Читать книгу Quilly Hall - Benjamin W. Farley - Страница 12

The first weekend of December that year, I stayed at Uncle Everett’s. The ewes were lambing, and sometimes a ewe would die, and its lamb had to be bottle-fed if the little creature were to survive. Uncle Everett had a cabinet full of old Pepsi Cola bottles for this purpose. He, or one of his farmhands (usually one of their wives), would fill a bottle with warm milk, slip a huge rubber nipple over its lip, and feed the lamb. I loved holding the big bottles and feeling a lamb’s tug, as it slurped away. Streams of milk would drizzle out, as the lamb pulled hard on the bottle. Its little tail would wag with frenzy. That weekend, I fed four lambs each morning and again before dusk.

That Saturday night, Miles, my uncle’s foreman, came to the backdoor. Tall and lanky, of angular and weathered features, he cradled a shotgun in the crook of his left arm. He was bundled in a warm, but tattered coat. The night air felt frigid, and a cold draft entered the kitchen when I opened the door.

“Mr. Everett, bad news. Real bad!”

“What is it, Miles?”

“Dogs! Them dogs from town’s been runnin’ sheep again. They’ve done killed five ewes. I found their bodies just before dark. I got a shot at one of the dogs, but it crawled off in the brush.”

Uncle Everett drew in a long breath; the muscles in his face twitched at the news. “I’ll get my gun, and the boy and I will come with you. Step on in, Miles, till were ready.”

Miles removed his cap and entered. His baldhead was almost white in contrast to his tanned face. He waited by the door. I hurried to the hallway and pulled on my coat, cap, and gloves. Uncle Everett donned his hat—a felt Stetson—and coat, and picked up a .22-rifle that leaned against a wall. He kept most of his guns in his gun rack, but always had two or three propped up in the hall.

The night stung us with bitter cold. I pressed my cap down over my ears and ran to keep up with the two men. We skirted the barn, crossed a creek, and struck off toward the high pastureland in the direction of the Laurel Springs. The night burned bright with stars. Frost twinkled on the grass. Miles walked steadily with long, measured strides, as we climbed from hill to hill. Sheep bleated in the darkness, as their ghostly shapes loomed and waned in the night.

After a long climb, Miles began to slow his pace. He shined a flashlight on the ground. Just ahead, dark patches of blood stained a flat outcropping. Others trailed away, off into the brush. He flashed his light in their direction. Suddenly, a pair of eyes glowed in the reflection. A dog’s faint whine caught my attention. Uncle Everett approached the wounded animal and waited for Miles to join him. He motioned for me to come to his side. A beautiful salt-and-pepper freckled bird dog lay bleeding in the grass. It lifted its muzzle and whined a second time. Clots of blood had formed around an oozing wound in its side. It lay its jaw back down in the grass, struggled to crawl toward us, and, with big imploring eyes, whined again.

“Here, Miles, exchange guns with me,” said Uncle Everett, with heaviness in his voice. He handed his foreman the .22. Uncle Everett stepped back and pressed my face against his hip. He turned his body slightly to shield me from the scene. Miles raised the gun to his shoulder, aimed, and fired. The echo of the report reverberated up the hill, then died with a hollow silence in the starry night. No one said anything as we trudged our way back in the cold, from hill to hill, and field to field, with the frost twinkling in the night’s refulgence. Finally Uncle Everett broke his silence. “Sometimes a man has to do things, Tommy, he hates to do. You understand, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” I replied, as we descended the last hill, recrossed the creek, and headed for home.

Christmas was spent with Grandmother at Quilly Hall. Marion had wanted our first Christmas as a new family to be celebrated in town in front of the fireplace, in our own living room. But my mother and he knew better.

“Maybe next year, here,” my mother explained, as she bundled me for the ride to the farm. “Santa has left your surprises at Mama Edmonds’ house. You’ll see when we get there.”

Sure enough, there in the hallway, under the boughs of a prickly, tinseled, and lighted cedar tree, lay a stack of brightly wrapped gifts for all of us: my mother, grandmother, Marion, Uncle Everett, Pearl, Earl, and me. I rushed to the base of the tree, almost tipping Quelle off her pedestal. “Oh, my gracious!” my grandmother held her breath. “Careful, careful. Oh, dear God. There’s plenty of time.”

The one gift that caught my eye more so than any other was a Red Ryder BB gun. “Oh, boy!” I shouted. Packs of bee bees in little red tubes lay wrapped about the tree.

More gifts remained to be opened in the living room. To my surprise, there sat Earl and Aunt Rachel. Her face appeared tired and sallow, her gaze unfocused and hair disheveled. “Give me a kiss,” she ordered with slurred speech, as I burst into the room.

“Oh, Rachel!” was all my mother said.

Marion had special ordered a pair of gold earrings for my mother and a huge green lampshade with long silver tassels for my grandmother’s favorite lamp, upstairs. He presented Earl with a Hamilton watch, and several bolts of cloth to Pearl. And for all the women, a new sewing machine—each. My grandmother’s face expressed only minimal elation. Her mind was somewhere else, preoccupied no doubt with Aunt Rachel’s presence.

Toward noon, Uncle Everett, Uncle Jim, and Aunt Viola arrived in his truck. The Christmas meal consisted of ham, corn pudding, pole beans, biscuits, and red gravy. For dessert, my grandmother served slices of spice cake and cups of egg custard, the latter smothered with whipped cream, flavored with brandy.

A joyless silence seemed to engulf us. Very few words were exchanged. Aunt Rachel wanted more whipped cream. “Just bring the damn brandy!’ she ordered Pearl.

“Please, Rachel!” Uncle Everett confronted her. “Who invited you, anyway?”

“Everett!” my mother recoiled in protest. “No one’s perfect!”