Losing Battles (60 page)

“Gloria Renfro, how did you
ever
switch that car away up there? If you told it yesterday, I reckon I was too busy to listen.” Miss Beulah stopped still in the middle of Banner Road and stared upward from beneath the row of rain beads on Mr. Renfro’s hat.

“I scared it up,” said Gloria, giving a skip over the ditch and arriving beside her. “I only wish it was in my power this morning to scare it down again.”

No Moodys were in evidence. Jack stood on Banner Top by himself, hands on hips, studying the scene.

The Buick seemed not to have changed its position at all, though there was a lick of scorch up the back of it and its back window had stars. But the tree was out of the ground and hanging top-down over the jumping-off place. All its roots had risen together, bringing along their bed of clay, as if a piece of Boone County had decided to get up on its side. The solid wheel of pocked and bearded clay looked like an old white summer moon, burnt out on the edge of the world.

Miss Beulah was climbing the path up, making haste toward the Buick. “With a living Comfort inside it. I marvel,” she said. “Or
is
he inside, I wonder? Comforts generally acts by contraries, but you’d be nothing but a fool to count on it.”

“Sure, he’s in there, Mama,” said Jack, still studying the car. “Asleep on all fours, like a bird dog.”

“Right where you left him? Oho!” Miss Beulah scoffed. “If that’d been a Beecham or a Renfro so treated, do you suppose the world had been safe from us last night?”

“Never knew the world
was
safe,” hummed Miss Lexie, who had halted right at the mailbox, where she stood a head taller than Uncle Sam. “Well, the sight’s not a great deal different from the way I had it pictured.”

“Mr. Renfro was being modest for a change when he said he took a little nick out of that tree,” said Miss Beulah. “I don’t think it’s going to be with us very much longer.”

“It’s clinging,” said Jack. “Waiting to see what’s the next thing to come along.”

Nothing but memory seemed ever to have propped the tree. Nothing any stronger than memory might be holding it where it was now—some last tag end of root, that was all. There was just a round mass of clay, hanging with roots, like a giant lid raised and standing open, letting out an aromatic smell. There in the rain, its underside went on raining, itself, into the hole, the starved clay raining down dryness from the old, marrowless, pink-and-white colored roots.

“What do you think of it now, Jack?” called Judge Moody’s voice. He and Mrs. Moody came in sight from the top of the farm track, where they had been sheltering under a tree. They made their slow way down into Banner Road.

“I’ll tell you what I think,” said Miss Beulah. “It’s lacking very little. It’s a very nearly perfect example.”

“What of?” asked Miss Lexie.

“Man-foolishness,” said Miss Beulah. “Ever heard of it?”

“One of these days I’m going to have to agree with your mother about something, Jack,” said Gloria into his ear. “I hope she never finds out.”

“Papa was trying to help,” Jack said. “He’s got him a reputation that’s going to kill him one day yet.”

“I want a good answer,” said Judge Moody from the road. “What’s the size of the situation now?”

“Well, sir, my way down was already closed off north, south, and east,” Jack called. He made a step forward and went down up to his belt buckle. “And now Papa’s cut off my west. Well, it’s just a hole. Nothing but a hole,” he said, climbing out. “And I believe that big pleasure Buick’ll clear it! If she’s persuaded the right way—and I’m counting on my truck just as strong as I can count!”

“Where is it, then? Is that truck going to fail us too?” asked Mrs. Moody.

They all stared down Banner Road. In the row with them, the cosmos flowers barely stirring on their stems under the fine soft rain were washed bright as the embroidery on the pillowcase Miss Lexie wore over her hat. There came a sound like a swelling, heavier rain.

“Yonder’s your answer! Coming right now! Bigger and brighter than ever!” Jack hollered. He seized Gloria and Miss Beulah each by a hand and ran with them down to the road.

“Is that the same truck? It doesn’t look the same as yesterday,” Mrs. Moody greeted them.

“It’s backing,” Jack told her. “It’s been coming uphill from Banner.”

“It even looks to me like it’s got a dog driving it,” Mrs. Moody argued.

“Suppose you say no more, dear, and just give it a chance to get here,” said Judge Moody in heavy tones.

Jack stood in the middle of the road while the truck backed up toward him, holding a muddy chunk raised in his hand ready to brake the wheels on top. This morning, the fishing poles had gone, and draping the rear was a strip torn off a bolt of kitchen oilcloth, on which words written in red paint with a stick were
now coming close enough to be read: “Excell (Curly) Stovall for Justice of the Peace. Leave It To Curly.”

“Rain curtains!” Jack hollered, as the truck drew closer. “Who parted with those?”

“Brother Dollarhide for a gallon of gas. Where’s he hiding—the fellow that belongs to that Buick?” came the muffled voice from within the cab.

“He’s standing right here with his wife, waiting on you. Whoa!” The truck drew even with his feet and Jack blocked the wheel. Ten or fifteen of Curly’s hounds at once poured out from the bed behind onto the road and surrounded Jack, Judge Moody, and the ladies, their tails like a dozen fairy wands all trembling towards trouble.

“Then tell him it’s going to be a dollar to go up and a dollar to come down. The whole business is going to set him back two dollars,” called Curly Stovall. “Cash.”

“If the fellow doesn’t know any better than that, let’s just keep him in the dark about what they’d charge in Ludlow,” Mrs. Moody murmured to her husband.

“I am not reassured,” said Judge Moody.

“It’s a bargain, Curly!” Jack sang out. “So stick your head out of them pretty curtains now, it’s time to see where you’re going.”

The curtains on the driver’s side parted. A yell came out. “Jack! Hey! Look yonder at Banner Top! Who got here first?”

“Papa,” answered Jack. “Don’t worry. It’s just minus one tree.”

“And what am I going to hitch to? Drat your hide!”

“Careful how you talk, Curly. We got a pretty fair crop of ladies scared up for a rainy morning,” said Jack. “And lined up here to watch us.”

“First and foremost his mother!” cried Miss Beulah, and as she spoke the cab door on the passenger side swung out and down stepped one more lady, with the only umbrella for a mile around already raised.

“Why, Curly, you brought Miss Ora! Who’s holding the store down—Captain Billy Bangs?”

Everything waited while the fat lady picked her way through the mud. “Granny Vaughn live through her birthday? Jack get his welcome without it leaving any scars? Get any surprise visitors?”
Miss Ora Stovall asked Miss Beulah. “I believe Fm looking at two of those right now.” She edged in on the Moodys, so she could stand between them. “How’re you feeling?” she began. “I’m Ora Stovall, weigh more than I should, never married, but know how to meet the public, keep up with what’s going on. Enjoying your visit? What do you think of Banner? Like to hear about the biggest fish-fry that ever was?”

“All right, Jack Renfro and Curly Stovall!” Miss Beulah called over dogs, engine clatter, Miss Ora and all. “The visitors may have all day to talk, but the Renfros haven’t! Now get on up there and perform! And keep in mind a mother’s here to watch you.”

“I’m the owner of the car, if you please!” Mrs. Moody exclaimed.

Through the rain curtains, canvas that had come to be the texture of old velvet, slit with isinglass lights and a few peepholes, Curly’s voice called out, “Lady! This ain’t the same job I took on yesterday!”

Jack flung himself onto the running board. “Curly, things change overnight, you got to be ready for that. We got a job this morning as whopping big as both our reputations put together!”

“And how you think we’re going to do it!”

“By you sticking to the wheel and me doing the engineering!” He hopped to the road. “All right, Curly! Crawl! Back like you’re going, right on up the bank, just back on up to me.” He ran up the slippery clay, both arms beckoning.

“Shucks. Hindways?” Miss Beulah objected.

“Mama, in my truck, as long as you want your gas to feed steady, you got to pamper it on the upgrade. Give her the throttle, Curly! Don’t be bashful!” Jack called.

From the road they watched it. With a long chain of noises like a string of firecrackers set fire to, the truck began to plough its way upward. The rain had washed it, so now, in part, it was the old International blue. With the spots and circles of oil that had worked their way through the finish, it was iridescent as butterfly wings as it quivered its way up. On the brow of the cab the original wording had emerged, “Delicious and Refreshing.”

“What do those blasted horns mean?” Judge Moody asked.

“They mean I made a good trade out of Captain Billy Bangs! Who wants to know?” came Curly’s voice back.

Sid, having barked the truck off the road in spite of a dozen
hounds, was still after it, and flung himself like a bullet at the windshield, already stuck up with adhesive like a cut face.

“Mind out for your bob-wire fence!” Jack sang, as something flew up from under the back wheels like a whip. “You strung it there—just to trip your own self up with the first time you tried for the top! And the next thing is you got to straddle a hole about the same size you are. Keep your eye cocked on me.”

“What caused a tree to just up and get out of the ground?” Curly hollered, over the hole.

“It was old and ready to fall—Lady May Renfro could’ve pushed it over with her little finger,” Jack cried. “All right, whoa!” He skidded to put a chunk in front of the truck’s front wheel. “Now! Pitch me your rope!”

The cab door swung open long enough for an arm-throw, and a black coil crossed through the air and slammed Jack wetly in the chest. He spun and crouched with it behind the truck, shoulders pumping as he worked with his knots. In a moment he’d jumped around to the back of the Buick. As he attacked that, a shaking of bells thrilled the air.

“Somebody, somebody for sure, climbed up here in the night and tied cowbells on this Buick!” Jack called. “Only the Broadwees would have had that little to do.” Then he rose and yelled into the car, “Wake-up-Jacob! Wake up! Ain’t you about ready to quit riding?”

“Is it daylight?” came Aycock’s sleepy voice from inside.

“And raining. All right, Aycock, you can get out now—I’ll count three. When I count three, Curly, you start pulling!” Jack yelled. “And when you do, remember yours ain’t the only engine that’s running! Once Aycock jumps and the Buick’s out of balance, she’ll start pulling against you! All right—ready?”

“Jack Renfro, you can finish this by yourself!” yelled Curly. “I’m going back to Banner right now.”

“You’re tied!” Jack shouted. “You and the Buick’s hitched to one rope and hitched good!
One!
”

“Do you reckon we’ve got a chance?” Mrs. Moody asked her husband.

“I should say what chance we have depends on Jack,” he said, eyes never leaving him.

“I can vouch for that!” Miss Beulah agreed. “Don’t count on either one of those two machines. As for the truck Jack’s so in
love with, it’s got parts from everything that’s ever passed through Banner and lost a particle. It’s an example of a grab-bag to me. And more’n likely it’ll fly to pieces the first chance it gets, if you want my unvarnished opinion.”

“Two!” yelled Jack.

“I ain’t playing!” roared Curly.

“Curly, Aycock, there ain’t no time left for anybody to act bashful,” Jack said. “If you want any glory, you can’t quit now!”

“You want to change places?” cried Curly.

“Two and a half!” yelled Jack.

“I dread this,” said Miss Beulah, taking off Mr. Renfro’s hat and emptying some rain out of the saucer of the brim, never taking her eyes from on top.

Jack opened his mouth again.

The Buick’s rear door shot open then and Aycock came tumbling out into Jack’s spreading arms. Both boys fell, Jack rose, picked up Aycock and stood him up stiff with his hair dry and on end. Then Aycock danced sideways into the plum bushes and while they waited on him they could all hear through the sound of the rain what he was doing.

“Three!” Jack was calling urgently. “Three! And watch out down in the road!”

The rope had already stretched out straight—the Buick had already moved forward. A loud report cracked out from underneath it and something went spinning.

“Yonder went Uncle Nathan’s sign!” hollered Jack, as the truck backfired, crawled forward, then was jerked to a halt. The Buick, on solid ground, was running the other way. Jack raced to catch it. But even before he got there its wheels rolled to a stop. Then they began to roll the other way. The Buick was moving with the roaring, recovering truck. It was coming on the rope, slowly away from the edge, swaying, like a lady coming out of church—one of its tires was not flat.

“Well,” said Jack, watching the car, “she just plain run out of gas. Ain’t that your opinion, Aycock?”

“I seen we needed some,” Aycock said.

“In a minute she’ll be coming down behind you, Curly!” Jack hollered. A whip of barbed wire flew up from under the truck and Curly yelped like a woman scared by a mouse, and braked the truck with a sharp turn of the wheels. The engine choked and
died. The Buick, just at the crown of Banner Top, presented with a slack in the rope, rolled back to where it had come from, and on past it. It proceeded on its original forward way over Banner Top, disappearing with the moderate speed of an elevator going down. The truck rose up like a tin monkey on a string, until both its back wheels entered the tree hole and stayed there.

“Well, this isn’t what
I
came to see!” said Miss Ora Stovall. “What about you?”

An upward avalanche pounded its way to Banner Top from the road. With Jack holding both arms wide to keep them safe behind him, Gloria, Miss Beulah, the Judge, and Mrs. Moody all crowded together in the clouds of exhaust and cedar fumes, to look down.