I pulled up a child’s rocker and sat beside Uncle Everett. The orange flames glowed softly against the blackened back wall of the fireplace. Uncle Everett took down a dark green book and turned to a picture of Daniel Boone.
“The man was a pioneer. See his coonskin cap and deerskin clothes? He lived off the land and explored this region, and over into Kentucky. You asked about wolves. When he came through here years ago, he and his party spent several nights in caves, right on the Main Street of town. The caves ran under the whole hill, where the big monument stands today. You know the one? The one of the Confederate soldier. The wolves attacked their horses and dogs. After several nights, they had to travel on.”
“Did the wolves eat anybody?”
“Not that I know of. Boone’s men probably skinned the few they killed. In fact, the wolves lived there a long time and weren’t driven off until years later. That’s why the town was called ‘Wolf Hill.’ But I think they were gone by the time the Colonel settled in town. But that was after he built the house where you and Mama live.”
Uncle Everett closed the book and replaced it in a knotty pine bookshelf near the mantle. “Got another surprise,” he said. He opened a drawer beneath the bookcase and produced a small walnut box that sported silver hinges and a silver latch. He placed it in my lap.
“Be careful. Don’t jiggle it or let it fall off.”
I unlatched the box and raised the lid. A collection of hand-struck flint arrowheads lay stacked neatly in rows on a green pad.
“I found everyone of them, right here on the farm. They’re very old and go back a long time.”
I picked up the largest arrowhead with care. Its sharp tip almost pricked my thumb. Its serrated edges were equally sharp. Many smaller but similar ones lay beneath it.
“One day, this will be yours. The whole kit and caboodle! Let’s put it back now, OK?”
As he reopened the drawer, I saw another box: a shiny, cherry box, shoved in the back. “What’s in that?”
“Secret! Big secret! Don’t ever let me catch you in there, unless I tell you! Maybe one day I will.” He forced a smile and patted me on my shoulder.
Early the next morning, we walked through the wet grass to go fishing. All Uncle Everett carried was a short cane stick. He had tied a filament of line on the narrower end and had attached a small hook to that. Along the way, we picked up a few night crawlers and dropped them in a can. We paused in a marshy meadow several yards from the stream. “Shhh! Walk softly. The fish will feel our vibrations. They spook easily,” Uncle Everett said.
Uncle Everett held up the hook. “You put the worm on it,” he whispered. “It’s time you learned how.”
I reached in the can for one of the worms, flinched as I picked up its slimy body, and struggled to spear it on the hook. Its warm digestive track gushed out all over my fingers. I tried not to frown or show fear. I wanted Uncles Everett to be proud of me.
“Good job!” he whispered. “Now watch!” He swung the line out over a deep, but swift, narrow section of the creek. Within seconds, the cane reed wobbled and bent slightly. In a matter of an hour, he caught ten pan-size rainbow trout. To my great horror, he released each. Seeing the disappointment on my face, he simply stated: “We’ve got ham for lunch and apples. The fish can wait another time.”
My spirit sank with incredulity.
That afternoon, he saddled up one of his horses, and we rode up high into the woods that overlooked his farm. Far off in the distance, I could see the town’s spires. Acres and acres of pastureland, hills, and bottomland stretched westward and to the north. Sheep and cattle grazed on the higher hills; milk cows, pigs, and chickens milled about the barnyards below. Several tenants were beginning to plow the land along the creek. Only three other farms were visible. I could see numerous sheds, Uncle Everett’s tin-roofed barns, his pear and apple orchards, and two tobacco beds, protected under long white sheets of cheesecloth.
We rode around a ridge, entangled with thistles, and stopped near a large swath of granite outcroppings. “See that!” Uncle Everett pointed. “That’s where your mother and Pearl will soon be picking strawberries. There’s a wonderful patch just below there.”
He slid off the horse and helped me down. Near a cedar-protected ledge, we sat on a lichen-covered outcropping and ate our picnic of biscuits and apples. “One day this will all be yours,” he gestured toward the silent hills with a sweep of his hand. An estranged and sad countenance filled his eyes. We sat there awhile longer, then remounted and rode back down to the farm.
Chapter Four
That Sunday afternoon, Uncle Everett drove me home. As we approached the house, a yellow taxi pulled out of the drive. I could see my mother and Aunt Rachel in the back seat. Aunt Rachel’s face appeared distorted. My mother was attempting to restrain her. Aunt Rachel clutched a paper bag in both hands; my mother was wiping her face with a blue washcloth. At the same time, Aunt Rachel was fending her off. Her face defied recognition. The cab driver slowed the vehicle and rolled his window down. My mother had a desperate look in her eyes. “Taking her to Marion, to the hospital,” she called from the backseat.
Uncle Everett had rolled his window down. “When will you return?”
“Tonight. Mama will take care of Tommy. Behave, Tommy! Help your grandmother and Pearl. Be a good boy!”
I sat up tall in the seat to get a better look at the cab driver and Aunt Rachel. Aunt Rachel stared at Uncle Everett. A stream of profanity tumbled out of her mouth.
The cab driver winced from under his cap. “Well, Everett, at least I know the way.”
“Yeah!” Uncle Everett replied.
The cab pulled forward and headed into town. We drove on in toward the back of the house. Uncle Everett turned off the truck’s ignition switch and slumped in silence. “Hate for you to see that, Tommy. Your Aunt Rachel’s sick. Come on. We had our fun, didn’t we?”
“Yes, sir. Can we do it again?”
“We’ll see!”
I squirmed out of the truck, but only after Uncle Everett had wrestled open the door.
Both Pearl and my grandmother had come to the screened-in porch. Pearl opened the door as Uncle Everett brought in my valise. It was an old brown-colored cloth piece with leather straps.
“Get in here, boy!” joked Pearl. “You missed all the fun!”
“Hush! What a dreadful thing to say!” my grandmother scolded her. “Oh, Everett, it was horrible! She drank, cursed, and wretched in the commode the entire time. Poor Shaula! I couldn’t bear it any longer. ‘She must go!’ I ordered. ‘Sister or not! Family or not. I will not tolerate her here!’ I am so distraught!”
“Now, Mama, I’m not so perfect myself.”
“Yes! But you’ve reformed. Rachel’s incapable of anything but drunkenness and rage. Just an inveterate alcoholic! Disgusting! Unsettling! Look at me. I’m a nervous wreck!”
“Come on, Mama. Pearl, pour me a cup of coffee and fix this boy somethin’ to eat. We can talk later.”
I don’t remember when my mother returned. Pearl put me to bed shortly after Uncle Everett left. Night came quickly to the farm, as darkness crept out of the Knobs, wrapping the night in its black bituminous shroud.
Aunt Rachel did not return from the sanitarium in Marion for several weeks. Her arrival by taxi created considerable commotion. Aunt Viola happened to be visiting. Uncle Jim had gone into