No Rain in August

by D Bedell

One

In August Nishnabotna County sunsets are lingering pyres behind the Nebraska hills beyond the haze and desultory currents of the Missouri where sycamores and willows mark the river’s edge in twilight eddies. Deep cracks run in corn rows and ring diminished ponds with brittle scales while creeks trickle in thin torpidity to the bar land. Loess dust suffocates Bluff Road where a mule team and wagon make small clouds that drift languidly in the wake. A car would be a tornado covering the cottonwoods along Angel Creek and the nearby gravestones in Mt. Hope Cemetery truly would be dust to dust.  September rains are welcome even in the silent city. It does not rain in August.

Joe Dell sat on a wooden wagon tongue and smoked the tobacco stained pipe he had found in abandoned effects retrieved from trenches where childhood died. He believed the pipe was ivory. During the day he rolled his cigarettes, but preferred the pipe in the evening. It was some ease in France after evening chow.

Need to get some Prince Albert tomorrow.

He rubbed the three-day stubble on his chin. It was time to shave his indistinct face, a rough outline of features not yet complete yet commanding his lean frame. The shave would be smooth. While he finished his pipe, he looked at his 40 share acres west of Bluff Road. The twenty acres of corn looked pretty good–black as a hat–good for mash, too. The wheat harvest came in better than fair, but the bushel price was little cash money–$.35. He would get through the Winter if the corn price stayed up this year; $.55 would be about right.  Big crop, small money; little crop, more for less, but still the same result–just enough. If the weather didn’t get you, Chicago bankers surely would. 

Makes no goddamn difference.

After tapping out his pipe on the wagon tongue, he checked his mules in their stalls one more time and went inside through the porch screen door to eat, wash, and shave. Later, his face smooth, cicadas sang while he smoked again and watched an early moon begin over the loess bluffs. He sat for a time and wondered if his dreams would be mud and rats again. Once he couldn’t wake up and soiled himself. He was still a long way from Angel City despite the years since France.

  Sometimes it’s all the same.

Two

Joe Dell joined the American Expeditionary Force headed to France in July, 1918, eager for comrades and conquests. After taking his oath at the Courthouse, he languished nearly four months shuttling on trains before shipping out to France, arriving barely two weeks before the Armistice was declared. The AEF became the inglorious Army of Occupation and he was an unwilling soldier at the Base Hospital in Allerey. He chastised himself for missing the fight, arriving only in time for the aftermath of the Graves Registration Service with Sanitation Squad 23.

A long year and a discharge later, Joe became a hand for hire and worked a harvest crew the first Fall he was back. He cleared timber on the bar land over the Winter and Spring until the next Summer’s hay and wheat fields needed hands.  By the second Fall, he had one hundred six dollars for the year—just enough to live at the river camp outside Angel City. 

‘He sat for a time and wondered if his dreams would be mud and rats again.’

Three

Joe slipped a rope halter on his jack mule for the three mile trek to Angel City for his weekly cans of Prince Albert. He liked to ride the jack bareback and planned to go to the river camp to see if Fred Five Crows wanted to drink some ‘shine he had in his rucksack. There was whiskey in town, but he had a taste for bootleg hooch even after Prohibition. He ran a still behind the barn for his benefit and cash money when necessary, but did not sell it in the camp; it was bad enough, already. It would get him in trouble and the law would have nothing to do with it. Things happened on the river; more than one had lost their way down it.

The day was hot early under a pale barren sky, the sun vigorous in the open field with vibrant heat in the still timber shade. The mule and Dell were sweaty well before reaching Angel City. He thought about taking a sip or two from the ‘shine jar to cut the yellow dust in his throat. The mule’s lather dampened his overalls to a stain and his shirt stuck to his back under the rucksack.

Should’a brought water in the canteen.

The General Merchandise was busy on Saturdays. Rollo Rathbone, storekeeper, watched Joe Dell ride up to the store, dismount, and loop the halter rope around a post as the mule stamped dust plumes in protest. He thought Joe Dell was odd for sticking with mules to farm even if it was just 40 acres. Everyone else had gone to tractors, although he believed Dell’s yields probably were about as good without an expensive piece of machinery. Rathbone raised a vague hand as Joe came into the store. Dell nodded and let his eyes adjust to the light.

“Usual?” Rathbone asked when his turn came.

Dell nodded again and Rollo placed three cans of Prince Albert and papers on the counter. 

“That's all?”

“Pound of bacon and a pack of Chesterfields. Matches.”

“Not rolling your own?”

“Thought I‘d give ‘em a try.”

Rathbone nodded and put the cigarettes and matches on the counter with the tobacco and papers before he went to slice the bacon. Dell looked around the store. Two women were looking at a bolt of gingham cloth. A man was inspecting an ax. Rollo came back with the bacon wrapped in butcher paper. Joe paid, got his change, and put everything into his rucksack. 

“See ya,” Joe said.

Rathbone nodded and raised his hand while he turned his attention to the women.

Four

Dell sat on Fred Five Crows’ porch step and passed the jar of ‘shine. Fred leaned forward in his chair and reached for the whiskey. He took two hard swallows.

“Thanks,” he murmured, passing back the jar. 

Joe took a long sip and felt the familiar burn in his chest. He set the jar on the porch and took the Chesterfields from his rucksack. He opened the pack, took one, and extended the pack to Five Crows, one cigarette halfway out. They lit up and sat smoking in the quiet for a while, waiting for the whiskey to speak. 

“Do okay on your wheat?” Five Crows asked.

“Enough to keep me in bacon for a little while.”

Fred nodded. “Still making whiskey, I guess,” he said.

“Sometimes more, sometimes less.”

“This must be the more time.”

Dell laughed shortly. “I guess so.”

“You gonna leave that jar?”

“Sure.”

“Thanks.”

Joe flipped away the cigarette butt and took out another Chesterfield. He passed the pack to Fred.

“You gonna leave these, too?”

“They’re yours. I’ll stick to rolling.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

Dell nodded. He owed Fred Five Crows a lot more than a pack of smokes. The leathery old Otoe had saved his ass in a bootleg deal gone South. Five Crows could use a shotgun and the river kept secrets. Dell never forgot about Fred Five Crows, but the old man never mentioned it and refused his gratitude with silent indulgence. Whiskey and cigarettes were different. Fred liked Chesterfields, his knotted hands made rolling difficult. He eschewed a pipe and ‘shine was comforting.

The jar was a third gone when Joe climbed onto the mule for the ride home. Chores were waiting and the ‘shine was strong. The ride would sober him some and he let the mule have its head for the stall, the halter hanging loose. The jack was eager for feed and the ride was quick, the other mules also eager when they got to the barn. Dell slipped off the halter and began scooping corn from the barn bin into the trough. The mules crowded in, four jennys and the jack. He watched them while he pumped water into the tank, the pump handle hot from the sun. The water was tepid and the tank shimmered with heat. He was sweating out the whiskey and wiped his face with a bandana while he rubbed down the jack. The sun was low over the Nebraska hills, surrendering to the waiting Plains. 

The house was getting dark inside and he lit the oil lamp. Joe was wary of electricity and parsimonious in its use; it didn’t feel right. After starting a fire in his wood stove, he put a pot of coffee on to boil, sitting at the kitchen table to wait. He emptied the rucksack; he would stow his tobacco and bacon after coffee. The sun yielded to twilight and the oil lamp shadows. He drank coffee and smoked his pipe, listening to the dark move onto the land. 

‘Five Crows could use a shotgun and the river kept secrets.’

 Five

It rained in his dreams and the rain became mud with rats wallowing in bones and other remnants of triumphant and defeated armies. He heard a mule bray behind him and when he looked, the mule became a giant rat sleek with rain. It prodded him into a sweat soaked awakening. He got out of his steel frame bed with the corn husk mattress.

At least I didn’t piss myself.

It was almost time for morning chores; the mules restless to be let out of their stalls for water and hay as the morning light creeped into the barn. He re-kindled the stove, set coffee to boil, and rolled a cigarette on the table. As he smoked by lamplight, he tapped his ashes into an old sardine tin and rolled two more smokes for the morning, putting them in the Prince Albert can to carry in his overalls button pocket. He turned out the lamp for the day and looked for his canteen.

Think I’ll walk the corn.

The corn was getting dry in the field, but the sample ears he shucked were filled out nicely. He decided he would have a decent yield if the weather held. September would be wet and October frost would signal the harvest. There would be enough cash if the price was decent; half the crop was for the stock and mash. He would run some batches in the still to put up for the Fall and Winter when the weather cooled: some to sell, some to sip. Joe Dell was still a moonshiner.

It was hot in the field, not a breath of breeze in the tall rows, the ground brittle puzzle pieces that crumbled under his feet. The sun was noon high when he finished, the canteen drained, his shirt and overalls dark with sweat. At the house, he poured a cup of tepid coffee and took one of the cigarettes from the Prince Albert can. The coffee was gone in one quaff and he poured another to have with his smoke. As he exhaled, his mind wandered with the tobacco’s breath. 

Six

Corn was $.41 in December and Joe Dell was looking at lean Winter months and an  unknown price for a bushel of seed in the Spring. He had sowed his twenty acres of winter wheat in September with seed held back from the market. The price had to go up next year or he would be back working as a field hand, if anyone could hire one for cash. 

New Deal, my ass. 

Feeding the stock was a concern; without the mules the farming was over: buying a tractor was out of the question. The still was his only resource and he turned his hand to it. Seven gallons of water, ten pounds of corn, two pounds of barley, and three pounds of sugar brought  more per bushel than the just enough bankers would pay. He asked Five Crows if he wanted to help and the old man agreed for sampling rights and Chesterfields. The law did not concern him—the sheriff and his deputy liked ‘shine and would look the other way for a few jars now and then. Rathbone would sell it for him for a cut of the cash and whiskey; he would be hurting: farmers without money don’t buy at the store.

Makes no goddamn difference.

It rained every night in his dreams and the rat got bigger.