It Happened in Silence

by Jay, Karla M

  Poppy was on that train from the Carolinas.

  He was one of eight children living near Ardgour on the western shore of Loch Linnhe, Scotland. After the failure of the fishing, linen, and kelp industries, his father became a cottar, a farmworker with no land of his own. Life was hard, and Poppy ate spoiled wheat for days on end. He left home at age seventeen to reduce by one the mouths his parents tried to feed. When he tired of using the Free Church’s charity, he made his way to Glasgow and found passage on the Anchoria, an immigrants’ ship bound for New York City. He also had an uncle in Georgia.

  Poppy thought he was in sorry shape until he saw a large group of immigrants who boarded, half-starved and half-naked, young children in rags—shapeless fragments of what must have been clothes.

  Poppy helped the crew convert empty bread bags, scraps of old canvas, and blankets into basic coverings for them. He swore that if he ever had a family, he’d create a life where his wife and children never went hungry, always understood they were loved, and developed the character to step forward in times that called for kindness and courage.

  Once in America, he and Mama set out to do exactly that.

  It began in earnest the day Poppy, Mama, and Aunt Effie stepped off the train in Dalton, Georgia. His uncle had a place a few hollers over from Mama’s relatives, but Poppy went straight to work on the MacDonell farm, her homestead.

  Poppy always said life wasn’t about living but was about having something or someone to live for. What would happen now?

  All I know is I will return home, and in four months, Ruthy will marry and move away. I will take up Mama’s and Ruthy’s chores, making sure little Billy Leo sits up straight, remembers his manners, and learns to read and write. I’ll work hard like Mama, who is as tough as a pine knot. Was. She was as tough.

  A sob catches in my throat. Billy Leo had only felt Mama’s warm hugs for twelve short years. I will have to tell him the stories from before his recollections started, from before he was born. And that was the best reason for me to remain on our homestead. If I was off on my own, the worst part of holding onto the memories would not be the pain, it would be the lonesomeness of it all. Memories need to be shared if they are to live on, and at home, I could do that.

  Briar Stewart

  It’s rained off and on for two days, changing from pouring to sprinkling to back again. Foggy days, steamy nights. Convicts remain locked in their cages, just getting a few minutes outside every eight hours.

  Even though the sun’s finally out, Taggert’s stuck in a dark, foul mood. We’re dozens of sap barrels behind, so he’s working the convicts, including us trustees, sixteen hours a day. I done chopped wood to stoke the fires under the turpentine vats until my hands are blistered. The others, they’re sharpening hacks, clearing brush ahead of the choppers, and making sure the dippers ain’t spilling a drop of valuable gum when they empty the cups into buckets.

  The new convicts settled in. The white feller, Bub Belknap, is grumbling ’bout the long days. His woeful story is that he claims the boy was in the middle of the road when he struck him dead. The lad’s sister told it different. They was off to the side, gathering cans to resell for food when Belknap run him over. Wherever the truth lies, Belknap got sentenced to one year. I remind him of why the turpentine gang is better. Better air, less crowded living quarters. But his muttered cussing still trails behind him.

  The dipper has surely got one of the easiest jobs. He follows the lead choppers at first pass. Once they make their V cut, he nails the Herty cup to the tree below it. Second pass he removes the full cup of gum and dumps it in a bucket.

  This morning, he’s got molasses in his drawers.

  “Belknap.” I approach him, with my axe over my shoulder. “What you trying to do out here?”

  “Got too much to do.” He lifts his hat and slides his arm ’cross his sweating forehead. “I’m doing two fellers’ work.”

  “You’re doing no more than the rest of us. Now stop looking for sundown and supper or you’re gonna catch more than you huntin’ for.”

  “This ain’t right.” He slumps against a tree and swipes the clay cup off. It breaks apart when it hits the ground.

  I take a gander over my shoulder. Taggert is on his mount circling the work area, but I don’t see him right now.

  “We’ll catch up with our quotas tomorrow or the next, then drop back to routine schedule. If you’re fixin’ to blame someone, blame yourself for what you done that landed you here.”

  “You a criminal too. How do you get special treatment?”

  “Worked my way up the hard way.” I point to the trees. “Get a move on.”

  He slowpokes to the next tree and kicks the cup. It breaks, and sap runs in a clear stream down the bark.

  “Whoops.” He smiles and heads to the next tree and smashes that cup too.

  I hurry to his side, grab his arm, and whisper. “Knock it off. You gonna catch hell.”

  He twists away and breaks the next cup. “Already caught it, you ask me.”

  Boy flies out of control, running from tree to tree, tearing off the cups, stomping or slamming them with his hammer.

  “The hell’s going on here?” Taggert yells, coming up behind me on his horse. “Stewart. Stop that idiot from destroying them damn cups.”

  I make a rush for Belknap, but he’s running like a scalded haint. He looks back once and I catch his eye. I’ve seen that look before. If he’d had even a smidge of hope, it took off and fled just before.

  Tears of downright rebellion run down his cheeks. He’s giving up!

  Belknap weaves and disappears into the trees, heading downhill.

  “Get the dogs!” Taggert yells toward the camp tents. He turns his horse and cocks his rifle as he rides off in the direction Belknap set.

  Sour throw-up hits the back of my throat. I need to keep the other fellers operating or we gonna get more trouble to answer to.

  I move through the pines, pushing the convicts to stay at it. Assuring them they’re okay. There’s fear in their twitchy movements, and I smell it on me. We all taste the fright the hunted man must feel.

  The coon dogs are really telling it now. They’re closing in on him.

  What made him give up like that? Feeling beaten down is something we all have hanging on our shoulders in this here prison camp. But it’s short-term. His decision is permanent.

  The gun fires twice, just moments apart. Each shot pinches my insides.

  I get back to chopping wood, letting the logs take all of my anger and fear.

  Taggert rises up the hillside, the dogs happily loping alongside his Palomino. A successful day for them.

  “How many these cups he break?” Taggert calls my way.

  “Two, three dozen I reckon.” I rest on the axe handle, trying to quiet my shakes.

  “Shit.” He scratches his neck. “Didn’t have that many to spare.”

  “We can try to plug up some of the old tin ones,” I say. It don’t sit right with me that I’m so helpful, but what choice remains?

  “Goddammit. Why’d the warden send me that S-O-B?”

  “Can’t say, sir.” Maybe he wanted to get rid of him before he had to bury another feller in the secret graveyard. “You want some of us to fetch Belknap?”

  “Leave him for the animals. Besides, his face is shot off. Nobody needs to see that.”

  I recollect my last sight of Luther Junior, dead in the mine, and all that remained of him. Forgetting something like that is hard, but always keeping it locked in my mind is even worse.

  “Forest ranger swings by here off and on,” I say. “Recollect he said he don’t like finding body parts. I could bury him.”

  “He’s not gonna see anything from those damn bird perches or overlooks. He shows up, we say nothing.” Taggert suddenly groans and grabs his stomach. “My damn guts. I didn’t ne
ed that excitement today.”

  Hefting the axe, I turn back to splitting logs.

  “Stewart. I need you to ride into Cartersville.”

  “Was just there.” I tamp down the excitement. Any venture away is fine by me, and it sounds like I’m going alone. Unheard of. “What’d we forget?”

  “Guts are killing me. Grab me a coupla bottles of Bisurated Magnesia from the pharmacist. The pills, not the damn powder.” He pulls out his watch. “You leave now, you’ll get there before he closes for midday.”

  “Sure. Anything else while I’m there?” I’m still testing the idea he’s letting me go without another inmate by my side.

  He pats his shirt pocket and pulls out a half-empty cigarette pack.

  “Need some more gaspers. Might as well keep my throat and lungs healthy since my guts gone to shit.”

  “Woodbine again?”

  “Prefer Chesterfields but if not, yeah.”

  “I’ll take Bayou again. Him and me get along real good.”

  He opens his wallet and hands me a ten-dollar bill.

  “Head out.” He squints and clears his throat. “Remember, you try anything funny, I’ll take you down harder than any no-account criminal.”

  “Always on my mind, sir.” I fold the money and tuck it deep in my shirt pocket.

  I saddle Bayou and point him down the logging trail. The first two miles are the steepest, mostly switchbacks. Ain’t worried. He’s sure-footed and I ain’t in no hurry. I can cover seven miles and back in no time. Once sat a horse for fourteen hours, him getting feed and water just every so often. Worked branding season for a rancher in Wyoming. A hard job for sure, but it made a man feel worth his salt.

  Off to the left, a steady rolling stream makes a low throaty rumble. I lift my face to the sun, letting its light and the tree shadows dance ’cross my skin. Smells of old wood and wet pine paint the air.

  Maybe when I get out, I’ll look into what it takes to be a forest ranger. A month back, when we were cutting on the other side of the ridge, a big feller rode into camp. He talked up a storm around the vittles we shared. Said living out on his own is lonely. Checks in just weekly with the ranger headquarters from call boxes nailed to telephone poles, usually not far from the ranger’s shack. That big ranger had a fine sense of humor. Named his high rocky roost Last Step Lookout ’cause below his wooden perch looks to be ’bout five hundred feet of a granite-faced cliff.

  He talked ’bout measuring distance to the first spiral of smoke using a compass and a map. I’m purty good at guessing distance. He also has to know all about shoeing a horse. And in case the feller takes sick, he has to know healing herbs. Nobody’d need to teach me either of those.

  The thought settles nicely in my head.

  I’m passing oak hollows where squirrels are quaa-quaaing away above me. A few nuts fall to the ground, and I ain’t sure if they’re meant for each other or me. Ahead, a dead oak stands black and twisted off the trail, out on the edge of a hill. Yonder, I catch a glimpse of Cartersville. Tiny curls of smoke rise from factory chimneys. The houses and buildings are all situated like white and pink stones cozied up together in a riverbed.

  A lone crow sits near the top of a dead oak tree. A shiver fights its way up my sweaty back. Although the local Indians believe a single crow means something new or good is ’bout to happen, in my holler, it’s a bad omen and foretells hard luck’s surely ’bout to fall.

  Wonder if it was sitting here when Belknap got killed. Sure as shooting don’t want no more bad luck focused my way.

  Round the next twist in the trail, I’m surprised to see that foreign boy squatting in the damp leaves. The tiny trail behind him must lead the back way to the same rotten cabin he’s staying in. We’ve moved five miles farther along the mountainside, but here he is. I pull to a stop.

  “Dangit, boy! Thought I told you to find a town.”

  “My brother vas too veak to valk.” His face is a mask of hopelessness.

  “How is he now?”

  “No good.” He stands and pulls up raggedy pants held to his waist with a graying length of rope. “He right there.” Then he points to a sunny spot sprouted with ferns.

  Can’t see diddly from here, so I climb off Bayou and wrap the reins around a branch.

  I follow the boy. “Is he awake?” His brother is curled up on his side, eyes closed, but his chest rises and falls. A rash covers his thin arms and skin-and-bone face. I start praying to myself that his next breath won’t be his last. It’s a terrible time when a brother loses a brother.

  “I ain’t got any vittles with me today,” I say. “What you doing out here with him?”

  “Need help to carry him to town.” His shoulders slump. “To doctor.”

  My mind fights my heart. In my head, Taggert’s warning wrestles the wrongness of leaving the poor boy here to die. A useless soul is one who doesn’t lighten the burden of others. Dagnab my Bible upbringing.

  “Let me sort this,” I say. Can’t hardly tote him into Cartersville because Taggert could hear of it. Euharlee is off to the left on Old Alabama Road, not more than six miles. Got arrested there last fall, but this time I got a purpose and money in my pocket. If I hustle, I can drop the boys off at the doctor’s place and still ride to the pharmacist without losing too much time. “Ever been on a horse?”

  “Yes, sir. Back home.” The boy has new get-up-and-go written ’cross his face.

  “Where’s back home?” I fix my saddlebags ’cross Bayou to make room. “And dontcha say Boston again.”

  The boy kicks at the ground with his big toe.

  “Russia. My family come after revolution, three years past. To Atlanta. Then flu last year take away everybody but my brother Cy.”

  “That’s rough, kid.” Maybe a home for orphans will take them in. “What’s your name?”

  “Ilya.”

  “Il yeah. Il-ya. Ilya, I’ll put you in front of me in the saddle and your brother between us.” I help him onto the horse. The boy smells like he’s a few weeks shy of soap and water. I walk through the ferns and scoop up Cy. His weight is next to nothing.

  “Keep him sittin’ up ’til I climb on,” I say, placing the child’s legs ’cross the saddle and leaning him against Ilya’s back. Once in the saddle, I make a sandwich out of us. “You push back a bit and Cy should stay right where he is.”

  “Zank you,” he says, turning his head sideways. “Vat is your name?”

  I start to say Briar and catch myself. Don’t need the boy telling round who took him to town, so I use my middle name.

  “Ray.”

  We drop off the hillside and come through the bottomlands. Hawks hunt over the sage grass, and a dozen cows huddle under the shade of river birch trees in a fenced pasture.

  “Ve like milk you gave us,” Ilya says, turning to the side. “My brother smile that day.”

  The sick kid is as limp as an eel out of water. Ain’t sure what’s wrong with him and also ain’t free from worry his rash won’t pester my skin later. Mama would know what to give him. She studied on all the herbs and healing plants. Folks come from several hollers away to ask for her help. But she ain’t Briar Ray, now is she?

  We ride the side of Old Alabama Road, giving space to the noisy automobiles and trucks. If folks don’t look too close, we’re just a family riding into town on an errand. Could be the youngest fell asleep between the two. Nothing hair-raising here.

  I see the covered bridge before I hear Euharlee Creek rushing below it. It’s a one-way pass-through, and I wait for a man with a wagon loaded with hay coming toward us. He touches the brim of his hat and I touch mine back. Once we enter the wooden cover, I ponder its length. I reckon it stretches a hundred, hundred twenty feet before the light of day falls on our heads again. The clomp of Bayou’s shoes echo round the inside.

  We exit and I turn Bayou away from
the main street and town hall. Don’t need a policeman asking ’bout us. Ahead, a woman walks with a little girl, both carrying parasols.

  “Excuse, ma’am,” I say as we draw closer to her.

  She stops and lifts her face. “Yes?”

  “We’re in need of the town doctor. Could you offer directions?”

  She raises her hand to her mouth. “Oh, your boy looks bad off.”

  “He’s not my…” Why would I have this child with me if’n he ain’t kin? I go with a lie. “Yes. My brother. Both are.” I rest my chin on his head, wondering what all I’ll be catching. “He’s more wore out than anything.” I tender a smile. “Who’s the doctor in town?”

  “Doc Jackson. And you’re real close.” She points down the street. “See the yellow house about six down? That’s him.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” I say and nudge Bayou forward.

  “Zank you,” Ilya calls.

  I look back, and the woman’s forehead is knotted. Bet she’s questioning why we brothers sound different. Folks tend to get worried ’bout anyone different than them.