Jim the Boy (6 page)

Behind the store he found the bleached skull of a small animal; he could find no evidence of what had killed it, and decided the culprit must have been a snake. Jim put the skull on the end of a stick and poked through the weeds around the store, but the snake evaded his searching. Twice he heard cars approaching on the highway, and both times he ran and hid behind the front of the truck, ready to wake Uncle Al, but both times the cars passed without slowing. Jim watched until they disappeared from view, just to make sure the drivers weren’t trying to trick him.

In Florence, Uncle Al asked directions to the plantation of Mr. Harvey Hartsell. Mr. Hartsell had a team of matched Belgian draft horses for sale. Uncle Al had seen an ad for the horses in a farming paper. The uncles farmed with mules — they had always farmed with mules — but lately Uncle Al had begun to desire a good team of horses. He said he got tired of talking to mules all day long. Mules, said Uncle Al, weren’t always truthful. Horses weren’t as smart, but at least you could believe what they said.

Mr. Harvey Hartsell’s place wasn’t hard to find. He lived at the end of a long dirt road whose only purpose seemed to be taking travelers directly to his plantation. The house was red brick, with tall, white pillars and porches upstairs and down. It sat at the end of a long white driveway of crushed seashells. The drive was shaded by pecan trees, whose long limbs met above it; the trees formed a cool, green tunnel through which Uncle Al drove. Jim felt suddenly ashamed of his overalls, and of the sweat ring around the crown of Uncle Al’s straw hat, and of the ham biscuits they had just eaten. Mr. Harvey Hartsell’s plantation did not seem to be a place they belonged. Uncle Al knocked at the tall double doors of the house for a long time. Jim was glad when no one answered.

Back at the main road, Uncle Al turned the truck toward a collection of cabins and farm buildings in the distance. The cabins they passed on the way to the main barn seemed locked up tight, although a dog slept on the porch of one, and a load of wash hung from a line in the yard of another. Uncle Al stopped beside an old truck parked in the shade of the barn. Nobody answered when he called out, but when they walked behind the barn they found an old man leaning against the whitewashed gate of a corral. Inside the corral lay two dead horses. A single buzzard sat immobile on top of each horse as if waiting for the old man to say a grace. Jim pinched his nose and held it closed. The scaly red heads of the buzzards were fierce and ugly.

“Howdy,” said Uncle Al, looking at the horses.

“Howdy,” said the old man.

“Are you Mr. Harvey Hartsell?”

The old man laughed as if the question was a good joke. He winked at Jim. He said, “Do I look like Mr. Harvey Hartsell to you?”

The old man didn’t have any teeth. His face collapsed in on itself whenever he wasn’t talking. Jim was sure Mr. Harvey Hartsell would have had teeth.

“I don’t know what Harvey Hartsell looks like,” Uncle Al said. “But you don’t have to get smart about it.”

Jim stared up at Uncle Al. He had never heard any of the uncles speak rudely to a stranger.

The old man, however, did not seem to notice. He tucked his thumbs into his armpits and flapped his arms up and down.

“What Harvey Hartsell looks like is a jailbird,” he said. “He shot these here horses to keep the bank from gettin’ ‘em. He shot every animal on the place, and they locked him up.”

“Good Lord,” said Uncle Al.

“Everybody told me, they said, ‘you better not be sneaking around Mr. Harvey Hartsell’s place,’ but I said, ‘it ain’t Mr. Harvey Hartsell’s place no more, now is it? What’s he going to do to
me?
“ The old man seemed pleased with the thought. He put his foot up on the lowest bar of the gate as if he owned it. “I used to work for Harvey Hartsell, but he tried to cheat me on my shares. When I called him on it, he run me off. Now he’s in jail.”

Jim found himself siding with Mr. Harvey Hartsell, even though Harvey Hartsell had shot the horses Uncle Al had come all this way to see.

“Them horses,” said the old man, “was
Belgiums.

“Belgians,” said Uncle Al.

He leaned over and climbed through the bars of the gate and walked slowly across the corral. One of the buzzards grabbed onto the air with its great wings and flew heavily across the fields. The other buzzard, however, raised its wings and hissed at Uncle Al. The sun shone through its feathers. Jim would have found the wings beautiful, had they not been attached to the buzzard’s lizard head. Uncle Al stopped, pulled the pistol out of his pocket, and pointed it at the bird.

“Uh-oh,” said the old man. “Time to go.” He hurried stiffly around the side of the barn, holding on to his hat.

Jim let go of his nose and stuck his fingers in his ears. After a second he thought better of it and pinched his nose shut again. The shot wasn’t as loud as he thought it would be: it sounded flat and thin in the heat, and did not make an echo. The buzzard folded its wings carefully into place and fell sleepily off the horse. A thin veil of flies rose above the horse for a moment, in what seemed to Jim the shape of a horse, but quickly settled back down. Uncle Al replaced the pistol in his pocket and walked over to where the horses lay. Jim had not realized how big they were until he saw Uncle Al standing beside them. They had been immense animals, bigger than any mule he had ever seen. They looked like they could have pulled the barn down, had Uncle Al been able to coax them up and into harness. Uncle Al looked down at the dead horses a long time. He did not seem to mind the smell.

Instead of heading back to Aliceville, Uncle Al drove from Florence toward Myrtle Beach. He said he had never seen the ocean, and thought that he might as well take a look. This was unusual behavior, because Uncle Al had work to do back home. But the change of plan suited Jim fine: he had never seen the ocean either.

The highway they followed soon dove down into the coastal lowland. In many places dark, still water lay on both sides of the road. Gnarled, gray trees stuck up out of the water, and long snakes of moss hung down from their limbs. The swamps were drained by black rivers, choked with snags, whose waters did not seem to move at all. It took a long time to pass through such places, and Jim was glad they didn’t stop. When the road rose up out of the swamps, it wandered through small settlements of dilapidated cabins. The yards of the cabins were filled with chickens and small, dirty children. Packs of dogs of all colors and sizes flew viciously from underneath their porches and gamely chased the truck, snapping at its tires. Near each settlement lay wide bottoms of cotton and tobacco, where field hands in straw hats or bright head rags stared up from the rows as the strange truck passed. Occasionally they spied large, white houses, set back in the trees, far back from the road. Jim wondered if the bank would get these places, too, and if their owners would stalk through their barns and pastures, killing everything in sight. For the first time since leaving Aliceville, Jim found himself longing for home. He was glad he didn’t live in South Carolina.

Eventually they drove out of the swamps and plantations and entered a desolate barren in which there was nothing at all to see except pine trees. When they crossed finally out of the pines, they discovered the wide sea. Jim’s breath caught up in his throat like it was afraid to come out. He tried to breathe several times, but drew no air. He wished that just for a moment, until he grew used to the sight, the ocean would simply
hold still.
But the waves lined up and bore down on the wide, white beach like a gang of boys intent on jumping a gully. Each wave rose up and took a running go and rushed toward South Carolina and cast itself down on the sand. And each wave when it crashed and broke sounded to Jim like the angry breath of God.

“Well, there it is,” said Uncle Al.

“There it is,” said Jim.

“The Atlantic Ocean.”

“Yes, sir.”

“It’s amazing a man can live his whole life and never think about something that big.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I guess we studied it in school, but I don’t remember. I don’t remember the last time I thought about the ocean.”

“No, sir.”

“But there it is.”

“Yes, sir.”

They got out of the truck and started down the dune toward the beach. The dune was covered with a type of oats that rattled in the wind from the sea. Uncle Al stopped and studied them closely; Jim stood first on one foot and then the other and paid the oats no attention at all. The sand was burning his feet. Once they reached the beach the sand was cooler, but the roar of the water was fiercer than it had been up on the dune. Jim could taste the salty water, broken up and falling through the air. He reached up and grabbed Uncle Al’s hand.

“We probably shouldn’t get in that water, Jim,” Uncle Al said. “We don’t know anything about that water.”

“I’m not going to,” said Jim.

They stopped well short of the dark line on the sand that marked the farthest approach of the sea. They looked for a while at the place in the distance where the blue sky and the blue water became the same thing. At the edge of the surf a small white bird with long legs ran up and down. It ran up the slope of the beach toward the dune when the waves came in, and toward the water when they went back out. It seemed to be looking for something it could not find in the dangerous place where the water stopped and the land began. When they got too close, it flew away, crying out “kee-kee-kee-kee.”

“Jim,” said Uncle Al, “I just want you to know that we don’t owe anybody anything. We pay as we go. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I just wanted you to know.”

“Yes, sir.”

Jim thought for a minute and pointed at the ocean. “Is our river in there?”

“Somewhere,” said Uncle Al, “but I’d hate to have to hunt for it.”

“Me too,” said Jim. He thought for a moment more and said, “Does the ocean touch Belgium?”

“For a little ways, I think,” said Uncle Al.

“Why did you shoot that buzzard?”

“I don’t know. I just couldn’t stand to see a buzzard standing on a horse.”

“Oh,” said Jim.

“I shouldn’t have, I don’t guess. He was just doing what buzzards do.”

“It’s okay, Uncle Al.”

“Don’t ever make fun of the misfortune of others, Jim.”

“I won’t.”

“No good will ever come of it. God will bring you down. If you use his blessings to look down on other people, it’s like cussing. It’s like taking his name in vain. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, sir.”

Uncle Al took off his hat and wiped his face with the back of his sleeve. “It’s been a long trip, hasn’t it, Jim?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m about ready to go home and stay there. You want to get in that water first?”

“No.”

“I think we should.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Just a little ways,” said Uncle Al. “I won’t let it get you. That way, when we get back home we can tell Zeno and Coran that we got in the Atlantic Ocean.”

Uncle Al took off his shoes and socks and dropped them onto the sand. He rolled up the legs of his overalls and led Jim to the edge of the sea, where a wave, and then another, slid up over their ankles. The water was warmer than Jim had imagined it would be. A fish no bigger than a thought swam by his feet; when he wiggled his toes it vanished as if made of light. In the water he could feel the river that flowed through the uncles’ fields. Maybe Uncle Zeno or Uncle Coran had looked at the river that morning. Maybe they had wet a bandanna in its water and wiped the sweat off their faces. Jim held on to Uncle Al’s hand and closed his eyes and tried to feel Belgium. He tried until he grew dizzy and felt the water writing strange words on his feet. But when he opened his eyes all he saw was ocean, the strong water rearing up.

“I wish we could’ve got there sooner,” Uncle Al said.

“Me too,” said Jim.

BOOK III

Town Boys and Mountain Boys

First Day

T
HE MORNING
smelled like school.

The previous morning had smelled only like summer, like dew and grass and crops growing in the fields. But this morning the air bore the suggestion of books and pencils and chalky erasers, the promised end of the long, slow days. During breakfast the delicious, new air tickled Jim’s lungs. Things were going to move faster now, he could tell. He drained the last few swallows of milk from his glass and pushed himself away from the table.

“Well,” he said, as matter-of-factly as possible, “I guess I better be getting to school.”

At that Mama and the uncles slid their chairs away from the table and stood up.

“I’ll get my hat,” said Uncle Al.

“I’ll do the dishes when we get home,” said Mama.

“It won’t hurt anything if the store opens a little late,” said Uncle Coran.

“Okay, then,” said Uncle Zeno, “we best be on our way.

“Wait a minute,” Jim said. “Where are y’all going?”

Uncle Zeno looked confused. “We’re going to school. With you.”

“With me?” Jim sputtered. “Why are you going to school with me?”

“We want to meet your teacher,” said Uncle Al.

“And see your classroom,” said Mama.

“And meet all your little friends,” said Uncle Coran.

Jim stared up at them in horror. Not even first graders were accompanied to school by their whole families. He could see himself walking up into the school yard, trailed by his mother and his uncles, as if they were a pack of dogs who would not go back to the house when he told them. He could hear all the kids at the new school, hundreds of them, laughing at him. He flushed just thinking about it.

Now Uncle Zeno looked hurt.

“What’s the matter, Doc?” he said. “Don’t you want us to go to school with you?”

Jim looked from face to face, his mouth open. He didn’t want to hurt their feelings, but he didn’t want them to go to school with him, either. After all, he was in the fourth grade now.

But before he could say anything, a single, birdlike titter escaped from Mama’s mouth. And then Uncle Coran, who had obviously been holding his breath, snorted like a pig. When Uncle Zeno and Uncle Al began to shake, Jim knew that they had never intended to accompany him to school. In a moment he was lost amid the uncles, who swarmed around the table and hustled him to the door, their voices combining into a single, unintelligible din of laughter and teasing. Mama handed him his notebook and his ball glove as the uncles jostled him across the porch and down the steps.