The Night the Mayflower Burned to the Ground
"Ethan! Ethan get the cart!"
Horace looked forward to Saturday night all week long. Not that drinking was reserved for one night a week. A tip of hard shine or a beer was an ongoing part of life. Saturday "drinking out" was the one means of sociability in this back woods hum drum existence.
People like Ethan and his Father lived in shacks, clumped together in enclaves, tucked away along back country roads boardering farmland and stands of scrub pine. Saltboxers they were called. Not after the saltbox style of the old Cape Cod cottage; but more like shanties covered in tar paper. Saltboxers were mostly family groups with alot of close marrying and the folks reflected that. Their world was small; but the people were passionate in love and in hate.
Horace was a tall man with rheumy blue eyes. His wife Bette was dead; but in life she had been considered pretty. Dark hair and eyes. She wasn't from the Saltbox, but Hogtown, some twelve miles North. So Ethan had more color than alot of his peers. He was quite handsome at fourteen in fact and the girls liked him.
As far as the neighbors knew Bette had died an accidental death while on a visit to her folks. She just never came home. Ethan was four at the time. He had gone with his Mother to visit his Grandparents and Aunt up to Hogtown. Only he returned when Horace went to bring them home. Altho Ethan was quickly hustled into the house, the shacks were closely situated and some of the neighbors saw the bruises and cuts on Ethan. The cheerful pretty child became dour after that and people didn't ask questions. They just figured it had to do with his Mother's accident.
Horace was never pleasant to begin with, but after Bette's death he became even drunker and more wrathful. Bette had been the one bright spot in his sour world. People gave him a wide path, especially when he was drunk.
It was into the 1950's and people did have cast off cars and farm trucks; but on Saturday night they left them behind because they knew they would be way too drunk to drive home. Not that they had any regard for the life and limb of themselves or anyone else, but because they prized their vehicles. Besides the pony carts were tradition.
It was nearly five p.m. when Ethan led the pony from his small coral behind the shack and hitched him to the home made cart. Nearly every family had a pony cart. Some were gaily painted and had been passed down through the generations of a family. Horace's was plain and boxy. Ethan brought the pony and cart around and Horace heaved himself aboard. Father and Son set off for a night of hard drinking. Along the rural roads they drove; cars passing them with children craning their necks at the sight. Strange rigs like some apparition from the past.
After about seven miles North they turned off the hard road onto a cart path into the swamp. The pony well knew the way in as well as out, hours later, when they were too drunk to navigate themselves home. Going on six thirty the cart pulled into the yard of a large barn. Other carts were already there. Only a few old rusty edged tin beer signs nailed to the wall gave away the fact that this wasn't just another old barn but The Mayflower. A place for drinking and dancing and flirting; frequented by the rural poor and once in a while a few brave young people who went to gawk at these people ; a remnant of a time soon passed. Inside the place was decorated with every manner of antique farm implement nailed to the walls and the ceiling. Hell even an old pony cart was suspended from the rafters. An accumulation of years and years since before prohibition. An old jukebox offered a mixture of music also spanning decades. On Saturday nights some of the locals brought instruments and played the old songs for country dancing.
A knot of young people loitered around the door.
"Hello Ethan" a pretty young girl flirted. The drinking age started about twelve here, along with sexual encounters. Ethan turned red and dropped his gaze to the dirt. Then he followed his Father inside. Once inside Horace sat at the bar which was built along a side wall and ordered a whiskey for himself and a beer for Ethan. Ethan took his drink and went off to sit in a corner near the jukebox. There he stayed all evening, getting up only for more beer. He watched the other young people dance and flirt. He watched his Father get shit faced drunk.
Now feuds are not just the stuff of Southern legend. They are real. Especially among the poor uneducated people in any woods who have little else to sustain them. The Mayflower was located nearer to Hogtown than the Saltbox. Almost every week there would be a fight in the Mayflower yard over some infraction of local decorum either real or imagined. This raw undercurrent was always present and grew hotter, more volatile, as the alcohol haze thickened with the night. Police didn't go there unless they were off duty and part of the mix.
For a few years after Bette's death, Horace didn't go to the Mayflower. Instead he sat at home and drank. Ethan was still little. Once the boy was old enough for beer they began the weekly trip. It didn't take Ethan long to notice the feud between Horace and Walter. Walter was a cop who tended bar for extra cash at the Mayflower. Walter was also a Hogtowner who considered himself better than most because of his job. Walter was also Bette's cousin.
Ethan would watch his Father start to pick a fight with Walter after the fifth or sixth whiskey. Many nights ended up with them rolling around in the yard in a drunken brawl. This night, hot and sticky in late August, Horace was particularly aggressive and nasty. It was the anniversary of Bette's death. About eleven o'clock Walter left his post as bartender and started to match Horace shot for shot. Ethan grew nervous and went outside for some air. He sat in their cart and watched the young people in the yard stealing kisses and wondering off into the trees. About midnight he went back inside to try to convince his Father to go on home. He couldn't see Horace and he didn't see Walter either. He sat. Then he went back to the cart to wait and dozed off. Ethan began to dream. In his dream he was being pulled hard by the arms by his Grandmother. He could feel himself trying to thrash his way out of her grip. He cut himself on her nails. He dreamt of hearing angry shouts.
"It was you!"
"It was you who killed my Bette! You killed her because she loved me more and she left you!"
A lantern was hurled at one man by the other. "I'll kill you- you son of a bitch- like you killed her!"
Ethan woke with a start to see flames engulfing the Mayflower. People were rushing out into the yard screaming. Flames quickly swallowed up the old oil soaked wood.
Ethan tried to shake his head clear but he couldn't figure out if the angry voice had belonged to Walter or his Father.
Sunday morning the fire was the talk of every surrounding town. Everyone drove out to see the smoldering pile of barn planks. A half burned pony cart stuck up through the pile. Neither Horace or Walter was ever seen alive again.
Horace looked forward to Saturday night all week long. Not that drinking was reserved for one night a week. A tip of hard shine or a beer was an ongoing part of life. Saturday "drinking out" was the one means of sociability in this back woods hum drum existence.
People like Ethan and his Father lived in shacks, clumped together in enclaves, tucked away along back country roads boardering farmland and stands of scrub pine. Saltboxers they were called. Not after the saltbox style of the old Cape Cod cottage; but more like shanties covered in tar paper. Saltboxers were mostly family groups with alot of close marrying and the folks reflected that. Their world was small; but the people were passionate in love and in hate.
Horace was a tall man with rheumy blue eyes. His wife Bette was dead; but in life she had been considered pretty. Dark hair and eyes. She wasn't from the Saltbox, but Hogtown, some twelve miles North. So Ethan had more color than alot of his peers. He was quite handsome at fourteen in fact and the girls liked him.
As far as the neighbors knew Bette had died an accidental death while on a visit to her folks. She just never came home. Ethan was four at the time. He had gone with his Mother to visit his Grandparents and Aunt up to Hogtown. Only he returned when Horace went to bring them home. Altho Ethan was quickly hustled into the house, the shacks were closely situated and some of the neighbors saw the bruises and cuts on Ethan. The cheerful pretty child became dour after that and people didn't ask questions. They just figured it had to do with his Mother's accident.
Horace was never pleasant to begin with, but after Bette's death he became even drunker and more wrathful. Bette had been the one bright spot in his sour world. People gave him a wide path, especially when he was drunk.
It was into the 1950's and people did have cast off cars and farm trucks; but on Saturday night they left them behind because they knew they would be way too drunk to drive home. Not that they had any regard for the life and limb of themselves or anyone else, but because they prized their vehicles. Besides the pony carts were tradition.
It was nearly five p.m. when Ethan led the pony from his small coral behind the shack and hitched him to the home made cart. Nearly every family had a pony cart. Some were gaily painted and had been passed down through the generations of a family. Horace's was plain and boxy. Ethan brought the pony and cart around and Horace heaved himself aboard. Father and Son set off for a night of hard drinking. Along the rural roads they drove; cars passing them with children craning their necks at the sight. Strange rigs like some apparition from the past.
After about seven miles North they turned off the hard road onto a cart path into the swamp. The pony well knew the way in as well as out, hours later, when they were too drunk to navigate themselves home. Going on six thirty the cart pulled into the yard of a large barn. Other carts were already there. Only a few old rusty edged tin beer signs nailed to the wall gave away the fact that this wasn't just another old barn but The Mayflower. A place for drinking and dancing and flirting; frequented by the rural poor and once in a while a few brave young people who went to gawk at these people ; a remnant of a time soon passed. Inside the place was decorated with every manner of antique farm implement nailed to the walls and the ceiling. Hell even an old pony cart was suspended from the rafters. An accumulation of years and years since before prohibition. An old jukebox offered a mixture of music also spanning decades. On Saturday nights some of the locals brought instruments and played the old songs for country dancing.
A knot of young people loitered around the door.
"Hello Ethan" a pretty young girl flirted. The drinking age started about twelve here, along with sexual encounters. Ethan turned red and dropped his gaze to the dirt. Then he followed his Father inside. Once inside Horace sat at the bar which was built along a side wall and ordered a whiskey for himself and a beer for Ethan. Ethan took his drink and went off to sit in a corner near the jukebox. There he stayed all evening, getting up only for more beer. He watched the other young people dance and flirt. He watched his Father get shit faced drunk.
Now feuds are not just the stuff of Southern legend. They are real. Especially among the poor uneducated people in any woods who have little else to sustain them. The Mayflower was located nearer to Hogtown than the Saltbox. Almost every week there would be a fight in the Mayflower yard over some infraction of local decorum either real or imagined. This raw undercurrent was always present and grew hotter, more volatile, as the alcohol haze thickened with the night. Police didn't go there unless they were off duty and part of the mix.
For a few years after Bette's death, Horace didn't go to the Mayflower. Instead he sat at home and drank. Ethan was still little. Once the boy was old enough for beer they began the weekly trip. It didn't take Ethan long to notice the feud between Horace and Walter. Walter was a cop who tended bar for extra cash at the Mayflower. Walter was also a Hogtowner who considered himself better than most because of his job. Walter was also Bette's cousin.
Ethan would watch his Father start to pick a fight with Walter after the fifth or sixth whiskey. Many nights ended up with them rolling around in the yard in a drunken brawl. This night, hot and sticky in late August, Horace was particularly aggressive and nasty. It was the anniversary of Bette's death. About eleven o'clock Walter left his post as bartender and started to match Horace shot for shot. Ethan grew nervous and went outside for some air. He sat in their cart and watched the young people in the yard stealing kisses and wondering off into the trees. About midnight he went back inside to try to convince his Father to go on home. He couldn't see Horace and he didn't see Walter either. He sat. Then he went back to the cart to wait and dozed off. Ethan began to dream. In his dream he was being pulled hard by the arms by his Grandmother. He could feel himself trying to thrash his way out of her grip. He cut himself on her nails. He dreamt of hearing angry shouts.
"It was you!"
"It was you who killed my Bette! You killed her because she loved me more and she left you!"
A lantern was hurled at one man by the other. "I'll kill you- you son of a bitch- like you killed her!"
Ethan woke with a start to see flames engulfing the Mayflower. People were rushing out into the yard screaming. Flames quickly swallowed up the old oil soaked wood.
Ethan tried to shake his head clear but he couldn't figure out if the angry voice had belonged to Walter or his Father.
Sunday morning the fire was the talk of every surrounding town. Everyone drove out to see the smoldering pile of barn planks. A half burned pony cart stuck up through the pile. Neither Horace or Walter was ever seen alive again.
posted by minniepeckham at 2:29 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home