A Bird On Water Street (18 page)

We went back to our patches and she started singing “Keep on the Sunny Side.” Piran and I joined in at the chorus. Then we sang “Carry Me Across the Mountain” and “Angel Band”—old tunes we all knew from Music Fridays.

Picking berries like Mom showed us worked much better. I filled my bucket several times over and dumped the berries into the cooler. Between the singin', the warm sun, the cicadas buzzing, and the slow moving, I was calm right down to my toes.

Which I suppose is why I didn't notice the snake until he tried to squirm out from under my foot. I looked down, glad I'd only stepped on him lightly—and smiled at his pretty copper colors and the interesting pattern that ran all over his back. We didn't have snakes in Coppertown, so I had no idea what kind he was. He had a sharply angled head and was sort of fat.
It's no wonder he's stuck,
I thought. I lifted up my foot and he scooted away, more confused than scared.

“Cool snake,” I said.

“Snake?” Piran yelled from ten feet away.

“What!?” Mom shouted from twenty.

“I was standing on a snake,” I hollered.

“What did it look like?”

When I described it to her, I thought she was gonna have a heart attack. “Law me, that was a copperhead!” she said. “Come out of there right now!”

We rushed to the car and stopped to catch our breath. “How many buckets did you fill?” she asked, but didn't wait for me to answer. “We probably have enough for today.”

We stared at our haul in the cooler, which was full to the rim. “This'll make some good pies, and we've got enough for canning too,” Mom said. “Let's go find a nice spot for lunch.”

O

We piled into the car and drove back down the bumpy road. I noticed Eli's Jeep was gone and wondered what was in that trailer that would make him drive all the way out there. I doubted Eli was pickin' blackberries.

When we got to the main road, we hung a right and rolled down the windows, letting in a gust of hot air, but also lettin' our bug-spray-and-sweat smell
out
. After a few miles we were back to the Tohachee River. We parked at a pull-off, where the river ran shallow and white as the water tumbled over rocks.

We grabbed the lunch cooler and sat on a huge flat boulder that jutted out into the river. I stared at the tulip poplars and pines that reached out over the banks as we ate peanut butter sandwiches and drank RC Colas.

“It's hard to believe Coppertown used to look like this,” I said.

“I suppose,” Piran said, “but I like the way it is now.”

“The Red Hills do have their beautiful moments,” Mom said. “We can see as far as the horizon with nothing to block our view.”

I looked across the river to the bank on the other side. She was right about that. I couldn't see more than a hundred feet from the forest being so thick, full of ferns and bushes covered with flaming orange flowers. But I liked
that
better.

As I stared, the biggest bird I ever saw swooped down right in front of us with two smaller birds flying tight on its tail squawkin' up a storm.

“Whoa!” Piran said. “Was that a hawk?”

“I think so,” Mom said. “The smaller birds must have been chasing him out of their territory.” It was so graceful and strong—I couldn't believe something that big could fly through the trees without crashing into them.

Everything around me was moving. Leaves swayed in the breeze, scattering light between them. Birds and squirrels jumped from branch to branch, bugs and butterflies zigged and zagged, busy with their work, and the river gurgled and changed colors in the sun. Coppertown was so incredibly quiet and still in comparison. I was overwhelmed by so much life surroundin' me.

“Wish I had my fishin' pole,” Piran said and pointed to a huge trout as it slipped through an eddy. “I bet we could eat the fish here.”

Across the road I saw a trail cutting into the woods. “Hey, Mom, mind if Piran and I explore some before we go?”

“Okay,” she said and lay back on the rock. “I wouldn't mind soaking up some sunshine. But don't be too long, and yu'uns be careful, y'hear?”

I smiled. “Yes, ma'am.” It was nice to see my mom relax for a change.

Piran and I pushed branches out of our way and hiked up the trail about a quarter mile.

“What is that?” he asked and pointed to a light brown shell of a bug clinging to a tree. It had two front legs like pinchers, and a split down the back. I gently pulled it from the bark. It was so fragile. I cupped my hands gently around it to keep from crushin' it.

“Oh, that is gross,” Piran said.

“No it's not. It's neat!” I replied.

I collected three more shells as we walked. The air was cool and smelled spicy with blooms. Layers of leaves and pine needles crunched softly beneath our feet. We were surrounded by sounds. I couldn't stop smiling—a forest was an amazing thing.

We followed the trail as it sank down into a shallow little valley and came to a small clearing with an old stone chimney covered in vines.

Piran stepped down and
crack!
“What the . . .” He pushed some leaves out of the way. “It's a Mason jar.”

The closer we looked the more we saw. There were dozens of them scattered all around the chimney.

“Y'know what this is?” I said. “This here is the site of an old moonshine still. I remember learning about these in school.”

“You think?” Piran asked.

We looked around at all the man-made signs of times past. There was a barrel, a bucket, and some pipe, but it was all rusted or broken.

“I bet the still sat right here,” I said.

I imagined I could smell the sour mash and hear the gunshots as the revenuers chased the bootleggers away. I found a Mason jar that was in perfect shape except for being a little dirty. I put the bug shells inside and brought it back to Mom.

“It probably was an old moonshine site,” she agreed. “Like I said, there used to be a lot of that around here.” She held the jar up to the sun. “These are cicada shells. See where they crawled out?”

“Is that why there's a split down their backs?” I asked.

“Yup. This is an exoskeleton.”

“Gross.” Piran shivered.

Mom just smiled. “Yu'uns ready to go?”

I wasn't. I could have stayed there forever.

O

At home, I helped wash the berries through a strainer and put them in bags for the refrigerator. The sink was filled with purple juice. I popped a few more berries into my mouth but Mom swatted my hand.

“Don't eat them, Jack!” she said. “I'm gonna can whatever I don't use for the pies.”

Sure enough, when I went in the kitchen for lunch the next day, I found it covered in purple juice, glass jars, and tall cooking pots full of jam and boiling water.

“You want to help?” Mom asked with a grin.

“It's burning up in here!” I said. She had all the doors open and fans stationed at the front and back tryin' to cool things off, but it didn't make much difference. “No thanks.”

Sweat dripped down my face as I ate my sandwich as fast as I could.

I watched Mom use tongs to lift jars of hot jam from the pot of boiling water. She lined them up on the counter where they twinkled like purple jewels.

POP! POP!

“Pops o' joy.” She smiled.

“Why do they make that sound?” I asked.

“When I boil the jars and then cool them, I'm creating a vacuum,” she replied. “The pop means they're sealed.”

“Can I try some?”

“Oh, they're too hot right now, but I'll put a jar in the fridge for later,” she said.

The newspaper lay on the corner of the kitchen table. I couldn't help but notice the mug shots that took up most of the front page. “Two Men Arrested for Growing Marijuana Near Hell's Holler,” the headline read.

Marijuana. Although neither mug shot was of Eli Munroe, it all suddenly came together in my mind.
That's what Eli's been up to. It explains everything . . .

“Mom, did you see this?” I asked. “Isn't Hell's Holler right near where we were in Devil's Den—like a ridge away?”

She put a kitchen towel on top of the paper to cover the headline. “Yes,” she said in a fluster. “We'll just go back to my old blackberry patch next year.”

“I guess Devil's Den hasn't changed much after all,” I said. No more moonshine—nowadays it was pot.

r

Chapter 27

Independence Day

Saturday was the Fourth of July. Nobody could celebrate our nation's birthday better than Coppertown, Tennessee.

We went to the church first thing in the mornin' for homemade buckwheat pancakes and hot cane syrup. Piran and I went back four times each. Everybody seemed to be in a good mood for a change. Happy conversation bounced off the cement block walls of the community room. There was so much red, white, and blue everywhere, I grew dizzy with the colors.

Mom made Dad promise not to talk about the strike for the day, so he didn't say much of anything. Meanwhile, she chatted with friends and slipped me some change for the fair. “Don't spend it all in one place,” she laughed sarcastically. I knew it was more than we could afford, so I smiled and thanked her. She squeezed my hand.

My stomach felt like a water balloon about to pop as we left the church and headed for the ball field. I threw my shoes into the backseat of our car on the way. Mom could make me wear a shirt, but there was no way I was gonna wear shoes all day.

As Piran and I walked over, I told him about the newspaper story and my theory about Eli. “It's the only thing that makes sense. Why else would his Jeep have been up there? And do you remember all those lightbulbs that fell out of his car last winter? He was growin' seedlings—just like I was doing, only his were illegal. I bet he was growing 'em in that trailer.”

“God, Jack! What are we gonna do about it?”

“I don't know. But remember what I heard Sheriff Elder sayin' about the marijuana fields? One was in Hell's Holler and the other was in Devil's Den. It's only a matter of time before they bust Eli too. His field has to be right near where we were pickin' blackberries.”

“This sucks. I wonder if Hannah knows . . .”

We were silent the rest of the way over—each of us deep in thought. But the excitement of the day couldn't keep us quiet for long.

They were still setting up tables and tents at the ball field when we got there, but the air buzzed with promise. Mom had already dropped off her blackberry pie for the baking competition. Piran and I watched as they turned the city's flatbed wrecker truck into a stage for gospel and bluegrass. The hamburger stand fired up their grill and despite my full belly, I couldn't wait for lunch as I breathed in the mouthwatering smell.

The Boy Scouts set up a demonstration campsite. Piran and I walked quickly by to avoid the director, Mr. Brown. Two years before, Buster got in a fight with his son. We'd all gotten in trouble for cheerin' it on, and Mr. Brown still held a grudge.

With tinny chugs, antique cars lined up along the outfield fence. We walked the entire length, checking under the hoods like we knew what we were looking at. I
oohed
over a candy red '57 corvette with a white leather interior. Piran tried to grab the wheel, but the owner barked, “Don't touch!”

So we headed for our favorite thing—the dunkin' machine.

“Who do you think we'll get to dunk this year?” Piran asked.

“It was Principal Slaughter last year,” I said. “How they gonna top that?”

“No way!” Piran said. “Sheriff Elder is getting in! Let's go!”

“Piran, you can't sink the sheriff!”

“You watch me!”

I swear Piran reminded me of Buster sometimes—he just didn't think things through. With Eli's future in jeopardy, now was not the time to be attracting the sheriff's attention, maybe puttin' pieces together in his head: Piran led to Hannah, who led to Eli, who led to pot. It was all too close for comfort and put Hannah in danger besides. Piran may not have liked it, and I didn't either, but Eli was still his brother-in-law—family.

Despite my protest, Piran bought three tries for a quarter each and got into his pitcher's stance.

“Is that Piran Quinn there?” the sheriff asked as he perched atop the little ledge, his toes barely touching the water below. “You think you can take me down, son?”

“I'm gonna try!” Piran wound up and threw as hard as he could at the round red target on the side of the bin. The ball whizzed by without touching it.

Sheriff Elder guffawed. “I think I'll be stayin' dry through this one!”

Piran's ears turned red and he wound up again. This time he nicked the edge, but not hard enough to trigger the lever.