Peter B and Uncle Corey: And Other Short Stories

By C.L. Moses

The only way I can think of to tell you, the reader, what this book is about would be to tell you about why it is. So here we go.

As a Texan, I grew up surrounded by world-class storytellers. Whenever we camped out as a family, or just some of the men folk hunkered around a campfire after the hunt was over, there would always be a story to be told. Add to that the family gatherings when a barbecue pit always filled the air with warm smoke and the lifelong remembrances of a dozen or so chickens halved, slathered in my familys secret sauce, and you had the perfect setting for a story to be told. Some asked for, while others usually started with something along the lines of Yall aint gonna believe this, but . . . and out of all of the stories I heard as a young boy, all the way up well into adulthood, one fact stood out above all others. It was the passionthe look in the storytellers eyes and the way they would lean in on those listening, be it around a campfire or at the counter of some random truck stop, they all seemed to have the same ambition: the telling of the tale.

This book is about me trying my best to keep your attention the way my forefathers kept mine for all the yearsthose past and those yet to come.

This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jul 17, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504914918

C.L. Moses

Storytelling has always been one of C. L. Moses’ passions. Peter B. and Uncle Corey is the second book released by C. L. Moses. He resides in the greater Dallas/Fort Worth area with his wife, Debbie, as he continues to create works of fiction. All I can think to say to explain me is, “Damn! The things I’ve seen. The things I’ve done. The folks I’ve met. The others I watched walk by and wondered after. These things all blended together to form a wealth of experience for me to draw from and set these stories into motion. And I am most of all happy that you have given me the chance to tell a tale. After all, that’s what I’m all about.”

Book preview

© 2015 C.L. Moses. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 07/17/2015

ISBN: 978-1-5049-1492-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-1491-8 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Photographs by Ty Moses

Contents

Acknowledgements

1.   Peter B. and Uncle Corey

2.   Requiem for a Lost Son

3.   The Tombstone Gun

4.   Bobby Neely’s Midnight Revival

5.   Leviticus

6.   The Reward

7.   Of Bullets and Beaus

8.   Kronos

9.   Last Call for Warneg

To Isabel and Au

brey

On the darkest night in Texas I can look up to the sky and see the stars shining bright, just to make my granddaughters smile.

Acknowledgements

It would be almost impossible to list all of the persons and events that helped me as a writer to craft this compilation of stories for you to enjoy. Though I suppose the beginning is, after all, the best starting point.

To my Daddy Earl Travis Moses Sr. for all he did to keep a dry roof over our heads, shoes on our feet, and food in our bellies; also for not letting me get away with too much. And my mom Billie Jean Moses who no matter what kept us one and all on the straight and narrow as best she could, the 60s being what they where and all, and then the seventies, after that the eighties.

Also a special thanks is due to my Cousin Ty, who I constantly shoved my ideas at for his opinion, and who had the good grace to give them consideration. His opinions helped me to reshape some, if not all, of these stories.

OK, all of them.

But I don’t want to forget a special kind of thanks that needs to go out to my friend Max who sat or lay patiently by my side wondering what I was up to. Never asking for anything other than a few leftovers, his evening walks to watch the sun go down, and of course for me to pick up after him.

Thanks a lot Max.

Peter B. and Uncle Corey

When I was a young man I was taught a phrase, a slice of personal philosophy if you will, in that it was my Uncle Corey who told me the grass is always greener when it rains.

There were other versions of the same saying but I never gave any of them much thought until the morning of my tenth birthday when my uncle sat me on a log in his front yard. As he knelt before me he told me how he had come to own this particular section of undesirable land.

The Little Swamp as he had named it. His residence here could be rightfully and squarely placed on the shoulders of my biological father, one Thomas Tommy Gun Everhard.

Uncle Corey told me that afternoon a tale that began to shape my character and the goals for my life. Don’t, for instance, get in a fight over a girl, woman or female in general unless your absolutely sure you will win, and then maybe. Because even though he was smart, in my opinion to the point of being a genius, my Uncle Corey was by no means a fighter.

As he squatted on the barren soil of his ‘front yard’ he told me that one day long past he and my father had gotten into a squabble over the young lady that lived a mile or so up the, at that time, deeply rutted dirt road that led into town.

Mr. Collins who owned the only gas station in town at the time would one day confirm to me that my uncle had told my father that he didn’t care for the way he had talked to that young lady.

A fight ensued, and during the process Uncle Corey was beaten so bad he had to be taken to the local dentist (that being the closest thing at the time to a doctor), and when Uncle Corey came to he had lost most of his hearing in his left ear, and the vision in his right eye was never the same either.

Up until the last time I saw him he would say he had no memory of any of it. I, however, later came to doubt that.

Then came the war.

World War II (as if one wasn’t enough) and my uncle had been declared to be 4F. A dud.

Not fit for service.

Mr. Ramer, who owned the local feed store which also sold anything from ducks and chickens all the way up to horses and other livestock, had himself, volunteered to serve in World War I with the doughboys. He knew a little bit about volunteers, and told me eye-to-eye my father wasn’t one, and that it would be considered shameful if he hadn’t so my father had joined.

Mr. Ramer and a few of the older men in town had always expected to see a wooden crate with the remains come home on the train at any time, maybe the victim of an ill-planned charge in the heat of battle, stepping on a landmine, or the always ambiguous friendly fire.

But that’s hard to do when you serve as a Private in the Quartermasters Division. A necessary enough posting but not one that gains you combat experience or the medal of valor, both of which Tommy Gun Everhard had made claim to.

Soon after his return to the bosom of our fair town my biological father set about on a campaign of disrespect and slander aimed at my uncle, all because of one question my uncle had asked him.

The question in point that he had brought up was itching at my brain and I had to know what it was.

When I asked him he suddenly became more rigid in his posture.

He had simply shrugged his shoulders and said, I just wanted to know, and quickly changed the subject.

He then asked me to go fetch him a beer and myself a cola, and after that he changed the subject. He swung the guitar strapped to his back around to the front, slid out of the rig then handed it to me and said to play.

I scratched my way through some true believer song, the Old Rugged Cross or something, my uncle watching intently, his chin resting in the nest of his left palm.

He then leaned in and said,

Don’t tighten up. Relax and let your guitar tell you where to put your fingers.

I did and to this day I’ve been told I ain’t too bad.

It wouldn’t happen for eight years but the rest of the aforementioned story would be told.

The party for my eighteenth birthday was coming to a close. It was in the spring of 1969, March as I remember, and my friends and family had all been in attendance.

But to be honest, my older brothers and a few of our like were all that had shown up other than my mom and daddy Bob’s friends and family. But when it came to the rest of the lot most of them were only loitering about after the event, if you want to call it that, for the leftover alcohol and smoked brisket. That’s when Uncle Corey asked me to follow him to his trailer inside the bottomland.

For once in my life I left the other dogs to fight over the scraps.

Once there he continued the story he had started so many years ago without my needing to prompt him. This time, however, I had carried with me a beer for the both of us.

He told me that after my father returned to the states following the war my uncle had made the unforgivable mistake of shaming him by asking my father if he was such a hero what had happened to all his medals? Back then you couldn’t buy them in a pawnshop or Army-Navy store.

Right there in the middle of my father’s welcome home party.

Tommy Gun Everhard had not one single logical response to the question, at least none that wouldn’t label him for the fool and liar that he was, so he turned and stormed off to the bar where he spent most of the evening liberally applying a whiskey balm to his wounded ego.

A tale had then somehow spread across the county that my uncle was a draft dodger and in general just no good.

Work for him became scarce at best.

It would seem that people in small communities, at least at the time, seemed to lean their favor towards the bully and not necessarily the truth.

Power perceived is power achieved he had supposed.

I found myself mesmerized by the tale and the subdued passion in my uncle’s voice as he relayed it. The songs of the crickets and frogs seemed to stop when my uncle spoke and the night pulled itself in a little bit closer to my skin.

He broke off his narrative long enough to send me up the stairs that led to the doublewide mobile home set some ten feet or so above ground level to fetch us another beer. It would seem that, for this evening at least, sobriety would not reign supreme.

The trailer was anchored to a platform that rested atop six steel pylons with cross ties made of heavy steel cables which had turnbuckles in the center of them for tightening or loosening them as needed. The whole structure had been reinforced with concrete and had survived many a storm and flash flood.

His friends had taught him well.

By the time it took me to return he had packed his corncob pipe with the mix he carried in a pouch attached to his belt, struck a kitchen match, and was puffing leisurely away.

As he saw me approach he gave his wrist a flick to extinguish the match, which he tossed onto the rapidly growing pile beside his lawn chair. By the time I stood in front of him he had the pipe well under control and had snuggled his lithe frame deep as he could into his quilt-lined chair. It wasn’t cold outside, and in all truth to me it was bordering on the warm side. But he seemed to be happy.

So was I.

He looked at me with either a twinkle of happiness, or maybe it was the misty eyes we all seem to save for times gone or soon to be gone by glazing his eyes and said Damn boy, you must really like those stairs to only bring back two!

I simply shrugged and handed him the two in my hands then reached into the rear pockets of my jeans. After producing the other two which I brought for myself I took a seat on the same log I had sat on all the years gone by and hoped I would for many years to come.

But I knew that wasn’t in the cards, my uncle and I both sensing the pain of loss in the air even before the goodbyes that should be to come had been said.

I then opened my beer and for once in my life I sat and I listened.

Not saying a word or even so much as a whisper of awe, Uncle Corey told me that the stories had varied. Some said my uncle had taken an ice pick to his own eardrum, some said he had taken salt and ground it into his eye to blur his vision enough to get out of the war. But in the end it didn’t really matter, at least not according to Uncle Corey.

He told me that after all someone had to man the home front so that the women didn’t stray. At least not too far he had said with a wry wink.

After the slur campaign had run its course Uncle Corey had met, fallen in love with, and soon after married my aunt Sarah. And even though at this point I had never so much seen a picture of her, and heard her name spoken only a handful of times, the far away look in my uncle’s eyes and the passion that was obvious when he spoke of the smell of her skin or the feel of her hair which had helped me to understand how beautiful she must have been and why he had never married again.

He leaned forward from his quilted cocoon long enough to reach into the left inside pocket of his waist length denim jacket and produce a photo, and after handing it to me he snuggled his way back into its folds.

Uncle Corey then crossed his foot over his knee and puffed on his pipe. It was then I saw the impish glee return to his eyes. A slight curl that came to his upper lip as he spoke about how even though she had never