Necessity’s Burden

by Gary Clifton

Summer, 1937: in southern Kentucky, money was as scarce as rain. Wind whipped around the little ramshackle cabin. Dust, baked powder-dry by the blazing August sun, filtered in through even the tiniest crack. Breathing, inside or out, challenged the strongest lungs.

Percy studied his mother’s weathered face. “Mama, we gonna smooth-ass starve... Somebody don’t walk to town and git some bread or sumthin’.”

Sixty, with a permanent forward stoop, a lifetime of manual labor and fieldwork in the sun had left her face with more lines than a Texaco Road map. She coughed long and hard in the murky air.

“Boy, we ain’t got no damned dime to buy nothin’.”

“Leastways you and Little Davy gotta eat. I’ll tell ol’ man Wilson we either get some stuff on credit or I break his skinny chicken-neck.”

“Ol’ man Wilson done cut us off long ago. An’ you ain’t needin’ to kill nobody else, boy. Them laws hang you, nex’ time.”

Percy grinned through yellow, crooked teeth. “Aw, Mama, ain’t but ten mile to Tennessee to Uncle Wilbur’s... like afore.”

“You slack on killin’ nobody, Percy.”

Little Davy, undersized and rail-thin at 9, sat on a rickety kitchen chair, sunken eyes watching intently, his stringy yellow hair uncut and unwashed for a year. “I ain’t too hungry rat’ now, Percy... Mama.” He shot a sidelong glance at the old woman. His hollow eyes said otherwise.

“Percy, you go walkin’ by them Baxter boys’ place, they gonna shoot you down like a dog. They still itchin’ fo’ payback ’bout they cousin Milford,” Mama said, a glint of tears showing in her tired eyes. “He ain’t even full cold in his grave yet, boy.”

Little Davy piped up. “I’ll go, Mama. They won’t shoot no kid.” A hint of uncertainty in his expression didn’t quite support the bravado voice. “Maybe slip through the back, over Baxters’ Mountain.”

“Davy, they damned sure will shoot you, too... An’ ol’ man Wilson ain’t gonna give you nothin’, neither.”

Percy, slumped on a battered sofa, took a hit of shine from a Ball Mason jar, drops dribbling down his scraggly goatee. Tall and slender, he stood and lurched unsteadily toward the door. “Got Papa’s old Colt, Mama.” He pulled the old iron from atop a cabinet and waved it. “Kill them damn Baxters...bof’ of ’em.” He tossed the pistol on the kitchen table and drunkenly flopped back on the sofa.

“Percy, you quench that talkin’ ’bout goin’ to town... an’ ’bout killin’. Get yo’self rat’ on up ’at hill and check ’at still. You way too busy drinkin’ up the profit. We cook off four, five gallons, ol’ man Wilson gonna be happy to trade a jug or two for some tolerable food.”

“That mash batch ain’t gonna be ready to cook ’fore tomorrow, Mama, maybe the nex’ day.” Percy stumbled through the door and started up the mountain out back.

Mama turned toward the door, unsteady. Into the blowing dust, she limped after Percy across the small, level back yard. She turned back to the house. Little Davy could help with the still. She circled the house and stepped back inside the only door. Davy was gone. “Damned kid, sneakin’ up in them woods to play... No damned account, jes’ like his daddy.” Wearily, she started the trudge up toward the whiskey still.

* * *

“Mama, tol’ ya ’at mash waren’t ready,” Percy wheezed as they re-entered the cabin two hours later. “We cook... maybe late tomorrow, then maybe trade out for a little cash.” He wiped grime from his face with a sleeve. “Our bellies gonna be plenty empty.”

Little Davy’s towhead popped around the doorway, the dust-crusted face showing a trace of smile, a seldom-seen sight in those hills.

“Thanks to you hidin’ out, boy, I hadda walk up ’at damned hill.” Mama’s fatigued tone was edged with anger.

Little Davy dragged a burlap sack in behind him and dumped the contents onto the weathered floor. A rubber-banded roll of cash, canned goods, and two slabs of salt bacon spilled across the floor.

“That gunny-sack... ol’ man Wilson gots them in the store!” Mama wailed. “Great God, Davy, whutchu done? You ain’t be a-hurtin’ ol’ man Wilson, did ya?”

Davy’s morose eyes gleamed. He looked warily from Percy to Mama. “I ain’t hurt ol’ man Wilson. Paid him for this stuff.”

“Paid?” Percy was astonished. “Wif’ money?”

“Where’s ’at pistol, Davy?” Mama looked at the empty tabletop, then shot a paranoid glance at the door.

“Up on Baxters’ mountain... buried.” He looked to Mama for her reaction.

“Them Baxters gonna be a-findin’ it, Davy?” she asked, alarmed. “They be comin’ down here shootin’ us up?”

“Them Baxters ain’t gonna be lookin’ for no pistol, nor nothin’ else.” Davy’s little-boy voice was a knifepoint of newfound maturity.

Mama bent to examine the food items. She looked up at Little Davy. “Ol’ man Baxter see ’at blood?”

“No, Mama.” Little Davy shook his head like a dog working on a blacksnake. “Took off my shirt ’fore I went in the store.”

He be askin’ you whar’ you got money?” Mama asked.

“Tol’ ’im we peddled some shine down the mountain.”

“You sure them Baxters ain’t a-comin’ ’long behin’ you, Davy?” Mama asked, hesitantly.

“Mama, they ain’t a-comin’ nowheres.”

Suddenly she was all business. “You bury ’em?”

“They too heavy, mama. Lef’ ’em in the yard. Hogs was eatin’ at ’em when I walk off.”

“We gonna be havin’ to get us a new pistol.” Percy grinned as he knelt to pick up the roll of cash. “Damnation, they’s gotta be more’n a hunnert here.”

Mama snatched the roll from Percy. “Davy, you a good boy,” she smiled. “I’ll commence a-prayin’ for them Baxters’ souls ’ away.”

Little Davy’s toothy grin was a match to his brother’s crooked, yellow teeth. “Cain’t see why, Mama. They in Hell like you allas said they needin’ to be. Them hogs maybe have ’em finished ’fore anybody misses ’em.”