the heart. And it was like he was expecting it, like he wanted to be hit. He staggered back
and fell to the ground with his overalls still around his ankles.

  I didn’t go after him again. He had took me by surprise by not trying to dodge or hit back. I looked again to see if he reached for his knife.

  “You can hit me all you want,” Moody said, like he was too drunk to care about pain. “I’m going to do the Christian thing. I’m going to help you out.”

  “You can’t help me out,” I said.

  “You can make enough to buy new traps and a new rifle,” Moody said. He looked at me sideways, like he was cross-eyed he was so drunk. “And you can make enough to buy a tool set, or more drawing paper.” It was like the liquor had made him think, made him smarter. “Or you can make enough to leave here,” he said, “to go someplace else like Canada and trap.” It was like he could read my mind. I hadn’t thought Moody paid enough attention to know how much I dreamed of buying a .30-30 rifle and of leaving Green River.

  “I won’t have nothing to do with bootlegging,” I said.

  “You don’t have to have nothing to do with bootlegging,” Moody said. He set in the dirt with his overalls below his knees. I’d never seen him look so ridiculous. But he didn’t seem to care. I had to laugh. I pointed at his dirty long-handles and laughed.

  “How much can I make?” I kept laughing.

  “Ten dollars.”

  “Just for driving the car?” I played along, like I was considering it.

  “Just for driving the car,” Moody said, and laughed too. “You couldn’t make ten dollars in a month of trapping.”

  “And what if I’m arrested?” I said.

  “You can’t be arrested for driving a car,” Moody said, “unless you drive into a police car, or kill somebody.”

  “Why do you think I’d go with you?” I said.

  “Because you need the money,” Moody said. “And because you want to help me out. We’re brothers, we help each other out.”

  “Since when? Are you in trouble?” I said.

  “Ain’t no trouble,” Moody said, “if I can get to Chestnut Springs. Get me out of this and I won’t ever ask you again. There ain’t nobody else I can ask, except my brother.”

  “What if I don’t help you?” I said.

  “Then it will be on your conscience,” Moody said.

  MAMA WAS SURPRISED when I went into the house and told her I was going to drive Moody down to South Carolina. I was surprised too. I’d never gone with him to Chestnut Springs or Gap Creek. I don’t think I agreed just because I needed the money. I think it was mostly that I wanted to patch up the quarrel with Moody. While he was being so agreeable I wanted to be friends, even if he was drunk. We had fought so much, I needed to patch it up. I felt guilty because I’d hit him and he hadn’t fought back. And I was curious to see what he was doing.

  I reckon Mama seen Moody was in no condition to drive hisself. He never even come in, but leaned on the gatepost waiting for me.

  “You be careful,” Mama said. She was frying up tater cakes for supper.

  “Ain’t I always careful?” I said.

  “No, you’re not,” Mama said.

  “Don’t let Muir go,” Fay said.

  “Nobody asked you,” I said to Fay.

  “He’ll just get in trouble,” Fay said.

  But I think Mama was relieved that Moody and me wasn’t fighting no more. She was so pleased to see us making plans and working together she didn’t really raise a fuss.

  “Don’t you want to come?” I said to Fay.

  “Ha,” Fay said.

  I CRANKED UP the Model T, and Moody got in the passenger seat. He had buckled up his overalls and his mood had got better once he knowed I was going to take him to South Carolina. He pulled a jar out from under the seat and took a drink. Then he held out the jar to me, but I shook my head.

  “That’s right, little brother, stay away from demon rum,” Moody said, “especially when you’re driving.”

  It was just getting dark. I switched the headlights on. A rabbit bounced into the road, saw the headlights, and bounded along in front of us like it was afraid to leave the road. I felt scared as that rabbit, and I didn’t know what I was doing any more than it did.

  AS WE TURNED down the highway toward South Carolina I wished I hadn’t come. I wished I’d gone to my traps and was setting by the fire skinning muskrats and mink and stretching the hides on boards.

  Once we crossed the state line the highway looked like it was going down into a pit. Poplars hung over the road where it run down the edge of Possum Holler, toward the curves and switchbacks of the Winding Stairs that led down into the holler of Chestnut Springs.

  “Turn here,” Moody said.

  “Turn where?” I said.

  “Right there, damn it,” Moody said. He pointed to a little dirt road that connected the highway to Gap Creek.

  “Thought we was going to Chestnut Springs,” I said.

  “You thought wrong,” Moody said.

  The road to Gap Creek was rough as a gully. It was washed out in places and had big rocks standing up in the middle of the routes. And even in flat stretches it was pitted as a cob. The Model T hammered on the ruts.

  “What if we break an axle?” I said.

  “Then we’ll have to walk home,” Moody said. He took another drink from the jar.

  We passed a few houses with lamplight in their windows, but it was wild country we was driving into. It was the edge of Dark Corner, the wildest section of the mountains. We passed deserted cabins. In one place a creek run right across the road.

  “Stop here,” Moody said. All I could see was a big rock leaning out over the road with laurel bushes thick around it. I stopped the car and Moody got out and walked back up the road. I heard him talking to somebody. They spoke in low voices, and then I heard Moody holler out, “You damn right!” There was more mumbling, and then he yelled, “You’re damn straight!”

  I wondered if I should get out and see what was going on, but I knowed Moody wouldn’t want me to take part in whatever argument he was having. And I didn’t want to be seen by whoever it was either. Then the passenger door opened and Moody said, “Help me load these.” I left the car idling and got out.

  In the dark behind the car I couldn’t see nothing at first. The woods closed over the road and there was a waterfall close by. In the glow of the taillight I expected to see whoever Moody had been talking to. But there was nobody in sight except Moody. He struck a match, and then I seen the big cans, the size of milk cans. They was five-gallon cans like dairies put milk in.

  “Put these in the back,” Moody said.

  “On the backseat?” I said.

  “No, on the back bumper,” he snapped.

  I lugged one to the car and hoisted it into the backseat. It was heavy, more than eighty or a hundred pounds. “What are you going to do with these?” I said. I knowed it was liquor in them.

  “You don’t need to know,” Moody said. He was all business now, all sobered up.

  We loaded the cans in the car and then I turned the car around and started back up the rough narrow road. Never did see who Moody bought the cans from. The Model T hesitated on the bumps with its new load.

  “You’re going to have to help me carry them,” Moody said when we got almost to the highway.

  “You said all I had to do was drive,” I said.

  “The plan has changed,” Moody said.

  “I won’t do it,” I said and gripped the steering wheel.

  “You ain’t got no choice,” Moody said.

  “I don’t have to do nothing,” I said.

  “We can’t drive out on the highway with this load,” Moody said. “The law will be waiting for us.”

  I SEEN MOODY’S plan all along was for us to carry the liquor across the mountain into North Carolina so he would not be caught crossing the state line with the blockade. It was the South Carolina sheriff he was afraid of.

  It was hard to carry those cans up the ridge and down the other side. It would have been a man’s job to carry
one up the steep trail in the dark. But two was work for a giant. I was out of breath and sweating before I got a third of the way up the slope. And my foot was still sore. But Moody carried a can in each hand ahead of me and never did stop. We couldn’t use a light and had to let our eyes get used to the dark. Carrying a heavy weight in the dark is twice as hard as carrying it in daylight. I stumbled on rocks in the steep trail and banged into trees. But Moody knowed the way and he kept on going. That’s when I seen again how tough he was. He was lighter than me, and he’d been drinking all day, but he kept going up the mountain like the cans didn’t weigh nothing. He was doing what he wanted to do, what he had to do. I couldn’t even catch up with him.

  By the time we got down the other side of the mountain to the highway, I was plumb wore out. I set the cans down in the bushes and Moody dropped down on the ground. “You go back for the car and drive it up here,” he said.

  “What are you going to do?” I said.

  “I’m going to wait right here,” Moody said, “to make sure nothing happens to the merchandise.”

  “I don’t even know the way back,” I said.

  “The great woodsman and trapper can’t find his way?” Moody said. “All right, you’ve got twenty bucks at the end of this trapline.”

  I started back up the ridge, feeling my way a step at a time, pulling myself up on trees and laurel bushes. It was impossible to see the trail, but if I hit brush or deep leaves I stopped and changed direction. There was a little traffic on the highway below, and that helped me keep a sense of direction. When I got to the top, I rested again and looked at the stars above the trees. It seemed so strange to be doing what I was. I wished I was out in the woods on my own, camping.

  When I finally got back to the Model T, I cranked it and turned on the lights. The little road looked bleached and sparkling to my eyes that had got used to the dark. It was only a few hundred yards to the highway, and I had no sooner turned onto the paved road than I seen the black-and-white car parked on the shoulder. It was a police car. The spit froze in the back of my mouth. I steered careful past the car and seen the siren on top. I’d always heard you had to pay off the South Carolina sheriff. It didn’t look like Moody had paid them anything, since we had to lug the cans all the way across the mountain into North Carolina.