Moonshiner's Son

by Carolyn Reeder

  Tom didn’t understand at all, but he wasn’t going to disappoint Andy by admitting it. “I’m gonna have to think on it awhile,” he said. “You ain’t gonna let on to Pa about what I done, are you?”

  “The only way your pa will find out is if you tell him yourself.”

  “Then he ain’t gonna find out.”

  Andy puffed on his pipe and studied Tom for a long time before he asked, “Are you afraid of what he might do to you if he knew?”

  Staring down at his feet, Tom said, “I’m worried about what he might think of me. This is twice now somethin’ I done led Amy right to the still. No moonshiner wants a son who can’t do no better ’n that.”

  “It sounds to me like you tried your best to do the right thing this time.”

  Tom looked up and said, “Seems like no matter how hard I try, I can’t please Pa.”

  “One thing I’ve learned in the short time I’ve been working with your pa is that making moonshine’s a difficult and dangerous business,” Andy said. “When a single careless move can mean a year in jail, there’s not much room for making mistakes.”

  Tom had never looked at it that way. “I guess you’re right, Andy,” he said slowly. “But how come he don’t ever notice when I do somethin’ right?”

  After a pause Andy said, “Some fathers find it hard to show approval. Discipline is the only way they know to show they care.”

  “Then Pa must care a heck of a lot about me,” Tom joked.

  But Andy took him seriously. “I’m sure he does. And with good reason—you’re a boy any father would be proud of.”

  Blushing furiously, Tom muttered, “I gotta git on home. I’ll see Miz Brown some other time.”

  Andy’s words echoed in Tom’s mind as he hurried down the path toward the wagon road, but beneath the surprised pleasure they gave him was a deep sadness. Why couldn’t Pa have said that? Probably because he didn’t feel that way, Tom decided. Andy thought Pa cared, but how would Andy know?

  “’Cause he’s always watchin’,” Tom said aloud. After all, Andy had seen that something was bothering him, and he’d said he knew human nature. Could Andy be right?

  Thoughtfully, Tom stepped onto the footlog. Talking to Andy had settled one thing, anyway. He was going to stop thinking about what had happened at the still, and he wasn’t ever going to tell anyone about it. At least not till he was grown and had a son of his own and was passing on to him the art of making moonshine.

  22

  On Friday, Amy was waiting by the fence when school let out. “Tom!” she called. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

  Tom went to meet her, glad to see for himself that she had recovered from her stings. He’d stopped blaming himself, but he couldn’t help wondering if Amy would still want to talk to him if she knew he’d been responsible for her suffering. He bent down to pet Princess, who had tangled herself up in the rope Amy was using as a leash.

  “How come you’ve got her on a rope?” Tom asked, trying to keep the little dog from winding it around his ankles.

  Looking embarrassed, Amy said, “Father won’t let me take her for a walk without it. You see, I followed her when she ran into the woods, even though I’d promised not to go off the trails.” Amy lowered her voice and added, “Father was furious. He said getting stung was my punishment for disobedience, but Mother says that’s hogwash.”

  Tom thought of the preacher sitting alone on the porch of the mission house, his head in his hands, while the Widow Brown was inside with Amy. He hadn’t looked furious then. Did some fathers find it hard to show they were worried?

  “I think it’s hogwash, too,” Tom said, realizing that Amy was waiting for him to say something. “What did you want to talk to me about?” He was ready to change the subject before it got any more personal.

  “I wanted to thank you for the chipmunk carving you gave me,” Amy said. “I just love it. And now I have something for you, too.” She held out a book with a picture of a fox and a crow on the cover. “I think you’ll like this. It’s called Aesop’s Fables, and it’s full of stories.”

  Tom held the book almost reverently. “Can I keep it till I’ve read ’em all?” he asked.

  “You can keep it always,” Amy said. “I want you to have it to remember me by.”

  Tom frowned and repeated, “To remember you by?”

  “I’m leaving for boarding school tomorrow,” she explained.

  “Boardin’ school? T’morrer?” he echoed numbly.

  Amy nodded. “I’ll be a scholarship student at a church school. That means my parents won’t have to pay to send me there. I would have told you sooner, Tom, but first you were still mad at me, and then I didn’t want you to see how awful I looked swollen up with those ugly stings. Don’t look so sad, Tom. I’ll be back for Christmas.”

  Tom forced a weak smile and said, “It’ll probably take me till Christmas to finish all them stories, seein’ as I read right slow.” He looked away, thinking that he should have known a girl like Amy wouldn’t stay here, that she’d be going back to where she belonged.

  “Do you want to go to that boardin’ school. Amy?” he asked.

  “I looked forward to it all summer, but now I’m feeling a little scared,” she confessed. “I’ve never been away from home before.” Then, as though trying to convince herself, she added, “Father says it will be a good experience for me, and that I shouldn’t underestimate the importance of education in planning my future.”

  Tom could almost hear Preacher Taylor saying those very words, but what exactly did he mean about planning her future?

  “What about you, Tom? What will you be when you grow up?”

  “I’ll be a man, of course.”

  “I know that,” Amy said impatiently. “I mean what kind of work will you do?”

  “’Round here, you mostly do what your pa does,” Tom said. “The Nathan boys will work at the mill with their pa, an’ when they’re not farmin’, Lonny Rigsby an’ his brothers will be carpenters. Harry Perkins will be a cooper—he’s already helpin’ his pa make barrels. Each man passes on his craft to his sons.”

  “So what about you?”

  Tom heard the note of challenge in Amy’s voice. “I’m a moonshiner’s son,” he said quietly, meeting her eyes.

  A flush of pink spread across Amy’s face. “How can you stand here and tell me you’re going to be a moonshiner when you know how I feel about the evils of drink?” Her hands were clenched in tight little fists.

  “You git mad when I lie to you,” Tom said reasonably.

  “But why can’t you do some kind of honest work?”

  “There ain’t nothin’ dishonest about moonshinin’,” Tom objected. “Not unless you’re contaminatin’ your likker or sellin’ three-day-old likker for aged whiskey. If you take pride in your product and treat your customers fair, makin’ moonshine’s as honest a craft as any other.”

  Amy faced him, her eyes flashing. “You’re impossible, just impossible! And besides, if you’re a moonshiner’s son, that must mean your father’s still making liquor after he promised the judge he wouldn’t. You have your nerve, talking to me about honesty, Tom Higgins!”

  Princess danced between them, barking nervously and looking from Amy to Tom, but for once they both ignored her.

  “Anybody ’round here can tell you, my pa don’t go back on his word,” Tom said. “He promised that judge he wouldn’t make com likker, and he ain’t made corn likker. And he ain’t gonna make com likker ever again as long as he lives. An’ that’s a fact. My pa’s a honest man, an’ I don’t want to hear you sayin’ he ain’t.”

  Amy had backed away from him, and Tom realized he’d been shaking his finger at her.

  “I guess I got carried away again, Tom. I’m sorry,” she said quietly, reaching down to calm Princess.

  That was one of the things Tom liked best about Amy—she never stayed mad long, and when she was wrong, she said so. But this time, she wasn’t all that wrong. Pa wasn’t
exactly breaking his word, but if that judge had known Junior Higgins was simply going to switch from com liquor to fruit brandy, Pa would be in jail now. Confused, Tom walked away, clutching his book and half fearing, half wishing that Amy would call to him.

  By the time he reached the footlog, Tom was miserable. He didn’t feel at all clever about the way he’d made Amy believe Pa had given up making moonshine when he’d only given up making com whiskey. And he wished he hadn’t walked off like that without so much as a good-bye. After all, it would be three long months before he saw Amy again.

  23

  Tom and Pa were the last to arrive at the Johnsons’ house for the work party. Most of the neighbors were already sitting in the shade near several tubs of green beans. Andy was already writing in his notebook, Tom noticed as he made his way toward Lonny and Harry.

  Soon everyone was busily snapping the ends off the beans and breaking them in half while Jonah Simpson told a tale. Just as he finished. Preacher Taylor rode past on Odysseus, slowing the horse to a walk at the sight of the crowd gathered in the yard.

  “C’mon in. Preacher,” Cat Johnson called as he tipped a bushel basket over the jar of peach brandy that was being passed around. “We can use your help here.”

  Tom watched Preacher Taylor tie his horse and come into the yard, and he wondered what Cat was up to. The preacher hesitated when he saw everyone at work and said, “I, ah, I thought you meant spiritual help,” but he allowed himself to be drawn into the group. “What’s going on?” he asked, sitting down next to Tom.

  “This here’s a bean stringin’,” Tom said. “Take this here needle, ran it through them beans, an’ pull ’em onto the thread,” he instracted, pointing to a panful of beans that had been snapped in half. “Not longwise. Preacher. Crosswise.”

  Raising her voice so she could be heard above the smothered laughter, Lonny’s mother said, “We hang up long strings of them beans to dry, an’ come winter, we cut some of ’em down and cook ’em half a day in a big pot of water with a hunk of salt pork. Mmm, mmm!”

  Tom grinned at the preacher’s awkwardness, but his attention quickly shifted to the Widow Brown as she began to tell her story. Even the smallest children sat in rapt attention as the old woman told how clever Jack had outwitted the king and won the girl he loved for a wife.

  When she had finished. Cat Johnson, a wicked glint in his eye, turned to the preacher. “Preacher Taylor, we’d like to hear one of your stories now.”

  Looking pleased that he’d been asked—and relieved to have an excuse to put aside the beans—the preacher said, “My story’s about Joseph and the coat of many colors, and—”

  “That ain’t your story,” Cat objected, “that’s a Bible story. Tell us one of your own.”

  Looking uncomfortable. Preacher Taylor said, “But I don’t have any stories of my own. I’m not a storyteller like Mrs. Brown.”

  Tom was wishing Pa would rescue the preacher by offering to tell his tale when beside him Harry called out, “I bet you Tom’s got a story, Mr. Johnson. Why don’t you ask him to tell us one?”

  All eyes turned expectantly toward Tom, and he was filled with self-conscious confusion. Harry would pay for this!

  “How about it, Tom? Makes sense that June’s boy might have a story or two up his sleeve,” Cat Johnson said.

  Tom’s face burned. It was bad enough to be embarrassed on his own account, without having Pa brought into it. But then, in a rash of excitement, he remembered the book Amy had given him. He’d show them! He wouldn’t sit there tongue-tied and be humiliated in front of everyone—in front of Pa.

  Scrambling to his feet, Tom held his right arm out from his body and gave it a shake.

  “Whatcha doin’ that for, Tom?” asked one of Cat’s little boys.

  “Why, I’m tryin’ to git a story down out of my sleeve,” he said, shaking his arm again. “Ah, here’s one.” Sitting down, Tom said, “This here story tells about somethin’ that happened in Buckton a while ago. Lots of folks there raised sheep back then, an’ they hired Wiley, the sheriff’s son, to drive ’em to a pasture just outside town each mornin’. Wiley, he was supposed to stay all day an’ watch over them sheep, cause there was wolves that lived not far from town.”

  Tom was pleased that his voice showed none of his nervousness. “Now, at first Wiley felt proud of havin’ a job of work like that, but after a while it got right tiresome, so he decided to have him a little fun. He left them sheep all grazin’ an’ headed on back to Buckton. Soon as he got in sight of town, he commenced runnin’ and hollerin’, ‘Wolf! Wolf!’

  “When folks heard him, they all grabbed whatever they had handy an’ started for the pasture. The women ran out of their houses carryin’ skillets, the storekeeper brought a shovel, the judge had that wooden hammer of his, an’ behind ’em all came their preacher, armed with his prayers. The sheriff an’ his deputies weren’t ’round to help that day, you see, ’cause they was all over in Bad Camp Holler, lookin’ for moonshine stills.”

  After the howls of laughter died down, Tom went on. “’Course, when they all got to the pasture, them sheep was grazin’ peaceful like, an’ there weren’t no wolf in sight. Them folks couldn’t understand it at all—till they saw ol’ Wiley, laughin’ his head off. Now, the storekeeper an’ the judge an’ the preacher, they walked on back to Buckton, grumblin’ all the way about how that boy’s pa should tan his hide, but them women chased Wiley all the way home.”

  “Good for them,” Lonny’s ma said.

  Tom couldn’t believe how well he was doing! “Wiley, he found out there was worse things than tiresome—like gittin’ whacked with skillets—so next day he took his knife with him when he drove them sheep out to the pasture. He was whittlin’ away on a stick when a whole pack of wolves came in sight. Wiley, he ran back to town, lickety-split, hollerin’, ‘Wolf! Wolf!’

  “The sheriff an’ his deputies came runnin’ down Main Street with their guns, but everybody said, ‘Don’t you pay no attention to Wiley, he pulled this trick yesterday.’ An’ no matter how hard Wiley begged, nobody would go back to the pasture. That pack of wolves killed every one of them sheep—an’ that weren’t the worst of it. Everybody started blamin’ everybody else for what happened, an’ things was in a right sorry state till they all agreed never to mention it again as long as they lived.”

  Tom looked at his listeners and said simply, “I guess that’s why none of you folks knew about all this till I told you just now.” He was almost startled by the cheers and clapping. Harry put two fingers in his mouth and gave a shrill whistle, and Lonny pounded on the half-empty tub of beans.

  Tom was elated. He’d done it! He’d told a tale, just like Pa. He flashed a proud look in his father’s direction, but Pa was bent over the beans he was snapping.

  Cat Johnson raised his voice above the clamor and said, “Folks, we have a new storyteller in these parts, an’ we have Harry Perkins to thank for bringin’ him to our attention.”

  Tom made a face at Harry and decided he wouldn’t bother trying to get even with him after all, because in a way, he already had. And then the preacher was shaking his hand and congratulating him. “You’ve done something I couldn’t do, Tom,” the preacher said ruefully, standing up. Tom watched him mount Odysseus and ride away. Cat Johnson shouldn’t have made sport of Preacher Taylor, he thought.

  Later, after everyone had eaten their fill of the meal the women served, Cat announced, “Wal, folks, we’ve saved the best for last. June Higgins, here, is gonna tell us his tale now.”

  There was a murmur of anticipation, and Harry leaned toward Tom and said, “Don’t look like he’s got much cause to worry about competition from the likes of you.”

  Tom jabbed Harry with his elbow, but as he began to lose himself in the magic of Pa’s storytelling, he knew that though his friend’s words were meant as a jibe, they were the honest truth.

  When Pa’s story ended, there was hushed silence. Finally, Cat Johnson cleared his throat and
said, “Wal, folks, I was right about savin’ the best for last, wasn’t I?”

  The spell was broken, and Ol’ Man Barnes declared, “Ain’t nobody can tell a tale like June Higgins.” After chorasing their agreement, people began to say their good-byes and light their lanterns for the walk home. Tom waited until he saw Pa glance around, looking for him, before he left the shadows.

  “Here’s our newest storyteller!” Cat exclaimed, clapping him on the shoulder. “Got any more tales up your sleeve?”

  “I’ll have to look in my other shirt,” Tom said, grinning.

  As they started home Pa asked, “Where’d you git that wolf story?”

  “From the book Amy gave me. ’Course, I changed it some.” Tom waited expectantly, but Pa’s only response was a grunt.

  Tom struggled against the disappointment that threatened to blind him with tears. Everyone else had liked his story. Lonny and Harry had obviously been impressed, Mrs. Brown had said she was proud of him, and Andy—But none of that mattered if Pa wasn’t pleased.

  Suddenly Pa broke the silence. “Tellin’ a tale is a art. Next time, don’t make a fool of yourself with that business about your sleeve.”

  So that was it. A feeling of relief swept through Tom. Pa’s criticism stung, but at least it hadn’t been his story-telling that had made him look foolish in Pa’s eyes. Someday, somehow, Tom promised himself, he’d make Pa proud of him.

  24

  “Now you make sure you say exactly what I told you when you take Ol’ Man Barnes that message after school, you hear?” Pa called.

  “I hear!” Tom hurled the words over his shoulder as he went out the gate. He’d repeated it perfectly three times, hadn’t he? But just the same, he rehearsed it on his way down to the mission and again whenever he thought about it during the day.