A Bad Seed: And Other Stories

By Laura Beckham

My mother came from a large family, and she loved to tell me about all the things she got into with her brothers and sisters. When she began to lose her short-term memory, she could still recall in vivid detail all of the stories she had told me as I was growing up. She knew that I enjoyed writing, and she asked me if I would like to come stay with her once and write down all the things she could remember. What a priceless gift!

This collection of short stories was inspired by her insight and sense of humor. I also drew inspiration from observations I made as a child and, later, as an adult living in rural areas throughout the South and Midwest.

The stories in my collection deal with the struggles and triumphs of people from other periods of time, some far in the past, others close enough that we baby-boomers can remember. And yet, regardless of how far separated we are from these times, we still share the same emotions. Most of us can relate to one or more of these: the contrition in the heart of the young teacher who punished her student too severely in A Bad Seed, the anguish of the soldier who made a frightening and controversial decision in Grandpa Kelly Never Played Soldier; the agony of a young man over the abortion of his child in A Matter of Life or the decision of a middle-aged single woman to give hers up for adoption in Presented In Honor; the difficulty of dealing with grief in Pretendin' Dont Make It So and Cleaning Mamas Grave; the devastation of a no-win situation in Mollies Victory; and the sometimes sensitive, sometimes hilarious insecurities of childhood in Emma's Turn, Raising Up Jesus, and A Cultural Experience.

The way of life depicted here has mostly disappeared. Even very isolated areas have access to satellite television and the Internet these days. In many ways, this is wonderful. Advances in medical care and psychological counseling can be shared, social skills can be honed, modern entertainment is available anywhere at the touch of a button. There are way too many advantages to list. But the homogeneous effect of this progress has diminished the richness of tradition and the eccentric charms that made rural areas so unique. Art will suffer when there is no one left to remember.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 5, 1999
• ISBN: 9781453582572

Laura Beckham

Laura Beckham was raised in Lawrence County, Tennessee, and began writing when she was in college in Florence, Alabama. She currently lives in Riley, Indiana, with her husband, son, and furred and feathered family members. A daughter and her family live

Book preview

Copyright © 1998 by Laura Beckham.

Library of Congress:     98-89499

ISBN #:

             Hardcover:           978-0-7388-0239-8

             Softcover:             978-0-7388-0240-4

             Ebook                   978-1-4535-8257-2

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Xlibris

1-888-7-XLIBRIS

www.Xlibris.com

Contents

A BAD SEED

EMMA’S TURN

GRANDPA KELLY NEVER PLAYED SOLDIER

RAISING UP JESUS

PRETENDIN’ DON’T MAKE IT SO

A MATTER OF LIFE

A CULTURAL EXPERIENCE

PRESENTED IN HONOR

MOLLIE’S VICTORY

CLEANING MAMA’S GRAVE

To my husband Sam, son Matt, daughter Candy,

her life partner Sarra, granddaughter Noa, sister Mary,

parents Bonnie, Rip, Sam, Mary; aunts Jo, Grace, Mary;

cousin Peggy; my guys; Carol, Lynette, KC, Mary, Jamie, Penny,

Sarah, Karen, Carmen, Nancy, Carolyne, Denise, Elizabeth, George, my Lord, and God.

A BAD SEED

Jerry Sanders just got started off wrong in life, I guess. He was mean as a snake, never did anybody a good turn that I knew of. But then, I suppose he never really got any breaks himself. If he did, I didn’t hear of it.

I whipped Jerry too hard once myself. I still think about it off and on sometimes. I hated it happened, but he just wouldn’t give in and take his punishment. I’d of lost the whole class if I hadn’t gotten him, but the way I did it bothers me just the same.

I was little then, didn’t weigh hardly a hundred pounds. Some of the big boys towered over me by a mile. It sure was a sight when I had to whip one of them, but I never let them get the best of me. No, sir.

It wasn’t the big boys that gave me the most trouble, though. The little ones weren’t as awkward, and they could move like the devil. They’d slip right out of your hands if you didn’t watch. And Jerry Sanders was one of the little ones.

It doesn’t matter what it was he’d done the time I hit him so bad. I can’t remember now anyway, he did so many things. Everything that happened, it seemed like he was behind it. He’d let my horse loose, set the tender box on fire, steal something. It seems like now I had to whip him near ‘bout every day, but I may be wrong. It’s been a long time, you know.

That particular time, though, he decided he wasn’t gonna be had. I got him up in front of the class all right and had him leaned over the desk ready to paddle, my left arm pressing against him sort of holding him down. I pulled my right arm back to take aim, and then it happened. He whirled around, breaking away from what hold I had on him, and kicked me hard right under my knee. It hurt like the dickens, I want you to know, but I didn’t let on. I grabbed at him again and he bit at me, just missing my arm.

We went on like that for awhile. I’d turn him one way and he’d slide out of my grasp, then I’d get him turned around the other way and he’d start in kicking again. Some of the older boys began to snicker.

I guess we really did make quite a sight. My dress was hiked up around my knees and my hair was falling down all over my face. I was sweating. Jerry was bellowing to beat Dixie, cussing up a blue streak. I tell you, I won’t ever forget it.

I don’t know how long it went on. Forever, it seemed like at the time. I do know that he just about outlasted me, I was right before calling it quits, when all of a sudden I realized I had a firm grip on him and I let him have it. I couldn’t seem to stop. I just kept on hitting him, I don’t know how many times it was. But I knew, even then, that it was too much.

It scared the little ones. I think it even got to the big ones a bit. When I finally hit the last lick, there wasn’t a sound in the room except me breathing hard and Jerry Sanders bawling. And he sure was bawling. That didn’t mean nothing in itself, though. He always put up some kind of a fuss, even when I didn’t hit him hardly at all.

I went ahead and let everybody go home soon after all that was over. I didn’t feel there was much use trying to carry on—the little ones were too upset and the big ones were awfully restless. Besides, I’d already figured out I had to go on down to see Jerry’s folks.

Soon as everybody cleared out, I went and caught Cookie. She was grazing on a fresh patch of grass and was a little put out at being pulled in, but I wanted to get it over with. I was sure Jerry wouldn’t tell his parents anything about what happened, but I knew I had to let them know.

I had an idea where they lived, although I’d never been that far back in the hollow. I knew to follow the creek south, so I took off and rode for a long time and finally I saw the place up ahead.

The gray shack barely clung to the creek bank, leaning out over it a little in places like it was considering letting go. No two boards matched, it seemed, either in height or width, and most were broken off or gouged out where they’d been ripped from some abandoned building somewhere. A piece of tin roof was loose and hung low over the porch, its sharp edges ready to deliver a nasty cut to anyone careless enough not to notice.

Two red hens and a black rooster perched on a broken three-sided wagon that lay over on its side in the mud, and a dirty, white chicken fluttered about, occasionally dropping her head down to peck at something in the dirt. A couple of mangy old hounds, all skin and bones, opened their eyes and looked out at Cookie and me from under the porch. They didn’t bark.

Trash was everywhere. I guess they’d taken some of it out to burn, but the dogs had gotten to it first and it was chewed up and strewn about the yard. Flies were feeding on the trash, buzzing around the outhouse. There wasn’t a blade of grass anywhere, just mud and trash and flies and chickens and those sad old dogs.

I couldn’t find any place to hitch Cookie, so I just let her go. She shied away from the dogs some, but finally settled in near a tree.

I stepped around things as best I could. A few boards had been nailed together to make a set of stairs up to the porch, but a couple were broken and it took all I could manage to straddle the gap. The porch itself sagged dangerously and creaked some when I walked on it, but it held steady. As bad as my knees were knocking, I’m surprised I heard it.

Jerry’s mother answered the door. It was the first time I’d seen her, and I don’t mind telling you, it was a shock. She was more worn down than any of those old boards out there, gray skin, gray in her hair, even though I knew she couldn’t be more than thirty. Her face was like a skull, eyes sunk back so far they were just empty holes.

She opened the door and looked at me, didn’t say anything at all. She’d never met me either, but she didn’t ask who I was or what I was doing there. She just stepped back and let me in.

There was only one room. It had a dirt floor, two iron cots with dirty sheets and blankets in one corner, an old wood stove and a gray board table in another. I heard a noise and looked up to see one of the chickens sitting in the open window. It flew over and settled on the table, apparently after some moldy cornbread. Dirty tin plates and bits of food in various stages of rot covered the table and the stove, crumbs and chicken mess were on the floor. Jerry’s mother didn’t seem to notice the chicken or the condition of her home.

I’m Miss Bonnie from up at the school, I said. I had to come see you because I whipped Jerry today and I’m afraid I hit him a bit too hard. I paused, hoping she would say something, but she didn’t. She just kept staring at me out of those terrible eyes.

I came to tell you I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do it, but he kept kicking me and getting away. I couldn’t let it go, you know. If I had, the whole class would have tried the same. But still, it was wrong of me and I’m sorry.

I realized I was rushing the words, but her silence had me spooked. When she still just stood there, I bobbed my head at her and said, Well, I’ll be going now. I just wanted you to know. I practically ran out the door and off the porch.

Cookie hadn’t moved from under the tree. I stumbled over to her and hugged her real hard when I got on. I turned her in as tight a circle as I could manage to avoid the mess and headed out of the yard.

Something moving along the edge of the woods caught my eye and I rode over to get a better look. A little redbone puppy was running in and out of the pines, sniffing wildly. He looked up when he heard Cookie and me, but we didn’t interest him near as much as what he had scent of so he went right back to his business.

I noticed somebody had started putting up a doghouse nearby, and they were doing a pretty fine job of it, too. Oh, the boards were old and gray, just like the ones that made up the shack, but they’d been fitted together with care to make a warm shelter for the little fellow over the winter. He took off deeper into the woods, nose to the ground, tail in the air, and I watched him go and wondered if I’d happened onto something that Jerry really cared about.

I started off again, but a few hundred yards away from the place, I