DELUGE

North Arkansas, 1965

Morning brushed the sky on Caleb’s return, the light starting high and lancing down through autumn hickory and oak as he neared the cabin. He didn’t need to sleep outdoors when his father drank, but it always proved safer. 

In the small dark kitchen, Caleb cleaned and fried up his fill of trout. He’d had luck with decent browns and they tasted sweet and tender with the salty crisp of skin cooked just right in the cast iron. 

Merle was in a nasty state, thumping and banging from his room. It was Sunday and Caleb’s pa always hated Sundays on principle. Being that God had let him down so thoroughly, he resented a whole entire day dedicated to a traitor on high. It happened to be the day Caleb’s mother left, or so Merle said whenever he got an appetite for that particular complaint, which was often. She left on a clear Sunday morning before the roosters started. Barely light for her to see a path, without pause to wake anyone, without word or warning. Without bothering to take her lone child along, even if that child was only four.

Merle went on about it fifteen years later and each time he wailed that old song, Caleb gained a small amount of sympathy for his mother. A very small amount, seeing as she left him with this railing bitter coot. Maybe she figured he was weaned, could walk enough to keep some distance. Maybe she wondered how she’d manage and at least there in the woods, Caleb would be fed.  Still, she’d done wrong condemning her son to Merle’s disposition, and by leaving no note or clue about why he shouldn’t take it personally.

Caleb’s memories of her were moonlit. She carried him snug-bundled on her back, and when he grew, he toddled behind as she roamed the land, seeking and foraging in the silver light. 

She spoke in stories and elements, sang to him of origin and family and ghosts. But he was too small and lost what little he’d understood to begin with. Just the music of her remained. Her voice like the night breeze and owl calls and whispers of tall trees. Her presence like the deep roots and moving waters and thunderstorms. 

The stillness of her absence.

“Didn’t make me no meal?” Merle sloughed into the kitchen, rubbing his hind end. 

They seldom crossed words these days. If one had an early rise, the other waited until the first was clearly gone. If both had a mind to leave early, there was stored jerky or eggs Caleb harvested from the hens and cooked in advance. Less contact, less conflict. Outhouse trips didn’t count; they could ignore comings and goings then. 

Only on cold winter nights did they share a common room for longer stretches, owing to the woodstove. The crack and flare of logs provided a plain enough focus to coexist. 

Caleb collected his platter and set aside bones for the soil. 

Merle eyed the plate, then sat atop the kitchen table which, along with the benches, had been rough-chopped before Caleb’s birth. “Least you could do.”

Caleb stopped salt-cleaning the cast iron and left it for his pa to use. “There’s two fresh in the icebox.”

Merle grunted, which was not a bad reply for a Sunday.

“We need propane from town, next run.”

“Expect you’ll be wanting me to do it,” Merle grumbled. 

“I did the last run.” Caleb gazed out the room’s single window. The dog was barking, trying to herd hens. Time to get them into the coop before something ate them for breakfast. “’Sides, I’m staying away from town for a spell.” Wolcott, Arkansas: a bit place with loud talk, stone walls, stiff rules and a sieve of belonging that some fit through while others didn’t. 

“You in trouble, boy? What you done now?” Merle stood like he meant to threaten. His raised arm didn’t scare like it used to. The old man was scrawny and tipped over easy. Caleb was tempted to push and see if he fell.

No point getting into it. The damage had been done long ago; this creature just housed the hollow remains. “Not me,” said Caleb. “A town boy gone and disappeared. People asking questions. Thought you mighta’ heard.” Anything amiss drew scrutiny to them, but this boy was notable. Best to keep Merle out of it.

“I been in the hills,” Merle said.

“Into Booner Johnson’s business?”

“None a’ your damn concern what I do up there.” Merle rubbed at his specked stubble. Hard to tell what was beard growth and what was dirt. “How you think we pay for expenses?”

Caleb shrugged. He found earnings by selling to bait shops, extra catch and kill for those without time or inclination to hunt and fish. He tended chickens, grew roots and greens for the household. They both bartered and scavenged and scratched out what they could.

“I might do business in town,” Merle conceded. “Get us some propane alongside, maybe.” 

“You buying sugar and shit for them?” Caleb knew for a fact Merle rotated in to help Booner with white lightning. They always looked to network outward. Take notice off the center.

“Booner’s boys are startin’ something new. Planting crop. You should join ’em.” Brethren in poverty and flint, they trusted Merle with their secrets. He’d never betray them.

“Nah,” said Caleb. “Don’t want to be latched to them sons.”

“They’s the next generation of the Johnson operation. Profitable. Why not follow their example? What kinda sorry offspring are you?”

“I’m nobody,” Caleb said. “I’m your son.”

“Lucky you across the room, boy. My fist oughta teach you manners—”

“You tried, old man. I lived through it.” The shovel scar only hurt in deep winter now, or when he sat too still for too long. The limp was permanent.

“Lived with a roof above, you mean.” Merle gripped the kitchen table with both hands.

“You want me gone? I got no problem taking off.” His overnight duffel lay ready on the bench opposite Merle. It wouldn’t require much to load the rest. 

“Don’t be a stubborn-ass idiot. I’m just sayin’ they’ll have big money coming—you can get in on it.” Merle had sprouted from that cabin buried deep in the hills, with five brothers and a sister, most of whom had died and the rest scattered. He got the house by default. Their only valuables were weapons: a number of hunting pieces and an assortment of knives. “Could be a chance for you to redeem your worthless self.”

“Booner and his lightning fit okay for you.” Caleb started for the door. “I go it alone.”

“Damn Chevy’s giving me grief again. Needs parts.” Merle scraped salt from the cast iron and added oil before pulling trout from the icebox.

Booner Johnson might have a soft spot for Merle, but his sons were different animals. They were older and larger than Caleb and any debt to them, monetary or otherwise, was a heavy affliction. They’d look after Merle as long as he came through, but Caleb was bound to get on their bad side. His track record with sane people was none too good. Those crazy-ass hoppers would have him decomposing in a ravine no one would find.

 “Sunday damn morning and I got to make my own damn breakfast,” Merle started in. Caleb knew what came next about his mother’s desertion and how Merle’s divided attentions between homecare and revenue prevented him from making anything of anything. 

And now he’d add a new verse about the no-good son refusing opportunity. Caleb heard the old man carrying on long after the screen door slammed behind him. Scratch from the shed lured four hens back who hadn’t found their way and Caleb spread seed inside the coop too. Last he put out food and water for the hound, Rory.

It could’ve been to strike back at Merle or maybe on behalf of Josh Collier—the town boy five days gone—that Caleb marched up the porch stairs and called through the screen. “Somebody asked after you. Man named Collier.”

“What you mean, asked?” Merle’s voice twisted. “What he want—Dale Collier?”

“Said he knew you from school. When you was small. Mighta’ run together, a group of you.” 

Josh’s father had grown desperate enough to hunt out Caleb on Bass Lake’s far shore. The man pleaded, but Caleb could offer nothing that full county-wide searches hadn’t yielded. Which was nothing. No leads, no explanations, no words of comfort. Caleb had come up empty for all three even before the father found him.

Merle shuffled to the stove. “Yeah, we was in class. Heard he’s a numbers man for the factory—lucky for some.” When he flipped his fish, the oil splattered and Merle jumped away, cursing. Fish guts littered the counter.

“He asked after his son, boy that disappeared.” A boy about to graduate high school. Coltish, overeager, green. Caleb played with the swing of the screen door, rocked it without letting the dog in. Rory was trying to get at the fish smell. Dry kibble couldn’t compete.

“Boy gone missing was his?” Merle’s poking fork paused in the air. “Hmph.” He turned stoveward and nudged the fish to keep it from sticking.

“I’m headed out.” Maybe Caleb would take one more look around north Parker ravine.

“A boy tried sweet-talking Booner few days back. Clean-cut. Don’t suppose that’s him.”

“Couldn’t say. He’s bound for college…popular, sports hero.” It came out tart, even though Caleb didn’t hold that against him. Josh showed up in the backcountry beginning of summer, lanky, agile, trailing close by. Said he wanted things simpler, that he admired Caleb’s directness. While Caleb chased him off the first few times, the kid nested into a person’s company. 

After some weeks Caleb didn’t mind. More like a dog he didn’t own hanging around. Reliable companionship during tasks of digging and casting, chopping and harvesting. Josh knew how to be still, didn’t upset the atmosphere and didn’t want anything from Caleb, which sat okay with him. He didn’t shun Caleb either, which was more surprising. They mainly shared the quiet.

“Yeah, that boy said all sorts of communist shit.” Merle loaded his plate and pushed past Caleb to sit outdoors on the spring metal porch chair. “Quit dog. I swear.”

Caleb caught Rory’s collar before Merle could kick him, and tied him by the coop near his bowls. He retrieved the skillet and poured fish scraps over the kibble, which made all the difference to Rory. 

“Collier’s alright. Wouldn’t be Collier’s boy spouting draft-dodger trash,” Merle said. Per usual, he hadn’t boned the fish proper and was picking spikes from his mouth, cussing.

“Why you call him communist?” Caleb set the skillet on the porch deck edge.

“He’s asking Booner about secure routes to Canada, shirking his patriotic obligations. Said it was for research, but nobody goes to Booner unless they mean business.”

“That boy’s a cautious type.” Caleb walked to Rory and patted his torso. Rory was wolfing down the rest of his food, as was Merle. “He coulda’ been gathering facts.” 

Just last week Josh convinced Caleb to try senior year again, said he’d help Caleb graduate this time. 

“You know my daddy served. And two ’a my brothers killed in the Kraut war.”

“I know.” Caleb often wished his uncles had come home and rounded out the family. They might’ve made life bearable, or at least broadened the target field. Then again he might be running from three assholes.

“Well, they beat the tar out of that boy.”

“What?” Caleb yanked the dog rope and Rory barked. “When was this?”

“The Collier boy oughtn’t a’ been there. Started mouthing off about morals and talk got ugly. Crazy cuss. Don’t he know Booner Johnson’s oldest got drafted—is over there in Nam right now?” Merle took another bite off his plate, extracted three ribs. “Goddamn fish. Why you feed me this shit, boy? You tryin’ to kill me?”

Caleb would be far away gone, if it weren’t about Josh. “What came of it?”

“You know Johnsons. They’s not much for talking things out. Just beat him and told me go on, so I did.” 

“When—more than five days ago?” 

“Don’t recall, really. I got reimbursed in product and lost track of time and such.”

Caleb set Rory loose and hauled out of there. He kicked the gate open and could hear Merle shouting at him and then at Rory all the way to Broad Fork. He skirted stacked hay bales and faded plots of corn into the western hills. 

Mid-day birds filled the air with raucous noise: jaybirds and nuthatches squawking, the ongoing gripe of a butcherbird and then woodpeckers tapping all around like they were pounding on his head. Resin rose from smashed needles underfoot. The electric hum of insects drilled at his ears as he lumbered down the path toward Grove’s Lookout. He needed to run, to get far from Merle and the notion of Joshua getting beat.

Josh had no business there with Booner’s people. Pure stupidity on his part, walking headlong into trouble. For someone going to college, he was dumber than the hens. If he’d asked straight out, Caleb would’ve said stay clear. 

People believed Booner’s sons should get shipped overseas with the rest of Arkansas’ poor. Word was he tried to bribe the draft board, but they had no use for him. Caleb got skipped over on account of his limp and because people thought he was touched. That’s what he’d told Josh, since he had some trust of him.

But Booner’s boys were touched in a killer way and folks figured the war would be the right outlet to aim those tendencies. Though murder, even for Booner’s crew, was an unthinkable extreme, one that could take them down—the whole operation, the whole clan. A boy that well-liked, a family that respected? Doubtful. 

Caleb got glimpses of his friend’s thinking. End of August Josh asked about places to disappear or live quiet on land without being found. He trusted Caleb with the question. The kid was working something out, maybe wrestling with the yellow-tinged draft deferment they’d give in exchange for college. Josh made him promise not to say anything. Caleb might be touched, but he wouldn’t break a promise. Not to his only friend.

Then again, he shouldn’t weigh loyalties. He was on his own and always would be. Rory hound had finished harassing Merle and caught up crossing Four Corners. They carried on uphill through thickets to where walnut and red maple huddled close and canopies fought for sky. 

Clouds had formed while he tramped. Dark gray pockets folded overhead and the trails dissolved into soggy mulch as rain spit down. He hadn’t brought spare covering. Stupid, stupid. Just ran outta there like he didn’t know the country. The highlands could turn on you in five minutes. Not even.  

Caleb’s red shirt, drying on the line, would be soaked by now. Dense forest loomed all directions and he knew it reckless to stomp around without a bright color. Plain risky in wilderness peopled by trigger-happy Johnsons. One son could spook easy and shoot before looking. The other might shoot out of spite. 

Hazards lay there in the wilds, but he wouldn’t get sent to Nam and for that Caleb found traces of gratitude for his mother, who taught him to meld with the land and be safe, at least within limits. Maybe things balanced out. Maybe there’d come a time when he could stop measuring everything to counter her absence. 

The air was heavy with damp. He and Rory forked left along muddy trenches skimming the hillside. He climbed fast and direct, slipping some as he went. There were wood fires burning, the winds carried the scent. Caleb hated this place and then it was all he knew to love, too. The uplands looked careless and heartless now, a big open cage for him to be trapped in and find nothing more from this life but the same as come before. What else could he do? What other place would have him. 

Leaves would soon drop and turn to moldy decay. Mud gained and pulled at his boots with each step.

One day last month Caleb had trekked nearby, to his favorite spread of country a few patches deeper in the wilds. The granite crags and cascading tree vines gave him extra ease. A fierce storm broke off the squall line, rumbled and crashed through, surrounding him in a hurry. He took cover under boulders, where an overhang buffered him from gusts and wet. 

He remembered peering out, the whole view matted and muffled, everything all the same slickness with hard drops hitting stone and blending into waterfalls that raced downhill. He could see clear to the lake and how rain torrents played patterns on the dancing body of water. Water into water into water. He stayed there, protected, watching it dance—him and the low clouds.

When Caleb was young, he used to wish he was deaf, so not to hear all the yelling and hollering and none of that noise. Especially when skin got struck. He didn’t want to see it either, but didn’t fancy being blind, so he thought deafness would take away some of the awfulness. But then he knew he’d miss the rain sounds and the rivers, winds chattering the leaves and thunder tumbling down and across the mountains. Silence in his mind, that’s what he wanted.

That day last month, he’d settled into the crest of the storm, when up out of Hades came Joshua, walking as easy as you can. As if it weren’t the most unlikely place for him to be, in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of a deluge, unfazed by winds. He looked like part of the fog rolling upward. He smiled when he saw Caleb, then hesitated, out of regard for his solitude. 

Caleb scooted over to make room under the ledge.

“Summer storms are the best kind,” Josh had said. “Lets you know you’re alive.”

Caleb took his meaning but grew shy with the nearness. “So does frostbite. And snake venom. Same with earthquakes.” Josh had the luxury of assuming positive outcomes, not him. 

A close strike sent thunder humming through the boulder and into their backs.

“Those pure elements, they make you feel expanded and insignificant all at once.” Josh flushed with the thrill of it.

“You mean make you feel puffed up or squashed like a bug.”

“Put another way.” 

Sheets of water slashed and swirled around them, electricity sliced blue, piercing land and lake. Still they sat motionless in the alcove, silent, protected, together.

After a time, Josh said, “You’re really lucky, you know.” 

This from a boy with clothes washed and food made for him, with shoe soles intact, and bills paid, whose whole family and every neighbor cheered him on. Josh’s world, from its foundation to each fleck of mortar reeked of luck. It was the kind of remark he’d tolerate from no one else. 

“Which part’s lucky you think? The hobbled part, the dirt-poor part?” Caleb lifted his chin. “Must be the plentiful, secure home base.” 

“Right, sorry.” Josh nodded, accepting the jab. “It’s just that you’re free.”

“You got too many options, that’s your complaint? I got less than none.” Caleb would’ve taken off if not for the bruised core of longing he heard underneath Josh’s words, something he recognized, knew too well. “I’m chained here to this life, to this place. You’re the one breaking free.”

“I don’t mean on the outside. I mean inside yourself. You’re free in there. You’re not chained, you’re wedded.”

It confused Caleb but like most things Josh said, he had to chew on it awhile instead of rejecting it off-hand. He wondered if that web of belonging pulled and tangled his friend in invisible ways, if it carried a price even Caleb wouldn’t forfeit. 

“You know you’re an idiot,” Caleb said.

“Yep, I surely do.” 

Now the clouds held steady and as Caleb reached the overhang, the view grew clearer. Against all sense, Caleb found himself scanning the landscape for Josh—across and down forested slopes, along the bluffs, into hollows and over the lake’s surface—listening for his certain footsteps or him whistling a tune. Caleb came to the sheltering boulders and hunted around to check no one was camouflaged asleep under the ledge. And after all that, he leaned into the stones, crouched down and he wept.