Shake on It and Spit in the Dirt
By Lynne Gregg and Karen Jennings
Published by authors at Smashwords
Copyright 2009 Lynne Gregg and Karen Jennings
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Shake on It and Spit in the Dirt
“Now my summer vacation has officially started, Grandpa!” Jon said. The mighty voice of the Big Cypress River had awakened him from his late afternoon nap in Grandpa’s beat-up black truck. Jon was filled with a rush of excitement as Grandpa made the turn onto the long gravel driveway that led to his grandparents’ home. He wiped the drool off his face and smoothed out his wrinkled shirt, eager for Gram’s approval.
Jon’s heart sank as he spotted the sheriff’s car in front of the familiar white clapboard house.
“What’s goin’ on here?” Grandpa demanded as he spotted Gram on the porch talking to the Big Cypress sheriff. In one quick moment, Grandpa shut off the engine, jumped out of the truck, and hitched up his overalls.
Gram smoothed back wisps of gray hair as she hurried toward Grandpa. “Sheriff Jenkins’s been waitin’ for you.” Next, Jon jumped out of the truck and ran to throw his arms around Gram’s lean, aproned waist. He couldn’t understand why she didn’t cover his caramel-colored face with kisses as she usually did.
Gram looked tired and limp in her faded green print housedress. “Nice to see you, buddy,” she said. “You’ve grown a foot since last summer.” She patted his black, wavy hair. Jon noticed she kept wiping her dark brown eyes with her veiny hands, which were roughened by years of farm work.
“What’s the matter, Gram?” Jon whispered into her ear, but she didn’t answer. “Where’re the dogs?” Jon continued. Gram pushed her wire glasses higher up on her nose, looked anxiously at Grandpa, and turned her head away.
Grandpa took off his hat, grabbed his worn, red bandana, and wiped his brow and neck. His tall, lean body squatted down to Jon’s level. His grandfather looked sadder than Jon had ever seen him. Grandpa cleared his throat and said, “I hate to have to tell you this, son, but they killed Ole Blue.”
With glistening eyes, Jon looked into Grandpa’s thin, whiskered face and asked, “Who would want to kill a good dog like Ole Blue?”
“I don’t know, but I aim to find out,” said Grandpa.
Jon wiped his eyes on his navy plaid shirtsleeve. He was almost afraid to ask, “Is Bluebonnet okay?”
As soon as she heard him say her name, Bluebonnet whimpered and limped out from under the house. Her tail was drooping, and her blue-gray coat was crusted with dried blood. She smelled musty from lying under the porch on the damp soil. Jon saw a couple of places on her legs wrapped and tied with white cloth bandages. Deep gashes had caused bright red blood to seep through.
Jon dropped to his knees and gently stroked her head. Tears rolled off his dark curly eyelashes. “What happened to you, girl?”
The sheriff blew his nose and twisted the pointed tips of his handlebar mustache. “Looks like a black bear got to her.”
“No!” Grandpa shot back. “No bear did this. And no bear killed Ole Blue either.”
The sheriff was a large man. His uniform was soaked with sweat in the afternoon heat. He seemed irritated with Grandpa when he spoke. “What’re you saying, old man? You think somebody went after your dogs on purpose? Let me see the dead dog. I’ve got other things I gotta do today.”
Furrows deepened in Grandpa’s forehead as he reached for Jon’s shoulder and said, “I hated to just leave Ole Blue in the woods, but I found him about the time you were arriving. I think you better stay here at the house with Gram.”
“But I need to see him, Grandpa.”
“No, I think it’s best you didn’t.”
The sheriff grabbed his hat through the patrol car window. He huffed and puffed, out of breath, as he stomped along with Grandpa through the Piney Woods to the spot where Ole Blue lay.
Jon knew the dog might not be something he wanted to see, but he loved Ole Blue, and followed along at a distance.
Jon cried out when he saw Ole Blue, stretched out on the dirt path to the river, “Oh, Grandpa, no!”
Grandpa put his arm around Jon’s shoulder and said to his grandson, “This is why I didn’t want you to come, son.”
Jon shooed away the flies buzzing around Ole Blue’s still body. He had many more gashes and deep bloody wounds than Bluebonnet.
Just as he knelt down by Ole Blue, Jon felt sick to his stomach. He jumped up, quickly walked a few steps away, and threw up in the weeds.
The sheriff put a stick of gum in his mouth as he interrogated Grandpa, “Did you see somebody kill your dog? You got a witness?”
Sadly, Grandpa shook his head.
“Can’t arrest nobody, then! Understand?”
Jon couldn’t bear to listen to the sheriff talking to his grandpa that way, but he knew he’d better keep quiet.
Jon stood with his grandpa, staring at the white officer.
The sheriff’s voice rose angrily as he walked and wheezed back to his car. “I got more important things to do than stand around all afternoon lookin’ at a dead dog.”
Jon felt confused at the sheriff’s attitude; it was heaped on top the greatest moment of sadness in his life. He and Grandpa silently followed the man.
Gram, Grandpa, and Jon heard the sheriff’s car door slam. His tires spit rocks into the yard as he drove off in a cloud of white dust.
For a minute nobody said a thing. Then Grandpa broke the silence. “The white folks from the other side of the river killed Ole Blue,” he said. “You shouldn’t a bothered calling the sheriff, Lizzie. Did ya really think that white sheriff would do anything for black folks with a dead dog?”
“Killing Blue doesn’t make any sense,” Jon whispered aloud, looking bewildered. “That sheriff was just plain mean.”
“Did it make any sense when that white man threw those rocks at you last summer when you were swimmin’ in the river, Jon?” Grandpa asked as he shoved his red kerchief into his back pocket.
“We need to bury Ole Blue before it gets dark,” Gram said. Her dress and apron blew above her knees in the early evening breeze.
Jon smelled the scent of the woods on the wind.
“Let’s bury him by the pine trees near the fence line,” Gram said.
“We’ll plant another pine tree over his grave,” Grandpa added, rolling up his worn denim shirtsleeves.
They walked home in silence. Jon didn’t feel like playing his usual tricks on Grandpa. He felt more like hiding under the house with Bluebonnet.
Jon was angry and scared at the same time. Part of him wanted to know what really happened to the dogs. But part of him wanted all the ugliness to magically go away. He wanted it to be like it used to be when it was fun to visit Gram and Grandpa on their small farm on the Big Cypress River.
***
Chapter Two
Jon had never seen Grandpa look as sad as when he said, “I guess we need to do the buryin’ before it’s too dark to see.”
Grandpa, Gram, and Jon walked to the shed to get the items they needed to bury Ole Blue. Gram saw Grandpa cringe with pain as he lifted a half sheet of plywood. Gram moved the flashlight and a towel to one arm and said, “Here, Horace, let me help you with that.” Gram took one corner of the plywood, and Jon carried the shovels and a coil of rope. They walked one behind the other to the spot where Ole Blue lay.
Jon knew Grandpa was hurting, because he kept clutching his left side. Grandpa bent down to lift Ole Blue onto the plywood so they could drag him to his grave. When Grandpa slid his hands under Ole Blue to get a hold of him, Grandpa seemed to fall to one knee in slow motion. He pitched forward, but he caught himself. Jon thought Grandpa was fainting and grabbed for him.
“What’s the matter, Grandpa?” asked Jon. “Do you need some help?” Both Jon and Gram steadied Grandpa as he stood up. They helped him over to a tree stump so he could sit down.
“Both of you, I’m fine,” Grandpa said. “Just as I lifted Ole Blue, a big gush of air, kinda like a sigh, come out of him. Made me think for a split second he might not be dead.”
“Whatever would make a dead dog sigh like that?” Gram asked, rubbing Grandpa’s sore back.
Jon wanted to believe it was all a bad dream. He asked, “Are you sure he’s dead, Grandpa?”
“I’m sure, Jon,” Grandpa said. “I guess some air was just left in his lungs. When I picked him up, it just whooshed out of him.”
Grandpa looked miserable. “I’d be a liar if I said I wasn’t shook-up when it happened.”
Grandpa groaned when he straightened up. Since Ole Blue was such a big dog, Grandpa had to tie the rope around the plywood with Ole Blue’s body on it. Then he slowly began dragging Ole Blue to his gravesite. Without saying a word, Gram and Jon helped Grandpa pull the board.
***
Chapter Three
Grandpa stopped and sighed as they reached the row of pine trees. “I guess we better start diggin’ his grave,” he said. “It’s gettin’ dark, and we won’t get much moonlight because of all these clouds. Might even rain on us.”
Jon looked at his grandparents’ faces. “Gram, we’re gonna need that flashlight. Where d’ ya think we should bury Ole Blue?” Jon asked. She shone the flashlight at the end of the stand of pine trees by their fence line.
“Country people always plant trees over the graves of their pets,” Gram said, gently covering the dog with a clean towel. “He’ll help the tree to grow, and we’ll have a living marker to remind us of Ole Blue.”
Grandpa began digging the grave. Jon smelled the damp soil as Grandpa’s pile of dirt grew. “We need to dig it fairly deep so no prowlin’ animals get his scent and dig him up,” Grandpa said. “I already hear the coyotes howling in the distance.
“Ole Blue here was eleven, like you, Jon,” Grandpa worked as he talked. “Your daddy called when you were born, and I was so excited to have a grandson that I immediately called a hound breeder I knew who had Bluebonnet. This man recommended another breeder who had Ole Blue. I wanted you to have a pair of hounds. I rushed right out and bought the two of them. Both dogs were four months old and became fast friends on the way home in my truck. I figured I’d train them, so they’d be ready when you were old enough to hunt with me.”
Grandpa stopped for a minute. He wiped his sweaty face and neck with his red handkerchief and smiled at the memory. “I walked into the kitchen with those two wiggly pups’ heads sticking out of the front of my shirt.” Grandpa winked at Jon. “I said they were for you, but your Gram wasn’t fooled at all.”
Gram interrupted, “I knew Grandpa wanted those dogs as much for himself as he did for you, Jon.”
“Called me an ‘old fool,’ if my memory serves me right.” Grandpa wiped his forehead again with his bandana.
Gram smiled, but with a faraway look in her eyes. “Your Grandpa brought those two long-eared pups into my kitchen with a mighty sheepish look on his face.”
“A boy oughta have a couple of hounds to grow up with,” Grandpa said. “Since the dogs were Blue Heeler hounds, I named them Bluebeard and Bluebonnet, but Ole Blue’s nickname soon became the only name we called him.” Grandpa continued scooping the black, loamy soil out of the grave.
“Mind if I help with some of the diggin’, Grandpa?” Jon asked. He picked up a shovel and started to dig.
They developed a rhythm of digging and throwing the shovelfuls of dirt as Grandpa talked. “Those pups were so gentle with you, Jon. When you were little, they never knocked you down. When you got bigger, they seemed to know how much roughhousin’ you could tolerate.”
The coyote howls seemed closer now. The sound caused the hairs on the back of Jon’s neck to stand out. He dug faster.
Overhead they could hear the swoosh of the vultures’ wings as they circled Ole Blue. They seemed to fly lower with each pass. They were instinctively pulled closer by the scent of the dead dog. “We need to hurry and get this hole dug before one of those hungry birds lands on Ole Blue,” Grandpa said.
Grandpa continued the story of Ole Blue and Bluebonnet, while Gram shone the flashlight. Grandpa leaned on his shovel, thinking about the past with those two hounds and Jon. Cicadas and croaking frogs played their night music for them, as they finished digging the grave. White lightning flashed across the summer sky.
“I’ll go back to the house and bring Bluebonnet up here,” Gram said as she handed Jon the flashlight and turned towards the house. “She needs to say good-bye to Ole Blue. Once she smells the scent of death on him, she’ll do okay. Otherwise, that dog’ll wander around looking for him and grieve herself to death.”
Jon heard Gram mutter under her breath as she walked, “I hope all the snakes and skunks stay asleep until I get Bluebonnet out here.”
Gram called softly to Bluebonnet, who was back under the house licking her wounds, “Come here, girl.”
After a minute or so, Bluebonnet crawled out from under the house and slowly walked beside Gram to the grave. Bluebonnet limped over to where Ole Blue lay on the board covered up with a towel. Gram lifted the towel. Bluebonnet sniffed all around Ole Blue and then prodded him with her nose as if to say, “Get up.” When he didn’t move, she looked up at the three of them from under the deep wrinkles of loose skin on her forehead. It was as if she wanted them to explain.
Bluebonnet whimpered as she nudged at Ole Blue’s face. Then she began the sorrowful howling of a hound. Gram, Grandpa, and Jon wept as the dog grieved for her friend and mate. Finally, whimpering, she lay down right next to Ole Blue, with her head on his front paw.
Jon didn’t think he could stand one more minute of this sadness.
“Your old friend is gone, girl,” Grandpa said. He knelt down and began talking softly to Bluebonnet. “You’re gonna miss him; we’re all gonna miss him. We’ll try to be extra good to you, girl, till you get used to bein’ without him.”
Jon finished scooping the last few shovelfuls of dirt from the grave. It was about three feet deep. Grandpa pulled the board next to the hole and gently slid their beloved dog into his grave. Lying on his belly, Jon leaned in and covered Ole Blue with the towel.
After he stood up and brushed the dirt off his shirt and jeans, Grandpa handed Jon his shovel and said, “You go first, son.” Jon scooped up a shovelful of dirt and gently sprinkled it over Ole Blue.
Grandpa took the shovel and did the same.
Jon offered Gram his shovel, but she shook her head and scooped up a handful of dirt. “Rest in peace, old fella,” Gram said as she slowly let the dirt sift through her fingers onto Ole Blue.
Grandpa started talking again, “Old Blue was the best. He was a good huntin’ dog and a good friend. He didn’t deserve to die like this.”
Gram held the flashlight. Since Jon had the larger shovel, he threw mounds of dirt into the grave for a long time. He kept wiping his damp forehead on his arm. Grandpa tried to take the shovel from him, but Jon couldn’t let go of it.
Once the grave was filled, Jon stomped down the dirt to pack it solid. Then they piled rocks over the mound. They could see the amber glow of wild animals’ eyes beyond the pine trees. They were drawn there by the scent of death. Jon felt prickles go down his spine.
“Bye, Ole Blue, you were the best.” Jon didn’t know anything else to say.
Without another word, Jon picked up the shovels, Gram Carried the flashlight, and they helped Grandpa drag the empty board. As the three of them left the grave of Ole Blue, Jon called, “Come, Bluebonnet.”
But Bluebonnet remained lying by the grave. Grandpa whistled twice before she slowly got up and followed them home in the moonlight. Bluebonnet crawled back under the house, as Gram led the way up the porch steps.
“It’s time we ate some supper. Ya’ll must be hungry,” Gram said as she washed her hands and bustled about the kitchen. She warmed up some tomato soup and made grilled cheese sandwiches.
As Grandpa and Jon came to the table, Gram asked, “Did you wash your hands?”
“Yes, ma’am, we did.” Jon wasn’t really hungry, but he managed to eat a little to please Gram. Later, Jon went out and sat on the steps by himself. Bluebonnet crawled out from under the house and sidled up next to him. They listened to the splashes of the river, the croaking of the frogs, and the chirping of the crickets, all mixed together with the occasional voices of distant dogs, cattle, and coyotes.
Jon’s mind would not settle down. He had grown up a lot today. I can’t believe Ole Blue’s dead and I helped bury him, he thought. He hugged Bluebonnet tightly around the neck and buried his face in her smooth blue-gray coat.
***
Chapter Four
Jon climbed into the creaky bed that he slept in every summer. He wore new red and blue striped pajamas that Gram had made for him. He pounded his pillow and tried to make it comfortable, but his mind raced with thoughts of the day’s events. He raised himself up on one elbow to think. Could Grandpa be right? Could the white people have killed Ole Blue? He remembered his mother warning him to be careful. This wasn’t starting out as the great summer he had dreamed about.
The movement of the curtains from the night winds gave Jon the creeps. “Those curtains are movin’ like the swoop of those vultures.” Jon knew Bluebonnet was probably sleeping, but he talked to her anyway.
As Jon listened to the river in the distance, he watched the full moon trace shadows on his walls. They look like the prowling animals with those eerie amber eyes that wanted to eat Ole Blue, he thought.
Jon tried to concentrate on the rhythm of the river symphony to calm down, but he was too edgy. “Sheesh, I’ll never get to sleep.”
Bluebonnet, who was sleeping at his feet, started to growl, most likely doing battle in her dreams with Ole Blue’s killer. Jon reached down and patted her head, as her jowls fluttered with puffs of air.
The iron bed squeaked as Jon sat up. “Come on, girl. Let’s go for a walk.” Bluebonnet’s eyes flashed open at the first sound of the word walk, and she sprang off Jon’s bed. Jon leaped after the dog. His feet smacked the worn, wooden planks. A floorboard creaked, and he froze.
“Shhhh. Gram and Grandpa’s room is right below us, and they’re light sleepers,” Jon cautioned Bluebonnet, who seemed to understand.
Jon pulled on jeans and a gray T-shirt over his pajamas and quietly made his way downstairs to the kitchen, followed by Bluebonnet. He opened the junk drawer in the dark and felt the odd assortment of gadgets. “Knew I’d find a flashlight here,” he whispered to Bluebonnet.
As his hand grasped the doorknob, he paused. Thoughts of what could be out there made him stop to think. Gram and Grandpa wouldn’t let me do this. But with one swift turn of the knob, Bluebonnet and Jon were outside.
He looked up at the beautiful night sky. The clouds that had been there earlier were gone. The moon looked like a silvery ball, surrounded in the luminous sky by millions of stars. The sky only looks like this far out in the country, Jon remembered.
As Jon walked down the porch steps, a crashing sound nearby startled him. “Oh, man!” he exclaimed. Growling, Bluebonnet jumped off the porch. Jon’s heart thumped as he wondered, Is Ole Blue’s killer returnin’ for Bluebonnet?
Frozen in place for a second, Jon flipped on the flashlight and shone it in the direction of the sound. Jon saw the trash cans had been tipped over and the contents scattered on the ground. A family of armadillos ran off into the woods with Bluebonnet in hot pursuit.
Jon rushed to catch Bluebonnet. “Come here, girl,” he called in a loud whisper, “Get over here!” He could hear her growl as she tore through the brush. Bet those armadillos are curled up into tight balls so their armor can protect them, he thought.
Jon tripped over bushes, rocks, roots, and fallen branches as he ran in the deep woods. “That darn dog! Doesn’t she remember she’s hurt?” He parted the branches of a low, leafy tree and gasped in fear. Staring at him were the menacing eyes of a fearsome creature! Jon breathed a sigh of relief as the flashlight beam fell upon the face that blinked and then disappeared as the creature flew off. “Ain’t nothin’ but an old hoot owl,” Jon told himself aloud. “No need to be scared. Bluebonnet, come!”
“Ouch!” Jon waved his arms in an attempt to ward off the buzzing, biting attack of a swarm of mosquitoes. “I shouldn’t have come out here.” He slapped the back of his neck. He felt blood squirt from the thirsty skeeters.
“Bluebonnet,” Jon hissed, “quit messin’ around and come!”
Bluebonnet’s bark was barely audible over the roar of the Big Cypress River. It was shallow and rocky right here where it made a sharp turn. Shafts of moonlight fell through the trees, lighting the way to the river. The eerie shadows spooked Jon. He thought about the coyotes’ amber eyes near Ole Blue’s grave. Jon wondered why Ole Blue had to die, but most of all, he wanted to know what had really happened.
Jon’s shoes squished in the mud of the riverbank as he came to an opening that led to the water. Something swished in the reeds and moved toward him.
Jon asked in a nervous whisper, “Is that you, Bluebonnet?”
Without warning, the weeds parted. As Jon turned to run, he tripped over a tree root. “Umph!” Jon fell flat on his stomach.
“What’re ya yellin’ for?” a high pitched southern voice asked. Jon directed the beam from his flashlight toward the sound of the voice. Jon could see it was a boy about his size.
“You scared me half to death!” Jon said as he righted himself. “What’re you doin’ out here?”
“I could be askin’ you the same thing,” the boy said. “Who’re you?”
“Jonathon Walker, but everybody calls me Jon,” he said as he shone the flashlight right in the kid’s face. “Who’re you, and like I asked before, what’re you doin’ out here?”
“First, ya mind shinin’ that light somewhere else? You’re blindin’ me.”
“Sorry.” Jon lowered the flashlight.
“My name’s Patches Harper,” the boy said. “My real name is Adam Harper Junior, after my dad, but no one ever calls me that. I don’t much like bein’ called Patches, but the kids at school teased me about the patches on my clothes and the name stuck. I don’t care what people call me. Most of them don’t even know me.” He brushed scraggly brown hair from his eyes. A face full of freckles went with that messy hair.
“What’re ya doin’ out here in the dark?” Jon asked.
“I live on the other side of the river. I come out all the time to night fish and catch crawlers.”
“I like to fish, too, but tonight I’m lookin’ for my dog.” Jon slapped another mosquito.
Patches motioned with his head. “Ya mean that hound dog over yonder?”
Jon turned to find Bluebonnet resting under a nearby tree. Both boys walked over to the dog. “Where have you been, girl?” Jon said as he knelt down and gently stroked her head and ears.
“Nice hound. You hunt with her?” Patches asked.
“My grandpa trained her as a hunter.” Jon said. “One of the best around here. She trees coons every time she finds a trail. This summer my grandpa says I get to hunt with my dad’s shotgun.”
Patches slowly extended his hand toward Bluebonnet who sniffed cautiously. Then she nuzzled his hand and tried to lick his face.
Quite amazed, Jon said, “Hey, she likes you! You must have a way with dogs. She don’t usually let strangers near her.”
Patches rubbed Bluebonnet’s velvety ears. “Yeah, me and animals get along fine.” Patches began rubbing her belly. “It’s the two-legged critters I have problems with.”
“I know what you mean!” Jon laughed. “Wanna go sit by the river? I didn’t bring my pole tonight.”
Patches grinned. “That’s what I came out here for.”
They made their way to the water’s edge. Jon took off his tennis shoes. Patches was already barefoot, and his feet were plenty dirty.
The moonlight bounced off the waters that churned from around the large rocks in a rhythmic dance. They sat on the damp ground with their feet touching the lapping water. Patches leaned back on his elbows, looking at the night sky. “I rowed over from the other side of the river about a half hour ago.”
“Did ya have to sneak out?” Jon asked.
“No one at my house to worry about,” Patches said as he tugged at his faded T- shirt that was too small.
“I’m stayin’ with my grandparents for the summer,” Jon said. “I come every year. This is my first night here. I couldn’t sleep, so I decided to pay the Big Cypress a moonlight visit.”
***
Chapter Five
Patches eyed the bandages on Bluebonnet’s legs and asked, “What happened to your dog?”
Jon told him about Ole Blue’s death and Grandpa’s suspicions that white folks killed him.
Patches sat up and looked Jon straight in the eyes. “Wasn’t white people that killed your dog,” Patches said. “People round here place a high value on huntin’ dogs. They’d shoot a man ’fore they’d shoot a good huntin’ dog. Some folks I know might steal your dog, but I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t kill him. Plus, didn’t you say he was chewed up?”
This time Jon looked right at Patches. “If it wasn’t white folks who killed Ole Blue, then who did?”
“It might not be a who,” Patches said, sitting up straight. “It might be a what. Ever hear the stories of the monster on this river?”
Jon’s brown eyes widened. “Did ya just say a monster?”
“Yep,” said Patches. “I call him Hannibal. Probably the fiercest beast that ever lived on the Big Cypress River.” Patches picked up a large, dead tree branch and tossed it in the water. He grinned at Jon, as they heard the splashing plunk it made.
Jon looked doubtful. “Are ya pullin’ my leg?”
“It’s the truth!” Patches said as he stood up. The soupy river mud oozed between his toes. “Come on. I’ll show you.”
“Er, um, better not tonight,” Jon said. “It’s gettin’ late.” He was afraid one of his grandparents might wake up and go upstairs to check on him. He put his shoes back on.
“How ’bout tomorrow?” Patches asked.
Jon paused uncomfortably. “Okay, but just one thing. My family don’t care much for white folks—especially after what just happened to our dogs.”
Patches nodded. “Mine neither, only it’s black folks my pa don’t like. Maybe it’s best if we keep our meetin’ just between us. What d’ ya say we meet here same time tomorrow night?”
“Sounds good,” said Jon. They both spit on the ground, looked at one another, and laughed. “Tomorrow night it is!”
Bluebonnet was stretched out near them. Slowly a soft growl rose from deep within her throat. She got up and backed away from the water. Bluebonnet sniffed the air and began to growl. She barked and paced along the water’s edge.
“What’s wrong with her?” Patches asked. “Is she always this skittish?”
“No.” Jon stood up, brushing off his jeans. “I’ve never seen her act like this.”
They scanned the water’s edge. “Don’t see nothin’ but swirls,” Patches announced.
“What d’ya think those swirls are?” Jon asked, his eyes scanning the water.
“It’s probably just the current of the Big Cypress spinnin’ around that tree limb I threw in. I better be goin’. See ya tomorrow.” Patches walked toward his boat.
“Yeah, see ya, and don’t let the monster get ya!” Jon laughed.
“Hey, real funny. I still have to row across this river tonight.” Patches seemed unconcerned.
Jon whistled. “Come, Bluebonnet. Let’s go home.”
***
Chapter Six
For a moment Patches waited in the moonlight, watching Jon and Bluebonnet disappear into the thicket. Lightning flickered across the sky, as he reached the tree stump at the water’s edge where his boat was tied. He pushed the boat into the splashing river, leapt aboard, and rowed home. The river remained almost flat during the whole trip across.
As Patches neared the opposite side of the river, he could see the small house where he had grown up. Ever since his mother had died, the sight of the house had made him feel sad. He was ashamed of its run-down condition. The white paint was blistered, and shingles were falling off the roof. His dad shouldn’t have let it get that way.
He felt lonely whenever he thought about his mother. She had died just over three years ago, but it seemed longer than that. Patches thought, Sometimes I can’t remember what her voice sounded like or how she looked. Times had been good when Mom was alive. But something had been wrong with her heart, and one day it stopped beating. She had done everything the doctors told her to do. She had taken her medicine, as she was supposed to, but the doctors couldn’t save her. All of this had happened when Patches was eight.
As he tied up his boat at the dock his dad had built, he mumbled to himself, “I thought I was used to her not bein’ here, but tonight my heart hurts from missing her.”
Patches’s footsteps crunched on the gravel path breaking the stillness of the night. He wiped the river mud clinging to his feet on the worn welcome mat before he entered the house.
The door creaked louder than a defiant, old, tree in a windstorm. Gotta oil those hinges one day. Those were the last words Patches remembered his father saying to his mother. She had asked him to fix the screen door, but, like everything that was his father’s responsibility, it had never been completed.
In the dark room, Patches stumbled over a pile of dirty laundry piled on the floor. “Dang.” His heart raced. “I wonder where I’ll find him this time.” He hated his dad when he acted this way. Then he felt guilty for hating him.
The smell of body odor was strong in the hallway leading to his father’s bedroom. It became even worse as Patches entered the room. Moonlight streamed through the curtainless window, shining like a spotlight on his father sprawled out on the floor. Since his mom had died Patches often found his dad sleeping on the floor next to the bed, in his smelly work clothes.
His dad didn’t take a shower very often anymore, and he hardly ever shaved. It was as if he didn’t care about how he looked or smelled. He was snoring away without a pillow or blanket, in the clothes he’d worn to work. In the morning his face would have lines from sleeping on the bare wood floor without a pillow.
Disgusted and angry, but used to the routine, Patches knelt down, pulled off his father’s work boots and tossed them across the room. His feet stunk, and his boots were caked with dirt. Also as part of the nightly ritual, Patches covered his father with a quilt that hung over the back of his mother’s old rocking chair in the corner. He knew from experience that nothing would wake his father.
Patches stepped back and slumped into his mother’s rocker. Then old memories surfaced. I loved this old rocker. My Mom used to hold me on her lap and read bedtime stories to me in this chair. Usually rocking in her chair made him feel better. Tonight it gave him no comfort.
After a while, he got up. He closed the door behind him and went to his own bedroom. From a crate beside his bed, he picked up a picture of his mother. He looked at her sparkling brown eyes and her dark brown hair that curled onto her shoulders. Her big smile was a reminder of the smile she used to give Patches when she was proud of him.
“Why did ya have to die?” Patches asked as he gently placed the picture back on the table. He knew she couldn’t answer him. Undressing, he threw his shirt and jeans on the floor and bounced onto his bare mattress. He wound himself up in a patchwork quilt that his mother had made and stared at the darkness. Eventually he fell into a deep sleep.
As the sun rose, his father’s groans woke Patches. He hated those sounds. They usually meant his father was in a bad mood, and Patches was the only one available for him to grouch at. He heard his father stumbling and bumping into furniture. He probably stubbed his toe on the sofa leg again, thought Patches. He isn’t a morning person.
Patches heard things falling out of the cupboards. I better get up before he wrecks the place, he thought. He jumped into the clothes he had worn yesterday. Patches needed to do laundry, but he had been too busy, since the fish were biting. His dad had never done the laundry after his mom died so Patches learned how to do it when he was eight, but sometimes he forgot.
“I ain’t gonna make it without something to get me through the day,” Patches heard his father muttering, as he desperately searched through the cabinets.
“I’ll fix you some breakfast,” Patches said as he entered the kitchen and took a half-filled soda bottle out of his father’s hands. “You don’t need any of this to start your day.”
“Don’t be tellin’ your old man what to do,” he yelled, following Patches into the kitchen.
Patches knew better than to argue with him. Ever since his mom had died, his dad had been angry like this. He misses her, too, but he won’t admit it, Patches thought. He pulled out the iron skillet, tossing it onto the stove with a clang. Next, he filled the coffeepot with water. “Coffee’ll be ready in a few minutes.” He lit the burner with a match. “You need to eat somethin’.”
“You worry too much.” His father snatched the soda bottle from the refrigerator where Patches had placed it. He drank it dry, and slammed the bottle down on the table. “I’ll show you who’s boss in this house.” He spit on the floor and stared at his son defiantly.
Silent with rage Patches grabbed the bottle and tossed it in the trash. He took two slices of bread from the breadbox and popped them in the toaster.
“You want somethin’ to eat or not?” Patches asked, cracking two eggs into the hot, spattering skillet.
“You’re just like your mama. She always said, ‘Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.’ ” His father found another soda in the fridge.
Patches slipped the soda bottle out of his father’s hand. He replaced it with a steaming cup of coffee. His dad stirred two heaping spoons of sugar into his coffee.
The toast popped out of the toaster. Patches said, “If she was here, you wouldn’t act like this.”
Before Patches finished his sentence, his father raised his hand to slap him. Patches ducked. “Well, she’s not here, and ya better learn to mind me!” He got up from the table without eating a bite of the food that Patches had prepared for him, grabbed another cold soft drink and his keys off the hook by the kitchen door, and left the house. He slammed the door so hard, the windows rattled.
Patches watched from the kitchen window. His father finished off the soda and flung the bottle into the air. As it hit the gravel driveway, it shattered. He jumped into his silver truck and sped off in a cloud of gray dust. As soon as the truck was out of sight, Patches walked outside to pick up the broken glass. It was only 7:30 a.m. and Patches felt sick to his stomach.
***
Chapter Seven
Jon tossed and turned, while images of a prehistoric monster chased him in his sleep. He awoke with a start to find Bluebonnet’s paws on his chest. Bluebonnet nudged Jon’s face with her cold, clammy nose. “Only a bad dream, girl,” he confided to the dog who jumped next to him on the bed. “We’re safe in my room at Gram and Grandpa’s house.”
Jon sat up, yawned, and jumped out of bed. Bluebonnet, like a comic reflection of Jon, stretched, yawned, and jumped out of bed also. Bluebonnet followed him down the hall with anticipation. “I know, girl,” he mumbled as he brushed his teeth. “I smell ’em too. Gram’s cookin’ pancakes all right. There’s nothin’ better than wakin’ up to the smells from Gram’s kitchen.”
Jon pulled on a pair of jeans. He added a clean T-shirt as fast as he could and hurried down the steps two at a time. He and Bluebonnet followed the delicious scent to the kitchen. “Mornin’!”
Gram looked at Jon and poured pancake batter onto the skillet popping with bacon grease. “Well, it’s about time you finally woke up.”
Grandpa glanced up from his newspaper. “Sleep okay, Jon? Your hair looks like you did.”
He nodded, as he swung his leg over the chair and patted his head to make his hair more presentable. Bluebonnet sat at his feet, sniffing the bacon hanging over the edge of his plate. Glancing to check that Gram wasn’t looking, he dropped a slice of bacon into Bluebonnet’s open mouth. Grandpa saw him, winked, and nodded his head in Gram’s direction. Jon and Grandpa had secrets they kept from Gram just for fun.
“When that dog gets to be two hundred pounds,” Gram said, “you’re gonna have to help her walk the weight off.”
Grandpa whispered to Jon and tossed another slice of bacon to Bluebonnet.
Gram placed a pile of pancakes and a jar of homemade strawberry jam on the table next to Jon’s plate. “Thought the smell of breakfast might wake you up.”
“It did, Gram,” Jon filled his plate with pancakes. “I’ve been dreamin’ about your cookin’ all year.”
Gram pushed some stray hairs into her neatly twisted bun and kissed the top of Jon’s head.
She looked intently at Grandpa, “I heard you tell Jon not to feed Bluebonnet from the table, and then you did it yourself.” Jon liked to listen to their pretend arguing. “What kinda example are you?”
Grandpa smiled, as Bluebonnet sat at attention in the hopes of getting more bacon. But Jon didn’t notice. His thoughts were on what Patches had told him about the monster Hannibal. It made him fidget in his seat.
“Know anything about a water monster around here?” he asked Grandpa before he took a gulp of milk.
“What’re you talkin’ about?” Grandpa frowned at Jon as he leaned back in his chair.
“I think maybe some monster killed Ole Blue and some of those other animals,” Jon said, nervously tapping his fork on the table.
“Yeah, a white monster!” Grandpa rose from the table, pushed in his chair and pulled a clean red handkerchief from the back pocket of his overalls. He began to clean his glasses.
“But maybe it wasn’t a white man,” Jon said as he carried his plate to the sink.
Grandpa wiggled on his wire rimmed glasses as he adjusted them. He peered at Jon over the top. “I don’t think you understand everything that’s been happenin’ around here, son.”
Gram scraped the table scraps into Bluebonnet’s dish but didn’t say a word.
Jon turned on the water to help with the dishes. “Nobody’s actually seen any animals get killed, Grandpa, so we can’t be 100 percent sure what happened.”
“Remember last year when you swam across the river, Jon?” Gram said, scrubbing a smudge of strawberry jam off his cheek. “Imagine that crazy man throwing those big rocks just to scare you!”
Jon realized there was no point arguing with his grandparents. They had made up their minds. They believed a white man had killed Ole Blue, and nothing but real proof would change that. Right now Jon didn’t have any real proof to show them, so he decided to keep quiet. But his thoughts kept returning to Patches and the monster story.
“Got any drawing paper, Gram?” Jon folded the dishtowel after placing the last plate in the cabinet.
“Over yonder.” Gram motioned with her head to a small cabinet in the corner. “Your crayons are still there from last year, too.”
The screen door banged shut as Jon raced out and hopped off the porch. Bluebonnet scratched at the door till Gram opened it and let her out. Jon whistled for her to follow him as he trekked into the edge of the woods. He could see the white farmhouse through the trees as he sat beneath a large pine tree. Jon watched as Gram hung out the wash and Grandpa tilled the garden.
On one page after another he drew the monsters that filled his mind’s eye. He pictured many prehistoric beasts that could have killed Ole Blue. Most of his drawings were ugly creatures with amber eyes and fangs dripping with thick red blood.
“Jon!” hollered Grandpa from the back door. Jon was so absorbed with his drawings that he didn’t hear Grandpa call. Bluebonnet’s bark jolted Jon back to reality as Grandpa shouted his name again.
“Be right there, Grandpa!” Jon yelled as he jumped up. He rolled up the pictures, hid them in a hollow tree stump, and raced Bluebonnet back to the house.
“You up for a little huntin’, Jon?” Grandpa grinned.
“Sure.” But Jon wasn’t sure at all. He had never killed an animal before. Jon chewed his fingernails, but he didn’t want Grandpa to know he was nervous. Grandpa pulled a key from the pocket of his hunting vest. Bluebonnet scooted back on her haunches.
***
Chapter Eight
The dog watched him as Grandpa opened the squeaking door of the gun cabinet that stood in the front hallway off the living room. Bluebonnet let out a throaty rumble that turned into a bark. She knew what the opening of this cabinet meant.
Grandpa took one look at Jon’s face and asked, “What’s wrong, Jon?”
“I don’t know much about usin’ guns. You always told me I was too young to be around ’em,” said Jon.
“Well, you’re bigger now, and it’s high time I teach you,” said Grandpa.
“I’m ready to learn, Grandpa, if you’re ready to teach me,” Jon tried to smile as he spoke.
Jon watched as Grandpa ran his hand across the rack of guns. He chose one Jon had seen many times but had never been allowed to touch. Grandpa aimed the muzzle of the rifle toward the floor. He snapped it open to make sure it was not loaded. Jon jumped a little as Grandpa placed the gun in his hands. “It won’t bite you, son. Hold ’er up to your eye, and look through the sight.”
Bluebonnet cocked her head to one side and barked, as Jon looked through the rifle’s scope.
“You need to learn to hunt but also to protect yourself from huntin’ accidents,” Grandpa said as he showed Jon how to hold a gun. “This ain’t no toy. Many a man has been killed bein’ careless handlin’ a gun.”
“I know, Grandpa,” Jon said, running his hand slowly along the worn wooden stock. “Is this the same gun my dad used when he was my age?”
“This is the one, all right.” Grandpa picked out another rifle for himself.
Jon watched as Grandpa locked the gun safe and placed the key on top of the cabinet. Jon rubbed the black metal of the gun’s barrel. It felt cold on his hand. A shiver ran down his spine. Jon didn’t know whether it was because of the dangers of weapons or from the pure excitement of hunting for the first time. “Am I holdin’ this thing right?” Jon asked Grandpa.
Grandpa tucked the wooden stock safely under Jon’s arm, and together they headed toward the back door.
As they walked out, Jon’s mind was flooded with thoughts of capturing Hannibal. With this rifle, it would be a simple task to hunt down Ole Blue’s killer. Jon’s fantasies of this bloodthirsty creature were interrupted, as he heard the metal ends of the rifle shells clinking together in Grandpa’s overalls’ pockets. Bluebonnet acted more excited than Jon. “Heel, Bluebonnet, we’re almost ready.”
“We’ll load the guns later,” Grandpa said. He pulled an orange cap from his back pocket and put it on. “Put your huntin’ cap on, too, Jon. Ya want other hunters ya meet up with to see ya.”
“Bluebonnet will be huntin’ without Ole Blue for the very first time today,” Grandpa reminded Jon. “Both the dogs trained to be great hunters. I’ll never forget how excited you were when they treed that first coon, Jon. They were makin’ so much racket, bayin’ like hounds do. But you were makin’ more racket yelling, ‘They got one, Grandpa! They got one!’”
As they walked in the sunlight, a gentle breeze swept past them. Grandpa and Jon headed into the dense woods. The sun filtered through the leaves and dusted the forest floor with light. At times, the ground felt like quicksand pulling Jon down into its depths. With a tug, he would free himself. Bluebonnet would disappear with ease and appear in a nearby clearing. Grandpa moved quickly ahead of Jon who trudged silently behind.
“Ya know, there’s only one good reason for a man to pick up a gun,” Grandpa said. He paused and mopped his brow with his red handkerchief. “And that’s to provide food for his family.”
“What about when you need to protect your home or your family or your pets?” Jon asked as he wiped his sweaty face on his sleeve. “Don’t you want to get Ole Blue’s killer?”
“Whoever killed Ole Blue has to deal with the law,” Grandpa’s face was serious as he spoke to Jon. “A gun ain’t never the solution to a problem.”
“But, Grandpa, the sheriff didn’t do anything when Gram reported it.” The shotgun was heavy resting on Jon’s hip, so he shifted the weight. “That doesn’t seem like justice to me.”
“Justice is sometimes slow, Jon,” Grandpa said as he adjusted his orange cap. “Slavery was over more than a hundred years ago, and some people still think black folks don’t deserve things as good as white folks. People are slow to accept new ideas.”
Walking through the woods, Grandpa stopped suddenly and scanned the trees in front of them.
“What is it?” Jon said, blocking the sun with his hand in an effort to see what Grandpa was looking at. “Is it a deer?”
“No,” Grandpa said with a smile, “squirrels.”