Hardscrabble Road Read online

  “More to life than, uh, dancing and drinking, Lonnie.”

  “A heap more to it than working and praying, Nat.”

  Nat shifted in his chair but couldn’t get settled. He appeared to be blushing as he looked away from us. With an elbow-nudge at Lonnie, he murmured, “Me and Leona still dance plenty. You gotta find somebody to dance with on Saturday and pray with on Sunday.” Lonnie grunted and Nat continued, “Even our boy Ennis has got him a wife and two younguns. He just turned twenty, five years shy of you.”

  “If I recall rightly, Ennis met his lady at Kazzy’s outside of Boykin. Folk don’t worship God in that-there house.” Lonnie stood and slapped down his mug on the chair seat. He announced, “The rain’s taking a break. Who wants to take a slide?”

  We jumped to our feet, crossed the sopping back yard, and lined up beside the barn in birth-order. Lonnie hefted Jay onto the steep tin roof where my oldest brother used an old rope we’d nailed up there to climb to the peak. Nat helped Chet and then me atop the barn. The rain had left the metal slick in patches, but there was enough rust for good footholds as I stood and, pulling myself hand-over-hand with the frayed rope, walked up the incline. At last, I sat with my brothers on the roof peak. I couldn’t see over the surrounding trees, but at least I perched higher than some birds, including That Goddamn Rooster.

  “Go!” Lonnie said, and Jay pushed off. He lay back, arms crossed over his chest, as he slid down. His clothes scraped against the metal, sending forth crackling noises. With a whoop, he sailed off the roof. Lonnie caught him, dipping Jay low as his thick arms swung with my brother’s momentum. Their laughter floated up to us.

  Chet and I slid down side by side. Muscles in my neck strained to keep my head just above the metal surface as I watched the quilt of dark clouds above me. The thrill of sliding blocked out most of the pain from Papa’s lash. Rusty tin clawed at my overalls and the wet, smooth patches hissed beneath me as the wind tickled the soles of my feet and whistled up my denims. In the next instant, my body took flight. I fell without a sound, forgetting my war-cry. Chet shouted, “Woo-hoo!” but I couldn’t see him or anything but the lumbering clouds. I seemed to fall for a long time and flinched as I thought I’d hit the ground, but it was Nat—he’d snatched me out of the air. I lay across his arms like I was his child and he was rocking me to sleep.

  Nat helped me onto the roof again. When he ran around to the back of the barn, the real game began as we tried to trick Nat and Lonnie about which side we’d slide down and how many of us would go at once. No matter how hard we made it for them, we trusted that they’d catch us every time.

  Jay waved to Lonnie and then tipped backward to slide headfirst down Nat’s side while Chet and I dove forward with our bellies on the wet, rusty metal, our arms held straight ahead. We headed for Lonnie, who set himself to catch us, widening his stance and bending his knees. I seemed to sail much faster than before—Lonnie and the barnyard rushed up at me. Chet and I cried, “Yeeeeee!” as we rocketed into space. Lonnie managed to grab one of us under each arm and fell back into the muck of wet sand. My brother and I landed face-first as Lonnie collapsed on top of us. We lay there in a pile, laughing hard, and then wiped the grit from our faces and got up to do it again.

  *

  The sun broke through while we scrounged some dinner. We planned a lazy afternoon on Spring Creek, so Nat and Lonnie went off to get their fishing poles. As we gathered our own gear from the barn, Papa’s truck pulled up.

  Mama slammed the passenger door and stomped toward the house, clutching her handbag and nothing more. “You think I’m made of money?” Papa shouted after her.

  We retreated inside the barn again to stow the poles and buckets and hide ourselves until he went inside. Dan huffed and stomped in his pen as we shushed each other. When the horse grew very still, I knew without looking that Papa had come into the barn.

  “Hey, what’re you boys up to?”

  Jay said, “We thought we’d go for a swim.”

  “No,” Papa said, “I feel like working out some kinks from driving your mother to hell and gone. Grab the bat and balls and meet me on the road.” He went to the house to put on his practice clothes.

  Lonnie greeted him and looked in on us, pole in hand. “Your daddy going fishing too?”

  While he and Nat followed the trail to Spring Creek, my brothers and I got set to chase Papa’s home runs. Jay had learned to pitch hard and straight; Papa would smack line-drives at him if he didn’t spot the ball perfectly. We didn’t need a catcher because Papa crushed everything thrown his way. He made me and Chet play in short so his towering shots would seem to go even farther.

  Papa stood where our drive intersected the dirt lane, bat cocked over his shoulder. A long-billed cap embroidered with a stylized B shaded his eyes. “Bud,” he yelled, “come in a few more steps. What’re you, afraid?”

  Jay had a burlap sack full of old baseballs at his feet. He wound up like Papa taught him and pitched a fastball that Papa corked well over my head with a tremendous crack. As Jay threw, Papa nailed baseballs down the dirt road and out of sight, each one booming like a rifle shot. I wondered if some of them might roll to the highway.

  “Papa,” Jay called, using the line that always made our father happy, “you sure branded some rawhide.” He shook the bag upside down to show that he was empty.

  “Make sure all of ’em come back to the corral,” Papa replied. He whipped his bat around a few times, and we grabbed our bags and went on what Chet called “the Easter egg hunt.”

  I found two almost side-by-side near Uncle Stan’s place. He knelt low to repair a length of fencing when I approached. Since the swimming lesson, I wasn’t so afraid of him and he looked at me with more ease. I stuttered, “Sir, did you see any baseballs?”

  “Baseballs? From those sounds I heard, I thought Mance was taking target practice.”

  “B-B-Batting practice, sir.”

  “Yeah, I heard a few stars fall over yonder, Roger.” He pointed farther down the road. I must’ve cocked my head at the sound of my real name because he said, “You don’t mind me calling you Roger, do you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “It’s a good name. Lotsa folks are called Bud, but there’s only one Roger I know of.” I apologized about Papa batting in his direction, and he said, “Maybe I got it coming.” He glanced back at the house where Aunt Arzula had begun singing to herself with the musicality of a catfight. “Be nice to have a rest. Tell your daddy to aim better.”

  My brothers wandered in the fields along either side of the road, stooping every so often to bag a baseball. Jay mostly used his left arm, nursing the right so he could manage more pitches. He shouted, “Count off! I got five.”

  Chet yelled from the woods, “Seven here, after I fetch one out of this tree.”

  “I got four so far.” There were twenty in all so I set off in search of the ones Uncle Stan had pointed out. The road followed gentle rises and dips as I searched, coming up with two more. I walked halfway to Nat’s house, going past the distance record Papa had set previously. Surely the others couldn’t have flown so far. I checked the high weeds but found nothing.

  Chet waved his sack and shouted to me. I shrugged, lifting my hands in the air, and plodded onward. Over the next slope, I stopped and backpedaled a few steps when I saw the dead body.

  A boy lay near a ditch along the side of the road, arms akimbo, legs splayed. A straw hat lay crushed behind his head. He was dressed in overalls and a shirt with rolled sleeves. I guessed that the baseball beside him had broken his head. Morbid curiosity was stronger than my urge to scream for help. I staggered closer and saw that Papa’s record homer had killed the boy I met in the woods. The one who’d called himself Ry Shepherd. I shuffled forward as I recalled my encounter with him, his odd way of speaking and a face as memorable as my own.

  Ry’s expression looked just as I’d remembered him: a slight frown of concentration. His narrow eyes stared at the sky. What had he been stu
dying on when the ball pounded him? I had no doubt he died looking at something of interest or “collecting some specimens,” whatever that meant. My throat tightened and eyes burned, surprising me. I hadn’t realized that I’d liked the boy.

  I thought that the ball would’ve smashed in his forehead or left some kind of bloody bruise. Maybe it hit square on the crown of his hat. Did he scream or wasn’t there time? He stared unblinking at the sky. Maybe he saw the ball streak toward him like a shooting star and died of fright.

  As I drew close, Ry sat upright. “You know,” he said in that annoying, squeaky voice, “that could‘ve hurt somebody.”

  I sank to my knees as my heart throttled down and my weight seemed to triple. I said, “I-I-I oughta kill you.”

  “Twice in one day?” He resettled the straw hat on his head.

  “I didn’t h-hit that ball. My papa did.”

  “He must be very strong.”

  I rubbed my backside and said, “He is.”

  “Granny wouldn’t tell me how to find your house, so I had to ask around. She told me not to go near your father.” He flipped the baseball to me. “Now I know why.”

  “She might frown on b-b-bootlegging.”

  “He’s a bootlegger? Can he show me how to make a still?”

  “Bud,” Chet yelled, trotting down the road with Jay, their burlap bags swinging, “can’t you hear Papa cussing? We’re taking too long.”

  “Get up, Ry.” I stood and used my body to shield him from my brothers’ view. I worried that they would remark on his odd-looking face as I had. From the corner of my mouth, I murmured, “Keep quiet. I’ll talk to ’em f-first.”

  “Why?”

  “Shut up.” I called out to my brothers, “Hey, I got somebody for you t-to meet.”

  Jay stopped a few feet away from me and said, “Who’s that peeking around your arm?”

  I jabbed my elbow behind me, but met only air as Ry dodged. I stammered, “I wanna tell y’all about him first. Now, he can’t help how he looks, just like me. He’s half-Janaplease.”

  “Japanese,” Ry said.

  “Shut up.” I poked at him but missed again.

  Chet frowned and tried to look past me. “Bud, how’d you come to be half-Janaplease?”

  “Japanese.”

  “Shut up.” Another jab missed. I said to Chet, “I ain’t half-anything. I’m saying not to make fun of him.”

  Chet snatched the sack from my hand and peered inside, counting. He told Jay that my additions made twenty.

  Jay grinned at me and said, “Well if you don’t never let us see him, we won’t know to make fun of him or not.”

  “You’re not allowed. That’s what I’m saying.”

  “OK, OK, we won’t.” Jay put up his hands, surrendering. “I swear on the red fannies we’re all gonna get from Papa any time now, I won’t make fun. And ol Chet-here won’t neither.”

  After Chet gave me a few exaggerated nods, I said, “All right. Here he is.” I stepped aside and watched my brothers look him over.

  Jay said, “You got a name?”

  I said, “He’s called Ry.”

  Chet feinted at me with the bulging bag. “You gonna do all his talking?”

  Ry introduced himself and said, “Can I see your father’s still?”

  “We gotta get back right quick,” Jay said, “or Papa’ll have us all seeing stars. Come on with us, Ry. Papa don’t have a still but I’m building one piece-by-piece in the woods.” Jay led us toward home.

  On the way, Chet said, “Ry, Bud told us about your fighting moves.”

  “Judo? My daddy taught me. Do you want to learn?”

  “Yeah, that’d be neat.” He telegraphed a punch at Ry’s shoulder, but the boy twisted away in time. Chet said, “Funny, Bud ain’t learned to dodge that yet.”

  “I couldn’t teach Bud anything. I kept throwing him but he wouldn’t learn.”

  I stuffed my hands in my pockets and said, “Hey, I learned a little.” They weren’t paying attention. I kept trying to interrupt, but Jay was going on about some other inventions and Chet wanted to know more about judo. I was glad they liked Ry, but I wished they would share.

  We approached Uncle Stan’s, where Mama leaned against a porch post in the shade, sipping from a jelly-jar of water. She still wore her favorite going-to-town dress and talked while Uncle Stan listened. He kept his hands buried in his pockets and rocked from heel to toe. Aunt Arzula scuffed onto the porch in her too-big shoes and handed him a full glass before returning indoors. He skimmed off the surface with a quick flick of his finger that must’ve sprayed Mama. She licked the back of her hand.

  Uncle Stan took a big drink and kept on swallowing, tipping his head way back. He appeared to have drained the glass but kept it against his mouth, the glass and his big, curving hand blocking his face. Maybe he hoped that she would go away by the time he lowered his shield.

  She murmured something that tilted his head forward in a laugh that quickly became a cough. He glanced our way and pointed us out to Mama. When she faced us, Uncle Stan dragged a sleeve across his mouth and then his sweating forehead. Mama said, “Where in hell have you three—” She cleared her throat and said, “Who’s your friend?”

  I said, “He’s c-called Ry Shepherd.”

  “Pleased to know you, Ry. You in Bud’s class?”

  “No,” I said, “he’s vi-visiting from Texas. Ry’s half-Jap-an-ese.” I made sure I got it right. “From Japan, on his mother’s side.” Ry frowned at me, his mouth closing.

  “Oh my stars. I make a Japanese fruitcake every December; it takes a pound of coconut. Maybe you can tell me your mother’s secrets.”

  “His mother’s d-dead,” I said, proud that I’d remembered so much about him.

  “Bud, we say ‘passed on.’ I’m so sorry, Ry. Bless your heart—”

  Papa shouted, “Goddamn lollygaggers.” He dragged his bat behind him like a plowshare, the only plowing he ever did. “I mighta known y’all couldn’t stay on task. Reva, I sent you to fetch these boys and now I gotta round up every one of you—” He pointed the bat toward my uncle. “What’chu drinking there, Stan?”

  Uncle Stan’s mouth barely moved. “It’s water, Mance.”

  “Don’t spoil your thirst now. Save it up for tonight.”

  Uncle Stan looked at his boots. Mama set her glass on the porch rail and clapped her hands. “All right, you boys, come on back to the house. Ry, you best go home.”

  Ry said, “Yes, ma’am,” and backed away from me and my brothers. After Jay whispered, “Come back later,” Ry nodded and set off down the road.

  Papa flipped the bat around, catching the barrel, offered it up to my uncle. He asked, “Wanna take a swing, Stan?”

  “No thanks.”

  Mama stepped off the porch. “I was just saying how you and Stan oughta do more together. He and Arzula’s right down the road and you both like to—”

  “We’re busy men, no time to pal around. Anyway, Stan’s got plans come a Saturday night, don’t you?” My uncle continued to look down. Papa said, “Now y’all get your asses back home before I put this bat to good use.”

  “You talking about my ass too, dear?” Mama laced her fingers behind her.

  “Especially yours. Come on, game’s over.” He marched back up the dirt road.

  Mama strode after him. Her backside seemed to waggle a little more than usual. I glanced over at Uncle Stan, but he was no longer there. The man had slipped inside his dark house and disappeared.

  CHAPTER 11

  Our parents’ usual shouting match at supper became a food fight. Then Papa overturned the kitchen table before any of us had a chance to eat. Before driving off, he shouted at Mama, “I’ve had enough of you.” She slammed their bedroom door even louder than Darlene had banged her own.

  My brothers slouched on the porch, stomachs growling, while I lit the now-dented kerosene lamp and, sitting in the parlor, practiced reading aloud with a crumpled newspaper. Darlene’s doo
r creaked open. In a voice strained by her latest crying jag, she said, “Mama, I need you.”

  “What is it, honey?” Mama crossed into Darlene’s room and closed the door. Their voices slipped through the ill-fitting wall planks that I sat against. I rested my head on the rough-cut boards and tried to follow their conversation while reciting from the paper, so they wouldn’t know I was snooping.

  As I quietly droned, substituting “something-something-something” for all of the words I couldn’t read, Darlene said, “What sort of boys did you sit up with when you were young?”

  “Oh my stars, when did I get old?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  Mama said, “Well, I liked the ones that made me feel good: told me how pretty I was and all that sweet talk. I liked the good-looking boys a lot; I was a real somebody when we’d stroll through town. Folks would point us out and watch us go by.”

  “So how’d you wind up with Papa?”

  “He did some of that, told me once I was a princess straight out of a storybook. He wasn’t Clark Gable or Ronald Colman but he had his charms. You shoulda seen him on a ball field.” Darlene’s bed creaked as Mama eased onto it. “He’s got scars all up and down his legs from getting spiked at second base.” I envisioned her touching spots on Darlene’s shins and knees to show her where the baseball cleats had torn into Papa as she said, “Here and here and even higher.” She giggled. “But he gave as good as he got. And after some games, I’d wait for him in the bleachers while, right under my feet, he beat the dogshi—the stuffing—outta them roughnecks and learned ’em a lesson.”

  “You weren’t afraid of him?”

  “Maybe a little, but it made being with him a thrill. You never knew what was gonna happen.”

  “Like now.”

  “Oh we fought a lot, but we made up faster. We even threw food at each other, but he didn’t storm off back then. We always felt closer after a tussle.”

  “So, what happened?”

  I forgot to keep reciting, so I read aloud, “And the something-something man held up th-three banks and four ar-mor-ed cars.”