The Saints of Swallow Hill

by Donna Everhart

her reserved nature didn’t last long, not when Del began to work his charm, because if there was any woman anywhere within eyesight of him, it was as if he couldn’t help himself. He had to know, what was she like?

Meanwhile, Juniper’s wife, Mercy, remained aloof, undiscovered territory, like when he’d venture into a new county and everything was fresh and new to the eye.

He caught the scent of her, lilacs and lust.

His thinking went in another direction as she twirled a strand of brilliant hair, pondering if what lay under her skirt was the same color. Maybe she could interpret he’d had such thoughts, because he caught the change in her expression, a knowledge she was aware she had an effect on him.

Three bins, one for each woman he’d cheated with here.

He sank to his chest, his arms resting on top, futilely clawing at the kernels. It was like treading water; all he was doing was moving them around. The pressure and his descent increased with every exhalation. The corn acted like a vise, clamping down, squeezing tighter for every tiny move he made. The air gave off a distinct musty odor, and the scent made him sick. The corn was restless, relentless, like some freakish living mass that continued to build around him. It had happened so fast, if he became completely buried, how long would it take a six-foot-two-inch man to suffocate? Too long. It was to his neck now. Kernels touched his lips, slid inside his ears. He raised his chin, spit, and gasped. Seconds passed, the pressure on his chest was unyielding. He couldn’t inhale deeply anymore and became so light-headed, he saw stars like he’d hit his head. With his face tipped up, his breathing grew shallow, and he focused on the opening, that small square of blue sky, willing someone, anyone, to appear. Sweat and tears blurred his sight. He wasn’t ready to die.

She admitted, only to herself, she sometimes wondered had he married her because he needed a helping hand.

Everyone had heard of them Hoovervilles, such as they were called, springing up right outside of cities. Crude accommodations barely better than living outside. Nobody wanted to be forced to live like that, but even big landowners couldn’t hang on forever when the bank came calling. Along with soup kitchens, children going without decent clothes and barefoot, everyone was in need.

Desperate, but determined, most weren’t choosy, except with regard to the Cobb turpentine farm, where word had got out working with Warren Cobb could be a foolhardy thing to do. His reputation had made its way around the county like a brush fire out of control. If they were lucky, most went home with mashed this or that, a few with burns, a couple with broken bones. Those who didn’t get hurt, and only had a close call or two, didn’t return, which was saying something.

“Eugene? Naw. He’s busy running that law practice a his. If he ain’t been home in all this time, why you think he’d come now?” “Because he’s your son?”

he said he won’t never coming back, not unless there was something in it for him.” Within a month Warren’s words would come back on him, ringing with truth.

The kernels covered him completely, pressing his flesh from all directions like he’d been locked down by some strange force.

This here’s one lucky son of a gun. God done laid His very hand on him.”

Night came, a black blanket pulled up and over the landscape,

while wishing he had a water bag, like Woot’s, but wishing got him nothing.

Cricket frogs began to burp out their own evening song, and next thing he knew, he was waking up and surprised to see he’d slept through the night.

Del raised a hand in a half wave to the boys and got no reaction. They remained silent as clouds passing overhead. Probably taught to be seen, not heard, like him.

The steady downpour from heavy-bottomed clouds to the west created a dreary view out the kitchen window.

“What if we went there to work for a while, Warren?” Warren dropped her hand and said, “Why would we want to leave here when we got this house? And we got enough work for everyone in the county who wants a job.” Exactly, Rae Lynn thought, and only me and you to do it.

She left his side, certain the gloomy heaviness within the room was Death, watching patiently from a corner.

He came from North Carolina, the state once a prime producer of naval stores.

the industry migrated south to Georgia and Florida like birds do.

All too soon, the longleaf version once so abundant in all the Southern states was decimated, and a lot of the trees ended up on the ground. Wooden corpses. Not from the scarification to create the signature “catfaces,” but from the old technique of...

through, it would sometimes pus...

and wiped his mouth on his shirt sleeve. The kid took off down the path silent as a moth in the night.

Maybe this had been a mistake, but, he was already indebted. Leaving when one owed meant the boss men could do what they wanted. They were law unto themselves—would, and could, do as they pleased.

He’d estimated doing 167 trees per hour sunrise to sunset. He’d make his numbers, and as long as he kept up, he’d do all right, at least this was what he chose to believe.

It took them a long time to get over Bessie. She’d filled a space in their hearts and took that piece with her when she went.

continuing to take in the atmosphere, one that held an air of tension, a suggestion of something about to happen.

The sunset glowed like a long thread of orange laced through the pines, transforming the woods, and making them appear as if they were on fire. The sight gave him a shiver, like he was actually seeing trees burning, and he had a sense of impending doom. It was a feeling he couldn’t shake, so much so his sleep was fitful, and before he knew it, dawn came again.

Assuming fake confidence, she bent over and fiddled with the latches, lifted one side of the hood, and exposed the engine. She stared at the workings, which made about as much sense to her as the innards of a dissected frog,

Now it was Rae Lynn frowning at her. “Ain’t none a your business.” The woman said, “Huh. Reckon your mama ain’t never taught you no manners neither. Young men nowadays ain’t respectful atall.”

he scraped the bills off the counter faster than a robber holding up a bank.

he was becoming aware of an undercurrent, more apparent the longer he was there. It was all a smokescreen, like stepping in quicksand. That was what the camp was, quicksand. The more you struggled to free yourself, the deeper you went. Like the grain bin.

he noticed the inside was in worse shape than his, but Cobb had done something different most men wouldn’t ever think to do. He’d stuck a bunch of wildflowers in a mug and set them in the center of his small, broken-down table.

Her heart bumped unevenly, and her mouth turned the kind of dry no amount of water would cure.

she quickly descended to where she was most comfortable now, a serene area of soft dreams where no pain, thirst, or hunger were allowed.

She barely moved, if at all, and the only part of her that did was her heart rate, which grew more erratic and rapid. She was well into her second day and no longer fully conscious. She hovered between the here and there, her mind delivering only one persistent, yet clear message to the rest of her body: I am dying.

Del held back. There was no need to get into a competition of last words with Otis. What a pair him and Crow were. Del couldn’t imagine what made people like them so hateful.

Del wouldn’t have minded a good home-cooked meal, but not while sitting at the same table with Otis, who was as congenial as a snarling bear.

Otis reminded him of the bad smells he’d tried to get rid of, unsuccessfully, back at number forty-two. No matter how hard he tried, they remained, steadfast and annoying.

It wasn’t that he was ugly, only his ways. Maybe he’d charmed her, until she’d married him, and then changed. It happened.

Poor Cornelia. She hadn’t chosen good husband material. Cornelia mumbled sometimes as if she were alone. “The mess I have to put up with. Acts like a spoiled child!”

Some other part of her had broke off and got left behind, even as she was lifted from out of it, saved by a man named Del Reese. This was punishment for what she’d done.

She said, “Peewee might say it’s my own fault. You know, lying to him and all.” Cornelia turned a sage eye to her and said, “I bet you had your reasons. We always do what we have to do, what’s necessary, don’t we?” Women folk, is who Cornelia meant. They were most often the ones to bend, sometimes until they broke. Or got broken.

“I ain’t so sure everyone would agree it’s such a good idea.” “Oh. Otis.” Rae Lynn gave her an apologetic look. Cornelia said, “Let’s see what he says after he eats what you fixed here. One of the best ways to a man’s heart is good cooking. My own mama said so.” Well, that right there was a problem. You had to have a heart to begin with, but Rae Lynn kept that thought to herself.

“That’s what I’m talking about. That right there.” Del said, “What?” “Something’s off with them two.” Del mumbled, “You’re one to talk.” He went inside and shut his door, bothered by the man’s need to find trouble where there was none.

Said my place was with my husband now. Shoot, Rae Lynn. How can a man be so different one day and then like somebody you never met the next? He won’t always like this, least not right away.

He loved to hear himself. He’d go on and on about his daring accomplishments until Rae Lynn had a headache, and Cornelia dared to speak up. “Otis, honey, it’s getting on late. Save some stories for another time.”

Chickens clucked and pigs rooted, but otherwise, the camp had quietly died, its lifeblood withdrawing, the same way blood withdraws to the center of the body when dying.