Alabama Moon (5 page)

“I see. What kind of pants are those?”

“Beaver britches.”

“Did your father make those for you?”

“Nossir, I made 'em. Made a deerskin hat, too, but I left it at home.”

“Interesting.”

Mr. Wellington must have seen me look over at his television, because he said, “Would you like me to turn it on for you?”

I watched his face to see if I could read anything in it. I thought about how lonely it was back at the shelter. I thought about how warm and dry it felt inside the lodge. “You gonna call the constable on me if I stay?”

Mr. Wellington paused for a moment. “No, I'm not going to call the constable. I'm not sure I like his kind.”

“Can you tell me how to get to Alaska?”

“I probably can. I may have some maps in one of those
back rooms. Why don't you sit in this chair right here while I see what I can find.”

I looked at the soft chair he was pointing to. “Okay.”

Mr. Wellington turned on the television and then walked away. “I'll be back shortly,” he said.

I'd only seen television a few times. Mr. Abroscotto had a set in his store over the counter. I got up and moved over to the cushion chair and sank down until my chin touched my chest. I'd never felt a more comfortable chair in my life. There was a show about lions playing. I'd only seen them in picture books and couldn't take my eyes off them. Daylight soon slipped through the windows and I grew groggy and lazy.

An hour must have gone by when I heard someone knocking on the door. Mr. Wellington walked out of one of the back rooms and went to answer the knock. When he opened the door, I saw a man in a suit standing there. I knew right away that he was there to get me. It was how he looked at me when he stepped inside. I leaped from my chair and ran towards the back rooms where Mr. Wellington had gone earlier. But as soon as I reached the hall, a man in overalls stepped out and grabbed me from behind. He pulled me to his chest and bear-hugged me so that I couldn't do anything but kick. I kicked backwards at his knees so that he had to walk me into the main room with his legs spread. He took me over to the man who had come for me and held me out.

“He's all yours, if you can hold him,” the man in overalls said.

“Mr. Hill's my caretaker,” Mr. Wellington said to the man
in the suit. “He came in through the back door. We figured the boy would make a run for it.”

“I appreciate the help,” the man in the suit said.

I looked at Mr. Wellington. “Liar!” I yelled at him.

“Mr. Gene's not the constable,” Mr. Wellington said calmly. “He's from the boys' home. He'll treat you a lot better than that constable I met yesterday.”

“Take it easy,” Mr. Gene said. “Nobody's going to hurt you, Moon.”

I started bucking, kicking, and pounding my arms against Mr. Hill. I thought I was about to slip out once, but he joggled me back up and squeezed me tighter.

“Boy needs a bath and a haircut,” Mr. Hill said. “I can't stand the smell of him.”

“I didn't do anything wrong!” I yelled.

“Moon!” Mr. Gene shouted.

I kicked at the air again. “I haven't done anything to anybody!”

“Moon, calm down. Just bring him outside and put him in the car. We'll take him to the home and get him cleaned up.”

Mr. Gene hurried out to the car and opened the back door while Mr. Hill carried me behind him and Mr. Wellington followed. When we reached the car, Mr. Hill leaned over and shoved me in. Before I could turn around, I heard the door slam shut behind me. It only took a second to look up and see that there were no handles and a plastic shield between me and the front seat. I knew I was trapped. “Liar!” I yelled at the floor.

I had never been in a car. The only time I had ridden in anything was when Pap came down with a fever once on the way to Mr. Abroscotto's store. He let Mr. Abroscotto ride us
in the back of his pickup truck to a place up the road, where we went on foot the rest of the way to the shelter. But it was different then. We were in the truck bed, where the fresh air brushed our faces. It wasn't much at all like being shut up; it was more like flying.

I lay down and pulled my knees up. The three men talked outside for a few minutes and then Mr. Gene got in and started the engine. My ear was pressed to the vinyl seat and I could soon hear the dirt road passing under the tires. After a minute I felt the car slow and swing onto the highway. I grew woozy as I listened to the hum of the asphalt. I tried holding my breath to make it go away.

“You can sit up, you know.”

I didn't answer. I stared at the back of Mr. Gene's seat and concentrated on the queasiness in my stomach.

After a moment, I heard him turn. “You okay back there?”

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I heard the crunch of gravel as the car slowed and pulled onto the side of the road. I heard Mr. Gene's door opening. A steady dinging sound came from the front part of the car. My door opened and Mr. Gene grabbed me by the shoulder and shook me gently. I felt the contents of my stomach lunge forward and splatter against the back of his car seat.

“Gyaaa!” he yelled as he jumped away.

He jerked me out and dragged me down into a grassy ditch where he held me under one armpit and let my head dangle. I stared at the ground and thought of nothing except how grateful I was to be out of the car. I breathed the fresh air and felt my stomach easing.

“Are you done?”

I didn't answer. I moved my eyes and stared at the tips of his shiny leather shoes. He shifted his feet. “Are you feeling better?”

I thought about it. I felt better. My stomach was back to normal. I let my eyes creep slowly past the tips of his shoes and up his pant leg. Then I looked down at my left hand, which rested on one slightly bent knee. I remembered something Pap had told me.
Moon, there's no faster way to take a man down than to punch him between the legs with everything you've got. If that doesn't work, take a stick to him
. I took a deep breath, balled my fist, and socked him in the crotch. Before I even looked up, he'd let go of me. I jerked away and took two quick steps towards the car. Mr. Gene drew himself inwards like a turtle. He closed his eyes and sank to the ground and rolled over onto his side. He pulled his knees in tight as a baby and moaned curses at me.

“Don't you . . . don't you even . . . even think about running off . . .”

I looked in both directions on the road. It was empty. I wiped my mouth on my shoulder, crossed the blacktop, and ran into the forest.

 

I made it back to the shelter that evening. The dark hole that had seemed so terrible the night before now made me feel safe again. I figured the outside world was just what Pap had warned me about. Everybody was out to get us, and hiding
in the forest was the only way to stay safe. Loneliness was something I'd have to wait on to pass, like Pap said it would.

I sat on the hide pile and put on my jacket and hat to warm up. Then I pulled some dried venison off a hindquarter that hung from the ceiling and chewed it slowly while I listened to the forest sounds. I figured I could spend at least one more night before the law could get with the surveyors and track me to the shelter. It was too far and too dangerous to try it after dark, so they wouldn't start out until morning. The closest paved road was three miles to a bird. With all the gulleys and swamps, though, not even I could travel that direction in less than half a day.

When I woke at daybreak, robins were scratching in the leaves, and a blue jay complained from nearby. I lay still and listened to the forest for several minutes until I was sure that I heard nothing unusual. When I was satisfied that no one was outside, I slid off the hide pile and got my rifle from the place I kept it in the ceiling. I grabbed some bullets out of the paint can and poured them into a cheesecloth that I tied together. Then I quickly gathered other things I thought might be useful for the trip and packed them all in the wheelbarrow: my rifle, bullets, traps, several hides, dried coon meat, extra clothes, Pap's personal box, some rope, a cooking pot, and a hatchet.

When I was done, I threw a rain tarp over everything and used some twine to secure it. After one last look around, I stuck my deerskin hat on my head and set out for the river. I'd take a trail that we rarely used that went north to the high ridges of the Noxubee River and then cut west to the blacktop.
It was a longer route, but the river bottom was open and free of brush, so I could more easily push the wheelbarrow and see anyone that might be after me. Once I made it to the blacktop, I would be at the bridge that crossed over the river. I'd have to push my wheelbarrow over the bridge and then get back into the trees again on the other side. I thought about what Pap said about only traveling at night, but I reasoned it was more important for me to get off Mr. Wellington's property as fast as I could.

Between wrestling the wheelbarrow through the forest and resting, it took me close to six hours to get to the highway. Besides the river bottom, I had to get through two sloughs, a thick cedar grove, and a quarter mile of swampy cane thicket. When I got to the blacktop, I stayed just inside the trees and lay down to rest. I felt my legs throbbing and watched my stomach move up and down. A breeze chilled my forehead where the sweat clung to my bangs. I reached over and pulled some coon meat from beneath the tarp, lay back, and chewed it slowly. I wanted to close my eyes, but I knew there was no time to sleep. Then I heard a car whoosh by, and it reminded me to get on my way again.

I stood ready in the trees and listened and watched the road. When I thought it was safe, I pushed out and up onto the blacktop and started running behind the wheelbarrow.

I'd never been on the bridge before. I'd only seen it from upriver. It was longer and higher than I thought and I felt myself growing a little dizzy. The solid rubber tire of the wheelbarrow hummed across the asphalt and far below the water swirled and passed under me. The air was much colder
coming down the river, but with the panic that was rising in me, I hardly noticed.

When I heard the car, I didn't turn around to look. I pushed my legs to go even faster and felt my neck hairs rise with fear. The end of the bridge was only thirty yards away, but if it was the law, I'd need time to escape into the forest with my wheelbarrow at the other side, and that seemed impossible. I heard the car speeding up just as I came to the end of the bridge. Then my breath almost left me when I saw what I was up against. The road dropped off steeply to a swamp on both sides. There was nowhere to go. I stopped the wheelbarrow and spun around and spread my legs for balance like Pap had shown me to do when I was about to fight.

I recognized the police car from pictures. It had a light on top and a badge painted on the door. It skidded to a stop in front of me and I watched the constable watching me and putting on his hat inside the car. When he stepped out, I could see he was taller and heavier than Pap. He wore his clothes tight and moved with his chest out so that he reminded me of a flared turkey. He nodded at me from behind dark sunglasses and then looked over at the wheelbarrow. “What you got there, boy?”

“Livin' stuff.”

He stared at the rifle barrel sticking out of the tarpaulin. “You doin' some huntin'?”

I shook my head. “Nossir.”

“What you doin' with that rifle?”

“It's mine.”

“What's that on your head?”

“Hat.”

“You make it?”

“Yessir. Out of deerskin.”

He walked to the wheelbarrow and lifted a corner of the tarpaulin. He set it back down. “You that Blake boy?”

I didn't answer.

“You're him, ain't you?”

I looked quickly at the gulley behind me. I glanced down at my rifle.

“Don't try it,” he said, like he knew what I was thinking. “I'll be all over you before you know it.”

“I'm not doin' anything to anybody.”

“Well, you better stop bowin' up at me. Come over here and get in this car.”

I glanced over at the rifle. Suddenly the constable stepped towards me. “Boy, you look at that rifle again and I'm gonna knock you sideways.”

I swallowed hard.

“Damned if you ain't the mean little cuss I thought you were.”

I looked at his holster and the giant chrome pistol that was stuffed into it. I thought about how long it would take him to pull it out and shoot me. A second later, I spun around and leaped out into the air.

I hit the ground about halfway down the slope and rolled the rest of the way to the bottom and splashed into the shallow water of the swamp. When I tried to stand, my feet punched into the soft mud, and I tripped and landed face-first.
Then the constable crashed up against me and I heard him grunt. I quickly got to my knees and started to crawl, but I felt him grab my ankle and hold it as I pulled handfuls of weeds and muck. Suddenly, I slipped free, and I scampered almost five feet before I heard him splat in the mud behind me and felt my ankle gripped again.

“Little bastard” he yelled.

I looked over my shoulder and saw him lying on his stomach. His sunglasses were gone, and his face was red and twisted with frustration as he slapped at me and pulled his boots from the mud. I made a last desperate leap to get away, but I wasn't able to break his hold. I sat up and kicked his hand and he rolled over, cursing me. Like someone doing the backstroke, he threw his free arm into the air and down into the mud and grabbed my other foot. I twisted and rolled like an alligator, but it did no good. He pulled me towards him in little jerks.

“Don't you”—
jerk
—“make me”—
jerk
—“have to”—
jerk
—“shoot your ass.” And he sat up and pulled me into his lap. “Boy!”

I punched him in the face as hard as I could.

“Unh,” he grunted. He stood up with me and crushed me against his chest. For a moment I couldn't breathe, and I felt that my shoulders were about to snap. He slopped out of the swamp and walked sideways with me up the embankment, his shoes wheezing and him spitting at the ground. He kept me squeezed so tight that I couldn't think over the pain.