Burr Oak

This is the first draft of a recent story titled "Burr Oak."



The chickens, I check them every morning. Except in the winter. The cold slows them down some and you can get away with gathering every other day or so. And never on Sunday. They don't lay then. Problem with chickens ain't they ain't smart but that theys too damn smart. When they can get a day off, they know it, and they take it.

Had us two chickens once broke out of the coop and made like they'd run away. These two chickens together. We'd just told Verna and Jay we'd sell a couple to them. We didn't usually sell our chickens like that, on account of it being just about the biggest pain in the ass you ever heard of. First you have to kill them, which is a mess, and I never cared much to do it myself. Then you have to pluck them. You have to put them in hot water before you can pluck the feathers off; if it ain't hot enough, it’s too hard to get them all off. And you don't realize how many damn feathers a chickens got till you try to pull off every one of them. If the waters too hot, skin peels clear off with the feathers. But we told Jay and Vern we'd do it since they was friends, and a couple extra bucks wasn't going to hurt us none neither. So, when I gone out there to grab a couple of them, I seen these two chickens hopping and ruffling themselves over the fence and they just kept on going like they knew I'd be after them. Damn if I know how in hell they got out in the first place. We had near fifty chickens, mostly hens, but only these two got out. They was passed the big burr oak when I caught up to them. When they seen me they quit their running without making a sound and just set there like they knew. Like they knew it wasn't no use.

Our line used to be by that oak where I caught them chickens. That was the eastern boundary, right before that tree. When Judy and me first came out here, we thought that was ours beyond that tree a bit, too. That was our tree for close to eight years. Wasn't till that man came by with his clipboard and his map that we learnt what was ours. Judy said “What about that little hill with that mossycup on it?” Judy called a bur oak a mossycup like some folks used to. So this man inspected his map and asked her, he said “What about it?” And Judy said “Ain't you buying that land, too?” The man looked back down at the map and said They already owned it. That that wasn't even our land. He pointed and said our line was right before that tree about a hundred yards from our fence. And after he left our line came right up to the fence on the eastern side and half our fields for corn and beans wasn't ours for corn and beans no more.

It must've been May because I remember the maples had leaves on about as big as squirrel's ears, which meant it was time to plant corn soon. And I know it was '74 because that's when Gabe got sick.

That was the last year I tried growing any tobacco, too. It was hot that spring, and even hotter in a tobacco field. It's easy to forget that tobaccos a living thing. And all living things breathe. So not only is you out there, huffin and puffin in the tobacco, but it's so hot, the tobaccos out there sweating and puffin its own hot breath back onto you. On a hot day, it's twice as hot in the tobacco.
It was me and Bill, who'd been helping out ever since Judy and me came out here—he had to've been ten years older than me, but I swear sometimes he seemed twenty years younger—and a kid from closer to Danville who was helping us out some that year, probably eighteen or so. Randy or Andy, or something. He worked all right.

Now, when I'm working, that's all I'm doing is working. Bill though, soon as he so much as touched a hoe or anything he was talking. And he was one of them likes talking just to talk. Ain't nothing he ever said was true. No, wouldn't surprise me none to find his name wasn't even Bill. Thing you gotta do with a guy like that is not pay him no mind. The more he thinks you just might give two shits about what he's saying, the more he keeps just shittin it on out. This boy who was helping us out though, he thought Bill was a real riot. He didn't talk too much, this kid, and he worked all right, but you would've needed a damn steel trap to keep him from laughing at nearly everything Bill said.

So we meet up at the house and fill us a canteen each and get our gloves on to go out to the field to start pulling the tobacco. Seemed a waste to put more fuel into the tractor just to ride it out to the field so we was gonna walk. And soon as that screen door smacks shut Bill asked me, he said “Ell, I tell you bout that buddy of mine was toppin some burley on a place south of Danville, not too far from here?”
“Probably,” I said. But this kid, he says, “Y'ain't told me, Bill.” and I'm thinking Oh Jesus. So Bill makes a big show of dabbing his forehead with a napkin hes got in his over-all pocket and starts:
“So I had me this buddy was doin a job on this tobacco farm, just toppin some burley. And he's workin and hes got to take him a piss. But he ain't goin to just piss right there in the middle of a half-stripped field so he walks over to some trees where theys a fence, just one of them wire ones. And so he's pissin over there and his stream hits one of them wires and theys this flash and crack like lightning and fore he can feel a thing, his peckers blew right off. He didn't know it was one of them electric ones.” Now I wasn't paying him no mind but this kids laughing like he ain't never heard the word pecker before, and Bill keeps going:

“Just blew clean off in one piece. Ain't no blood or nothin on account of the heat, all the veins got closed up. And my buddy don't know what in hell to do. So he just picks it up off the ground and he starts walkin into Danville, his own pecker in his pocket. He gets out to the hospital there and has to wait in the waitin room like hes got just a cough or somethin. Finally he gets in to see the doctor and he says to him, he says 'Doc, I got somethin needs fixin real bad.' And the doctor, he says, 'Well, whats the problem?' So he drops his drawers down to his ankles and shows the doc whats happened. This doctor he just stands there not knowin what to make of what he seen and finally he says, 'Son,' he says, 'theys some things beyond my fixin, and besides, looks like you done fixed yourself.'

And this kid starts screaming laughing and he says “No he didn't!” and Bill says, “I know, I know it, but I swear to God.” I was almost glad what had happened then, least it shut them both up.
The tobacco didn't feel right when we got into it. You know how you can just tell when theys some one else in a room, even if the lights is out and they ain't making a sound? Like you can just feel it? It's the same way in a good tobacco field, you can feel them big leaves breathing. Breathing like you and me is breathing. And you can feel it when they ain't breathing, too. The leaves was pale and spotty and they was kinda twisted, with the bottoms turned up. It'd been so damn humid the whole crop caught blue mold. I checked every leaf myself, but it was all a waste.
When you get into farming, you call yourself a farmer, and you think you are one. That you're doing all the work, and how much you know and how much you put into it is how much you're gonna get out of it. But you come to see you’re just there to do the heavy lifting while nature, she does all the work herself. You can know when to plant and all that, but corn don't grow unless she makes it grow. When you get into farming, first thing you learn is you ain't got no say in the matter.

So all the tobacco was ruined, but we still had to go in an pull it out of there, roots and all. It wasn't going to just disappear. That was the only time Bill did ever shut up. We stayed out there working at this wasted crop till it started to get a little cooler and Judy called that supper was ready.

Sun had gone down behind the hills by the time we got to the house. Judy yelled from the kitchen when she heard us come in, asking Bill and the kid if they'd stay for some supper. Of course Bill said, “Did I ever say no to you, Judy?” like he always said when she asked him. He sat down at the table and I went to wash my hands at the sink. When I come back Bill was leaning back telling this kid about a buddy of his could teach animals to talk and even read some. “Just simple sentences.” I went into the kitchen to see if Judy didn't need no help.

She was cutting up some white bread and she looked tireder then me when I come in. She tried smiling some.

“You need any help?” I asked.
“Everything's finished,” she said, “you can carry it out though.” So I grabbed a plate of potatoes and a plate of corn and took them out, then came back and got the plate of eggs. I set them down in the dining room and went back into the kitchen.
“You get everything done?” she asked, not looking up. A piece of hair was hanging down over her face.
“Almost,” I said, “I can finish in the mornin on my own.”
“Hows it look?” she said.
“Dead,” I told her.
“Dead?” she said.
“When we got out there, it was all moldy and witherin. Been so damn humid. Blue mold,” I told her.
“All of it?” she asked.
“All of it.” She put down her knife and blew at the strand of hair in her face. Her hands was covered in flour.
“What are you gonna do?” She asked me.
“Ain't much to do,” I told her, “Burn it, I guess.”
“Burn it. Elliot you know we can't afford to do nothin with that tobacco but sell it,” she said, “what are we goin to do?”
“Ain't nobody gonna buy no moldy tobacco,” I told her.
“And you ain't even gonna try?” she said.
“You're actin like I done this on purpose,” I said, “Like I meant to waste our crop. I'm as worried as you is. But wad'nt nothin I could of done.”
“Wad'nt nothin you could of done,” she said, “Ell, a whole damn crop don't go to ruin just over night. Where was you when it was goin moldy? You could'a been out there sooner.”

“Hey, ya'll ain't gonna make us start without you are ya?” Bill yelled from the other room.
Bill had started without us. His plate was clean but I know I brought out more eggs than was left. Judy walked in smiling, still with her apron on and saying “Bill, you know you don't have to wait for us to start. I'm sure you boys starvin after workin so much.”
“Now I wouldn't want to be impolite,” Bill said, shoveling about half of what was left of the eggs onto his plate. Judy was asking the kid who was with us about his family and what he wanted to be when he grew up and all that and Bill leant over and asked me, he said “Where's little Gabe?” And I didn't know. I told him I didn't know. So I asked Judy and she says he's asleep.
“I told him to go play in the other room while I was fixin supper” she said, “but he just set there in the kitchen. I tried seein if he wanted to help me, just stirrin them eggs or somethin but he was fallin asleep. So I put him into bed.” She reached behind her back and untied her apron and hung it on the back of the chair she was setting on. “I think he might be comin down with something.”

And I said nah, he wad'nt getting sick. I said he's just wored out from helping me at gathering eggs and feeding the hogs like he'd been doing.
“Bill, you should see him,” I said, “I ain't never seen nobody as good at gatherin eggs as him. He finds em where I don't even think to look.”

Just that morning he was out there getting eggs with me. He had on his little boots and his thick working gloves just like mine but smaller. And we're out there in the coop and I'm quizzing him the way we liked to do. Like I'd say, “Okay Gabe, which ones lay the eggs?” and he'd say, “the chickens!” and I'd laugh, and he'd laugh because I was laughing, he didn't care if he was right or not. So I'd say, “No, which ones lay the eggs, the hens or the roosters?” He'd get this big smile on his face and point to one of them and shout, “the hens!” and I'd shout it, too. I would. Then I'd pick him up under his arms so he could check up on the shelves if any of them hens left any up there. This one morning I lifted him up and I'm tickling him so he's just laughing and squirming because he can't get away from me and then he just kind of squealed, and stopped laughing. I thought I hurt him so I put him down but he just hugs my leg. Crying. I look back up on the shelf where he was looking and there's a corn snake with his whole mouth around this egg. And he don't move or blink. Just set there. Looking. I took Gabe back inside before I came back out to the coop.

Bill burped and excused himself. “Sounds like you got yourselves a natural farmer,” he said.
“Elliot,” Judy said, “I don't think he's just tired from helpin out. He was coughin some and breathin kinda funny.”

But I told her no, that'll happen being out in that chicken coop.
“Either way,” Bill said, “a little sickness when you're young's good for ya. Makes ya stronger. Good immune system ain't somethin you're born with but something ya build.”
“Thanks, doctor,” Judy smiled.

“I'm serious,” Bill kept on, “best armies ain't them ain't done no fightin.”
“I think there's a big difference between my Gabriel and an army, Bill,” she said.
“Nope,” he said, “it's the same for everythin. Look at tobacco.” And he starts fumbling with his words, saying, “Well, not yours, I mean, I'm sorry about that, by the way, that's a damn shame. But look at tobacco. When its young, ya let it grow a bit, and then it starts to flower and you gotta top it. Cuttin that flower off like that don't hurt it none, really, but makes it so it grows even stronger.”

Bill must have been a healthy kid, I heard he died a few years ago. Cancer. I don't know what kind.

I usually picked Bill up when he was gonna help out, then I'd drop him back off at his house after we was done, but the car was busted then and it didn't look like we was going to be able to get around to fixing it anytime soon, so Bill had been coming in his truck. Sometimes after supper he'd stay for a while talking but that night, wasn't none of us up for much talking, and the kid needed to get home, so Bill and him left once we'd ate.

I took what was left from supper, which wasn't much, scraped it into a bucket and went out to feed the hogs. He loved them hogs. When Gabe first started helping me feed them, it took us a whole week to get him to start eating like a person again. He'd just stick his whole face into whatever we set in front of him. We had to be pretty stern with him to get him to cut that out, but all Judy and me really wanted to do was laugh. Damn funniest thing I think I ever saw. We knew if we did laugh, he'd never stop it. But it was hard not to. I think he knew how funny we thought it was, even though we was pretty stern about it, and that's why he done it so long. And I think every boy at some time wishes he could live like one of them hogs. Just eating and sleeping and rolling around in whatever mud they want to. I don't think I can blame him for trying neither. Sure would be nice sometimes.

Dishes was done and Judy was getting ready for bed when I come in, in front of the mirror in our bedroom, brushing her hair. Sounds awful but sometimes, I can't even remember exactly what she even looks like anymore. Of course I remember her face, but I can't say I can remember what her feet look like. Or her back. But not a days gone by I don't remember her hair. She'd brush it every night in that mirror. Sandy, cedar blonde with strands of red you hardly noticed. Like when the sun falls down behind a field of wheat and there's shades of brown and red you didn't even know there was.

Gabe was coughing in his room. Little, high-pitched coughs. Judy put down her brush and looked at me in the mirror without turning around and said, “I just checked on him. He's been coughing like that for a while now. I think we should take him in to see the doctor tomorrow.”
I walked into the bathroom and said over the water from the sink, “It's just a cough Judy, he just needs some rest. And besides, what we gonna do, walk there?” I came back in and got into bed. She was still setting where she was, staring in to the mirror.
“You could call Bill,” she said, “I'm sure he'd give y'all a ride.”
“I don't think I can stand to be around him no more than I need to be,” I said, “and you know we can't afford to pay no doctor just so he can tell us the boy needs rest, especially after whats happened to the tobacco. He can rest for free without even leavin the house. We just need to keep an eye on him is all.”
“Ell, we's gonna have to get him in to see the doctor, he don't sound good,” she said, finally getting in to bed. I turned off the lamp.
“Ain't nothin we can do about it tonight,” I said.

I stayed awake for a long time, just staring at the ceiling and I could tell she wasn't asleep neither. After a while she turned and kissed my shoulder.

Next day I went back out there to finish clearing that tobacco. We'd got the most of it the day before so I was mainly just hacking at roots with the hoe, then on my hands and knees pulling them up. I suppose the first priority of any living thing is to keep on living, and damn if them roots wasn't holding on like they was still some hope for them.

We'd piled all the tobacco over behind the shed where I got the fire pit. I got a little wood fire going then started tossing the tobacco onto that. It put up a thick, dark smoke that got into my eyes no matter what side I stood on. Smoke was blowing to the east so I moved to the west of it, then the wind would shift and it would be in my eyes again. I stayed out there doing that all morning, circling the pit to get out of the smoke, and tossing more of the tobacco on when what was burning turned to ashes.

I spent the rest of the day out in the corn field just pulling up weeds and rocks, getting ready to plant. When it started to get a little darker and cooler, I didn't much feel like going in yet so I thought I'd go for a little walk. I went down our gravel road toward the old bridge over the creek. The sun was setting and shining right on the burr oak on that hill, with all its leave finally come in and dancing on their boughs even though they wasn't no breeze at all. I turned at the main road and took that to the old concrete bridge. They replaced it a while back with the steel one, but I think the old ones still there, crumbled in the creek.

It was dark when I got back and there was no supper being made. I found Judy in Gabe's room with him. The window was open. The smoke from the fire pit was dark and thick.
“Where have you been?” she asked me when I stepped in. I told her I been out there working all day.
“What's wrong?” I asked her.
“Whats wrong.” She said, She didn't look good. Her hair was a mess like she'd been trying to pull it out and her eyes was red. “Ell, I been lookin for you for an hour. Where have you been?”
“I just went for a walk,” I told her, “What is goin on?” Gabe was lying there in his bed crying. He would stop crying about every thirty seconds or so, but just to cough, or try to cough, then he'd keep crying. She looked at him, then at me and I never seen her so scared.
“I'll call Bill tomorrow morning, first thing,” I said. She stayed in there with him, telling him he was okay, until he wored himself out and fell asleep.

He woke us up in the middle of the night he was crying so loud and coughing so much. He said “Mom,” and she ran in there faster then she ever did run. I came in too. His arms and cheeks was pale and his eyes was only half open. Judy looked at me, and I think that was the last time she ever did, and ran down the hall. I called her name but she didn't say nothing. I heard her pick up the phone and she started talking real fast. Then she said “Uh-huh” and “Uh-huh” and hung up the phone, running into the kitchen. She came back in with a hot towel and said, “Put this on his chest,” and ran out again.

I sat down at the end of his bed. He stopped crying. I sat there holding this towel on his chest and Judy was making all kinds of racket in the kitchen like she was looking for something.
His bed was next to the window. In one corner of the room we'd hung a couple of toy planes that was mine when I was a kid. I could hear his breath. It was like he was drowning. He opened his eyes all the way for just a second, looking at me, then they half-closed again and that's when I knew it.

Judy had stopped banging around in the kitchen and it was real quiet but for his breathing, and that was getting quieter too. I took his little hand. His finger tips was turning from blue to gray.
Through the window I watched the smoke, dark near the flame and thinner and thinner going up until it disappeared. I kissed both of his eyelids and that's how my son died.

Judy was coming down the hall saying, “They said to get him some green tea and a hot compress until the ambulance gets here. I knew we had some somewhere.” Then neither of us said nothing. She picked him up and sat with him pressed against her chest until they got there. They said we could keep him there that night but there was still plenty of papers for me to fill out before they left.

Judy eventually fell asleep in the chair next to Gabe's bed with him in her arms, still holding on tighter than them roots I'd pulled up. I sat there awake that night in front of the window.
I don't really remember that next morning, I guess. I mean, sometimes I remember it was raining when I finally stood up and went out to feed the chickens. And other times I remember it was the prettiest morning you ever saw, nice and cool, the sky bluer than you thought was possible for the sky to be, a blue to make you wonder if you ain't never really seen blue before. But most the times I don't recall that morning either way. Most the time I don't remember that sun ever coming up at all, but that the day was only night. Like the rooster forgot to crow, and the sun didn't wake up. Not that morning.