Chapter Nine

 

Rising Sun, Maryland

April 1935

 

Calvin, who was about to turn thirteen years old, shared an upstairs room with his nine-year-old brother, Ron. The boy suffered rheumatic fever shortly after he and Calvin came to live there and it left him with a funny sound in his heart. Grandmaw and Grandpaw doted on him, and old Doc Wilson paid weekly visits to the Miller farm.

The faces of his grandparents were drawn and worried as they waited for the doctor’s car to appear in their drive. Calvin didn’t think there was anything wrong with his brother a good whipping, and some hard work wouldn’t cure, but so far that hadn’t happened. They didn’t expect Ron to do anything around the farm. He didn’t have any chores, not even taking out the kitchen garbage, and neither of their grandparents ever laid a hand on him. They saved their beatings for Calvin. Ron had Grandpaw’s name, and Calvin suspected that was at least part of the reason why they loved him more.

When Ron was four years old, Grandmaw made a wish bag and stored it over the kitchen cupboard. It was a twenty-five-pound, cotton flour sack tied at the top, stuffed to the brim with small toys and candies she bought in the five and dime store in Rising Sun. She bribed Ron to eat, and every morning if he ate all his breakfast, he got to choose something from that bag.

“Close your eyes and reach on in there, Ron. I’ll bet you’ll find something real purty.”

Calvin watched Ron’s face light up with each new surprise, and he wished, just one time, he could reach into that bag and pull something out for himself, but Grandmaw never offered.

Once, just for the heck of it, Calvin sneaked over to Ron’s bed after he fell asleep and took the small, stuffed bear from his hand and slept with it on the feather pillow near his head. The next morning Ron woke up first and got Grandmaw. When Calvin opened his eyes, Ron stood next to her, whimpering, “See, Grandmaw... Calvin took my bear.”

Grandmaw pounded Calvin’s head with her fist. “Your little brother’s ailing and feeble and all you can think about is yourself. You’re just like your pa, Calvin Miller. No account and good for nothin’. You’re gonna end up drunk in some gutter just like he did.”

As time passed, Calvin attended school less and less. He knew how important an education had been to his mama, but Grandpaw wasn’t as strong as he used to be and needed more help with the chores. When Calvin had trouble completing them before and after school, Grandpaw kept him home.

“You ain’t learning nothing practical no how. Might as well stay home and make yourself useful.”

Unless he really thought about his mama and how she’d feel, Calvin wasn’t all that upset about it. School had been hard for him ever since Norman made fun of his lunch and that day when Grandmaw embarrassed him in front of everybody in his class.

Still, a lump rose in his throat when he spotted his teacher, Mrs. Hickock, winding up their drive. Calvin hid in the bushes outside the parlor window while she talked to Grandpaw.

“How come Calvin’s missing so much school, Mr. Miller? Sometimes we don’t see him more than twice in a month.”

“He don’t like school much, Miss Hickock. Says he’d rather work here on the farm with me. His little brother’s ailing with the heart problem. And Lord knows, I need the boy’s help. Myrtle and me’s getting too old for all this work.”

“Except for his reading, he’s falling so far behind the other children have taken to calling him ‘dummy’ when he does show up. Teasing him something awful.” Mrs. Hickock waved her hands around as she talked, her opal ring catching the sun and bouncing a beam off the parlor wall. “I know it’s embarrassing for him, Mr. Miller. I was thinking I could tutor him some. Work with him separate from the rest of the class. It wouldn’t take much. He’s a smart boy. He’d catch up in no time.”

“I wouldn’t be troubling myself none, Miss Hickock. He ain’t never gonna amount to nothing no how. He ain’t as smart as little Ron.”

“Ron is a bright boy,” she agreed. “He studies hard. But Calvin’s smart, too, I know he is. He’s the best reader in the school. If his attendance was regular and he did his lessons here at home, he’d be a real good student.”

“He ain’t got much time for lessons, Miss Hickock, with all the work to be done ‘round here.” His grandpaw stood and moved toward the door.

Calvin didn’t really want to go back to school and face the other kids and their teasing. He could already read everything in Grandpaw’s house, even the newspaper. Calvin’s mama told him if you could read, you could learn anything you wanted. What more did he need?

Even so, his jaw tightened when he thought about his brother. He looked over his shoulder and spit onto the ground, dug the toe of his boot into the wet dirt and cussed under his breath. “That little son of a bitch. Why wouldn’t he be good at school stuff? He’s got nothing else he’s expected to do.”

Grandpaw even drove Ron to and from school each day because he believed the fever had weakened his heart and left the boy too frail to walk far. Ron had plenty of time to do his lessons and show off in front of the teacher, too.

Calvin didn’t want to hear any more, and he raced to the barn, climbed high up into the hay loft and yanked a sack of tobacco and a book of papers from his pants pocket. He rolled the cigarette and stared at it for a few seconds before lighting a match. Then he lay back in the hay, drew the tobacco smoke into his lungs and let it out slowly, the smoke billowing deep into the stillness of the afternoon.

He flipped onto his belly and gazed out at the pig pen him and Grandpaw built from hog wire lashed onto wooden posts with rusty baling wire. It wasn’t pretty, but it held the pigs inside.

Calvin had spent a lot of time in the barn, tossing hay bales over the slats of the calf’s pen. He was an expert now, could snare a bale with the hook in his right hand and flip it easily over the slats. Calvin thought about how often he’d walked through the milk room and out into the sunlight, clumps of fresh cow pies steaming in the morning air.

Beyond the calf pen’s fence, Grandpaw’s plow horses grazed in the meadow. Looking at them reminded Calvin of Star, and he wondered if his father sold him, or took him to the glue factory.

Long after the cigarette, Calvin lay there thinking about his life. He might have stayed even longer had that thick-furred black and yellow shepherd dog not interrupted him. At the sound of his barking, Calvin dropped down from the loft. Pieces of broken eggshell hung like pearls from the dog’s coat and yolk dried in yellow droplets on the fur around his mouth. He’d been in the hen house again, and Calvin hated to think what his grandmaw would say when she found out.

Brownie was Ron’s dog, but Calvin took care of him from the first day he wandered onto their farm. And he was the one who heard about it when Brownie stole eggs. The dog’s head hung low, and his tongue dripped. His tail curled and he panted noisily, but his eyes glowed wet and warm. He was thirsty after his egg feast, so Calvin dipped a bowl into the barrel the pigs drank from and set it in front of Brownie.

“Here you go, boy. Drink up and get your ass outta here ‘fore Grandmaw sees you.” While the dog drank, Calvin checked the mange on Brownie’s right flank and saw it had improved with the ointment he’d put on.

The late and dusty afternoon light dropped its yellow glow on the willow trees, and they threw long shadows on the land. He watched as the thin figure of his grandmaw rapidly approached, the dust raised from her feet reddened with the dropping sun. She was mad, all right—Calvin could tell by the way she walked. He tried to push the dog out through the back of the barn, but he wouldn’t budge.

When Brownie saw Grandmaw, the hair on his neck and ears stuck straight up, and a deep growling noise rose in the back of his throat. Calvin stood perfectly still, waiting until she stood in front of him.

“I want you to take that no account dog out into the woods and git rid of ‘im. Git rid of ‘im once and for all. Do you hear me? Take that shotgun of yers and see to it he don’t come back no more.”

“But Grandmaw. He’s Ron’s dog. Why can’t he get rid of it?” Calvin stepped back.

“You know your brother ain’t well. And he’s still a little boy. He ain’t able to do nothing like that. And you best not be telling him you did it, either. Far as he’s concerned, that dog just disappeared. You hear me? Now be a man and do what I tell you. I don’t want Ron upset no more than he’d be if the dog up and run off.”

Calvin picked his shotgun off the high nail where it hung in the barn and started into the woods behind the farmhouse. Brownie loped at his heels, poking his nose underneath mounds of leaves and chasing squirrels, but always coming back for a pat on the head. Brownie played a game, happy and excited over Calvin’s attention.

They marched deep into the woods, and Calvin tried to chase Brownie onto a neighboring farm, but the dog came running back, nipping at his hands and jumping up on his hind legs to lick his face.

“Get. Get outta here. You stupid, son of a bitch dog,” he yelled. “Don’t you know I gotta kill you? Don’t you even got a lick of sense? Now get.” Calvin threw a stick into the dense clump of trees at the back of the woods. Threw it as far as he could, but the dog kept coming back. He hid behind the thick trunk of a tree, but Brownie found him. Even when he climbed high into the leafy branches, the dog stood beneath him looking up, his head tilted and his brown eyes wet and shining.

Then, almost as if he knew, Brownie put his head back and howled, a sound so anguished and lonely Calvin lost his balance and nearly fell from the tree. He climbed down, picked up the dog and felt its heartbeat pulsing against his own. Calvin’s chest grew tight and cold with a grief he couldn’t name.

It was hard to pull the trigger, hard to point the barrel of that gun into the trusting face of Ron’s shepherd dog. Every time he backed up to get the dog in his sights, Brownie trotted forward—closer to the gun’s muzzle. Calvin didn’t want to kill him, but he didn’t have a choice. Grandmaw would beat the tar out of him if that dog ever set foot on their property again or stole another egg from their henhouse.

So, he did it. When he pulled the trigger, the dog wasn’t more than two feet away from him. The sound of the shot bounced off the pine, maple and birch trees and echoed deep into the woods. This time, Calvin threw his head back and howled. But he didn’t look behind him. He couldn’t, not even when he heard the rustling sound of the dog’s body twitching on the leaf-covered ground.

A large, red sun hesitated on the horizon then dipped under the side of the hill and disappeared. The dusk crept over the sky from the east and darkness wrapped itself around him. Calvin didn’t bury the dog. He couldn’t bear to look at it, and he’d spent far too much time trying to get him to run away. Grandpaw would be looking for him. He had chores to finish before dinner, and he’d better hightail it back as fast as he could.

The dry branches crackled and snapped under Calvin’s feet as he raced through the woods toward the farmhouse. When he got there, Ron was on the porch, calling Brownie’s name.

“You seen my dog, Calvin?”

“Nope. I’ve not seen hide nor hair of ‘im.”

“Where you been with that shotgun?” Ron looked at Calvin, his mouth open a little, as though it would make him hear better. Ron’s eyes dug into his brother’s face, and a flush rose from Calvin’s neck.

“Out in the woods, hunting squirrels.”

“Did you get any?”

“No. I didn’t see a one.” Calvin didn’t know blood splattered the front of his shirt and legs of his pants until he saw his brother’s gaze linger there.

Ron didn’t utter a word, and Calvin trudged on to the barn. Grandpaw shoveled out the stalls, but he didn’t look up or ask his grandson where he’d been. Calvin guessed Grandmaw had already told him.

“I done milked your cows, boy. You can slop the pigs and make sure the henhouse is locked up tight. After that, you can bring in the horses. I’ll have these stalls mucked out by then.” Grandpaw’s face had darkened with dust and looked to be striped where the sweat had seeped through. He looked old and tired, and Calvin pitied him.

Calvin was surprised when his grandpaw waited for him to finish his chores. They walked together up to the farmhouse. It was dark, and the stars were sharp and white against the black curtain of sky. At the kitchen table, Ron hunched over his school work. Behind him, Grandmaw washed clothes in a bucket, her pale arms dripping soapsuds from the elbows. In the light of the kerosene lantern, her eyes seemed to sink inward. And she was way too quiet.

“What’s for supper?” Grandpaw yanked out his chair.

“Beef stew and some biscuits. I’ll dish it up in a minute.”

“Grandpaw, have you seen Brownie anywheres?” Ron asked.

“No, boy. I ain’t seen ‘im all day. Maybe he run off. Stray dogs is always doing that.”

After Grandmaw finished washing the clothes, she lifted the iron stove lid and took a pan of biscuits out. When she replaced it, the fire sighed up and breathed like something living.

Calvin and Grandpaw sat on the front porch after dinner while Grandmaw cleaned up the kitchen and Ron finished his lessons. “I know you’re feeling bad ‘bout what your grandmaw made you do, son. But it had to be done. Once a dog starts eating eggs, it ain’t something they can be broke of.”

The lantern light hissed, and a halo of bugs swarmed around it as Calvin looked into the circle of his grandpaw’s face. “I’m gonna walk a spell, Grandpaw. I won’t be long.”

His grandfather dropped his hand on the boy’s shoulder.

Calvin jerked away and walked off into the darkness that seemed like it could swallow him. He could hear his own footsteps as he shuffled along the drive, his head hanging down and his hands deep in the pockets of his overalls.

At the end of their road, Calvin flung himself under the willow and thought about sin. He wondered what the preacher would say about his killing Brownie. Calvin wasn’t sure he knew much about right and wrong anymore. He guessed he wasn’t sure about anything these days.

Above his head, the stars flowed down in a slow cascade of light over the northern horizon. For some reason they made him think about his father and a glaze drew down over his eyes. He hadn’t seen his pa for over a year, and when he thought of him now, he could barely remember his face. In his memory, his father stood in a darkened room, backlit by the sun that came in through the west window. He tried to reconstruct him, fingered his features like a blind person—the fine, dark hair that fell over his forehead in a shock, his blue eyes with flecks of gold in the irises, the straight, thin nose that gave his face its ferocious pride. No matter how many years passed, Calvin refused to see his father as a failed man, refused to believe his pa wouldn’t find a way to reunite his family.

For a while after Calvin and Ron came to live with their grandparents, their father had stayed in the farm’s tenant house, and Calvin saw him almost every night. He’d climb out his window after his grandparents were in bed and race the short distance across the field to the log house. Most of the time he’d find his father drunk, but he didn’t care. His pa was always glad to see him.

“How you doing, boy? Come to see your ole pa, did ya?”

He’d drop his arm heavily across his son’s shoulders. “You’re the only one who ever gave a damn about me, ain’t you, boy?”

“No, Pa. That’s not true. All us kids love you.”

That was before his father’s last fight when Grandpaw kicked him out and told him not to return until he broke off with booze. Last time he heard, Pa was over at Crystal Beach running a concession stand. Aunt Pearl said she’d seen him there selling hot dogs and soda pop to rich folks on the beach.

When his eyes grew used to the starlight, Calvin tried to imagine his father behind one of those concession stands, entertaining folks lined up in their bathing suits for lunch. He conjured up the sounds of a band on a platform and the waves lapping against the sandy shore.

But in reality it was April, and the beach was most likely deserted for another couple months. And when he counted the years, five had passed since they lost the farm and his sisters moved away. He wanted to take back all the chilly glances and the furious words that had been hurled between his father and the rest of his family, to settle in the dark and whisper all his fears into an ear that would treasure his every word as if it were a polished shell.