Lisa Nowatzki

. Cherry Bounce Sometimes, it’s the gray areas that define your life, at least that’s true for me. Thanks to my daddy, I was a twenty-three-year-old man with a third-grade education. I only knew how to do one perfect thing, and it was illegal. I never thought my way of living was wrong; now I know different. Since I was slow at book learning, making and selling Cherry Bounce was the only way I could help the family. I never hurt nobody, ‘cept once. That was enough. I learned how to support Momma and the babies when I was young. I kept food on the table, clothes on their backs, and the back porch full of firewood during the winter. There was thirteen of us - Mama, Daddy, and eleven kids. I was the oldest. Daddy wasn’t too much for working, even on his good days. And on his bad days, whew-wee! Watch out! There was hell to pay if he could get his hands on you. It didn’t matter who he was a beatin’ or why he was a beatin’ you, or what he was a beatin’ you with. I learned to stay out of his way when I was a little’un, though sometimes I would have to step in to protect Mamma or one of the young’uns from him. When Daddy was drinkin’, the devil took a hold of his soul and wouldn’t let go until he hurt somebody. I didn’t mind too much, him hurtin’ me, especially if Mama and the babies were safe. Most times I was tougher than Daddy. He would get tired of beatin’ on me and go sleep it off somewhere in the woods, back behind our cabin. ‘Bout the only time I know’d Daddy to get the best of me was when I was a young no more’n twelve. I don’t remember much about what happened after Daddy hit me, except what Mamma and Ol’ Doc Perkins told me. I do remember that morning being particularly cold. Daddy was still missing from the night before. We never worried about him, though. He always turned up sooner or later. My Mamma had been up all night, keeping the fire hot in the wood stove and a big pot of water boilin’. Two of the babies had the croup, and the moist air helped them breathe better. Mamma was dog-tired like she always was. I was doing all I could to ease her burden. I went out back to chop some more kindlin’ to start a fire in the kitchen stove to cook some country ham and grits for the babies’ breakfast. While I was busy chopping, my Daddy drug up. I could tell he had been sleepin’ back behind the cabin somewhere. He had dried brown pieces of leaves in his hair and beard. I must have woke him up with the noise I was making cuttin’ wood. I didn’t see the red in his eyes; I didn’t notice the pounding vein on his right temple. I ignored all the warning signs. “Hey Boy, what you doin’ making all that racket for?” Daddy asked. “Need some more firewood inside,” I said as I cut more wood. “Leave it be, boy. That’s woman’s work. Your Mamma is a strong woman. I need your help up at the still,” Daddy said quiet like. “Yes, sir.” I should have stopped right there. For some reason, I didn’t see the Devil sitting back watching me from behind Daddy’s bloodshot eyes. “Daddy, can I take this firewood in to Mamma, so she won’t have to come outside in this cold?” “What’d you say to me, boy?” Daddy asked quite like as he walked over to the pile of stovewood. “Can I finish….?” was all I said afore Daddy hit me in the head with a good-sized stick of stovewood. I think he must have kicked me some too. Like I said I don’t remember what happened. Mamma said I was in bad shape for a while. Everyone thought I was going to meet my Maker. Daddy did more’n just crack my skull. Doc Perkins said when Daddy hit me with the chunk of stove-wood, he broke my head somehow. Mamma cried when I woke up, three weeks later. And she cried again when I couldn’t remember her or Daddy or the babies. I guess I was like a baby myself. I had to learn how to eat, how to walk and how to talk again. Even Ol’ Doc Perkins said I was different - slower than I was afore Daddy hit me. Daddy pretty much ended my school learning the day he hit, so Mamma said. When Daddy was liquored up, he would still whale on me, though he never hit me on the head again. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- “Sometimes, it’s the gray areas that define your life,” that’s what that lady reporter said to me before she left. What does that mean, Charlie?” “Some folks believe there are only two sides to life – like right or wrong or good or bad or black or white. Then others think life is a sight more complicated, that black and white run together. That some things can be good and bad at the same time.” “Like what, Charlie?” “Well, like when you and your daddy used to make and sell cherry bounce. That was good because you made money to help your mamma and the babies have a better life. It was bad because selling untaxed; homemade liquor is against the law. So, you were doing both good and bad, black and white. When black and white mix, you get the color gray.” “That sure is me, then. I think I mostly lived in the gray areas. I done wrong, and now, Charlie. I got to pay like everybody else.” “I hear Richard, coming with your supper. What did you order for tonight?” “I asked to have some of Mamma’s fried chicken with mashed potatoes, gravy, and two of her biscuits. Oh, and a gallon of her sweet tea.” “Our mommas may be sisters, but your momma makes the best fried chicken in three counties. Don’t you tell nobody. I wouldn’t want to hurt Momma’s feelings.” “Don’t worry, Charlie. I won’t say a word.” “Too true, Hey-Boy, too true.” “Hey-Boy! Who are you talking to in there?” “I’m talking to Charlie, Richard. I don’t reckon anyone else wants to talk to me.” “Your momma sent up the supper you asked for. It sure smells good. I got the old card table so you can eat out here in the open. You won’t have to hunch and stoop over. Use my desk-chair to sit on, Hey-Boy. I hate to, but I got to put you back in the cell when you are done eating. If you need anything, just holler up to me.” “Thank you, Richard. Hey, Charlie? You still there?” “Yea.” “You remember when we were little, and you saved my life?” “I sure do, Hey-Boy, and I remember that rope you made me, too.” “We were playing cowboys and Indians out by the old mine on the back side of our ridge. You were the cowboy, and I was the Indian. You always carried around that rope lasso. “I knew you didn’t have a real rope, so I collected scraps of cloth for a whole year from most anyone that would give me their old patches or quilt blocks. My momma sewed them scraps into three long pieces and made me enough to braid together.” “When you gave me the braided rope for Christmas, it was the year we turned twelve. I thought it was made of gold. I played with it until the threads wore clean out,” Charlie sighed and smiled with a far off look in face. “You saved my life that next summer when we was playing out on the backside of Cherry Ridge. When I fell into a sinkhole, I thought I was a gonner. I’ll never know how you used that braided lasso to pull me out even though I was fifty pounds heavier than you. And you hurt yourself, too. You remember that, Charlie? Even though you pull me out of that hole, you dislocated your right shoulder.” “I remember Hey-Boy. It wasn’t your fault, Hey-Boy. It wasn’t nobody’s fault.” “Ol’ Doc Perkins tried to set it back straight, but something healed wrong. I knowd your shoulders always been stiff, and it’s hard for you to lift your arm. You didn’t let it stop you from being deputy sheriff, though.” “I know some of the folks around town think I wear my gun holster way down low on my hip because I’m trying to imitate a gunslinger from the old cowboy movies we use to watch at my house, but they didn’t know about my shoulder.” “I know you was never a showoff, and you was never reckless with a gun, Charlie. You never complained, and you never blamed me for hurting your shoulder. My whole life you never done one bad thing.” -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Remembering back now, times weren’t all bad, though. I had a lot of fun running up and down these mountains with my best friend, Charlie Minx. Most folks round here did not know Charlie the way I know’d him. We was childhood friends and cousins. Mamma and Charlie’s Mamma, Charlene was first cousins. Charlie’s daddy, Errol Minx, was a tinkerer. He rode around from town to town and house to house on their old white mule, Jasper. Mr. Minx looked for pots to mend, wagon wheels to fix, and anything else that was broken, he would try his hand at fixin. I loved visiting Charlie when we was kids. His house was quiet, peaceful like. Different than my house. My momma was always quiet but busy. And I never seen her smile. Mrs. Minx was never still, either; she was sewing or baking something sweet or cleaning something. And she always smiled, especially when Charlie’s daddy told her how pretty she was. Mr. Minx always had something mighty interestin’ he was fixin’ or a mendin’. Some of the contraptions Mr. Minx fixed was simple, and I recognized them. One time Mr. Minx mended Daddy’s big kettle drum from the ‘shine still. Another time, Mr. Minx fixed Mamma’s cast iron cornbread pan. Other times I couldn’t tell what Mr. Minx was working on, complicated things with lots of small pieces and parts. Charlie was smart. He always knew what his daddy was working on. He tried to learn me sometimes, but I just wasn’t no good at it. My Daddy was another story. About the only good thing Daddy done was show me how to make ‘shine, corn liquor to others. Daddy learned the recipe from an old-timer that lived over on the next ridge, just south of our cherry orchard, and he passed the recipe on down to me. Despite all my daddy’s faults, he was a real artist when it came to making corn liquor. He would add some the cherries from our orchard and a little bit of wild clover honey to each jar. When he got through with a batch, it was heaven. I once heard a man say Daddy’s ‘shine “would sing pure high notes of perfection that rolled off your tongue and kissed your belly good morning.” The words made my daddy laugh and I never forgot that. Most folks said you could tell who was drinking Daddy’s recipe cause they had a little bounce in their step. That’s why he called his ‘shine Cherry Bounce. I say Daddy’s ‘shine, but truth is I’d been making all of the Cherry Bounce since I was fifteen. It takes a lot of hard work to make moonshine, and making good ‘shine is even harder. Then there is the revenuers. Anyone who makes untaxed white liquor knows the risk. The last time the revenuers caught Daddy, he spent six months in jail. When Daddy came home, after serving his time, his heart just wasn’t in making corn liquor anymore. After prison, he seemed to concentrate all his efforts on drinking liquor than making it. Teaching me to make his ’shine was about the only time I knew my daddy to give me his approval. “Hey Boy, come here,” he said to me. “Now, taste that.” I took the mason jar he offered me and sipped a little. The bite prevented me from saying anything. “Ain’t that sweet tastin’? I can do no better,” he said. That was when I took over and started making our recipe. Daddy taught me good, so we never lost any customers. The family seemed to thrive when I made the cherry bounce. Mamma and the babies always had food and milk. We had extra spending money sometimes, so I paid a woman to come help Mamma once a week. I made enough cherry bounce to keep Daddy’s drinking habit satisfied. He still had a mean streak a mile wide, but he didn’t hurt nobody when he was drunk. Things were looking up. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Some folks say Charlie wasn’t doing his job because he didn’t arrest me. He was a deputy sheriff, and he knew I made moonshine. But that ain’t so. Charlie knew what I made and sold Cherry Bounce, but he never knew where my still was. Most folks didn’t know that a long time ago when Charlie first became a deputy, we both agreed that if Charlie ever found my still, he could arrest me and I would go without a fuss. Our agreement worked out fine, that is until the day Charlie died. I was at the still with Daddy; Young Jem came running up the hill. “Hey Boy! The revenuer men are coming up the back side of the orchard. They’s on the old loggin’ trail, sneaking right quiet like,” Jem said. “Jem, you get on down to Mamma and fetch Mister Marshall Hicks, the lawyer, and meet me down at the courthouse in about an hour,” I said. The revenuers knew who I was, and where my still was. I couldn’t do nothing but wait for them to get here and arrest me. Daddy was sleeping off another long night of cuddling with the Cherry Bounce inside the little lean-to I used to sleep in when I had to stay up all night with the still. Mountain folks know there is all kinds of wildlife in these mountains. Everybody has a shotgun or rifle nearby to keep the dangerous critters away. I didn’t want nobody getting hurt, and I knew the government men would be armed. I got Daddy’s 30-30 rifle and unloaded it. I didn’t want him to wake up and accidentally shoot me or the revenuers. I made sure my Winchester was unloaded and in plain view, where everybody could see it, I went to the top of the ridge. I looked down to see how much longer I had to wait before the revenue men got to us. Not long. As I walked back down the hill, I saw Daddy jump up and scramble over to my camping chair by the fire. I was about to yell to him to run on home because the revenuers were coming, then I saw three Sheriff’s deputies walking up from the holler, near the old copper mine entrance. They were all armed, too. Charlie was leading the way. He had finally found my still. I raised my hands and smiled at Charlie across the way. He smiled back and winked at me. We both know he had caught me fair and square. Distracted by Charlie catching me, I forgot about my rifle. When Charlie and the other two deputies stepped into the clearing in front of the still, Daddy saw ‘em. He jumped up and grabbed my old Winchester. I tried to stop him. “Daddy, no!” I yelled. Charlie’s gun was raised, too. I didn’t think, I just acted. I pulled out my .38 from my side holster that I hadn’t had time to empty and shot Charlie before he killed Daddy. I dropped my gun and ran over to Charlie and dropped down on my knees. I pulled him to me and pressed down on the hole in his chest to stop the blood from coming out. “NO! NO! NO!” I didn’t know what to do. “Somebody help him!” Charlie looked up at me and smiled. “I found you this time, and I caught you fair and square,” he said as the life left his body. “You sure did.” I softly whispered to him. I held Charlie and rocked him back and forth until the revenuers got there. It took five of them to pull me away. Deputy Charlie Minx and my best friend was dead. Daddy wasn’t charged with anything since I admitted that the still was mine, and I admitted to shooting my best friend. I was guilty of shooting and killin’ poor Charlie, and I told the judge so, too. My lawyer, Mister Hicks, said I was not responsible for Charlie’s death. He said I had a diminished capacity and was not legally responsible for my actions. I didn’t see it that way. I was responsible. The truth is the truth. Me killing Charlie and going to jail was hard on the family, too. Mamma died not long after I went to jail. I think her heart was broke. Daddy wasn’t the same; he lost the will to live. According to Young Jem, Daddy stays at the still, but he don’t drink no more. He is just wasting away. The youngest babies went to live with Mamma’s sister over in Asheville. Young Jem is my only visitor; he comes to see me every week, on Sundays. He’s learning how to make Cherry Bounce from Daddy. I made Young Jem promise to stay in school and to help take care of Charlie Minx’s baby girl, Emma. I wish I could do more. Tomorrow, the State will send me to meet my maker. My last request? I would like to take the Lord a little Cherry Bounce. I think He would approve.