Mama wasn’t home the day Blew died. She was at church, cleaning it for Easter Sunday. I didn’t expect Papa to be home—he’s always in one of the fields or tending to a sick cow or mending fences or helping Uncle Johnny patch a barn roof—so I didn’t even think of him. It would have been too late anyway. It was even too late when I looked for Mama, but I had to try.
Blew had most likely already sunk to the bottom of the river, but I had to try and save him. Everybody had warned us not to go near it because it was too high and there was too much ice and the current was too quick, but we wouldn’t listen, especially when Uncle Johnny mentioned he’d like a big plate of suckers instead of ham for Easter supper. We wanted to show him we could fish better than the Finns from one side road over who fish our river dry of suckers and any other bottom feeders they can find. Blew and I wanted to surprise Uncle Johnny and bring him a string of suckers. We wanted to make him happy.
My mind told me it was too late to save Blew, but my heart said it wasn’t. I scrambled up the bank and ran down the muddy road. My boots stuck in the mud, and I ran right out of them. My feet burned from hitting the cold ground, and I ruined a good pair of school socks, but I pulled my boots out of the mud, put them back on, and kept going. Our house is closest to the river so I ran there first, but it was empty except for Granny. She’s too old to be of any use, but when I told her what had happened, she began cursing God and praying to Him at the same time like she always does. I ran out of the house towards the long lane to Blew’s house. I was crying and could hardly see through my tears.
The April wind was icy cold against my cheeks. Lard was running so close to my feet, he got tangled between them and made me slip and fall. I screamed at him to get out of the way, but he just barked and ran ahead then back again, as if we were playing a game. The lane was full of muddy ruts and dead branches that had fallen from the big trees growing on either side. The tops of the pines were clicking together, making moaning sounds as the wind blew through them. I slipped again as I tried to jump over a limb. I was filthy and had scratches on my face. My clothes were wet and caked with mud and burrs. I kept running—faster, faster. Blew couldn’t die. I wouldn’t let him. I’d beat death the way Papa beat a runaway pig until it learned to stay home.
Uncle Johnny’s favorite beverage
When I finally got to the house, I ran up the steps, through the vestibule, into the clean kitchen where Papa and Uncle Johnny were drinking whiskey in fancy green shot glasses. I must have looked a sight, for they stopped and stared at me with their drinks in mid-air. I screamed that Blew was dead and that I had killed him. I remember how quiet the room was after my voice stopped making noises, so quiet I had to fill it up again with loud sounds from my throat. I screamed and screamed, right into the faces of both men as they sat peacefully at the table with the open Seagram’s bottle between them. They hadn’t been working at all. I screamed that Blew was sinking to the bottom of the river while they were getting drunk, and that it was their fault he was dead. I screamed we hadn’t caught any suckers for Easter Sunday like Uncle Johnny wanted, and that I wished it was Uncle Johnny who was at the bottom of the river instead of Blew.
Aunt Rene hurried into the kitchen—I remember her hair was in silver curlers and a thin pink bandana was wrapped around her head. There was a cigarette hanging from the corner of her bright pink mouth. One of her hands held a box of matches. I heard laughter coming from my mouth as I told her Blew had stolen her Camels and was smoking them two at a time while we fished. I told her he died with the pack in his jacket pocket. I watched as she ground the cigarette into the ashtray on the table. She asked me what the hell I was talking about, and I said she had killed Blew—they all had—they were murderers, and then I don’t remember what happened next because Papa slapped my face, and I floated away. It was like a dream—part of me could hear the commotion as Papa and Uncle Johnny sobered up and got the tractor going, heading for the river. Part of me heard the hiss of wood as Aunt Rene threw a piece of wet birch into the stove and yelled for Cousin Maggie. They half-carried, half-dragged me out to the car, laid me on the back seat, and drove me home.
When I awoke, I tasted whiskey on my tongue and smelled acrid wood smoke in my nose. I was in clean pajamas, lying on Granny’s cot in the kitchen. Mama wasn’t there because Granny was sitting in her rocking chair, watching me, and if Mama had been home, she’d never have allowed that because she and Granny don’t get along. Her sunken blue eyes were red from crying, and all the wrinkles around her mouth were mixed up instead of falling into place like they usually do. Wisps of her white hair had come loose from her braid and hung around her shoulders like pieces of straw hanging from a horse’s mouth. She saw my eyes open and made me drink warm water mixed with sugar and another splash of Papa’s whiskey. Then she tucked her frayed pink flannel blanket around me. We didn’t talk because there was nothing to say. We just cried as if our hearts would break. Granny rocked back and forth, back and forth until the creak of the rockers and the drink lulled me back to sleep. Sometimes in my nightmares, I hear those rockers. I don’t see Granny’s face or her chair or anything else, but I hear the steady creak of the rockers, and I think I’m losing my mind.
