Readers,
Even though I've been hard at work getting 'Father and Son' edited and ready to be published, I've had this story nagging at me for a while. I never had much regard for fairy tales retold, but I figure that sometimes it can be interesting. That is what this is. I'll be releasing parts of 'Jamison' every month or so on this blog. It's a retelling of Aladdin, set during the great depression/prohibition era in south-eastern Tennessee'. I hope you enjoy this preview.
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Jamison
He put the brown
linen sack in the back of the truck and shut the tailgate. A puff of dust rose
and the hot wind carried it away. The sun had beat down on the land since first
light. Now it was beginning to sink below the horizon and he knew he didn’t
have much time left. He needed to get back to the house before night fell. He
pushed his waist band lower on his hips, one thumb digging into his lower
belly. He was skinny and the flesh of his stomach stretched from rib to rib
without so much as a muscle between. His arms were wiry from throwing straw and
shooting. He was stuck someplace between a boy and a man, and at twenty-three,
it was a difficult thing.
He kicked the tire
of the Ford with his boot and went to the door and jerked it open. The truck
creaked as he slid behind the wheel and reached for the flask in the consul. He
needed to make a stop in town before going home and he was burning daylight.
The truck started and he put it in gear and pulled out of the field. The road
kicked up a lot of dust, reminding him of the merciless drought that had
stretched on forever.
Back at the house
his mother, Sarah-Jane, would be bent over the stove. Her lank hair would be
pasted to her neck with perspiration and she would be wiping it away with her
forearm. Baby Susan would be laying on the floor, trying to soak up some
coolness. He ran a hand over his face to clear the sweat from his eyes and
slowed the truck as he pulled into town. He parked it before the Methodist
church and got out, rounding to take the sack from the bed. Before he pulled it
out he scanned the road to make sure no one watched him. Then he walked with
the sack into the general store.
Bertie Jones was
seated behind the counter. He was a large man with a walrus mustache and a stubbled jaw. There was always a thick layer of foamy perspiration gathered in his fat
neck that kept him smelling like sour milk. The young man crossed the wooden
floor and laid the sack before Bertie, who pulled his heavy body from the
stool.
“Hey, you, Jamison,
what you think bringing that through the front,” he said.
“I don’t got time
to wait for night,” Jamison said. “Ma is expecting me and I got to get back.”
“How much?” Bertie
asked, thick fingers feeling at the bag.
“Ten quarts,”
Jamison said. “Purified.”
“I don’t need no
purified,” said Bertie. “No man in this town cares about that. But I’ll take
it.”
“How’s the other
suppliers?” said Jamison. Bertie counted out the money into his dirty palm and
he pocketed it.
“Not good,” said
Bertie. He stowed the back behind the counter and leaned uncomfortably close to
Jamison.
“Johnston boys?
They out of business?” Jamison said. He kept his neck craned and one eye on the
door in case they were interrupted.
“Sheriff busted
them up. Said the hand of the Lord reformed him or some such,” said Bertie. “You
and Nell’s kids are my last suppliers, but demand is up. Can you get me more
than this?”
“Crops are coming
in and I can’t leave Ma,” said Jamison.
“Is your Pa back?”
said Bertie.
Jamison ran a hand
under his nose to clear the sweat and shook his head. “Oil fields can keep a
man out a long time,” he said. “I ain’t considering no other possibility.”
“Listen, I need my
spirits,” said Bertie.
“Listen, I gotta
take care of my Ma and my sister until my Pa gets back. I will try and get you
more, but I ain’t promising nothing,” said Jamison. He turned and walked
towards the shop door, but turned before stepping outside. “Nothing, you hear.
And I want my bag back next time I’m through here.”
“You’re a hard
man,” said Bertie.
Jamison bummed a
cigarette off the man sitting on the curb and headed towards the post office.
No one was on the street except for vagrants, of which there were plenty. The
depression had hit hard in south-eastern Tennessee and Jamison had been hard-pressed
to find any work. His father had left a year after the stock market crashed,
heading out west to work in the oil fields. Jamison didn’t know much about oil
fields, but he didn’t see any other men shipping out. His mother had him stop
by the post office each night to check for a letter from her absent husband,
but Jamison never returned with one. His mother might be optimistic, but
Jamison held out little hope that his father would return. It had made him
angry when he had realized his father's abandonment. Now he didn’t care. He was man enough to care
for his mother and sister.
Thanks for reading! Please share.
