Cicada (16 page)

As quick as the moonshine was gone, so was Cicada’s good humor.

“Shoot!” she pouted. Although she made no effort to get up from the tailgate, she ineffectually thrust out her hands for the now empty jar at her feet like some helpless child in a highchair begging for sweets just beyond their reach. Her puckered expression of frustration only reinvigorated Ben’s hearty laughter.

It had been back in the fall of the previous year—perhaps October, maybe November—when Timothy was first called ‘Buckshot.’

Alone in his son’s room late one afternoon when the house was unusually quiet, John would later desperately try to recall the fading moments of that day not quite a year gone by, the day when his son had acquired his unusual nickname. One detail was recalled easily enough. The name wasn’t bestowed upon the boy by a family member, or even a friend. It’d been given by a man who hardly knew the boy. And while such nicknames were almost the norm in those parts, it was more than a tad peculiar to come by one in that manner.

They’d been hunting, the father and his young son. Or, more accurately, the father had been trying to hunt while the boy tagged along behind, unintentionally scaring off most of the game and taking potshots with his BB gun at the few incidents of quail and squirrels that did appear. Two of the latter had been a little too brazen, and as a result their barks of irritation at the man and boy’s intrusion were now silenced. The pair of bushy tailed rodents hung upside down from Timothy’s belt by a short, thin switch of oak run through splices in their hind feet. They bounced rag doll off the boy’s hip as he bounded to keep up with his father.

The day was spent. There was perhaps an hour of light left—the best hour to hunt— but John was ready to be home for supper. No more time for foolishness.

“Toss ‘em in the back,” John instructed when they returned to the truck, “No blood on the seats.”

“Yes, sir.”

A covey of quail, burst into the sky like dull-colored fireworks, up from the field the man and boy had only just left behind.

“Look it there,” John said, pointing with an index finger out the passenger side window over his son’s shoulder.

The birds collected together after their initial sporadic eruption and swung about in a wide and lazy arc, coming back to earth much in the place of their origin.

“Hey,” Buckshot said, excitedly looking to see what his father would do next.

John shook his head. “Evasive action.”

“Huh?”

“Must be a cat or fox or something out there prowling ‘bout. Spooked ‘em.”

“Might a been us.”

“Might.”

“Should we get out an’ go after ‘em again?” Timothy asked.

“Naw. They’ll be waitin’ out there for next time. Ain’t ya hungry for dinner yet?” John turned the ignition over.

Although they were a ways off, the quail startled once more. The man and the boy watched them in silence this time, and, unlike before, the birds struck off and did not make to return. John watched them although his mind was elsewhere. He felt calm for the first in so long, that is until he realized that he was. With that, like those hurried birds, his mind scattered into several directions.

The boy shrugged, unaware of his father’s troubles. “Do we have to come back ta-morrow to kill ‘em, Daddy?”

They’d driven out that afternoon to this particular pasture specifically to hunt quail. Timothy had especially been taken with the idea of going somewhere other than their own property for a change. It’d made the short trip feel more like an expedition, or, even better, a safari.

“Not tomorrow,” John said. Timothy didn’t hide his disappointment and slunk down in his seat. “Don’tcha go sulkin’ now. We’ll get after ‘em before the season lets out. That’s a promise. All right, buddy?”

Timothy didn’t answer. Instead he watched forlornly as the little specks of quail disappeared off over and into the tree line. Pretending his hand was a pistol Timothy squinted as he sighted the birds along the barrel of his index finger and fired three imaginary shots after them. As his father steered the truck back onto the blacktop, the boy nodded to himself with the silent satisfaction that his quarry had not gotten away after all.

They didn’t go straight home. John decided there was still time for a quick stop off at the Feed ‘n’ Grain to pick up a few things he needed. Pulling into the lot, John was surprised to see someone standing out on the loading dock. Generally, around this time of the year and this hour of the day, the men who otherwise frequented that hangout would be off hunting.

Wes Crocker, or Nugget, as he was known by nearly all, waved heartedly and smiled as the truck slid across the gravel to a grinding stop in front of him.

“Hey, y’all,” he greeted as John and Timothy got out.

“How you doin’, Nugget?” John replied.

“Howdy, Nugget!” Timothy shouted. Wes Crocker was one of the few adults that the boy was allowed to address by nickname.

“Whatcha all been up to?” Nugget asked since he’d nothing better to say but was relieved to finally have someone to talk to.

“We been huntin’,” Timothy answered a bit dramatically.

Nugget assumed a solemn expression. “I see….”

“You stay out here an’ don’t wander off. I’ll be right back out in a minute,” John told his son and smiled politely to Nugget as he passed inside.

“Okay, Daddy.”

After John was inside, Nugget jumped down off the loading dock and joined Timothy where the boy stood beside the truck.

“Did ya kill anything?”

“Jus’ a couple mangy ol’ squirrels,” Timothy said as he clambered onto the back tire to peer over into the truck bed. “Daddy said I could clean ‘em myself when we get home. I know how. I learnt last year.”

“You don’t say?” Nugget leaned in to get a look at the squirrels. “Say now, that one’s pretty big. You get him yourself?”

“I shot at ‘em. But I’m pretty sure they was both got by my daddy.”

“Why’s that?”

“Alls I got is a stupid BB gun,” Timothy said dejectedly, pointing to the gun rack mounted over the truck cabin’s rear window.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, you’re still pretty young, don’t ya think? It’s probably for the best that you get your practice in with a BB gun first. Pay your dues and all, or so to speak. Right?”

“I reckon.”

“I’m sure you’ll be getting a .410 before too long…a year or two. That’d be a step up.”

“I don’t want no .410,” Timothy said.

“Ya don’t? Why in the world not?”

“Don’t shoot nothin’ but birdshot an’ slugs.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“I want a real shotgun. One that shoots buckshot. Twelve gauge, maybe ten.”

“Ten? Zow-wee,” Nugget said with a smile and whistle. “That’d be a bit much for squirrels, don’t you think? Wouldn’t be too much left to clean after you hit ‘em with that.”

“You ever get mad ‘cause people call you Nugget?” Timothy asked in such an abrupt change of topic that Wes Crocker blinked a few times in bewilderment.

“Mad? Naw,” he said, tucking in his chin as he often did. “What makes you want to ask me something like that?”

“Well, ‘cause…I get teased too sometimes. But I’m a kid. That’s the way it is when you’re a kid. You’re the only adult I know what gets teased.”

“Oh. Yeah. I see,” Nugget said. He wandered back and took a seat to let his legs dangle off the edge of the loading dock.

Timothy kicked absentmindedly at the gravel waiting for Nugget to say something more. Meanwhile, Nugget appeared to Timothy to be pondering some great riddle as he rubbed his lower lip with an index finger and stared off into the distance. Unseen from inside the dark of the warehouse behind Nugget, Mack the dog, suddenly began to bark.

“Shut up, Mack!” the disembodied voice of the proprietor, Miles Perkins, barked back. The dog obeyed.

The unexpected commotion startled Nugget from his reverie. The air was getting crisp with the coming night’s chill and the man cupped his hands to huff three or four hot breaths into them. Timothy thought that seemed like the thing to do as well and mimicked him.

Wes spoke at last. “You know why people call me Nugget?”

Timothy hesitated, suspecting a trick question, but then, looking into Nugget’s friendly eyes, he answered. “On account of…well, you got such a big head?”

“Yep,” Nugget nodded, “Because I have a big head.” He threw up arms to encompass his face, puffed his cheeks, and bugged his eyes.

Timothy couldn’t help but laugh. “It is pretty big,” he agreed enthusiastically.

“Like a watermelon still on the vine, ain’t it?” Nugget beamed.

“Yeah,” Timothy chuckled at the silly man.

“So that’s okay by me. It’s not like they’re making anything up, you know? And after all, it’s just a name. You know how they say, sticks and stones….”

“Yeah,” Timothy agreed, “sticks ‘n’ stones….”

“Besides, I’d never let on, but I kind of like it.”

“Ya do?”

“Why, sure. Let me ask you, how many kids you know named Paul?”

“I know two Pauls…Johnson and Sills. They both one grade behind me.”

“Okay, then. And I bet you know at least one Mark, am I right?”

“How’d you know?”

“And I’ll bet there’s at least one Mary, or Rebecca, or Sarah that you go to school with.”

Timothy had to think for a few seconds to be sure. “Yeah, there’s Mary Saunders and then there’s Rebecca Sills. She’s Paul’s big sister.”

“So you see?”

“See what?”

“Well those people stuck with the same name as everybody else. Ain’t nothin’ special about their names, now is there?”

Timothy shook his head to agree that there was indeed nothing special about all those common names.

“Now how many folks you know by the name of Nugget?”

“Just you,” Timothy said, pointing at him.

“Just me,” Nugget said with a beam of pride.

“Load up, boy,” John ordered as he appeared back on the loading dock. Over one shoulder he carried a large burlap sack and in his opposite hand he had a small paper bag.

“Alright then,
Buckshot
, we’ll see y’all later,” Nugget said to Timothy as he rose to see them off.

Timothy nodded enthusiastically with a toothy grin before rushing to climb into the cab while his father tossed the sack into the back.

John gave Nugget a little two finger salute from the steering wheel as they pulled out of the parking lot leaving Wes Nugget Crocker where he stood on the loading dock like a lone sentry in the settling twilight. They hadn’t been far down the road when John had to ask.

“What’s that he called you back there?”

Timothy didn’t pretend not to know what his father was talking about as he often liked to do. “Called me Buckshot,” he said matter-of-factly. “It’s my nickname.”

“You don’t say? Buckshot, huh? I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah. People call him Nugget on account of his big head, ya know. It’s somethin’ like that.”

“You don’t say? I always thought we called him Nugget because he’s so smart. Ol’ Wes got himself a pretty big brain in that big head. Did ya know that? Can beat everybody that comes around the loadin’ dock at chess. Did ya know that?”

“He can?”

“Yep.”

“Even you?”

“Fer sure, me,” John said.

“Checkers too?”

“Checkers ‘specially. Lost five dollars to ‘im once.”

“
You
was gamblin’?”

“Not anymore. Wes learned me my lesson.”

Timothy considered things while they drove on in silence for a few minutes before his father thought to add one more thing. As they reached the dirt drive that led to their farm, John made the turn off the blacktop and brought the truck to a stop.

“I think from now on you might be best to call Nugget Mr. Crocker, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You wanna drive us the rest the way to the house?”

Timothy shrugged.

“Here, hol’ up a second,” John said. He shifted the truck into park and got out to fetch the burlap sack from the back. “I think you’ve done got too big to sit in my lap anymore, don’t you?” He laid the sack onto the driver’s seat. “You slide up here and I’ll sit right up next to ya and handle the gas ‘n brake for ya.”

“Really?” Timothy asked excitedly.

John smacked the top of the burlap. “Well, c’mon.”

Back in the truck, John sat close to his son with one arm over his slim shoulders. He directed the boy to turn on the headlights and put the old Ford into drive with his own large hand guiding his son’s as he depressed the brake and gave it a bit of gas.

“Alrighty then, Buckshot, take us home,” he said, pointing an index finger ahead into the night.

“Yes, sir!”

“Pull over up here, I wanna talk for a minute,” Cicada said.

“Here?” John asked, a bit puzzled.

Just ahead in the darkness, the road abruptly transformed from black to white—asphalt to concrete—and the looming tree line opened up as though they might literally drive off into the night.

The Little Wassee Bridge was a popular spot, by night with lovers, and by day with fishermen. Running just less than a sixth of a mile, the flat, narrow two-lane concrete bridge spanned its namesake, clearing the water by only ten to twelve feet in the rainy season. Although the bridge was rather remote, it had wide shoulders offering generous room for those who came to fish. Furthermore, railings of three, thick steel tubes set in concrete balusters ran the length of the little bridge with the middle rail just high enough for the seated fishermen to comfortably rest their feet.

Where the blacktop road met the expanse at each end, well-worn tire tracks cut into the tall weeds and grass of the steep shoulders of each side. Those makeshift paths quickly disappeared into the Spanish moss-laden canopy of towering oaks and cypress, winding down to clearings along the riverbank.

By night those clearings were frequented by the local teens, usually couples fogging up windows and all too often rushing into a pregnancy that would determine the rest of their lives. Sometimes those conceptions were accidents, sometimes they were not. Sometimes a young woman was harassed into going further than she intended, and sometimes a dumb lad was trapped into placing a ring on a girl’s finger and settling down instead of running off to see the world as he’d planned. In any event, sometimes things worked out for the best, with their lives unfolding as a blessing, and sometimes things did not, with lives squandered, ruined, years filled with mad havoc, regrets and bitterness.