blood off of him. It had run up his wrists, ruining his shirt, and his face was speckled with it. He threw the water out the back door himself, put on an undershirt and a pair of khakis, then sat down in a hide-bottom rocker on the porch. The housekeeper came out with a damp hemp sack, lit it with a kitchen match, and threw it on the ground to smoke away the mosquitoes. He looked at her as she came up the steps and passed into the house and saw that her features were white. Her old father, he’d noticed, was not a dark man, his skin a smooth butter-scotch. She was thin and elegant, precise in everything she did. He guessed her bearing came from intelligence and the fact that she knew she was smart. When he was finished with the two-day-old newspaper passed to him every morning by the log train’s engineer, she would take it to her cabin porch and read every article, some of them out loud to her father, who suffered from arthritis and rarely did so much as walk a circuit in the yard.
All the squalling machinery was shut down, and he rocked, enjoying the quiet. From out of the twilight came the sound of the Victrola, a male opera singer’s voice winding out of place over the stumps and mule droppings. Later, a hillbilly song strummed the air faintly, followed by—given enough time for the box to be wound thoroughly—a military band and Billy Murray’s declamatory plea:
Keep your head down, Fritzie boy,
Keep your head down, Fritzie boy.
If you want to see your father in the fatherland,
Keep your head down, Fritzie boy.
And then an anguished roar cut across the mill yard, his brother crying out, “A joke! Nine million skulls spread out like gravel, and it turns into a joke sung through the nose and sold for a dollar.” A record sailed out of a window like a bat, and Ella ran from the rear door and stood in the yard, staring at the house as though it might explode.
June 12, 1923
Nimbus Mill
Poachum Station, Louisiana
Father,
Lillian has written to say she is not happy with my being gone so long. I hope you can tell her to be patient, that when there is an inevitable decline in the market I’ll come to see her and make substantial plans. Of course, I have written as much to her, but it always helps to hear it from someone else. As of now, however, sales are very strong, and the stands we are cutting out are some of the purest grades I’ve seen, fine grained, easy on the equipment, each board a coin for us. We are taking everything down that a blade can cut.
As for the incident with the spiked log, Byron is investigating. Something has turned him mean, and I wouldn’t want to be the man found out by him. The spike was a warning, and I am beginning to wonder if I should let the saloon reopen on Sunday. That would not sit well with Byron, though. He is very unhappy about the saloon causing workers so much trouble. I had him over to dinner two days ago (May, the housekeeper here, is a preternatural cook) and he was sociable enough, but is still not my old brother, the one who taught me to ice-skate and ride a horse. Gradually I am re-cementing the family connections, but as of yet he won’t begin to consider a return north.
I have to send into town for a cage of chickens, since a large alligator has broken down the back fence and killed nearly all I had here. Tomorrow I meet with a representative of the Yazoo and Mississippi Valley Railroad, who will pay a premium price for 200,000 crossties. It seems a shame to put such beautiful wood under a greasy railway, but that money will spend like any other.
Your loving son,
Randolph
The housekeeper was fueling the stove with cypress lath while the mill manager sat at his kitchen table watching her hands move above the flames. He looked up when his brother came in through the screen door wearing a dress shirt and a .45 automatic in a shoulder holster. “Go back and tend to your old man for a minute,” Byron told the housekeeper, who read his eyes and
All the squalling machinery was shut down, and he rocked, enjoying the quiet. From out of the twilight came the sound of the Victrola, a male opera singer’s voice winding out of place over the stumps and mule droppings. Later, a hillbilly song strummed the air faintly, followed by—given enough time for the box to be wound thoroughly—a military band and Billy Murray’s declamatory plea:
Keep your head down, Fritzie boy,
Keep your head down, Fritzie boy.
If you want to see your father in the fatherland,
Keep your head down, Fritzie boy.
And then an anguished roar cut across the mill yard, his brother crying out, “A joke! Nine million skulls spread out like gravel, and it turns into a joke sung through the nose and sold for a dollar.” A record sailed out of a window like a bat, and Ella ran from the rear door and stood in the yard, staring at the house as though it might explode.
June 12, 1923
Nimbus Mill
Poachum Station, Louisiana
Father,
Lillian has written to say she is not happy with my being gone so long. I hope you can tell her to be patient, that when there is an inevitable decline in the market I’ll come to see her and make substantial plans. Of course, I have written as much to her, but it always helps to hear it from someone else. As of now, however, sales are very strong, and the stands we are cutting out are some of the purest grades I’ve seen, fine grained, easy on the equipment, each board a coin for us. We are taking everything down that a blade can cut.
As for the incident with the spiked log, Byron is investigating. Something has turned him mean, and I wouldn’t want to be the man found out by him. The spike was a warning, and I am beginning to wonder if I should let the saloon reopen on Sunday. That would not sit well with Byron, though. He is very unhappy about the saloon causing workers so much trouble. I had him over to dinner two days ago (May, the housekeeper here, is a preternatural cook) and he was sociable enough, but is still not my old brother, the one who taught me to ice-skate and ride a horse. Gradually I am re-cementing the family connections, but as of yet he won’t begin to consider a return north.
I have to send into town for a cage of chickens, since a large alligator has broken down the back fence and killed nearly all I had here. Tomorrow I meet with a representative of the Yazoo and Mississippi Valley Railroad, who will pay a premium price for 200,000 crossties. It seems a shame to put such beautiful wood under a greasy railway, but that money will spend like any other.
Your loving son,
Randolph
The housekeeper was fueling the stove with cypress lath while the mill manager sat at his kitchen table watching her hands move above the flames. He looked up when his brother came in through the screen door wearing a dress shirt and a .45 automatic in a shoulder holster. “Go back and tend to your old man for a minute,” Byron told the housekeeper, who read his eyes and
Similar Books
