Buttermilk Moon

Buttermilk Moon

Randy Ray Wise

Smashwords Edition

© 2009 Randy Ray Wise

For more information about Randy Ray Wise, please visit Smashwords.com.

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

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Prologue

The shrill steam whistle stifled the woman’s cries. Abner swatted flies from her face and stroked her tangled hair. She shook and pushed him off, then stilled for a moment. He tilted his hat, scratched his oily scalp, moved to the sliding door and watched the yellow moon. They would not make it to Wichita. The baby would come this night. He counted the telegraph poles and wondered which part of hell or Texas they were passing.

Strewn hay formed a bed over the rough planks, deep-scarred by the spurs of the vaqueros. There were no animals in the cattle-car, but evidence of their previous occupation filled the air. The locomotive slowed. The hissing, chuffing, seventeen-hour clackity-clack relented to grinding metal on metal as the train came to a stop. The whistle blasted twice, pulling Abner’s attention to the door once again. He craned his neck forward, strained his eyes and read the name of the town on the water tower. Night fog lifted and he said the name to himself—Ocpud.

The woman gulped air and dug her bare feet into the splintered floor. With a quick hand he held her legs and begged. Breathe, breathe, you must breathe. More gulps. A whistle blast. She screamed, tensed and bore down, then punted him in the groin with the topside of her foot. Flap. Abner gasped and doubled over. The cattle-car lurched forward. There was one final cry, a desperate glare, then surrender from her spent, vacant eyes. Reaching between her trembling legs he took the newborn into his arms, opened his folding knife, ripped the hem from her dress, tied and cut the cord. He removed his coat and wrapped the child, passing him to the woman.

Two worn cases contained everything they owned: three changes of clothes, a tintype of the woman’s father from the war and his father’s silver pocket watch, won in a crooked poker game from a Choctaw scout on the Chisholm. With a suitcase in each hand, Abner jumped down from the car, opened one case and made a bed from his father’s Confederate uniform. A thought came to him as he smoothed the gray lapels—Micajah . . . yep. I’ll name you after my Pa.

Abner legged up the open door, rolled inside and stood, then pulled the child from the woman. She cursed him. He yelled. The child cried. He held the baby tight and jumped down from the stock car, laid the infant amidst the uniform and returned. She slapped him. The cattle-car jolted. He waved his arms, cursed, then lifted her from the straw, laying her by the door. His boots hit the ground and he turned, shouldered her trembling body, easing her to the case lid next to the newborn. Shifting her weight she cradled the infant against her breast.

Night fog thinned, revealing a deserted train depot. Abner tucked the baby into the uniform, stroked the woman’s hair, then walked down the lone dirt road, past the stationhouse, a collapsed barn and a rotted gate laying in the weeds. A vague outline of a farmhouse appeared. His boots turned off the road and walked up rotting steps to the front door. The second step gave way and his boot fell through to the ground. The house was silent, with no sound of roosters or farm animals—only the clicking of a lonely cicada hugging a mesquite tree next to the porch.

Rapping on the door with his fist he called. Help! Anybody— No answer. His hand grasped the rusty doorknob and twisted it open. The door creaked and fell off its hinges, crashing to the floor inside. He stepped into the vacant house. The half-moon shone enough light to scan the front room—a large kitchen with a long, rough-hewn table in the center. Exploring the darkness, fingering the wall, cupboard and countertop he found the familiar shape of a lantern. He lifted and shook it. Empty. In a drawer his hands discovered a box of matches, further in the darkness a sink with a hand pump. In the basin lay a rusty spoon, fork and several knives with broken handles. His eyes searched the darkness and he whispered, Well, little’n, reckon it’ll have to do for you and your Ma.

A spidery display of lightning illuminated the sky as he left the house. Thunder crackled. In the flash appeared a barn behind the house. He hurried toward it, discovered an open door and entered. In the barn, an old plow that looked like it hadn’t been used in years leaned against a rusty wheelbarrow. A jersey milk cow dragging a snapped fence post banged against a sidewall, a frayed rope tied around her neck. His hands felt along a shelf and discovered two lanterns full of kerosene. He left the lanterns and took the wheelbarrow.

Out the door and onto the dirt road he pushed the wheelbarrow, hairs tingling on the back of his neck. He picked up his pace and zigzagged down the road, fighting the stubborn cart with each step.

The woman lay in the case lid, nursing the child. He took the two suitcases and propped them up in the back of the wheelbarrow. A crackling flash interrupted her frantic questioning and his urging to sit. At first, she refused but relented after harsh words and a motion to the ominous sky. With the baby held firm to her breast she glared at the man. Lightning flashed, revealing her fright.

Whipping winds picked up dirt in the pre-dawn. Leaves slapped his face. He pushed harder and the wind shoved him toward the ditch. Got to make it to the house. Got to make it. The front wheel hit a rock in the road and she cursed, grasped and steadied herself on the side of the rusty handcart, never removing her other hand from the nursing child.

When they reached the house he refused further questioning by the woman and guided, then forced her in. A gentle wind blew a fine mist at first, followed by giant pelting drops, turning to sideways sheets. Wind whistled through the metal roof and slapping rain came in waves, interspersed with blasting thunder. The two sat in darkness on the kitchen floor with the baby. The woman grabbed Abner’s hand but he released it and refused her argument, then left the house and sprinted to the barn. Entering, he shivered and wrung water from his shirt. With the two lanterns in hand he peeked out the barn door, then scuttled back to the house.

Soaked to his skin with strands of long stringy hair crossing his face he sloshed through the front door, sat the lanterns on the table and found the matches in the drawer. His hands shook and dripped water as he removed the glass, struck a match, lit the wick and moved one lamp to the center of the table, the other to the counter by the kitchen window. With a mud-spattered plop he collapsed next to the woman. She flinched at his wetness and he stood, removed his pants and shirt and laid them across the table. At the kitchen window with the lantern raised to the glass, lightning flashed, revealing a rusty coffee can mailbox. Abner read the name painted on the can and said to himself, Cooper—that’s a good name. That’s the name I will use.

Chapter One

Sarabelle reached in her overall pocket and pulled out a small corncob pipe. One of these days I’m gonna smoke this here pipe. Yes sir, one of these days I’m gonna get me some ‘bacca and just sit right back and smoke it.

George looked at her and his foot slipped off the railroad track. Sarabelle continued down the track, balancing on the rail.

You ain’t gonna. Pa says smokin’s a sin, he said.

No, t’aint.

’tis so.

Sarabelle pirouetted on the track, shook her finger at him and said, Your Pa ought to know. Folks in that Bible smoked back in them days.

No, they didn’t.

Sure did. How do you know they didn’t anyways? Was you there?

George opened his mouth, then looked away. He took two pennies and laid them on the railroad track. Sarabelle squatted down next to him and placed her pennies next to his. George stood and shielded his eyes from the morning sun.

Reckon that train’ll be coming pretty soon? said Sarabelle, fiddling with her pipe.

Can’t tell. Pa says you never can tell. You just can’t tell. Ain’t no telling. Pa says it’s kinda like the weather and women. Ain’t sure what that means.

What do you mean women? I heard your Pa’s a real ladies’ man. Been visiting all them widow women. My Ma says it’s a shame on good religion.

I don’t know nothin’ about that. Ma just says Pa’s off comforting them widow women again. Sometimes Ma says he’s a comforting them a little too much.

Sarabelle returned her pipe to her pocket and scratched her head. George, you ain’t going off to the war are ya?

No, Pa says I’m too young. He says that . . .

When’s me and you gettin’ married anyways? Sarabelle interrupted.

George paused and then continued. That man down at the recruiting office done said I’s a couple of years too young. Reckon I ain’t going.

Good.

Pa says sometimes the train engineer tosses out a sack of candy when the train comes by. You ever heard of that?

No, that ain’t gonna happen. Ain’t nobody gonna throw you no sack of candy or nothing else. It just ain’t gonna happen. Ain’t gonna. Your Pa’s full of it.

Sarabelle walked ahead of George. George stopped to pick up a stick and ran to catch up with her.

Sarabelle, where’s your Easter Sunday dress?

Right here rolled up in this here sack. Ma made it special just for me. Sarabelle took the dress out of the burlap bag and flipped it open in the wind, billowing like a sail. The bright morning glistened golden sunlight on the dress, a sunflower and pink daisies print with a green trim.

Where you gonna put it on? George scratched his head.

Right here, dummy. Where did you think I’s gonna put it on?

Don’t you want me to turn my back or something?

What fer? Sarabelle grabbed the dress by the hem and skimmed into it, pulling it over her overalls.

Hurry up! We’s gonna be late for church. Pa says you can be late for dinner. You can be late for supper. But you better not be late for church.

Hold your damn horses!

George stopped. Pa says saying damn is a sin.

Ain’t so.

’tis so.

Sarabelle raised her finger and shook it at him. You done said it yourself. See there. See you done sinned yourself.

"No I ain’t. I’s just saying that saying that word is a sin."

Well then I better git all my sinnin’ out before we get to church. Sarabelle raised her hands and rocked her head side to side. DAMN, damn, damn, damn, damn, damn, damn, damn, DAMN! There! Now I done got all my sinnin’ out now we can go to church.

George cocked his head and said, Sarabelle, you sure is a sight.

Albert! Albert! Come on. Get over here. You’re gonna miss the picture, said Delroy, standing on the back row of the group. The men stood on picnic table benches behind the women and children. Small children sat on the ground in front of the women, several in front of their mothers. Women with babies held them in their arms. Just as Delroy waved for Albert to join them, the photographer snapped the photo.

Nadine looked at her husband with disgust. Why’d you go and do that? Now you done ruined the picture. That photographer ain’t gonna be able to get all of us together ever again the same way. It just ain’t gonna happen. Ain’t gonna happen.

Grandma turned around and said, Nah, it’s just right fittin’ for Brother Dee to be callin’ in another’n. Looks right fittin’. That way folks’ll always know what he was up to.

Young men jumped down off the picnic table benches from behind, while the older men waited for the women and children. The small group moved into the church. Delroy and Nadine took their places beside the front door. Delroy put on his Sunday smile and greeted the people, slapping the backs of the men as they entered.

Well, I’ll be Charlie. How’s that young gelding gettin’ on?

Great day in the mornin’!

Great jumpin’ Jehosaphat! Ain’t seen you in a month of Sundays.

Delroy had a way of cursing in church that wasn’t quite cursing, which proved a constant source of irritation for Nadine as she threatened him with either divorce or fatal shooting.

The people entered, then Nadine took her seat at the piano. Grandpa Micajah sat next to his wife, Adelaide.

Delroy stood outside the front doors and waited. Where is that boy? He saw no sign of George so he went inside and shut the doors behind him.

Grandma nudged Micajah. Wake up, you old fool!

Delroy licked his hand, smoothed over his hair, adjusted his bowtie, raised his leather-bound Bible chest high and marched up the steps to the pulpit. He stood straight as a board, turned to the congregation, raised his hands and signaled the people to rise. The people began to sing.

Shall we gather at the river . . .

George and Sarabelle burst through the front doors. The congregation stopped and turned to face them, as if they were there for a wedding or a hanging.

Delroy froze with one hand holding his Bible high in the air. He raised one eyebrow at George and then continued.

The beautiful, the beautiful river . . .

George and Sarabelle crept into the back row of the church. George squatted down behind the pew.

George . . . what you doin’ down there?

Hiding so Pa won’t see me. What’s he doing now?

They’s startin’ to sing.

Sarabelle, you ain’t got no shoes on.

So?

Sarabelle took the hymnal from the pew and opened it. Standing straight, she sang loud as a lark. George pinched his nose and turned his head.

Sarabelle, your feet stink.

Chapter Two

Sarabelle, you been baptized yet? Pass me them biscuits, said Delroy. Yes ma’am, them biscuits is larrupin. Sure beats that jack rabbit we had last week. Delroy winked at Nadine. Yep, when I was a young‘n we had a jack rabbit six days a week and a cotton tail on Sundays.

Nadine carried a bowl of potatoes to the table and put her hand on Sarabelle’s shoulder. Now hon, you have to forgive my husband. Some days he’s himself and some days he’s not. Nadine sat the bowl on the table and, eyeing Delroy said, and today he’s himself.

George and Sarabelle giggled. Anyway, honey, we are glad to have you with us this fine day. Be sure and tell your Ma and Pa they are welcome anytime too.

Grandma Adelaide held a pillowcase, stuffing it with feathers from the chicken she and Nadine had prepared for the dinner. She had saved feathers five years for a feather bed, accumulating fourteen pillowcases full of feathers over the years. She stored the stuffed pillowcases in her bedroom closet. The occasional goose provided down feathers for the softer side.

Grandpa limped into the kitchen with his thumbs hooked through his overalls, smacking his lips, taking his usual seat next to Grandma.

Looks like the old man finally decided to join us. Maybe the old man will speak. Grandma motioned toward their guest. The war continued. George couldn’t recall how long, but he knew they were both too stubborn to call a truce.

The old man will eat whenever he wants to eat, whenever he damn well feels like it. Grandpa landed in his chair. Sarabelle raised a crafty smile. Grandpa nodded at her and smiled.

Grandpa Micajah piled mashed potatoes high on his plate. He spooned a hole in the top of the heap and poured brown gravy into the hole. He reached for the fried chicken and Adelaide slapped his hand. Not ‘fore the blessing. Sarabelle, the old man ain’t got no manners. You’ll have to forgive him.

After the blessing, Micajah took the largest piece of chicken from the platter and cut it up on his plate, as if butchering a prize pig. He spooned a plate-full of red beans, dosed with table salt and pepper and mixed the chicken, beans and mashed potatoes with his fork. George watched fascinated. He elbowed Sarabelle. Watch this. Micajah whipped the mixture into one huge pile of unrecognizable mush, then dosed it again with salt and pepper.

Come over here, George. Have a drink of some of my buttermilk. Delroy pulled another chair up to the table next to his seat.

George scooted over and sat next to his father. Here, drink some of this. It’s good for you. It’ll put hair on your chest. George looked at the buttermilk, then at the enormous spiraling growth of snow-white chest hair on Grandpa, a solid mass of gray fur, extending from the bottom of his neck and protruding at the top and sides of his overalls.

George stared at the tall glass of buttermilk. Gooey, slimy, gunk. Who in their right mind would . . . ?

Pa, I don’t really want to . . .

Alright George, it’s up to you. Can’t sit by me if you won’t drink none of my buttermilk.

George took the glass and sipped it. He lowered his chin and gulped the buttermilk. George leaned against his father. It’s good Pa. He looked at Sarabelle. She mouthed the words thank you, relieved she did not have to endure the same punishment.

As his habit, Micajah ate the gooey mix with a large tablespoon. Nadine frowned and shot a look at Delroy. The gulping and swallowing and gulping and swallowing continued, interrupted with a quick sloshing swallow of sweet table milk. Micajah finished his plate before the others had begun.

If the old fart keeps eatin’ like that the old fart is gonna kill himself, said Grandma, crossing her arms looking out the back door.

Micajah snapped his head and fired back at her. The old fart eats what he wants to eat and he eats it whenever he wants to eat it! Micajah looked at George and Sarabelle and said, Ain’t nothin’ gonna kill me. I came into this here world on a freight train and I’m a gonna out of this world on a freight train.

George looked puzzled. He remembered how Grandpa had always said he was born in a cotton field. Grandpa said his mother went ahead of his father picking cotton. When it came time for his birth, he just scooted right out and his father scooped him up and without missing a beat stuffed him right in his cotton sack and kept on a pickin’. George always liked this story, but his mother told him that the story of the freight train was true and the rest of it was just a bunch of hogwash.

Micajah scooted back his chair and sat for a silent moment, his head lowered. He belched, jerked his head up and said, I ain’t feelin’ too good. Reckon I’m going out back. Micajah got up from the table and went out the back door, letting the screen door slam behind him.

George heard the tractor start. What’s he doing, Ma? What’s he doing?

George got up from the table but Ma stopped him. Now just leave him be. He’s an old man and he’s not going to change, George. You remember that.

Nadine and Sarabelle washed the dishes. Nadine looked out the kitchen window. The dog ran in circles in the pasture, barking and snapping. The engine sounds grew louder and the tractor appeared, followed by the trailing dog. The tractor raked a tight circle in the dirt. Trembling, Nadine dropped her dishrag.

George, go . . . go see—

George and Delroy ran out the back door. They found Micajah slumped over the wheel of the tractor. His lifeless arms dangled at his side.

Chapter Three

Grandma Adelaide stumbled as Nadine held her arm, entering the church. She had spent the last day and a half locked in her room, refusing to come out or eat. Since Micajah’s passing, she had cried without ceasing. After hours of trying, Nadine was able to get the door opened. Grandma sat on the floor next to her bed, sobbing, the bed covers a twisted knot around her legs.

Nadine and Adelaide sat on the front pew, George next to his mother. Delroy faced the congregation in the pastor’s pew next to the pulpit. Looking pale and spent, he sat not quite as proud or erect as usual.

One by one, the families entered the church. George turned in his seat and spotted Sarabelle with her mother on the back pew. He had never seen Sarabelle’s mother in church. He was not surprised that her father did not accompany them. Sarabelle’s father was hell-bent for leather, as she quite often told George. Sarabelle’s father was a roughneck and had worked in the oil fields of Burkburnett after the big oil boom. After the work gave out Sarabelle’s family moved to Ocpud, although she wasn’t sure why. Her mother said it was because they had relatives who lived there, but Sarabelle had never met them.

The families entered the church, then Nadine patted Adelaide’s hand and stood, taking her seat at the piano. She played with determination. Delroy stood and moved to the pulpit. Looking out at the congregation, he motioned for them to rise. Delroy led them in a prayer, a quiet prayer, not like the usual booming, long-winded Brother Dee prayer.

Nadine had spent all the previous day picking flowers. She picked an assortment of Black-eyed Susan, sunflowers and Indian paintbrush. She wanted to include bluebonnets, but Delroy refused. He said picking bluebonnets was not illegal in Texas, but it was immoral. He said you couldn’t be arrested for picking them, but you might be hung. Nadine trimmed some blackberry vines and snipped off the thorns. They hung heavy with fruit, some ripened black, but most still the dark red color, indicating they were not quite ready for harvest. Nadine took the blackberry vines and arranged them around the front of the casket, creating a delicate intertwining of flowers and vines. She took some of the extra large sunflowers and propped their long stems through the vines, creating a look not unlike a small picket fence.

Micajah’s casket was a rough-hewn box of plank cedar, displaying several knotholes and scars from the cutting and gouging tools of the workmen. In the front of the casket, one of the knotholes was punched out, forming an oval-shaped hole about the size of a buffalo nickel. The hole caught George’s eye and he peered into the casket. Shifting his shoulders to the right, George saw the underside of Micajah’s big hairy nostrils through the hole. He hoped Grandma didn’t see that.

Over the top of the casket, Nadine had sculpted a small brush arbor, built up from the blackberry vines and interlaced with flowers and spring straw. George’s eyes traced the side of the arbor and across the top, where his mother had placed a small robin’s nest. George arched his neck forward and, with squinted eyes, saw two tiny robin’s eggs in the center of the nest.

In the casket lay the remains of Micajah Cooper. He wore an Egyptian silk black suit, a wedding present from Adelaide’s parents, who had money from back east from investments in tobacco and a cotton gin. Micajah wore a white cotton shirt and red tie. In his lapel pocket, Nadine had placed a small bluebonnet. George had never seen anything so lifeless and yet so strange and beautiful. The top part of the casket lid was open. Craning his neck upwards, George saw the top of Grandpa’s wiry gray hair and tip of his long, boney nose. Adelaide sat motionless and without expression, staring at the floor.

After the prayer, Delroy began his father’s eulogy. As was his custom, Delroy told of his father’s life through stories. Delroy never preached, as Nadine said; he wove the work of the Lord into the lives of the people through telling stories they could understand. Brother Dee was loved and admired by many people and many came from far away to hear his stories. Nadine had grown weary of this and said his story telling was getting in the way of his preaching. Delroy said his stories were his preaching. Delroy always said the good Lord moves in mysterious ways and sometimes his ways and ours just ain’t cotton. George always wondered what his father meant by that.

George looked up at the robin’s nest and his mind began to wander. He thought back to younger days. Hunting days. Fishing days. Long, hot summer days with Pa and Grandpa. George closed his eyes.

Looky there George. Sshh! Squat down right here, said Micajah.

What is it?

Look right over there. See that there big ol’ oak. There’s a big fat squirrel right ‘round the other side.

George stood and moved around toward the side