Born in Salt, page 2
“Thanks,” I managed.
Sarah smelled her normal earthy self, no perfume. She squeezed my shoulder. “Why didn’t you read your speech? It was good.”
“Didn’t feel right, just leave it at that.”
“Yes but… You know you shouldn’t go cursing God, especially in a church.”
She meant well so I didn’t get mad. “Maybe God shouldn’t keep cursing me and mine and all the other folk who don’t deserve it.”
Sarah stepped back as her parents and brothers offered condolences. “The rest of the family, they’re all sorry too,” her mother said.
Then the tall man with the white fedora clasped my hand. “I’m Paul. Do you remember me?”
He wore gleaming white shoes to match the hat. City slicker all the way.
“Cousin from the Turners,” Sarah said.
Now I remembered. Must have been ten years ago I last saw him, maybe more. I was a kid then, Ma and Abby still alive.
“Paul’s been living in Chicago,” Sarah said. “Just moved back and got a job tending bar at the Deer Head.”
That was the only saloon in the county, part owned by Sheriff Johnson. I wasn’t twenty-one yet and had never been inside.
She winked. “He knows every cocktail invented. They couldn’t resist.”
Paul nodded. “Being a war vet helped too. Though things being as they are, I wouldn’t expect to make management.”
Sarah’s mother interrupted. “You come by the farm any time, Ben, and I’ll cook you a nice meal and we can all sit down together. Any time you want.”
Food wasn’t what I needed. I stepped forward and twined my fingers with Sarah’s. “Come get ’faced with me. We got all manner of homebrew and shine in the kitchen. Got food from two dozen families too if you’re hungry.”
She smiled. “Blaze the way, Deerslayer.”
Her smile tore away some of the heaviness crushing my ribs. Then Pop tramped over and stuck his aftershave-drenched face in mine.
“What’s all these… people… doin’ in my house?”
My skin flushed with embarrassment. “Sarah’s come with her family to pay respects.”
Grandpa frowned, and my aunts and uncles did too. Dumb ass racists, the whole family, even though we lived in the Land of Lincoln.
“What’s the big windblow,” I said. “We’re all equally poor.” And our families had lived near each other for generations. Sarah was practically my sister.
“We’ll be on our way,” Sarah’s pop told me. “Ain’t a time for confrontation.”
“No, stay,” I said.
Sarah squeezed my hand. “I’ll stay.”
Pop glanced at our clasped hands and grimaced. He knew we weren’t a couple, but might be afraid things would head that direction. We’d thought about it, naturally, but sex would have felt weird, like incest. And what if I broke her heart? Or she broke mine? It would be too much to bear.
“Go on and drink with your old buddies,” I told Pop. “Let me drink with mine.”
“These are your buddies?” He exhaled bourbon fumes. “That’s the best you can do?”
Sarah gritted her teeth and let go of my hand. “What did you say?” She’d never been one to take shit.
My toes clenched, then my fists, but sadness and fatigue won out. “Truce, Pop. Sarah was Jake’s friend too. He’d want her to stay.”
Pop’s face sagged and he took a swig from his eagle mug. He threw up a hand. “Have it your way.”
Grandpa waved him over and he retreated.
Sarah’s folk hugged me one by one and said goodbye.
“I’ll wait outside for you,” Paul told Sarah.
“Wait on the porch,” she said. “I’ll bring you a drink.”
As Paul left, Rachel approached. I hadn’t spoken to her at the funeral, not knowing what to say. Her shoulder-length raven hair was still tangled from the wind at the cemetery. Her face was slack, emerald eyes blank like a doll’s. “Why, Ben?” Water oozed into her eyes and started to drip.
My body tensed as the horror returned. Jake was gone. Forever. Poor Rachel. Even though they were an odd match in a lot of ways, she’d been Jake’s steady since tenth grade and had a whole life planned with him.
I wrapped my arms around her, breathing in her rose-scented hair. “You know I’m here for you.” I wondered if I would still be her confidant, or if she’d leave my life too.
“I’m real sorry about Jake,” Sarah told her.
Rachel turned her head. “Thank you.” Her watery eyes returned to me. “I have to find out what happened. You have to help me.”
“He stepped on a mine,” I said. “What else is there to know?”
She wriggled out of my embrace. The grief counselor studied us, but I shook my head and he stayed put.
“That’s all they’ll tell me, he was killed in action.” Her lips quivered as she grasped my left arm. “Nothing about what he was doing. Whether someone could’ve stopped it.”
His death could have been prevented if he’d quit the Army after the mandatory two years instead of signing up for more like a dumb ass. If I had a girl like Rachel, no way would I spend one minute apart from her.
“Jake’s last letter,” she continued in a shaky voice, “had more redactions than usual, and then I didn’t get anything at all.” Her pink-nailed fingers remained wrapped over my forearm.
“Well,” I said, “the Army chaplain told me they try to keep spies from seeing anything sensitive in the mail.” The pictures Jake had mailed after he first arrived at his post depicted a tropical paradise: green mountains, blue seas, and endless fields of tall sugarcane. He and his squad buddies smiled like they were having a good time.
“Why Cuba?” she asked. “What’s the point of that?”
“You might as well ask why a tornado comes down and smashes up one side of a street but not the other.”
Her eyes widened and she let go of my arm. “I thought you were on my side.”
Should have said something comforting. This was why I’d never had a girlfriend more than a couple of weeks. Never said the right thing. That and being skinny and not having a nickel to my name.
Still by my side, Sarah came to my rescue. “You ain’t the only one who lost someone, you know.” She put a hand on my arm. “Let’s get those drinks.”
Rachel’s face fell. “Are you leaving?” She bit her lip, one of her worry gestures.
“I’m getting a drink,” I said. “Want one?”
Rachel hesitated, then sniffled. “You’re more like your father than you think.”
My toes clenched again and I walked off, leading Sarah into the adjacent kitchen.
The heavy wooden table in the middle was covered with food, mostly casseroles. We’d hauled a second table up from the basement and piled booze on top. Folk congregated around the tables, heaping food onto plates and pouring homebrew or moonshine into glasses, teacups, and mugs.
“We should start slow,” Sarah said.
“Yeah.” After my outburst at the church, I was in enough trouble without passing out in the living room or throwing up on Preacher Bill’s wingtips.
I opened the old refrigerator and pulled out three bottles of factory-brewed Budweiser. Better than the local homebrew and a treat since it cost money.
I led Sarah through the living room again. Rachel was talking to my crazy Aunt Sybil, who was wearing a wide-brimmed hat sprouting a circle of egret feathers. She was Pop’s oldest sister but she almost never visited.
“I have a book you should read,” my aunt told Rachel as we passed. “It really explained things for me.”
We continued onto the covered porch, which ran along the front of the house and down one side. The screen was supposed to keep out bugs but it had too many holes. Paul was sitting in a weather-beaten rocking chair, the only one that still had both armrests.
Sarah opened one of the beers and handed it to him.
“St. Louis’s finest,” he said, and took a swig.
Sarah and I sat on the swing. The chains creaked but they wouldn’t break. We dove into our beers without talking.
The porch faced east so we couldn’t see the setting sun. But the sky had darkened and the trees around the house cast long shadows onto the patchy yard and the two dozen cars and trucks parked there. Beyond, our hard-packed dirt driveway ran a hundred yards through fields of corn stubble to the county road.
“You got a nice house, Ben,” Paul said, leaning slightly forward in the chair, feet planted to keep it from rocking.
“Everything needs fixing,” I said. “But it’s been in the family a hundred years. My great-grandpa put the porch on. It’s home.”
Each ancestor and offshoot had a picture on one of the walls, ghosts watching the generations pass. I half expected their sepia eyes to weep blood.
“No matter now,” I continued. “Bank’s threatening foreclosure, they wanna take the whole farm.”
Paul shook his head. “That ain’t right, to take a man’s home away.”
Sarah nodded.
My teeth gritted. “Banks, government, they see us as hogs for the slaughter.” I finished my beer.
Sarah finished her bottle too. “Want me to get more?”
“I’m ready for something stronger.”
“I thought we were gonna pace.”
“You call downing a beer in two gulps pacing?”
She frowned. “Wasn’t two gulps.”
Paul fixed eyes on me. “You’ve got Lindbergh and Clark over the fireplace.”
“Not my say.” Pop and Grandpa worshiped President Lindbergh, National Leader for four decades until cancer took him. They even worshiped his cleft-chinned, slogan-spouting replacement, Andrew Clark.
“And if it was your say?” Paul asked.
I couldn’t help but feel bitter. “Why pay tribute to men who let the banks and grain buyers grind us down? And send people off to die when they’re needed here?”
I didn’t mention that Pop and Grandpa loved Clark’s ‘master race’ speeches. No matter how bad our lives got, they relished that there were whole races of people beneath them.
Paul scooted the rocking chair close and spoke quietly. “There’s more of us than them. We could stand up and say no.”
Was he serious? “That what they do in Chicago?”
“Sometimes.”
“And I bet they get their heads kicked in.”
His eyes narrowed. “Nothing worthwhile’s easy.”
“Nothing’s easy, period,” Sarah added.
The door opened behind us and Pop stomped out. He stabbed a finger at me. “Get back in here, boy. We got guests.”
That was true. Today was for Jake, not me. I slid out of the swing, rocking Sarah in the process. “I got circulating to do,” I told her and Paul. “Why don’t you come inside?”
Paul shook his head. “I don’t need to stir trouble with your kin. We’ll pick this up later.”
While Pop stood with crossed arms, Sarah stood and hugged me. “See you tomorrow?”
I whispered in her ear. “I’ll stash enough shine to last a while.”
Paul tipped his fedora at me and led Sarah down the porch steps. They followed their shadows toward the road.
Chapter Two
The pond had no official name. It was an unlabeled blue teardrop on the county map. But just the place to shake off a three-day drinking spree, especially on a warm cloudless day. And I was tired of re-reading Jake’s letters.
We called it Lake Livingstone after the farm it was on. It wasn’t actual lake size, but was still over five acres, and full of fish since the owners kept it stocked and ran off anyone not in the co-op. Pop hadn’t paid maintenance dues for years, but the Livingstone Boys cut me slack as long as I brought my band over to the barn twice a year.
I pulled my bait cage out of the water, hauling it by the string staked to shore. Water streamed out the bottom grate and two dozen shiners I’d netted from the shallow end wriggled and flopped around inside, silvery scales flashing in the sun. I unhooked the top of the cage and snatched one out, then eased the cage back in the water.
I stuck the hook through the shiner’s lips and cast it out beyond the weed line, right where the bottom dropped off. This time of year, the bass were active and hungry, so I expected to catch my limit. I let the shiner swim down a bit, then started walking it along the bank, not letting it get in the weeds.
Somewhere behind me, my hound Bandit barked. I turned and spotted Sarah hiking down the dirt track toward the pond, wearing jeans, a checkered flannel, and a wide straw hat; rod, net, and tackle box in her hands. Her cousin Paul walked by her side. He had denims and boots on, but still wore that white fedora.
I waved. Normally I liked to fish alone, but I made an exception for Sarah. She took it as seriously as I did, and even though poorer than me, she’d saved for a near-pro rod and reel. Fishing gear was one thing you couldn’t skimp on. And with proper care, it would last forever.
Bandit wagged his tail and escorted Sarah over, though he eyed Paul with suspicion.
“Paul wanted to come talk to you,” Sarah said. “Hope you don’t mind.”
Paul’s hands were empty. “You could have helped Sarah carry something,” I said.
He turned away and asked her, “Can I take your box or something?”
She ignored him and pointed at the string leading out to the submerged bait cage. “You got shiners to spare?” she asked me.
“Help yourself.”
“Thanks, Deerslayer. I’ll net the next batch.” She set her net and tackle box on the grass and adjusted her split shots, the two tiny lead weights that held the line underwater.
Paul stepped close. “Sarah told me a lot about you.”
I glared at her. “Yeah, she does have a mouth.”
Sarah looked up and gave me the finger.
“She only had good things to say,” Paul said. “Like how you write honest songs. Honest songs in a dishonest world.”
I reeled in my bait. “I just write about life, nothing fancy.” I swung the shiner inches from Sarah’s face.
“Pond’s that way.” She pointed.
I chuckled inside and told Paul, “Sarah’s the star in our band. She plays a mean fiddle.”
“Yeah, she’s got talent. She says you’re the front though.”
I walked along the bank a dozen yards or so, searching for the perfect spot.
Paul followed me. “You’re tight, the two of you.”
I cast the shiner out again. You couldn’t keep fish out of water long or they’d die. “What do you mean by that?”
“Just saying.”
I cast him a glance. “Well, we ain’t grinding love muffins if that’s what you’re getting at. Not that it’s any of your business.”
He held up a hand. “You’re right, it isn’t.”
“Ain’t a lot of suitable men around here.” It was illegal for blacks and whites to marry, or even have sex, and our county was ninety percent white.
I reeled the bait back in. Its tail was still flopping. I walked a little further and cast it just past the drop off.
“You guys got fishing licenses?” Paul asked.
I laughed. “Government wants a license for everything. Hunt, fish, farm, even to play music.” The shiner swam toward the weeds for cover. I led it a few feet to a bare spot where it couldn’t hide. “We played a dance hall and cops shut us down ’cause we weren’t properly authorized. They took me in for making a fuss about it.”
“Yeah, it’s like that everywhere. What about your songs? Any trouble with the censor board?”
“Haven’t pitched anything to the record company or the Radio Bureau. We ain’t at that level and I’m getting drafted by next May anyway.” The service board had given me a deferral since I had a brother serving and was needed on the farm, but I still had to go in by twenty.
I turned to Paul. When would he get to the point? What did he want?
“I heard about your punishment for helping the colored school,” he said. “They had the worst of everything when I went there.”
My shoulders tensed. I’d liberated surplus band equipment from a storage closet in high school, and donated it to the three-room New Bethany Colored School, where Sarah went. It was the perfect heist, but a so-called friend turned me in. The principal had expelled me from school and the police had whipped me in front of half the town.
“I admire that,” Paul said. “You’re a good man.”
“Thanks.” I winced a little inside. I’d burgled the band equipment more for the thrill than anything else. Every prank I pulled in school, like dumping salt in the teachers’ coffee or switching snooties’ padlocks, had to be topped by the next.
“Sarah said you’re a natural at opening locks.”
“Practice, like anything.” Sports had been my brother’s thing. Cracking locks was one of mine, learning a secret skill that none of the jocks knew.
I returned my attention to the pond. No bites yet, but from vibrations in the monofilament line, the bait was still alive. I moved farther down.
“So how’d you end up in Chicago?” I asked over my shoulder.
“I joined the Army the day I turned eighteen. A black man can’t get a decent education or job in this country, but he’s welcome to die for it. Army pays better than anything ’round here, and if you volunteer you get a bonus and more say about your service branch.”
“Jake should have joined the Navy,” I said. “Been years since they’ve been in a fight.” And even then, nothing like the Pacific War in the Forties.
“You worried about going to battle?” Paul asked.
“What do you think?” Jake was a crack shot and handy in the woods like me, and a lot stronger and faster, but none of that kept him alive.
“I saw plenty of action,” Paul said behind me, “the type that changes a man. But when I got out, I learned what suckers we all were. And that things can be different.”
Still no bites. I reeled in the bait and cast it out again. “What do you mean?”
“Let me ask this,” he said. “You said the bank’s taking the family farm?”
