Sins of the Father: A Short Story

The boy knew he was going to be late getting home. It was almost dark already, and he was still trudging the dirt road that led from the Page farm. He knew that his mother would be worried and that his dad would be mad, especially if his father was already drinking. He hated being late for a meal, but whenever the boy was visiting the Pages, time was lost for him. It was such a pleasant place, for several reasons, not the least among which was Emma, the oldest girl.

Em was fifteen, the same age he was, and she was pretty, too – not like the girls he’d seen in magazines and on the movie screen, but pretty, nonetheless. She had a sturdy build, and he couldn’t help but notice her swelling breasts. He liked her long dark hair and her laughing green-brown eyes, too, which glowed like two soft velvet lights amid her suntanned face. But she was more to him than just looks. She had been his best friend for as long as he could remember. Since he was old enough to crop tobacco, he had worked in the summers for Emma’s dad, and he’d always enjoyed riding the Pages’ horses.

The purple twilight was settling on the fields now, and he began to wonder what his mama was cooking for supper. Times had been pretty lean at their house lately, so he figured it would be another meatless meal. There’d be plenty of vegetables from his mother’s garden, though, and maybe she’d made a skillet of cornbread. His stomach rumbled at the thought, and he remembered that he hadn’t eaten anything since his tomato sandwiches at noon.

He left the dusty road and cut through the old cemetery as a shortcut to home, figuring there was just enough light left to navigate his way through the woods behind the church. He had pals who wouldn’t have considered going through the graves this late in the day, but the cemetery had never scared him. After all, many of the headstones displayed the name “Bricker” and were his fallen kin, so he always felt at ease being around his dead relatives. And now, as he passed his grandfather’s and his brother’s graves, he murmured a quiet hello to his papa and Billy.

The trek through the woods was darker than he thought it would be, and he had to be careful not to step off the well worn path. Thorny blackberry bushes lined most of the trail, and he didn’t want his bare legs and feet to be assaulted by the brambles. Still, in his haste, he could feel their sharp hooks grabbing for him, and he knew he was sure to have a score of red crisscrosses on his calves. He thought about snakes for just a moment, then he forced the thought out of his head. He was more afraid of his father’s wrath than he was of some lurking rattlesnake, anyway.

As he left the woods, he could see his house. It looked so small and shabby compared to the Pages'. He always felt this way returning home from visiting Emma. Her house wasn’t fancy, but it was large and comfortable, and Mr. Page and his hired hands always kept it neat and orderly and in good repair. His daddy didn’t seem to care much about the appearance of their house or of their small farm. When the boy was younger, it didn’t bother him much, but now he was often ashamed, especially when he compared it to the Page place.

As he trotted through the rows of corn in the garden, he could see that his mom had left the back porch light on for him. His nose was suddenly filled with the smell of ham frying, which prompted him to change his trot into a gallop. It had been days since he’d eaten any meat, and he needed some. Cropping tobacco all day had sapped his strength, and he wanted nothing more than sitting down to a big supper.

His daddy was sitting at the rough wooden table reading the paper when he came in.

“Where the hell you been, boy? Everbody else has done et.”

“I was at the Pages’. We was ridin’ the ponies, and I guess I lost track o’ time. Sorry, Daddy.”

“You spend too much time there. You oughta be home doin’ chores. Who all was ridin’? Was it just you and that girl?” His dad asked.

“No, Pa. there was a bunch of us.”

His father responded with a grunt and went back to his paper. His mom was at the stove, cooking the ham that was tantalizing him.

“Buck, I saved you out some o’ the ham to cook fresh when you got home. I’ve tried to keep the rest o’ supper warm for ya, too. The meat’ll be ready in just a minute. Here, start on this,” she said as she made him a plate.

A red-and-white spattered metal bowl was piled high with lima beans, and a big hunk of cornbread sat next to the bowl. He loved his mama’s cornbread and thought it the best in the entire world. Between mouthfuls, he managed a question.

“Mama, where’d the ham come from?”

Martha Bricker smiled as she presented him with a separate plate of thick slices of country-cured pork.

“I traded a mess o’ eggs to Mr. Bailey at the store for it. He says he ain’t been gettin’ nearly enough eggs to do him. Seems like this hot weather’s got everbody’s hens but mine on strike.” She laughed softly, and Buck could tell that his mom took pride in the fact.

The beans and cornbread were wonderful, but the salty ham was heaven. He sweated a lot working under the brutal Georgia sun, and he craved salt. He washed his dinner down with several big Mason jars of sweet tea as his mother tidied up the kitchen. Before he finished his meal, his dad left the table, and his mom sat down next to him.

“Now, Buckie, look here. You don’t need to be draggin’ in here after dark. I was worried a snake had got ya. You coulda at least called to tell me you was okay...though I’m not sure you’d a got through. Gladys was probly on the party line all evenin’.”

Buck didn’t know what else to say but to mumble an apology. He knew his mom worried about him. His older brother, Billy, had been bitten by a cottonmouth three summers ago and had died as a result. He was the only boy left now, and she worried endlessly about him and his two younger sisters. He secretly thought that if his mother knew all the dangerous things he did, snakes would be the least of her concerns.

After supper, Buck took a bath. He had to scrub hard to get the black tar from his hands, and even then, they never looked really clean. All summer, they’d bear the tell-tale signs of the dark, sticky tar of tobacco plants. It was hard work, but he didn’t mind it. He earned $5 a day, and his dad let him keep a little of the money to spend the way he wanted. And of course, Em was there every day, usually sitting just above him on the harvester, busy at her stringing job.

He was bone tired, and he had no trouble falling asleep. Just as he was drifting off, he suddenly remembered that he hadn’t said his prayers, but he was too weary to get back out of bed. He decided God would understand, and he slipped into peaceful, dreamless slumber.

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It seemed like he had just gone to sleep when his mother was waking him up.

“Buckie, it’s six o’clock. Get up. Mr. Page’ll be here soon to pick you up. Come on, your breakfast is a waitin’.”

He forced himself out of bed and went to the bathroom. He relieved himself and splashed his face with water, then returned to his room to throw on his cut-off jeans and tee shirt. His breakfast was on the table – eggs, grits, and leftover biscuits. He ate alone, as his father, grandmother, and sisters were still asleep, and his mother was busy with some homely kitchen task. He was hoping for some more ham, but he didn’t see any. His mama must have gotten enough for just one meal, and he didn’t want to ask her about it. He knew that she felt bad about serving so many meatless suppers to her family, and most especially to him – a growing boy. As he was finishing his second glass of milk, he heard the honk of Mr. Page’s truck. He gave his mom a quick hug and headed off to another day in the fields.

After all the tobacco hands had been gathered, they were deposited at the day’s work site. The time usually passed fairly quickly. Most of the workers were teenagers, and there was a lot of joking and fun. Some of the croppers would often run across a small harmless snake and place it in a handful of tobacco leaves, passing them up to an unsuspecting female stringer. Such shenanigans were usually reserved only for the young girls. None of the boys wanted to elicit the ire of the two older women working on the harvester.

Dinnertime on workdays had always been a conundrum for Buck. Mrs. Page cooked a huge dinner for all the hands, which was served under the broad, shady pecan trees in her back yard. Buck’s father, however, wouldn’t let the boy enjoy this repast, and anyway, Mrs. Page had never seemed eager for the boy to join them. Mr. Bricker insisted that Buck take his lunch to the field every day, so while the other hands rode in the back of the truck to the Page house at noon, Buck sat alone on the edge of the field, munching his humble sandwiches.

Buck couldn’t understand his father on this issue. It seemed to him that he was having to turn down a perfectly good free meal, but his dad was adamant on this point. Emma said her daddy had told her once that Jesse Bricker was just too damned proud for his own good, but to Buck, his dad didn’t seem like he had much pride at all. Emma hated the fact that Buck had to do without a home-cooked meal, and whenever she could, she’d sneak him a piece of fried chicken or a sausage from her plate and bring it to him in the field.

Work in the fields usually stopped around four or five o’clock, and Mr. Page would take all the workers home. Buck, however, along with a couple of other teens, usually walked back to the Page place with Em. The Pages had twenty or so horses that roamed over more than 100 acres of pastures, woods, and swamps. Actually, it was debatable whether the equines were horses or ponies. Most of the stubby creatures were the offspring of Blackie, Mr. Page’s stallion. The black stud was too small to be called a horse, yet too big to be considered a pony. Most of his progeny fit this same description.

The horse-ponies weren’t the most tame of equines, and sometimes it took the kids hours just to corral them. Once they did, however, most of the mounts settled down to the idea of being ridden. There were no saddles, and all except one of the bridles were nothing more than metal bits and rope – handmade affairs that often came unfastened during the course of a ride.

Each rider had his own favorite mount. Emma, of course, had her own horse, Dixie. Dixie was a little cream-colored mare that was sweet and gentle. Buck’s favorite mount was Blackie, but he was often ridden by Emma’s older brother, Jake. When Jake wasn’t part of the group, Buck rode Blackie. Otherwise, he always chose Dolly, a paint mare with a lot of spirit and a lot of speed.

Once all the kids were astride their ponies, they headed out as a group. In hot weather, their favorite haunt was the big pond down the road from the Page house. The water was clear and cool, and riding the horses bareback into the water was a welcome reprieve from the heat. The horses seemed to enjoy it almost as much as the humans did, and the kids would stay at the pond until suppertime. Once they decided it was time to leave, it was always a race back to the barn. Blackie almost always won, no matter who was riding him, but occasionally, Buck and Dolly would be victorious.

Despite the hard work, summer had always been Buck’s favorite time of year. School was okay, but he always hated having to force his bare feet back into the confines of shoes and adhering to the teachers’ rules. The autumns weren’t so bad, though. School then meant reuniting with old friends, the fall carnival, Halloween parties, the Thanksgiving chicken pie supper, and all the festivities surrounding Christmas. January and February were bearable, too. The school was warm and cozy during the cold days of winter. Once the warmth of March arrived, however, Buck hated going to school. He thought longingly of all the other things he could be doing out in the freedom of the bright sunshine, and he felt trapped. By the time May rolled around, it was all he could do to drag himself onto the bus every morning. He would eagerly count down the days until that final three o’clock bell on the last day of school, as the summer spread out before him like an eternity.

This summer had been his best one yet. On their last ride to the pond, he had kissed Emma, and that memory was scorched into his brain. He had ached to kiss her for some time, and he had finally gathered the courage to do so. Their lips had touched only briefly, and he fumbled with the delivery, but she hadn’t pulled away, and he was determined to repeat the pleasure as soon as possible. The wonderful experience might have been longer lived had Bo Gentry not interrupted them with his antics. Bo liked Emma, too, and he was always showing off to impress her. On that particular day, he stood up on the back of his horse, yelling to get everyone’s attention.

As the summer grew to a close, there was the excitement of the first day of school. Buck had received a few new items of clothing from his mom, but mostly he wore the clothes that Billy had left behind, since his brother had been the same age and roughly the same size Buck was now when the snake had done its dastardly deed. Buck didn’t get too excited about clothes, anyway, but he did enjoy buying his new school supplies. His mother had given him a few dollars for pens, pencils, paper, and notebooks, and he and Em would do their shopping together.

Their tiny town of Irwington had only one store, Bailey’s General, and it was very small. To buy the necessary implements of education, they had to travel ten miles east to Smithfield, where a large five-and-dime had an alluring display of all kinds of academic supplies. Mrs. Page drove Emma, Buck, Jake, and her younger son, Roy, to the store and dropped them off, allowing them to enjoy their freedom while she did some shopping at the dress store.

The kids had already ridden to the school, where their class assignments and supply lists had been posted on the front door. Buck and Em would be entering the ninth grade, their last year at the local school. Next year, they’d have to ride the bus all the way to Smithfield, where the county high school was. Buck was elated to discover that he and Emma would be in the same homeroom class this year, with Miss Watkins as their teacher. The kids had learned from their older siblings and pals that Lena Watkins was mild mannered and fun, so the year seemed to hold promise.

Emma always had more money to spend on supplies than Buck did, but he didn’t mind. His mom had always made sure he had the funds for necessities, and he didn’t care about having “cutesie” pens and notebooks that seemed so important to Em and the other girls. When Emma became excited about some pink notebooks with yellow flowers on the cover, he decided that he never would understand females. A notebook was a notebook, as far as he was concerned.

After the group had made their purchases, they took a seat at the counter of the store and ordered Coca-colas. Buck had held back the eight cents for the soda – he didn’t want to be embarrassed in front of the others. He wished he could have paid for Emma’s drink, too, but he didn’t have enough money left.

September was a whirlwind of activity for Buck. There was school and the dreaded homework, of course, but there were also football games, hay rides, and the fall carnival. If all the chores were done at home, he was usually allowed to attend these events – as long as his father was sober. Jesse Bricker could be downright mean when he was drunk, and at those times, Buck did his best to stay clear. His mother always tried to run interference, but she was often unsuccessful. It seemed like Mr. Bricker saved all his venom for his only son. He rarely raged at the girls, or at his wife, for that matter. But he seemed to hold a special contempt for Buck. Buck always wondered if his dad blamed him for Billy’s death.

Billy. Had it really been three years since it happened? Buck could remember it like it was yesterday. The two boys were fishing at the river and hadn’t had much luck, so Buck suggested they go deeper into the adjoining woods to fish in the swampy area that experienced less fishing pressure. The moccasin had struck Billy in the upper thigh, and the younger brother didn’t know what to do. He was only twelve at the time. He ran back home as fast as he could, and when he returned with his father, Billy was dead.

Billy had always been his father’s favorite. He was a strong, muscular boy, and he had loved helping his dad on the farm. Billy was tough, too, and even at fifteen, it was clear that he would grow into a man’s man. Buck had loved Billy, and he had even admired some of his traits, but they didn’t always see eye to eye. Billy wasn’t as sensitive as Buck, and Buck had seen his big brother treat their mom, their younger sisters, and their pets and animals with what bordered on cruelty.

With Billy’s death, Mr. Bricker had gone into a deep depression. He’d never been much of a farmer, and with his free farmhand gone, the little farm pretty much went to pot. Fences were falling down, barns were in need of repairs, and weeds grew in some places where crops should have been growing. Buck tried to help, but at that point, his dad no longer cared. Jesse lost his job with the local sawmill after missing so many days of work, drowning in the throes of his depression and alcohol. Now he did odd jobs and sold lumber and firewood on days when he felt like it. Much of the care of the livestock fell to Buck. He tended the handful of cows and pigs, and he sometimes helped his mom in the garden and with her chickens. On the summer days when he worked for Mr. Page, his mom did the milking. The rest of the year, the chore was Buck’s, and Sally had to be milked twice a day.

On some Saturday mornings in September, his dad would wake him up extra early to help him cut wood. After bringing in the milk, he would ride with his father to a nearby forest and cut large oak trees for winter firewood. On these days, Jesse often seemed like his old self. The two would spend most of the day in the woods, sawing and chopping. Some of the logs they’d save for themselves, and the rest would be sold for cash. Buck always loved seeing the wood shed behind the house filled to the rafters with cords of fragrant logs.

The high school football games were a special treat. Buck loved the sport and had always wanted to be on a team, but his dad wouldn’t hear of it. The boy had too many after-school chores to waste time at practice. Still, he got to attend a couple of games every year, and even better, he got to sit with Em. Things had progressed since the summer, and at the first game of the season, he managed to talk her under the bleachers, where they kissed for almost a half hour – their longest session yet.

October came in cool and clear, and hunting season opened. Buck had been scouting whitetails in his spare time, and he was sure that this year he’d finally be successful. His grandfather had built a tree stand of scrap lumber, and much to Buck’s delight, he had found a lot of deer sign nearby. Hunting was one of the few activities his father encouraged him in, mostly because it meant meat for the family. They didn’t own a rifle, but he had use of his papa’s old shotgun, which he loaded with a rifled slug. This combination had a lot of knock-down power, but it didn’t have much range.

On Buck’s third day of hunting, he killed his first deer. It was a big buck, and he got it with one shot. He had to walk back to the house to get his dad and the truck to bring the animal home. Buck had watched his grandpa dress deer before, and he’d watched his dad do it once, too, before Billy died. Since then, his father hadn’t had any interest in hunting. He’d taken Billy a few times, but he’d never hunted with Buck. The boy pretty much knew what to do, as he’d butchered a number of hogs, and he figured a deer couldn’t be that much different. His dad helped him, and he proudly took the meat to his mother.

Martha was delighted to get the venison. She saved the shoulders and some of the scraps for sausage. She’d been saving some beef tallow for just this purpose, and she ground the deer meat and mixed it with spices before stuffing it into pig casings. She thought about asking Jesse to smoke it in the smokehouse, but then decided against it. She knew he probably wouldn’t want to go to the trouble to do so, and she thought Buck was still too young to learn the intricacies of smoking meat. She wrapped the sausages and the slices of backstraps and hams into white paper and placed most of the meat in the freezer. She kept out a little to cook in the coming days, but she planned on parsing it out stingily to make it last. She hoped that Buck would be able to kill another deer, but there was no guarantee.

Halloween fell on a Saturday that year, and Buck was invited to a hayride at the Pages'. A make-do trailer was filled with bales of sweet-smelling hay, and Jake pulled the young people around with a big red tractor. Most of the dozen or so teenagers in attendance saw the ride as the perfect opportunity to pair off, and as soon as they boarded, the bales were torn apart to form a tawny mountain. There in the dark, hidden in the mound of straw, the would-be lovers could tease and touch without having to worry about the prying eyes of grownups watching the fumbling and groping.

Buck and Em retreated to a corner of the trailer, and Buck made sort of a hay wall to give them privacy. They had the kissing thing down pat by now, and Buck was eager for more. As he hugged the girl, he let his right hand wander up slowly from her waist to her left breast. Once he reached it, he stopped for a moment, awaiting the protest he was sure would follow. None came, however, so he inched slowly upward until his hand brushed the lower portion of his target. He wasn’t sure what to do next. He gently squeezed, and for some reason he thought of Sally. This made him chuckle inside, and for a moment, his attention was diverted. He came back to his senses soon and became bolder in his moves. Emma started breathing faster and wriggled in his arms, and suddenly, she shrugged his hand away with her arm. After another kiss, he again sought the soft fullness, and this time she immediately recoiled.

“Buckie Bricker! What are you doin’? You know I’m not that kind of girl!” If it’s possible to scream while whispering, that’s just what Emma did. Buck was now confused, thinking that just the moment before she had been “that kind of girl.” What had happened? Emma sat up straight, brushing the wisps of hay from her hair and clothing.

“I’m sorry, Em. I’m sorry. Really.” Buck tried to pull her back down in the hay, but she wouldn’t have it. He sat up and looked around, and he noticed that they were almost back to the Page house. The other couples were all sitting at attention, and Buck felt like they were all looking at him. He was suddenly flushed with guilt, although he wasn’t sure why, exactly. It would be a long time before Emma would kiss him again.

After the Halloween party, Em gave him the cold shoulder for a while. She was courteous at school, but things had changed. When he went over to her house to ride Blackie one Sunday afternoon in early November, she was too busy to join him, so he rode alone. He mostly let the horse choose its own pathway, as he was lost in his thoughts. Before he knew it, he was approaching the Bonner farm, where Crazy John lived, all alone in a ramshackle house that was in such disrepair Buck wondered what held it together.

John Bonner was an old man – or at least, he seemed so to Buck. He was sort of a hermit, and Buck might have thought of him as a misanthrope if he’d known the word. Most people didn’t care for John, but Buck had always liked him. They had often run into each other at the river, and Crazy John had taken Buck out in his little boat numerous times, where they had talked about a variety of topics. For some reason, he felt comfortable with the old codger. Maybe John could help with his girl problems.

He slid off Blackie and tied the pony to a fence post. As John’s aged bulldog began to bark, its owner stormed out onto the rickety front porch.

“Who the hell’s there? Oh…is that you, Bucko? Well, come on up here’n sit a spell.”

Buck sat in one of the old man’s rockers, and John took the chair beside him.

“Boy, you look like ya swallered a bad frog. What’s wrong? Is it yore daddy?”

Buck shook his head.

“No, sir. It’s…it’s a girl. I reckon you could call her my…my girlfriend,” Buck stammered.

“Oh, Lawd, boy. Well, I reckon you’re getting’ to that age. So what’s the problem?”

After much hemming and hawing, Buck was finally able to relate the hayride incident. John listened closely, and although Buck was afraid the old man would laugh at him, he didn’t. Once the story had been completed, John scratched his beard for a minute, obviously in deep thought. He pushed his misshapen white hat back on his head.

“Son, lemme tell ya somethin’ about females. They’re danejus. They can mess up yore mind and tear yore heart to pieces. And they’ll smile while they do it. Ya see, the problem is that you and that gal want the same thing, but the world tells her she ain’t supposed to want it. She’s fightin’ what you’d call a inner battle – deep inside herself. You breached the castle wall, and she’s mad. She ain’t really mad at you – she’s mad at herself. You jest bide yore time and be nice. She’ll come round.”

Buck considered the words, and decided John must be right. He’d always heard that Crazy John had been married ten times, so he ought to know a lot about women. The boy felt better, like a weight had been lifted from his young shoulders. He decided right then and there that he’d take the advice of his confidant.

For the next week or so at school, Buck was friendly to Emma, but he didn’t go to her house any. He was in agony. He longed to hold her again, and to feel her warm body pressed against his. To help keep his mind off Emma, he spent most of his spare time hunting. He hadn’t seen any more deer, but he had shot several squirrels that his mama fried with gravy. The deer meat was already running out, he knew, and he felt the need to provide for his family. His father had been drinking more than usual, and he hadn’t worked much, either. Buck could hardly stand to see that hollow look in his mother’s eyes, and that prompted him to spend long hours in the woods in search of game.

Thanksgiving was just a few days away, and he knew his mama didn’t have a turkey. She’d likely kill one of her hens for the big dinner, even though she’d hate to. They rarely ate any of Martha’s chickens. She felt like they were pets, and as she tried to explain to Jesse, a dead hen made but one meal, while the eggs she could lay would make a lot of breakfasts. She never kept any of the young cockerels. As soon as the chicks were old enough to sex, she’d trade the little roosters off to somebody in exchange for some cracked corn or other feed. She had a big rooster named Rusty, a Rhode Island Red, and so far, he hadn’t needed any help doing his job. All of Martha’s chickens had names, and she’d always said you shouldn't eat a critter that has a name. Buck was careful to keep this in mind as he tended the stock every day. He didn’t want to get attached to any of the animals he might have to kill and butcher…and eat.

Buck still had a little money left from working in tobacco, but he was saving it for Christmas. He remembered that Clarence Tucker usually kept a few turkeys, so the next day after school, he walked the two miles to the Tucker place. He and Mr. Tucker worked out a deal. Buck was to come to his place the Tuesday before Thanksgiving and help him put up some fence, and he’d give Buck one of his bronze toms in exchange. He’d even kill and dress the bird for the boy.

The next few days were good. Buck was satisfied with the arrangement he’d made for the turkey, and Emma was beginning to warm up to him, too. School was always out the whole week of Thanksgiving, and on that last Friday, she invited him to come over and go riding on one of their days off. Monday was about the only day he’d be free, so they set a date for then.

The next day, Saturday, Buck was in the woods before good light. He shot five squirrels and two rabbits before returning home. Martha cut the rabbits into sections, dredged them in flour, and fried them in hot grease. She also made gravy and a big pot of grits, and all six Brickers feasted on the hot supper.

“Ma, what ya gonna do with the squirrels?” Buck wondered.

“Well, you know tomorrow is the big dinner at church, and I was wondrin’ what in the world I’d take. Now that I got them squirrels you brung, I’m gonna make a big batch o’ squirrel and dumplins’ to take.” Martha smiled and shot a look at her son, and Buck grinned. He had completely forgotten about the Thanksgiving feast at church that was held every year on the Sunday before the holiday. He knew Emma would be there, and he found himself looking forward to seeing her.

That Sunday morning was unusually chilly, and a light frost covered the distant blue hills. His dad snored softly as the rest of the family got ready for church. Buck’s mom, grandmother, and sisters piled into the old pickup, and he and the food rode in the back. The sermon was nothing special, and in fact, Buck barely heard the minister’s words. He was too busy looking at Emma. She was wearing a new dress, and she was wearing her hair up. For the first time ever, he noticed that she was wearing a little makeup, which made her look older. He glanced around at the congregation and noticed that Bo’s eyes were glued on Emma, too.

Once the preacher finally finished his long-winded sermon, the congregation retreated to the social hall. The women set out the feast, and a long line of men, women, and impatient children waited to make their plates. Emma asked Buck if he’d like to sit with her, so they retreated to a picnic table outdoors.

“Buck, I’m sorry about the way I’ve been actin’. It’s just that…” Emma wasn’t sure exactly how to broach the subject.

“It’s okay. I’m sorry, too,” Buck said as he pushed his mashed potatoes around on his plate with a plastic fork.

“It’s a beautiful day. Why don’t you come over this afternoon, and we’ll take a long ride on the ponies – just the two of us. You were gonna come tomorrow, anyway. Let’s just have our date today, instead.”

Buck thought this was a wonderful idea, and he readily consented. As soon as the meal was over and everyone had said their goodbyes, the Brickers made their way home. Buck didn’t see his father anywhere, and he was glad. He wouldn’t have to worry about getting his dad’s permission to go to the Pages’. He quickly got out of his church clothes and into his jeans, and he kissed his mom goodbye and assured her he’d be home before dark. He practically ran the entire way to Emma’s.

Em was waiting at the barn for him, and she’d already caught Dixie and Blackie and had them bridled. They mounted the ponies, and Em led the way. They didn’t talk much for the first mile or so, and Buck felt that Emma was in a thoughtful mood. He was happy just to be with her, though, and he decided not to break her silent reverie. He’d let her speak first. He didn’t have to wait long.

“Bucky, my daddy says you and I are gettin’ too close.”

“Why? I thought your daddy liked me?”

“He does. He likes you a lot. I don’t understand it, either. He said we can be friends, but he don’t want us to be sweethearts,” Emma explained. “He don’t know we’re ridin' together today all by ourselves. He and Mama went over to my aunt’s house for the afternoon.”

“So…what do we do, Em? I don’t wanna stop spendin' time with you. I can’t. I just can’t. Well, Em, I…I love you. I guess I always have.”

Upon hearing this revelation, Emma trotted Dixie ahead, as if she hadn’t heard Buck’s profession of love. When he caught up to her, he noticed that she was crying.

“What’s wrong? Did I say somethin’ wrong, Em?”

The girl shook her head. “No, no, it’s…oh, Buck, I love you, too. I’m sure of it.” With that, she whirled Dixie to a hard right and galloped up into a thick stand of scrub pines. Buck followed, and both youths slid off the backs of their mounts. They hugged, and Emma clung fiercely to Buck, her tears now falling freely. Buck comforted her as best he knew how.

“Em, what’s the matter? Why're you so upset?”

She wiped her eyes with the corner of her shirt tail. “You don’t understand. I don’t want to love you. My mama and daddy have told me over and over again that I can’t. I’ve tried not to, but I can’t help it. You’re all I can think about.”

Buck was surprised yet overjoyed to learn that Emma felt the same way about him that he felt about her. He wanted to seal the moment with a kiss, but the nagging thought of her parents’ disapproval of the relationship bothered him.

“Why are they so against me, Em? Do they think I’m not good enough for you?”

“They’re not against you – they’re against us. You know my mama has never been too crazy about you, but my daddy really likes you. He always has. But they insist that we can never be boyfriend and girlfriend. They didn’t mind us bein' together so much when we were little, but now that we’re older, they don’t like it a bit.” Emma shook her head and stared at the leaf-strewn ground as her eyes began to water again.

“It’s because my dad is a drunk and ‘cause we’re poor. They think you deserve somebody better,” the boy explained, half hoping Emma would say he was wrong. He lifted her chin with his hands and searched her eyes.

She pulled away from him. “No, Buck. I honestly don’t think that’s the reason. Mama has been tryin' to make me spend time with Bo, and his family’s just as poor as yours. Heck, his daddy’s even in prison up at Reidsville! And my daddy has always said that you were a fine boy and that you were gonna make somethin’ of youself one day.”

Buck knew that Emma spoke the truth. On many occasions over the years, Mr. Page had said pretty much those exact words to him – that he knew Buck was going to grow into a fine man. Em’s father had always taken a special interest in him and had gone out of his way to help him – at least, as much as he could without Jesse's finding out.

“Em, you know there’s always been bad blood between my daddy and yours. I always figured it was because my daddy was sorry and no good. But maybe there’s more to it. We’ll just have to see each other on the sly. Okay?”

Emma nodded and forced a smile, and she looked so vulnerable that Buck couldn’t resist embracing her. She hugged him back, and her lips sought his. Without thinking, his hands begin to explore the rises and contours of her body, and she didn’t resist. She submitted herself to him completely, and there on a blanket of fragrant pine needles, they consummated their love under the bright November sky.

That Tuesday, Buck followed through with his plan about the turkey. He arrived at the Tucker place just after eight, and Mr. Tucker was still having his coffee. They set to work on the fence, and by noon, the job was more than half done. He ate lunch with the Tuckers, and the Mrs. laid out a fine meal of biscuits, cornbread, turnip greens, stewed squash, ham, fried chicken, boiled okra and tomatoes, corn, and hoppin’ john. She even had a late-season melon she’d been able to coax to grow under a sheet of plastic. He noted that Mrs. Tucker had the same plates his mama used – the only ones sold by Mr. Bailey - but his mom never put out a feast like this except maybe for Thanksgiving. The work went quickly after dinner, and by around three, the job was completed.

“Come on in the house and get your turkey. I got it all ready and waitin’ in the ice box. You did a good job, Buck. I got some more chores you can do, too, iffin you’re interested,” exclaimed Mr. Tucker.

Buck didn’t commit, but he thanked the man. He took his turkey and left. As he was walking home, his situation with Emma wouldn’t leave his head. He turned it over and over again, like you might turn over a rock hoping to find something hidden beneath it. He decided to pay another visit to John.

John was grinding cane when Buck arrived. A big red mule was walking in circles around the grinder as the old man fed purple stalks of cane into the rusted device. He looked up as the boy approached. “Well, howdy, Bucko. What brings you out this way?”

“I been over at the Tuckers', workin' for a turkey,” Buck tilted his head to the poultry in the bag he carried.

“Well, ain’t that fine.Yore mama will sure be proud of you.”

“John, I really need to talk to you.”

“Oh, Lawd. It ain’t women trouble again, izzit?” John asked with a snort.

“Yeah, I reckon it is. Kinda.”

John stopped the mule and put the feedbag over its gray muzzle. He headed to the porch and gestured for Buck to follow him. They sat in the worn rockers, and John began to rock back and forth, waiting for Buck to speak. After a few minutes, the boy’s words tumbled out.

“I told you about my girlfriend, Emma Page. I love her, and she loves me. But her mama and daddy have told her in no uncertain terms that I can’t be her boyfriend.”

John pursed his thin lips and stared off into the distance for a few minutes before responding, and Buck began to wonder if the old codger had even heard him. Just as Buck was about to repeat his predicament, John spoke.

“Buck, that’s a bad sitiation. You know about them ill-fated love affairs don’t ye? Jest look what happened to Romeo and Julie back in Old England. Look how they ended up.”

Buck didn’t want to correct the old man and try to explain to him that Shakespeare’s tragedy hadn’t taken place in England, but he didn’t feel like the point was important. He just nodded.

“I’ma thankin’ that mebbe you need to find yoreself another gal. A different gal, Buck.”

“But I don’t want a different girl. I love Emma!” Buck’s words came out a little more forceful than he meant for them to, but John didn’t seem to be fazed. He just looked at Buck with a strange expression on his worn face. “John, I need some answers. Why do my daddy and Mr. Page hate each other so much?”

John thought this over for a moment before answering. “Boy, you know I don’t care fer folks’s messin' in my bizness, so I don’t stick my nose in theirs, either. That ain’t none o' my affair.”

“But I have to know! I can’t fix it if I don’t. I have to make this right with Mr. Page. I can’t stop being with Emma.”

John threw his head back and whistled. He stopped rocking and scooted to the edge of his chair until he was eye-to-eye with the boy. “It ain’t somethin’ you can fix. Nobody can fix it.”

“What, John? What is it? I have to know. Things are getting’ serious with Em and me.” The pleading and pain could be heard in Buck’s voice, and it wasn’t lost on Crazy John. He shook his head slowly and began to roll a cigarette in his gnarled hands.

“It was a long time ago. And I don’t really know the truth o' the matter. All I heared is talk. Rumors, you know. Might not even be true.” It was obvious to Buck that John wasn’t at all comfortable with sharing the information, but the boy was desperate for it.

“What? Tell me – please!”

“The talk was that Mr. Page is yore real daddy.”

Buck felt as if someone had punched him in the belly. It took a few seconds for the far-reaching implications of this knowledge to sink into his young mind. His initial shock was soon overcome by anger. “What?? Why would you say such a thing? My mama would never…you’re crazy! Everybody’s right about you!”

Buck ran as fast as he could from the porch, and he almost forgot to pick up his Thanksgiving bird in his hasty departure. He didn’t stop until he was completely out of breath and fighting for air in gasping heaves. He stopped to rest on the side of the road, and he vomited into the ditch. He lay there on the dry grass, his mind racing in circles. Was it true? No, it couldn’t be. His mother was a good Christian woman. John was just confused. He was, after all, crazy – everyone said so. The boy was determined to chase the thoughts from his mind, and after a few minutes of rest, he made his way home.

His mom had been delighted with the turkey, and even his dad seemed proud of him. His grandmother had fried the gobbler to golden, crispy perfection in a deep vat of lard, and with the other dishes prepared by the two women, the family had enjoyed a wonderful Thanksgiving. Even his dad had remained more or less sober and had only had a couple of glasses of blackberry wine with his dinner.

The terrible knowledge he held was still there, even though he tried to keep it hidden in the deepest recesses of his mind. But his thoughts often returned to it, examining it, much like a tongue keeps returning to a sore spot left by a pulled tooth, no matter how much it hurts to do so. He hadn’t seen Emma since his meeting with John, and he didn’t know if he should share this weighty burden or not. Because of the holiday, her parents and relatives had been close by, so he knew better than to try to see her. On the Saturday after Thanksgiving, however, she rode up on Dixie, leading Blackie by a braided length of baling twine. The dogs announced the arrival of the visitors.

“Where’s your daddy?” Em asked.

“Not here. I think he drove into town,” Buck explained.

“Good. C’mon, let’s go for a ride.”

Buck grabbed a shock of mane in his left hand and swung up onto Blackie’s broad back. Emma was happy, and that was good. He wasn’t sure how she would feel about their lovemaking in the woods. He had been worried that she might be overcome with guilt, but if she was, she certainly didn’t show it. She chattered about the holiday and about which relatives had shown up, but she noticed that he was unusually quiet.

“Cat got your tongue?”

“I don’t have a cat,” he answered, a slight smile playing across his face.

“Why are you so quiet today? Too much turkey and dressing yesterday?”

“Em, we need to talk.”

She laughed softly. “Silly, I have been talkin'. You’re the one not talkin'.”

“No, I’m serious, okay? I really need to talk you about somethin' important. Let’s go to that place.” By “that place,” he meant the scene of their crime of passion. It wasn’t far away, and he felt like it would be the appropriate spot for the discussion they needed to have. When they arrived, they dismounted and sat on the ground, holding hands.

“Emma, I think I might know why our parents don’t want us to be involved.”

The girls smile fell immediately. “What…why?”

“I don’t know how to say this, and it probly ain’t even true, anyway. Just somethin' crazy I heard from John Bonner,” he explained, perhaps in an effort to try to convince himself as much as to convince Emma of the absurdity of what he was about to share with her.

“Buck, what is it?”

“Crazy John says you might be my sister – my half-sister.” He held his breath, waiting for her reaction. He half expected her to laugh or to scream at him, but she did neither.

She looked down, as if she were carefully examining the colorful autumn leaves that littered the ground. Then she looked up at him. “One of my cousins from Macon told me that last summer, but I didn’t believe him. I just thought he was bein' mean. But when my parents acted the way they have about us seein' each other, I started to wonder if it was true. And now a grownup has told you. Do you believe it?”

“No! Oh, I don’t know. I’m not sure what to believe. But we have to find out the truth. I thought about askin' Ma, but I can’t do that. True or not, it would kill her. It would just kill her if I asked.” Buck was almost in tears.

“Have you thought about askin' your grandma? You used to always share your secrets with her,” Emma suggested.

“Yeah, I’ve thought of that. But I wanted to talk to you first. I trust Grandma – she wouldn’t tell anybody I asked such a outlandish question.”

So it was settled. The first chance Buck had, he’d talk to his grandmother. She was his dad’s mother, and he felt sure she’d tell him the truth.

He didn’t have to wait long for the opportunity to present itself. The next morning, his mom and sisters went to church, and even his father made a rare appearance in the pews. His grandmother had decided to stay home and pick up windfall pecans, and Buck offered to help.

There were about ten or twelve old trees behind the house, and most years, they did a pretty good job of producing nuts. His mom and grandmom used a lot of the pecans in their holiday baking, and they put more in the freezer to store for the rest of the year. If there were any nuts remaining, they’d sell them to a local company for some Christmas money.

The old lady wore a large apron with a voluminous front pouch. She’d scramble around in the grass under the trees, running her crooked fingers through the blades, searching for the hidden nuts lurking beneath the fallen leaves. She could barely see, so she depended more on her sense of touch than she did on her vision. He watched her for a moment, as he gathered his nerve.

“Grandma, I heard a crazy rumor the other day, and it’s kinda botherin’ me.”

“Well, boy, what is it? You know what they say – where there’s smoke, there’s fire.” She paused a second before adding, “‘Course, that ain’t always the case.”

“A nasty person told me Daddy ain’t my real father.” He blurted it out. That’s not how he wanted to broach the subject to his old granny, but he knew if he didn’t expel the statement forcibly from his lips, he’d never get it out.

She peered at him with an expression of sadness and loss. “Let’s sit a spell, Buckie.” She took his arm and pulled him onto the grass beside her. “I want you to know that I’ve been dreadin’ this since the day you was born. I knew it had to come out sooner or later. It’s true, son. Did you hear who your real daddy is?”

“Yes, ma’am. Mr. Page. But…” He looked at her with pleading eyes that begged her to tell him a lie, to recant the horrible statement she’d just made. “But Mama…Emma?”

“Now don’t you go thinkin’ too ill of yore mama. Jesse’s my son, and I love him, but he’s a hard man. Before yore mama was expectin’ you, Jesse left her and Billy. He just lit out one day. They’d had a fuss, and he took off for Atlanta. Said he’d find a job there. He didn’t leave yore mama with hardly nothin', and remember – Billy was just a little baby then. Me and yore grandpa wasn’t living close by at the time, and we didn’t know nothin’ about it for a while. If we’d a knowd, we’d a did something. Martha and Billy liked to starved to death. Hadn’t been for Caleb Page, they probly woulda. He got wind of what had happened, and here he comes with food and firewood. This went on for a couple months. Caleb’d check in on yore mama and Billy several times a week, and if they needed anything, he’d get it. He sent some o’ his hands to work the farm, too. And Buck, what happened just happened. Tweren’t really no one body’s fault. They all three of ‘em had to share in the blame – Caleb, yore mama, and yore daddy. By the time Jesse come back home, Martha was expectin’ you. Jesse, he does the math, and all hell breaks loose. First he wanted to shoot Caleb, then he wanted to kill yore ma, then he wanted to do away with hisself. Yore grandpa found out and talked some sense into him. Told him if he hadn’t to a abandoned his wife and baby, it never woulda happened. Told him he could raise the baby as his own and that not a soul in town had to know the truth. They could just tell any nosy bodies that you had arrived a little early. So that’s what they did.”

Buck slowly digested every piece of this story, bit by bit. But it was bitter going down, and he almost choked on it. Now he saw it all – why his daddy hated Mr. Page, why his daddy treated him the way he did, why the families didn’t want him and Emma to be together. His grandmother tried to hug him, but he shrugged off her arm and left. He had to see Emma.

He made the trip to the Pages' in record time, but no one was home. He had forgotten all about it being Sunday. The Pages were at church. He decided to wait in the small barn, and he plopped down dejectedly on a bale of fragrant hay. Dolly saw him, and she plodded over and nudged him with her nose, begging to be petted. He stroked her soft velvet-like muzzle and then buried his face in her shaggy neck and sobbed. He lost all account of time as he was filled with conflicting emotions. He felt sorry for his mother but was mad and disgusted with her at the same time. He felt pity and anger toward his father, and for Caleb Page, he felt hatred and gratitude. His most vehement emotions, however, were perhaps those he felt about himself. He was totally repulsed by the fact that he was in love with his own sister, and that the passion had been addressed and fulfilled. He experienced a sudden wave of nausea as he heard a vehicle pull up to the house. Emma was home from church.

He knew Em always went to feed the horses after the services, so he tried to compose himself before her arrival. When she came into the barn, she was wearing jeans and a sweater, and she’d braided her long hair into two low-hanging ponytails. He thought how young she looked with her hair like that.

“Gosh, Buck – you scared me!”

“Let’s grab a couple o' ponies and ride down to the woods. If we go the back way, nobody'll see us leave. Hurry.” Buck slipped a bridle on Dolly, and Emma did the same to Champ, a horse she rarely rode. It was the most convenient mount, however, and Em decided this was urgent.

When they reached a copse of hardwoods beyond the creek, they dismounted. Emma thought they were there for loving until she saw Buck’s expression. “What is it?”

“Oh, God, Emma. It’s true. It’s all true. My grandma told me the whole story. You’re my sister, and now we’re gonna burn in Hell for all eternity!” Buck related everything his grandmother had shared with him, and he was surprised at how calm Emma remained. But she had always been able to keep a cool head in the face of a crisis, which is something he loved about her. And he still loved her, but in a different way now.

“Buckie, calm down. You’re scarin' me. We didn’t know. God will forgive us. We didn’t know. We just can’t ever let it happen again.” She put her arms around the boy, and for the first time, he felt no desire for her. “It’ll be okay. It’ll all be okay. We just can’t ever tell anyone – ever. About what we did or even that we know the truth. It’ll mess up too many lives. Okay?”

He slowly nodded his head, showing his acquiescence to her instructions. He knew she was right, and they ceremoniously sealed their pact with a hug.

********************************************************************************************************

Buck’s grandmother never brought up the conversation from that day. It was as if it had never taken place. Sometimes he liked to pretend that he’d dreamed the whole thing and that life could return to how it was before the awful confession. He still saw Emma at school, of course, but he never went to the Page farm anymore, and they never secreted away together, either.

Christmas came and went, and so did January. At the first of February, Emma passed him a note in class one day that said for him to meet her outside the gymnasium after school. He was anxious about why she wanted to see him alone, and for the rest of the school day, he could think of nothing else.

When the last bell rang, he rushed to the gym. She was there waiting for him.

“Buckie, I’m late.”

“No, you’re not. I just got here. How could you be late?”

“My monthly is late…I think I might be pregnant.”

Of all that the boy had been through in the past few months, this was the worst. It was a nightmare – something he hadn’t even allowed his conscious mind to think about. Whenever his thoughts would creep in the direction of this possibility, he’d slap them back to another place. Surely this couldn’t really be happening. He forced his thoughts onto a different track. “Have you been with anybody else?” He already knew the answer, but he was hoping against hope.

Emma glared at him, her green eyes afire with anguish and anger. “NO!! You know I haven’t!”

“I’m sorry, Em. Really. I know I’m the only one. But…it was just the one time…”

“Well, it only takes one time. You know that.”

The boy nodded. “Yeah, I know. Oh, God, Em…what will we do? It’ll be born with two heads or somethin'. It’ll be a monstrosity! Our lives will be ruined. This would kill our families. When will you know for sure?”

“I’m pretty sure now. I’m never late. Now don’t panic, Buck. We’ll figure somethin' out. You know, there are things that can be done…”

Buck’s head snapped sharply up to face Emma, unsure of exactly what she meant. “What are you talkin’ about? Are you sayin’ you want to…”

“Buck, I’m not gonna give birth to a baby that’s damned. But for now, let’s just wait a couple o' weeks longer. Maybe I’ll start.”

The next few weeks dragged by at a snail’s pace. Every day at school, Buck would ask Emma if she had any news to share, and every day, she said no. In this case, no news was bad news. He had prayed every night that she would get her period. He had made all sorts of deals with God, too. If Em wasn’t pregnant, he’d go to church every Sunday. He’d never curse again. He’d always help his mother. At one point, he even promised to become a preacher when he grew up – anything not to have to deal with this all-too-possible terrifying reality.

At the end of the month, Emma had some news to share with Buck, but it wasn’t what he’d wanted to hear. She was getting sick in the mornings now. She was pregnant, and he had to wrap his mind around it. He felt like he was responsible for finding a solution, and the only person who came to mind was old John.

The following Saturday, he walked to the Bonner place. John was sitting on the porch, almost as if he were waiting for Buck’s arrival. He didn’t shout out his usual greeting, however. In fact, he eyed the boy somewhat warily.

“You still mad at me? Look, I’m sorry. I reckon I need to learn to be a better liar.” John tilted back in his chair, waiting for the boy’s response.

“No, I ain’t mad. You were right. My grandma told me all about it. But now I need your help, John.”

Crazy John grunted. “What is it, boy?”

Buck told him everything. The old man had a plug of tobacco in his cheek, and as he mulled over the information, he moved the big lump from jaw to jaw. He spit a thick brown stream into the dirt yard, narrowly missing a brindle dog. “So you’re a wantin’ to end it. Is that it? Does the gal agree?”

Buck nodded.

“You both sure?”

Buck nodded again.

“Well, I know a old black witch-woman what can probly help. Name o’ Hattie. She lives in the Kettle. I’ll go see her tonight, and you come back tomorry. Okay?”

The boy couldn’t speak, afraid that his resolve would crumble and he’d break down in front of the man. He didn’t want John to see him cry. Buck agreed to return the next morning. He’d tell his mother he was sick and couldn’t attend church.

Buck’s sleep that night was fitful, filled with dark dreams that were hard to wash away the next morning. When his mom came in to tell him it was time to dress for Sunday services, he feigned illness. He waited anxiously for the rest of the family to leave, and when they did, he checked on his father. Jesse was sleeping soundly, tangled in a mass of white sheets. The boy crept quietly out and gingerly closed the back door behind him.

When he reached John’s, he found the recluse lounging in the sun on top of two square hay bales. Apparently, the curmudgeon was snoozing. Buck cleared his throat to announce his arrival, and the old man slowly lifted his hoary head and squinted at the visitor.

“’Zat you, boy? Damn. I liked to have fell asleep.” John stretched and yawned, wiping his rheumy eyes.

“What did you find out?” Buck was anxious to get this business taken care of.

“Just hold your danged horses a minute, will ya? I gotta wake up ‘fore I can talk sense.” With that, he stood up and walked around in a small circle, stooping over from his arthritic back. He yawned again and coughed several times.

“C’mon, John! Can she help?”

“Yes, yes. She said she’d make your girl some carrot seed soup, and that should take care of the whole mess. It’ll probly make her sick, and if it works, you know she’s gonna bleed a lot.”

Buck hadn’t really thought all this through. “Sick? What’s in the soup?”

“She said it had carrot seeds and some herbs in it. Hell, I don’t know. Could be frogs and bat wings. I ain’t no conjurer.”

“Well, that don’t sound too dangerous, but the blood…how much will there be?”

“Bucko, I ain’t no witch-woman nor midwife neither one. None o’ my wives never had no miscarriage, or no babies, neither. I reckon I been shootin’ blanks all these long years. Accordin' to Hattie, she ain’t lost a girl yet.” John smiled as he put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Look, son, you’re in a pickle, and there ain’t no easy way out. Hattie charges five dollars for her…services. Iffin you want it, you and your gal need to be here this evenin’ around dark-thirty. You ain’t here, I’ll figure y’all changed y'all's mind. Okay?” As an afterthought, John asked, “You got the money?”

“Does it always work? What if it don’t?”

"Hattie said they ain’t no garantee. But if it don’t work, she said she could root it out. That’ll cost more, and it’ll be more danejus. You understand?”

Buck nodded. He didn’t, in fact, have the money, nor did he completely understand the processes. He had two dollars, with no way to get the other three before evening. Maybe Emma had it. He suddenly was overcome with a drowning rush of guilt. “I’m gonna ask her to help pay for killing her own baby…maybe even herself,” he thought.

The boy left Crazy John and went straight to Emma’s. He didn’t see her outside anywhere, so he crouched beside the white clapboard house and crept to her window. He peeked in and saw her there, lying on her bed. She came to the window when he tapped on it, and they agreed to meet in the barn.

He shared the plan with her and waited for her to think about it. “Well, I don’t see that we have much choice, Buckie. What will we tell our folks?”

The boy had already thought about that. “Neither of our folks go to Sunday night church. Let’s tell ‘em that’s where we’re goin'. Of course, we won’t say we’re goin' together. How’s that?”

She bobbed her head to indicate her agreement, and they decided to meet at six o’clock at John’s. Buck had almost forgotten about the money. “Umm…do you have three bucks?”

“Yes. What for?” she asked.

“It costs five, and I ain’t got but two.”

“Okay. I’ll bring it.”

He got to John’s house just ahead of Emma. The three rode in the ancient truck to the Kettle, which was a few miles south of town. Buck had never had any reason to go there before, but Emma had gone with her mom and dad several times to pick up black maids that sometimes helped with the housework. She was her usual calm self, and ironically, it was Buck who was terrified.

They passed by the crowded, huddled shacks of the Kettle, and Buck noticed that most of them were dim, lit only by kerosene lanterns. He had never considered that so many in his small town lived without electricity. The houses began to get farther apart, and more woods appeared. “I thought we were goin' to the Kettle. Ain’t we leaving it now?”

“Hattie lives just past it, on the outskirts. We’re almost there,” explained John.

John turned the truck into a narrow dirt lane. Hattie’s house was about 100 yards or so off the main road, sitting on the edge of Bogey Swamp - literally. In fact, the back porch hovered perilously over the dark water. The house was painted bright blue, and it had a disjointed appearance, like parts of a puzzle that didn’t fit together. Buck realized that the old woman’s abode had been created by pushing several different shacks together. The boy was curious about the color Hattie had chosen. “John, what’s up with the blue?”

John chuckled. “That’s haint blue. It’s s’posed to keep evil spirits away.”

As they drew closer to the odd edifice, the teens got a better look at Hattie’s place. The front of the house was adorned with all sorts of symbols and signs, none of which Buck understood. The large cypress trees near the back of the property were laced with Spanish moss, and some of the trunks had crude faces that had been carved into them. On the front porch, a flat railing held a host of bottles, jars, and crocks, and the boy wondered what magical ingredients they contained.

“Alright, kids. We’re here. Don’t ask no questions, okay?” John and the teens exited the truck and made their way up the steps. On the rough planks that served as a front door was a brass knocker, where a gargoyle held the heavy ring between its pointed teeth. John lifted the ring and let it fall onto the metal plate. Buck reached down and took Emma’s hand – not so much for her benefit as for his own.

The door screeched open stiffly, and in it stood a small black woman. She was wizened, and her eyes were cloudy with cataracts. She wore a long cotton dress and men’s work boots, which were unlaced. She opened the door wider and nodded, indicating that they should come in.

John spoke first. “Good evenin’ Miss Hattie. This here’s the boy I told you about. And this is his girl.”

Hattie smiled, revealing a single gold tooth. “Hello to Mr. John and young peoples. I am readying to assist.”

The boy and girl looked at each other, and Buck realized that this ancient female was not from these parts. She had sort of a sing-song voice, and under different circumstances, he would have found it enjoyable to listen to. Hattie looked at Emma and said, “You girl, you come wit me. You mens, you wait on porch. You have money?”

Buck and Emma handed over the required fee, and the boy and the old man retreated to the sagging porch. Hattie took Emma’s hand and led her into the kitchen. This room, like the rest of the house, was dark and full of shadows. Candles were burning everywhere, and there was a big pot simmering and popping on the wood stove. The woman handed Emma an old soda bottle and told her to drink its contents quickly.

The liquid was viscous, and it had a strange taste. The girl could detect honey, but what else she had just swallowed, she had no idea. Hattie instructed Emma to lie face-up on the kitchen table, and the pseudo-midwife placed her hands on the girl’s belly. For a moment, the hands were motionless. “Ah, yes. Baby there is. Boy. But not right. I help work him out.” Hattie began to massage Emma’s belly, working from top to bottom. It wasn’t painful, but even so, Emma didn’t like the old hands on her.

When Hattie’s massage was done, she motioned for Emma to get up. “You listen girl. The potion will force baby to out come. Few hours, maybe. Some blood there will be. Blood for more dan tree four days, you come back see Hattie.”

Emma nodded and walked outside to join the men. Buck gave her a hug and helped her into the truck. On the ride back to John’s, no one uttered a word.

Buck had walked Emma home, and he had asked her about her experience with the crone. Em related the events, but she never looked at Buck. “She said it was a boy. Oh, Buckie, did we do the right thing?”

Buck had held her and had allowed her to cry into his shoulder until she was cried out. He stroked her hair as he assured her that they had, indeed, done the right thing. “Em, we didn’t have no choice. I wish I could be with you when…”

They said their goodbyes, and Buckie began the long walk home. He hated that she’d have to go through the bad part alone. This whole thing was his fault, really, and now she was the one who had to suffer for it.

Buck was surprised to see Emma at school the next day. He had figured she’d stay home sick, but here she was, and she looked okay. He could hardly wait for the lunch bell to ring so that he could talk to her. When noon finally came, he followed her outside to the far edge of the campus.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“I’m okay,” she answered, as just a trace of a forced smile lifted the corners of her full lips. “It didn’t hurt much. Just a few cramps.”

The boy’s brow furrowed. “What about the…the blood? Was it bad?”

“Not too bad. I want you to meet me by the library after your last class. There’s somethin' we have to do. Okay?”

“Sure, Em. Whatever you say.”

They ate their lunch without talking. Afterwards, she went to her history class, and he went to algebra. His mind was not on numbers, however. He wondered what it was that Em wanted to do after school.

When the bell sounded, she was waiting for him. Once they were out of earshot from their fellow students, he asked her where they were going. She told him they were going to the place. To that place. He had no idea why she would ever want to go back there again, but he didn’t question her more.

When they arrived, she pushed away a pile of pine straw and retrieved a dark blue velvet box. She held it tenderly for a moment, then held it out to him. “I saved him, Buckie. I put him in my favorite jewelry box.”

The boy’s head swam. He understood all too clearly what she meant. The aborted baby was in the jewelry box. He didn’t know how to feel, as he was flooded by a range of overwhelming emotions: grief, disgust, shock, revulsion. Even so, something compelled him to look. Part of him had to see what lay in the tiny velveteen coffin. He slowly lifted the lid, and there it was. It was about the size of a mouse, maybe three inches long, and it was encased in a sac. He didn’t want to examine it closely, afraid it would seem too real, too human.

Emma had brought along a small spade and was digging on the very spot where the baby had been conceived. Buck gently took the tool away from her and dug the hole himself.