A Box Full of Martins

By Larry Day

Twelve-year-old Sparky Carpenter, his brother Bub, and friend Hacky begin summer break with Sparkys initiation into their secret club, however, when the boys discover a bloody bag containing a slaughtered mother dog and pups, all dead except one, the innocence of childhood begins ebbing away. Coming of age in the 1980s dilapidating coal camp of Friendship, Kentucky, Sparky struggles to accept either himself and the teaching of his ostracized grandmother or the norms propagated by the bigotry and prejudice of a town united by not only racism but also the fear of Gods newest plagueAIDS.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 13, 2015
• ISBN: 9781514416051

Larry Day

Larry Day has illustrated several picture books, including Duel!, which received four starred reviews; Let It Begin Here; Bye-Bye Baby, and Not Afraid of Dogs, an SCBWI Golden Kite Award winner, while working in the advertising industry. Larry lives in Downers Grove, Illinois.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

T HE LIGHTS FROM the town tree reflected off the hearse in front of us like multicolored stars in a coal-black sky. The skeleton of the once-booming coal town of Friendship, Kentucky, was now a patchwork of boarded-up and dilapidating company-owned buildings and camp houses that lined the paved and windy street like teeth on a comb. On that day, the peeling windows of Friendship’s camp houses framed their curtain-wrapped faces while their eyes followed our three-car dirge.

As he puffed on his Camel Light, Daddy rolled down the window about an inch, amplifying the squishing sound of our tires on the snow. I felt as though I was in a dream, a bad dream, but it was real. The rhythm of the windshield wipers as they pattered back and forth formed a melody with the sound of our tires. I pulled my coat tighter and examined Bub, who was sitting in the backseat beside me with his head leaned against the window. Steam from his breath coated the glass.

When we passed Mr. Pilot’s office, two men were shoveling the snow off the sidewalk and removing the wreath from the door.

Edith sat up in Mommy’s lap and asked, Where are we going?

Daddy quickly glanced at Mommy, who pulled Edith closer to her but did not answer.

A piercing freeze gushed into the window when Daddy rolled it down to flip out his cigarette butt. Slowly, regrettably, Daddy spoke in a tone that I had never before heard him speak with, Boys, when we get up here to the cemetery, you’re going to have to help carry the casket.

As we approached Pilot’s store near the head of Otter Creek, the snowy sky veiled the sun, creating a halo. When the asphalt faded to gravel, a stream of sunshine broke through the clouds.

Going up the hill to the cemetery, I could see a purple tent labeled Justice Funeral Home in gold erected above an open grave lined on one side with a series of wooden folding chairs.

A tall gentleman with gray sideburns and contrasting brown hair stood near the muddy road that came within about thirty feet of the tent. He walked down to the hearse, spoke to the driver, and then came to our car. Daddy cracked open his window.

Sir, the man said, standing slightly bent and tilting his head parallel to the roof of the car so his eyes were level with Daddy’s, the ground’s just too muddy. We’re going to have to carry her from here.

Daddy turned to Mommy, leaned over, and kissed her. Come on, boys. He exhaled as he opened the driver’s door and stepped out of the vehicle. Neither Bub nor I spoke. We opened our doors and stepped out onto the mixture of mud, snow, and gravel. I could feel the cold as it attacked my foot through the hole in the sole of my shoe.

By the time I made it to the hearse, Joe Conway and his oldest son Joe Junior came walking behind me. The man from the funeral home opened the door to the hearse. With gray-gloved hands, he grasped the stainless steel handle on the end of the coffin.

I need for two of you to stand on each side and one of you to grab the far end when I pull it out.

Joe Conway looked at Daddy. Steam floated from his mouth, and I could smell the old whiskey. Joe Junior spoke to me, Sparky, me and you will take this side.

Joe and Bub went to the left side and Daddy waited. The funeral home attendant then slowly pulled the coffin, which to my surprise rolled easily from the back of the hearse. It was the longest minute of my life, as though time had been trapped and yet my senses remained intact. The sound of everyone’s breathing seemed to be the loudest sound of all as the snow peppered my face.

Grab it, Sparky, Daddy stated. I stood entranced in a moment of disbelief, a moment of realization, a moment of fear. I grasped the cold steel with my chafed hands. The coffin dropped from the back of the hearse and revealed its true weight.

Daddy led us, walking backward and facing us as we carefully carried it. No one spoke. Holding Edith by the hand, Mommy came walking behind us. Once we had reached the tent, the attendant, who was bringing up the rear, directed us on the appropriate placement.

The five of us then sat in the front row of chairs next to the grave. Joe and Joe Junior filled two of the seats behind us. The gentleman from the funeral home opened the big black Bible he was holding and began reading the Twenty-Third Psalm. Songless birds fluttered upon the snow-covered pines, knocking clumps to the ground.

CHAPTER 1

I T HAS BEEN almost twenty years now since we left Friendship. Bub and I rarely speak of those days, but occasionally, on one of those one-too-many-beer nights, Bub, Hacky, and I will sit on Bub’s front porch chatting in aimless conversation while his boys listen intently. Of course, our babbling generally tends to sway away from the painful moments, and we console ourselves in conversation about our boyhood antics.

Seems we always go back to the very first day of summer break in May of 1985. Bub, my only brother, was one year and one day my senior, which had afforded him the title of teenager—a point he had made clear daily.

Come on, Sparky! he yelled from the kitchen door.

Sparky was my nickname coined by Ma Christi, my father’s mother. It was the derivative of two traditions—familial and mining. Having been named Lawrence after my father, tradition would dictate that I be called Little Lawrence. Incidentally, my father’s reputation in the coal mines as a fast scoop operator had warranted him the nickname of Lightning, which for most people of Friendship was his only name. Therefore, to satisfy the laws of nomenclature and to shorten my name, Ma Christi called me Sparky—short for Little Lightning.

If you don’t come on, I’m gonna go without you! Bub yelled again.

I’m on my way. I’m just trying to get this knot out of my shoe, I screamed back into the kitchen. Knowing Bub’s lack of patience, I grabbed the shoe from the bed and ran into the kitchen, where he stood at the back door.

Sparky, son, you’re a slow poke. Give me ’at shoe.

I reached the shoe to Bub, who pulled his Swiss Army knife from his pocket and began loosening the knot with the small blade.

You need to learn to tie your shoes right, and this won’t happen, Bub commented as he leaned against the wall.

Where you boys headed to? Mommy asked while washing dishes. Edith, our only sister, sat in her highchair with gravy all over her face, while she continued her valiant yet fruitless efforts to place the spoon into her mouth.

We’re going to Hacky’s to play Atari, Bub answered.

Mommy dried her hands on the checkered dishtowel and placed the number ten cast-iron skillet on top of the gas burner to cure. I want you boys back here by four. And, Sparky, I need you to run by Ma Christi’s and get me some corn meal for the cornbread. We’re having soup beans and fried taters for supper.

Oh, Mom, I moaned.

It’s not gonna kill you to walk right down the street there and get the cornmeal, Mommy immediately replied.

No, I mean soup beans, again. I sighed and drooped my shoulders.

Bub slapped me in the back of the head. Shut your whining, Sparky, and let’s go, he said, reaching the shoe to me.

I dropped it to the floor, slid my foot in, and bent down to tie it. When I was almost finished, the screen door slammed behind Bub, and I quickly ran behind him, watching as his brown head vanished around the corner.

Fog capped the mountains and screened the sun like the yoke in the middle of an egg over easy. Springtime offered odd odors such as the smell of freshly mowed grass blended with the sulfuric odor of burning coal.

Wait for me, I yelled to Bub. Birds serenaded us as we started up the narrow hollow of Otter Creek where Friendship was located.

Bub slowed down. Hacky is supposed to be waiting on his front porch, Bub said, looking down to the side at me struggling to maintain his pace.

Waiting on the front porch to play Atari?

No, you little shit. I just told Mommy ’at, Bub said, showing anger yet reservation, totally aware that we were walking past Mrs. Lilia’s place. Mrs. Lilia was one of Mommy’s church sisters, and for lack of a better term, the town busybody. She knew everything, told everything, but seemed to do absolutely nothing.

Then what is he waiting for? I asked.

As we approached Hacky’s, I could see him sitting on the banister. He was wearing his Cincinnati Reds baseball cap with his coal-black hair poking out, a pair of cut-off jeans, and a white T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

It’s about time, he yelled as he jumped onto the ground eight feet below. I’ve been waiting here for thirty minutes.

Had to wait on slow ass, Bub answered with a grin.

Did you tell him? Hacky inquired of Bub.

Not yet, I thought we should talk to him about it first.

What are you all talking about? I asked.

As though I had not spoken, Bub asked Hacky, Did you git ’em?

Hacky patted his pocket, which was filled with a square object that had the impression of a small deck of cards.

You get yours? Hacky asked Bub.

In my sock, Bub replied.

Hacky sprinted down the street to us. Well, let’s do it, he boasted as he gave Bub a high-five. You think he can keep a secret?

He will, or we’ll kick his ass, Bub replied.

The word game Bub and Hacky were playing gnawed at my curiosity. Attempting to express my dismay, I stopped and yelled, All right, either you tell me what you are talking about, or I’m not going with you.

Bub and Hacky turned and looked at me. I was standing with both feet planted firmly on the ground and my hands drawn into fists with my arms parallel to my body, my lips pressed against one another hiding my gritted teeth. They both began to laugh.

Boy, you act just like a sissy sometimes, Hacky said as he walked up to me and put his arm around my shoulder. Relax, dude. We’re going to let you in on one of our secrets. Just keep walking with us, and when get to where we’re going, we’ll tell you. Now, chill. Hacky rubbed the top of my head fiercely, messing up my hair. He followed with the taunting words, Cotton Top.

Our stroll down the hollow led us to the center of Friendship. In fact, our house was exactly twelve houses away from Friendship City Hall. City Hall is where all water bills and rent payments were made to the landlord Mr. Pilot. As I later learned, he had bought the entire town from the coal company during the 1950s. Like most mining camps, the primary architecture of the town consisted of identical houses placed as closely together as possible, which meant we were closer to the center of town than most people, considering the houses lined the road on both sides of town for miles.

A few paces before Pilot’s office, Bub and Hacky darted off the sidewalk and down the hill next to a building bearing the label Friendship Volunteer Fire Department. I came sliding down the bank behind them.

Ouch! I exclaimed, landing in a bunch of blackberry bushes.

Shut up, both of them said in a quiet yet stern voice.

Okay, Sparky, Hacky elaborated, we’re gonna stay right up against the foundation here and follow it along the back side until we get to that oak tree there. You see? he asked, directing my attention around the corner of the building, pointing with one hand and placing the other on my shoulder. Once we get to that tree, then we’re gonna run really fast across the trestle and then jump down on the other side.

The railroad trestle connected two sides of a boarded-up series of smaller buildings and spanned about forty feet.

Having never been behind the row of buildings that constituted downtown Friendship, I was unaware that an entire railway station stood behind it. On the sides of the red brick station were black signs with yellow letters reading No Trespassing and Violators Will Be Prosecuted.

Why? I asked profoundly.

Just do it, Bub said.

Hacky went first. As if in some James Bond film, he rapidly yet methodically made his way between the foundation of the city hall building and the bushes.

Go on, Sparky, Bub nudged me.

I imitated, to the best of my ability, as Bub followed behind me. All seemed well, until I got to the trestle. Ducking down in an attempt to not be noticed, I approached the tracks and watched as Hacky quickly ran down the metal railing like a tightrope walker with his arms spread. Then, he jumped to the side at the end and disappeared.

Go, Bub insisted, pushing me from behind.

I ran over to the trestle. Once I was at the tracks, I started to run the railing. I was doing great. Then, I looked down. I was high above the creek, probably about thirty feet. The water ran perpendicular to the trestle. My head began to spin. I was quickly losing balance. I can do this, I thought. I took a deep breath. By then, Bub was only about four steps behind me. I knew if he caught up with me and touched me I would surely fall. I looked straight ahead, my eyes following the tracks.

Just don’t look down, Bub’s voice came from behind. Go faster and don’t look down.

I was about midway when it happened. I started to lose balance. My left foot slipped from the rail and onto the crossties. Suddenly, I found myself stuck. My shoe was caught between two crossties. Oh my god, I yelled. I’m stuck. I had fallen and was lying with my legs over the metal track. My mind immediately began to ponder the thoughts of a train coming and severing my legs. Hurry, Bub. I started to cry. Hurry. Bub’s shadow then shielded my face from the sun. He stood shaking his head. Hurry, Bub. I can’t get it out, I continued, pulling as hard as I could at the trapped foot. Hurry before a train comes!

Bub shook his head, took a deep breath, and laughed. He reached down and with one stiff jerk on my foot pulled it out. Unfortunately, my shoe came off and fell into the creek below.

Sparky, dude, come on before you get us caught, and don’t be such a puss. Besides, the train hain’t run through here in years.

I finished the rest of the walk across the tracks, stepping cautiously from one tie to the other. Bub hurried ahead to get my shoe before it washed too far downstream. When I reached the other side of the bridge, I found Bub and Hacky hiding beneath with my wet shoe lying on the ground. Their conversation quickly ended, and a silence irrupted that was barely muted by the sound of the water flowing around the concrete pier supporting the trestle.

What’s the matter? I asked.

Just get your shoe on, Bub demanded.

But, Bub, it’s wet.

Sparky, put the damn shoe on and shut up.

Do you think he saw us for real? Bub asked Hacky while moving his foot back and forth in the dry sand.

I’m not sure. But I tell you one thing, Sparky, if you didn’t get us caught this time, you’re lucky.

Who are you talking about? I asked as I reluctantly placed my sock-covered dry foot into the saturated shoe.

Mr. Pilot, dumbass, said Bub as he looked at Hacky, rolled his eyes, and shook his head. Look up there, he said, pointing toward the back of City Hall. I stepped cautiously from beneath the shadow of the trestle. There was a big picture window about six feet in both width and length.

That window is to the backside of Old Man Pilot’s office, Hacky explained. I know ’cause he caught the Conway boys over in here a couple of years ago, and all of them was sent off to juvenile hall for thirty days. They said it was the worst thirty days of their life.

I think if he would have seen us, we would hear sirens by now, Bub stated, trying to reassure Hacky.

Well, guess you’re right.

Let’s do it, Hacky said as he began walking along the creek bed, which seemed to effortlessly switch from stone to sand and back again. We were totally surrounded by trees and brush. I could see nothing but the creek, the sky, and the surrounding overgrowth. A secluded world emerged. We walked for about ten minutes until we approached a narrow path surrounded by a wild rose and blackberry thicket.

Hacky led the way up the mountain that rose from the side of the creek bed, forming a difficult incline for the narrow dirt path that serpentined itself through the head-high foliage.

How far now? I asked. As we followed the path, the surrounding vegetation became