Ralph nodded in admiration, his Andy Griffith ears cutting a faint breeze in the air. "Feds are out hunting for dope these days, now that the hippies finally wised up enough to plant the shit out in the wilderness."
Don Oscar winced at the mention of his other competitors. "I smoked that stuff once, even thought about getting into it myself. Hear the money's real good. But who the hell wants to deal with a bunch of stinking hippies?"
"Well, they say a man's got to change with the times."
Ralph flicked his tongue beneath his beaver teeth, his small eyes shining in the darkness. "But I'm a believer in tradition myself."
"Amen to that, brother." Don Oscar took a Mason jar from the shelf that ran under a boarded-up window. Ralph didn’t disguise his desperation as Don Oscar's hand tightened around the lid.
"Let me show you something," Don Oscar said. Ralph let his stringy muscles sag in disappointment. Don Oscar led him over to one of the barrels. As he did, a low rumble rolled through the mountains, shaking the springhouse walls.
"Thunderstorm sure moved in fast," Ralph said. "And me on foot."
"That ain't no thunder. Them boys are dynamiting over on Sugarfoot again. Gonna knock that whole blamed mountain down to gravel if they keep it up."
Don Oscar lifted the plywood lid off the nearest barrel then let it drop back down. A cloying stench clubbed the air of the room.
Better not let Ralph see THAT, Don Oscar thought. Damned possum crawling in there and dying like that. Hell, it'll cook out. At least it died happy.
He moved to the next barrel and pulled off the lid, then stood aside so that Ralph could see.
"Looks like either runny tar or soupy cow shit," said Ralph.
"That there's prime wort, my friend. That's what gets cooked down to make that joy juice you like so much."
"What the hell did you show me that for?" Ralph said, drawing back and crinkling his rodent face.
"So you'd appreciate the product. And not bitch about the price. Now, if you want to get messed up—and I don't mean stoned, I mean stone, like a rock, where you can't hardly move your arms and legs—then you dip your tin cup into this and take a gulp."
Ralph leaned closer, hesitant, gazing into the murk of the fermenting mash as if divining the future in its surface.
"It's all science, see,” Don Oscar said, loquacious from the sampling he’d done. “Convert sugar to ethanol, distill to stouten and purify, slow-cook to perfection or else you get it too watery. Yep, I could write a book on this stuff."
Ralph looked like he didn't give a rat's ass about the how or even the why of grain alcohol. Right now he seemed worried about the when. The first faint tremors worked through his limbs and sweat oozed from the pores of his sallow skin. Ralph needed a drink soon or he'd go into spasms right there on the muddy floor of the cookhouse.
But when you're buying on credit, especially unreliable credit, you better rein in your horses and bite your tongue and nod at all the right times. I'm calling all the shots here. Hey, that's pretty damn funny, all the SHOTS here, ha-ha.
Ralph pointed to something, a pale powdery thread that branched out like a tree root down the side of the barrel into the wort. "What the hell’s that?"
Don Oscar bent down and looked, pressing his soft belly against the rim of the barrel. "Some kind of fungus or dry rot, I reckon. Won't hurt nothing. It all comes out in the wash."
"Dry rot when it's so wet in here?"
Don Oscar reached into the barrel and touched the tendril. It squirmed spongily and crumbled. Don Oscar rubbed his fingers together, spilling motes of green and white dust onto the surface of the wort.
"Smells funny," Don Oscar said, whiffing like a maitre d' checking a vintage.
"Whatever you say, buddy. Can I have my jar now? You know how I get the shakes."
Don Oscar knew perfectly well how Ralph got the shakes. That was why he was making Ralph wait. There wasn't a lot of entertainment out in the sticks, especially here on the back side of Bear Claw twenty miles from nowhere in either direction. "When can you pay?"
Ralph’s eyes were dark as salamanders. "Got my disability coming at the first of the month, same as usual."
"And what's my guarantee you won't blow it all on that factory beer at the Moose Lodge before I get mine?" Don Oscar rubbed his fingers against his flannel shirt. That mold or whatever it was had made his hand itch.
"I promise, Don Oscar."
Don Oscar smiled in secret pleasure. He didn't care much if Ralph paid or not. He ran a healthy small business, with low overhead and tax-free profit. He allowed himself a helping of mountain generosity. “Here you go, Ralphie.”
Ralph grabbed at Don Oscar's hand, pried the bootlegger's fingers away, and held the jar to his chest as he ran for the door, slipping on the dark, damp floor.
Took it like a chipmunk grabbing an acorn. Don Oscar watched from the springhouse as Ralph struggled with the lid and tipped the jar bottom to the sky. Ralph's Red Man cap nearly slid off, but the adjustable strip stuck to his collar. The bill of the ball cap jutted cockeyed toward the treetops. Some of the liquor streaked down Ralph’s stubbled chin and wet his shirt as he gulped.
Ralph wiped his mouth with his jacket sleeve and headed into the woods. Ralph disappeared among the pale saplings and gray-mottled trunks of the oaks. Don Oscar listened to Ralph's feet kicking up dead leaves for another minute, until the sound grew fainter and blended with the warbling of Carolina wrens and the chattering of squirrels.
Don Oscar checked the pressure gauge on the still and added some hickory kindling to the fire. The batch would hold for the evening. His hand itched like crazy now, and a headache was coming on like a thunderstorm riding fast clouds. Maybe he'd better get to the house and lay down, let Genevieve make him a hot bowl of soup and maybe take a Goody’s powder.
He closed and locked the springhouse door and headed down the trail to the house. By the time he was halfway home, his head felt as if it had been crushed between two boulders and his mind was playing tricks on him. The trees seemed way too green, and the new March growth shivered without a wind. Maybe that last batch had been a bit too powerful.
###
Genevieve Moody looked up from her quilting and out the window to see if her husband had finished his business deal. She didn’t trust Ralph Bumgarner a bit. But Donnie could take care of things. He always had, and he’d sold to rougher folks than Ralph.
It was the tail end of winter, the trees deader than four o'clock and hardly any blooms to speak of, but still the fresh smell of jack pine rosin came through the screen door. The woods were going to bust with green any day now, with scrappy black clouds pushing another storm. It was God dipping His waterspout to tend His garden, priming it for another spring.
That last stitch is a mite loose, but after all it's a quilt. It’s the wrinkles and loose threads and whatnot that gives them character. And the handmade look sells so good down at the antique shop.
Maybe she’d give this quilt away instead of selling it. To Eula Mae or one of the Mull kids, Lord only knew they needed all the help they could get. And it's not like she needed the money, what with Donnie doing so good.
Okay, now, Mister Needle, don't jump at my old fingers like that. A body'd think you lived off my blood the way you act.
She didn’t see Donnie yet. Ralph might have been trying to pull a fast one, make a horse trade, though Ralph was plumb out of horses. Ralph had big ears, and mountain lore held that was a sign of a long and enduring lover, but she didn’t see how any woman could ever stand to put him to the test. This was one of those times she didn’t like Donnie’s being a moonshiner. Because of the company it drew.
But, she had to admit, she liked store-bought groceries and the new Wagoneer and not having to keep up pole beans and yellow squash like her sisters. Donnie had promised a satellite dish come summer. And he was right proud of his work.
“Family tradition,” he called it, and his cheeks got all puffy and cute when he smiled.
Well, family is family, after all, and I'll stand by my man come heck or high water.
Maybe the apple didn't fall far from the tree, and maybe one bad apple spoiled the whole bunch, and maybe the worm turned, but Donnie had never lifted a hand against her. She knew for a fact none of her sisters could say the same about their good-for-nothing husbands.
And Donnie got respect. His customers came from all walks, not just the down-and-outers like Ralph and his kind. Chief Crosley was kept greased up and shut up with a monthly case and Chester Mull was regular as prunes and oatmeal. Half the Moose Lodge were customers. Even some of them snooty Lion's Clubbers weren't above a little illegal pleasure. And that old preacher, not Blevins, but the one before him, Hardwick, paid a call every Monday come rain or shine.
She had time for her hobbies and when she wanted a weaving loom, Donnie ran right out and bought one without batting an eye, two thousand dollars just like that. It sat over there in the corner with dusty strings hanging from it like cobwebs but Donnie hadn’t ever said an unkind word about her not using it anymore. She took another glance out the window, at the sky going thick as flies on molasses.
No Donnie.
She let her attention wander from the quilt in her lap to the kitchen. It was cluttered with cookbooks, recipes, and enamelware, bought by Donnie so she could finally win the chow-chow contest at the festival. He’d even bought her a Cuisinart.
“It's science,” he’d told her. “Not luck or old mountain secrets, else Elvira Oswig wouldn't be getting the blue ribbon year after year. She got the system down, is all.”
Blossomfest was coming up this weekend and that last batch of chow-chow was going to win for her. Donnie had said wasn't no judge on Earth going to be able to pass up this year's Moody entry.
And here he came now, wobbling down the trail like he'd taken too many samples and holding his head like it was a broken bucket leaking water.
Lordy, girl, get your old bones up and help him into his chair, ‘cause you know he works hard for you and never once asks for thanks, only a little hanky-panky once in a while, but they ALL do that. And anyway, that don't take much time at all, and if it keeps Donnie home, then I'm glad to oblige.
She put aside her needle and scraps. Her husband stumbled up the steps, feet dragging as if his boots were filled with creek mud.
"Hey, honey, are you feeling okay?" she asked, standing and brushing the threads from her lap.
To tell the truth, he looked like heck warmed over and he was nodding, but that didn't mean nothing because he hated to complain. He put his arms around her, but his eyes were only partly open, the whites showing like sick moons.
"Here, maybe I better put you to bed, Donnie."
He leaned on her, heavy, like he wanted some hanky-panky, but it was the afternoon and they hadn’t done it in the daylight since she was barely off her Daddy's knee and, besides, his breath smelled like a crock of sauerkraut that had turned.
"You got the fever?” she asked. “Looks like you're having some kind of spell, took ill with something."
Why wouldn’t he look at her?
"Honey?"
She tried to back away, but his arms were strong and his face pressed closer. The rims of his eyes were swollen and tinged with green, the color of rotted watermelons.
“Say something,” she said. “And you may as well stop trying to kiss me until you get that dead skunk out of your mouth and—”
She finally figured out what was bothering her, besides the smell and his strange eyes. His mouth on hers caused no stir of wind.
Lordy, that ain't right, and you got to get away because he ain't breathing and why don't your legs work and he still wants that kiss and his tongue feels like cold slimy snakeskin and why don't your legs work and what's he putting in your mouth that's slithery and Oh my Lord now you can't breathe and this ain’t real but you can't breathe that sure is real and something's wrong in your bones and guts and God let my lungs work, girl, this must be what it's like to die only why does it hurt so much and now you'll never get that blue ribbon and we’re all sauerkraut and what is this shhhhh oh Lordy Jesus I can’t feel my heartbeat and the whole world’s gone green and white and green and white cause this must be what they call your life flashing before your eyes flashing before your flashing
CHAPTER TWO
A black cloud crawled across the sky, scrubbing the top of Bear Claw as it headed east. Little gray dots of cumulus followed in its trail like deformed cows bound for pasture. At sunrise, the clouds had been spread as thin as apple butter. In the few hours since, they had clumped up like they meant business. And this time of year, raining was the sky’s main piece of business.
Chester Mull rubbed the knots of his hands together, hoping the friction would melt the arthritis away. March in the High Country was always miserable. The cold and damp weather alternated with brief bursts of sunshine to keep his joints in constant agony, one moment shrunk tighter than fiddle strings and the next looser than Eula Mae Pritcher's morals. Now his aching bones told him that the daily thunderstorm was right on schedule.
Static electricity prickled the wiry gray hairs on the back of his hands. He looked out across the yard at the blue banty hens scratching in the dirt. They wouldn't have sense enough to get out of the rain, and Chester was damned if he was going to go down and shoo them into the barn. He was happy right where he was, with his bony hind end parked in the roped-together bottom of his rocking chair.
A concussion sounded over the mountain, echoing off the granite slopes and stinging Chester's ears. Those boys were blasting away over on Sugarfoot again, chiseling that mountain apart one piece at a time. A wonder the whole damned peak hadn't slid down already, the way they stoked the dynamite. Well, that was the price of progress. He only wished they’d do their progressing a few hundred miles closer to the flatlands.
He turned his head and shot a brown stream of tobacco off the side of the porch. The arc came up a little short, the juice hitting on one of the warped pine planks and quivering in the dust before beginning the slow job of making a permanent stain.
"Damn Days O' Work never did make a good hockwad," he muttered to the air. He had started talking to himself about six years ago, a few months after Hattie had left him to join the Lord. But he made good company, even if he did say so himself. And there was nobody around to disagree with that opinion. Plus, this way, he didn't have to worry about no back sass.
Chester scratched the red gorkle of his neck, the neck that Hattie had always said looked like a turkey's. He mashed his gums together, trying to squeeze a little more nicotine out of his chaw. A dark line of saliva trickled down one side of his mouth, adding yet another color to his possum-hide beard. He reached down and scratched his ragged redbone hound, Boomer, behind the ears and looked out over his farm like a king surveying his castle keep.
The barn was almost ready to give up the ghost. Johnny and Sylvester, his good-for-nothing young-uns, had propped long locust poles against the side of the barn where it sagged toward the ground. The rusty tin roof had buckled under the strain of gravity, and there were gaps in it big enough to drop a hay bale through. Chester didn't really mind, because he sure as hell wasn't going to chase no cows around over these hills and put them up of a night. He'd culled his herd down to a half dozen last spring and sold them at the auction house down in Windshake.
As far as he knew, the only things that lived in the barn now were the rats, because the pointy-nosed bastards never seemed to get tired of moldy corn. The chickens were just as likely to roost up on the porch rails, and the bats had been driven out by the winter sleet that played Ping-Pong with their radar.
So, as far as Chester cared, the whole thing could fall over. DeWalt, the California Yankee who lived over the ridge, had already offered to buy the barn for its wormy chestnut beams and planks.
The tool shed had already collapsed, squatting down in the side yard like a bullfrog with a rump full of wet bugs. An old horse-drawn hay
rake quietly flaked away at the back of the shed, its tines curving into the brown turf. The barnyard spread out into stubbled pasture, broken here and there by slack barbed wire strung between gray posts. Johnson grass and saw briars covered what used to be the potato patch, and locust sprigs and blackberry thickets had crept down from the forest slopes to lay claim to the hay fields.
The Mull family had once owned land as far as the eye could see, both sides of Bear Claw and a big chunk of Antler Ridge, plus a pie-shaped wedge of Brushy Fork where the headwaters of the Little Hawk River sprang from between the cracks of mossy rocks. The acreage had been chopped up and married off until each branch of the family was now down to a few hundred acres. Chester had inherited a prime spot here in the valley, but his outlands were all granite cliffs and crags bristling with jack pine. He had been lucky to palm a piece of it off on DeWalt.
Chester chuckled at DeWalt’s bid to become a country boy. Some tobacco juice slid down the wrong way and caused him to cough. His lungs caught fire as they worked like bellows to push out the bad air. Thinking about DeWalt always made him laugh, but even a good belly laugh wasn't worth this kind of pain. When he recovered, and his scrawny head had stopped bobbing like an apple on the seat of a moving hay wagon, he ratched his throat clear and spat out the offending gob.
Chester had sold the darned fool twenty acres of rock face, so straight up and down that from an airplane the lot looked barely the size of a football field. DeWalt had given him ninety thousand dollars in California Yankee money, but it spent just as good up here in North Carolina. Better, in fact.
Chester decided to call the new neighbor.
“What you up to?”
“Watching the weather.” DeWalt answered in his educated tone as if expecting the call. The fellow didn’t get out much for a rich man.
Chester squinted up into the sky, trying to place the sun's position in the smear of clouds. “Just a little storm coming through.”
The Harvest Page 2