The Saints of Swallow Hill(24)

The subject of their conversation rode up and the men quit talking. As Crow called out names near various drifts to be worked, each hand hopped off the back and disappeared into the woods, until only Del, Gus, and Crow were left. Dandy Boy swung a wide circle to turn around, and Crow pointed to the area where Del would begin. He slid off the back, and as the wagon went by, Gus shot him a look he couldn’t interpret before disappearing down the path where he would haul gum to the distillery for the rest of the day. Crow followed Del into the woods, his gaze on the treetops, and his voice took on a different tone. Softer. Thoughtful.

“I read not too long ago how some trees don’t touch one another at the top, and if you look up, you can see a blue sky river cutting through the green.”

Del looked up, but the waving tops of pines revealed no sky river.

Crow said, “It’s a new finding. They got a name for it. Crown shyness.”

Del started to repeat the words, but Crow cut him off, still reflecting on what he’d learned.

“Trees of the same age and type don’t touch the branches of other trees at the top. It’s the order of nature, see. They think it’s ’cause healthy trees are trying to avoid the spread of disease that might damage them. Ain’t it something?”

Del said, “I guess.”

Del didn’t know what he was after, so he kept his answer vague. Crow snorted, giving his opinion of Del’s response.

“Every living creature knows to protect its species. Even the damn trees. I ain’t into muddying the waters. The white race needs to remain strong.”

Del said nothing.

Crow said, “Where’d you do work before here?”

Del said, “Clinch County.”

Crow said, “You work with the nigras there?”

“No.”

Crow leaned back in his saddle and spit a stream of brown tobacco juice on the ground, while he contemplated Del, who only wanted to get to work.

He said, “What you reckon about them nowadays?”

Del shrugged. “Who?”

“The nigras, what’s your opinion of them?”

“Just trying to get along like everybody else, I reckon.”

Crow folded his hands across the pommel and stared off into the woods.

He said, “Some seventy years ago when Lincoln wrote that emancipation shit, boy, that done it. It ain’t been the same since. One thing’s certain. It don’t count for nothing, not in these woods. I like keeping things as nature intended. We got to remain elevated, see. Stay clean, and pure.”

Crow leaned forward all of a sudden and whispered, “You ain’t one a them lowly nigra lovers, are you?”

Del started to back away, looking over his shoulder.

He raised his hands and said, “I won’t looking for nothing but a job. I ought to get started.”

“Yeah, you do that. Wouldn’t want you to fall behind or make no mistake or nothing. Trouble likes to visit when that happens.”

He gave Del a humorless smile before moving on.

Del chipped quickly, then called out “Butler!” and hurried to the next longleaf, thinking Crow a troublesome, odd man.

Several days passed without incident. Occasionally he’d catch the boss man out of the corner of his eye watching him. Del was efficient and fast, made his numbers, and he wasn’t worried. Knowing how Crow thought didn’t keep him from trying to make friends at Swallow Hill, either. To hell with him. He’d speak to who he wanted, when he wanted. The coloreds were cautious, filled with distrust whenever he tried to strike up a conversation. Del noted Crow had a tendency to appear out of nowhere, overly interested in Del’s attempts at being friendly.

At one point, Crow said, “Who taught you this work?”

Del looked him in the eye and said, “Colored man by the name of Mr. Leroy.”

Nobody had minded nine-year-old Del tagging along, asking questions about whatever came to mind. Not Pap, nor his granddaddy. They were busy overseeing the crops of trees assigned to them. Some said Mr. Leroy had been close to a hundred years old when he’d taught young Del about chipping a tree too deep, explaining how it could ruin it for future gum collection. He’d demonstrated how making a scrape too wide affected the running sap. About having to get the “scrape,” a job nobody really liked, when after some period of time the sap would dry, and workers had to, as implied, scrape it off. It was Mr. Leroy’s wife who gave Del his first taste of “dooby,” a meal made of wild meat, like squirrel or raccoon, onions and cornbread.

Crow said, “Your daddy didn’t teach you.”

Del said, “No.”

Crow said, “Maybe that’s your problem.”

It worried Del, but he tried not to let it. One afternoon Crow started looking at the crop Del was working. Del was confident he was doing a good job, so he kept chipping, calling out, and moving on as he finished.

Crow approached him and said, “Stop.”

Del shielded his eyes from the sun as he looked up at the man astride his horse. Crow stuck his thumb over his shoulder.

“You missed some back there.”

“Huh? I ain’t missed none.”

“Yeah, you did.”

“Where?”

Del backtracked to check the longleaf, and he’d not missed a one. Crow followed, his expression conniving.