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Bourbon Legends |
| Written by Andrew B. Finch | |
| Saturday, 12 January 2008 | |
Maybe it was just because I was young and liked to talk to an adult without being patronized, or because I liked hearing someone swear so much and not care, but I never turned down an opportunity to hear a porch-side story. Sometimes, I would have no idea what he was talking about (what eight year old knows what a 'tart' is, or why they would 'smell like a pile of dead cod'), but I listened anyway, because I loved how he told his stories. It was a warm, dry afternoon in August when my parents dropped me off at Grandpa's while they headed out to dinner and a movie. I was ten now, and starting to feel grown up, but didn't mind being babysat, as long as there was a good story in it for me. As usual, Grandpa sat on the porch, rocking away, with a clean glass for him and a fresh pack of gum for me. I walked up the slate path and took a seat three steps up on the old splintered wooden porch, with my back to the same notched post I always did. Each notch in the post, accompanied by an age, marked my growth over the years, as the post opposite it marked my father's, when he was a boy. Without a greeting, Grandpa tossed me the pack of gum and poured himself a glass three fingers deep. He downed a fair amount, sighing as he set the glass down, as if it were cool lemonade. Looking out at the lawn with a distant stare, he asked me, "Did I ever tell you about the boy who smelled like onions?" I shook my head, and he continued... "The boy's name was Silus Moore. Must've been 'round seventeen when he took over his pop's farm, right up the road from this very house. Of course, this was back when nearly all the land around here were farms. Back around the time I finished building this house and your grandma and I took up living here. Anyhow, the boy took over his daddy's farm when he passed away, which forced him to grow up mighty fast. He started growing as much crop as he could, onions, and sold them down at market every month, like clockwork to pay the bills. That boy worked so damn hard at farming that you'd swear by the smell of him that onions were growing somewhere under his shirt." Grandpa took another sip of his whiskey, finishing off the second half of what was left, and poured another. "Now, everyone in town respected this boy. Despite being dealt a bad hand and all, he kept working, and kept Moore Farms up and running. With Silus being nearly grown up and all, he got to talking to a girl he'd seen at the market, Sylvia. Now, Sylvia was nearly double Silus's age, but you wouldn't think it, looking at her. She was a damned peach of a girl. Just as nice as she was pretty, too. Sometimes, that got her into a bit of trouble. She'd had a habit of making boys think she was being more than just nice, you know? If it weren't for the ring on her finger, you might think she wasn't married. It wasn't like she meant it or anything, she just had a way about her. It was an afternoon a lot like this one when Sylvia's husband came home after a long day working at the bank in town, when it happened. He walked into the house, and right away, he could smell it. Onions. Everywhere he went, onions. The kitchen, onions. The living room, onions. The den, onions." "The bedroom?" I asked. "That room smelled like onions the most," he paused and took another sip, "Now you know what I mean when I say 'taking advantage of', right?" I nodded, and grandpa continued, "Well, that son of a ***** Silus was doing more than taking advantage of that girl Sylvia, he was raping her. Right there in her marital bed. You see, that boy thought he was so grown up, he could take whatever grown up things he wanted. When he didn't get what he asked for, I suppose he thought he could just take it. The little onion smelling bastard wanted Sylvia, but she wanted to have no part of him." "And the husband caught him?" I asked. "Yes he did. He caught the bastard right in the act." "What'd he do?" I persisted. "Without even thinking, Sylvia's husband pulled the chain of his pocket watch right off his vest and wrapped it around that boy's throat. Now, you'd think that a pocket watch chain wouldn't be strong enough to choke a man to death without breaking, but you'd be wrong. That boy struggled left and right for a minute or two, until his pant-less legs stopped kicking, and died right there on the spot. Before long, his face went from dark purple to white as an onion." "Holy crap." Grandpa'd told me some wild ones, but this lacked the humor I usually loved so much. "Yeah, and you'd better believe the bastard deserved it." "What happened to the husband? Did he go to jail?" "He should've, but him and his wife never told the police. You see, in such a small town, getting away with murder was about as easy as planting a tree." "How do you mean?" "I mean exactly that. Sylvia's husband went out down by the stream and found himself a nice young weeping willow. He dug out front of the house all afternoon, making a hole big enough for that tree, and then some. When the sun went down, Sylvia and her husband dropped Silus's body into the hole and planted the tree right on top of him. Over the years, that tree was gonna grow nice and big, and the thick trunk of it would hide Silus's body forever." "Was Sylvia okay after everything?" "She was just fine. You see, her husband wasn't able to give her a child. But now she was pregnant." "With Silus's baby?" "Yes and no. By blood, the child was Silus's, but what matters is that Sylvia and her husband raised that boy like it was their own. You see, they always wanted a son, but they couldn't have one until that day." I paused for a moment, thinking about the story, "Grandpa... I can't tell if that story is really sad or really happy." He looked down at me with a one-sided smile and said, "Me neither," before tracing his eyes back up to look over the tree in the front yard. The long dangling branches of the weeping willow swaying in the soft fall breeze, as a warm sun set in the west. Copyright 2008 Andrew B. Finch |
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