Moonshiner's Son

by Carolyn Reeder

Grinning from ear to ear, Lonny said, “See you at the com shuckin’, lover boy,” and leaving Tom standing by the footlog, he continued along the wagon road toward the settlement.

  Amy dismounted and stood beside Tom. “What’s a com shucking?” she asked, just as if she’d never been away, and just as if Tom hadn’t walked off without saying goodbye the day before she left.

  “It’s when everybody meets in a neighbor’s bam in the fall to help him pull the shucks off his com,” Tom said, rubbing Agamemnon’s nose. “Folks been looking forward to the Rigsbys’ shuckin’ for weeks now.”

  Amy frowned and asked, “Why? It doesn’t sound like any fun at all.”

  “It’s the storytellin’ that’s fun,” Tom said. “An’ the visitin’, an’ the chance to have some square dancin’ when the work’s done.”

  “But how can you stand the smell?”

  It took Tom a moment to figure out what Amy was talking about. “The animals are still outside this time of year except in bad weather, an’ besides, you ain’t down where their stalls are,” he explained. “You’re up top where they store the feed. The Rigsbys have a two-story bam built into a hillside, see, an’ in the back, they can walk right into where they keep their animals, an’ out front they can walk—or even drive their wagon—right into the top floor.”

  Amy waved to a group of little girls walking home from school, but the children looked from Amy to Tom and then ran past them, giggling.

  Tom felt his face getting hot, but Amy said, “Don’t mind them. They don’t understand that a boy and a girl can be plain ordinary friends instead of boyfriend and girlfriend.” Then she added matter-of-factly, “I really missed you when I was away at school, Tom. You and my parents. And Princess and Agamemnon, of course. I don’t know what I’d have done if Mother hadn’t arranged with the school for me to come home for a few days. Or if she hadn’t had money for my ticket to Buckton.”

  “Your ma has her own money?” The words slipped out before Tom could stop them.

  Nodding, Amy said, “She says a woman must always have some money of her own so she and her children don’t have to be victims of her husband’s hardheadedness.”

  Tom was embarrassed that Amy would tell him something that private, but then he realized she knew he’d never repeat it. Not sure what he should say, he muttered, “I gotta go now,” and hurried across the footlog. He thought about Amy as he climbed the mountain. He was glad to know he could have her for a friend instead of a girlfriend, but he didn’t think he’d try to explain that to anyone else. Except maybe the Widow Brown.

  By the time Tom and Pa walked into the Rigsbys’ bam that evening, almost everyone else was already there. Glancing around, Tom saw ears of com piled high in the middle of the floor and the neighbors sitting on benches arranged along the walls. To his relief, the Mowbray brothers were nowhere to be seen.

  Tom headed for the bench where Harry and Lonny had saved space for him and Pa. Across the bam, Andy was busily writing in his notebook, but he looked up and frowned when a loud voice called from the door, “Let’s git this floor cleared off so we can dance!” Tom’s heart fell when he saw Doc Mowbray, and Sol right behind him.

  Doc and Sol picked their way through the crowded bam to where one of their cousins had made room for them on a bench by pushing three of his children onto the floor. Tom saw Lance Rigsby and Pa exchange a long look. It was a good thing Pa was here, he thought uneasily.

  “We can’t work without no story,” Hube Baker called.

  “Wal,” said Lance Rigsby, “we got some of the best storytellers in Virginia here to entertain us tonight, so …” His voice died away when he saw Preacher Taylor and Amy standing in the doorway. There was a strained silence in the bam until Lance recovered and said with false heartiness, “Come in, come in. Glad to have you here. Come on in an’ find a seat.”

  Pa cleared his throat and said, “There’s room for you on this bench here if a couple of these young’ns don’t mind movin’.”

  Tom nudged Harry and Lonny, and the three of them slipped off the bench to sit cross-legged on the floor. All eyes followed the preacher and Amy as they made their way across the bam, and Tom wondered why Preacher Taylor had wanted to come, after his experience at the bean stringing.

  “Hey, Lance!” Doc Mowbray called, pulling something out of his overalls pocket. “I’m the first one to find a red ear!”

  Lance Rigsby glanced toward the preacher and saw that he was talking to Pa, unaware of what was going on. Quickly, Lance passed the jar to Doc and moved so that he blocked the preacher’s view of the man lifting it to his lips. Rubbing his hands together nervously. Lance said, “Miz Brown, will you tell us your tale now?”

  The Widow Brown said, “I don’t have no tale for tonight”—she held up a hand to quell the groaning—” but I can tell you about somethin’ that happened just last week over in Ox Gore Holler ….”

  Soon Tom had forgotten about the Mowbray brothers. The lantern light cast ghostly shadows on the walls, and the only sounds in the Rigsbys’ bam were the rasp of the shucks being ripped from the ears of com and the Widow Brown’s voice. “… An’ next time you go to Ox Gore Holler,” the old woman said, bringing her story to a close, “mark my words, you’ll see white butterflies flutterin’ all ‘round the tree where that beautiful girl in the long white dress hanged herself ‘cause of her faithless lover.”

  People stomped and hollered in appreciation, and when the noise began to die down. Lance Rigsby said, “How about it, Jonah? You got a tale for us tonight?”

  But before Jonah Simpson could reply. Doc Mowbray held up a red ear of com and said, “Hey, everybody—lookee what I found! Somebody pass me that jar so I can have my drink.”

  Doc’s brother Sol pulled a red ear out of his pocket and said, “Save some for me. Doc!”

  There was a mixture of laughter and grumbling as each man drank a long pull from the jar, and Tom heard the preacher ask Pa, “Why can’t I convince you people that liquor’s evil?”

  “The likker folks ‘round here are makin’ nowadays is evil, all right,” Pa said.

  “You know that’s not what I mean, Higgins. All liquor’s evil.”

  “Wal, you don’t have to worry none tonight, preacher, ‘cause that’s apple brandy in Cat’s jar.”

  Tom grinned as he listened to the conversation behind him, but he was beginning to feel uneasy. Brandy was even stronger than com whiskey, and the Mowbray brothers weren’t just sipping it. They were a sorry lot when they were sober, but when they were drank …

  “I can’t sit here with people drinking right in front of me and not speak out,” the preacher said. He started to stand up, but Pa pulled him back.

  “You’re a guest here. Preacher. You can’t embarrass your host like that,” Pa said sternly.

  Silently, Tom thanked him. Everyone was welcome at a com shucking, but folks wouldn’t take it well if the preacher caused a commotion and rained their good time.

  When the clamor died down, Jonah said, “I’m gonna tell you all a story I heard from my wife’s mother’s brother.”

  “Tell it, Jonah,” called Sol, “but pass me that jar again first. I’ve found me another red ear.”

  “How many of them has he got in his pocket there?” grumbled Cat Johnson. Then in a louder voice he said, “Better make sure you save back some of that brandy in case one of us really does shuck a red ear, Lance.”

  There was a murmur of agreement, and Lance Rigsby said, “Nothin’ to worry about there, Cat. Nothin’ to worry about.” He glanced imploringly at Jonah Simpson.

  Jonah cleared his throat and said, “A while ago, there was a feller named Jack, an’—”

  “Whoopee! Pass me that jar again!” hollered Doc Mowbray, holding up another red ear.

  “And then pass it over here to me,” Cat Johnson said.

  Tom felt a little sorry for Jonah Simpson. Nobody would dare interrupt Pa’s story that way.

  “Let’s see your red ear, Cat,” Hub
e Baker called from the other side of the slowly diminishing pile of corn.

  Tom was surprised when Cat Johnson held up an ordinary ear of yellow corn.

  “That ain’t no red ear,” several men called out.

  “Maybe not, but it’s a ear I shucked fair and square, right here in this bam tonight,” Cat retorted.

  Ol’ Man Barnes said, “Pass him the jar. He’s got as much right to a drink as Doc an’ Sol,” and several other men echoed his words.

  Sol got unsteadily to his feet and challenged, “You sayin’ I didn’t shuck this here red ear?”

  “Nobody’s sayin’ you didn’t shuck this here red ear, Sol. I’m just sayin’ you didn’t shuck this red ear here,” Cat answered.

  Sol glowered as all around him men slapped their knees and roared with laughter. Behind him, Tom heard Pa say quietly, “He’s drank. You’d better take your li’l gal on home, Preacher. We’re gonna have trouble here tonight.”

  “But as the spiritual leader of these people, it’s my duty to—”

  “You ain’t no kind of leader if folks don’t foller you,” Pa interrupted roughly. “Now git!”

  But it was too late. A woman screamed, and children scrambled out of the way as Sol and Cat met near the front of the bam and began circling in a half crouch. Their shadows danced on the barn’s walls, huge and menacing.

  “Somebody stop them!” Amy cried.

  “Quiet, girl,” Pa growled.

  Tom held his breath and watched. Sol Mowbray was a dirty fighter. Even drank, he wouldn’t have taken on a man as strong as Cat Johnson unless—Tom saw the lantern light reflect off something in Sol’s hand at the same instant that Cat’s small son shouted, “Look out, Pa! He’s got him a knife!”

  A split second later. Cat’s own knife flashed in the flickering light. Tom’s eyes fastened on its blade as Cat held it waist high, ready to thrust it upward. Warily, the two men circled, feinting and parrying. Sol lunged at Cat, but Cat deftly stepped aside, pivoting on his heel to face Sol again. Tom’s mouth was dry, and he felt his stomach knot up. Then he sensed a movement behind him as Pa rose to his feet.

  “Enough of this!” Pa bellowed. “Put away them weapons, both of you, an’ set back down so Jonah can tell his story.” The men stopped their circling, but neither took his eyes off the other, and each held his weapon ready.

  “At the count of three, I want them knives closed,” Pa said.

  Except for the wailing of a small child, the bam was silent, and all eyes were fastened on the two armed men. Tom held his breath as Pa began to count. “One … two … three!”

  To Tom’s immense relief. Cat took a step backward and snapped his knife closed, and Sol fumbled until his weapon, too, was closed.

  “Now go on back to your places,” Pa said.

  The tension broken, Tom’s shoulders slumped, and everyone began to talk at once as Sol and Cat backed away from each other and made their way toward their seats.

  But Doc Mowbray, his flushed face twisted with anger, stood up and shook his fist at Sol. “You ain’t no Mowbray, walkin’ away from a fight like that! Go on back an’ finish what you started!” Sol hesitated, looking from his brother to Pa, and Doc gave his brother a mighty shove, crying, “Go on, I tell you!”

  Caught off balance, Sol staggered backward and smashed into one of the wooden posts supporting the barn roof. Women screamed and men shouted warnings when the lantern that had been hanging from a nail in the post fell and broke. Kerosene splashed in all directions as the lantern base rolled erratically across the floor. In an instant, flames ignited the litter of corn shucks, and fingers of fire reached toward the straw. Mothers snatched up small children, and men pushed their wives toward the door ahead of them.

  A confusion of shapes surged through the clouds of dark smoke, and Tom felt himself propelled forward. He struggled to keep his footing as he was carried along by the panic-stricken crowd. The heat and crackle of the fire were terrifying, and its acrid smoke choked Tom and made his eyes burn. And then he stumbled through the barn door and gasped in huge gulps of fresh night air. Someone hurried him farther away from the barn and then was gone. Pa was safe, he realized thankfully.

  From the fringes of a silent group of men, Tom watched the flames lick their way up toward the roof. And then, silhouetted against the glare of the fire. Preacher Taylor staggered from the bam carrying a small, still form.

  Tom stood as if paralyzed while the men ran forward. One of them—it was Lance Rigsby—took the preacher’s burden and, carrying it gently, hurried toward the house while the others led the gasping preacher away from the burning building. Tom’s eyes followed Lance and saw the women who had gathered on the porch scatter to let him pass and then close ranks again to follow him inside.

  Tom ran to the house on trembling legs, but when he tore open the door, Mrs. Rigsby blocked his way. “You can’t come in here, Tom,” she said. “I’m sorry—I know how you feel about Miz Brown.”

  Tom sank down onto the porch steps and rested his head in his hands. It was Mrs. Brown. He’d known all along it was. How could this have happened? And how could it have happened so fast? He sat huddled against the wall, scarcely aware of the door opening and closing or of people passing him as they went in and out. But he roused hinself when he felt a touch on his shoulder, and he looked up into the preacher’s drawn, smoke-stained face and red-rimmed eyes. Tom hauled himself to his feet, but he couldn’t bring himself to speak, and for once the preacher seemed to have nothing to say. When Pa gave a shout, they both turned toward the sound.

  “I think everybody’s accounted for except Sol Mowbray an’ Miz Brown,” he said as he hurried toward them.

  “Sol! He may be lying in there, unconscious!” cried Preacher Taylor, starting for the burning barn.

  “Don’t be a fool!” Pa shouted, jerking him back. And as the preacher struggled against Pa’s grip, the fire ate through the barn’s center beam and the roof collapsed with a whumph sending sparks high into the air. While the crowd watched, hypnotized, the flames leaped like a living creature and then fell back as the walls crumpled inward.

  A slurred voice broke the awed silence that followed, saying, “Ain’t that a sight, folks? Ain’t that a sight?”

  “Wal,” Pa said, releasing the preacher from his grasp, “Now we know Sol Mowbray’s safe, but I sure am worried about Miz Brown.”

  “She’s inside,” the preacher said stiffly, straightening his jacket. “The women are looking after her, but I don’t see how she can last the night.”

  But she was still alive! Tom felt a rash of hope.

  Lantern light spilled from the door as Andy stepped onto the porch. “I thought she’d gotten out,” he said haltingly when he saw them. “I thought she was safe.”

  26

  Early the next morning, the neighbors gathered at the Rigsbys’ to wait for news of the Widow Brown, and for once Tom and Pa were among the first to arrive. The women sat in the house, but the men stayed outside. They stood in small groups, hands deep in their pockets, shoulders hunched against the damp cold. Now and then, two or three of them would disappear into the woodshed for a few minutes—probably for a swallow of apple brandy, Tom thought numbly.

  His heart beat faster when the door of the house opened and the doctor appeared on the porch, followed by some of the women. “He’s been in there most of the night,” Lonny said at Tom’s elbow.

  The men had moved closer to the house and waited silently for the doctor to speak. “I’ve done all I can,” he said wearily. “She’s resting quietly, but I can’t say whether she’ll recover. It’s out of my hands now.”

  Resting quietly? In his whole life, Tom had never seen Mrs. Brown rest.

  Harry nudged Tom and said, “Here comes your girlfriend.”

  That Harry never did know what was fitting, Tom thought. He ignored Harry’s comment and asked Lonny, “You think the Mowbrays are comin’?”

  “Pa said he don’t know which would be worse, if they come o
r if they stay away,” Lonny said.

  “Fact is,” Harry said, “I’m kinda surprised your pa’s here today, Tom.”

  “Why wouldn’t he be? Miz Brown is a good friend of ours.”

  “But if your pa had kept them Mowbrays under control like he should of, there wouldn’t of been no fire, an’ Miz Brown wouldn’t be lyin’ in there now.”

  Tom was stunned. How dare Harry! “You’d best be careful what you say,” Tom cried, giving him a shove.

  But before the other boy could retaliate, a voice said, “‘soft answer turneth away wrath but grievous words stir up anger.’ Haven’t we had enough violence around here?” Tom turned and saw the preacher looking at him with disapproval.

  “You should show some respect,” Amy added, “with Mrs. Brown dying not fifty feet away.”

  Tom was speechless, stung by her words.

  Mrs. Taylor turned to her daughter and said evenly, “Tell the younger children some stories to keep them quiet, Amy.” Then she rested a hand on her husband’s arm and said, “I’ll deal with these boys, Charles.”

  Looking chastened. Amy started toward the group of children swinging on a knotted rope hung from a tree limb. But the preacher hesitated until Mrs. Taylor pointed toward the woodshed, where Andy stood alone. “Andy looks as if he could use some words of consolation,” she said.

  Lonny and Harry slipped away, but Mrs. Taylor didn’t seem to care. She looked at Tom, a concerned expression on her face. “You usually use your wits instead of your fists, Tom. Harry must have said something terrible to provoke you just then.”

  “He blamed Pa for what happened to Miz Brown,” Tom said, almost choking on the words. He hadn’t meant to tell her, but something about the way she looked at him seemed to pull the truth out.

  “You mean because Doc and Sol Mowbray had been drinking your pa’s brandy?”

  Tom shook his head. “Because if Pa had kept Doc and Sol under control, there wouldn’t of been no fire an’ then Miz Brown—” He stopped as his eyes filled with tears.

  “You might as well blame everything on Lance Rigsby because he invited people to the corn shucking,” Mrs. Taylor said, her voice tinged with impatience. “The fire was an accident, and it’s no one’s fault that Mrs. Brown was overcome by the smoke. Nothing anybody says—not Harry Perkins, not even Mr. Taylor—can change that fact. Look at me, Tom. Do you understand what I’m saying?”