WILLY BOY ……….. a short story by Marvin D. Bibby

 

It was once bright red. Age and abuse have faded the paint. Now you gotta look close to see color on the cab. Damn thing's coated in caked grime with clods of grey clay and brown mud spattered on top. Hood's a little better. But not by much. Small silver bulldog is still shiny as hell.

Sits on the hood. Leans into onrushing wind. Looks to be grinning. Guess it likes running from the eight-wheeled log trailer that follows behind. Got thirty-two footers bucked from a big Doug fir piled high as the exhaust stacks. Belch smoke into dust tornadoes boiling up from the wheels. 

Ben slides around on the bench seat inside the cab. Coat balled up in back of him, shoulder braced against the door, has both feet planted atop a heap of heavy chain piled on the floor. Glances at the driver, then back at the road. Not sure what to say. Uncomfortable with the silence.

Driver's his uncle. Name of Delbert. Hums a tune. Got both hands on the steering wheel, eyes focused on the road ahead. Bounces up and down on the seat. Seems at one with motion of the truck. Oblivious to his presence.

Truck jolts over a bump and ride smooths out. Delbert takes one hand off the steering wheel. Moves one of the three shift levers. Waits a moment, moves another. Grins.

"Can make some time now we got pavement."

Truck picks up speed. Straddles yellow centerline. Plows through patches of grey and white and charcoal. Part fog. Part cloud. Drifts aimlessly across dulled greens and browns and blacks of Oregon morning.

Sail round a bend in the road. Delbert stomps on the brake pedal. Hands blur. Moves two of the shift levers. Truck bleeds off speed. Engine burps, farts, against the compression. Stops just short of motley brown puddle lying in the center of the road.

Ben has his hands on the dash. Braces himself. Bunch of crap lying on the seat beside him slides off on the floor. His uncle's out of the truck before it comes to a complete stop. Jerks off his hat. Slaps it against his thigh. Lunges toward the dog.

Dog jumps to his feet. Arches his spine. Bares his teeth. Growls.

"Goddammit! How many times I gotta tell you to stay out of the road?"

Dog lays back his head. Barks. Lunges. Snaps teeth at Delbert.

"You sonabitch!" 

Delbert swings his hat at the dog.

Dog grabs the hat brim with his teeth. Shakes his head.

"Goddam sonabitch! Let go!"

Delbert wrenches the hat. Grabs dog's collar with his other hand.

Dog takes teeth out of the hat. Clamps them down on Delbert's wrist.

"Why you no good sonabitch."

Delbert drops his hat. Yanks dog into the air. One hand grips the collar, other wedged in the dog's mouth. He pivots, twirls completely around, dog stretched out in front of him. Lets loose of the collar. Dog sails to the side of the road. Lights on his feet. Dewclaws scrabble in the gravel. Fragment of blue denim shirt hangs from side of mouth.

Eyes wide, Ben leans forward in the cab. Watches his uncle launch himself at the dog. Grab his collar. Jerk him up. Kick him with booted foot.

"Get! Get home. Now!"

Delbert releases his hold on the collar. Shoves the dog onto the graveled driveway with side of his boot. Stands, hands on his hips, gasps for breath. Glares at the dog.

"Get, goddammit. Right now! Get in the shed!"

Dog growls. Lowers his head. Slinks toward open carport bordered by chunks of firewood stacked to the eaves.

"And stay there goddammit."

Delbert picks up his hat, slaps it against his thigh. Jams it on his head. Turns toward the open door of the truck. Short and wiry, slightly bowlegged, he bounces on his toes with each step. Reminds Ben of the banty rooster his grandma has. Delbert levers himself up into the cab by the steering wheel. Slides onto the seat. Turns to Ben. Gives lop-sided grin.

"Goddam dog won't stay outa the road."

Holds up his arm. Examines torn sleeve.

"One of these days I'm gonna pull out every goddam tooth in that sonabitch's head." Grin widens. "Ever goddam one."

"Why's he do that?" 

"Brown Dog? What? Sit in the road?"

Delbert rubs a hand over the steering wheel. Squirms in his seat. Looks out his open door after the retreating dog. Sighs. Shuts the door. Glances at Ben, then away. Depresses clutch pedal. Eases left hand shift lever forward. Presses down on the gas. Truck takes on deeper rumble. Inches forward. Pulls shift lever straight back. Truck lurches slightly. Picks up more speed.

"Brown Dog thinks he owns this seat."

Shifts again. Engine takes on stronger note. 

"Don't like nobody in his cab."

"Because of me? That's why you didn't bring him?"

Delbert nods. Shifts again.

Ben looks out the side window. Wishes he hadn't come. Wishes his mom was here. Wishes he wasn't alone. Sighs. 

"I'm sorry, Uncle Delbert. I didn't mean to cause no trouble."

"You ain't no trouble. This was my idea. I asked you. Just a goddam dog." 

Delbert takes hand off the steering wheel. Searches seat beside him.

"You see my smokes?" Moves a shift lever. "See if you can find 'em, will ya?"

Ben scoots forward. Kneels on the pile of chain. Picks up a battered silver thermos and a pair of gloves. Sets them on the seat. Spots the cigarettes, crushed beneath mud-caked come-along and an eight-inch crescent wrench. Hands them to his uncle. Clambers back on the seat.

"How old are ya, now, Ben?"

"Ten. Goin' on eleven."

"Wasn't much older than that when I left home."

Delbert glances at the boy. Shakes cigarette loose from the pack, fishes it the rest of the way out with his lips.

"Times was different then."

Ben's relieved at the words. The silence has been awful. Always been awed by his uncle. Though he doesn't really know him, he's heard about him. A lot.

Cigarette smoke fills the cab. Ben cracks his window. Turns head to the side. Telephone poles and fence posts whip by. Green fields fenced and cross-fenced, separate herds of cows, occasional horse. Back onto the surrounding hills. Blue gray now. Wreathed in wispy clouds. Sun burning away most of the mist. 

Ben sighs. Remembers snatches of things. Not sure which came first. Or when. Has to be just after the war. Uncle in uniform, cigarette dangling from his mouth at his parents' house. Another man in uniform. Bang on each other's shoulders, then disappear outside. Blows back in some time later, grin plastered across his face.

"I got it. Straight across. My Chev for his Pontiac. Hate Chevys. Don't know why she bought it."

Ben had never seen such a thing. Parents always quiet and reticent and deliberate.

But come to think of it. There's some other memories. Early ones. Has to be before the war. But how can that be? Wasn't but two when the war broke out? Maybe the war was already going. But whenever it was, memory's clear. Outside the one-room cabin, raw wood, dark and dusty. Mom on porch steps. Says to watch for snakes. Not sure he really wants to wander into the tangled piles of gravel left from previous dredging. Head down, asks if he can put on his uncle's cowboy boots, then clumping around the porch, boot tops coming to his knees.

And the beer. Remembers that, too. Finding bottles in the shallow creek. Picking up rocks. Breaking the bottles. Later, Uncle Delbert and his dad standing with their mouths open, looking at broken bottles. His mother. Smiling. Hand on his shoulder. Saying, didn't know they was good. But maybe that was later, after the war. Has to be, although why they were in California, back at that cabin, after they'd moved to Oregon was a mystery.

"Remember when I broke your beer bottles?"

Delbert scrubs stubbled chin. Shakes his head.

"Yeah." Grins. "Weren't real funny at the time. It was one hell of a long ways out to get some more."

"What were we doing in California? Wasn't that after you'd come back from the war?"

"Nineteen and forty-six. July. Went back to Big Canyon to see what I could salvage. We'd left the dredger and the dragline and the Cat out there when we all went in the service in forty-three. Gold wasn't paying when we got out. Shorty took the dragline. Wilson took the dredger. I got the Cat. It was a big ol' D-8. Carted the damn thing clear back up here. Finally sold it for scrap. Nobody wanted a dozer that burned gas anymore."

Ben remembered the rusting yellow Cat parked in the yard. He had to be five, maybe six. Living in Ashland and they'd come every weekend to work on his Aunt Rose's place just across the creek from his uncle's. But there wasn't any bridge across the creek, so they had to come in from the county bridge, six miles downstream, on a narrow lane that wound around the sides of the hills and seemed to take forever. And there wasn't much there when you'd finished the trek. A barn, a privy and the tent house.

His mom and dad, Aunt Rose and her husband, all stayed in the tent house. Couldn't of been very big. But it was so small they left him outside.

"Just grownups in the tent house," his mom would say. "You'll be just fine out here."

But he wasn't. He was scared to death. He slept in a Morris chair underneath a little bitty live oak. Right next to the faucet where the pipe from the spring came out. Had a tan enamel cup with a red rim and a big black chip in the bottom that hung from a nail in the tree trunk. He could remember it plain as day. They'd put him in the chair wrapped in an old patchwork quilt and disappear inside the tent house. He'd go to sleep with his eyes fixed on the single window, bleeding light and the occasional shadow. Next morning, at dawn, he would wake to the rattle of the tin cup against the pipe, his aunt's husband in gum boots and a watch cap getting a drink before he brought in the cows.

Though it was scary in that chair, and the night was full of noises, it still wasn't as bad as when his dad got the house framed. He shivered at the thought. Remember the stark outlines of rafters overhead. Waving branches of a huge oak. Crash of acorn hitting bare floor. Would go rigidly still, eyes straining to see, sure something was coming out of the dark to get him. Some nights the fear threatened to overwhelm him. He longed for the Morris chair where he was close to the tent house. Able to see the lighted window.

He would finally drift off. Wake to rustling noises. Something moving through the dark toward him. Closer and closer. Then a stab of light in his eyes. He'd cry out. His dad would answer, "Go back to sleep, boy. Go back to sleep." He'd wait, legs clenched together, the urge to pee irrepressible. Then a distant shot, sometimes two, and his dad would be back. Breathless now, dragging something.

One night, headlights bounce through the trees. Dad scrambles up to squat beside him. Shoves the rifle under his bed. Disappears into the dark. Crawls out of blankets on hands and knees. Cranes neck to see. A car door slams. Someone laughs. Smell of cigarette smoke. Dad suddenly back. With Uncle Delbert. Both grunt. Cuss. Drag deer toward the barn.

"You remember when you came roaring in and scared Dad half to death 'cause he thought you was the cops?"

"Yeah. That was somethin'." Delbert shakes his head.

Ben is silent for a minute.

 "I was scared that night."

 "Think the cops was going to haul your daddy off to jail?"

Ben has another flash. His dad in the kitchen with the bug sprayer. Cutting off the can. Drilling holes in it. Stuffing it with steel wool. Fitting it on a piece of pipe. Cautioning him not to breathe a word about it.

"Did that silencer he built work?"

 "He was always the one to figure on stuff like that. Think it blew up on him and damn near set the hay field on fire." Delbert laughs. "I was always for keepin' a good lookout and runnin' fast. You plannin' on poachin' some this summer?"

Ben wished it was so. He didn't have to shoot no deer. Frogs and lizards maybe. A BB gun would do. But his mom was dead set against it. Said he was too young and his aunt wouldn't help with that. She wasn't against guns. Just weren't part of her world. Not like Uncle Delbert. He was the hunter. The fighter. The man with guns.

"Did you shoot people in the war?"

                                                            ***

Delbert frowns. Sucks on his cigarette. Wishes he'd never asked the kid to come along. He's always asking strange questions. It's his sister's fault. She's screwed the kid up bad. No doubt about it. Hell's bells he'd watched him play with a goddam doll down in Sacramento when he was just a runt. Carted that damn thing around like a real baby. Called it Edith or some such nonsense. And there was a name for that kind of boy. Willy. Called him that. Sis asked why. Didn't like it one bit when she heard that Willy meant crybaby in the army. Had a hissy fit. But Edith disappeared.

Lets the smoke out. Sighs. Thinks about the question.

"Army made me a medic. Told them I was a catskinner and they made me a medic. Never saw a bulldozer. Spent most of the war picking up parts of dead people in a basket. Army's something ya want to stay away from. They ain't no good for nothin'. Nothin'. You hear? I'd run for they got me to go again."

Reaches over. Grinds out his cigarette in the ashtray. 

"They'd have to catch me. And I don't catch easy."

Delbert glances at the boy. Forehead rests against the glass, stares out his side window. Kid looks like a Willy. Soft and skinny. Too much time in California. Needs to toughen up some. Too bad about his dad. Always liked him. And now his mom. Goddam cancer. Guess that's why Rose took him in. But she isn't making much progress. The boy's still soft and skinny. And in his truck.

Truth be told, prefer Brown Dog. Damn dog's a hell of a lot better company. Never asks fool questions. Guess he could take the boy fishing. Might manage that. Kid isn't going anywhere. No need to hurry. Think on it.

                                                            ***

Brown Dog is in the lead. Sometimes runs out ahead, sometimes falls behind. Nose stuck in a patch of weeds or a gopher hole. Delbert keeps a steady pace over the uneven ground. Coil of rope slung over one shoulder, cigarette smoke trailing behind, makes beeline for the fringe of trees bordering distant creek. Ben stumbles along behind him. Lugs the peach basket. Hand through each wire handle. Basket out in front of him. Bounces against his thighs. Can't see his feet. 

But he's happy. Happiest he's been in a long time. Can't believe that his uncle's taking him. They're going to catch salmon. They're in the creek and his uncle has figured a way to nab some.

"We always got the dynamite. That'll get 'em for sure, 'cept it'll likely bring a mess of cops. You got to be ready to run."

Ben was sure that if his mom found out, she'd skin both of them alive. But she was still in the hospital down in California, and he wasn't about to tell. No way. 

They struggle through a patch of blackberry vines and break out onto a small opening next to the dam. Throw down ropes and basket. Watch the lip of the dam.

"There, goddammit! There's one."

Delbert points a blackened fingernail.

"And another."

"And there's another."

Ben watches the silvery grey fish suddenly appear out of the pool below, arch themselves upward, then disappear into the white water where it breaks over the lip of the dam.

"What we're gonna do here is rig a line between that fir on the other bank and this alder here."

Delbert jerks his head towards an alder that is leaning out over the dam face next to them.

"Then we're gonna hang this peach basket from the rope so's it's right below the dam lip. Them fish'll jump right in the basket and we got 'em."

Ben blinks several times. Studies the peach basket.

"Think they'll fit?"

"Course they'll fit. Fish ain't that big. What you need to do is stay here and feed the rope to me. I'm gonna cross the dam and tie the other end off. You got that?"

Delbert frowns.

"And you need to keep some slack handy. I'm gonna have to jump some and damned if I wanna come up short and take a header."

Eyes wide, Ben studies the creek. Wide and shallow. At least fifty yards to the other bank. Small concrete pillars protrude a foot or so above the water all the way across the lip of the dam. Spaced about four feet apart, slotted on each side to accept boards that will increase water depth behind the dam. Between the pillars, water is over a foot deep. Flows fast and clear over green algae that coats face of the concrete, before dropping fifteen feet to the pool below. 

But his uncle makes it look easy. Jumps from pillar to pillar without a single pause. Brown Dog thrashes through the water upstream. Tries to catch up. Ben stands with arms outstretched, a loop of rope dangling from his hands. Watches the rope uncoil from his uncle's extended arm, sure that it will snag. Snatch them both over the edge of the dam. But it doesn't. Takes less than an hour for his uncle to rig the ropes. Fix the basket in place. Done, he skips back across the pillars. Lights a cigarette. Studies the result.

 "Looks good to me. What you think?"

Ben's excited. Watches eagerly. Waits for the first salmon to emerge. See the fish dive into the basket. But the pool below the dam is silent. No salmon to be seen.

"Guess Brown Dog scared 'em all off."

Delbert sucks on his cigarette.

"How 'bout some coffee? Your aunt's place ain't but a half mile 'cross the crick. Let's go get us some."

Ben looks at the pillars stretching across the creek in front of him.

"I don't think I can jump that far."

"Don't have to. You can take off your shoes and wade it upstream. Ain't that deep." 

And it isn't that deep. Maybe a little above his knees. But it's cold. Damned cold. The rocks hurt his feet. They're slippery. Twice he's almost fallen. Stops. Stills shoes swinging in front of him, secured together by their laces strung around his neck. Measures distance to his uncle and Brown Dog who wait on the far bank.

"Come on, boy. You're most halfway there."

Ben's not so sure. Sighs. Lowers his head. Takes another step. Thinks he doesn't want to do this. Once across he's got to wade back. Struggles a few more steps. Water becomes shallower. Bottom has less rocks. More sand.

Barely up to his ankles now, he surges ahead. Stops. Aunt Rose has appeared on the bank behind his uncle. Slides down the cow path. Grabs his uncle's arm. Jerks it repeatedly. Can see her mouth move. Words lost in burble from the creek. Aunt and uncle turn. Look over at him. Then turn away. Aunt's lips move again. Uncle shakes his head, no. Stiffens. Takes off his hat. Looks at Ben.

Ben stands in the creek. Unable to go back. Afraid to go forward. Cold creeps up his legs. Grips his gut. Tears leak down both cheeks. Watches aunt and uncle splash toward him. Brown Dog whines on the bank.

"I'm no Willy boy."

Shouts, fists clenched against streaming eyes.

"Honest. You'll see. I ain't no Willy boy."

                                                            ~ ~ ~