Some Sweet Day Read online

  Some Sweet Day

  Bryan Woolley

  Dzanc Books

  5220 Dexter Ann Arbor Rd

  Ann Arbor, MI 48103

  www.dzancbooks.org

  Copyright © 1973 by Bryan Woolley

  All rights reserved, except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher.

  Published 2016 by Dzanc Books

  A Dzanc Books rEprint Series Selection

  eBooks ISBN-13: 978-1-941531-41-9

  eBook Cover Designed by Awarding Book Covers

  Published in the United States of America

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  TO PEGGY

  SOME SWEET DAY

  MOTES of dust swam in the yellow shaft of late sunlight. I was trying to focus on just one of them while it was still up near the window and follow it all the way down to the piece of tin where we set up the stove in winter. Nero, lying outside the screen door, raised her head from between her paws and pricked her ears toward the barn.

  I heard his singing too.

  There’ll be smoke on the mountain, on the land and

  the sea,

  When the Army and Navy overtake the en-e-mee…

  A song we heard sometimes when the radio batteries were charged and we could pick something out of the static.

  He stopped at the horse trough, scooped up water in his yellow straw hat and held it over his head to let the water filter through onto his hair. The first drops rolled down without penetrating his black mane, divided into little streams at the nape of his neck, then ran quickly down his bare brown shoulders and disappeared under his overalls. He said “Ahhh!” then laid his hat and glasses on the trough’s rock rim and washed his face, snorting in the green water. Then he replaced his hat and glasses and reached toward the fence. I hadn’t seen his shotgun propped there. He cradled it lovingly as he strode across the dusty barnyard, his long, vague shadow fleeing before him.

  Nero rose, wagging lazily, and greeted him at the yard gate. He climbed the porch steps, dropped the gun to his side and peered through the screen, his right hand holding the sun away from his eyes.

  “Gate, get your hat and come,” he said.

  He had already headed back across the barnyard by the time I opened the door to follow him. Nero plodded along beside him, panting. I ran to catch up, and asked, “Where we going?”

  “Just to bring the cows up,” he said. “Thought I’d take you along in case I found sign of something. You could bring the cows on in.”

  I strutted beside him, proud that he thought I could do such a job, and watched him open the pasture gate. He was fine to look upon. His long black hair leaked from under his hat. Water still seeped from under the sweatband, and a drop or two clung to his sideburns. His tall, slender frame was slightly stooped, making his blue overalls appear to fit more snugly in back than in front.

  “You know what, Daddy?” I said to his back.

  “What?”

  “When I get big, I want to be just like you.”

  He laughed. “I ain’t much.”

  “I want to be a farmer like you, and drive a tractor like you, and wear glasses like you, and have a gun like you, and have a dog like Nero…”

  “Nero ain’t much, either. I’d have shot her a long time ago if she hadn’t bit the preacher. That’s why I called her Nero. He didn’t like Baptists, either. It’s hard to shoot a dog like that.”

  “You called Nero after a man?”

  “Yeah. An old-timey king.”

  We walked quietly through the junipers, Daddy’s eyes scanning the ground on each side of the cow path, Nero dashing back and forth, sniffing things, chasing birds.

  “Daddy, can I shoot your gun?”

  “No.”

  “Just once?”

  “Six years old is too little to be going around shooting guns. It’d knock you on your ass.”

  “Joe George’s daddy lets him shoot his gun.”

  “Who says?”

  “Joe George.”

  “Joe George is a liar.”

  He stopped abruptly, raised the gun and fired into a large oak. A dark ball crashed through the leaves to the ground.

  “Go get him, Gate. Stay here, Nero!”

  The squirrel’s eyes were open. “I don’t think it’s dead yet,” I said.

  “It’s dead. Pick it up.”

  I didn’t want to, but I did. It was soft and warm and lay limp across my hand like a newborn puppy. I tried to keep my hand away from the wet places where the shot went in, but there were too many of them, and I could feel a warm dampness on my hand. It was the first time I’d ever held anything dead. I carried it to Daddy and tried to hand it to him. “You carry him,” he said.

  We found the cows over near the bluff and headed them back along the path toward the barn. The sun was going down ahead of us, and the sky was afire with red and purple and orange and yellow and green. All that color and light and the soft scratch of the cows’ hooves on the hard path and the warm cow smell and the sound of Nero’s panting as she worried the cows along their way and the feel of Daddy being close was almost more than I could stand. I wanted to just unzip my hide and cram it all inside of me to keep forever. I even forgot the dead squirrel I was carrying along by the tail now. The tail, which looked so thick and pretty, was really very skinny under its long hair, almost like a rat’s.

  “Boy, everything sure looks fine, doesn’t it, Daddy?”

  “Yeah. God sure was stupid to make people when he could have kept all this for himself.”

  When we passed the gate, the cows made a beeline for the milk pen, and Daddy went on ahead of me to pitch them some hay. Nero wandered after him, and I stopped to close the gate.

  “Gate!” Daddy yelled at me over the milk-pen fence. “Take that squirrel to the house and tell your ma to fix it for supper. Then come on back and get the eggs.”

  I broke into a trot, but stopped when I got to the sleeping porch door. Rick was still asleep. He and Belinda both had the measles, handed on from me on the last day of school. I tiptoed across into the kitchen. Mother was sitting at the table, kind of lying there, actually, with her head on her arms. She didn’t look up.

  “Mother?”

  “Hmm? Where’s Daddy?”

  “Milking. Belinda asleep, too?”

  “Finally. I’ll sure be glad when this siege is over with.”

  “Me and Daddy killed a squirrel.” I laid it on the table beside her. Its eyes were still open, but somehow it looked deader, as if it never really had been alive. “He wants it for supper.”

  She raised her head and started to say something, but she just looked at me for a long time, then kind of smiled. “Sure wish he’d skinned it first.”

  “I’ve got to go get the eggs.”

  “The bucket’s on the sleeping porch.”

  “I’ll just use my hat.”

  I heard Daddy cussing before I got back to the barn, so I knew he was through with Blossom and had started on Bess. “Saw, Bess! Saw, you son of a bitch!” he said. Bess always kicked.

  The hens were already on their roost, scratching around, trying to get comfortable, quarreling quietly with each other. The nests were lined along one wall of the henhouse, like a row of big post office boxes with straw. I plunged my hand into the one nearest the door and felt in the straw, finding only sticky broken eggshells. That damned Nero! She had been through the whole row. Only three good eggs in the whole house. I put them in my hat and went out to the milk pen to sit on the top rail and watch Daddy.

  “How many?”


  “Three. Looks like Nero’s been sucking them again. Nothing but a bunch of broken shells in there.”

  “God damn it!” He pulled one of Bess’ tits too hard. She jerked to one side and kicked over the milk bucket. The milk fanned out over the ground. “God damn! God damn! God damn!” Daddy kicked the milk bucket. It wobbled across the pen like a crazy top and clanged into the fence. “God damn!” He kicked Bess as hard as he could right in the belly. She grunted, sidled away from him, and trotted slowly over to the corner where Blossom was chewing her hay. Daddy stood in the middle of the pen, his fists clenched tight, breathing hard. It was almost dark now, and I could barely make out his face. I sat as quietly as I could, holding the eggs in my hat. Nero stood panting. He saw her. “Gate,” he said, “bring me my quirt.” I eased off the fence as quickly as I could without dropping the eggs and opened the door to the feed room, where Daddy’s quirt hung on a nail. “Here, Nero!” Daddy called. “Come on here to Daddy!” Nero wagged like crazy and romped up to him. Daddy grabbed her collar and walked her through the gate and around toward the henhouse. I followed, carrying the quirt and my hat with the eggs. Nero began to realize what was about to happen. She tucked her tail between her legs and braced her feet against the ground. Daddy just dragged her along as if he didn’t notice her resistance. He unlatched the henhouse door and after we all went in, he closed it. He held out his free hand, and I put the quirt in it, and he started whaling the tar out of poor Nero. She jumped around and yelped and squealed at the top of her voice, but Daddy just kept laying the leather on her. The chickens were all awake and flying and flopping, squawking to high heaven. Feathers drifted down around me. I couldn’t see anything, it was so dark. I wanted to put my hands over my ears, but I didn’t know what to do with the eggs. And I was afraid one of those crazy chickens was going to fly right into my face.

  Finally, Daddy stopped. He opened the door a crack and Nero took off toward the house, whimpering all the way. We went back to the milk pen, and Daddy hung up the quirt, picked up his shotgun and the empty milk bucket, and we headed for the house. Daddy was real quiet now, and I wasn’t about to say anything, either. About halfway to the house, I stubbed my toe on the water pipe that went to the horse trough. The three eggs flew out of my hat, and I fell flat on my face. I wasn’t wearing shoes, and my big toe hurt like crazy. The gravel cut into my knees and elbows, and I tasted dirt and chicken shit in my mouth. I was winded, and I felt tears burning in my eyes. I couldn’t get up. Daddy just stood there a minute, then he said quietly, “Get up, son.” I finally worked my way back up to my feet, and just as I was standing steady, Daddy gave me a hard kick right in the ass, and I went sprawling again. I really cried this time. Daddy just stood there. After a while he said again, “Get up, son.” I just couldn’t make it all the way this time, so he shifted the milk bucket over to his gun hand and grabbed my arm and lifted me. He reached down and handed me my hat. “You’ve just got to be more careful, son,” he said softly.

  Mother was waiting for us at the fence. She had lighted the lamp in the kitchen, and I could see her standing there against the light through my tears. “What on earth’s been going on out there?” she asked, worry in her voice. “I never heard such a racket!”

  “Nothing to worry about,” Daddy said. “We’ve just got no milk to drink, no eggs to eat, a cow that kicks, a dog that sucks eggs, and a boy that falls all over himself. We’re doing fine! Just fine!” He dropped the milk bucket by the gate and walked around the house to the front porch. Rick let out a squawk, and Mother rushed inside to tend to him before he woke Belinda. I sat down under the windmill to rest and check over my wounds. Rick stopped crying, so I knew Mother was rocking him.

  Pretty soon, I heard Harley May’s dogs baying beyond the bluff. It was a peaceful sound and it almost took my mind away from my stinging scratches and throbbing toe and tailbone. After a while, I looked up and saw Daddy standing by the gate, looking at me. I felt the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. I hadn’t heard him come around the house. The shotgun, cradled in his arms, caught the light from the kitchen. He spoke to me softly through the darkness. “Tell your mother I’ve saddled Old Blue and gone to find Harley.” He disappeared toward the barn, and soon I heard Old Blue’s hooves on the gravel and the squeak of Daddy’s saddle as he climbed down to open the pasture gate.

  I didn’t go in until I heard the squirrel sizzling in the frying pan.

  The morning was bright, and outside the screen Nero lapped from the bowl under the leaky faucet in the yard. She looked all right. She probably didn’t even remember last night. The house was quiet. I could hear Mother moving in the kitchen, but that was all. Rick’s bed was empty. My knees and elbows still felt raw, and my toe and my tailbone were sore. I knew I was going to hurt like hell when I tried to get up.

  Mother came to the door. When she saw that I was awake, she held out a piece of sausage in a biscuit. She looked down at me silently for a long while, and I looked back silently.

  “How you feeling?” she asked finally.

  “Okay, I guess.”

  “Can you sit up?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Here, I’ll help you.”

  She placed her arm behind my neck and lifted me. My tailbone hurt during the bend, but felt better after I was sitting up. She handed me the biscuit and sausage, and I ate it while she examined my knees and elbows. They weren’t pretty, especially with all that Mercurochrome she put on them last night. She untied the turpentine-soaked rag and unwrapped my toe. “Not too bad,” she said, “but you split the nail. You’ll be barefooted when Gran comes tonight, but I guess you would have been, anyway.”

  “Where’s Daddy?”

  “Still asleep. He didn’t get in till daylight.”

  “Did him and Harley get anything?”

  “One fox.”

  “Where’s Belinda and Rick?”

  “On a pallet in the living room. They’re better. Can you get all the way up?”

  I got to my feet, and she pulled down my drawers and looked at my tailbone. “You’ve got a good one, all right. Nice and blue. Think you can walk okay?”

  “I guess.”

  “Well, get dressed then, and go outside. Stay away from the house for a while. When I’m ready for you to come back, I’ll hang the ice blanket on the clothesline. Okay?”

  “Why do you want me to do that?”

  “Just hush and do what I say.”

  She helped me on with my clothes, and I hobbled outside. The milk bucket still lay by the gate. The milk pen was empty, so I knew that Mother had let the cows out to pasture. The sun was bright and warm and felt good on me. I crawled through the fence behind the barn, and Nero slid under the bottom wire and tagged along with me. A turkey gobbled somewhere over to the north as I walked toward the bluff. About halfway up the side, before it really gets steep, there’s a large oak with a big flat rock under it. I sat down on the rock, and Nero plopped down beside me and laid her head between her paws. She looked at me out of the corner of her eye, and I ran my hand up and down her old black-and-white-spotted hide and then rubbed her behind the ears. She closed her eyes and sighed.

  I could see home very well from my rock. Below me were the big old barn, and the corn crib, and the tractor shed, and the house with its rock chimney—all gray, wooden, worn-out-looking buildings that nestled close to the darker earth. They gleamed cleanly in the morning sun. For a while it looked as if nothing was moving in the whole world except my hand behind Nero’s ears and those silly white chickens in the barnyard. I wondered how they felt after all their squawking and fluttering last night.

  The front porch screen opened and shut. A second later, I heard the rifle-crack of its closing. Daddy sat down on the steps. He held something, and soon I knew it was his fiddle. Nero heard it, too. She opened her eyes and jerked her head up and lifted her ears. She listened a moment, then dropped her head and closed her eyes again, and I went on rubbing her.

  D
addy always went out on the porch when he wanted to fiddle. He never let any of us go out with him. We could hear the music in the house, he said, and he didn’t want us standing around watching him. He was playing longer than usual this morning. He played slow for a while, then fast for a while. And then he sat and looked down the lane for a long time. Then he played some more. I just sat on my rock and rubbed Nero’s ears and listened. A long time later, Daddy rose and went into the house. In a little while he came back out, got into the car and drove down the lane. He slowed at the corner by the mailbox, then turned into the road to Darlington and disappeared over a hill. Just then, Mother walked into the yard with the red ice blanket and hung it on the clothesline.

  He returned in time to milk looking happy. He was sitting on the steps, bouncing Rick on his knee when Gran arrived. Nero, barking and leaping, met her at the gate. Gran jumped back. “Down! Down! Get away from here!”

  Daddy grinned. “Don’t let the dog scare you, Gloria. She won’t bite.”

  “She was about to ruin my hose. Hose don’t grow on trees these days, you know. Where’s Lacy?”

  “In the kitchen. Supper’s waiting. You going to spend the night?”

  “If I don’t get eaten by this dog first, I am.”

  “How are things in town?”

  Gran glared at him through her steel-rimmed glasses. “I thought you’d know. I heard you were there today.” She stamped into the house and slammed the screen. Daddy got up, swinging Rick out and above his head.

  The plates and the oilcloth shone in the light of the lamp, surrounded by chicken and dumplings and green beans and biscuits. Belinda and Rick argued, as they always did, over who would sit by Gran, and Daddy settled it, as he always did, putting one on each side of her. Everybody was hungry, and we ate quietly, Mother smiling at our appetites and our compliments.

  Gran usually led the supper conversation when she drove from Darlington to visit us. In the fall, she talked of school and how her fifth-graders were doing. In the spring and summer, she talked of revivals and baptisms. And always of what was going on in town—who was home on furlough, who had been killed, what the Fort Worth Star-Telegram said about the Japs and the Germans, Roosevelt and Churchill. But tonight she was silent, and Daddy was aware of her gaze from across the table. Mother saw it, too, and was fidgety.