Like now.
Billy continued to shove and push, working hard, but the barrel was winning due to gravity, and the fact it was so heavy. Rae Lynn was certain she’d seen ten-year-old boys bigger than him, and it was likely the barrel weighed more than he did. Billy inched it along, rolling it up the two crudely made slats, and the farther he went, the more they bent. The one slat on the left especially looked like it was about to give. The boards had been filled with termites, and she’d told Warren so.
“Them ain’t gonna last, especially that one, it’s riddled with holes. Look a there.”
Warren had considered the plank before waving his hands through the air, swatting her words away. Like they’s gnats bothering him, she thought. Billy’s shirt hung off his bony frame, soaked through, and here it was, not yet going on nine o’clock. He wore a straw hat shoved back on his head, and a bit of white-blond hair stood out against his reddened face. All of twenty, wiry and eager, he’d started off strong but appeared like he was already on the verge of petering out.
He gasped and swore, “Dammit all!”
Warren stood in the back of the wagon and encouraged him. “Doing fine, son.”
Billy hadn’t made much progress. His feet pointed outward, the tips of his shoes so worn they’d lost their stitching and hung open. She could see holes in his socks, pink toes. Like a baby’s. God bless him. He needed somebody to mend them. Maybe she could do that for him, if he stuck around.
Warren said, “Ain’t but a couple a feet and you’re home free.”
Not quite, Rae Lynn thought. They had lots more barrels to load. The crack of splintering wood was quick, the sound sharp as gunfire. Billy attempted to keep the barrel from rolling back on him, a valiant effort, except he listed to one side, quivering against the weight. Warren’s hopeful face collapsed in dismay. Billy, face purple with effort, gave a strangled groan. He was clearly disadvantaged. The barrel landed on his foot and his howl echoed through the tops of the pines and into the deepest part of the woods. A crow flew away, cawing “uh-uh, uh-uh” across a pewter-colored sky. Warren jumped off the back of the wagon, and Rae Lynn rushed forward.
Billy screamed, “Lordamighty!”
His body went one way, then the other in a twisty move like he wanted to yank free but didn’t have the nerve.
Warren started to roll the barrel off, and Billy hollered, “No!”
Warren stopped, unsure of what to do.
Rae Lynn stood beside Billy and said, “We got to move it. Can’t see what’s happened, how bad it is and all.”
Warren paced, and swore. “I will be damned.”
Billy gasped, hands at his head, crushing his hat.
He said, “How bad? It’s bad!”
Rae Lynn said, “Well. You wanting it to stay there?”
Billy panted, puffed. “I reckon not!”
The last word was like a screech. Rae Lynn left Billy’s side and dashed into their house. The interior was dim after being out in the bright sun, but she knew what she was after, and she went right over to the huge cast-iron sink where they had a pump for water and got the bottle of whisky off the small shelf over it. She rushed back outside, screen door banging behind her, and gave the bottle to Billy. He snatched it, took a swig, then another. Warren motioned at her, and she went to his side to help. Billy had taken to moaning.
“Look here, son. Now. We’re gonna move this off’n your foot.”
Billy’s face was pasty white.
Rae Lynn said, “Ready?”
Billy took another slurp, swallowed, and said, “Go.”
Warren and Rae Lynn shoved quick and hard, and as the barrel rolled away, Rae Lynn winced as Billy let off another howl before staring bug-eyed at his foot, as if expecting to see a mangled mess.
Finally, he said, “It don’t look so bad, but it hurts like a sonofabitch.”
He started to untie his boot, but when he went to pull it off, he stopped. He straightened back up and looked to Rae Lynn.
“I cain’t,” he whispered.
Rae Lynn said, “Want me to?”
Billy swore again, then said, “I’m ‘bout to puke.”
Instead of trying to pull his boot off, Rae Lynn lifted the flap of leather at the toe. The once-pink toes were blue, and there was some blood. Like her finger, she was almost certain Billy’s foot was crushed. She raised her eyes, her green meeting his blue.
She wrinkled her forehead, and said, “Them toes, maybe higher too, it’s all been pinched but good.”
Her calmness and choice of words didn’t match the tragic expression on her face. Billy’s awareness of his predicament sunk in.
He said, “How in hell am I gonna work with a busted-up foot? They said I ought not come here. Now look what’s happened.”
Warren got offended. “Didn’t nobody twist your arm. And who said that anyway?”
Billy tried to test his foot to see if it could bear his weight.
Rae Lynn put her hand on his arm to help, but he pulled away and said, “Keep your damn hands off’n me.” He turned to Warren, “Everyone says it.”
Rae Lynn was offended now. “Fine. Go on then.”
Billy limped about, searching until he found a stick nearby to help him balance and walk. He managed, hobbling badly, though, and there he went, back where he came from. She turned to Warren with a disbelieving look.
He threw up his hands. “He didn’t know what he was doing anyway.”
“We got to have help, Warren. We can’t do this all on our own. Won’t you send Eugene a letter, ask him to come?”
Incredulous, Warren reared his head back and said, “Eugene? Naw. He’s busy running that law practice a his. If he ain’t been home in all this time, why you think he’d come now?”
“Because he’s your son?”
Warren gave a contemptuous snort. “He always was a mama’s boy, and after she died, he said he won’t never coming back, not unless there was something in it for him.”
Within a month Warren’s words would come back on him, ringing with truth.
Chapter 3
Del
Del didn’t know Moe climbed the ladder and stared into the grain bin where nothing but corn could be seen. He couldn’t have seen him if he wanted. The kernels covered him completely, pressing his flesh from all directions like he’d been locked down by some strange force. He tried to gulp air, but the rise and fall of his chest was shallow. He choked, strained futilely, exhaled, and finally was unable to draw in any air. His mind sent his body warnings, and his heart shuddered, in shock. He was vertically entrapped four feet below fifteen feet of grain.
Moe yelled to the other men. “Can’t see nothing. He’s gone under. Probly dead.”
Del heard those words, and then he could see what was happening too. How Moe descended the ladder. How Hicky and Woot dug furiously, tossing corn by the shovelful over their shoulders. He no longer felt crushing pain in his chest. He watched a third man run across the field next to the bin and open a door on the other side. He grabbed a shovel and began stabbing at the wall of corn. Del didn’t know how this was happening, how he was able to see all of this. He must be dreaming. Moe stood off a ways and lit a cigar. The compacted corn began to flow out of both doors freely, while the men worked furiously to keep the openings clear. Unexpectedly he watched himself tumble out on the side where Hicky and Woot worked, his body limp, inert, a crumbled form of humanity, coated in dust.
Hicky flipped him over and swiped out his mouth. He beat on his chest, yelling at him, “Hey! Hey!”