Where The Whippoorwills Call

By Eddie Raven

The summer of 1972 is a turning point for fourteen-year-old Travis when he and his best friend, Cooter, team up with the older Jimmy to help destroy Ira Yates's prize watermelon patch. With a deadbeat dad and the guilt of his grandfather's death weighing heavy on his shoulders, Travis (POV) has become moody and disconnected toward his family and the world in general. But Travis soon finds out that he's in over his head in the bad-boy department when the untrusting Jimmy gives Travis a bloody nose and two black eyes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jul 10, 2012
• ISBN: 9781623092641

Book preview

9781623092641

Did you hear somethin’, guys? Cooter whispered as he wiped the sweat off his coke-bottle glasses.

I strained my ears to hear any warning noises, possibly a screen door closing or the squeak from a rusty gate hinge. I relaxed when all I heard were the crickets serenading the night and an owl hooting over in Lloyd Jackson’s woods.

You’re hearin’ spooks again, Cooter, I whispered in disgust.

A trickle of sweat slid down between my shoulder blades, as much from nerves as from the hot July night, while we crept through Ira Yates’s watermelon patch. The summer of ’72 was shaping up to be a scorcher.

Cooter shoved the heavy-lensed glasses back up on the bridge of his sweaty nose. I got a bad feelin’ about this, Trav.

You two quit your whinin’, Jimmy hissed. Let’s just get these melons busted up and hightail it out a here before old man Yates shows up with his damned scattergun.

Bad Moon Risin’ was playing inside my head as I reluctantly bent over and picked up the nearest melon.

Holy shit! Cooter yelped when a raccoon scampered out of the sweet corn right under our feet.

Damn-it, Cooter! Jimmy barked. You’re gonna wake up the whole friggin’ countryside if you don’t shut your big trap.

We went back to busting melons while Jimmy mumbled to himself about hanging out with a couple of wusses. The soft thump of the melons hitting the ground echoed softly into the night and mingled with the other nocturnal noises: A bullfrog croaking in Yates’s pond, the rhythmic chirrup of the crickets.

A movement at the edge of the sweet corn caught my eye and I saw the glint off a gun barrel from the moonlight. Orange flame shot skyward out of it and broke the stillness of the night with a deafening roar.

Run! Jimmy yelled as all three of us bolted for the safety of Jackson’s woods. I started out in the lead but, as fate would have it, I tripped over a melon vine and stumbled awkwardly. Before I could catch my balance, Jimmy’s big shoulder slammed into my puny frame causing me to spin around and land hard on my backside as he and Cooter sped by me. I wanted to yell after them to come back, but couldn’t, because the wind had been knocked out of me.

I expected the lanky figure now standing over me to shoot the two cowards in the back, but he only spit out a stream of tobacco juice and trained the scattergun on me. I tried desperately to inhale the night air, but my lungs were locked. Panic consumed me as I retched and rolled on my side. Finally, the precious oxygen rushed into my lungs and I coughed, Don’t shoot!

Instead of shooting me, though, the dark figure silhouetted against the moonlit sky spoke to me in a conversational tone. Pick yourself off the ground, boy, and brush your britches off. I got slowly to my feet, still halfway expecting to feel hot lead hit me in the gut.

What’s your moniker, boy? the old man drawled, as he lowered the double-barrel.

I swallowed nervously and mumbled, Travis Abrell.

The old man grunted, Denise Abrell’s, boy. Thought that’s who ya were. Didn’t spect to see ya out here pullin’ a stunt like this, boy.

Sorry, was my feeble reply.

The old man shook his head and rested the short-barreled gun on his shoulder. Boy, if’n I was of a notion to shoot, ya’d be bought and paid for ‘cause you’re on my land destroyin’ property.

I idly brushed my pants off. Are you gonna call the sheriff on me? I had no doubt that he would since we’d played havoc with his prize patch of melons. Every year Ira Yates took his watermelons to the county fair to peddle them and to enter his biggest melon in the big melon contest. In my fourteen years, as far as I knew, the old man had won the contest every year. Everyone figured this was the only pleasure the old man got out of this world anymore. With his wife dead and his boy killed in Vietnam, Ira Yates had become a hermit, only leaving the house to go to the store or to peddle some of his vegetables.

I looked around in desperation hoping to spy a huge melon still untouched, but even under the full moon it was too dark to see the whole patch. I could just hear Mom and aunt Betts hollering at me when they came to pick me up at the police station.

The old man spit a stream of tobacco juice on a busted melon. I shorely ought a turn ya in, boy. He was silent for a moment. The owl in Jackson’s woods was still hooting as the seconds ticked by and I held my breath. Who were them there two boys with ya?

For a moment, I actually thought about telling on them after the way they had left me behind, but I wasn’t a tattle-tale. My back stiffened. I ain’t tellin’.

The old man grunted again. I was a hopin’ ya’d say that, boy. Good to see ya’ve got some sand in your craw. He nodded at the busted melons. Instead of turnin’ ya in to the sheriff, how ‘bout ya jest work off the damages?

I stared at the old man in disbelief. Really?

I’m not funnin’ with ya, boy. Come by tomorrow and I’ll find somethin’ for ya to do. Now get along, I need to get some sleep. He just turned and walked away, leaving me alone in his destroyed melon patch.

Surprised, I just stood there a moment. All I had to do were a few chores for the old man and I would be free and clear. I smiled and started for home.

* * *

After leaving the scene of the crime, I chanced cutting across John Whalen’s cow pasture so I could get home sooner, all the while hoping I wouldn’t run into his Angus bull. That damned bull ruled the roost on John’s cattle farm.

One time when Cooter and I were cutting across Whalen’s field, the bull had spied us when we were about halfway across. He snorted and charged toward us like a speeding locomotive as we sprinted toward the safety of the fence that suddenly looked miles away. When we scampered under the barbed-wire, the bull was only a few feet off our tails. For a fearful moment I thought the big Angus was going to crash through the fence, but he suddenly locked up all fours. As we stood there catching our breath the bull pawed the ground with his front hoofs, snot hanging precariously from the ring that was in his nose.

Cooter had looked at me and whistled low, Shazam, that was just too damned close, Trav. Shazam was Cooter’s favorite word when something impressed or excited him. He’d watched one too many Gomer Pyle episodes.

After crossing the pasture without incident, I stepped up on the railroad tracks and headed on home. The tracks glinted in the moonlight, just like it had done on old man Yates’s scattergun no more than half an hour ago.

When I came upon the big white oak standing proudly like a sentinel watching over the night, Jimmy and Cooter stepped out from behind its four-foot trunk. I was still sore that they had both abandoned me. Reluctantly though, I had to admit to myself that I probably wouldn’t have stopped for them either with a shotgun at my back.

How’d you get away, Abrell? Jimmy asked.There was suspicion in his tone. Jimmy was a tow-headed boy who lived with his folks on a rundown farm just outside of town. As far as I knew, he’d never had two nickels to rub together, but recently, my family hadn’t been much better off, either.

He just let me go, I said, trying to sound casual.

Jimmy smiled cruelly. Bullshit! You ratted me and Cooter out, didn’t you?

No! I croaked. The old man tried to get me to tell who you guys were and when I wouldn’t, he said I’d have to work off the damages.

Abrell, who the hell do you think you’re foolin’? That old coot would a turned you in to Sheriff Tate if you hadn’t spilled your chicken-shit guts to him.

Bu-but, I swear, I didn’t tell him anythin’, I gulped.

Jimmy stared at me. You’re a damned liar. I’ll bet Sheriff Tate shows up at mine and Cooter’s house tomorrow. Jimmy looked back at Cooter. What do you think about your best friend rattin’ you out? Jimmy was wasting his time trying to turn Cooter against me. Still, I wished we were both home safe in bed.

Cooter’s feet shuffled nervously as he adjusted his thick-lensed glasses. We don’t know Trav told on us for sure, he said, guardedly.

Well, I think old Trav did tell on us, Jimmy mocked. He looked at me. You know, Abrell, just in case you did rat me out, I’ll just get my payback early from you.

A faint smile came over his face and he hit me. It was only a quick jab, but when his fist connected with my nose it felt like John Whalen’s bull had just hit me square in the face as my head snapped back and my ass hit the ground for the second time tonight.

Stunned and disoriented, I tried to get up but Jimmy put his foot down hard on my chest and held me firm against the ground. As my head reeled and the gravel dug painfully into my back, the bully warned, This ain’t over between us, wuss. He walked away with the gravel crunching under his shoes as he disappeared into the night.

Cooter stuck his hand out to help me up. Leave me alone! I’ll get up my own self. He stepped back, dropping his head. My eyes had started watering causing Cooter’s image to look blurred in the moonlight. I could feel warm blood dripping off my chin from my busted nose. My legs felt like jelly as I ran the back of my hand across my bloody lips and tried to figure out what had just happened. What the hell made me think that Cooter and I could be friends with someone like Jimmy?

Not in any mood for courtesy, I headed home leaving Cooter standing in the road by himself.I hadn’t taken more than a dozen steps when Cooter jogged up beside me.

Why’re you pissed at me for? He whined.

I sighed. I’m not mad at you. I just wanna go home and go to bed. Besides, tomorrow I’ve got to go over to Yates’s place and do chores for him.

He really does want you to work off the melons, then?

Cooter was my best friend, but right now I just wasn’t in the mood for his company. Yes, I snapped. I really did cover for you, along with your asshole friend. Even though I was pissed, my voice sounded stupidly comical since I was pinching my nose to help stop the bleeding.

He’s not my friend, Cooter said, his voice sounding hurt.

We were now standing at the end of my driveway. Yeah, I know, I said, already feeling bad about talking so rudely to him. I’ll see you tomorrow.

See you, Trav, he said, sounding a little more cheerful. He turned and headed for home. As I headed down my driveway, I tried to think up some kind of a story for my busted nose.

The house was dark when I stepped onto the front yard, but I could hear the murmur of Mom and aunt Betts’s voices coming from the front porch. Not wanting to face them tonight, I headed around the house to the back door.

Abner came out of Austin Poth’s cornfield and trotted up to me. I knew he would start whining right away for a pat on the head, so I dropped to my knees and started petting the hound to keep him quiet. As I rubbed the redbone behind the ears, Mom’s voice drifted out to me.

Somehow I’ve got to find a second job to get these bills under control, Betts, or I’m gonna lose this place.

Now hon, don’t fret yourself so much over the wolf beatin’ at your door. We’ll think of somethin’.

I could hear Mom’s rocker squeaking gently back and forth along with the familiar sound of ice tinkling against glass. Mom was drinking her nightly glass of tea. The sweet liquid was almost like an addiction for her, just like Dad’s drinking and gambling was for him.

Mom sighed deeply. Betts, the banker, Mr. Olson, stopped by today while you were gone.

Oh, really? Since when did the bank start makin’ house calls?

Abner’s hide was warm to the touch, probably from running a coon in Austin’s woods. Finally satisfied with his rubdown, the dog trotted off to investigate more of the night. I’d only been half listening to Mom and Betts, concerned more about my own immediate problems. So when the redbone left, I headed again for the backdoor. But I stopped dead in my tracks when Mom spoke again.

Betts, the banker, Mr. Olson, made a pass at me.

My jaw dropped open in disbelief as I heard my aunt gasp. Land’s sake, Denise. Tell me you’re spoofin’.

No, I’m not. And when I asked him to leave, he said that I had better think about keeping a roof over my boy’s head. He said we could work out an arrangement on the mortgage if I was of a mind to stay friendly toward him.

Betts snorted. Why that high-falutin’ jackass. I always figured him for a no-good stinkin’ weasel.

Don’t breathe a word of this to anyone, Betts, Mom pleaded. I wouldn’t want to see his wife hurt. Nothin’ happened, so let’s just leave it at that.

I stood there in the dark with my fists clinched wishing I was big enough to put some fear into the crooked banker.

Well, the S-O-B ought a be turned into a steer, Betts huffed.

The women grew quiet, so I slipped in the back door.

When I turned on the bathroom light and looked in the mirror, dried blood was smeared on my face and shirt. I just hoped there wouldn’t be any tell-tale bruising on my face, because with bruises there would be no hiding from my mother what I’d done. Betts always said any sins you committed eventually had a way of falling out of your closet right in your lap when everybody was looking.

After cleaning my face and hiding my bloody shirt, I crawled into bed. A few minutes later Mom was at the door. I’d heard her coming down the hall and was feigning sleep when she peeped in. I felt her worried stare on my back, and then she quietly closed the door.

* * *

After mom left my room, I opened my eyes and watched the fireflies outside my window. Cooter and I had gone along with Jimmy’s prank because we thought we wanted to be a part of his rebellion against authority. However, when the time came to actually do the dirty deed, Cooter and I had chickened-out. But Jimmy only grinned and said, Yeah, you will, or get a busted nose. Ironically, I’d gotten my mug punched anyway by the asshole.

A million times I’d wished that I was bigger and stronger but, the fact was a wisp of a girl could probably hold her own with me in a scrap. Maybe if dad would hang around long enough, he could teach me to fight. But he only stayed long enough to sponge Mom out of money and then he’d disappear again, sometimes for weeks. About all Dad ever gave Mom in return was a headache and my skinny frame to feed.

This place had belonged to my grandparents, and Mom being the only child had inherited the farm. Dad conveniently appeared back in our lives about this time, too. After a lot of fancy talk, he’d convinced Mom that he was ready to take care of us, and that his gambling and drinking were a thing of the past. Dad explained to us how he wanted to start his own business, but needed some collateral to acquire the start-up money.I don’t think Mom really believed him deep down inside where it counted, but what really made her give in was when Dad brought me into the picture. He told Mom that someday his business would say: Abrell & Son.

The next day Mom went with Dad down to the bank to put a lien on the place. The first thing Dad did was purchase a new 1972 Chevy pickup. Then he bought a truck load of new tools, and it wasn’t long before he was working on several houses in town. He even started doing some minor repairs around the farm on the weekends. I had never before seen Mom so happy.

Then it happened. Dad started going down to Orville’s tavern. Before long, he was drinking and gambling again and flirting with any skirt that would pay attention to him. Inside of a month he had hocked all the tools. Then one day he just didn’t come home. Dad and the new truck were gone.

I had figured on it all along, but I wasn’t a woman still hoping for love and honesty from a man who just didn’t have it in him to give. Dad had pulled some stunts before, but this one topped them all.

* * *

I woke the next morning to old Barnabas’s rustic crowing. The game rooster was on his favorite fence post in the barnyard trying to wake up the world. When I looked in the bathroom mirror, I groaned. Both eyes were already showing some blue coloring under them and my nose was swollen. I sighed and head for the kitchen where I could already hear bacon frying and eggs being broken open on the edge of the skillet.

Aunt Betts was humming some old ballad while she busied herself over the stove. She was actually Mom’s aunt and my great aunt. Uncle Willard had died about ten years back in a farming accident. With no way to take care of the farm, Betts sold it, paid off what bills she could, and moved in with us. Mom offered to let her stay with us until Betts could get back on her feet. But, here she was ten years later still living with us. You don’t get on your feet very fast when you do waitress work in a small farming community, especially when you’re in your early sixties with graying hair and a little wide across the hips. The tips just aren’t very big. So it just made sense for Betts to stay and share the bills with us.

Mom was setting the table. Isn’t it a beautiful mornin’, Betts?

Yes, the good Lord surely can paint a sunrise when he’s of a mind to.

When I stepped into the kitchen, both women had their backs to me, so I took the opportunity to slip quickly behind them. I grabbed two biscuits out of the baking pan on the counter and headed for the door. Without looking back, I swung the screen door open, and said, Be home later, Mom. Cooter and I are goin’ fishin’.

Mom’s voice carried above the slamming of the screen door. Travis, come back here and eat.Betts went to a lot of trouble to fix a hot meal for us.

I’m not hungry, I yelled over my shoulder. Thanks anyway, Betts. Actually, I was hungry as a grizzly bear. I took a big bite out of a biscuit, wishing I had a cold soda to wash it down with. I stopped by the water hydrant in the barnyard and splashed water on my face, and then I leaned over and took a long, cool drink. Abner showed up at my side.

Betts had been right, it was a beautiful morning. Robins were everywhere, chirping at the prospect of a plump worm for their young fledglings as a red-tailed hawk soared above us scanning the terrain for possible prey. A squirrel had come down out of a tree in the fence row and was headed across the field toward Austin Poth’s woods. Suddenly, the hawk dropped out of the sky like a plane dive-bombing his enemy. The bird of prey hit the squirrel with his talons and both went tumbling across the ground. After a brief struggle, I figured the tree rodent was soon to be breakfast, but in a flash, the big fox squirrel had his long teeth sunk in one of the hawk’s legs. The surprised bird let out a shrill sound and took flight, leaving the crafty old squirrel to go on his merry way.

When I came to the white oak, my hackles went up remembering what had happened here last night. I walked wide of the tree, half expecting Jimmy to come out from behind it again, at the same time hating myself for being a chicken. The bully was nowhere in sight.

A thought suddenly crossed my mind. Would Abner jump Jimmy if the bully tried to waylay me again? I wasn’t sure if the big redbone would actually bite someone in my defense, but I made a mental note to keep the hound close by my side for the next few days, anyway.

After crossing the railroad tracks, I decided to stay clear of John Whalen’s bull and just take the long way down the road.

Lloyd Jackson’s woods were full of rowdy crows this morning where the lonely owl had been hooting just last night. They were in the treetops cawing and tormenting each other like rival siblings.

Ira Yates’s little house sat at the west edge of Jackson’s woods. The sun had not yet come over the treetops where the crows were raising their ruckus, so Yates’s place was still blanketed in the early morning dew. My tennis shoes became damp as I walked across the front lawn. Not wanting to startle the old coot and have him waving that shotgun around again, I walked around the house to find a place to sit while I waited for him to get up.

To my surprise, he was out back hoeing in the garden. The old man looked up at me. I see ya made it, boy. Tell ya the truth, I wasn’t shore ya’d come.

Told you I’d be here, didn’t I? I smirked.

The old man’s grey eyes squinted slightly, never wavering from me as I tried to stare him down. After about fifteen seconds, though, I looked away trying to seem casual as I looked at his garden. I saw real quick that this old codger wasn’t going to take any of my cockiness that I’d been dishing out for the last couple of years. I casually tried to calm down the tension that I had instantly put between us. Nice garden you’ve got here.

The old man held his glare for a moment longer, but then gradually a little smile came over his face as the color came back into his white knuckles where he’d had his hand clamped tightly to the hoe handle. Well, now, let’s jest see if’n you’re as tough as ya act, boy. He spit a stream of tobacco juice at my feet and nodded toward the shed where another hoe was leaning against it. I believe your paws ought a fit that hoe handle over yonder.

I sighed and slowly walked over to the shed. Hoeing in the garden was one of my most hated chores at home, second only to cleaning out stalls in the barn. Grandpa had made me clean the stalls in his barn, but after he had died, Mom sold the livestock. As for hoeing, I’d done very little in the past two years, leaving most of it for Betts. Most folks would probably say that I’d become useless, but I wasn’t about to admit that to a half-crazed, shotgun-toting old fool who had tobacco juice leaking out of the corners of his mouth.

* * *

Before long the sun was over the top of the trees and bearing down on the old man and me. The crows had left, so the only noises were our hoes sinking into the rich soil and a few birds chirping. For the next two hours, we worked our way across the sweet corn patch as sweat dripped continuously off my nose.

I’d stolen a couple of glances at the old man to see if he was showing any signs of tiring out. But the only sign that showed he was working at all was the dampness on the back of his faded blue shirt between his bony shoulder blades. The old fart was wearing a long sleeve shirt which was a common thing that the elders around these parts did. Their belief was that the good Lord made sweat to cool a body. As for me, I already had my T-shirt off and my skinny frame was sweating just fine without the aide of anything with long sleeves.

The garden was probably an acre in size and it consisted of a wide variety of vegetables. Ira Yates sold most of his produce to Jones’s store but would always give some of it away to a few close friends.

The cool sip of water that I’d taken from the hydrant in our barnyard was now just a memory. Those two biscuits I’d eaten were also long gone, and now a danged blister had formed on my left hand.

I was ready to throw the hoe down and tell the old fart where to stick his precious garden, that is, until we had worked our way over to the watermelons. Flies were already swarming on the sweet nectar of the busted melons as they lay rotting in the sun. Gritting my teeth and ignoring my discomforts, I dove into the chore at hand even harder.

As the morning wore on, the only thing that changed was the angle of the sun as it climbed higher into the sky and beat down mercilessly on the two of us. About the time I’d begun to think that the old man was a slave driver, he stopped and looked at me. Come sit a spell, boy.

He didn’t have to tell me twice. From the looks of the sun it was well past midmorning. There were three well-worn chairs sitting under a big maple and I sat down in one of them with a sigh. As I wiped the sweat off my face with my shirt, the old man went into the house.

While sitting there enjoying what little breeze there was, I took my first good look around the place. Flowers were all around the house and the bees were hovering around them busily collecting nectar and pollen. Several shade trees towered over the small house protecting it from the scorching sun. About fifty yards away from the house was a small pond which had a few cattails around it. Among the cattails were several red-winged blackbirds singing their