listen and watch all night. It seemed he was plagued with bouts of indolence and idle fancy; such were his gifts. He felt he knew what he wanted, but his industry amounted to little, a handful of change, a few good stories, the same old boots.
Forrest became increasingly thrifty and even miserly, never a characteristic of the Bondurant men; Howard and Jack never held a dollar for more than a day, and Granville, while conservative in his money dealings, never paid much attention to the accumulation of wealth and therefore had managed to spend a lifetime in mediocre economic conditions despite a decent business. Forrest was conspicuously accumulating and obsessing over the money he made. He ate little and wore the same outfit every day until the seams gave out. By the time he was eighteen Forrest had proven himself a man not to be trifled with; the tomfoolery of youth was clearly spent, what lay ahead was only the grinding labor of adulthood and death. Forrest met both with narrowed eyes, knotted fists, and silence.
J ACK WALKED BACK to the barn and passing the jar to his older brother he stood again with his hands in his pockets and watched the mandolin player cut through “Fire in the Gum” with her white fingers.
Say, Jack said, how come Forrest ain’t gone after those sons a bitches from the County Line?
Howard flipped the lid of the fresh jar into the straw and dirt and took a draw and swallowed, his eyes staying on the musicians, a slight tremor crossing his fleshy cheeks.
Women gave them wide berth and every man dropped his gaze a bit as he passed by, nodding his head in greeting and quickly eyeing the dusty leather of his boot tops, for the presence of Howard Bondurant, especially when he was drinking, was like a bonfire at your back.
When the band finished playing Jack left his brother and stood at the edge of the small circle of people that gathered around the musicians as they put their instruments away. He watched the mandolin player speaking with various people, laughing in an easy, relaxed way. Bertha Minnix’s thin neck stretched from her shoulders when she grinned, brushing her cheek to her shoulder. She had a small, plump nose like a chestnut. Have to see her again, Jack thought, have to make sure of it.
Jack turned and walked back to Howard at the other end of the barn and without saying a word the two brothers seemed to agree that it was a fine night.
Chapter 8
1929
O NE MORNING IN early May, Forrest was in the storage shed when Everett Dillon came trotting around the corner of the station. Everett tugged at his shirt collar with his greasy hands, his face shining with sweat, motioning toward the front lot and the fuel pumps.
Someone says they here to see you, Everett said. Sheriff Hodges and some others.
It was early: barely light and a cool mist clung to the roadway as it wound through the valley to Maggodee Creek. Forrest was in his undershirt and hatless; he reached inside the storage-room door and took a long-barreled .38 off the shelf and crammed it into the back of his pants and followed Everett to the front of the station.
Two long Ford Tudor Sedans, brand-new, idled at the pumps. Four men stood by the car, and another sat in the backseat, profile barely visible, looking straight ahead. One of the men was Sheriff Pete Hodges, a man Forrest had known for years and who occasionally came to Forrest to buy brandy for lodge parties. The smaller, older man was Henry Abshire, one of the local deputies; next to him his partner, Charley Rakes, a big red-faced man wearing suspenders and a fat tie. The fourth man wore a tight, ill-fitting wool suit with a bow tie and Forrest did not know him. He had his hair parted down the middle and oiled, his shoes new-looking but already worn around the toe and flecked with mud. The stranger stood with one hand in his pocket and the other on the hood of the car and he had a smile on his face that Forrest did not like. Forrest stopped by the front door and
Forrest became increasingly thrifty and even miserly, never a characteristic of the Bondurant men; Howard and Jack never held a dollar for more than a day, and Granville, while conservative in his money dealings, never paid much attention to the accumulation of wealth and therefore had managed to spend a lifetime in mediocre economic conditions despite a decent business. Forrest was conspicuously accumulating and obsessing over the money he made. He ate little and wore the same outfit every day until the seams gave out. By the time he was eighteen Forrest had proven himself a man not to be trifled with; the tomfoolery of youth was clearly spent, what lay ahead was only the grinding labor of adulthood and death. Forrest met both with narrowed eyes, knotted fists, and silence.
J ACK WALKED BACK to the barn and passing the jar to his older brother he stood again with his hands in his pockets and watched the mandolin player cut through “Fire in the Gum” with her white fingers.
Say, Jack said, how come Forrest ain’t gone after those sons a bitches from the County Line?
Howard flipped the lid of the fresh jar into the straw and dirt and took a draw and swallowed, his eyes staying on the musicians, a slight tremor crossing his fleshy cheeks.
Women gave them wide berth and every man dropped his gaze a bit as he passed by, nodding his head in greeting and quickly eyeing the dusty leather of his boot tops, for the presence of Howard Bondurant, especially when he was drinking, was like a bonfire at your back.
When the band finished playing Jack left his brother and stood at the edge of the small circle of people that gathered around the musicians as they put their instruments away. He watched the mandolin player speaking with various people, laughing in an easy, relaxed way. Bertha Minnix’s thin neck stretched from her shoulders when she grinned, brushing her cheek to her shoulder. She had a small, plump nose like a chestnut. Have to see her again, Jack thought, have to make sure of it.
Jack turned and walked back to Howard at the other end of the barn and without saying a word the two brothers seemed to agree that it was a fine night.
Chapter 8
1929
O NE MORNING IN early May, Forrest was in the storage shed when Everett Dillon came trotting around the corner of the station. Everett tugged at his shirt collar with his greasy hands, his face shining with sweat, motioning toward the front lot and the fuel pumps.
Someone says they here to see you, Everett said. Sheriff Hodges and some others.
It was early: barely light and a cool mist clung to the roadway as it wound through the valley to Maggodee Creek. Forrest was in his undershirt and hatless; he reached inside the storage-room door and took a long-barreled .38 off the shelf and crammed it into the back of his pants and followed Everett to the front of the station.
Two long Ford Tudor Sedans, brand-new, idled at the pumps. Four men stood by the car, and another sat in the backseat, profile barely visible, looking straight ahead. One of the men was Sheriff Pete Hodges, a man Forrest had known for years and who occasionally came to Forrest to buy brandy for lodge parties. The smaller, older man was Henry Abshire, one of the local deputies; next to him his partner, Charley Rakes, a big red-faced man wearing suspenders and a fat tie. The fourth man wore a tight, ill-fitting wool suit with a bow tie and Forrest did not know him. He had his hair parted down the middle and oiled, his shoes new-looking but already worn around the toe and flecked with mud. The stranger stood with one hand in his pocket and the other on the hood of the car and he had a smile on his face that Forrest did not like. Forrest stopped by the front door and
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