The Wettest County in the World (21 page)

T
HE
B
ONDURANT
G
ENERAL
S
TORE
in Snow Creek sat in a deep valley along Route 22, the road rising on either side several hundred feet up Turkeycock Mountain. The small gathering of old men around the stove directed Sherwood Anderson to the springhouse across the road to find Granville Bondurant. It was April, and the stove empty, but Anderson had noticed that regardless of the season the stove always served as the focal point, the fulcrum around which men gathered and levered their talk. The whitewashed shack was shaded with a leaning stand of black willows and sugar maples with fresh spring buds coming to full leaf. A cloud of ladybugs swarmed around the side eaves of the springhouse and the air cooled noticeably as Anderson approached the door. Inside, the floor and lower walls were mossy and glistening like a subterranean grotto, and Granville was filling a metal pail with springwater that shot from the tap with great velocity. Before Anderson could say anything Granville seemed to sense him and turned.

Help yo’self to some if you like.

He cinched down the valve, his bucket nearly full, and setting it down took up a dipper and had himself a drink.

Thanks, I will.

Anderson drank from the dipper, first surprised at how cold, then how sweet it was. It was unlike any water he had ever tasted, crisp, almost tart, with a slight citrus aftertaste, and he drank off the rest of the dipper. Granville eyed him as he handed the dipper back.

That’s amazing water, Anderson said.

Never had Snow Creek water before, have ye?

I’ve never had anything like
that.
The name’s Sherwood Anderson.

Granville Bondurant. Please to meet ye.

Granville leisurely drew him another dipperful.

Where you headed?

Nowhere, really, Anderson said. All the water in Snow Creek like this?

Some better than others. This one is particular.

Lot of pressure in that aquifer, Anderson said.

Going now for more than sixty years.

Granville shuffled to the doorway as Anderson relished another drink.

You see them mountains? Granville said. Almost pure limestone. Like this rock here.

He gestured to a shelf of blue limestone that protruded from the earth under a willow.

That’s what does it. Filtered through all that limestone. This one here is free and open to all.

Anderson figured he would take his chances.

That’s why, Anderson said, they grow them big around here, huh?

Yep. Good horses, strong cattle.

Tastes like some water I had in Kentucky a few times. Suppose that’s why it’s so popular with shiners, eh?

Granville squinted at him.

Suppose. Where you from?

Marion.

Huh. Long way to travel. Well, come on to th’ store an’ sit a spell.

They left the springhouse, Granville toting the pail of silvery water.

Mr. Bondurant, I was wondering if I could ask you a couple questions ’bout your boys?

Granville stopped walking and the two men stood by the side of the road and Anderson figured this was a sign of some kind of consent.

About December of 1930, Anderson said. When your boys were shot out by Maggodee Creek.

I caint tell you nothin’, Granville said, that you don’t already know.

Maybe, Anderson said. I’m just curious about the events that led up to that incident. The papers aren’t clear. And what happened after. It seems like the charges against the deputy who did the shooting, Charley Rakes, they were dropped pretty quick.

Yep.

Can you tell me why that is? Just trying to understand the story.

Granville set the pail of water down. Out of the cool shade of the springhouse the sun was punishing. A car crested the hill from the north and came coasting down, rattling by the two men. Granville raised a hand in greeting, the driver lifting his fingers off the wheel. They watched the car whine up the hill.

Look, Mr. Anderson, Granville said, why don’t you get to it.

Sorry?

Yer point of conversation.

I’m not trying to stir up trouble, sir, Anderson said, I’m just interested in the story.

You a federal?

No.

Granville digested this information without the slightest glimmer of a reaction.

People round here, he said, tend to mind their own.

I’ve noticed that, Anderson said. I’m just trying to understand how a couple of boys end up on a bridge in the dead of winter with three cars of liquor, and why a deputy would shoot them down in cold blood.

Times were hard, Granville said. Most folks didn’t have much.

I know.

My boys’ lives is they own.

I understand that.

Granville’s face seemed to indicate the matter closed, but he remained there by the side of the road, the pail of water at his feet. Was the fact that his sons were infamous, bootleggers, criminals a source of sorrow for him? People didn’t seem to have much problem with illegal liquor in Franklin, and many seemed to associate it with almost a civic duty; it made one a good citizen, a “real” Franklin County resident.

Some folks, Granville said, they say that making whiskey gets in your blood. It gets its hooks in you and won’t let go.

He shrugged his shoulders and dusted his hands off on his dungarees.

My boys was raised right, as best as I was able. They lost their mother and two sisters in the epidemic back in ’19.

I’m sorry to hear that, Anderson said.

Went hard on them, ’specially my youngest boy.

That’d be Jack?

Granville turned to him and gave him the gypsy stare, searching Anderson’s face.

You have a good day, Mr. Anderson. Come by for a drink anytime.

W
HEN HE RETURNED
from Snow Creek that afternoon Anderson wandered through the streets of Rocky Mount, letting the pad and scrape of his feet lull him into insensibility. A flyer in a shop window along Orchard Avenue caught his eye:
Rally Tonight: The Virginia Anti-Communist League.
It reminded him, for the first time in some months, of the Bonus Marches, the crackdowns, the Union Square Riot of 1930. He wondered if the people of Franklin, the Bondurant boys and all the denizens of Snow Creek, had known or cared of such things. Did he give a damn himself? Years back in New York the leaders of the Communist Party asked to meet with Anderson, and he went. They admonished him for the open letter he wrote to President Hoover, published in
The Nation.
In the letter he said that they both came from the same background and that he understood Hoover’s plight. The corruption of power, the influence of the yes-men and the minions who steered noble inclinations astray. The Communists said it would only arouse sympathy for Hoover.

Why yes, Anderson said, that was my very intention, to illustrate the destructive influences that surrounded the president, the forces that were growing in America.

Only money, they said. That is the scourge and he is part of the problem. They tried to scold him but by then Anderson didn’t care. I was expressing my point of view, he said, not yours.

He was done with the Communists and their talk. Anderson thought of his days in Harlem with Bertrand Russell, the great pacifist living the life of reason, the elegant spokesman for the oppressed. One evening in a club two Negresses had been placed at their table by their hosts. They were both quite handsome and clearly had money and an elevated social upbringing. Anderson talked with one through most of dinner and later he danced with both of them. He remembered the musical laugh and the soft, dark eyes, their languid way of handling a remark. It was a pleasant evening and Anderson felt refreshed and youthful. Afterward Russell accosted him in the street, gripping him by the elbow, his shaggy eyebrows wagging. He was upset about the dancing with the Negro women.

It isn’t done, old chap, he said,
it just isn’t done.

This from a man who thought that children ought to be raised by the state.

Old Lord Russell.

Anderson awoke from his plodding reverie to find the sidewalks full of people. He was working up Orchard Avenue against a tide of people that surged forward, dozens of men and women of varying ages. The density was shocking, as it seemed that most of Franklin County remained sparsely populated. Was there a gathering? There was nothing hard in the glances of the crowd, and they acknowledged Anderson as he edged past, their grinning faces, the hang of their shoulders. No, the faces of these people were lit with the light of happiness. They were just enjoying the afternoon. Where were they going? Where was he going? In the crowd Anderson felt as though everyone else was enjoying the day, feeling a part of life, while he was merely trying to navigate through it. Why did it always seem this way?

When Anderson reached East Court Street he saw the source: the Coca-Cola bottling plant. The afternoon whistle had blown and the shift was departing, happy to be done with their day of work, Anderson thought, returning to their homes. Were they dulled with work, with the strain and repetition, their minds milled down to the nub?
Poor White
was a failure in the end, but watching the people Anderson felt that he had said something in that book that was as true as anything he had ever written. If they could just turn their minds to study, to intellectual application…but why? Why, when such a glorious afternoon lay spread before you, your work done and forgotten?

The American Worker trudges on.

At his boardinghouse there was a note for him slipped under his door.

H
IS OFFICE
was dominated by a trophy buck, eight points, mounted on the wall behind his massive desk. Carter Lee wore a light linen suit of faint blue; his gray fedora sat on the corner of the desk.

This is solid butternut hickory, Carter Lee said, rapping his knuckles on the desk. Nice, ain’t it?

Anderson nodded and smiled.

Did you shoot that deer?

Sure did.

Carter Lee beamed, his cheeks ruddy with pleasure.

Out in the valley, near Staunton? My brother has some land out there with some nice game.

Ever do any hunting around here?

Shoot, Carter Lee said, there ain’t been a deer in Franklin County for forty years. Other than drought years. The need to drink is stronger than the fear of death.

Why’s that?

No real way of knowing, Carter Lee said. This has always been tobacco land around here. Not like they was hunted out. I read your book
Dark Laughter,
you know. Interesting piece of work. You working on a new book?

Anderson was taken aback by the first mention of his work by anyone in Franklin.

No, Anderson said. I’m just here for the story. I have some papers over in Marion and—

I know all about your papers, Carter Lee said, waving his hand. That Buck Fever bit is a real stitch. You ought to put that in a book.

I might, Anderson said. But I’m here to talk about other things.

Carter Lee seemed genuinely saddened by this, his brows dropping in concern.

We sure got some stories in these parts.

That is true, Anderson said. Particularly this conspiracy trial, eh?

Carter Lee scowled and leaned back in his chair. Anderson took a cigarette from the pack that lay on the table and shook one out. Steady, he thought, this fella wants to strong-arm this thing with smiles and cheer. Direct action will kill that. He lit the cigarette and Carter Lee pushed the heavy glass ashtray toward him.

There is an
alleged
conspiracy, Carter Lee said, if that’s what you mean. But you
know
I can’t talk about that.

I understand, Anderson said.

Ain’t nothin’ to be done about that. I’d hate to think we just wasting our time?

You have Willie Carter Sharpe here in custody?

Carter Lee smiled good-naturedly.

Yep. Though not much doin’ of ours. They caught up with her in Saint Louis, hiding out in the garage apartment of a blockader’s mansion. We hauled her back here to Rocky Mount a few days ago.

Can I talk to her?

Nope. You have to wait for the trial like everyone else.

What about the murder of Jeff Richards?

We have some leads, the investigation is under way.

That’s it? He was shot twenty times.

Yep.

Charley Rakes?

Well, poor Charlie was just unlucky. Pneumonia is no way to die.