soon.”
Abel grunted. “He better get in before the storm gets here.”
“He’ll be all right,” Willie said as he crawled into bed. “Are you?”
“I’m all right. Go to sleep, boy.”
Abel blew out the candle and was soon snoring.
The night was hot. Willie tossed on his small, creaking mattress for a long while, thought of Quinn and Evelyn and what they might be doing. The window was open, yet their house didn’t catch a breeze. Noise from the street drowned out some of the noise inside. A dog barked. One of the neighbors cursed. A bottle smashed. The houses were too close together, and Willie tried to drown out the sounds of the night by burying his head in his pillow, but it was the same every night. Music, fights, sex, talk. He always heard too much, the creak of a board in the stairs next door when Caroline Mahoney came home too late after carousing around with some older neighborhood boy—Willie’s mother whispering, “That girl, such a shame, it’s like no one has any decency anymore”—and Willie wondered what she’d say about Quinn tonight. Or Jimmy Clark would get in a fight with his wife after he’d had too much to drink—“Goddammit, woman, goddammit”—followed by a shattering.
His grandfather slept soundly in the other bed, a scratchy and muted snore, the most peaceful he would be until next Sunday, his next night off. A car drove down the road, kicked up dust and cinders from the mill. Crickets, the river. When the storm arrived cool air would blow in and the hiss of rain on the dusty streets would eventually lull Willie to sleep. For now, boards creaked next door, the neighbor man coming home to his wife, coughing and slurring his words and coughing some more. He’d been off somewhere private, drinking shine at a neighboring house or on someone’s farm. Men did that, even on a Sunday, that thirst, that need, too powerful to wait.
Willie listened to the coughing and the drone of the wife’s voice,and then the coughing slowed and her voice changed. Both noises grew louder and that was followed by the rhythmic squeaking of the mattress. Although Willie’s head ached from the constant noises, a new sensation muffled the headache. He thought of Evelyn, of what she and his brother were doing at the river. Evelyn, with her porcelain skin shimmering in the moonlight, the fabric of her cotton dress sleek along her body, perhaps damp with sweat in the night’s swelter. He thought of her lips, which surely tasted of peaches, thought of running his hands through her hair, and of the smooth white skin where her neck curved into her shoulder. He pulled his head out from under the pillow where he’d been suffocating and took himself into his hand, and he tried to breathe softly so that his family wouldn’t hear him. He wiped his hand on the sheet, rolled over onto his stomach, and buried his head in the pillow once again, and once again he tried to dream away the fervor and commotion of night on the mill hill.
T ull had to carry the load himself this week. Time was he carried the load every week, when he was first getting his business started and only had Depot and the black man working for him in town. Back then he and Mr. Watkins, his business partner and investor, eventually made some connections up in Charlotte, a way to sell more than Castle would ever need. Keep the demand high, keep prices up and money coming in. Those connections led to back street deals brokered under cover of starlight, or midnight meetings in the corn, crates of liquor unloaded west of the city. Then there was the occasional run-in with the law—he drove Watkins’s Cadillac V8, sped through the country with sirens wailing behind him, ever more in the distance. In the mid-twenties, around the time Watkins passed on, Tull hired young runners, good customers looking for a discount. Mary Jane Hopewell had run for him in the old days, though for thepast few years he was nothing but a drunk, more interested in that
Abel grunted. “He better get in before the storm gets here.”
“He’ll be all right,” Willie said as he crawled into bed. “Are you?”
“I’m all right. Go to sleep, boy.”
Abel blew out the candle and was soon snoring.
The night was hot. Willie tossed on his small, creaking mattress for a long while, thought of Quinn and Evelyn and what they might be doing. The window was open, yet their house didn’t catch a breeze. Noise from the street drowned out some of the noise inside. A dog barked. One of the neighbors cursed. A bottle smashed. The houses were too close together, and Willie tried to drown out the sounds of the night by burying his head in his pillow, but it was the same every night. Music, fights, sex, talk. He always heard too much, the creak of a board in the stairs next door when Caroline Mahoney came home too late after carousing around with some older neighborhood boy—Willie’s mother whispering, “That girl, such a shame, it’s like no one has any decency anymore”—and Willie wondered what she’d say about Quinn tonight. Or Jimmy Clark would get in a fight with his wife after he’d had too much to drink—“Goddammit, woman, goddammit”—followed by a shattering.
His grandfather slept soundly in the other bed, a scratchy and muted snore, the most peaceful he would be until next Sunday, his next night off. A car drove down the road, kicked up dust and cinders from the mill. Crickets, the river. When the storm arrived cool air would blow in and the hiss of rain on the dusty streets would eventually lull Willie to sleep. For now, boards creaked next door, the neighbor man coming home to his wife, coughing and slurring his words and coughing some more. He’d been off somewhere private, drinking shine at a neighboring house or on someone’s farm. Men did that, even on a Sunday, that thirst, that need, too powerful to wait.
Willie listened to the coughing and the drone of the wife’s voice,and then the coughing slowed and her voice changed. Both noises grew louder and that was followed by the rhythmic squeaking of the mattress. Although Willie’s head ached from the constant noises, a new sensation muffled the headache. He thought of Evelyn, of what she and his brother were doing at the river. Evelyn, with her porcelain skin shimmering in the moonlight, the fabric of her cotton dress sleek along her body, perhaps damp with sweat in the night’s swelter. He thought of her lips, which surely tasted of peaches, thought of running his hands through her hair, and of the smooth white skin where her neck curved into her shoulder. He pulled his head out from under the pillow where he’d been suffocating and took himself into his hand, and he tried to breathe softly so that his family wouldn’t hear him. He wiped his hand on the sheet, rolled over onto his stomach, and buried his head in the pillow once again, and once again he tried to dream away the fervor and commotion of night on the mill hill.
T ull had to carry the load himself this week. Time was he carried the load every week, when he was first getting his business started and only had Depot and the black man working for him in town. Back then he and Mr. Watkins, his business partner and investor, eventually made some connections up in Charlotte, a way to sell more than Castle would ever need. Keep the demand high, keep prices up and money coming in. Those connections led to back street deals brokered under cover of starlight, or midnight meetings in the corn, crates of liquor unloaded west of the city. Then there was the occasional run-in with the law—he drove Watkins’s Cadillac V8, sped through the country with sirens wailing behind him, ever more in the distance. In the mid-twenties, around the time Watkins passed on, Tull hired young runners, good customers looking for a discount. Mary Jane Hopewell had run for him in the old days, though for thepast few years he was nothing but a drunk, more interested in that
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