Young Delwood pointed at a tree trunk and said, “Mother, show us how you done it.”
She had a bark hack hanging from the waistband of her trousers, and she took it in hand.
Uncle Peewee, who the boys understood really wasn’t their uncle and who came to the farmhouse at least twice a year, said, “She was as good as any of them men I used to hire.”
They watched close as their mother took the tool and walked over to one of the longleaf pines yet to be worked. She ran her hand down the tree trunk, the one missing part of a finger an endless fascination to the boys. She’d not yet told them how it happened. She studied the surface of the tree for a second, then lifted the tool and struck against the bark. She struck again and made a swipe to the right. She cleaned the streak to the pale-yellow wood with a few shorter swipes. She did the same to the opposite side, until she had another mark that slanted the opposite way. The marks were like a V.
Father said, “Ain’t lost your touch atall. By my calculations, you’d make your daily counts. You’re hired.”
It was this little joke they had between them. She wrinkled her nose at him and pointed at what she’d done as Delwood and Jeremiah looked on.
She said, “See? Now what happens next with this fresh new streak we cut above this gutter, Delwood?”
Delwood glanced at her, then using his forefinger, he carefully pointed at each item as he recited what he’d been taught.
“This tin gutter here guides the gum so it runs into the cup. When the cup is full, it gets dipped out and put into a bucket. The bucket gets dumped into a big barrel, and all the barrels get took to Rockfish. They go down the river to Wilmington to be dis-dis-distaled.”
Mother beamed. “Distilled. Very good. And what’s it called, what I just done?”
Both boys yelled, “Chipping!”
“What’s it called when we put up the gutters?”
They hollered, “Tacking tin!”
“When we get the gum from the cups?”
They shouted, “Dipping!”
Their father and mother said, “Very, very good.”
Young Delwood smiled, his chest puffed out. Sometimes their parents would talk about another time, back when they first met at this place they’d worked along with Aunt Nellie, who had also been adopted as family, like Uncle Peewee. That place was called Swallow Hill. The boys didn’t know what to make of these stories. Swallow Hill sounded scary, especially when their parents talked about the box thing they’d been put into by a bad man. They didn’t like him, the one named Crow. They’d overheard one night when they were supposed to be asleep how he’d almost killed their mother, and how he’d poured tar on her and Aunt Nellie. They were relieved they wouldn’t never have to meet him, or the other bad man who’d been married to Aunt Nellie. They were like the bogeyman to them.
If the boys were sad at all, it was over Aunt Nellie. They missed her a lot, but they tried not to let their mother know how much. After she got sick, their mother did everything she could to help her get better. They knew this because sometimes they would listen outside the door of Aunt Nellie’s room, where she was always resting. Their mother urged her to drink and to eat. Aunt Nellie’s sickness started right after Christmas the year before. They were at the supper table and she’d picked at her food and acted like she was having trouble swallowing. Their mother had asked if she felt okay.
Aunt Nellie had said, “It’s the oddest thing,” and she pointed at her throat.
Mother said, “You have a sore throat?”
Aunt Nellie said, “No, it feels like a lump there I can’t get rid of, like when you got to cry and you hold back.”
Their mother brought her water, tea, Cokes, and soups. Aunt Nellie got to choking, even over those things. The doctor came to see what he could do for her, and the boys steered clear of him because he’d given them a shot a time or two in his previous visits.
He disappeared into Aunt Nellie’s room, and when he and their mother came out, she started crying after the doctor said, “Six months.”
Aunt Nellie passed in the late spring of ’41 and their mother, who had called her “Sister,” stayed sad for a good while. The boys picked her violets and wild roses off the fence and brought them to her by the fistfuls. They dove in the river, searching for their special rocks, and set them about her room. They only wanted to see her smile again. Their father stayed close by, took her on small trips. Eventually their mother was her old self again, but every week, right after church, and without fail, she tended Aunt Nellie’s grave. She’d been buried next to their grandparents. They’d see her sit, and talk, and wondered what she said. Sometimes their father went too. When they came back, they would go out on the porch, rock in the rocking chairs, hold hands, and not say much. The boys watched all this, mildly troubled their parents were sometimes sad, but they were too. They’d loved Aunt Nellie.