The Fisher
Man
Part I
Why me?
Elijah
Haycraft
Wilson
County, Kentucky
Six years old.
As a child, there were times
when sitting in the kitchen corner came as a relief. Better there than bent
over receiving my father’s leather belt, or the toe of his boot, or the back
of his hand. One particular time, however, it felt as if I might die. My
mother stood nearby, hands over her eyes. She, too, held back tears.
“Stop crying!” Dad screamed
as his hand struck across my face.
“Honey, please don’t!” Momma
shouted. When he showed her his doubled fist, she backed off.
Even at a young age, I had
begun to endure pain on the outside. It only went on a few minutes until
Dad’s rage subsided and my mother would patch me up. But this time, things
were different. The pain came from inside my body and wouldn’t stop. For
several nights I’d laid awake trying to understand the pinching, biting
sensations inside my ass. With no clue, I had scratched myself raw. Blood on
the sheets and my underwear had enraged the monster inside of my old man. He
slung me into the corner and dared me to move. Each time I cried, he hit me
again.
Snot ran freely from my nose.
Weak and struggling to hold back tears, I pleaded, “Daddy, please. I hurt
inside. I don’t wanna cry. I’m trying, but it feels like there’s bugs in me,
biting me.”
I could smell his hate. He
stared as if I’d lied. His nostrils flared. When his hand drew back, I could
hold it no longer. Vomit exploded out of me onto his pants leg and shoe.
More heaves filled my lap. I couldn’t breathe.
“Dammit,” he screamed. “You
little shit! Look at this mess!”
White worms filled the bile
like small spaghetti. He struck me again, and I got the sleep I so wanted.
* * *
Eight years old.
We lived in a small house on
ten acres that used to be part of Grandpa Haycraft’s farm. My father worked
at a packinghouse twenty-five miles away. My only sibling was a border
collie named Nellie. We grew up together. She and I used to take naps in the
grass on sunny, cold days. In the summer, Nellie would roll over and let me
search her belly for ticks. She even allowed me to swat flies right off her
back. I loved that dog.
Now and then, Dad and Grandpa
would go fishing on Todds Creek at the back of the farm. They brought back
fish, cleaned and ready to be cooked. I recall the first time I went along.
After Grandpa Haycraft rigged a seven foot cane pole with a hook, line and a
lead sinker, Dad guided me through the process of running a fishhook in one
end of a worm and out the other. The worm wiggled. “Is it in pain?” I asked.
He said, “Who knows? Don’t
think about it. Just lower it in the water and let the fish feed on it.”
I did, and one did. When I
jerked the line, the fish became hooked. It struggled, swimming back and
forth, bending the pole. Concerned, I asked, “Don’t it hurt the fish when we
hook it like that?”
Granddaddy Haycraft got all
excited and hollered, “We’ll ask it, boy. Just bring it in before it gets
away.”
When I pulled it out of the
water, Dad held it up by the line. “Good job, son. That’s a nice size
bluegill.” He took it off the hook and I could see it gasping for air. Did
it suffer? Moments later, as he held it down on a hardwood board, Grandpa
used his special spoon to remove scales from the fish. The spoon is one of a
kind. Someone in our Scottish ancestry had crafted it from pure silver. The
metal is all one piece, but it looks like someone took a fancy crucifix, cut
the top portion off and welded on the end of a soup spoon. Even more unique
is the way the wooden handle slides off and the stem is sharpened into a
knife. Grandpa used the blade to cut the fish open and remove its guts. The
little creature continued to gasp for air and its tail flopped back and
forth. I couldn’t understand why the fish didn’t make noise. I asked, “What
does it make us when we do this to a fish?”
Grandpa spit tobacco juice
and said, “Boy, this here’s what man’s been doin’ for a million years. We
catch or hunt somethin’ down, and then we butcher it and eat it.”
My father added, “When you do
this to a fish, Son, it makes you a fisherman.”
After a moment of thought, I
asked, “If we did this to a man, would it make us a man-er-man?”
Grandpa Haycraft looked at my
father and said, “Your boy ain’t right.”
* * *
Eleven years old.
During my middle school
years, kids picked on me. They’d seen me flinch and cower when someone
raised a hand towards me. We were at a tractor pull at the county fair when
my parents overheard some boys calling me a sissy. Next day, Dad took me to
the garden and made me beat the heck out of a scarecrow. It seemed kind of
stupid until I began to imagine I was hitting one of the boys from my
school. I got to hollering and it scared my dog Nellie so bad that she ran
off back to the house. When we were done, it became my chore to rebuild the
scarecrow. After that day, whenever I felt like beating on something, I
wrapped a blanket over a bale of straw in the barn and went off. Nellie got
used to my rage and laid watching. It somehow made sense to release my
emotions while Dad was off working at the packinghouse. Mom walked in on me
one day and seemed to approve. To my surprise, she taught me her own version
of what she called the one-two-three.
Fronting up to me, she said,
“One, bring your fist up slowly as if you’re gonna hit me up under my chin.”
I did. When my fist touched her, she leaned her head backwards and said,
“Now two, before I can recover, hit me low in my belly.”
“You want me to hit you?”
“No, dammit. Just act like
you are. I’m tryin’ to show you something.”
When I brought my fist to her
belly, she doubled over and said, “Now three, grasp both your hands together
in one big fist and come down on the back of my head.”
As if in slow motion, I came
down and she went to the floor. Looking up, she said, “At this point, I’m
done and you can kick the tar out of me if you want.”
We practiced several more
times. I asked, “Who taught you to do this?”
She grinned and said, “My
mother. Believe it or not, Elijah, girls do fight.”
“Oh yeah, then why don’t you
beat Dad up for me?”
“Elijah, knowing how to fight
is one thing. Knowin’ when and who to fight is another. I seen a boy hit a
girl out back of her daddy’s barn once. When I went at him, he hurt me real
bad. Pulling back her hair, Mamma showed me a scar on the side of her face,
close to her ear. “He hit me so hard right here that I couldn’t see. While I
was down on the ground, he kicked me until he broke two of my ribs. My
brother beat hell out of him the next day, but it sure took me a while to
get over that whoopin’... and honey, your daddy’s bigger and a whole lot
meaner than that guy was.”
“So you just let him be
mean?”
“That’s not fair, Elijah.
Only way for me to stop your daddy would be to kill him. And I sure don’t
wanna do that. I don’t want you and me to be alone. Believe it or not, mean
as he is, your daddy loves me and you both. He’d protect us no matter what.
It’s just that when he drinks, his own upbringin’ comes out and he becomes
an angry man.”
“What’s that mean, Momma?”
“Honey, it’s too complicated
for a boy your age to be worryin’ about. You’ll figure it out some day.”
I stood there thinking,
Shame Momma’s brother had to get killed overseas. Maybe he could beat hell
out of my dad. When I said, “Sure wish I had me a brother,” Mamma
cried.
From that day forward, I
stacked my straw bales so that the top one hung out several inches. It
became my imaginary chin. Boy did I wear me out some blanket covered straw
heads.
* * *
Thirteen years old
For over a year, I helped my
father restore his father’s old Cessna airplane. Grandpa Haycraft had been a
pilot in the Vietnam War. After the war, he bought the used Cessna from
someone. He taught my father to fly well enough to get his pilot’s license.
I never knew the full story, but apparently Grandpa had nearly crashed the
plane while trying to do barrel rolls with my father and his two sisters on
board. After that, the plane sat in the barn, slowly rotting. When Grandpa
died, my father and his sisters sold the farm, paid off debts, and divided
up what little the old man had. My aunts had no interest in the Cessna, so
Dad decided to restore it. I remember how we drug it up on a farm wagon,
high enough for the wings to clear fences, and then pulled it from Grandpa’s
barn to ours. The engine had locked up over time. Dad and I tore it down and
completely rebuilt it. He also insisted on reinforcing brackets and supports
so he could “play around in the sky.” He apparently wanted to do some of
what his father had tried to do. When I asked about the day they almost
crashed, Dad said Grandpa stayed inverted too long and should have known
that the gravity fed fuel system wasn’t designed for that. I dreamed of the
day I would go up with Dad and learn to fly.
One night, my friend Billy
Henderson had walked the half mile from his house to mine. That’s a long
walk for him considering he walks with a limp. His right leg is twisted.
Some sort of birth defect. My parents had gone somewhere and I was alone.
Billy knew we were working on the plane and wanted to see it, so I took him
out to the barn. Nellie followed along. Billy and I climbed into the cockpit
and it surprised me that Dad had left the key in the ignition. I figured
he’d been drinking whiskey the night before and simply forgot. “Can you
start it up?” Billy asked.
“Dad would kill me.”
“Would he even know?”
I considered and said, “Only
for a few seconds.” The engine turned over slowly and then ignited, filling
the barn with noise and smoke. Billy shouted, “Hot damn. We’re goin’ to
war!”
I shut off the engine. “Oh
no! Now I’m gonna have to air out the barn or he’ll smell it.”
As I spoke, my father stepped
in through the doorway. “Get the hell out of my plane!” Nellie sensed his
anger and snuck out the door. My friend and I came off the plane as Dad
stood shaking his head. “Billy, you best take your ass on home.”
Billy gave me a look and then
left without saying a word. Dad opened a cabinet on the wall above his
workbench and removed a bottle of whiskey. I remained frozen as he stood in
the doorway guzzling and monitoring Billy. Often, waiting for an ass
whooping from my father was as bad as the actual beating.
“I’m sorry, Dad. I was just—”
“Don’t you even talk to me,
boy!” he shouted as he put down the bottle and picked up a rope from the
workbench. While he made a slipknot, he said, “Take off that shirt.”
“But Dad—”
“Every time you open your
mouth, I’m gonna add another lick.”
He put the noose around my
wrists, tying me to one of the vertical six-by-six barn supports. With my
back to him, I stood there needing to pee. I turned to see him taking
another swig of the whiskey. Then he removed his belt.
I closed my eyes and waited.
Suddenly, he lashed me across the back. It shocked me like no licking I’d
ever taken before. Trying to grip the post, I held my breath. Another
lashing came before I could fully recover from the first. I wanted to hold
my piss, but another lash came and hot urine filled my drawers and ran down
my legs. I needed to cry out but knew if I did it would only add to my
agony. In my mind, I began to chant what my mother had once said. It’s
only a sensation. It’s only a sensation. It’s only....
By the time he finished, my
head leaned against the post. My arms were stretched and my knees were on
the dirt floor. Throughout the abuse, my father never said a word that I
recall. I hung there numb, waiting for more, when his whiskey bottle clanged
against the metal wall. Things got quiet. Seconds passed and I didn’t know
if he had left or not. My mind allowed the return of senses and I began to
feel the pains of my injuries. The light in the barn went out, and I could
hear his feet in the gravel outside. The smell of cigarette smoke drifted
in.
While I wanted him to release
me, it came as a relief that he went away. After what seemed like forever, I
heard the slam of the screen door to the back of the house. Relaxing my head
against the post, I wondered, Is this what it felt
like for Jesus?
A whisper inside my head
said, Yes.
The floodlight on the front
of the barn bled in enough for me to see. As the sound of a distant freight
train subsided, the night became deadly silent, and I began to hear the high
pitch buzzing sounds of mosquitos. One by one, they found the blood on my
back. I cried until Nellie came in and started licking my wounds.
* * *
Fourteen years old.
The Burton twins, Allen and
Barry, lived just up the road from us. First week of the summer break
between middle and high school, they invited me to camp out on a flat spot
next to Todds Creek on the back of their place. Their father had given us
permission to explore all we wanted as long as we didn’t leave the farm. We
hiked in, set up camp and fished for a while. During the two weeks prior, I
had been sneaking a small amount of whiskey from different bottles that my
father had hidden in several different places. It amounted to a full pint
bottle. That night, after pigging out on fried bluegills, we began sipping.
Half the bottle had us dancing around the campfire and howling at the moon.
At some point, our tired butts crashed for the night.
Next morning, we slept in
until the rising sun heated up our tent. After a brunch of canned bean soup,
the twins took me out on a hike to teach me how to identify ginseng. They
said their daddy digs it in the fall and sells it for a whole lot of money.
They also told me that if someone got caught digging their daddy’s ginseng,
he might shoot them. During our search, they began talking about how they’d
love to search the woods near the thoroughbred horse farms, since rich folks
don’t need to hunt ginseng.
Allen said, “You do know that
if you cross Todds Creek, it’s not that far to the Proctor Estate.”
“I seen the entrance,” I
replied, “but that’s about it. Sometimes I hear a helicopter back that way.
Dad says that place belongs to a politician that he don’t like.”
Barry said, “Our daddy says
it’s odd how people say they don’t like the man, but he keeps on gettin’
re-elected.”
Allen asked, “Hey, you wanna
go see it?”
“See what?” I replied.
“The Proctor place. Me and
Barry know just how to get there. We snuck up to the fence one day while we
were out huntin’ mushrooms.”
“Really? But we’re not
supposed to leave the farm. What if your daddy comes back here to check up
on us?”
“Hell, he ain’t gonna cover
the whole farm. We’ll just say we were out looking for arrowheads.”
We returned to the camp, ate
some snacks and then started our adventure. I imagine we looked like three
commandos hiking off with our .22 caliber rifles, canteens and backpacks.
Recent rains had widened the creek at our camp, so we headed upstream to a
spot where we could cross on a fallen tree. The water ran swift and clear
over large rocks. We took turns balancing our way across and then headed up
into the woods.
Barry led the way up that
hill of old, tall timber. Heavenly streaks of sunlight penetrated through
the high canopy of leaves. Blue jays screamed at our intrusion of their
woods. Occasionally, I glanced back at how things would look on our return
to the camp. In a matter of fifteen minutes, we were sneaking along near the
backside of the Proctor Estate. “This is where we were before,” Allen
whispered.
Barry said, “Sure is a lot
more leaves now.”
Uphill and to the right of an
old wooden horse barn, I could see the big white mansion. A four-rail wooden
fence ran along the back of the property. About twelve foot of clearing lie
between the fence and the woods we were in. The edge of the woods grew thick
with underbrush. “You sure they don’t have dogs?” I asked quietly.
Allen replied, “Never saw one
last time.”
As he spoke, the sound of
voices caught our attention. Barry used his rifle scope to look up toward
the house. “Hot damn!” he whispered loudly. “It’s a woman. Y’all stay here.
I’m gonna find a better view.”
Allen and I watched as Barry
crouched, rifle in hand maneuvering along the slope to an opening. Seconds
later, Barry lowered his gun, looked our way and motioned for us to join
him. When we got there, he got close and said, “You ain’t gonna believe what
I just saw. She ain’t wearin’ no top.”
Side by side, we all three
had our guns up, using our scopes to check out the backside of a tall woman
with long dark hair. I could barely see her bikini bottom. As we waited in
anticipation, a whitetail deer that had been bed down close by jumped up and
started snorting as it bolted through the woods. The woman, now joined by a
man, wet from the pool, turned toward the noise. Her boobs were awesome.
“Oowee!” Allen spoke louder
than he should have.
“Who’s out there?” the man
shouted.
We all three turned and took
off running downhill making more noise than the deer. No one spoke or
stopped until we reached the creek. Bent over, catching his breath, Allen
said, “Sorry guys. Just ain’t never seen anything like that.”
I stood staring back in the
direction we’d just come from. “One thing for sure. They know we were
there.”
We crossed Todds Creek and
walked the rest of the way back to camp. That night it rained like cats and
dogs. We hunkered in the tent finishing off the rest of Dad’s whiskey. I
fell asleep thinking about those boobs I’d seen.
By daylight, the rising water
had started up over the creek bank. We packed up and hiked home.
Two days later, the Sheriff
and a man in a black suit came to our house. Dad wasn’t home. None of us had
a cell phone back then, so mom left a note and went with me to the Sheriff’s
Station down at the Wilson County Court House. Allen and Barry’s mother,
Flora May, sat in the lobby with their ten-year-old sister in the seat next
to her. She looked up at my mother and asked, “Do you know what’s going on?”
“No, I don’t,” Mom replied.
“But I sure do hope to find out before William gets here.”
I asked, “Are Barry and Allen
here?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Burton answered
with a smirk. “They got them and their daddy in a room back there. What the
hell did you boys get into?”
Before I could answer, Mom
and I were led to a room. The man in the black suit was from the government.
Turns out, there were cameras at the Proctor Estate. They had a picture of
me, Allen and Barry, standing side by side in the woods. They wanted to know
why we had our guns pointing at Senator Proctor’s house. I clammed up, not
wanting to say what we were looking at with my mother sitting there.
Suddenly, the door opened and in stepped my father. “I wanna know what the
hell’s goin’ on here?”
The man introduced himself
and then handed Dad the photograph. “Sir, these boys were caught on video at
the Proctor Estate. Their guns are pointed at the house. We need an
explanation.”
Dad stepped closer. I could
smell whiskey. “Boy, you got five seconds.”
“Dad, I can explain, but not
in front of Mom.”
Allen and Barry told me later
that they got an ass whooping for leaving the farm and for pointing their
guns at that house to stare at the woman’s tits. My old man took me to the
barn because he’d figured out that I had been stealing his whiskey.
* * *
Fifteen years old.
One afternoon, Billy, his
sister Sissy and I were walking down the road. Two guys from my school, Brad
Stone and David Weeper, were up on Brad’s porch, about 150 feet from the
road. Brad’s big, mean dog sat watching us. As we passed, Brad hollered out,
“Look at that freak! Boy, can’t you walk like a normal human being?”
“Ignore ‘em,” I spoke softly
as we kept walking.
“Why?” Sissy asked. “Why
should we let ‘em talk about Billy like that?”
“Because,” I replied,
“They’re just punks. And besides, I don’t wanna mess with Brad’s dog.”
“He’s right,” Billy spoke.
“Same dog that chewed up little Jimmy Higdon.”
Sissy stood there rubbing the
back of her right hand, and then her face when David spoke loudly. “Hey
Billy! I’d sure like to suck your sister’s tits and do her up the ass!”
Billy couldn’t help himself.
When he gave ‘em the finger, Brad stood up and hollered, “Go get ‘em,
Bruno!”
Damn dog came running out
across that yard, barking and growling. It didn’t worry me as much as it did
Sissy. She got all scared and took off. The dog caught up and knocked her
down. It was damn near dragging her by her hair when I started kickin’ it
with my pointed-toed boots. It let loose, and we all ran home. At
suppertime, I told my father what had happened.
“Are you shittin’ me? Is that
the same dog what attacked the Higdon boy?”
“Yes, sir.”
Mom said, “Dog shoulda been
put down.”
“Only reason they didn’t,”
Dad growled, “is because them people are somehow related to the Sheriff.”
Later that night, after Mom
went to bed, Dad came to my room. “Get up boy. We got work to do.”
I had no idea what he meant,
but pulled on my jeans and boots and followed his orders. When I climbed
into the cab of his old pickup, Dad handed me a plastic garbage bag and
said, “Put it in the floorboard.”
The heavy bag stunk terribly.
Afraid to ask questions, I did as told. Before we reached the blacktop, he
finished off a half-pint of whiskey and threw the bottle out the window near
our mailbox. “Tomorrow morning, I want you to pick that up and put it in the
garbage, ya hear?”
“Yes sir,” I replied.
He lit a cigarette and began
to explain. “Boy, there comes a time when a man has to take things into his
own hands. Those pricks, Stone and Weeper, they crossed the line today. I’ve
seen that girl Sissy and she’s got all the makin’s of a woman. I can
understand them boys thinkin’ about doin’ stuff to her. That’s normal at
their age. But shoutin’ it out in front of her like that ain’t right. Damned
disrespectful. If’n her daddy had heard ‘em talkin’ that way, they might get
buried in a ravine on the back of his farm. And what really pisses me off is
them a sicin’ that dog on ya’ll. Me and you are gonna teach ‘em a little
lesson on that.”
It only took about five
minutes for us to reach the road that Brad Stone lived on. Dad drove by
slowly and we could barely see Brad’s dog lying up on the porch. “That the
dog that came after ya’ll?”
“I’d say it is,” I replied.
“Didn’t see any others.”
A quarter mile down, Dad
parked the truck behind the Little Rock Baptist Church. When he opened his
door, he said, “Bring that bag with you boy. That there’s our bait.”
We walked at a pretty good
pace until nearing Brad Stones house. There were no other houses within
sight. I followed my old man into the wet ditch on the side of the road.
“This ought to be close enough,” he whispered. “Take that hambone out. Stick
the bag in your pocket. We’ll need it later. I’m a guessing that dog’s gonna
catch wind. When he does, he’ll come off the porch and head our way.”
“Then what?” I asked.
“Don’t you worry about that
right now. Just do as I say.”
The hambone was nasty.
Maggots were all over it. I’d say daddy had dug it out of the trashcan. I
didn’t want maggots in my pocket. When I started shaking the bag, Dad
punched me in the chest and held his finger to his lips.
The sound of a vehicle drew
our attention. We squatted low in the ditch. Moisture absorbed through the
knees of my jeans. When the car had passed, Dad took the hambone and held it
up with one hand. After about a minute the dog hadn’t moved. Dad licked the
index finger on his other hand and held it up in the air to judge the wind
direction. He motioned with his head for me to follow. We quietly moved
further down the ditch. When we were almost to the Stone’s mailbox, he
stopped and held the meat up again. Hungry mosquitoes buzzed their
satisfaction at our arrival. Seconds later, the dog raised its head. Dad
grinned and whispered, “You know its name?”
“Bruno,” I whispered back.
“Good.”
The dog climbed to its feet,
stretched, and then slowly came off the porch. In a way, I admired my
father’s composure. While he squatted like a statue, my heart pounded and I
literally shook. It reminded me of my first deer hunt. Instead of using the
gravel driveway, the dog came straight out across the yard. Same path it
took earlier in the day. As it drew near, it slowed down like a cat in
stalk. At about thirty feet, it stopped and began a low growl, its white
teeth glowing in the dark. Dad held up the hambone with one hand while using
his other to pull out his folding hunter’s knife.
Oh no!
He’s gonna kill it.
When he held the knife out, I
knew he needed me to open it. I flipped out the five inch blade and handed
it back. Dad spoke quietly, “Bruno. Bruno. Come on boy. Come and get this
meat.”
The dog’s head tilted. After
a few seconds, its ears rose up straight and it stepped closer, tongue
flicking in and out. He wanted that meat. My father laid the hambone down in
front of him, on the edge of the ditch, but held on to it with his left
hand. “Good boy. Come and get it.”
The dog never even paid
attention to me. When it reached the meat, it first licked and then began
tugging. Dad dropped the knife and grabbed Bruno’s collar with his right
hand. The dog went off, growling and tugging, its hind paws throwing moist
dirt. Letting go of the meat, Dad used both hands. “Get the knife, Eli,” he
whispered loudly. Stab it behind the ribs.”
“I don’t wanna kill it, Dad.”
“Do it, boy. Now!” Apparently
the dog couldn’t bark as it struggled against Dad’s tight hold. “Do it,
dammit or I’m gonna kick your ass.”
I mumbled, “Sorry, Bruno,”
while pushing the whole blade in and downward, ripping it open. The warm
smell of flowing blood filled my nostrils as the dog let out a muffled
whimper, jerked several times, slowly stopped tugging, and then stretched
out. My father released his grip. “Good job, son. Damn good job.”
Sitting on my heels, I stared
at the dead dog and then the house, thinking, how would I feel if someone
did this to Nellie? I wiped the bloody blade off in the grass, and said,
“Let’s go.”
“We ain’t done yet, boy. I
want you to take that knife and start skinnin’ this thing out. Just like we
do a deer. Only I want you to leave the head on it. I’ll keep watch.”
Are you kidding me?
Confused, I proceeded to do as told. The job seemed morbid, but at least the
dog was dead and felt no pain. Mosquitoes tormented me the entire twenty
minutes it took to turn Bruno into what looked like a canine version of a
bearskin rug. I finished with blood stains on my neck and face from
swatting.
“That’ll work, son. Now we’re
gonna sneak up there and lay it out on the hood of that shiny new pickup.
Tomorrow morning, they’ll find it.”
The next day, all hell broke
loose. The sheriff and a deputy came to school and took me out in handcuffs.
Killing the dog bothered me.
Mother seemed to notice and asked me what was wrong. When I explained, she
said, “Honey, you know your daddy kills animals for a living.”
A couple days later, she kept
me home from school and took me to where my father worked. The people there
gave us both a yellow hard hat and then led us on a tour of the slaughter
process. As we approached what they called ‘the kill floor’, I could hear
the non-stop squealing and mooing of pigs and cattle as they waited their
turns to be slaughtered.
From an overhead catwalk, Mom
and I stared down at my father’s work area. “Dad!” I called to him. He
turned for only a second to look up and acknowledge our presence. He wore a
yellow apron and tall rubber boots and literally stood in six inches of
blood. His jaw bulged with chewing tobacco as he steeled his knife and then
continued to cut the juggler veins of hogs at the rate of 400 per hour. The
reality of what he did didn’t seem to concern him at all. The overall
butchering process consisted of an assembly line—dead hogs hanging on a
rail, moving around the room as workers cut this or that from the carcasses.
Men and women chitchatted among themselves while mindlessly butchering
animals. Hog guts and fetuses were removed and discarded as nonchalantly as
a barber cutting hair. It truly was a kill floor. At a distance, I could see
cattle hanging and meandering around the room while being butchered in much
the same process. I stood there thinking, No one considers this
when they buy meat.
Mom put her hand on my
shoulder and said, “Eli, this is an ugly process that your daddy
participates in every day, just so people who claim to be animal lovers can
with clear conscious, eat meat. And honey, these animals never did anything
bad to anyone.... Can you understand now why your father had no problem
killing a dog that had already chewed up one kid and was about to do the
same to your friend Sissy?”
That night I lay in bed
wondering if God favors the life of one animal over another.
* * *
Fifteen-sixteen years old.
Now and then, I spent the
night with my grandparents on my mother’s side. One night in September,
Grandpa Smith and I stood outside in the dark, next to the barn. He had just
snuck me what he thought was my first taste of whiskey. We split a half
pint. Me feeling all brave and stuff, I started talking bad about my father,
and how mean he could be, and how mad it made me when he talked down on my
mother. Guess I got a little loud when I said, “He ain’t nothing but a no
good son-of-a-bitch, and I’d like to go home right this minute and—”
“Whoa, now,” Grandpa
interrupted. “You need to calm down. Your daddy hears you talkin’ like that,
he’ll take to wearin’ you out.”
I turned, started taking a
piss, and said, “Oh well. One of these days, I might just take to wearin’
him out.”
Grandpa waited until I zipped
up and then took ahold of me with both of his big hands on my shoulders.
“Now you listen to me, Elijah. If your daddy gets outta line with you or
your momma, you let me take care of him. And if you got somethin’ to say
about him, believe you’d be better off sayin’ it to me.”
“Sure,” I replied, “and what
if you ain’t around when I got somethin’ to say?”
For a few seconds, Grandpa
seemed lost for words. He took out a pouch of chewing tobacco, made a wad
and stuck it in his mouth. After about a minute, he spit and said, “Look up
yonder, boy. You see that star out a piece from the big dipper?”
I nodded.
“That there’s the North Star.
She’s always up there, right in that exact same spot, day or night. Even
when you can’t see it, she’s there. When I’ve had me drink or two and your
grandma goes to gittin’ on my nerves, I find it’s a whole lot better if I
just come out here and talk to that star.”
Not long after that, I sat on
the back steps, frustrated, watching yellow maple leaves float to the
ground. Nellie came trotting in from the field in a hurry. She had gotten
old and couldn’t run like she used to. For the past year, she had been
unable to hear me calling her name. Instead of heading straight to the
house, she ran the edges of the barn and then followed the well-used path on
up to where I sat. As I greeted her with a head rub, more movement at the
barn caught my attention. Two scraggly coyotes stood staring our way. “Were
they chasing you?”
The next evening, Dad and I
watched as Nellie limped along the edge of the garden spot looking for a
place to poop. I said, “Last night, the coyotes were chasin’ ‘er.”
Dad adjusted his cap and
said, “Reckon we oughta put ‘er down before that happens.”
“Couldn’t we just build a
kennel with a top on it to keep ‘em out?”
When Dad hesitated to answer,
I could tell he wasn’t enjoying the conversation. He loved that old dog as
much as I did. Finally, he said, “Nellie’s goin’ on seventeen. That’s way
over a hundred in dog years. She ain’t never been caged up. Wouldn’t seem
right to do it now.”
Tears ran down my cheeks.
“I’m gonna miss her.”
Dad put his hand on my
shoulder. “We’re all gonna miss ‘er, Son.” After a few seconds, he said,
“Tomorrow, when you get home from school, I want you to go ahead and dig a
grave. We’ll take care of it when I get home.”
I remained, watching Nellie,
as my father walked to the house. Later that night, I couldn’t sleep, and so
I went outside, found Nellie and fed her a half bag of Animal Crackers. It
killed me that she couldn’t hear my voice, telling her how much I loved her.
There was no way I could go
to school the next day. Mom and I talked at length about Nellie. Like Dad,
she convinced me that putting her down would be the right thing to do. We
both were tore up just talking about it. She said, “Elijah, if you want,
I’ll dig the hole.”
“No. Hell no. I’ll do it.”
Nellie napped in the sun
nearby as I cried while using a long handled spade to dig the hole. When Dad
got home, he wasted no time. Seeing his .22 caliber pistol put a knot in my
stomach. He put a leash on Nellie and led her to the gravesite I’d created
in the grassy spot where she and I used to nap in the sun. Nellie had no
clue as she sat next to the grave. I looked back and saw Mom staring out the
kitchen window. Dad rubbed Nellie’s head between both his hands and said,
“You’ve been a good one, girl. Gonna miss you.” He turned to me. “Okay, boy.
Say your goodbyes.”
He didn’t know that I’d been
crying, hugging and saying my goodbyes for hours. “Go ahead, Dad. Just get
it over with.”
He seemed surprised that I
would be ready. “Oh no. She’s been more your dog than anyone else’s.” He
cocked the hammer on the gun and offered it to me.
“No, Dad. I don’t wanna do
it.”
“I didn’t ask if you wanted
to. Just take the damn gun. Lay the muzzle right behind her ear and pull the
trigger. She won’t feel a thing.”
I took the gun and held it
right where Dad said to. I had killed a lot of animals in my life, but this
felt different. “Goodbye, Nellie. I love you.”
When I pulled the trigger,
she fell immediately to her side and began jerking. Without thinking, I
cocked the hammer, stuck the gun to her head and pulled the trigger again.
As I started to cock it again, Dad grabbed the gun. “That’s enough, son.
She’s done.” Nellie’s body stretched out straight and then relaxed.
Losing Nellie sucked. I often
found myself, outside, alone in the dark and missing my best friend. One
night, while coyotes howled in the distance, I looked up to Grandpa’s star
and complained. “Why did Nellie have to take a bullet while the coyotes get
to live on?” That same whisper that answered yes to me in the barn,
when I asked about Jesus, came again.
Elijah, think about how a
Coyote’s life ends.
On a Sunday morning, as I sat
next to Mom at Church, Preacher Herman talked about how suffering the loss
of a loved one is often self-inflicted pain. He said, “We tend to want to
live in the past and our soul suffers because we desire something that
cannot happen.” His eyes fell on me when he said, “Each day, God gives us
hope. If we just pay attention to the present and not the past, something
beautiful comes along and it heals the heart.” I prayed for something
beautiful in my life.
That night, I dowsed Nellies
doghouse with gasoline and burned it. As I stood watching the flames, my
parents rushed out of the house. When the door slammed, I turned expecting a
scolding. Instead, Dad said, “Thank you, son. I’ve been wantin’ to do that
myself.” Mom just nodded.
Days passed and my unanswered
prayers for something beautiful diminished. Memories of Nellie were again
haunting my quiet moments. Living each day in wait for a new beginning was
not easy.
My parents talked me into a
long-weekend camping trip to a place called Natural Bridge State Park. About
an hour from home, my mother loved the place because it got her out of the
house and she got to talk to people. Dad liked it because he enjoyed sitting
around a fire with men who drank as much as he did.
A girl named, Kelly, from
Lexington, had come there with her parents. She wasn’t the prettiest girl
I’d ever seen, but her smile and her laughter lit me up. She had beautiful
long, wavy red hair. We took hikes together. On the third day, as we climbed
up the mountain, Kelly reached for my hand. Her touch felt electric. No one
other than my parents and grandparents had ever held my hand. I wondered if
it meant as much to her as it did to me. High up on a ridge in that forest,
I got my first kiss. Kelly healed my heart. After that weekend, I called her
up on the phone at least three nights a week. At our house, we had no
internet connection. Therefore, Kelly and I did it the old fashioned way. We
mailed each other our wallet sized school pictures with a note written on
the back. Weeks and months went by in anticipation of seeing her again.
Just when I thought I’d found
a girl who actually cared about me, Kelly told me she’d gotten sick and
might not live. At first, I thought it could be a lie, some cheap way of
breaking off our relationship. I was wrong. We continued to talk, but I only
got to see her one more time.
In the end, my father would
not drive me to Lexington to see Kelly in the hospital. With only a
learner’s permit for driving, I considered stealing the truck and going
anyway. Mom sensed my intentions and talked me out of it. When Kelly died, I
wanted to go to the funeral. Dad said, “You barely knew the girl.” More than
all the beatings he’d given me, I hated him for that. He had no idea what
Kelly meant to me.
That night, after Dad had
fallen asleep, Mom came to me with an envelope. “This came in the mail
today. Didn’t want to give it to you in front of your father.”
I hugged her neck and went to
the back steps. My fingers shook, opening the letter from Kelly.
Dear Elijah,
I told my mother not to send
this letter until I was gone. When I told her how you said that you were mad
at God for letting me get sick, she said we’re like all other animals. We’re
stuck with what the world puts forth, be it good, bad, or ugly. She says how
we react to what nature puts us through may be what we get judged on in the
end. I don’t know if she’s right, but at this point it no longer matters.
I’m glad your father wouldn’t
bring you here. Don’t want you to see me like this. Please remember me the
way you remember your sweet dog, Nellie. Remember the good things!!! When I
think of you, I think about hikes in the mountains, and the beautiful
moments we had on top of that ridge. I will take your smile and our kiss to
Heaven.
While I never got to
experience love like most, I do believe that you love me. And for that I
LOVE YOU ELIJAH.
Kelly Armstrong
After reading the letter, I
could hardly breathe. The back door opened and my mother stepped out. She
sat down and wrapped me in her arms. I handed her the letter, she read it,
and we cried together. “It’s a beautiful letter, Eli. May I show it to your
father?”
“No. He wouldn’t understand.”
“Honey, I believe you
underestimate your father. Despite all his flaws, there’s a sweet guy in
there somewhere. Perhaps if he reads this, he will understand how much Kelly
meant to you.”
“I don’t think he cares.”
“Please, Elijah?”
“Okay,” I agreed for my
mother. “But I want it back tonight.”
Mom stood and said, “You go
for a walk. After he reads the letter, I’ll leave it on the kitchen table.”
The next morning, during
breakfast, it pissed me off that Dad didn’t mention the letter. He went
about his bacon, eggs and biscuits without a word. My appetite disappeared.
When I stood to walk away, he looked up, wiped tears from his face and said,
“Believe today’s a good day for me to start teaching you how to fly the
Cessna.”
I looked at my mother. She
winked.
* * *
Seventeen years old.
It’s not easy standing in
front of the class, senior English, dry-mouthed and dreading the task of
presenting a personal narrative. Old Mrs. Effinger had said, “Pick something
unique about your life that people might find interesting.” For over a week
I had planned to talk about flying my father’s renovated Cessna. That idea
got ruined when Brad Stone did his speech on flying a Learjet that belonged
to his uncle who trained thoroughbreds. I considered not speaking and taking
a zero, but knew if I did, my father would go off.
“Elijah Haycraft,” Miss
Effinger spoke from the back of the room. “You’ve delayed long enough. We’re
running out of time.”
On my way to the podium, I
grabbed a flyswatter from the teacher’s desk. “The title of my speech is,
Pain.” Holding the flyswatter up vertical, I said, “We all know how to use
one of these. When a fly bugs us, we go after it. We do the same to
mosquitoes, and don’t we all step on ants and roaches? Darn near anything
that bugs us, we kill, and we do it so often that killing becomes natural.”
Smacking the swatter on the podium, I said, “Question is, does the fly feel
pain? And does anyone even care?”
Sherry Brown, in the front
row, said, “Nooo, it’s a fly.”
“Ah, but what if it’s not a
fly? What if it’s something bigger?” Reaching back to the teacher’s desk, I
grabbed a rubber mouse and her wooden gavel. Someone had placed the mouse in
her desk drawer the day before to scare her. Holding the mouse up by its
tail, I said, “My mother goes after one of these with a broom. I’d rather
use a hammer.” Laying the mouse on the podium, I smacked it, thump, thump,
thump, three quick times with the gavel. Several in the room jumped,
including Mrs. Effinger. I asked, “Does a mouse feel pain? How about a pig
or a cow or a chicken? We kill ‘em every day for food. We do it quickly, but
the question remains, do they feel pain or think of it the same way we do?
Do we even care?” Lifting the gavel again, I said, “And what if I miss the
mouse and hit my hand?”
I came down twice on my left
hand with the gavel. It sounded about like hitting the rubber mouse. When I
took a deep breath, Mrs. Effinger threw up her hands. “Elijah Haycraft!
There will be no more of that!”
While she lowered herself
into a desk in the back of a row, blood ran onto the podium from skin
hanging off the knuckle of my thumb. I exhaled slowly, grinned and
continued. “As children, our mothers tell us that it hurts when we fall. So,
we cry and our mammas give us attention. But then, daddy says, ‘Don’t cry
boy. You ain’t hurt. I can give you somethin’ to cry about,’ and he does,
often. Not sure about you guys, but eventually, I learned not to cry. Over
time, pain became just a different kind of sensation.” Looking down at
Sherry Brown, I said, “Shocking, but somehow interesting.”
As she frowned, someone in
the class said, “You’re sick.”
My friend, Billy Johnson,
shook his head. Brad Stone and David Weeper sat in the back of the room
rotating their index fingers around the side of their heads like they
thought I was crazy. Mrs. Effinger tilted her head and asked, “Elijah, are
you sure you want to talk about this?”
“I’ll stop now, ma’am, if
you’ll give me an A.”
“You know I can’t do that.”
By then my adrenaline had
begun to flow and I was having a good time speaking. “Then I guess I’ll have
to continue.” I thought for a few seconds. “We all go fishing. Everybody I
know uses live bait even though it has to hurt like hell when we put a hook
through the worm or cricket or minnow or whatever. And no one ever seems to
have a problem with butchering a fish alive. My father says it makes us a
fisherman. But where do we draw the line? What is it that makes a psychopath
advance from a fish to a man?”
Sherry turned and said, “Mrs.
Effinger, do we have to listen to this?”
Mrs. Effinger said, “Elijah,
your subject is a little frightening.”
I replied, “Do you know how
boring it was when she talked about her first experience riding a bicycle?
I’m trying to talk about how we all learn to kill things without even
considering the pain we inflict. She might find it uncomfortable. I find it
... interesting.” I held my injured hand up. Blood dripped.
“Oh my God!” echoed across
the room.
Mrs. Effinger nearly fell
trying to get out of the desk while shouting, “That’s it, Elijah! You’re
done!”
David Weeper said, “I told
you all, this guy ain’t right. Now you can see why Sheriff Johnson told us
to stay away from him.”
The class continued their
snickers, snarls, and innuendos as Mrs. Effinger dabbed my hand with tissues
from her desk and then applied a Band-Aid. It reminded me of the way my
mother fixed me up after I’d done something wrong, and my father had beaten
the heck out of me. When Mrs. Effinger finished, I whispered, “Thank you.”
Quietly, she said, “Elijah, I
believe we ought to speak with a counselor about your issues.”
“Issues?”
“Yes, dear. Everyone knows
you’ve had a troubling childhood and about your dealings with the law. I
understand your need to talk, but I’m afraid you might upset some of your
classmates.”
The bell rang, and I stood up
to leave. Several students gathered near the door. “What about their
issues?” I asked while stepping away.
On my approach, Sherry Brown
moved over to block the door. “How’s your pain, Elijah?”
Purposely flaring my
nostrils, I said, “Are you trying to bug me?”
Her forehead wrinkled and she
stepped aside. “Hey!” one of the guys shouted as I left the room.
Billy worked to catch up with
me in the hallway. “Slow down. What the hell’s wrong with you?”
Without stopping I said,
“It’s lunchtime. I’m hungry.”
The two of us sat alone at a
table on the outside terrace. I had become accustomed to a few people
staring, but suddenly it seemed they all were. Billy read my discomfort.
“What the hell do you expect? You took a gavel and busted your own damn
hand.”
“Oh well. It’s my hand.”
“Come on Elijah. The
Sheriff’s done told the whole county to watch out for you. Now they’re gonna
believe you’re some kind of psycho. And no wonder. You said pain can be
interesting.”
“And?”
“And it makes you sound
creepy. Like you’re one of those freaks that gets off on pain.”
I bit through a carrot stick,
and said, “What’s wrong with that?”
“You’re trying to be funny,
right?”
“No. Not really. I’m just
saying—”
Before I could finish, Brad
Stone and David Weeper stepped to the table. They had another guy with them,
an underclassman that had only been at our school for a few weeks. I didn’t
know his name. “Stand up,” David demanded.
I remained seated and said,
“What’s your problem?”
Brad said, “You threatened
Sherry. We all heard you.”
David spoke loud. “Should we
call the Sheriff before this moron goes off on Sherry?”
Nearly everyone eating
outside stood to see what was going on. Someone hollered, “Kick his ass!” My
gut churned as I began evaluating. I didn’t care if they called the Sheriff.
I’d dealt with him before. His deputies roughed me up more than once. Brad
and David didn’t really worry me. They were all mouth. But this new guy
looked stout. His neck barely protruded his collared shirt. Father had once
warned me that it’s hard to knock out a man with no neck. The guy stared at
my eyes and asked, “What are you looking at, Freako?”
“Guess that’s what I’m trying
to figure out.”
His lip curled as he spoke
again. “What’s with the long hair? You two’s a couple of them gay boys,
ain’t cha?”
Billy said, “How about y’all
go on so we can eat our lunch.”
David shoved him in the
shoulder and said, “How about you shut your mouth before we kick your
ass.”
The hairs on my arms began to
stiffen. I rose slowly and spoke softly, “Believe you should think twice
about puttin’ your hands on my friend.”
“Oh yeah? What if I do?”
With the crowd closing in, I
said, “Come over here and I’ll tell you.”
Asshole grinned and said,
“Really?”
As David came around the
table, Brad said, “Watch him, he might have a knife.”
I held my hands up to show
him I didn’t. No Neck remained quiet but seemed to be sizing me up. I leaned
toward David’s ear and whispered. His face turned red, his eyes bulged.
Terrified, he backed off. Moving towards me, the new guy barked, “What the
hell? You afraid of this creep?”
He hit me hard, right in the
nose. My world exploded into darkness and sparkling stars as I fell
backwards over a chair and then to the ground. Blinded, I sat on my heels
expecting to get kicked or pounded. It didn’t happen. Vision began to return
as I caught warm blood from my nose, dripping off my chin. Laughter and ugly
comments continued from the crowd that surrounded me like planks in a
fortress. Though my insides were shaking, I climbed to my feet. The crowd
got quiet. I stared at my attacker while licking the blood from my hand.
Then I said, “My name is Elijah. What’s yours?”
The guy squinted and said,
“You really are weird.”
At that moment, I felt more
frightened than weird. Many of my classmates had made fun of me, yet they
all seemed afraid to beat on me. This idiot was different. He didn’t know
me. My mind flashed back to the scarecrow in Dad’s garden. Glancing towards
Brad Stone and David Weeper, I asked, “Did they put you up to this?” The guy
shook his head as if to say no. While pointing at my nose, I began slowly
rotating and speaking loudly to the crowd. “See what he did to me! It’s
broken! Does that make you people happy? Y’all think it’s okay to pick on
someone because they’re not just, like, you! Wanna know how this feels? It’s
like a thousand nerve endings playing heavy metal in my head! And it’s
awesome!”
In my peripheral vision, I
could see that No Neck had relaxed his hands. Continuing to turn, I shouted
again. “Do you know what happens when you hit someone who ignores the pain?”
Still in motion, I brought my fist up under the guy’s chin so hard that he
nearly came off the ground. Blood shot from his mouth as he bit his tongue.
Before he could recover, I began pounding the sides of his head left, right,
left, right, left, right fast like a machine until he collapsed to the
ground. It felt good to finally be the aggressor. I kicked his side once,
twice, three times. When he curled up into a fetal position, I pushed him to
his stomach, put my knee into his back and pulled his head up by his hair,
like a trophy. Blood ran from his mouth. His eyes were barely open. My heart
pounded as I looked up at the shocked crowd. “There will be no happy ending
for anyone who bullies me or my friend!”
Rising to my feet, I felt
stronger and meaner than at any time in my life. I stepped to Billy and put
my arm around his shoulder. David and Brad stood next to one another, ten
feet away. Facing them, I said, “Now, which one of you wants to try and kick
Billy’s ass?” They both held up their open hands up as if to say, not me. I
wiped blood from my face. “If you even put your hands on him, we’re gonna
find out if you enjoy this as much as I do.”
* * *
Eighteen years old.
When I graduated from high
school, I thought about applying for work at the packinghouse. My father
said he didn’t want me working my ass off there like he’d been doing for
years. Said I should join the military and get me some free college. During
my senior year, recruiters had come to the school to pitch the benefits of
signing up. Free college. Travel the world. All that stuff. The recruiter
seemed to think my arrest record could be overlooked due to no convictions.
One hot summer morning, I decided, what the hell, and went on down to sign
up. I left there thinking I’d soon be a soldier. However, by the time I
returned for my physical, the recruiter said I had been turned down due to
psychological restrictions.
“What the hell does that
mean?” I asked.
He said, “Without going into
details, I’d say it has to do with your local Sheriff’s department
expressing a fear of mental instability.”
“Sheriff Johnson told you I’m
unstable. Did he tell you how many times he and his deputies roughed me up?”
Being of age, I decided to go
ahead and get away from my father. My mother’s parents let me move in with
them. A few months later, Mom started working part time at the Wilson County
Library. Suddenly, she began wearing makeup and dressing nicely. Dad wasn’t
stupid. He knew someone at that library was paying her the attention she
deserved. I stopped by on a Saturday night and found my mother alone,
sitting on the back steps smoking a cigarette. I’d never known her to smoke.
She had a black eye.
I became enraged. “I’ll kill
that sonofabitch!”
Mom shook her head. “No,
Elijah. I deserved this. I met me a man who treats me like a lady. Talks to
me. Smiles at me. I don’t know what I’m gonna do.”
Holy smoke.
“Where is Dad?”
She said nothing, but nodded
towards the barn. I walked out there with intentions of doing something I’d
always wanted to do. I was going to try and kick my father’s ass. That
didn’t happen. I found him, sitting on the floor, leaning against a bale of
straw, crying like a baby. The smell of liquor hit me. His bottle sat on the
ground next to him. The old single barreled shotgun I’d used to kill my
first rabbit leaned against the six-by-six post he had tied me to. I’d never
seen him that way before. Suddenly, I wondered what it felt like to find out
that your spouse had been cheating on you. I didn’t know whether to knock
his sorry ass out, or give him a hug.
He looked up. “What am I
gonna do?”
I reached for the bottle,
took a swig and said, “That’s that same thing Mom said.”
“Ain’t never been one to say
pretty things, or dress my woman up and take her out on the town. Reckon I
brought this on myself.”
When I picked up the shotgun,
he said, “Go ahead. Shoot me. I’d just a soon die.”
I breached the gun, removed
the shell and pitched it across the barn. That night, I got drunk with my
father. He opened up and told me things I couldn’t imagine. He let me ask
questions, and he gave me answers. He described his childhood and how
Grandpa Haycraft had mistreated his mother and him and his two sisters. It
turned my stomach, and I cried.
A couple days later, I sought
out the man who had been talking to my mother. He seemed nice enough, clean
cut, good looking guy, perhaps a few years younger than her. When I asked
about his intentions, he said, “Look, kid. Don’t know what she told you, but
it’s not like I’m trying to bust up her marriage.”
“So what exactly are you
trying to do?”
“Don’t act stupid, boy. If
your old man was doing his homework, she wouldn’t be giving it up to a guy
like—”
The words weren’t out of his
mouth before I busted him up aside of his head. When he reached for his
pocket, I pointed my finger and said, “Don’t go there. That punch was for my
mother. I tell my old man what you just said, he’ll do his homework when he
cuts your throat and watches you bleed out.”
The next day, that man left
town. She didn’t say so, but I could tell my mother was crushed and blamed
me for the guy leaving. My parents stayed together despite their
differences. I could tell they were not happy. Dad fell deeper into the
bottle. Every time he got drunk and upset with me or Mom, he threatened to
kill himself. One day, I said, “Go ahead. Quit talking about it. Mom and I
would be better off without you anyway.” That was on a Saturday.
Next morning, when she didn’t
show up for Church, Mom’s parents and I got worried. I borrowed a cell phone
and called the house. No one answered. Grandpa and I left service and went
to check on her. Dad’s truck was in the drive. Entering through the back
door, we found two kitchen chairs overturned and an empty whiskey bottle in
the sink. “Mom! Dad! Y’all in here?”
With no answer, I ran up the
stairs to my parents’ bedroom. Their bed had been made. I bounced back down
the stairs as Grandpa came out of my old room. He shook his head.
As we stepped out the
backdoor, the sound of Dad’s Cessna drew our attention. The plane left the
barn and headed down the field. Grandpa shouted, “Check the barn!” I ran.
By the time Grandpa reached
the barn, I knew Mom wasn’t there. On the floor, scratched in the dirt, were
the words: SORRY SON.
Grandpa said, “This ain’t
good, boy.”
We stepped out the back of
the barn and watched as the Cessna approached. I said, “Know damn well she’s
not with him. She would never get in that plane!”
As the Cessna roared by, some
sixty feet away, Dad glanced our way and nearly lost the plane. “He’s
drunk!” I hollered.
“She’s not with him!”
“Good!” I shouted back. “Bet
she finally left his ass.”
We watched as Dad regained
control and lifted off nearing the end of the field. He flew out a half mile
and then turned back.
Grandpa said, “Hope he can
land that damned thing.”
“He ain’t gonna land. He
knows we’re watching.” Nearing the field, Dad pulled up. “He’s goin’ into a
loop!”
Grandpa said, “He’ll kill
himself.”
“That might be his
intentions.” Flashbacks of our fight the night before made my stomach ache.
The plane inverted perfectly. “Come on, Dad. You can do it.” He stayed
inverted too long. “Pull it down, Dad!” The engine began to sputter. “No,
Dad! Please, please don’t do it!” The engine quit and the plane went into a
free-fall.
Before the plane hit the
ground, Grandpa grabbed me and held on. The impact threw debris in every
direction. I beat Grandpa to the plane, but couldn’t get close enough as the
flames were too hot. I’m not sure how long we stood there watching the plane
burn before a neighbor’s pickup came flying down the drive. It never even
slowed down as it busted through the fence. The sound of sirens followed in
the distance.
Mr. Burton and the twins
jumped out of the pickup and ran to us. By then, the flames were beginning
to subside. Allen and Barry followed as I tried to get closer. Mr. Burton
hollered, “You boys need to wait for the fire truck! That thing could blow
up!”
The volunteer firemen arrived
and had just enough water on board to extinguish the flames. Smoke
continued. They made us stay back while they inspected the wreckage. By
then, the Sheriff had arrived. As Grandpa described what we had seen, Wilson
County’s Fire Chief left the plane and came our way. He nodded at Grandpa
and me and then spoke to the Sheriff. “The coroner’s gonna be here soon. We
can’t do much more until he takes a look and starts working on
identification.”
“It was Dad. We saw him.”
“Yes,” replied the Chief,
“but it appears he wasn’t alone.”
“No,” I screamed and took off
running to the plane.
The two firemen there grabbed
me. One said, “We can’t disturb anything until the coroner gets here.”
The other man had tears in
his eyes when he said, “Elijah, you don’t wanna look.”
I looked anyway and
immediately threw up. As I went into dry heaves, Grandpa put his hand on my
shoulder. He looked in at what I saw, and said, “Come here, boy.” When we
had stepped away from the firemen, he hugged me and whispered. “I’m gonna
rub out what he wrote in the dirt. When you get back to the house,
straighten up the kitchen.” I pulled away and looked into his eyes. He said,
“Ain’t neither one of us sure about what happened here, but for your
grandma, and for insurance, best this was an accident.”
* * *
Twenty four years old.
For nearly five years, I
lived in my parent’s house while working at the same meat-packing facility
where my father had spent most of his life. Didn’t make a lot of money, but
as a country boy with no college, I did okay. Didn’t mind working hard, five
days a week. On Friday nights, I partied. On Saturdays, I slept. Did Church
some Sunday mornings, then back home is where I’d be. Figured I’d stay in
those hills till the Lord comes after me.
None of the girls that I had
gone to high school with would even consider a date. Now and then, at
Church, I’d get a nod or a smile, mostly from those already married. No one
went out of their way to speak. Sheriff Johnson had done a good job of
convincing the whole county that I was some sort of a lunatic. Even the
preacher man kept his distance.
One of the guys I worked with
at the packinghouse lived in nearby Madison County. On Friday nights, he
spent half his wages at the bars in Richmond, home of the Eastern Kentucky
University. On one particular night, Gary asked me to meet him at a new
place that featured live music and a ton of college girls. Turns out, the
bartender was Billy’s sister, Sissy. When I bellied up at the bar, next to
Gary, Sissy approached.
“Elijah Haycraft! Ain’t seen
you in a while.”
“Good to see you, Sissy.”
As Gary and I began drinking
beer, I started checking out a lady at the end of the bar. She sat with a
black couple and seemed a little older than the crowd. While pulling her
long blonde hair back out of her eyes, she gave me a glance. They were
drinking shots. When Sissy came our way, I asked, “You know them?”
“I know Tamara, the black
girl. She’s in one of my classes at Eastern. Believe the guy’s her cousin.
The white girl came in with him. Heard her say she’s a med-student at UofL.”
“Med-student!” Gary huffed.
“There you go, Elijah. You need you one of those prissy doctor types.”
“Not sure I’d call her
prissy,” Sissy replied. “Girl’s got a mouth on her, and that’s her third
shot of Jack Daniels in thirty minutes.”
“Damn,” I mumbled. “A
whiskey-drinkin’ woman. My kind of girl.”
Sissy smiled. “Elijah
Haycraft. I’ve known you most of my life. Ain’t never seen you with a woman.
Even Billy thinks you’re gay.”
“Bull! Trust me, darling,
your brother knows better.”
“Really?” she replied. “Well,
if she’s your kind of girl, go on down there and introduce yourself.”
“Hell yes,” Gary agreed.
“Show us whatcha got.”
“Y’all can both kiss my ass.”
As I spoke, the woman looked my way again and sort of smiled. I downed my
beer and said, “Give me a shot of Jack Daniels.”
As I started that way, some
guy approached the lady. “Damn!” I thought out loud. He started talking to
her and put his hand on her shoulder. She pushed his hand away and said
something that I couldn’t hear. When I stopped and set the whiskey on the
bar, she sort of tilted her head. I pointed at the shot, and then at her.
Believe she and the guy knew my intentions.
He said, “Bug off, man. She’s
talking to me.”
I picked up the shot glass
and said, “No offense, pal. Not trying to start trouble, but I just bought
this for the lady.”
“I’m not your pal,” he spoke
with a slur. “And you need to back off.”
When I reached to give her
the drink, the guy smacked it out of my hand. Whiskey flew and the shot
glass rolled across the floor. Several people noticed and began to watch.
When my nostrils flared, the man drew back. Before I could react, the lady
grabbed his wrist and said, “Mister, you just cost me a shot of whiskey. Now
you need to move on before I kick your ass.”
The black guy said, “She’s
not kidding. You best back off.”
Sissy stepped up. Apparently,
she knew the guy. “Jason. You need to walk away. If you don’t, I promise
you’re gonna get hurt.”
By then, the band had quit
playing and everyone in the room watched. “Like hell,” he sputtered. “Ain’t
no woman gonna kick my ass.”
Sissy said, “Don’t know about
her, but I know this guy, and you don’t want no part of what he’s gonna do
to you.”
By then another guy came and
took ahold of the jerk. “Come on, Jason. You’re too drunk to be fighting.”
While his friend pulled him
away, the guy shouted, “Ain’t afraid of his ass!”
As I watched them disappear
into a dark corner of the room, the band started playing again. Sissy leaned
on the bar in front of the woman. “You okay?”
She looked up. “I’m good.
Sucks about the whiskey.”
Sissy poured another shot,
sat it down and said, “I’m Sissy. What’s your name, Honey?”
“Jane.”
“Well, Jane, this here shot’s
from my friend, Elijah.” Turning to me, she said, “Elijah, this is Jane. Now
you two talk while I go do my job.”
I took a seat on the bar
stool cattycornered to Jane and her friends. Sissy brought me another beer.
When I took a sip, the other girl stood and said, “I gotta go pee.”
Jane said, “Elijah, this is
my friend, John Evans.”
“How you doin’?” I asked,
trying not to stare at the long thin scar that ran across his cheek.
“Pretty good.” He raised his
shot. “And boy do I feel safe around you two bad asses.”
“I wasn’t tryin’ to start
trouble.”
Jane spoke, “Thanks for the
shot. You from around here?”
“Wilson County,” I replied.
“Ain’t nothin’ goes on there. Come here to party after work on Fridays.
First time in this place.”
“Then,” she replied while
holding up the shot, “I’d say we have something in common.”
John asked, “What kind of
work do you do?”
With my elbows on the bar and
my hand on the back of my neck, I said, “I work at a packinghouse.”
“What do you pack?”
“Meat.”
“Meat? You kill animals?”
“You wanna eat a taco, sir,
somebody gotta kill somethin’.”
Jane downed her whiskey,
exhaled and said, “Sounds manly.” The band began a slow song. She stood and
said, “Come on. Dance with me.”
