Hardscrabble Road Read online

  DEDICATION

  For Kate,

  Ever lighting my way and building me up, knowing me better than I know myself.

  PROLOGUE

  Chet’s tenth punch knocked me down for good. I spun and toppled face-first into a ditch. As usual, his fists brought my world into sharp focus: the army ants toiling beside my nose, furrowed snake tracks, straw-colored weeds like human hair. Stubborn grains of sand clung to my lips when I tried to spit out the South Georgia dirt.

  Any fool would’ve known not to mess with my brother Chet. At fifteen, he seemed to be held together by coiled springs vibrating with tension. Papa used to slap the fire out of me, getting in as many licks as he could, but Chet always struck like he meant each blow to end the fight. Still, I’d shake my head, listening to the loose parts rattle like coins in a Prince Albert tobacco can, and come back for more. I never beat Chet, but I never quit.

  I scrabbled out of the trench alongside Hardscrabble Road, appreciating that he didn’t offer his hand. Chet never tried to humiliate me; being a year older, he only whipped me to confirm the proper order of things. He even said, “Sorry I landed one on your birthmark.”

  A port-wine stain colored the upper-left quarter of my face, like a clock shaded crimson from nine to noon. Proof of the Injun in my blood, a rawboned bully once joked, a heartbeat before Chet cleaned his plow. He and my oldest brother, Jay, would defend me against the whole world with bloody knuckles and bared teeth.

  Frigid wind blew icy needles of dust at my eyes as Chet and I resumed trudging along the dirt road, pulling sleds of firewood. He tugged the heavier one, its frayed rope taut over his shoulder. Though it was my turn to drag the larger share, Chet’s fists had just settled that argument. I hoped we’d collected enough to keep Mama’s rented house warm during the late-winter freeze.

  Ahead of us the sky and land looked equally pale, one heavy body mashing down the other, both drained of life. A car took shape down the road. Dust rose high behind it like a cock’s plume as the ’42 Chrysler Royal Sedan, painted in lurid oxblood, tore up the ground heading our way. Chet seized the pitted hatchet from his sled. He raised his arm, weapon poised.

  As if in response, the driver waved to us and tooted a melody with his car horn. He flashed past in a blur of chrome highlights and white walls. Behind the glass, fur-trimmed coat sleeves and hands swaddled in calfskin gloves were all I noticed.

  Chet lowered the hatchet as cold dust settled over us: South Georgia snow. I shivered in my light wool jacket and overalls as he chucked the small axe atop his load of twigs and gnarled tree limbs. He leveled his narrow-eyed stare at the receding sedan the way he sighted down our single-shot rifle. “You know who that was, Bud?”

  I would’ve accepted a ride from Hitler or Tojo—any chance to get out of that place. I brushed away dirt with hands chapped red from our fistfight and the cold, saying, “I reckon I don’t.”

  Chet spit between our bare feet. He muttered, “Papa’s back.”

  BOOK ONE

  CHAPTER 1

  Not yet old enough to work in the cotton field, I sat at the edge of our front yard, where my brothers had swept the coarse white sand in wavy rows like pomaded hair. The summer sun baked the ground, the fields, and me. I cupped a handful of warm sand and carefully stuffed my mouth full of grit. When I couldn’t fit one more grain, I sat on my haunches and held all of it in until my cheeks ached. Like the egg-timer in Mama’s kitchen, I let the sand drain out. Then I took a fresh fistful and reloaded, my face pooching out as I aimed to beat my personal best.

  Dirt was the lowest common denominator for me and my family growing up in South Georgia during the Depression—though “lowest” and “common” told on us too. Dirt covered everything. Most roads consisted of rippling earth scraped once a year by the county. Dirt was embedded in the soles of our bare feet and was ground into our pores. We were rich in dirt, and dirt poor.

  The front door slammed. Papa bounded down the steps, and without breaking stride, slapped the back of my head. “Goddammit,” he said as sand exploded from my mouth, “don’t mess up the yard.” He strode toward the field where my brothers Jay and Chet had taken a breather. Papa cussed at them, removing his belt. He flicked the three feet of worn brown leather away from him the way you’d play out a bullwhip, before commencing to lash.

  *

  Papa had me working part-time alongside my brothers by my sixth birthday, in 1936. During the following summer, I labored all day under the sun with them. Before supper, I’d wash my hands and face in the basin on the back porch and, as the light faded, slump onto a bench at the kitchen table. My muscles ached and torn blisters smarted along my fingers while I looked over the same meal as the night before: leftovers from identical noontime dinners.

  A kerosene lamp spilled dim yellow light over butter beans cooked in fatback, tomato slices, cucumber rounds splashed with vinegar, wedges of raw onion, tiny Irish potatoes, and triangles of cornbread. Mama hadn’t reheated anything; she wouldn’t fire up the stove on a hot summer night. The food sat at Papa’s end of the table. He waved away the flies, took heaping amounts from each bowl and plate, and began to eat. We didn’t say grace.

  His large head tilted down as he shoveled the food in. Narrow grooves creased his thatch of brown hair, still obeying the commands of his comb that morning. The tops of his pink ears were bent over as if he’d worn his white J.B. Stetson at the table along with the snub-nosed Colt he forever kept snug in his waistband.

  Mama always spoke first. She sat at the opposite end of the kitchen table, farthest from Papa. The features of her pale, oval face were hard to make out in the flickering light, except for her eyes. As ever, they glinted as dark and hard as marbles. She blew a stray ash-blond wisp from her eyes and said to me, “Bud, thank you for the beans.”

  I sat on Papa’s right, near all the food. He wouldn’t let me sit on his left because he couldn’t abide looking at my birthmark. I lifted the bowl of beans and greasy, sloshing pot likker with care, aware that Papa would seize my wrist if he wanted more before it got passed around. He seemed content with the portion he bolted. I handed the bowl to eight-year-old Chet beside me, and he set the bowl beside Mama’s empty plate.

  Darlene, across from me on Papa’s left, said, “Thank you for them ‘maters.” My sister, then going on twelve, was the oldest by two years. Mama had styled Darlene’s blond waves as she’d done her own, with curling irons heated in the oven. The kitchen oftentimes stank bitterly of singed hair.

  Flies jerked away and lit on the bread as I passed the tomato slices. The bright red flesh had creamy starburst patches like marbled fat. Mama next claimed the cornbread. Jay, age ten, asked for the “cukes,” and Chet wanted the onions. My brothers wore their brown hair like Papa and had the makings of his wiry frame. Soon, all the food lay out of my reach and became scarce in the dishes.

  I asked for the cornbread first, since only two thin wedges remained among the crumbs and flyspecks. Papa smirked, his eyes flint-gray like the arrowheads in the creek. “M-m-mama, th-th-thank you fer the c-c-c-cornbread,” he stuttered in a whiny voice. His imitation of me was dead-on.

  Mama snickered and asked me, “Y-y-you sh-sh-sure?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said, looking at my empty plate. Neither my brothers nor Darlene made fun of my newfound stammer. They kept their faces blank and passed what I could manage to ask for. I assembled a puny meal, leaving some of everything for Papa.

  A tabby cat I’d adopted and named Fred rubbed against my leg. While my siblings had all taken kittens from the same litter, Fred was a stray. I pushed aside the few slivers of fatback I’d found among the beans, saving a treat for him.

  After Papa scraped the remaining leftovers onto his plate, I made a
mistake. Already jittery, I reached for my jelly glass and knocked it over. Cold well-water poured through gaping table slats and splashed onto Papa’s trousers and the rough planks of heart-pine flooring.

  He backhanded me like he was socking a fastball down the line. I tumbled off the long bench and my head bounced on the wood floor. Numb, I lay there without making a sound.

  Mama didn’t stop eating. Water pattered onto the boards like a drunkard relieving himself while Papa stared at my siblings to make sure nobody else got out of line. They looked at their food, knowing better than to glance my way. When Papa said, “Something wrong with your forks?” they began to eat again.

  My mouth and chin began to throb in tempo with my heartbeats while I blinked at the shadowy ceiling beams. Spiders had woven thick webs above the kitchen table. A good many flies that joined our mealtimes ended their lives up there. When we ate, the spiders ate too.

  “Roger—” Whenever Papa used my given name, it always meant trouble “—get your ass up here if you know what’s good for you.” I staggered upright and scuffed back to the table, the calluses on my bare feet proof against the splinters. Fred and the other cats had run out the back door. Chet frowned at me, clearly afraid that I’d bring down Papa’s wrath on everybody. Even with the ringing in my head and the flies gathering on my cold food, I reached for my fork.

  Papa backhanded me again with a blow like dynamite against my jaw.

  Sprawled on the floor once more, I tasted blood on my split lip and had to choke down the vomit brought on by my woozy head. I wiggled loose molars with my tongue, producing more blood inside my mouth.

  Mama gave a tired sigh and said, “Mance, you could hurt that boy.”

  “It’ll toughen him up.”

  “He ain’t quite seven.”

  Papa jabbed the sharp tines of his fork into the table and said, “Goddammit, he’s old enough to make his hands work right.”

  “You didn’t need to crack him twice.”

  “Not another word outta you, Reva.” Papa drew the ugly revolver from his waistband. He slammed down the snub-nosed Colt near Darlene, making her flinch. My brothers straddled their benches across the table from one another, ready to run.

  Mama crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair. “Aye God, will you look at that! You really gonna kill us this time, sweetie?”

  “I’m gonna start with you if you don’t shut your hole.” He grabbed his fork and speared the food on his plate. With a smirk, he pointed three skewered butter beans at her and said, “Not that it ever stays closed. Neither one.”

  “You sonofabitch,” Mama said. “Put that thing away—or finally use it!”

  “Your cooking might kill me first.” He snorted and chewed the beans. With his elbow he nudged Darlene and said, “That’s a good one, huh?”

  “Oh, Daddy.” Darlene started to cry. She ran to her room, her long skirt flapping.

  “You bastard,” Mama shouted, “now look what you done.”

  “Goddammit…” Papa’s hand dropped over his gun.

  As our parents pushed out of their chairs and continued to cuss each other, Chet yanked me upright. Following my brothers, I hurtled through the open kitchen door and down the porch steps, tensed for a bullet in the back.

  I dashed across the backyard, much slower than Jay and Chet. Like in a nightmare, I seemed to be running in place. Mama yelled louder. I imagined a gunshot cutting her down and then a second bullet firing at me. Jay and Chet disappeared around the barn. I hoped this time we’d run all the way out of Miller County and keep going. A hand almost jerked me off my feet.

  Jay pulled me into the shadows where they hid. Our parents’ fracas continued, but I couldn’t make out their words as I fought for breath. I only heard the explosions of their voices.

  Chet nudged me and whispered, “Take a look.”

  “Unh-uh.” Blood pounding in my head made the bruised places hurt more.

  “Go on, scaredy.”

  The shouting stopped after Mama got in the last word. A loud bang made us jump.

  Jay said, “Easy now. Somebody slammed a door is all.”

  We crept to the edge of the barn. Chet shoved me playfully and then stepped into the open himself. Jay followed him while I peered around the corner. The sunset had draped our back porch in gloom. Fireflies drifted across the darkening barn lot. Crickets had begun their familiar chatter while cicadas droned. I’d begun to relax when Papa emerged from the kitchen doorway and pointed at us.

  Chet scrambled over the hog-wire fence that ran around our rented property like a net. He disappeared into the woods. Jay stayed beside me as we fled, keeping hold of my hand until we were deep in the forest of pines, oaks, and cedars.

  The crunch of leaves underfoot echoed all around, making me believe that Papa was running after us. As I turned to look one way and then another, I kept tripping over roots that humped out of the cool ground. Overgrown shrubs and looming trees blocked the last of our daylight, and Chet became just another shadow up ahead. If Jay ran as fast as he could, I’d soon be all alone. He remained at my side though—he knew I was afraid of the dark.

  I wanted to keep going, but my brothers halted in a clearing. Spring Creek flowed beside us, wide and deep as a river. Spanish moss dangled from almost every tree limb that arced over the water; the long, twisted fingers showed greenish-silver in the twilight. On calmer nights we fished from those banks. Now we just gasped, hands on knees, staring at the muddy ground as skeeters whined in our ears. A painful stitch in my side kept my breathing so shallow I thought I’d pass out.

  Jay straightened first. “Bud, you all right? ‘Cept for your lip, you’re as white as a fish belly. Even doughier than ol Chet-here.”

  I stuffed my hands in my overall pockets so my brothers couldn’t see them shake. Raising my bruised chin, I said, “I’m f-f-fine.”

  “You’re gonna get us all killed,” Chet said, knocking my shoulder with a gentle punch that staggered me. “I was for-sure he’d let ’er rip this time.”

  “Naw,” Jay said, “I think he just pointed his finger at us. Bud, we need to get’chu some grabby gloves.” He described a plan where he’d trace my hands on flypaper with his pocketknife and, using Mama’s darning needle and thread, sew me a pair of sticky mitts.

  Chet said, “Just don’t forget to take ’em off before smoothing down your cowlicks. Papa won’t have nothing to grab onto if you wind up bald.” He tugged a little at my short, unruly blond hair and made a tearing sound.

  I took a swipe at him but he dodged away. While I patted my hair, always trying to press more of it down over my birthmark, I asked Jay why Mama kept goading our father.

  “He got her back up is all—she wouldn’t take no more from him.”

  Chet picked up a handful of stones. He hurled them at the creek as he said, “Ain’t…gonna…take…NO…more…from…NEITHER…one—”

  “Whoa there!” A deep voice boomed from the woods, giving us a scare. Footsteps stirred the leaves and pine needles on the opposite end of the clearing as a tall Negro with thick shoulders emerged from the trees. Nat Blanchard carried a cane pole and bucket in his long-fingered hands. “You gonna scare away my catfish,” he said. “I didn’t come out here to haul up water.” Nat was one of two Negroes who sharecropped in the cotton field Papa rented. Dressed like us, in overalls and a pale blue work shirt with the long sleeves rolled up, he also wore his favorite hat, a dun-colored fedora. It perched way back, revealing his high forehead and thinning hair. He said, “You fixing to use poles or stone ’em dead?”

  Chet ground together the remaining rocks in his hand. Jay looked away from Nat and said, “Reckon we forgot our gear.”

  “Ain’t like y’all to be forgetting a thing like that.” With a deep bend, he set down his pole and bucket and continued descending into a baseball catcher’s squat. Now at eye-level with me, he touched my split lip and murmured, “Your papa going after y’all?”

  I shook my head. “S-s-squaring off
with Mama.”

  Chet threw a rock into the woods and said, “He was gonna shoot everybody.”

  “Never,” Nat said. “He only needs to blow off steam. I heard him tear out in his pickup so all the squabbling’s over.” When we didn’t budge, he said, “How ’bout if I take y’all back?”

  He left his fishing gear and followed us through the woods.

  Jay, leading the way, said, “Nat, we’ll get our stuff and fish with you.”

  “Y’all gotta be ready at daylight for chores. You need to be dreaming now, not fishing.” He patted my shoulder and said, “Think your papa was a bear tonight, wait’ll he catches you napping in the fields. Bless your heart, he’ll tear you up.”

  I tasted the dried blood on my lip and said, “He’s trying to m-make a m-man outta m-me.”

  “Ain’t no rush, boy. You’ll get there soon enough.”

  We crossed through a small glade open to the starlight. Chet pointed at a channel sloping into the earth. “You can drop Bud off here,” he said. A land turtle called a gopher had dug its burrow there. A year ago, Papa had started to devil me at supper that I wasn’t related: two years separated all my siblings, but I was only a year younger than Chet; besides, no one else in the family had my port-wine birthmark. The truth was that he’d found me in a gopher hole. Everyone at the table had put on a face serious enough to wear to church and swore that they remembered the time when Papa brought me home from a hunting trip. I used to think they were humoring him, but now I wasn’t so sure.

  Nat snorted. “Y’all quit hacking Bud about that.”

  Jay said, “But I remember it. I was teaching Chet-here how to shoot marbles when Papa brought Bud home in a tow sack. He said ‘Lookee here at the possum I treed,’ and dumped baby Bud on the ground.”

  I said, “L-last time you told it, Papa said he’d g-got a orphan polecat.”