Country Manners

It was dusk when the boys from Richmond come. They didn't usually come so late on account of they hated to navigate the back roads by night.

Them boys from Richmond drive a car longer than a Chinaman's name and sound like they've let something lose rattle in the hood for maybe two, three months. Just like city boys to get themselves some fancy automobile and let it grind to shit. It's that they's inherently wasteful, that's what.

Us country folks, we don't waste nothing. Can't afford to. Hate to see others being wasteful too. Drives us crazy.

I was sitting on the porch, whittling a bit a bone too busted and demarrowed for to put in the meat stock for jelly. The rattlin' black boat of a sedan rolled up to the house, pulling a bit off to my right, 'bout maybe fifteen, twenny feet from the porch.

We'd had a recent rainstorm and the car dug two deep tracks into my muddy front yard.

Now I admit to as the house probably ain't shucks to what these boy see all the time in the capital. But still, I got no call to be ashamed. Two stories. All the windows intact. We replaced the roof not but last summer, the wood still red-fresh. The coat of white wash could use some touchin' up here and there, but it ain't so sad as you go far as to say the house was in bad shape. There was the barn: functional but ugly as a meth addict's teeth. The tool shed, formerly an outhouse, was rotting away, sure. But the main house, I can meet any man's eye an' tell him straight out that I ain't got nothing to be ashamed of, domicile-wise.

The driver was Jimmy the Fag. I'd met him once in Richmond, delivering 'shine to Mr. Devereux. Nice enough kid. Thin, short cropped blond hair, black suit and white shirt with no tie. Good looking shoes. Wore a pair them old style highway patrol glasses. He got out of the car, shut the door, then tugged at his sleeves to make sure the appropriate amount of cuff was showing. I'm told that unfortunate moniker ain't but half true, though I don't rightly see how such a name can be but half true. Must be a city thing.

Out of the front passenger side door came the great mass of Curtis Oslander. His three-hundred plus pound frame didn't exit the car so much as get spat out. I reckon only the fact that his sausage-thick fingers had a death grip on the top of the door was about the only thing that kept him from goin' ass over tea kettle into the slop. He wore a charcoal grey suit, fancy two-color leather shoes, dark blue tie, and a white shirt that was already soaked through with sweat. The summer humidity in the Tidewater is brutal on a man like Oslander.

I didn't recognize the two that got out the back, though I couldn't help but notice that they both got out on the right side. Could be, a'course, that they was avoiding some particularly big mud puddle. A'course, could also be they wanted the body of the car 'tween them an' the house. Both was fit white boys. One had long brown hair, wore jeans and a black button up shirt. The other wore glasses wire rimmed glass and a black sports coat over a white T-shirt that read, in all capital red letters, POMPIER.

The one in the black shirt had his shoulder holster. Something big and unfriendly-like was tuckered under his left arm.

As Oslander found his footing and waited for the stray 10 or 20 pounds of him still in the car to catch up, I rose out of my chair and walked to the top of the porch steps.

"Oslander," I said.

"Evening Zebedee. You know Jimmy the Fag."

"Sure do. Evenin' Mr. Fag."

He wordlessly raised his open right hand, gesture that could mean hello but is more oftener used t' mean stop.

Oslander continued. "These two gentlemen are Dunn and Whitcomb."

Dunn said, "Hi ya'."

Whitcomb, in the glasses, didn't say nothing.

"How you drive at dusk with them glasses on Mr. Fag?" I asked.

He put his hands in his pocket, bored, "Practice."

Out of the tree line surroundin' the house, several of the young ones come to see who'd arrived. Silent as injuns they slide out into the yard, hanging near the woods like they may have to bolt. Though the eldest boys were still out back and these was nothing but pups, their sudden an' unannounced appearance made Dunn and Whitcomb nervous.

"Good to see you again Zeb," said Oslander.

"Likewise. It's awfully late for you to come callin'," I said. "Something wrong with the last batch of shine? Ain't never been nothing wrong with my liquor."

Oslander made some sniff at the air, deep draws like he was trying to clear his nose of snot. "What is that I smell? Goodness. That smells like some damn fine barbeque you're working on."

"My Adella is slowing cookin' up something."

There was a moment of silence.

"I reckon it wouldn't be polite not to invite y'all, seeing as we're business partners and all."

Oslander's smile was a nasty thing. I ain't never seen no shark, but I imagine they smile something like Oslander. "Why, Zeb, that's mighty white of you. We can't hardly say no."

After the meal, the young 'uns scattered and Adella retired to the front parlor. That left me, Dunn, Whitcomb, Mr. Fag, and Oslander. My two eldest was there too: Elijah and Jacob.

"Now that you've enjoyed a repast, what's the nature of this business you brought to us," I said. "The shine shipments been regular and the quality has been fine. You couldn't say that ain't true. Ain't no man could say that ain't been the very gospel truth of the matter."

Oslander put his beefy hands up, palms out and towards me. He made two patting gestures in the air. "Zeb, the shine's perfect. More than perfect."

"Can't be nothing's more than perfect," drawled my Jacob.

"Shush boy. Grown-ups is talking."

"Like I said, Zeb," Oslander continued. "The shine is perfect. Problem is Frankie Germaine. You seen him about?"

Germaine was one of Mr. Devereux's men. Half-nigger pimp and drug dealer. Smart man, nice dresser. Stone col' killer I was told.

"I ain't seen Frankie Germaine in a coon's age."

"He comes 'round, you call me immediately."

"We ain't got no phone," said Elijah.

"Shush boy. Grown-ups is talking," Isaid.

"No phone, hunh? Then you send one of these boys of yours running right away."

I took the bone out of my pocket and began whittling again. "Seeing as it could take a powerful long time for anybody in Richmond knows that Frankie Germaine come to see me, might be smart to let me in on just what is going on here. If only, ya know, so as I know properly what to expect and don't tip nobody's hand."

Oslander looked at the assembled at the dinning room table. Then he turned his attention to the framed and water-stained print of General Longstreet what hung on our kitchen wall. There was some holiday pictures from Adella's sister's place in Stone Crick tucked in the right bottom corner of the frame. The portrait hung on the wall beside him.

"Well, we should talk about Mr. Frankie Germaine. We most certainly should. I would be obliged, much obliged, if we could talk in confidence." Oslander then pushed from the table a bit and leaned back in his chair. He intertwined his fat fingers like he was gonna pray, then rested them on the small ledge his belly made.

"Boys, go on now and show our guests the stills. Show Mr. Fag here what keeps him in them nice movie star sunglasses of his."

My boys stood up, like did Dunn and Whitcomb. Mr. Fag just looked at Oslander. "I'll stay with you boss." He was still wearing them sunglasses.

"Mr. Fag, please. Zeb here is a trusted member of the organization. I'm fine."

"I can promise the safety of any Devereux man what's in this house," said I. Jimmy the Fag was slow to rise. Don't take nobody's word 'cause they give it so freely themselves. Done depreciated the value of truth in the cities, depreciated it by trading a bit too freely in counterfeit notes. Another thing city folks do that just drive us country folk crazy. "My word's good."

"Yeah. I know," mumbled Jimmy the Fag.

I watched the boys guide the men from the home, The screen door slammed a hind them. Before they dissipated into the swampy night air, I saw the pups gather 'bout them: a horde of young 'uns that materialized like a small army of tiny haints.

When me and him was alone, Oslander leaned forward and placed both hands flat on the table.

"Frankie Germaine's done got too big for his britches. You know Devereux's pet spade had girls and some nah-kot-ticks (he said it out like that) stitched up in Jackson Ward, most of Northside, even out to Mechanicsville. Lot of action. But, you know. These days, the boys. The greed is mad these days. Greed the likes that seizes these young bucks, it's hard to even take its measure. So Germaine starts taking an interest in the shine side of the organization, if you'll pardon the expression. That is understandable: taxes ain't never going down and shine will always make money. A boy shows interest in the big picture, it shows ambition. Such a buck is a credit to his people. But then his fingers get itchy. Out come the guns and now we got a problem. Streets getting shot up.

"Which brings us to the shiners. Germaine knows y'alls too scattered to keep watch on, so he's been coming out and spinning a story about a second civil war in Richmond. Can't truss nobody, he says. Then he says he'll be delivering the moonshine from now on. Steals it at the source right off these poor fucking hicks, no offense."

"None taken," I said. I kept to whittlin' the bone.

"These shiners don't even know they givin' away Devereux's moonshine."

"Mos' unfortunate," I said.

"Mos' unfortunate indeed. You sure you ain't seen this boy?"

"He'd still run inta y'all, right? Lessen he had some pickin' sides. But who'd pick sides 'gainst Devereux?" I asked.

"I got theories, but I don't wanna risk slandering the name of some honest shiner."

"Roscoe White?"

"Just 'cause a man is a traitorous piece of dogshit don't mean I wanna slander him any. So, as I said, I don't wanna risk no slander with wild and unfounded accusations and the like."

"Shame though. Roscoe's wife is just about the nicest woman, my Adella excepting."

"That true?" Oslander asked.

That's when I done take my whittling knife and drove if through the fat flesh of his right hand. The knife neatly snapped the bones of his hand and pinned him to the table. He shot up from his chair and maybe he even tried to reach for his gun, 'twere nestled under the blubber of his man tit in a shoulder holster under his left pit, but all that happened is that he pulled the table that was still pinned to him into his gut. He staggered back into the portrait of Longstreet, dragging the table with him. Our vacation snaps drifted to the floor. He was trapped tween the wall and the table pushing 'gainst that whale gut. He tried desperately to twist and bend his left hand into a position where he could draw his pistol.

That's when his boys started screaming outside.

I reached for his pistol. I brushed aside his chunky hand. It shook and was pale and was without strength. I freed the revolver from its holster.

"Zeb. Jesus, Zeb. I . . ."

Using the butt of his pistol I pounded him in his face six or seven times. I heard the bone of his nose give with a right smart snap. After that, the skin of his face seemed to yield like it were bread dough, and it slid-like to the side when I brought down the pistol.

"Shush boy. A grown-up is talking."

He whimpered.

"Thing is, fat man, all y'all is getting' rebellent. Germaine was here and he done give me the same story. You know what happens when ya leave a man with a bussed spine in the pig pen. They done eat that man to the fucking bone."

I held up the bone I was whittlin'.

"'Scuse my French. Say hi ta Mr. Germaine."

I tossed the bone onto the table the now bloody-faced Oslander was pinned to. He shuddered and the table shook. The sorta carved bone fell off the table an onto the floor.

"Thfuugsahk Zhhhbb . . ."

"Shush boy." I tapped the butt of the knife with the butt of his gun. The tremmer sent a shock a pain through his arm. "Grown-up talkin'. See, my sweet Adella is Thibodeaux by birth. Makes her relation by marriage to the Gyourgia Devereux. From which, ya may or may not know, Mr. Devereux is descended. We's relations, see. We talk, you fat fuck. All you rebellent folk think Devereux is done. Too old. Think you can outsmart these hayseed shiners into turnin' traitor with you. Ya' city folks always think your smarter."

There was more screamin' from the woods outside. A lone gun shot. More screamin'. All adult screams. The pups, I tell myself, is fine.

"That’s sumpin I never figured about city folks. You don't care nothin' 'bout kin."

"Oh God," Oslander shouted.

I hit him twice agin with his pistol butt. His nose 'sploded into a meaty mess. On the twice'd hit I felt the bone 'bout his right eye crumble. It started to swell up mean and purple. Tears outta that mean an' purple eye run't dark red.

"Y'all must feel . . ." I searched for the right word. "Helpless and alone. Naw. More, ah, what's that word? Rootless."

I looked at the crumpled Oslander.

"You feel rootless, Mr. Oslander?"