Poachers

• Title Page
  
• Dedication Page
  
• Contents
  
• Introduction
  
• Grit
  
• Shubuta
  
• Triathlon
  
• Blue horses
  
• The ballad of duane juarez
  
• A tiny history
  
• Dinosaurs
  
• Instinct
  
• Alaska
  
• Poachers
  
• Acknowledgments
  
• About the Author
  
• Praise
  
• Copyright Notice
  
• About the Publisher
  

tom franklin

POACHERS stories

For Beth Ann

and for my parents, Gerald and Betty Franklin

contents

introduction • hunting years
1
grit
17
shubuta
45
triathlon
56
blue horses
69
the ballad of duane juarez
79
a tiny history
92
dinosaurs
105
instinct
118
alaska
125
poachers
129
acknowledgments
191

about the author
praise
cover
copyright
about the publisher

introduction hunting years

Standing on a
trestle in south Alabama, I look down into the coffee-brown water of the Blowout, a fishing hole I loved as a boy. It’s late December, cold. A stiff wind rakes the water, swirls dead leaves and nods the tall brown cattails along the bank. Farther back in the woods it’s very still, cypress trees and knees, thick vines, an abandoned beaver’s lodge. Buzzards float overhead, black smudges against the gray clouds. Once, on this trestle, armed with only fishing rods, my brother Jeff and I heard a panther scream. It’s a sound I’ve never forgotten, like a madwoman’s shriek. After that, we brought guns when we came to fish. But today I’m unarmed, and the only noise is the groan and hiss of bulldozers and trucks on a new-cut logging road a quarter-mile away.

I left the south four years ago, when I was thirty, to go to graduate school in Fayetteville, Arkansas, where among transplanted Yankees and westerners I realized how lucky I was to have been raised here in these southern woods among poachers and storytellers. I know, of course, that most people consider Arkansas the south, but it’s not
my
south. My south—the one I haven’t been able to get out of my blood or my imagination, the south where these stories take place—is lower Alabama, lush and green and full of death, the wooded counties between the Alabama and Tombigbee Rivers.

Yesterday at five
A.M.
I left Fayetteville and drove seven hundred miles south to my parents’ new house in Mobile, and this morning I woke early and drove two more hours, past the grit factory and the chemical plants where I worked in my twenties, to Dickinson, the community where we lived until I was eighteen. It’s a tiny place, one store (now closed) and a post office in the same building, a kudzu-netted graveyard, railroad tracks. I’ve been finishing a novella that takes place in these woods—in the story, a man is killed right beneath where I’m standing—and I’m here looking for details of the landscape, for things I might’ve forgotten.

To get to the Blowout, I picked through a half-mile of pine trees that twelve years ago had been one of my family’s cornfields. I hardly recognized the place. I walked another half-mile along the new logging road, then climbed onto the railroad track, deep woods on both sides, tall patchwork walls of briar and tree, brown thrashers hopping along unseen like something pacing me. My father and aunts and uncles used to own this land. It was ours. When my grandfather died, he divided almost six hundred acres among his five children. He expected them to keep it in the family, but one by one they sold it for logging or to hunting clubs. Today none of it is ours.

I’m about to leave when I notice that fifty yards down the track something big is disentangling itself from the trees. For a moment I reexperience the shock I used to feel whenever I saw a deer, but this is only a hunter. I see that he’s spotted me, is climbing onto the tracks and coming this way. Because I lived in these parts for eighteen years, I expect to know him, and for a moment I feel foolish: What am I doing here at the Blowout, during hunting season, without a gun?

It’s a familiar sensation, this snag of guilt, because when I was growing up, a boy who didn’t hunt was branded as a pussy. For some reason, I never wanted to kill things, but I wasn’t bold enough to say so. Instead, I did the expected: went to church on Sundays and on Wednesday nights, said “Yes ma’am” and “No sir” to my elders. And I hunted.

Though I hated (and still hate) to get up early, I rose at four

A.M.
Though I hated the cold, I made my way through the icy woods, climbing into one of our family’s deer stands or sitting at the base of a thick live oak to still hunt, which simply means waiting for a buck to walk by so you can shoot him. And because I came to hunting for the wrong reasons, and because I worried that my father, brother and uncles might see through my ruse, I became the most zealous hunter of us all.

I was the one who woke first in the mornings and shook Jeff awake. The first in the truck. The first to the railroad track, where we climbed the rocky hill and crept toward the Blowout, our splitting-up point. On those mornings, the stars still out, it would be too dark to see our breath, the cross ties creaking beneath our boots, and I would walk the quietest, holding my double-barrel sixteen-gauge shotgun against my chest, my bare thumb on the safety and my left trigger finger on the first of its two triggers. When we got to the Blowout, I’d go left, without a word, and Jeff right. I’d creep down the loose rocks, every sound amplified in the still morning, and I’d step quietly over the frozen puddles below and into the dark trees.

In the woods, the stars disappeared overhead as if swiped away, and I inched forward with my hand before my face to feel for briars, my eyes watering from the cold. When I got far enough, I found a tree to sit beneath, shivering and miserable, thinking

of the stories I wanted to write and hoping for something to shoot. Because at sixteen, I’d never killed a deer, which meant I was technically still a pussy.

Of course there were a
lot of real hunters in my family, including my father. Though he no longer hunted, Gerald Franklin commanded the respect of the most seasoned woodsman because as a young man he’d been a legendary killer of turkeys (and we all knew that turkey hunters consider themselves the only serious sportsmen, disdaining deer or any other game the way fly fishermen look down on bait fishermen). Dad never bragged about the toms he’d shot, but we heard everything from our uncles. According to them, my father had been the wildest of us all, getting up earlier and staying in the woods later than any man in the county.

There’s a story he tells where he woke on a spring Sunday to go hunting—he never used a clock, relying instead on his “built-in” alarm. Excited because he knew which tree a gobbler had roosted in the evening before, he dressed in the dark so he wouldn’t wake my mother, pregnant with me. When he got to the woods it was still pitch black, so he settled down to wait for daylight. An hour passed, and no sign of light. Instead of going back home, though, he laid his gun aside, lit a cigarette and continued to wait for a dawn that wouldn’t arrive for three more hours. Later, laughing, he told my uncles he’d gotten to the woods around one
A.M.

But at some point, before I started first grade, he quit hunting. I always figured it was because he’d found religion. I grew up going to the Baptist church every Sunday with a father who was a deacon, not a hunter. Ours was a godly household—to this day

I’ve never heard Dad curse—and we said grace at every meal (even if we ate out) and prayed as a family each night, holding hands. After church on Sunday mornings, Dad sat in our living room and read his Bible, wearing his tie all day, then loaded us in the big white Chrysler to head back to church in the evening.

If we passed the three Wiggins brothers, dressed in old clothes and carrying hand-cut fishing poles, Dad shook his head and gave us all a minisermon on the perils of fishing on the Lord’s day. Though neither he nor anyone else has ever confirmed it, I’ve always thought that by not hunting he was paying a kind of self-imposed penance for the Saturday nights in his youth he’d spent in pool halls, and for the Sundays he’d skipped church to chase turkeys.

Sometimes, in my own hunting years, huddled against a sweet gum, waiting for noon or dusk to give me permission to leave the woods, I’d imagine my father as a younger man, slipping through the trees, still wearing his blue mechanic’s shirt with his name stitched across the chest, grease from his garage under his fingernails, carrying in his callused hands the same sixteen-gauge shotgun he would later give me. He was heading toward where he’d heard a gobbler that morning before work.

When he got to the spot, he knelt and, cradling the shotgun, removed from the pocket of his old army jacket the little box turkey caller he would give my brother years later. It was wooden and hollow like a tiny guitar box. You drew a peg over its green surface as gently as you could, the way you’d peel an apple without breaking the skin. If you knew what you were doing, it made a quiet, perfect hen’s cluck, something a man could barely hear, but a sound that would snap a gobbler’s head around half a mile away. After Dad had clucked a time or two, he waited, and when he heard the distant answer—that mysterious lovely cry, half a

rooster’s crow and half the whinny of a horse—he worked his jaw like a man shifting his chewing tobacco, and from under his tongue he moved his “yepper” to the roof of his mouth.

Year after year, in our stockings for Christmas, he’d been giving Jeff and me our own yeppers, tiny plastic turkey callers the size of a big man’s thumbnail, and he would try to teach us to “yep” the way turkeys do. Jeff caught on quickly, but it made me gag.

It was this kind of gift that let me know my father wanted me to hunt, though he never pressed, and let me know he was bothered by the fact that, until I was fifteen years old, I played with dolls. Not girls’ dolls, but “action figures.” The original

G.I. Joe with his fuzzy crew cut and a scar on his chin, Johnny West with his painted-on clothes, Big Jim with his patented karate chop: I had them all. I loved playing with them, and because Jeff was two years younger than I was, he did whatever I did. But while he would wrench off G.I. Joe’s head and hands to examine how the doll was put together, I would imagine that my G.I. Joe was Tarzan of the Apes. One of my sister’s Barbie dolls, stripped to a skimpy jungle bikini, became Jane. A foot-tall Chewbacca was Kerchak, an ape. In the lush green summer afternoons, Jeff and I built African villages out of sticks and vines. We dug a wide trench across our backyard and with the garden hose made a muddy brown river filled with rubber snakes and plastic crocodiles.