The Wettest County in the World (12 page)

This is terrible, Rakes said. This just won’t do.

He stepped back and set the gun inside the door of the house, leaning it against the wall.

I’ll give you at least one good shot, Rakes said. Get up.

Jack curled himself into a fetal position in the dirt. I can’t stand, he thought. No way I can stand and if I could he’ll hit me again. Was that the twins firing off two shots? Was someone else coming? Please let it be Forrest or Howard. Please God.

I said, get up!

Rakes seized him by the shoulders and yanked him to his feet. Jack kept his chin to his chest and his arms in front of his face. One side of Jack’s mouth was numb and swelling, and the blood ran down his neck under his shirt. The cicadas took up their chorus in the dark trees.

Gonna get you, Jack slurred. They’ll kill you.

S’at so? Rakes said. That ain’t gonna help you right now, is it?

Rakes smacked him with an open hand across the face, a spray of blood like mist.

So much talk, Rakes said, about the goddamn Bondurant boys. Hell, you ain’t shit. You tell those two brothers of yours we’re coming for them next. You
tell’
em.

Jack couldn’t think about anything other than the next blow. Rakes had handfuls of Jack’s shirt and jerked him back and forth like a child. For a brief second Jack glanced up and saw how his arms, doubled up, were inside Rakes’s arms and he would just have to drive straight out with a fist or elbow and he would catch Rakes square in his fat face. This is it,
now now now,
Jack thought to himself. But his arms remained tight and his chin down and then Rakes held him with one hand and began clubbing him with his other, the blows landing on the side of Jack’s head, his neck, smashing his ear, Jack twisting away struggling, Rakes shuffling with him, his arm working in an even cadence, until he landed one flush on the temple and Jack’s spine went numb and he crumpled to the ground. Before he lost consciousness he heard himself sobbing, crying out
please no more, no more
and the final sensation of the world was this gush of blood-hot humiliation.

F
ORREST WATCHED
H
OWARD
come in with the sawmill crew, grinning like a fool, the group of them loud and faces askew with drink, men in mud-spattered coveralls, stained undershirts, crushed derby hats, a pork pie, chewed cigar ends, bloodshot eyes, Howard’s bulk looming over them all, looking like the blasted freaks of a lonely road circus. When they reached into the pockets of their dungarees for their crumpled wads of money streams of sawdust spilled onto the floor.

Forrest deliberately avoided any interest in the games, particularly when his brother was playing, but he knew that Howard had Jack’s wages on him. As Maggie emptied the ashtrays she looked at Howard’s small pile of bills and coins that lay between his meaty forearms. As she passed Forrest at the counter she would scribble a number on the pad, an update on what his brother was losing, and as the game went on Howard appeared to pant with the effort of breathing. Forrest stood behind the bar and worked his figures at the register. The other men at the table watched Maggie as closely as they dared, her dress of pale cotton with golden flowers, her bare arms. She never gave them a direct eye or a smile, and when she left the room they swore under their breath.
Damn if she don’t gotta face that belongs on a coin.

The radio played the National Barn Dance from Chicago. “The Blind Newsboy,” Andrew Jenkins sang “The Death of Floyd Collins” in a watery voice. As she passed Forrest, Maggie gave him a simple blank look that told him his brother wasn’t going to quit until he lost everything.

It was almost morning when the men left Blackwater station, and after the card game Forrest fried up a quick omelet, eating it out of the pan standing at the sink. After washing up he shut off the lights and went upstairs. He paused in Maggie’s doorway to watch the breathing straggle of dark hair on the pillow, the outlines of her long legs under the quilt. If Forrest had been drinking more than usual, after a while his hand would slip on the door frame or his knees would buckle and he would stagger back to his room and collapse on his cot for what was left of the morning. Sometimes he actually slept standing in that doorway, leaning on the frame, his eyes narrowed, hands hanging loosely or fingering the small lump of wood he carried in his pocket. Sometimes he stood there so long he forgot to sleep at all and the light through the curtains and the dog barking down the road made Maggie shift, and Forrest would go into his room for a fresh shirt and walking out back he would pump icy water from the well, strip down and scrub his body with fresh water and a lump of pumice. When Maggie combed her hair and came downstairs Forrest already had bacon and potatoes frying on the stove, his face impassive, his eyes clear. Whether he slept or not, it was impossible to tell by looking at him.

That night Maggie woke, stirred by something, and she saw Forrest standing in the doorway. She was folded into the shadows of the bedding so that Forrest could not see the expression on her face. She pulled back the covers but Forrest turned away and walked back into the sitting room. After a few moments Maggie got up and walked out to him and when he turned he saw her naked body glowing in the dark.

On the couch Forrest held her face in his rough hands and brushed his lips across her forehead, cheeks, and throat. He smelled of sour corn, dirt, and sweat and she put her chin and mouth into the crook of his neck and softly kissed the scar, from one end to the other.

In the dim starlight through the window he watched her eyes as he struggled to hold her tight to him. Forrest wanted to stay light on her body, to hold her softly like you might hold a bird in your hands, and on his chest he could feel the warm, thrilling beating of her heart. When she looked up at him it was like a question formed on the soft lines of her forehead.

They said nothing to each other and when it was over and he finally slept she covered him with a blanket. He slept like a small boy, twitching and kicking, and she waited with him until his breathing grew even and his body relaxed before returning to her room.

S
HERWOOD
A
NDERSON
stopped at the Blackwater station in the early afternoon. He had on his old farmhouse coat and mud boots and hadn’t shaved in days. The three days previous he had spent sprawled in his room at the boardinghouse, reading letters and writing to Eleanor, picking his toes and daydreaming, putting off this clear lead. He didn’t actually admit to himself he was afraid until he pulled into the lot. Of course you are, he thought, you old fool. The day had turned hot and he was sweating in his coat. Two cars were pulled up to the side of the building, one covered with a cloth tarp, but clearly some kind of sleek roadster. A young man with a thick shock of black hair stood on the shaded porch watching Anderson drive up. When he parked in front of the petrol tank the man jogged out to him.

Ya need fuel, mister?

Anderson slid out of the car and adjusted his hat in the sunlight. The inside of the station looked dark and empty. The young man cranked the pump energetically, filling the glass globe with gas.

Y’all got something cold to drink inside? Anderson asked.

Sure.

Inside the station was dark and cool, and Anderson took off his hat and stood in the doorway until his eyes focused and he could see where the counter was. The smell of bacon and tobacco; a radio on a shelf by the window played low music. Anderson took a seat at the counter and drummed his fingers until he realized there was a woman standing at the far end, reading a magazine and smoking.

Hello, Anderson said.

Hello.

You got something cold to drink?

Pop?

You got orange?

Sure.

She put her magazine down and walked over to the cooler. Her hair, straight and dark, was tied back behind her neck. The station was otherwise empty. She set the bottle of pop before him and Anderson put a quarter on the counter. Her dress was neatly pressed, scalloped at the neck, the color of October leaves. It worked agreeably around her legs, giving a long line to the shape of them. Anderson hadn’t seen a dress like it in months. None of the old obsessive Puritanism of the American spirit around here, he thought.

She picked up his quarter and rang the register and when she put the change down Anderson shook his head and pushed it back to her. She tossed it in a can by the register and headed back to her magazine.

What’s the name of this place?

What?

What do they call this place, this station?

Most call it the Blackwater station.

Blackwater is the creek? The one just down the road at the bridge?

That’s Maggodee Creek. But it’s part of Blackwater.

Anderson sipped his pop. It was flat and old and sickly sweet. This must have been sitting in the cooler for years, he thought. Nobody bought pop here, that was certain. Maggie picked up her magazine. It was a mail-order catalog—Montgomery Ward. He figured he might as well jump right in.

My name’s Anderson.

She arched her eyebrows at him for a brief second. It was the first time she had actually looked directly at him.

Maggie, she said.

Say, Maggie, Anderson said, I’m not trying to be a bother but I was wondering if maybe you had something a little stronger to drink.

She gazed at him with a beautiful, blank expression. It reminded him of gypsies, or Indians. The long, thousand-mile stare that said nothing. A hell of a poker face, he thought.

You know, he said, if a fella wanted something a bit stronger to drink.

We got Cokes, coffee, or some ice water. That’s about it.

Anderson drank his pop.

You from around here? Anderson asked.

She put the catalog down again and blew smoke toward the ceiling.

Not really.

Where from?

Not too far.

Anderson drank more pop and looked about the room. There was grease shining on the grill. Perhaps they did a morning business, he thought. But I’ll also bet the boys came around just to see Maggie, to watch her work. There was a hardness in her face, like she had lived a bit more than others her age, which Anderson put at about thirty, and this maturity lent a cold beauty to her features.

How long you worked here? he asked.

Been some time now.

You married?

No.

Look, I’m not some rounder, I’m a married man myself. I’m just trying to talk. I do a lot of travelin’ and don’t get to talk too much, you understand?

Sure.

What’d you do before this?

Lots of things.

Like what?

Farming. Mill work.

You worked in a textile mill?

Yeah.

Where?

Martinsville. And some in Carolina before that.

What was that like?

It was all right.

Tough work?

Not so bad. We was treated okay.

Union shop?

Yeah.

How were the other girls?

Fine. They was mostly real nice.

Why’d you leave?

My daddy died.

I’m sorry.

Weren’t nothing.

Maggie’s dark eyes remained on him, or just over his shoulder, he couldn’t tell, and Anderson felt as if something was bearing down on him. His stool creaked. He heard voices, two men talking; it was the radio. This is like pulling teeth out of a dead mule, Anderson thought.

How’d you get up here?

Hitched a ride.

From Carolina?

Yeah.

You done a lot of hitchhiking?

Sure. Got my own car now, though.

Anderson glanced outside and noticed the young man had finished filling up his car. Some kind of operation, he thought. This was the center of the liquor trade in Franklin County? He sipped his sweet pop. Every woman he had met from Franklin County so far was this way. What about Willie Carter Sharpe? Sharpe was still out there on the loose, the whole state looking for her, ATU men combing the hills. If he didn’t act quick the
Liberty
article would be shot; Anderson had seen other newspapermen around Rocky Mount, nosing around, ferreting out information on the trial.

So, Anderson said, trying to warm up the conversation again, who’s the proprietor of this place?

Forrest Bondurant.

The same who was shot back in ’30? With his brothers?

Yep.

That happened around here, right?

Just up the road on that bridge.

Anderson found himself listening, intently, for extra movement around the station. Through the window the young man stood by the pumps, gazing down the road. Maggie drew on her cigarette. Nothing else moved.

He around? Anderson asked.

Nope.

Know when he might be back?

Doesn’t have regular hours.

If you had to guess.

I’d guess he’d be here any time now, she said.

Maybe I’ll stick around then.

Maggie shrugged.

Anderson stepped outside and squinted down the dusty road. He gave Everett money for the gas and the young man disappeared around the corner of the building. A pair of boys in a rusty DeSoto pulled up and bought fifty cents’ worth of gas and bounded inside. He leaned on the hood of his car and tried to figure whether to wait there for a man whom he was warned not to talk to by two different people. A man whose liquor trade seemed like a load of foolish talk. After a moment Anderson walked around the corner of the station and found Everett Dillon squatting on a tire, reading a newspaper.

Any news? Anderson asked.

Everett didn’t look up, only rattled the paper a bit.

Says here that Roosevelt gots cuff links for every day of the month.

I’ve heard that, Anderson said. Whadya think that means?

Don’t think it means anything, Everett said, ’cept maybe I’m sitting here on this old tire thinking about all them cuff links.

The boys came out with soda and nabs and piled into their car and as the sound of their engine disappeared around the bend it grew quiet again.

A
NDERSON SAT
in his room and thought about Willie Carter Sharpe, out there in the night, at that very moment plowing through the dark at the helm of an overpowered coupe, coming down the mountain like a bobsled on ice, the trunk jostling with liquor as she rounded a steep curve on two wheels, a furious woman with a head of fire that streamed out the windows, a funnel of brimstone in her wake. The road leading into a muddy pit where men with guns in black hats waited with suitcases of cash. It all seemed so absurd. Even if it was real, what was the point? A human-interest piece, of course, but not the kind that was most compelling here. These other people, Anderson thought, the common folk here who dragged themselves through the days in the face of such bleak prospects, that’s the story that he was interested in. And Maggie. That was a woman to launch a story, Anderson thought, sketched into the void of her scant details and silence. This is what he had always been able to do, after all.

Bill Faulkner said the very thing to him, at his house in New Orleans, the two of them going down Chartres, Faulkner limping from his “war wound” that turned out to be a fake. Another lie. The two of them talking about writing, America, Negroes, women. Anderson had felt at the time that their talks were of great import, and when the smaller man limped beside him down Canal he had looked up at the older writer with unabashed love and respect, those dark eyes shining. Why he would lie to him, Anderson didn’t know. Maybe it was the drink. But then in 1926 Faulkner did the preface of
Sherwood Anderson and Other Creoles,
a caricature of Anderson as a saggy old busker. When Faulkner moved out of his one-room apartment in New Orleans he left behind an old card table and a bunch of empty half-gallon corn liquor jars. He told Anderson he had to drink to get to sleep at night; it was impossible otherwise.

Anderson sat on the edge of the bed and took off his shoes. It hurt him to be not working; it channeled his mind into funny things. He was angry at the salesmen, all the goddamn silent locals, about his work. The groundwater was lowered and he was swinging a dusty bucket.
Dark Laughter
had done well, selling more than anything else he ever wrote. He thought of
Ulysses,
and how when he read it he felt the cadence of the sentences beat in his heart and how he felt, yes, this is the new place of fiction; it is in our hearts and minds at the same time. He had felt that he could work that kind of incantation into a distinctly American style, his style. Now that bastard Hemingway was running around Paris, Anderson thought, reeling into cafés with his arm around a tall, heavily painted woman (
not a woman at all,
some said) and reading aloud to the Americans there something he called
The Torrents of Spring.
Anderson knew it was a parody of
Dark Laughter,
and he felt that this was one of the more cruel things that had ever been done to him.

I’m the one who told that son of a bitch to move to Paris in the first place!

Gertrude Stein wrote to say that she had advised Hemingway not to publish it, and that it had sundered their friendship, but that was little comfort. Anderson thought of Hemingway barreling up the stairs of his New Orleans place, broad-shouldered and shouting, carrying a large paper sack of goat cheese, hard sausage, pickles, wine, fresh rolls for them to eat. It seemed he was always bursting into some room or another, his arms full of plenty, the spoils of his good fortune and charm. He changed every scene he entered. He brought Hemingway to meet Liverwright in New York and got him started in writing. Just a few years ago his words were on the back jacket of
In Our Time:
“Mr. Hemingway is young, strong, full of laughter, and he can write.”

T
HE NEXT MORNING
, October 13, 1934, Sherwood Anderson walked from his boardinghouse to the Little Hub for a late breakfast. A crisp, sunny fall day and the streets seemed a bit more lively than usual. The restaurant was fairly buzzing, clumps of men gathered in booths and standing in the aisles, talking excitedly in hushed tones. In one corner a man was thumping the Formica table:
You know damn well who done it!

Anderson ordered coffee, eggs, and bacon from the counterman. The restaurant quieted as he came in, the talking men returning to their food.

Say, pal, Anderson said to the counterman. What’s goin’ on?

The counterman in his smeared apron and paper cap regarded Anderson for a moment, then reached over and grabbed a newspaper and slapped it down.
The Roanoke Times.
Headline:
DEPUTY AND PRISONER GUNNED DOWN IN FRANKLIN
.