A Yellow Watermelon Page 12

  “What’s a revenuer?”

  “Uh, dey be de whiskey police. Now, let me finish dis letter.” He leaned over with his pencil and continued: “Will have a large amount of moonshine whiskey locked up in his smokehouse sometime after three o’clock dis coming Sunday afternoon.”

  At this point, he stopped, looked out toward nowhere again and asked himself, “Now, how is I gonna finish it?” After a moment he said, “Okay, here’s what I gonna say: We, de concerned citizens, certainly hopes you all will do yo’ duty and enforce de law.”

  He looked up at me and asked, “How’s dat?”

  “That’s real good. You think it’ll work?”

  “Worth a try.”

  “Where’d you learn to write a letter like that?”

  “I learned my letters and my numbers in school. Finished de fifth grade, but learned most of my writing and reading in de—” He paused, then continued, “Since you already knows anyway, in de pen.”

  “You said you was gonna tell—”

  “I know, I said I gon’ tell you all about it, and I intends to, but first, let’s finish dis letter writing business.” He folded the piece of paper, then he stuffed it into the envelope, licked it, and pressed it closed.

  “You want me to mail it?”

  “Naw, somebody might see you put it in de mail box, den go post a piece of mail demselves, see our envelope and know you be sending it. Be getting dark fo’ long and you gots to be getting home. Best if I sneak over dere real late tonight and put it in de box, ’cept I ain’t got no stamp.”

  The mail boxes at the corner across from Miss Lena’s store were shared by everyone in the vicinity, and I knew you didn’t need a stamp. You could just leave your money stacked on your envelope and the mail rider would take it and affix a stamp. I fished around in my watch pocket, dug out three pennies, handed them to Jake and said, “You don’t need one—just put these pennies on the envelope.” I hated giving up my money, but it seemed like a small amount to invest since it was going to net me a tree full of money.

  “What time does you got to be home?”

  “It’s okay as long as I get there before dark.”

  “Den I s’pose we gots time fo’ my pitiful story, dat is, if you still wants to hear it.”

  I slid over next to a tree, leaned back against the trunk, pulled my knees up under my chin, and said, “I sure do. Tell me everything, way back from the beginning.”

  Jake took a deep breath and began: “I never had me much of no real family. Lived wid my Aunt Essie Mae since before I could remember, but she was on her own and had a passel of her own young ’uns, so when I was ’bout fifteen I lit out on my own. Worked all over South Carolina, Georgia, and parts of Florida, mostly picking crops. De trouble all started ’bout eight years ago when I was picking peaches over in middle Georgia. Besides picking, my job was to haul wagon loads of peaches up to de railroad stop fo’ shipping, then, on my way back, I had to pick up groceries fo’ de folks what owned the peach farm.”

  “During de trips I usually stopped fo’ a drink of water at de house of a colored family named McDonald. Had dat grand old name, but dey was pore as dirt. On dis particular day, de only thing dey had to eat was some corn meal full of weevils and a hunk of salt pork. So later on, when I was transferring all dem boxes of fine food from de porch of de general store onto de wagon, I picked up an extra box. It had a big cured ham, flour, meal, lard and some canned goods in it.”

  “You took it to those poor folks, didn’t you?”

  “Sho did, but then the next day, de sheriff come looking fo’ it. Said he wanted de box of groceries back dat I had picked up by mistake. Well, de folks dat I worked fo’ told him dat dey hadn’t seen no extra box, and I told him de same thing. But it seems dat somebody seed me do it, so de sheriff puts cuffs on my hands, irons on my feet, loaded me in de back of his car and hauls me off to de jail house.”

  “Why didn’t you just tell him what you had done with them?”

  “Couldn’t, ’cause den he would’ve locked dem up for taking stolen stuff.”

  “What happened?”

  “After a few weeks in dat jail, eating nothing but corn pone and fatback, dey give me a trial and sentenced me to ten years in de state pen.”

  “Just for taking some food and giving it to poor people?”

  “Sho did. Next thing I know I wuz working on a chain gang.”

  “Did they feed you any better?”

  “Yeah, instead of having fatback wid de thin yellow corn pone, we had white beans wid it.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Fo’ dinner and supper it wuz. Fo’ breakfast we had more corn pone wid blackstrap molasses. Dat wuz what we had six days a week, but on Sunday we had vegetables out of de garden we grew.”

  “I don’t blame you for breaking out.”

  “Dis wuzn’t de first time.”

  “You broke out before?”

  “Busted out seven times, but dis is de only time I ever got clean away, so far, dat is. All my life I figured dat if you wuzn’t in a place you wanted to be, den you oughts to leave. So I just kept leaving, but dey always caught me, up until now. Sometimes a day, sometimes a week, but me and all dey others always got caught.”

  “How did you manage to get away this time?”

  “It was easy. I made myself a plan fo’ after I busted out. Every time before I would plan how to get out, but I didn’t plan what to do after dat. I would just run and run until dem dogs caught up wid me, and dey always did. But dis time was different. While I wuz out working on de roads I found everything I wuz gon’ need, in de order I wuz gon’ need it.”

  “What you mean?”

  “I knowed where dere wuz a chopping block wid an ax to cut de chains between de irons on my legs—dat was my first stop. Knowed when dis lady’s wash day wuz and what day clothes would be hanging on de line. Knowed what time de train would be coming by and where it would be going slow enough fo’ me to jump on board. Figured out how to deal wid dem dogs too. I dried me some hot peppers from the prison garden, had ’em ground up real fine. When I changed out of dem prison clothes, I left ’em in a pile filled wid hot pepper. From my hiding place I seed ’em start ripping dem old clothes up, den dey started snorting, sneezing, and rubbing dey noses wid dey paws. Dat pepper killed dere sense of smell. A little ways farther I heard dat train whistle blow and I knew I wuz gon’ make it.”

  We sat for a long time, neither of us saying a word. Finally, Jake said, “You best be getting on home fo’ dark sets in.”

  I got to my feet and said, “Okay, but I’ll be by sometime tomorrow, and don’t you worry about nothing.”

  I had taken a few steps when Jake called out, “Mister Ted, you think you could bring me a few of your momma’s dried hot peppers?”

  15

  The Whiskey Maker

  Where you been?”

  “Just playing,” I told my mother.

  “Well you get around back and wash your crusty feet before you get into bed.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She was standing on the ground and had several brown paper bags lined along the edge of the porch, which she was filling with butter beans from a big basket next to her feet. The bags were old and limp and kept flopping over when she tried to put the beans in them. “Well, don’t just stand there. Get over here and hold these bags open for me.”

  Besides us eating them and her canning them, she sold a lot of the vegetables from her garden. Her butter beans went for five cents a pound and were a favorite with everyone. Every year she dried some in the hull and saved them for seeds. She claimed they had been in the family for three generations. I held the bags open while she filled them, then she topped each one off to make them even. “There,” she said, “That looks like five pounds in each bag. You want to deliver them for me?”

  “Yes, ma’
am.”

  “All right, you can take Mrs. Blossom her bag, and don’t forget to get my quarter.”

  This was good news to me because now I didn’t have to make up a story to get away from the house tomorrow.

  “Can I go see if I can find somebody to shoot marbles with after I take ’em?”

  “Long as you don’t gamble with ’em. Now, go wash your feet.”

  Later on, while we lay in bed, Fred and I could hear the soft murmur of the conversation of our parents and Ned coming from the front porch. Though a breeze was coming through the open window, I was hot, sticky, and sweaty. “It’s so hot I can’t sleep,” I whispered.

  “Get up and come on—I can fix that.”

  “What you gonna do?”

  He was already on his feet and standing at the window when he said, “Take the top sheet and pass it out the window to me after I’m outside.”

  I watched him disappear through the window, then I took the sheet over to it and looked outside. He was standing beside the rain barrel and said, “Throw the sheet out to me.” I did, and I couldn’t believe it when, in the moon light, I saw him stuff it into the rain barrel. He said, “Get on out here and help me.”

  When I got outside he drug the sopping wet sheet out of the barrel, handed me one end, took the other himself, and said, “Now twist.”

  We twisted and twisted that sheet until instead of sopping wet, it was just damp, then Fred tossed it back through the window and said, “Come on, let’s climb back in.”

  When we were back inside he said, “Now, get in the bed.”

  I did and he furled the damp sheet out and jumped under it with me before it settled down on top of us. “Now just wait,” he said.

  I lay there for a few moments, then the breeze from the open window started fluttering the damp sheet over our bodies. A few more minutes and I had goose bumps; in fact, later in the night I exchanged the sheet for a warm quilt. My brother had introduced me to air conditioning.

  I snatched two of the biscuits left over from breakfast the next morning and hid them in the bag of butter beans along with a handful of dried hot peppers. I knew Jake would be hungry and his canned stuff wasn’t good for breakfast. I wanted to take him a jar of jam, but I couldn’t figure out a way to get it out of the house. Maybe tomorrow.

  He had already exited the cotton house and was sitting on the ground at our spot in the woods when I got there. He was whittling on a forked hickory stick.

  “Morning, Mister Ted.”

  “Hey, Jake. What’re you making?”

  “Making you a slingshot. In fact, I gon’ make us both one. A good slingshot can be a mighty formidable weapon. I used to be able to knock down a rabbit wid one. You knows, in de Bible, little David killed a giant wid one.”

  “Yeah, that was Goliath.”

  “Dat’s right.”

  “I brought you a couple of biscuits. I wanted to bring you some jam. I will tomorrow.”

  “I gots dis can of sausages I’ll eat wid dem. What else you gots in dat bag?”

  “Some butter beans my mother is selling to Mrs. Blossom.”

  “Butter beans be one of my favorites, cooked wid a piece of smoked hog jowl, but widout no fire I couldn’t cook ’em anyways.”

  While Jake washed down his biscuits and sausage with a fruit jar of branch water, I picked up the stock of the slingshot he was making. I held the stem in my left hand, stretched out my arm and sighted down between the fork. Near the tops of the two stems of the fork he had carved a trench completely around each. I asked, “What’re these for?”

  “Dat’s so when I ties de rubber strip down it will stay. I gots a piece of an old tire tube I’ll make dem out of. De only thing I don’t have is something to make de pouch, you knows, de part dat holds de rock.”

  “What do you need?”

  “The tongue from an old shoe would make two of ’em.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “De mail rider come early dis morning. I peeked through a crack in de cotton house and seed him. De letter be gone. I sho hopes dem whiskey police shows up. Otherwise, I gon’ be eating nail soup.”

  Mrs. Blossom wasn’t too sociable. She came to the screen door, took the bag, gave me a quarter, and said, “Tell your momma I said thanks.”

  I supposed she was feeling bad that my daddy wouldn’t have a job before long, so not wanting to prolong her misery, I said, “Thank you very much, Mrs. Blossom.” Then I started walking off the porch.

  I was startled when she came out onto the porch and called out, “You come back here, sugar boy.” I thought that nickname was known only to my family, but I guessed she could have heard it somewhere.

  She walked across the porch, dropped to one knee, and hugged me real tight. She smelled like fried chicken. Then she released me, stood up, stuffed a paper dollar into my pants pocket, turned and disappeared into the house. She was dabbing at her face with her apron.

  The next thing I saw was Mr. Blossom sitting on the front steps of Miss Lena’s store, removing his muddy brogans. He left them sitting there beside the steps before entering the store in his socks. I looked all about, saw no one anywhere, quickly took advantage of the opportunity, then hit the woods running.

  I was in my element—the woods. Circling around the sawmill, I took the short cut which took me directly to the Mill Creek. I found the broken limb on the big sweet gum tree and splashed into the creek heading toward the still. When I got to the spot which led toward Poudlum’s house, I hesitated a moment, wanting to take him with me, but I figured he was probably picking cotton—what was left of it, that is.

  Soon I crawled into mine and Poudlum’s original hiding place, parted the leaves, and peered across the Saltifa. Everything was quiet, with just the sound of the running water, the birds, and the squirrels. However, something had been going on because there was a big mound covered by a heavy canvas tarp. I was just about to gather up enough courage to go up the bank and cross over on the fallen tree when I heard a sound that didn’t belong. At first it sounded like a giant house fly in the distance. It was coming from down the creek. I cocked my ear and strained to listen as the sound became louder, then I recognized it—someone was coming up the creek in a motor boat!

  My first inclination was to run, but instead I nestled deeper into the leaves, gripped my stick tighter, and reminded myself that I was here to find out who actually made the whiskey.

  When the boat came into view I saw that it was a big one, about twice the size of the one I had hidden up the creek, and it was loaded with boxes and sacks. The driver was seated in the back guiding it with the handle on the motor. He was wearing overalls and a blue work shirt, with a slouchy felt hat partially covering his darkly bearded face. I had never seen him before.

  The motor went dead and the boat’s forward motion caused the front end to slide into the bank across the creek from me. The whiskey maker climbed over his supplies, grabbed a rope, stepped out on the bank, pulled the boat aground, then tied the rope to a small tree.

  The next thing he did scared me and caused me to realize the graveness of my situation. He went back to the boat, pulled out a long double-barreled shotgun, walked up to the money tree and leaned it against the tree.

  The mound under the tarp turned out to be firewood. I knew it was dry, because after he started his fire, the smoke was white rather than dark. As it spread out and drifted up into the canopy of the forest, it was almost invisible.

  After the whiskey maker started cooking he began to unload his boat. I counted six of the big boxes. I knew each contained forty-eight empty pint bottles. It looked like it was going to be a big week.

  It wasn’t long before I began to regret having come there. I had a cramp in one of my legs, black ants were biting me and I had too many itches to count, but I knew I had to suffer and be real careful because if I was discovered, t
hen my whole plan would be ruined, not to mention that the whiskey maker would probably shoot me with his shotgun, throw me in the creek, and I would float down to the Tombigbee where the turtles would eat me.

  With these and other horrible thoughts going through my mind, I began inching backwards every time his back was toward me. As he went about his evil task, I kept inching and inching until I felt the cool water of the Mill Creek on my feet. Only then did I rise into a crouch and began walking softly back up the creek. When I was certain that I was beyond his hearing, I took a deep breath and began running.

  I didn’t go back the way I had come because I needed to talk to Poudlum. I walked past the burnt-out cotton house and made my way through the field full of black stubs which used to be cotton plants. I figured I would find them on the back side of the house picking cotton, but then I saw Poudlum coming down the front porch steps with his arm wrapped around an empty gallon milk jug.

  Buster saw me before Poudlum did and he came out from underneath the porch with a low growl in his throat. Then he stopped short. Recognizing me and seeing my new stick, he sat down on the ground and started thumping it with his tail. “Hey, Poudlum,” I called out.

  “Ted!” he said with a big toothy smile. “What you doing over dis way?”

  “Looking for you. I thought you’d be picking cotton.”

  “I wuz. Ain’t much left. Dey don’t need me.”

  “You on you way to get some milk?”

  “Naw, just taking Miss Annie Pearl’s jug back. My moma sez we can’t ’ford no more milk, what wid de cotton burning up.”

  I noticed his smile had disappeared. “You mind if I walk along with you?”

  “Shoot no. Be a pleasure to have you wid me.”

  I asked, “How’s your momma and daddy?”

  “Dey ain’t too good ’cause ain’t gon’ be nuff cotton money to pay de taxes. Don’t know what we gon’ do.”

  “Why don’t your momma and daddy sell some timber to raise some money?”