Barlow and Other Stories

By Robert Willis

Barlow, a tale wherein native ingenuity trumps book learning. A friendly bet between the mayor of Farcey Springs and the county sheriff puts this countrified veteran face-to-face with certain restrictions that hinder the use of "blood-letting" weapons in defense of his homestead. Southern dialect of course adds 1930s realism to the flesh of this

• Language: English
• Publisher: WordHouse Book Publishing
• Release date: Jan 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9781685471972

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BARLOW AND OTHER STORIES

Copyright © 2022 Robert Willis

This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the products of the authors imagination. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without prior written permission from the publisher or author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

ISBN

Paperback 978-1-68547-195-8

Hardcover978-1-68547-196-5

eBook 978-1-68547-197-2

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022922447

Printed in the United States of America

101 Foundry Dr,

West Lafayette, IN, 47906, USA

www.wordhousebp.com

[phone]

Grief can take care of itself, but to get the full value of a joy you must have somebody to divide it with.

–Mark Twain, Pudd’nhead Wilson

Also by Robert Willis

CROSSING CLAYBORN

GREAT POINT CLEAR

TABLE OF CONTENTS

BARLOW 1

THE UNWINDING 129

THE APPLICANT 139

THE

MARTHA'S SEDUCTION 171

THE

CAGED LAYERS 193

RAZORVILLE 203

CRANNIED WALL 209

THE MILLTOWN COPS 233

GATOR SCARE 245

A HAUNTING MEMORY 253

HENRY THE HUSTLER 269

THE

BARLOW

ONE

Barlow Jimson was mean before he went deaf. Afterwards he just turned meaner. He'd bow up and fight anybody on a dare, or on a show of surly lips, or even a catawampus grin if he didn't see enough smile in it.

Barlow was not his real name, either. At least Olive Jimson never registered him as such, or by any other name for that matter. She hesitated too long out of a desire to live awhile with her offspring to see what name suited his looks and manners best before a permanent brand got planted on him. Old Dink Jimson didn't hesitate long enough. He loved to name things. Anything. He even named poultry by the head, and he kept a flock of a size to require two roosters on the yard. One of them crowed a full octave higher than Tarzan of the apes, which gave Dink a ready-made reason for its tag — plus a handy excuse to yell now and then himself. The other rooster got dubbed Zero, partly on account of a lack of moxie in its cock-a-doodle-doo and partly on account of how the clumsy bird worked the hens in front of Tarzan. A mammoth sow was affectionately addressed as Betsy Boodliwocks. Her pig came out as James the Only after the king, James being the only drop on Betsy's first (and only) farrow. Two scraggly hounds followed Dink home from town one day, and before he'd put his foot past the gate, he was calling one of them Sent and the other one Surd. They both answered to Ab, he explained, so he split the difference as he saw it, since neither hound showed enough smarts to tell which Ab was which and no wonder they got lost.

Olive Jimson, a functional lady to a fault, got caught up in jelly making, corn grinding, hog butchering and never sent in birth papers. The midwife didn't seem to mind, so Dink Jimson started to call the infant Barlow when he discovered one day how much it pacified the little tyke to hold his pocketknife, which bore that name, and tumble it around the crib. Olive didn't cotton to the choice at first and continued on with Baby and Sugar Lump and Golden Band the Sailor Man, and other such youthful dubs. Later along she even tried to make Lars stick until Dink put his foot down.

Barlow grew up with a tailor-made chip on his shoulder. He accused his folks of only half naming him. Yet he'd pound the ears off any kid his size who made the least show of fun. The bigger ones soon caught on to Barlow's thin spot, roughly about the time Barlow began to pack his namesake. After a few exhibitions, after the bullies saw the cold glow of its blade up close and how quickly their target could slice open a watermelon, the teasing subsided except for accident-prone strangers and, of course, such spirited dummies as any town will have.

Barlow lost his hearing in the war. When his generation's coincidence happened along and he ran off to join up, all he could tell the recruiting officers was that his name was indeed Barlow Jimson and that, according to the household Bible, he'd turned eighteen last April. Olive and Dink didn't leave much of note. For the most part, Barlow carried the family legacy on his person. He stood out as a good physical specimen does—tall, wiry, smart, fearless and a little freckled and weathered from his outdoor habits. The recruiting officers were quick to notice his martial qualities and hardly paused because of a lack of credentials. They told him he'd make a fine soldier, a conviction the recruiters demonstrated by taking him straight on to the camp that very day.

A few years later Barlow returned — bunged up, pensioned and meaner than ever. Reports of his exploits preceded him in the form of military news releases, as if he needed praise back home for bravery. Actually, the townspeople seemed less interested in accounts of his struggle with the Krauts at the Bulge than of his tavern rifts in and around London. One British noncom lost an earlobe for calling him a feisty swain.

Some of the good citizens of Farcey Springs even put Barlow on the ballot for district constable, but he wouldn't campaign. Said he didn't want the job. That didn't matter. He got elected anyway.

Something about Barlow made people respect him. In arguments he was fair; tone ranked equal to substance. Everyone knew he had a good head in spite of limited schooling. No one dared pity him because of his hearing, either. Some people claimed Barlow could read minds as well as lips, could look right through you and divine your thoughts. Of course, his being so touchy, this made a lot of them uneasy around him. They avoided his company whenever they found a convenience. Barlow avoided theirs as well. He wouldn't walk two steps out of his way to say hello to a chief-of-state. So he didn't have any close friends, friends you can let your hair down to, unless perhaps you count Mayor Bankhead, Dr. Timms and Cumbie Baker. They'd hunt, fish and sit around a demijohn together, usually in that order, but Barlow never let much hair down.

Sheriff Joe T. Riggs knew Barlow well enough from having quartered him on occasion for fighting in public, not to mention a few other infractions. They weren't close. Still, the sheriff looked the other way whenever he could or bent over backwards here and there to keep the fines low. He served as usher when Barlow married Agnes Wainwright, whose friendship topped them all. Though quiet and gentle, Agnes possessed a rare spirit, too, an enduring one which some thought would prove as necessary as admirable in the long run. Along with her father, a few raised whispered questions as to why one of Farcey Springs' fairest didn't select a more ambitious prospect from among the pool of eligibles. Clearly the safest bets were hers for a wink. But she turned away such questions. A God-fearing posture, she argued, ordained her for the simple life. Better is a crust of bread where love is than a royal feast in the midst of hatred and strife. Power and fame meant nothing. Even so, wouldn't she gain more notice by marrying Barlow? It rested on a question of grit in the craw, she said. Her man must be ribbed with steel, not babbitt.

And to the last suitor, they each proved their mettle after Barlow took an interest.

TWO

The folks in Farcey Springs enjoyed having Barlow around despite the risk. He could tell a dandy joke when his mood was right, and he made a good subject for the gossips any time. They hoped he might take a place in town after his pension checks started to arrive in a dependable flow, and especially after he married Agnes Wainwright, but he stuck with the country. Too many neighbors, he said of Farcey Springs. Sheriff Riggs, whom everyone tended to use as a symbol of bulk rather than authority, seemed relieved. When things got too peaceful, though, he'd stir up a little mischief himself just in case somebody got the bright idea Cutler County could do without a full-time sheriff.

One quiet day in the middle of summer Sheriff Riggs dropped by to chat with Mayor Bankhead, a short, stylish man with buxom jaws and a habit of staring dipper mouthed as he listened. Certain residents on the swampy end of town had passed a few threats, as the sheriff explained, which justified a strategy session.

They's at it again, Lester. Melvin Shaw and Elmo Hinson.

Oh, no, not Melvin, the mayor groaned. What's he mad about this time?

Seems like Elmo filled up his back yawd with too much salvage and Melvin, you might know, says it's givin’ him the so’ eyes, has run his property down, et cet’ra, and so foth and so on. He ast me to do sump’m, uh-ruh, else he would.

Mayor Bankhead swiveled impatiently; his mouth frozen in a wide gape that signaled irritation. After a bit the dapper official worked his jaws up and down, then sideways a few times before chopping a laugh.

What was it last year, he snorted, that got Melvin so upset?

B.B. Kimmons' dawgs. You know B.B. He lives t'other side a Melvin.

Oh, yes. Dogs barked too much.

Right. Plus Melvin said B.B.'s pack took his yawd for a shawtcut ever’time they left the premises. He wanted to file a claim on account of how the hounds traipsed all over his flowers and scalded the shrub’ry. Said B.B. must keep 'em pumped full a croton oil 'cause the mangy fleabags couldn't set a paw on his carpet grass without their bowels movin’.

The mayor grimaced and held out a heavy corona-shaped cigar. It was wrapped in one of those sickly green, shade-ripened leaves found on expensive brands. Joe T. stuck the end in his huge jaws and bit down. He did not light it. He never lit his smokes but consumed them slowly from within, the way kids consume peppermint sticks.

Now Billy Alday's mad with B.B., the sheriff went on, 'cause B.B. used hawg fence twixt their yawds ‘stead a white pickets with side points on top, like hisn. And you know Elmo never could stand Billy Alday for some crazy reason.

Mayor Bankhead squirmed around in his posh leather chair, picking impatiently at the end of an armrest. His face had already erupted in a swirl of lines that made him look ancient. In what appeared to be a desperate attempt to escape, or at least change the subject, he threw himself against the backrest and fired a torchlike match with his thumbnail. After the phosphorus burned away, he moved it under his cigar with an artistic flourish, puffed hard two or three times and squinted pompously across the desk.

Well, Joe T., I'm glad you're the sheriff.

Yeah, Lester, but Melvin's not my cousin! I'd be obliged if you'd speak to ‘im.

The mayor eased into a prolonged wail. Sheriff Riggs seemed to enjoy his fellow politico's discomfort.

Well?

Well what?

Uh-huh. I bet you wouldn't set there like a Halloween pumpkin if Barlow Jimson lived twixt them two.

Mayor Bankhead's face brightened and he sat for a bit chuckling. You're right, Joe T. Can you imagine him and Melvin neighbors?

They chuckled together.

Fact is, I can't magjun Barlow with neighbors, peerid. Least not for long the way he thows a fit. Yessuh, circumstances keeps pretty settled round Farcey Springs with Barlow livin’ on the outskirts.

Except when he comes to town and freshens things up a little.

They chuckled some more.

A hint of dare and cunning sparkled equally in their eyes.

Barlow! the mayor howled. He's one hell of a citizen, isn't he? A gem of a man.

The sheriff's heavy, globular face took on an uncivil cast. To heah you tell it, he grunted. Speakin’ of the devil brings to mind another matter I needs to talk with you ‘bout.

What’s that?

A new family hit town this mornin’. Some gent called Mose Mathis, with a stout wife and two bean-pole boys."

So?

He ast ‘bout a place to stay.

You can't arrest him for that, can you?

"But, Lester, you know who he ast?

Mayor Bankhead sighed. Not Melvin?

Nope. Cumbie Baker!

Oh goodness — really!

Yeah. Cose you might know where Cumbie sent him.

You don't have to tell me.

"For a fact. Straight out to the Sycamo’ Place!"

The sheriff swatted both his heavy legs and roared. Mayor Bankhead's face brightened again. All the wrinkles etched across it a few minutes earlier disappeared behind a flush of rapture.

He shouted: Why didn't you tell me this when you first came in?

Joe T. looked down. He remained silent.

Why you slippery old buzzard! the mayor continued. You led me on! You sat here with banner news tucked in your big greasy noggin and dragged me through all that mess about Melvin and the rest of his precinct!

A peal of laughter shook the room. Sheriff Joe T. Riggs rose to his feet. His great torso scribed a circle as it wove back and forth under a testy strain. The mayor, too, appeared conspicuously pumped up after hearing the sheriff’s latest revelation.

Great Scott, man! What else did Cumbie tell him? Mathis didn't move in, did he?

Cumbie told ‘im some rich Yankee owned the place...

The sheriff slung his arms as he spun around the room, as if trying to help his body absorb the shock of his thunderous howling. ...told ‘im the Yankee lived over in It’ly now...nobody's seen ‘im for twelve or so yeahs...might be dead and intestate!

At least! Hey, hey — good old Cumbie! Splendid, splendid! Lester Bankhead, whose frame supported a substantially thinner and less rubbery sinew than existed on Joe T. Riggs, remained behind his desk out of the sheriff’s reach, although he acted just as addled with delight. What else, man, he shouted, tell me!

Sheriff Riggs meshed words amidst a drone of chuckles.

Cumbie let on ‘bout no rent to pay. He said when he dropped that little acorn, this Mathis fella's eyelids opened up like Gus Ingram's when he passes Fred's Liquor Sto’.

Cumbie didn't mention Barlow, did he?

Cose not. Cumbie sounded cold sober, Lester. If you can b’lieve that, gimme five dollars. But, uh-ruh, like I explained, he just mentioned no rent to pay and kept quiet ‘bout all the hell. Cumbie said Mathis jumped in his old rattletrap truck and it bucked and skipped for two blocks befo’e he got the cab do’ shut. Yessuh, he was head’n’ out tawd the Sycamo’ Place all right.

The mayor rubbed his hands together and reached for another cigar. He pushed one at Sheriff Riggs, who had already devoured his.

Well, Joe T., let's suppose the Mathis family goes ahead and moves in. How long you give 'em?

The sheriff chewed on his lips, thinking. He struggled to cross his legs then pushed his Stetson forward and settled down in the chair’s soft cushion. The men commenced to stare at each other like two gamecocks in a pit.

Ohhhhh...hard to say. Mathis looked awful mean.

You saw him?

Cumbie's words. Said his old lady looked even meaner.

Don't matter. What's your pick?

Ohhh...I'd give him three, maybe fo’ munts.

Five hundred says no more than two months.

Now hold on, Lester! You always come on too fast!

What's wrong? Look, Joe T., I don't even know the man, never laid eyes on him.

"Yeah, but you know you got a full house with a certain face cawd in y'hand!"

Sounds like a tough customer to me.

"So? Time's what we’s talkin’ ‘bout, ain’t it?"

The mayor squinted in thought for a moment. Yes, you’re right. No disagreement there. But give me some credit, Joe T. I took a big chance when I shaved it down to two months.

Kiss my grits, Lester. You gotta take a bigger chance! Sixty days? Nothin’ doing. No siree. No way.

Why you shifty old fox! Didn't you just say three or four months?

Make up y'mind, Mista Mayor. I'm a fox one minute, a race hoss the next.

I know your game. You cleaned me out the other night with two sixes. You kicked sand in my eyes so fast I lost sight of three queens! Boy oh boy! Old Joe T. Riggs picked me like a row of cotton and now he's hanging sack for another run!

The sheriff chuckled sheepishly as his eyes wandered over Mayor Bankhead's office. His attention fixed on a bowl of goldfish. He watched them hover and fan their tails for a few moments and then turned and pooched his lips out at the mayor.

You had the three queens. Now you got mo’ like a royal flush. All I got’s sand. Sand won't do me no good in this bet! Joe T. Riggs paused behind a dramatic glare. Cose now, uh-ruh, if you’d sprinkle some odds down, I might listen a while longer...

No, no, no, no, no, no, the mayor sang to the tune of do, re, mi, fa, so, la. Poppycock, my good man! Even bet. Two months is as low as I go.

Cold business eyes and a dipper mouth intensified the mayor’s glare.

Holy cow, Lester! You don't take NO chances, do you? How ‘bout if you hold the fo’ munts and I hold the two?

No soap. You know the rules. I play inside the date, you play outside. The one closest wins.

Well, how ‘bout if you shave to one munt then?

Great Caesar's ghost, Joe T., it'll take Mathis a month to move in! No, sir. Sixty days, that's it. Have you forgot about Cumbie Baker? He lasted — what? — from July till Christmas.

Barlow was younger then. Not as cranky. Besides, he spent half that time in a VA hospital over at Jacksonville. You remember it. The doctors dug another handful of shrapnel outa his orn’ry hide.

Ah, yes, so they did.

Fu’thermo’, Cumbie and Barlow were good friends.

They still are, right?

I guess. Such as it is. But who can stay friends with Barlow? He's like one them Idaho civvy cats. If you try to git too close to ‘im, he'll pee on you sho's the world! The sheriff swished his cigar from cheek to cheek. He glanced sideways at the mayor but the mayor had turned contemplative and aloof. Sheriff Riggs refocused on the goldfish. Finally his heavy jowls began to move again. Well, uh-ruh, I'll go along on one condition...

Mayor Bankhead snapped forward in his chair, his mouth puckered, his delicate finger waving at the sheriff. "Something tells me to quit — quit now!"

Only one, Lester.

Okay. Let's hear it.

"None of that, uh-ruh, swish-swish stuff...."

Mayor Bankhead settled back, exposed his molars briefly in moray-eel fashion and then let out another chopping laugh. With sudden abruptness, though, he clammed up and commenced to tug on his lower lip. After a long silence the mayor snapped at the sheriff.

You swindle-fist, you sidewinder! I reckon you rehearsed that condition before you stuck y’big head in my office. By golly, if you weren't the high sheriff of Cutler County, I'd have you arrested for trying to corrupt public officials.

Hold the baloney, Lester, for the next election. This ain’t banquet time heah. What you say?

I say your handicap stinks.

C’mon, Lester, be a gentleman. No swish-swish.

Another pause followed. Okay, I'll see your condition for the full five hundred, the mayor groaned finally, and raise you one."

What you got?

Suppose this new tenant does get whittled on a little and he’s laid up for five or six months and in no condition to move?

I win, Lester! Don't you see? I said Mathis can't vacate that shack on account of a little, uh-ruh, skin separation.

Yeah, swish-swish. I see.

Okay, then? Deal?

Not okay. I say you can't win on account of it, either!

How come you calls yo’self a Christian and you ain’t na’un? Repent, Lester. Take the bet.

No, sir. You'll not part me from my five hundred with that swish-swish handicap. Better Mathis gets parted.

Gollee, Lester...!

Do we have a deal?

After a brief period of moaning and griping, the two men finally shook hands. Their wager was innocent enough, like others they'd made from time to time. Time, in fact, was the dimension that figured most essentially into their negotiations. Moving out of the subject neighborhood wasn't a question of how or why but when. If Mose Mathis and his family managed to hold residency in the Sycamore Place for three months or longer, then Mayor Bankhead would lose. If Mathis vacated within two months or less, Sheriff Riggs would lose. An aborted tenancy induced by an altercation between neighbors would nullify the bet, but only in the event Mathis bled a few drops, more or less, as a result of a cut, stab, slash, gig, gash, and so on. No need to specify the underlying cause of any such wound. It was one of the understood conditions both parties accepted without question or proviso.

No sooner than the two men had shaken hands, their eyes began to roll with regret as other useful clauses took shape in their minds. But the die was cast, the flesh pressed in good faith, the deal struck in a carefully drawn agreement. On accepting a farewell cigar, Sheriff Riggs squinched his eyes at the mayor, unlocking such a grave air of suspicion as to provoke an immediate reciprocation. The two men stared in grim silence at each other. After a momentary swagger, followed by disturbing recollections, the sheriff left Lester Bankhead's office with an election-eve cast dogging his face.

THREE

Barlow was hoeing peas when the Mathis family rolled into view. He loved fresh ladyfingers and every year planted a small patch between the two houses, the only cultivated soil nearby. His taste never allowed it to fallow through a single season. Neither had he expanded tillage one foot beyond such furrows as existed on the day Agnes Wainwright stepped across the threshold with him.

Barlow took note of the cloud of dust approaching in the distance. He chopped along with his hoe but bent closer about his work and set his eyes into the low, defensive actions of a cottonmouth. He hoped the truck would pass on. Most vehicles did. This one stopped under the infamous sycamore that towered over the other bungalow, just as they all did who stopped. The giant tree served as a guidepost for prospective dwellers as much as a summer shade for Barlow and Agnes.

We found us a home at last, Mose Mathis shouted to his wife as the aged pickup labored to a halt.

The woman's hard, embattled face remained solemn. As she studied the scene, her head scrooched further down into her shoulders. After a long and thorough gaze all about, she answered, Maybe just a tree.

Aw, Merle —

Gimme that cussed broom!

Not now, Lovie. Why don't you go settle down on the end of the porch while me and the boys unload the stove. You’re apt to see thangs differnt on a full stomach.

Merle shot him an icy stare. I ain't ‘bout to cook now! she growled. Y'all can gnaw on a sweet potater if you git hongry. Cain’t you see it's nigh dark! You had me boxed up in this old truck for three days, and I'm gonna sleep flat tonight — else I'm gonna flatten you. Brang in them mattresses. We'll just let ever’thing else set till mornin’.

Hey — good thankin’, Lovie! Reckon we all need a little rest.

Call it a ‘little rest’ if you must, but I intend to put in a full night uv it.

Yes, Lovie. I’m satisfied you will, too. That feller back in Farcey Sprangs shore give us a mighty fine tip, didn't he?

You turnip-head, cain’t you see why? It's prob’ly hisn. He wants some sucker to come out and patch it up. Look at them rafters, how they sway in like a plug horse's back. And take a gander at that old porch. I'll be surprised if it ain’t rotten as a buzzard's gut. The roof too. I’m a-seein’ more shingles outa place than in. Merle paused and conducted a wide-angle surveillance, grunting sourly as her eyes scrolled over the roof and on across the acreage between the two houses. Then, after a listless swing through the surrounding property, her eyes came to a sudden halt as they locked on the only other human presence visible anywhere thereabouts. She snorted and remarked to her husband, as if to shift the example, You'd think that hammer knocker over there choppin’ them bitterweeds has been thowin’ brickbats at this dump, git’n’ his daily pleasures.

Merle glanced evilly at Barlow, as though he might be guilty of something. Barlow kept his head down, but the sun had dropped out of sight and shadows were long enough to allow him an occasional scrutiny without notice. She watched him hoe a few strokes then aimed her glare back upon their pending new home.

Merle filled up her half of the seat across from Mose and a goodly part of his. She possessed a broad, flat and rather grim face with stark little eyes that brought to mind one of those burly high plains Sioux Indian chiefs. Only the mussed, partially unraveled squiggles of gray hair balled up behind her head and the Mother Hubbard cut of her dress provided enough of a hint for one to figure her for a female. On the battlefront Mose might pass as her aide-de-camp more readily than her spouse. His roly-poly face, while it bristled with a week's growth of whiskey-red beard, bustled with subservience. He was not exactly a small man, either. A fair-sized man in fact, only the size had settled on his lower half and made his upper half appear out of proportion and a bit unnatural. His head, so round and his face so tallow-complected and tame despite the red beard, bore the look of an extremity that’d been pegged into the wrong torso, maybe even the wrong species, remindful of how workers sometimes mix up body parts in toy factories but without the usual mischievous intent.

No rent, Merle! You cain’t expect a mansion on them terms, now can you?

Another boxy shack, she replied.

So the porch needs a few nails and a plank here and there. Don't worry, Lovie. We'll put a shine back on her, by shucky. What you say?

Merle didn't answer. She stepped down on the running board and grabbed a broom wedged among some rucksacks.

Git them mattresses, she growled. I'll give it a week.

FOUR

Barlow chopped along. With his back bent into a coil and his head moving in a slow and sinister swivel, he seemed to enact the perfect pantomime of a body’s primitive sense of danger. A fellow mortal from our ancient past might not have looked any more aroused and alert if a strange reptile had just crawled under the sycamore tree and lay there all puffed and tilted, hissing steam out of its snout.

When Barlow saw Merle descend from the vehicle with the broom in her hand, his arm began to itch. He dropped the hoe and stalked inside his house. The kitchen window, which faced the other house, gave him position, and for several minutes the visitors moved under close watch. Two scruffy boys, with a couple of redbones hassling beneath them, were slumped on the tailgate. Like hourly laborers, they