The Other Side of Bad (The Tucker Novels) (7 page)

Chapter 11

The Major and his four brothers taught my cousins and me to duck hunt on the famous Catahoula Lake at a very early age. Between the five brothers, there were two duck camps on the bluffs overlooking the lake. All but the Major were either builders, plumbers, electricians, or a combination of the three. There was my uncle Roy, the oldest, then Lloyd, Ed, A. D., down to the baby boy, Donald, my father.

I was 9 when I was first awakened in the middle of the night while sleeping in one of the many army surplus bunk beds, to the smell of coffee, wood smoke and frying bacon. Still snug in my sleeping bag, I watched the Major and my uncles move through the dim hazy light, smoking cigarettes with their coffee while breaking out the shotguns and putting shells in their hunting vests. The jocular mood of the night before being replaced by the quiet efficiency of few words, the faint smell of oil, with small clinks of gunmetal, resembling something I may have seen in a war movie.

I wasn’t allowed to shoot a gun in the duck blind yet, but my brother Ben, three and a half years my senior, had gotten a new .410 Savage single shot for his birthday the past August and was going to hunt. I remember being so excited to be allowed to go, that I wasn’t jealous.

I recall that morning, after a slow foggy boat trip in the 14-foot bateau pushed by an old Wizard outboard, how the duck-blind appeared through the fog like a stalking monster. It was brushed with pine boughs, still green and thick with the smell of turpentine.

The Tucker brothers had four sites on the lake for blinds. It wasn’t uncommon in those days for disputes over blind sites to escalate into blind burnings, beatings and sometimes a shooting. Like when one pre-dawn morning, Taterbug Johnston was shot in the back with No. 6 shot, down at the boat landing. It didn’t kill him, but did knock him down, causing weeks of considerable discomfort. No one ever messed with the Tucker sites.

As the Major got us settled in, nothing was said about the wet November cold, or if we were comfortable. We were there to hunt, and these issues were of no concern.

When the first light of dawn raked the horizon, I saw thousands of gnats and mosquitoes in front of my face. Every few seconds I would try and shoo them away with my hand.

The Major asked, “What’re you doing boy?”

“Trying to get rid of all these bugs.”

“What bugs?” he asked.

“All these mosquitoes and gnats,” I said, again shooing them away by waving my hand in front of my face, while blowing with my mouth.

After a moment of silence, he put his arm around my shoulders and quietly said, “Those aren’t bugs, they’re ducks. We call it ‘The Parade’.”

I have never forgotten how, once he told me that, I just had to refocus my eyes to see he was telling the truth. There were literally thousands upon thousands of ducks, flying, darting, and falling like autumn leaves, through the blue and orange sunrise. As the ducks got closer, I could hear their calls and the air passing over their cupped gliding wings gave off a jet-like whistling sound.

We got to watch, and listen to “The Parade” for another ten minutes, until legal shooting time. Then the shooting started. It was busy, loud, and
very excitin
g for this big-eyed boy. I spent many years thereafter watching “The Parade,”  and it never failed to make my chest feel too small for my heart and remind me of that first hunt. The hunt where I didn’t have a gun of my own, a day when I felt my father loved me.

The brothers were all handsome, fun loving, hard fighting men. By then Uncle Roy and Uncle A. D. were in AA. The other three would only drink beer while in camp; otherwise, it could get a little dicey.

The Tucker boys got mean on hard liquor. They grew up fighting. Sometimes each other, but woe be to the man who harmed one of them. Through all their toughness, there was a gentleness and loyalty that felt a lot like love, though you could bet your last dollar not one of them would ever say that word to the other.

I remember them sitting around the old picnic table in the heart of the three-roomed camp; smoking, drinking beer, and telling stories on each other.

As I leaned in the open doorway, back-lit by the  moonlight filtering through  black silhouettes of tall Cyprus trees that skirted the lake, I could feel the cool November breeze move my hair along with the Spanish moss hanging from the live oaks that surrounded the camp. I could breath in the smell of water that hung in the air and listen to the ducks night calling on the lake. All the while I would listen to the brother’s vibrant stories.

Wild stories of duck hunts, of pretty girlfriends they stole from each other, tales of knife fights and broken noses. Like the time Uncle Ed hit a man who was getting ready to shoot A. D. with a pistol. A dispute over a woman; I believe it was the man’s wife. The man was standing at the bar when Uncle Ed hit him with his right fist; as he went down, his foot caught between the bar and the brass rail that ran along the bottom. The force of the blow broke his leg in three places, not to mention what it did to his face.

Nevertheless, as a small boy, I fell in love with all of them, at the duck camps, the deer camp, and the fishing camp on Spring Bayou where we fished for bull-nosed bream, bass, the sweet sacalait, and red-eared chinkapin too fat to wrap your hand around.

These men, all broad shouldered, barrel chested and narrow hipped, whose rugged tanned faces were creased with more than age lines—the scars of battles and laughter. They were larger than life to me. They were giants, men among men . . .and I wanted to be just like them.

We hunted rabbits, sometimes at night with a spotlight. This was called ‘shining’ and was against the law, making it all the more like outlaws on a midnight raid. It was more effective on a moonless night. We were always surrounded in the black night by the sounds of crickets and buzzing insects, the croaking of tree frogs and the shrill chirps of cicadas, along with an occasional growl of an alligator. We would aim the light into the darkness while walking along raised oyster shell roads through the marsh, looking for the shining red eyes of a big swamp rabbit. Once, while ‘shining’ the edges of a railroad track, I heard a woman scream in the distance, piercing the black wall of night sounds, like a leering dagger through a black cloth veil. A scream so loud and long, I just knew she was being murdered. Uncle Ed held my hand, as I leaned on him and began to shake.

“That’s a panther,” he said, then patted me gently on the shoulder. “A wild cat, and a big’n by the sound of her.”

“Why’s she screamin’, Uncle Ed?” I asked.

“She’s talkin’ to her boyfriend.”

“She sounds scared,” I said.

For some reason he thought this funny and laughed out loud while holding my shoulders.
“One of these days you’re going to know all about that.”

My heart was starting to slow down, but I still couldn’t shake the image of a woman in a long white dress, blonde hair flowing wild with the wind in the yellow moonlight, her face twisted with fear, like something out of an old Vincent Price horror movie. Maybe he was lying about the cat to protect me, but to this day, I don’t like horror movies.

The brothers, all having sons, leased 3,000 acres down in Avoyelles Parish south of Marksville, from a logging company and built a long-roomed deer camp with a kitchen room attached to the back and an outhouse, just a short walk into the trees.

The camps had no running water, so they built cisterns to catch the frequent rains. I’ve never forgotten the imagined fear of a little boy, afraid he was going to fall into the spider infested black hole cut into the seat of the outhouse, or the satisfying surprise of the fresh, slick, thirst-quenching taste of rainwater.
   

This is where my uncles started my cousins and me squirrel and rabbit hunting, and then we graduated to deer.

We called the big old swamp bucks, “mossy backs”. The Tuckers weren’t the type of men to hang stuffed animal heads in their homes. The racks of the big mossy backs were nailed outside the camp, from left to right under the roof, from one end to the other.

This is where I learned about the saying “You ain’t ever been lost lest you’ve drunk water from a hoof print.” In the swamp the only for sure good water is what the rain has left in a hoof print. I was once lost for 18 hours. I’ve never been lost again. It taught me to look behind me, as much as in front of me. The swamp all looks the same, but if you look behind yourself enough and study a little, when you need to go back, it looks familiar.

Like in life, it’s good to remember where you came from. It may help keep you from losing your way.

During those years of my life when the very fiber of my being was seasoned with the hard deep darkness of abuse and braised with the searing white heat of violence, my only saving grace was the time spent with Margie or alone in a Louisiana swamp.

So, I, more so than my brother, was bitten by the swamp bug. I was either in a swamp slipping up on a mossy back or on the bayous, or the hidden sloked lagoons with names like Laccasiene, Lockityboo, or Coulinwaugh, fishing for bass, bream, and sacalait. Or, I could be found at sunrise, on Catahoula Lake, trying to feel my father’s hand on my shoulder, while I watched . . .  “The Parade.”

Chapter 12

Nashville, TN-December 11
th
, Present Day

The waitress (is that politically correct or should it be server?) arrived with my water and lemon, and said she would return with the buttered hot water cornbread I’d forgotten they made here. The pieces of cornbread were almost as dangerous as Krispy Kreme Donuts. I made the sign of the cross with my fingers and shook my head, which rated a pretty smile as she left me to my reverie.

I thought of my first introduction to the art of pistoleroing.

Louisiana, 1963

When I was 13, I had the chance of seeing Mr. Bob Grayson from Cheneyville, Louisiana, put on a shooting exhibition at the National Guard Armory. Mr. Grayson was the man who taught many of the movie stars out in Hollywood how to do the western quick draw. I thought it was about the greatest thing I had ever seen. I knew I wanted to be like that. To be able to draw a six gun, and with a wax bullet, shoot off a playing card lying flat on someone’s shoulder, and do it so fast you couldn’t see my hand move.

One instant Grayson’s hand was by his side, the next, the gun was in his hand roaring like it had a life of its own and he was just holding on. I hung around afterwards and met him. Later I started hitching rides with anyone I could down to Cheneyville, about 30 miles south of Alec, where he owned a store on the left side of the road to Baton Rouge that sold gas and homemade pecan pies his wife made.

I pestered him until one day he had me play a game he called knuckles. He put his right fist out, then told me to put my right fist against his, knuckles to knuckles. He then said he was going to raise his fist up and rap the back of my hand with his knuckles. All I had to do was move my fist out of the way. He explained that he could move his fist, twist it, and do anything but raise it or disconnect, to fake me out. This would make me all hurky jerky nervous, not knowing when he was going to strike like a rattler. I would jerk my hand back at the slightest movement, then return it to the knuckles to knuckles position. Once he rose to strike me, if he missed, it would be my turn.

He didn’t miss for what seemed like a long time to a teenager. I would come home with the back of my right hand swollen blue green. At home, I would teach ‘knuckles’ to anyone willing to play. The back of my hand hurt so much, if anyone touched it, I felt like puking. So, I didn’t let anyone touch it. I was unbeatable, unbeatable until Mr. Grayson got a hold of me again.

After the back of my hand healed, I would go back down to Cheneyville and try again. In retrospect, I believe he got a kick out of this. He had no mercy on me and gave me a good knuckle thrashing every time, every time but the last time we played, if you could call it playing.

It took a few months, what with the healing and having to beg rides with some of my older friends who had their driver’s licenses. In those days, you only had to be 15 to drive. I walked into the store, where Mr. Grayson was sitting in a rocking chair holding a fine Colt .45 six-shooter, with rags and oil sitting on a small three-legged table that appeared to be homemade, next to his chair.

“So, Mr. Tucker, I see you again,” he said grinning, showing me his tobacco- stained teeth. He always called me Mr. Tucker like the fine southern gentleman he was, when he wasn’t beating the hell out of the back of my hand.

“Yes, sir. I’m back for the last time,” I said resolutely.

“For the last time?” he asked, pushing back the old black sweat-stained cowboy hat he wore. “Sounds like you aim to beat me today.”

I didn’t tell him, but that wasn’t what I meant. What I really meant was, if I didn’t beat him, I’d never come back for him to beat me again. I was cock of the walk at knuckles back in Alexandria, and it was feeling too good.

So I just nodded my head and said, “Yes, sir.”

He put the gun on the table, unwound his lanky frame from the old rocker, made a fist, stuck it out in front of him, and said, “Let’s go.”

I walked over to him, put my fisted knuckles next to his and looked him in the eyes. I never took my eyes off of his eyes. He twisted his fist a couple of times, and I never budged. Then he struck like a pit viper. It wasn’t that he missed; my fist just wasn’t there when his came down.

I don’t know whose eyes showed more surprise.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he said with wonderment. “I’ve never been beat before.”

I was too stunned to speak.

“Now it’s your turn, sir,” he said to a 13-year-old boy.

I went right after him, no twisting or faking him out. I was on a roll. Our eyes locked together, we went at it. In less than three minutes, the back of his hand was starting to swell, he laughed, stepped back and sat down in the rocker.

He picked up the old Colt and said, “Take a look at this.”

I couldn’t believe it. I knew something important happened, but wasn’t quite sure what it was. I walked over as he handed me the gun.

“Check it, boy, to see if it is loaded. That’s lesson number one,” he said.

He then put on his belted holster and showed me the correct height to wear the gun. Not low down like the gunslingers on TV, but with the butt just below my elbow. This way the momentum of my hand coming up, pulls the gun out of the holster. Then he took out a piece of paper and drew a picture of a long cowboy boot with a spike coming out of the sole.

“Get your Paw to make you one of these out of heavy metal,” he said, pointing to his drawing. “Make sure it comes up above the top of where your holster will be. Hammer it into the ground, so when you start practicing with live ammunition, you can
 walk up next to it and strap your holster on the outside of it. Tie you holster around it and to your leg. This way, when you discharge the gun too early, and you will, the bullet will just bounce off and go in the ground. It will keep you from shootin’ yourself. When you get this made, get yourself a little Colt .22 six-shooter, then come back and see me.”

That’s just what I did.