THAT SAME MORNING Howard Bondurant was walking down a small ravine on Turkeycock Mountain carrying a length of copper pipe on his shoulder. The pipe was stoppered at both ends, packed tight with sand. There was a small dirt clearing with a chestnut stump in the center, shoulder-high, stripped of all bark, a steel rail spike hammered at a sharp angle about a foot from the base. Howard stepped from the woods into the white light of the clearing and stopped for a moment, blinked, snapped out three heavy sneezes. He could feel the last knots of last night’s drink leaving him, the hard transpiration process. He wedged the end of the pipe under the rail spike and getting to his knees he began to bend it around the stump.
AS A BOY Howard had fought men older than himself and beat them soundly, once as a teenager taking on two Shively brothers, both hard, violent men in their thirties, and thrashing them both. He relished the spasmodic wrench of farm labor, and could toss hay bales from a loft like empty packing crates. Sometimes while in the barn moving hay or in his father’s tobacco field he would stop listening to the world and just work, concentrating on the basic repetition of movements, the strain and crack of his muscles. Every so often the perfect cycle of motion and strength was found and it was better than effortless, and the sweetness of the moment rang in delicious ripples through his body. And when Howard stopped, his back muscles shaking, his hands bloody, someone shouting his name, he felt like he had moved through a hundred years of time.
Lately Howard watched the world move by with terrifying momentum. At the sawmill camp at night Howard’s body ached with weariness. Whenever he closed his eyes he’d see the moving lights and the fast mountains, the blurred trees. Howard had the same feeling on the troop ship as he sailed between continents, from one horror to another. The vast spaces of slate-gray water, the ship like an island in a rushing stream. It now seemed to Howard as if he ought to take a big handful of something, like roots or mountain rock, to keep from spinning off into the sky.
Their first child didn’t live a month. It seemed clear that something was wrong, since the first day Howard saw the baby and stroked his cheeks with his rough fingers. They named him Granville Thomas after Howard’s father.
When the second baby came they silently decided they would not name the baby girl until it was clear she would survive. She was stricken the same as the first, barely strong enough to breathe, her tiny rib cage heaving with effort, the almost translucent skin of her fingers like a newt, the blood vessels visible and streaked blue, the eyes capped with crust and tears. The baby wouldn’t stop crying for a week straight and the doctor said there was nothing to be done except continue the vitamin treatment and hope that she gained weight and strength. After this next run he would buy some good cloth for Lucy and a box of dry formula, some fresh laying hens, corn meal, and seed vegetables. Then there were the doctor’s bills and the money he owed Forrest, and the note on the cabin.
Howard thought of the cabin in the valley of hollyhocks and sweetbriar, bordered by stands of oak and locust trees that ran down to the foot of Smith Mountain, Lucy holding the baby every hour of the day and most of the night, moving through the house like a sleepwalker, the baby at her chest. Howard would come into the kitchen at night and find her at the table with the baby in her arms, no light on, slumped over, exhausted and weeping. The baby had lived now three times as long as Granville Thomas Jr., but they would not name her. The ax they laid under the bed to ease childbirth, old mountain magic, remained there, now forgotten by them both, covered in a light frosting of red dust.
THAT MORNING Jack was coming through the deep ravines on the western edge of Smith Mountain, riding one of his father’s draft horses, a beefy Suffolk Punch the color of blood. In front of him on the saddle he trundled sacks of sugar and corn. The sky through the trees was overcast and the humidity put a bluish haze over the mountains. The corn and sugar Jack carried was bought on credit against his wages from the sawmill camp. Howard was going to collect his wages and hold them for him until the load was sold. If everything went well, in a few nights Jack would make more money than working several months cutting boards at the sawmill.
Howard had spots deep in the folded face of the mountain, excellent access to fresh springwater, nearly impenetrable scrub brush and thick leaf cover to obscure the smoke, and he made excellent liquor, doubled and twisted carefully, enjoyed mostly by local people who asked for it specifically at the Blackwater station. The county was full of small-timers clustered around tiny stills, all working sporadically and for small stakes; Jack and Howard and maybe a few others could put together a massive set of stills on Turkeycock and flood the county with liquor. If Howard would let him organize his stills, Jack thought, with Forrest handling the distribution like he did for various other syndicates, we could settle this whole damn thing. Most of the distribution ran through Forrest, so why not the production? With Forrest’s connections they could just make the long runs themselves, convoys of cars through Rocky Mount and up Grassy Hill and into Roanoke, up the Shenandoah to Harrisonburg, New Market, even Washington, D.C. His brothers seemed intent on excluding him from a full partnership, relegating him to an occasional hand. So Jack had to cobble together his budding industry from whatever was available.
Jack leaned off the saddle to wrestle with his burning feet, clawing at them through the dusty leather of his boots. They could all make enough to buy whatever land they wanted. Maybe pay off the note on his father’s store and clear out if they wanted, head up to Roanoke or Richmond and live like gentlemen in a brick house on a street with gaslights. Ride around town in the new car that he deserved, a Duesenberg or Packard, something with real flash. At least a damn Model A roadster with a four-cylinder flat head. He saw himself striding down the street in Rocky Mount with his new boots and camel-hair coat, black gloves and pressed shirt, his new roadster at the curb, gleaming in the sun.
The cicadas screamed in the trees overhead as the horse lurched up the hill. He could hear the Mitchell twins arguing before he could see them. In the clearing the stench of cooking mash was strong, and light wisps of smoke were drifting out of the windows of the cabin, the door, and various chinks and cracks in the logs. Radio music drifted across the clearing.
The fools set the damn place on fire, Jack thought, looking at the cabin.
The twins passed a jar back and forth on the warped porch. Both were shirtless, round bellies hanging over their belt lines, their skin burned a deep rust color. Cal and Eddie were impossible to distinguish, and most people in the county gave up trying and the twins assumed a sort of plural existence. They had the same bright, flawless smile and blond hair as their older brother Danny. When Jack whistled they turned to him in surprise and bounded off the porch and across the clearing to clap him on the back and proffer the jar. Jack waved it away, wiping the sweat that poured off his face with his shirttail.
Hey there Jackie, one twin said, how’s things?
Good to see you, said the other.
Where’s Cricket? Jack said.
Up in the house.
Cal or Eddie gestured to the smoking cabin with the jar, sloshing a bit on the ground.
Gimme that, you big dummy, the other said. Can’t be trusted with a damn thing.
Say Jackie, the first twin said, you know the singer Vernon Dalhart?
Ain’t he a Negro? asked the other.
He ain’t right? He’s a white man who just sings like that, ain’t he?
Jack stared at the white smoke drifting from every orifice of the cabin. The radio broadcast was playing a hard-driving fiddle reel. This house wasn’t exactly in a remote location. At least a dozen other mountain homesteads were up on this side of the mountain.
What the hell is going on with the house? Jack said. Is it on fire?
Naw, that there is just the still.
Can’t you smell it?
Yeah, Jack said, I can smell it all the way across the county. Has he got the still in the house?
Oh yeah, you gotta see it.
It ain’t just in the house.
They tied the horse in a shady spot and left the sacks in the clearing and following the twins Jack went up the steps and into the smoke-filled doorway.
Damn, Jack said. Smoke’s kinda thick, ain’t it?
Naw, you get used to it.
So, is Dalhart a Negro or ain’t he?
The house was modestly furnished with rough wood furniture, sanded floors. Jack crouched down to get out of the rising smoke and held his arm over his mouth. A steady knocking sound was coming through the floor. The pungent odor of hot mash was intense, the sickly-sweet smell of starches leeching sugar, the germinated corn festering, yeast enzymes taking hold. What was most surprising to Jack was that the house actually looked lived-in, as if someone was still there. There was a sideboard with a few dishes displayed, an open larder with canned goods on the shelves, a rocking chair draped with a quilt.
Whose house is this? Jack coughed.
Aunt Winnie.
Old family relation.
She’s gone down to Carolina to visit family, won’t be back till next month.
Half blind and crazy anyway.
The twins opened a trapdoor and a thick gust of moist white smoke billowed out. They groped their way down the stairs toward a flickering orange glow. A row of empty barrels, the insides covered with calcifying mash, stood at the foot of the stairs. Cricket Pate was squatting by a twenty-gallon teapot still, feeding the brick furnace lumps of coal. He had a way of squatting when he worked, his bony ass nearly touching the floor, thin knees up around his shoulders. Cricket squatted when he ate, when he worked, and the joke was he squatted even when he slept; he only stood when he was taking a shit. The floor was covered with grain sacks, sugar bags, spilled corn, extra wood scraps left over from the mash boxes. Cricket turned and grinned at Jack, a broad jack-o’-lantern smile, his face blackened with soot. The thumper keg pegged out a steady beat as the condenser steamed and the hot liquor hit the cold pipes. Cricket unfolded his beanpole body and shook Jack’s hand enthusiastically.
You gonna like this, Jack, he said. This is something we got going here.
What? The goddamned still in the cellar?
That ain’t the half of it. Just wait here a second till I get this run finished off.
Well, I’m waiting outside, whatever it is.
Sure, Cricket said. He turned to the twins.
Ain’t you two supposed to be on lookout?
Well, yeah.
And we seen Jack coming.
Well, Cricket said, get back out there. Remember the sign?
Sure.
Cal or Eddie pulled out a rusty revolver from his pant pocket and waved it over his head, mimicking firing off a few rounds.
We got it.
Jesus, Jack said. I’m getting out in the air.
You got the sugar, Jack? Cricket called out to him.
Yeah, outside.
Toss ’em down in a minute, will ya?
Jack made his way up the stairs and out the door. The twins came tumbling out after.
Have a taste, Jack.
Yeah, you gotta sample the product.
This gonna make us a bundle.
Standing in the yard Jack took a grimacing sip from the jar.
Tastes like twigs and fly spit, he said, handing it back.
Jack sat on the pine needles a safe distance from the smoking house. The twins sat down Indian style and took out tobacco and rolling papers. Jack swirled the jar around and watched the bead. The bubbles formed iridescent balls that shimmered as they rose, then thinning out to tiny grains of light, at least 120 proof. Decent enough, Jack thought, even if it did taste like hell. They could water it down, put a bit of color in it, some charcoal, iodine, or a bit of bark, and sell it as blended whiskey. Cricket had a knack for making do without essential procedures or ingredients and more than once they made a run of corn whiskey from a muddy cattle creek, liquor that ran brown not because they put any tobacco or bark in it to provide the smoky whiskey color, but rather the heavy clay sediment in the water they made it with, distilled only once halfheartedly in a patched tin can, an old radiator for a cooling coil sitting in a tin bucket, the liquor strained through Cricket’s filthy felt hat. Still the thirst for liquor was so great that men came and bought it. Sometimes they only got a small wad of bills, maybe ten dollars for the whole mess.
Ain’t you boys supposed to be on watch duty? Jack said.
Hell, Jack, with you here?
What would old Pete Hodges do anyhow?
You think he’s gonna arrest you, Jack?
Hell. I’d love to see that.
The other twin nodded in agreement and they both tugged thoughtfully on their cigarettes.
Jack looked at the smoldering house. He took a big slug from the jar and then lay back on the pine needles, his hands behind his head, and gazed at the arching trees and sluggish clouds.
HOWARD DECIDED he would stay away from the cabin in Penhook. He would go up on the mountain and make enough money and that would be it. He would work the lumber camp for another season, save his wages and his cut from the tobacco crop, stay away from the card games and drink, and in the winter he would be home again and perhaps the baby would be stronger then and the crying ended. They would get current on the house debt and get out from under it. It was easy to convince himself that it was the best thing to do.
That afternoon Talmedge Jamison would come down from Rocky Mount with the still cap, corn, and barley, the yeast in a packet already at the camp, the mash boxes built and waiting. They could get the mash started tomorrow and if the weather held and if they could get some sugar or molasses, in two days they could run it. Talmedge would take it up to Roanoke in his DeSoto in a caravan with some others he knew, men from Shootin’ Creek and Burning Bag, men with big cars with powerful engines to climb the hills, drapes over the windows to hide the jars and cans, men with guns who drove hard and deadly fast.
Howard had never made a blockade run and didn’t plan to. If the local sheriffs or Alcohol Tax Unit caught you at a still they cut it up and if you couldn’t get away they brought you in and you might do a few weeks or more but that was it. Long-range transporting was a different issue: high-speed chases, accidents, and gunfire. It wasn’t Franklin County that you had to worry about. Local law enforcement wouldn’t pursue a convoy rolling hard through the county; most often they looked the other way, especially if you dropped a few dollars. But ATU men were known for their tenacity and resistance to bribes and if you got caught with a big load going out of the county or in Roanoke you were dealing with people you didn’t know, unlike the local sheriffs, and then you had trouble. Then there were the roving bands of hijackers, desperate men from deep in the mountains or even gangs from up north looking to take a load of free liquor from country rubes. It was the world outside of Snow Creek and Franklin County that presented the unknown variable. Be dammed if I die in a car, Howard thought. Take my chances on my feet.
When Howard finished he had a tight worm coil with nearly ten turns, three feet high, just slightly smaller than the circumference of a barrel: a perfect condenser. Men had different theories about how many turns a coil needed to produce the best run, but generally more turns meant more surface area for condensation and cleaner liquor. Howard pulled out the stoppers and rotated the coil around to drain out the sand packed inside. When copper was hard to get men in the hills would use electrical tubing, radiators, lead pipes, iron, anything that would hold water. He’d seen men running liquor through an old rusted-out Model T radiator, using water from a bottomland creek that was regularly washed out with manure, straining the run through old sackcloth, using nothing but sugar and a bit of corn. A radiator actually made a superior coil, the delicate tubing wound like threads in the block, condensing the liquor off steam along a hundred turns and passageways rather than the dozen or so you could get from a good bent copper coil. But the insides of radiators leeched lead into the liquor. When the demand was high and the money available, men would make it out of sugar water and color it with tobacco juice. Quality liquor was too slow. Who cares if some Yankee went blind? There had been times when Howard had drank such liquor, often called popskull, sugarhead, or rotgut, but normally only when there was nothing else at hand.
Howard slipped the coil over his shoulder and started back through the woods. He licked his lips and thought of a drink. Howard had discovered what every drinking man knows: that quality liquor can make time stop. For a few hours the world comes rushing back, the fields roll under your feet, your hand locks steady around the handle, your back like a piston again, the mountains rise up and form a sparkling crown around you. Anyone could tell it was no way to live, this daily illusion, a phantasm of possibility, followed by blind retching, churning gut, bleary mornings, black heartsickness. But it was better than nothing.
He would pay his debts to his brothers and that would be it. Jack would understand and give him time. His younger brother always seemed to believe in him, always loyal. He thought then he ought to tell Jack about what he had seen during the war. He ought to tell Jack about the ocean and how it moved, how small it made you feel, how it shrank your world into a single droplet. Howard stood beside a tall elm and rested a moment, one hand on the mottled trunk. He closed his eyes and confronted his latest humiliation: that his little brother knew he was drunk in a ditch at the foot of Turkeycock Mountain when Forrest got his throat cut. Howard knew that this was something that hung inside his youngest brother’s chest like a rusted knife.
THE RUN WAS finished overnight and the next morning when Jack rolled out of his bedroll he saw Cricket squatting on the porch and smoking a cigarette. A few wisps of smoke still drifted from the house as if it were lightly steaming, the way a sweaty man’s head will steam in the winter. Cricket’s face was still blackened, and when Jack approached he showed his rotted teeth and clasped Jack’s hand.
Come see what we got here, he said, and led Jack into the house.
Cricket and the twins had run the liquor directly into an old water-heater tank they’d sealed up. Using some extra copper piping they hooked the tank into the house’s well-water lines. Aunt Winnie had a gravity pump set up to bring in water from a cistern in the basement, piped in from a deep well just behind the house. Upstairs in the bathroom she had a water closet with a flush toilet and a water basin with hot and cold taps. The hot-water tank had a sixty-gallon capacity, and over the last few days they’d just about topped it off.
See, Cricket said, this here is how it’ll work.
They were standing in the upstairs water closet. Outside the twins were still sleeping, lying together in the sun like barn cats. Jack’s head pinged a bit from the whiskey he had consumed, just enough to knock him out, his last memories from the night before of the twins rolling around the small fire, wrestling and shouting, someone’s pant leg catching fire followed by sobbing and then deep snores. The bathroom had a pull-chain toilet scarred with iron stains, and a shallow basin of tin nearly rusted through at the seams. On the wall hung a crudely painted landscape, a set of hills, a fence line, what might have been a cow or a horse.
Aunt Winnie did that, Cricket said, nodding to the picture.
You don’t say.
What happens is, Cricket said, man comes in for some liquor, brings his own container.
Cricket brandished a glass pint bottle.
Everythin’ seems normal, Cricket said, just a nice little mountain house here, us fellows here watching the place, whatever. Well, at some point, after sittin’ a spell, the man asks if he may use the water closet, and we say yes, ’cause he already done paid. And we say, try the hot water, it’s real nice, or something like that. So he comes in here.
Cricket held the open bottle under the hot-water tap, and turned the valve. A few squeaky turns, a dull rumble in the wall, and then some murky gray water followed by a thin stream of steaming whiskey. Cricket filled the pint bottle, turned the tap off, and corked the bottle triumphantly.
Man tucks his bottle away, Cricket said, and out he goes.
Hell, Cricket, Jack said, that is the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen.
Cricket looked at the stained sink. He swished the pint bottle around a bit, then stuck it in his back pocket. Jack walked back outside onto the porch. At the edge of the clearing one of the twins squatted with his pants down, straining like a dog, one hand on a tree trunk. The other stood a few feet way, seemingly unsure of what to do with himself while his partner was so engaged. Jack knew that Cricket and the twins wanted his help particularly because his presence would keep the sheriffs away and keep the thing orderly as far as customers were concerned.
C’mon, Jackie, Cricket said from the doorway. It’ll go. Just wait.
The twins watched him expectantly, one with his pants around his ankles.
Guess we’d better go get some customers, said Jack. Damn, Mitchell, pull up your pants. Nobody’ll buy any liquor with your goddamn gonads hanging out.
IT WASN’T LONG before men started to show up. The Mitchells spent the morning driving Cricket’s Pierce-Arrow and dropping the word at various filling stations in Sontag, Penhook, and Burnt Chimney. By four o’clock they had a dozen men shuffling around the dusty parlor, a few in the yard, talking in low tones, bottles sticking out of their pant pockets, each waiting their turn to use the washroom. Fifty cents a glass, a dollar a pint. A few men brought demijohns and Jack calculated the price accordingly as he sat in the rocking chair on the porch and collected money. Cricket squatted just outside the washroom door, grinning and sipping from a jar. Thin streams of smoke drifted between the floorboards and the smell of mash was overpowering in the house. The twins were posted down the road as lookouts. Jack didn’t know what they were looking for, as many of the men who wandered up the road afoot or on horseback and in various jalopies could’ve been anyone.
They had collected nearly forty dollars when the old ladies showed up. It was getting darker, and men loitered about the clearing, drinking, a few card games going, and music from the radio was playing through the open door. Jack was sitting on the porch counting the small change when the wizened lady in beaten leather boots came up the steps. She had a couple of other ladies in tow, all of them appearing at least eighty years old.
The Mitchell twins came running through the yard up to the porch, both of them shirtless and sweaty, their faces twisted with fear, crowing in odd, boyish voices.
Aunt Winnie!
Aunt Winnie, what’re you doing here?
Aunt Winnie paused to scrutinize the twins, her ancient face folding up on itself into an escalating fan of wrinkles. She was a statuesque woman with a high shelf of shoulders that bunched about her ears. Her dress looked rough-hewn from standing gingham, with stitches like staples roaming across the heavy fabric. Her hair was whittled down to a patch of thin strands that hung in a swatch, barely reaching her collar.
Who you? she said.
It’s us, they chimed.
Uh-huh, Aunt Winnie said.
Your nephews, one said.
Cal and Eddie, the other said.
Men on the porch and in the yard began to sidle off, looking like they were idly wandering or they had seen something of remote interest out in the yard. The two women behind Aunt Winnie peered at the twins. They were clearly related to her. After glaring at the twins for a moment Aunt Winnie shrugged and stomped up the porch and into the house, the two ladies following.
Nattie’s boys then, Aunt Winnie said. Woman was a crooked liar but that don’t mind.
The twins looked at Jack.
Ain’t this a damn fine mess, Jack said.
Men were now streaming out of the house. Jack was slightly drunk, and the euphoric feeling was quickly mutating into a cloudy annoyance. Aunt Winnie trooped directly into her bedroom without seeming to notice anything unusual. The two ladies in tow sat on the couch and after working their dresses around their legs properly took out knitting needles from large bags. Aunt Winnie came out and stood in the door to her room, her hands on her hips.
Aunt Winnie! the twins cried.
Someone ought to get out a bite to eat around here, Aunt Winnie said, for the company.
Jack went into the hallway to the bathroom, where Cricket crouched by the door, jar in hand.
What? Jack said.
Something ain’t right with this liquor, Cricket said, shaking his head sadly.
You better come and see who’s out here, Jack said.
Gotta old boy in there, Cricket said, gesturing with his shoulder.
Well, get him out.
Don’t think I can, Cricket said, smiling weakly.
Jack opened the bathroom door and it swung in a few inches and hit something. Jack forced it with his shoulder until it gave and a man yelled. Two old-timers stood there by the sink, holding jars of whiskey. One of them was a scraggly fellow with a tobacco-stained beard and he had his pants down around his ankles. At least the tap wasn’t running, Jack thought, and closed the door again.
You old fools get the hell out, he hissed through the door. We’re closed!
When he came back into the kitchen Aunt Winnie was opening a giant can of government-surplus beans. The twins, still shirtless and running with sweat, stood there with their mouths open. The other two women knitted while Cricket squatted by the sofa. He was stone drunk. Smoke drifted through the floorboards around Cricket’s feet like he was squatting in a smoldering campfire. Aunt Winnie shot Cricket a nasty look.
I know you, boy, Aunt Winnie said.
Yes’m, Cricket grunted.
His eyes were watery and he swayed in his low crouch.
Backslider, Aunt Winnie said. Why ain’t you been to church like you should?
I done tried, Cricket said.
You ain’t tried enough, Aunt Winnie said.
Cricket looked like he was about to cry. His arms were folded across the tops of his narrow knees. The house was quiet except for Aunt Winnie’s struggles with the can of beans and the creaking floorboards under Cricket’s rocking feet. The twins stood by the door and looked like they were ready to bolt.
You gotta find the Lord, Aunt Winnie said. Then your life’ll straighten up.
I done tried, Cricket said softly.
Cricket’s head hung between his knees. He was only twenty-one and had a bald spot developing in the greasy swirl of his hair.
Was working out fine, Cricket said. Until the damn preacher ran off with my wife.
Cricket began to cry. One of the other ladies stood up and walked into the bathroom.
Aww, that ain’t gonna be good, one of the twins said.
What’s that stink? Aunt Winnie said. Smells like skunk nailed to a dead man.
THAT EVENING WAS payday at the lumber camp and the men lined up to receive their money. Forrest stood behind the large table saw with his metal cashbox and ledger, ticking off names with a pencil stub. Howard stood in line with the rest, his stomach knotted in spasms as he waited for Forrest to finish his tallies. He fingered a slip of paper in his pocket. Milk, three quarts, thirty-five cents. Bread, three loaves, twenty cents. Round steak, two pound, ninety cents. Flour, one dollar. Shortening, eighty-five cents. Formula, two dollars fifty. Nine dollars for medicine and doctor bill. Along with his own money Howard picked up Jack’s wages to hold, twelve dollars and some change.
After the money was dispersed Howard broke down the heavy saws, wrapping the blades in the oiled canvas bags and locking them down in the heavy boxes. The other men milled around, joking and laughing, making plans for the night. Howard began to sweat, his skin prickling. He hadn’t had a drink since yesterday and his calf muscles felt wound like taut wire.
Up the hill in the woods by the campsite, Howard standing by the remains of the campfire. His back ached slightly, the thick sap of labor running down his neck into his gut. He watched the spinning leaves of the poplar trees; they waved palm-up, the pale undersides shifting silently side to side in spots high in the tallest part of the canopy. There must be another layer of wind, Howard thought, that plays through the highest parts of trees, small streams of wind. As he watched the poplars begin to vibrate hard, accompanied by the rising whine of cicadas, or is it the remembered scream of the power saws echoing in his mind? His calf muscles felt ready to snap, his whole body straining. Howard bent his head to the ground, fingering the roll of bills in his pocket, shifting his jaw, grinding his teeth.
It grew cooler, the sun behind the mountain and the shadows long and Howard turns and strides down to the sawmill site and caught a ride up to Rocky Mount with some of the other men. The men called out with blurred voices; they moved before him like ants across a broad piece of asphalt. Sitting on the gate of a truck as it banged down the dirt road Howard felt like a statue in a storm.
Howard was quiet in the company of the sunburnt men as they rolled into a filling station, somebody’s brother made up a fresh batch of apricot brandy, a free jar, and the men stood around a storeroom passing the jar till it was empty. Men slapped him on the back, poke his fat biceps, telling stories that he doesn’t quite hear, their voices muffled as if through thick water. He glances at their shining faces but mostly watches the jar of copper liquid as it passes hand over hand. Then back in the truck and off to another man’s house in a run-down neighborhood of Rocky Mount. Bathtub gin, crude stuff, but Howard takes his share. Like swallowing hot mud, men cough and spit, then rolling cigarettes on a dusty windowsill, cobwebs, wadded insects, someone tunes in a radio to WSM and Olaf the Swede crackles to life, singing barn-dance songs in his nasal accent though nobody laughs, while in the dirt yard outside a man wretches pitifully, then collapses, curling up against a fence post, face smeared with vomit. A coon hound twisting on a line, staked down, yelping in fury. Howard opens a fresh jar and sent the lid spinning off into the darkness. The burning knot in his back begins to fade, the words come when he wants them; he feels in step with the motion of the world.
A few hours later Howard found himself in another car, the driver Talmedge Jamison chewing long leaf and spitting in the footwells, the other men jostling each other as smoke fills the cab. Talmedge grinding the gears as he churns up Grassy Hill to the north of the town. When they pull into Forrest’s filling station Howard barely registers. He is thinking of the cards, the way he can see them ahead of everyone else. His hands feel light and fast; he has overtaken the world and now is the primary element, the thing that drives the fuse, and he can win. He’s got the wad of money in his fist deep in his pocket. These goddamn hayseeds, Howard thinks, they have got batter for brains. He strides into the station, nods to Maggie who stands smoking at the grill and taps a finger on the bar. Forrest comes out from the back with a plate of salami and apples and, seeing him, pauses and gives him a long stare. Howard stares back, grinning now, and taps the bar again with a blunt finger. Forrest nods and walks over to the table where the other men are already crowding around, eating hunks of the greasy meat with their fingers, scraping chairs, arranging themselves around the table, laughing, their eyes bright with the excitement of the game. The first jar is handed to Howard and he spins off the lid and flips it over his shoulder before taking a deep swig and the men all laugh.
Howard knows he will win. He stretches his broad back, his fingers locked over his head. He feels supple, clean, his mind quick. The perfect throw, the cards line up, the perfect line. He can feel it in the flashing rot of his bones.
AUNT WINNIE WAS boiling greens on the stove when the three men came in. They kept their hats on, and Jack could tell right off they didn’t have the look of men who wanted to buy liquor, mostly because two of them carried axes over their shoulders. The third man carried a shotgun and all three men wore pistols on their hips. Jack froze, sitting on the couch next to the two knitting ladies, the cigar box of cash between his feet. Cricket was in the bathroom and the twins had disappeared. He had just finished counting and was trying to figure if they had even made a profit, a task muddled by the occasional swigs from a jar. One of the men was a portly fellow wearing a fat tie and suspenders.
Who’s in charge here? Charley Rakes said, swiveling around on his heels.
His egg-shaped face was flushed with heat and exertion. He shrugged the ax off his shoulder and let it fall, the blade thunking into the floor. Aunt Winnie turned from the stove, eyeing the new men for a moment, the quivering ax stuck in her floor, then returned to her greens. The other man with an ax, slight and tired-looking, was Henry Abshire. The third man who held the shotgun across his chest was wearing a full suit and bow tie, with moons of sweat under the arms and around his neck. Jefferson Richards tugged at his collar and motioned Rakes to check the rest of the house.
’Spect no biscuits coming outta air round here, Aunt Winnie mumbled.
The room became quiet, the only sound the scraping of Aunt Winnie’s wooden spoon in her pan, the faint clicks of knitting needles. Charley Rakes walked into the back. The other two didn’t seem to notice Jack sitting there on the couch with the knitting ladies, and Jack was thinking that it would be best if he just sat there quietly and didn’t move. There was the wrenching of a door and a squawking sound and Charley Rakes came back into the room dragging Cricket by his ankle who flopped like a worm in sunshine. He sat up and rubbed his eyes and stared at the men and their axes.
Three things you gotta tell us, son, Charley Rakes said. Where’s the still, where’s the liquor, and where’s the money?
Cricket looked at him uncomprehendingly. Jack knew this was bad and with the slightest movement of his feet he began to inch the cigar box under the couch.
Shit, Charley, Henry Abshire said. The still is clearly in the basement.
Abshire wiped the back of his neck with a rag and shifting the ax on his shoulder pointed to a snake of smoke that flowed through a knothole in the floor.
Look at the smoke there. Excuse me, ma’am?
Aunt Winnie ignored him, slopping her greens around.
You ladies mind stepping outside?
Forget it, Richards said. Let ’em stay.
Rakes hoisted Cricket to his feet by his collar. Cricket promptly collapsed again, sinking down on his haunches, his head hanging low.
Rakes started slapping Cricket on the face, back and forth.
The money, son, where’s the money?
Jefferson Richards cursed under his breath and with a slow turn he lowered the barrel of his shotgun into Jack’s face. The open barrel seemed abnormally large and Jack knew it was because he had never looked at the business end of a gun before.
You, he said. Where’s the money?
Jack brought up his hands slowly and shrugged. Richards stared at him, moving the barrel of the gun in short circles around Jack’s nose.
What’s your name?
Jack.
Jack who?
Jack Bondurant.
Richards smiled and whistled slightly through his wet lips.
I’ll be damned, Charley Rakes said. Hey, Henry, this dumb polecat is one of them Bondurant brothers!
Yeah, Abshire said, that’s the youngest one there.
We were told we’d find you here, Rakes said. And look, here you are. You are some kind of stupid.
You show him, Richards said, show the deputy where the still is.
Jack got up slowly, his hands at his sides. Between his feet half of the cigar box was wedged under the couch. Abshire reached over and grabbed Jack’s shirtfront.
C’mon, son, he said. Let’s see it.
In the basement Abshire inspected the still, walking around it slowly, feeling the bead on the joints, rapping on the tubing, following the lines that went into the hot-water tank. The deputy looked tired and washed out, like he had just woken up from a long nap. Abshire knocked on the tank and the dull reverberations of liquid echoed through the basement.
Well . . . that’s a first, Abshire said. Don’t that beat all. Almost hate to stick an ax in it.
When they came upstairs Richards and Rakes were ushering Aunt Winnie and the knitting ladies into the bedroom. Just wait here, ladies, they said. Official police business. Won’t be but a minute. Aunt Winnie carried her pan of greens and her forehead was drawn up in a vicious look of annoyance. Cricket was still folded in a heap on the floor. The cigar box lay on the kitchen table.
You gotta see this, Jeff, Abshire said. This is a new one.
Jeff Richards handed the shotgun to Rakes and picked up the cigar box and held it out to Jack in one hand like a Bible.
Thought you said you didn’t know where the money was.
You didn’t ask me, Jack said. You asked him.
He pointed to Cricket.
As he said this, Jack felt the swimming, airy feeling that comes with strong fear, the loosening of the bonds. Jeff Richards smirked and gave a slight nod before turning and going down the stairs with Abshire to see the still. Charley Rakes grinned at Jack, his bottom teeth stained from tobacco, like a row of acorns in his mouth. He poked the shotgun against Jack’s chest.
You boys don’t get it, do you? There’s a new system, and you gotta play along.
Rakes brought the gun down and held it across his legs. He looked at Jack and shook his head.
You gotta weapon on you of any kind? he asked.
No.
Gun, knife, anything?
No.
You tellin’ the truth?
Yes.
You are a damn fool.
There was a sharp clang from the basement, the sound of metal punching through metal, and the next moment Rakes shifted and brought the barrel of the gun up quickly in a short arc. Jack flinched and the barrel landed in a glancing blow across his cheek. He stumbled back but retained his footing, rubbing his jaw, checking his hand for blood. Rakes seemed upset that he didn’t catch him cleanly and he pointed the shotgun at his face again.
Come here, he said. Step forward.
More shots of metal rang out from the basement as the men attacked the still with axes. Jack came forward slowly, and when he was a foot from the barrel pointed at his face Rakes lunged and jabbed the end of the shotgun into Jack’s teeth. Jack managed to get his head turned slightly and he felt the edge of the barrel bite into his upper lip and crunch against his gums. He turned and went to his knees, cupping his hands at his mouth as the blood began to flow.
Get up, Rakes said.
Jack was afraid to look at him, to look at the end of the gun any longer. He didn’t want Rakes to hit him in the face again. The clanging in the basement was increasing in tempo, each blow ringing through the floorboards. Jack got up, his body a quarter turn from Rakes, hands up around his mouth. The front door stood partly ajar and outside in the yard dark shapes moved about. Jack thought about calling out to them. He knew that Rakes meant to hurt him bad.
You ain’t so damn tough, Rakes said. I thought they said you Bondurant boys was supposed to be a bunch of hard-boiled son of a bitches?
Then Rakes reared back and hooked Jack in the ribs, a haymaker that flung Jack against the door frame and gasping and stumbling Jack went out onto the porch. Rakes was right behind him and swinging the shotgun low he crunched the side of Jack’s knee. Jack stumbled and fell, rolling off the porch and into the dark yard. Shapes scuttled in the black, the noise of footfalls, muttering voices. The aunts? The twins? Somebody please God help me, he thought, please God. A churning-stomach sensation made his mouth water. The light from the doorway shone across his face and he could see Rakes’s bulky silhouette standing there on the porch, the gun swinging from his hand. The nausea swelled and Jack began to retch in the dirt. In the distance two gunshots rang out, echoing across the hills. Rakes stiffened and squinted into the dark.
This is terrible, Rakes said. This just won’t do.
He stepped back and set the gun inside the door of the house, leaning it against the wall.
I’ll give you at least one good shot, Rakes said. Get up.
Jack curled himself into a fetal position in the dirt. I can’t stand, he thought. No way I can stand and if I could he’ll hit me again. Was that the twins firing off two shots? Was someone else coming? Please let it be Forrest or Howard. Please God.
I said, get up!
Rakes seized him by the shoulders and yanked him to his feet. Jack kept his chin to his chest and his arms in front of his face. One side of Jack’s mouth was numb and swelling, and the blood ran down his neck under his shirt. The cicadas took up their chorus in the dark trees.
Gonna get you, Jack slurred. They’ll kill you.
S’at so? Rakes said. That ain’t gonna help you right now, is it?
Rakes smacked him with an open hand across the face, a spray of blood like mist.
So much talk, Rakes said, about the goddamn Bondurant boys. Hell, you ain’t shit. You tell those two brothers of yours we’re coming for them next. You tell ’em.
Jack couldn’t think about anything other than the next blow. Rakes had handfuls of Jack’s shirt and jerked him back and forth like a child. For a brief second Jack glanced up and saw how his arms, doubled up, were inside Rakes’s arms and he would just have to drive straight out with a fist or elbow and he would catch Rakes square in his fat face. This is it, now now now, Jack thought to himself. But his arms remained tight and his chin down and then Rakes held him with one hand and began clubbing him with his other, the blows landing on the side of Jack’s head, his neck, smashing his ear, Jack twisting away struggling, Rakes shuffling with him, his arm working in an even cadence, until he landed one flush on the temple and Jack’s spine went numb and he crumpled to the ground. Before he lost consciousness he heard himself sobbing, crying out please no more, no more and the final sensation of the world was this gush of blood-hot humiliation.