Читать книгу The Most Important Thing - David Gross - Страница 7

The crowing cock, the most ancient reveille, broke the silence at Ole Buck Farm beginning Bradley’s last day as a civilian. It was a cold time, January of 1950. The vice of January squeezed the green and the warmth from the hills. The politically cold world dreaded war between the two great allies, the USSR and the USA. The partnership that defeated the Nazis dissipated with hate. As the sting of winter hit the hills of Ole Buck, the chilly winter of mistrust threatened life on the planet. In the modern, postwar world sprang radios, fine automobiles, air travel, ocean liners, electricity, and televisions, but with these new toys came jet bombers, intercontinental missiles, and the nuclear bomb.

Innovation and turmoil failed to penetrate the Appalachians. In the Atomic Age, Ole Buck was a relic of the Feudal Age. The family farm, wrestled from the wilderness, hadn’t changed that much since the revolution. Hill people lived like pioneers. Children were born in the farmhouse. Baptisms occurred in the river. The mountain people grew their own food and tobacco. What they didn’t cultivate grew wild. Abundant berries, nuts, roots, and honey flourished in the green hills. Water bubbled from a spring only a short walk away. Coal cut from the mountainside and wood heated homes in the winter. Lanterns and fire lit the home. The school, church and store operated in the hills. Downhill stood an outhouse. Few radios broke the peace of Ole Buck. The banjo, fiddle, mandolin, and guitar strings vibrated mountain music. People sang. Mountain people distilled their own inexpensive liquor, moonshine cost only two dollars for a gallon. The standing stones of the graveyard stood at the top of the mountain.

The cock’s crow always preceded daylight. The daylight softened the Appalachian Mountains of eastern Kentucky. Somewhere in the mountains stood a large farmhouse. In a quiet room of the farmhouse stood an iron bed, the only piece of store bought furniture there. A mattress of feathers covered the bed. Upon the featherbed lay five slumbering brothers underneath five patchwork quilts. The abundance of bedding provided the only barrier to the cold because the room lacked a fireplace or stove. The boys’ breath escaped in vapor soon vanquished by the icy air.

Bradley woke, but failed to immediately coax himself from the warmth of the bed. The dim light crept through the window revealing dark clouds and a fog hanging in the mountains. The mountains appeared black, the sky only marginally lighter. Bradley yawned. He smiled realizing that his future absence meant more room for his brothers.

Quietly, Bradley slipped from the warm bed. If his brothers woke, they gave no indication of it. Bradley stood in his undershirt, long johns, and socks. He slipped on his overalls and boots. Pulling his heavy plaid outer shirt, Bradley examined his face in the mirror. He grabbed the community comb from the top of the dresser and dragged it through his hair, slicking his hair down with spit from his hand. Passing from the unadorned room, he looked over his shoulder at his sleeping brothers. No one moved.

Ma stirred quietly in the kitchen, floating like a ghost in the dim light. Her hair was pulled back, and her glasses protruded in front of her face. She wore an apron over a simple cotton dress. She draped a red sweater over her shoulders. Having suffered a stroke years before hindered Ma’s movement. In addition, Ma’s stroke caused her to lose some control of one of her hands. This malady gave Ma trouble washing dishes because she couldn’t grip a wet plate. When at home, Bradley washed dishes for the family at Ole Buck. He did it for Ma. Who would do it when he left? It was a concern for Bradley, but a man can’t stay at home his whole life to do dishes.

In the kitchen, Ma tended a coal fire in the iron stove. Steam rose from the spout of the metal coffeepot. Bradley stared through the kitchen window. The puny light from the iron gray sky decorated the tree-covered hills as in a morbid, awesome ghost painting. Though the early morning world of the mountains seemed etched in charcoal with black, white, and the infinite shades of gray, the young man’s heart burned with the bright colors of excitement and gaiety.

Across the road stood the Combs house, the home of a boy his age. Void of any human activity, no lights burned from the structure. The oldest son, Anderson Combs, may have begun his journey. Anderson’s decision did not please his family. This eighteen-year-old ridge runner convinced Bradley that, together, they should join the Army. The two risky schemers craved adventure. The ornerier the adventure, the better. Anderson thought joining the Army ornery enough, so he was plainly eager to enlist.

Bradley agreed, anticipating the adventure. His time to leave Ole Buck arrived. Ole Buck reclined in a pre-electric era. No fine automobiles, airlines, or ocean liners carried Bradley; his means of locomotion was the two feet given to him at birth. Other means required money. Money was scarce as hen’s teeth in Kentucky. Grubbing the earth paid only a dollar a day. The Army offered seventy-eight dollars a month! What a fortune for the young tycoon!

Yet, money did not occupy the center of Bradley’s universe. Though Bradley wanted to live large, he was no mercenary. Friendship, faith and wealth factored in the decision, but in the final analysis he enlisted for his country.

Several days before, Bradley announced to his father that he enlisted. The old man held his thin, muscular posture erect; the noble gray head shook in disbelief. His dad counseled Bradley for a moment, then realized Bradley’s distracted mind had already departed the farm. As usual, Bradley’s dad was right. The old man knew change hit Ole Buck.

Bradley reflected when, as a small boy, he watched his father plow a moist bottom. Bradley’s father plowed with the brown mule, Jim, and the white mule, Mike, cutting straight furrows for planting.

“Dad,” questioned the curious boy, “how is it that you plow so straight? You have nothing to go by.”

“Keep your eyes on something far away,” advised Bradley’s father, “and you will plow straight.”

The sound of two eggs breaking drug Bradley’s mind into the kitchen. Ma placed the frying pan on the stove. Moments passed before the wonderful aroma of coffee and eggs filled the kitchen. The farm chickens laid the fresh eggs only the previous day. Then, the irresistible scent of biscuits drifted from the oven.

“That smells great!” said the ebullient Bradley, walking into the kitchen. Ma noticed him for the first time. Instantly, she broke into tears and hugged her son. Bradley hugged his Ma.

“Don’t worry about me, Ma,” encouraged the young man, “I will be fine. I love you, Ma.”

“I love you too, Bradley,” replied Ma. She broke away and dried her tears on her apron, but more tears flowed immediately. Bradley attempted acting cheerful. The popping of the eggs in the iron pan rescued Ma from despair. Work kept sentimentality at bay.

“Anderson hadn’t been over has he, Ma?” asked Bradley.

“Naw. I ain’t seen him this morning,” said Ma quietly. Bradley gazed at the clock. It read 5:25. At the junction of the highway and Ole Buck Road a couple of miles away, the bus arrived at 6:30. Maybe Anderson waited there. No fanfare or tender good-byes bid farewell to Anderson. Anderson’s father would see to that. Riley Combs, the ascetic head of the Combs household, would not hear of any dissent in the ranks. It was his way or the highway, Riley often told his son, Anderson. Anderson chose the highway.

Ma carefully placed the plate down on the table covered with the red checked plastic tablecloth. The long departed nimbleness of the hand required great effort in handling the unwieldy plate. Little discomforts like that Ma took in stride. Big discomforts like a child leaving broke her noble heart.

“Eat,” requested Ma. Ma watched him begin. She smiled.

Ma turned to the stove grasping another egg. Soon, the hungry children would rise. Everyone rose early on the farm. But less work waited on a cold January morning compared to most months. The list of winter chores remained long: animals fed, wood chopped, coal cut from the side of the mountain, water carried. A cold day made the warm bed a delight. A warm bed provided a luxury to those knowing few luxuries. Bradley wouldn’t complain if he departed before anyone else rose. Avoiding tears and sad good-byes seemed like a good idea.

The eggs quivered with liquid yellow yolk, a little soupy in the middle. Ma cooked them the way Bradley liked them. He covered the eggs with white gravy topped with sprinkles of pepper. The heap of food resembled a mound of snow blasted with a shotgun. He dabbed his biscuit into the gravy and yellow of the egg yoke. He sipped his coffee, light with cream and sweet with sugar. After that first bite, he ravenously devoured the rest of the food.

Ma sliced a biscuit into two pieces with a knife. Between the halves of biscuit, she lay two well-done eggs. She placed the egg sandwich into a brown paper bag that she had saved for this day. She gave the bag to Bradley.

“Put that in your pocket, Bradley,” whispered Ma. Pa opposed assets leaving the homestead because times could get worse. Bradley did not want to imagine worse times. Nobody in the hills had money. Bradley stuck the bag in his pocket. In moments, he finished his delicious breakfast. Bradley sipped his coffee, trying not to think, but thoughts kept crowding him preventing any serene moment. As his head defeated his heart, Bradley surrendered to the inevitable. He lifted his dishes from the table, stacking them carefully in the sink.

“I always appreciate you helping me,” said Ma. The tears started streaming from her careworn face again.

“I am happy to do it,” proclaimed the boy. Bradley grabbed the bucket and poured a pan of water. He placed the pan on the stove, heating the water for dish washing. Bradley washed the dishes thousands of times. Perhaps for the last time, he washed them.

Ed was the next one to enter the kitchen. The oldest brother’s sleepy face dragged itself into the kitchen. Ma poured him a cup of coffee.

“Bradley, we are sure going to miss you around here,” said Ed to his little brother. Ed poured teaspoons of sugar into his coffee. Bradley wanted to wander while Ed planned to remain at Ole Buck. Ed was mountains to the root. Ed planned to live in the hills the rest of his days. Cities and lowlands had no appeal for Ed.

“I’m going to miss you too, Ed.”

Each brother silently questioned the sincerity of the other. Though Bradley loved his brother, the rivalry between them grew wearisome. No matter what Bradley did or said, Ed was the leader, the older brother. To eighteen-year-old Bradley, he had to be more than the younger brother to Ed. Ed was strict like Pa and was Pa’s greatest pupil. He was part of the system that restrained Bradley. Bradley tired of the shadow of Pa, Brother Ed, and Brother Pierce. His brothers considered his rebellion against authority meanness. Bradley didn’t care. He was ready to be his own man.

“Bradley, I’d like for you to have this,” said Ed. From under his unbuttoned work shirt, Ed disclosed his folded yellow shirt. This was the shirt that Ed wore to church on Sundays. It was the best piece of clothing he owned; it was the newest piece of clothing in the house.

“I love you, Brother,” said the teary Ed. Was it Ed the Austere that said this? Ed ran to his brother and they hugged.

“I love you, too, Brother,” replied Bradley with his eyes welling in tears again. There was no doubt in the sincerity of the boys now. Bradley’s heart was breaking. Why had they waited to say this?

The two brothers disengaged, leaving Bradley with a shirt in his hands. Bradley slipped into the shirt that looked striking on him.

“Bradley, you look so handsome,” bragged Ma, her face smiling through tears. Bradley removed the shirt. He offered it back to his brother.

“No!” ordered Ed sternly, the cracked armor exposing his soft heart quickly sealed. The older brother again commanded his little brother. The magic spell of the moment dissipated into the cool air, leaving both brothers as before. Bradley shrugged. Then he donned the shirt. Bradley buttoned the shirt, remaining quiet. He walked to the peg on the wall, and taking his coat from it, slipped it on over the shirt. The coat had been Ed’s too. Much of the clothing that Bradley wore had been Ed’s at one time or another. When he first received the coat it swallowed him, but now the coat was a little tight. Bradley grew larger than his older brothers did.

The whole house began to stir. Ma placed the breakfast plate in front of Ed, and their four sisters appeared in the living room wearing their robes.

Bradley quickly dried the dishes at five till six, he had a bus to catch. Bradley touched his pocket, checking for his bus tickets provided by the federal government. This was the twentieth time that morning he had verified their position. The tickets remained in his pocket. He hugged his sisters and they kissed him. Harvey, Pierce, Buford, and Vernon arose at last, and Bradley shook their hands before walking to the door. He sighed because he thought Pa might have shook hands with him before he left. He stepped outside into the freezing cold and closed the door to Ole Buck.

In his chair beside the door, Pa sat alone. A Folgers Coffee can stood on the wooden porch beside him. He used the can for tobacco juice. The old man leaned back in the cane chair, its back resting against the wall of the house. He had been there all along.

“Good-bye, Pa,” said Bradley.

The old man stood and offered his scarred, old hand to his son. Pa looked him directly in the eye.

“If you are going to do this, son, do it right,” he smiled.

For a brief moment, the fleshy causeway of two iron hands joined. For that instant the great gulf between father and son bridged. All too soon the storm of human change broke the fragile bridge and the two callused hands parted.

Bradley ambled down the familiar wooden steps sinking into the moist, ancient earth of Ole Buck. He walked away. His bothers and sisters, Ma and Pa peered through the window until Bradley disappeared. Ma noted that Bradley never looked back. How wrong was Ma, for the looking back never ends.

Silent providence witnessed the great exchange. Bradley traded his innocence for sophistication. He dealt blissful ignorance for costly knowledge, maybe even wisdom. The boy bartered the cold and muddy roads of Kentucky for the colder and muddier roads of Korea. The healthy lad swapped peaceful slumber for nightmares. The quarry of the hunt evolved from deer, rabbit, and squirrel to fathers, sons, husbands, and brothers. The son replaced the embrace of Mother for the company of unwashed, vulgar young men. Home was exchanged for horror. Who could the government induce to engage in such a bargain? Find a young man, speak with him, and you have your answer.

Across the road the Combs house remained quiet and dark. Bradley decided not to stop.

Walking down the gravel and mud road, Bradley passed a farmhouse where ancient Maggie Hayes braved the cold, standing on her porch. Directly in front of her house, Bradley waved. Suddenly, a large gray dog appeared in the center of the gravel road ahead of him blocking his way. This silent messenger from the wild realm stood thirty feet from the stalwart youth. The dark dog held his ground.

Large carnivores seem to know when they have you. Bradley stood in view of a farmhouse so the dog looked wary, every Kentucky farmhouse is armed. The wild creatures learn that early. Bradley was an enormous prey, twice as large as the dog, so the dog didn’t have Bradley. Still, the predator observed the boy curiously turning his head strangely from side to side.

“Pick up a rock and bust him in the head!” ordered the ancient woman from the porch of her house, “Bust him in the head!”

Though his prowess matched the task due to years of practice chucking rocks, Bradley decided not to stone the wild dog. Bradley showed mercy to the animal. Thus, Bradley snubbed the valueless challenge against nature. Further, it irritated him being controlled. Quickly, Bradley conceived an alternate stratagem. Slowly, the boy spread his hands wide apart and, then, brought them quickly together with a POP! The wild eyes of the solitary guardian suddenly tired, the dog bounded away. With grace and strength the dog effortlessly leaped from the road, melting into the dark wood. The message that he carried, now delivered, freed the wild creature to resume his friendless hunt.

Bradley Gross considered the question: Could a softhearted person unwilling to kill a dog, kill a man? Did he have the courage to do his duty as a soldier? He silently prayed never to find himself in that position. Then he remembered his father’s advice. This thought cheered him as he continued sloshing his way down the gravel road.

Dancing behind the heavy plow of fate, Bradley held tightly to the timeless handles of Ole Buck: honor and service. Though his pasture proved rocky and rooty, Bradley plowed straight. What he did, he did right. Through it all, he did as his father advised, he kept his eyes on something far away.