The thunder scared the pigs. They squealed and ran and bumped into Elliott's legs. He slipped and landed flat on his butt. Cursing, he pushed himself up, getting his hands in the muck. He started to wipe them on his pants, then paused when he thought of what his stepmother would say when she saw how dirty he'd gotten. His seat was soaked through. He tried wringing his hands a few times, but all that did was spread the mud into a thin paste. Well, hell. Didn't seem like he could get much dirtier than he already was, so he gave up and wiped both hands on his pants leg. He was sure to get in trouble whatever he did.
"Boy! Ain't you done there yet!" His father called from the barn. "Quit playin' and get in here!"
"Yes sir!" Elliott called back. Another roll of thunder, followed by a flash of lightning. He looked at the pigs. "You see what you done now? Ain't I got enough trouble without you helpin' me?" The pigs ignored him. He raised one foot to kick the big sow who made his life miserable, but stopped with his leg suspended in air. The last time he'd taken out his frustration on the pigs, they'd turned and attacked him. He'd thought they were going to kill him. He put his foot back down and got out of the pen fast as he could.
His father was waiting for him in the barn. Big raindrops splattered loudly overhead. "About time you got here, boy."
"Yessir. Sorry sir." He knew better than to argue with his father. There'd been too many strappings behind the wood shed; he couldn't even remember how many times. He'd learned not to talk back.
"Sorry ain't gonna get the job done." Elliott just looked at his feet.
"How many times I got to tell you to do your chores, boy? Ain't you learned yet? Or maybe you're just stupid?"
Elliott thought of how much work he'd done already that day. All he did was work, daybreak to sundown, trying to keep this godforsaken land producing grain. Just him and his father to do the fieldwork, care for the animals, and only him to tend the lonely grave that lay under the big cottonwood tree. It was hard enough, just keeping two the two of them alive. Then his pa had to go and get married again, and now there was his new wife and her twin babies to feed as well. His pa stepped up close enough so that Elliott could smell the stale tobacco and whiskey on his sour breath
"I asked you a question, boy. Are you just plain stupid?"
"No sir."
"You look at me when I'm talking to you, boy." Elliott raised his eyes slowly. Surprise hit him. When had he become taller than his pa? How come he never noticed until now?
Pa sniffed noisily and looked at Elliott's pants. "How'd you get yourself so dirty? I told you to feed the pigs, not get in there and roll around with 'em"
"Yes sir. The sow tripped me."
"The sow tripped you." Pa was shaking his head. "I can't count on you to do anything right, can I." Elliott felt his face get hot. As if Pa could be counted on for anything but bad temper and getting drunk every night.
"Since you like rolling in pig slop so much, you can clean out the stalls. And don't you come in the house till you wash yourself up some. You smell worse'n the pigs."
"Yes sir." Pa glared at him, as if he wanted Elliott to sass him, so he'd feel right in slapping his son a few times. Elliott knew better than to give him that satisfaction, but lately, it seemed it took less and less to set him off. Pa put his hands on his son's chest and shoved him backwards. Elliott stumbled against the wall, tripping over a rake as pa stalked out.
Hot tears filled Elliott's eyes. Dammit, dammit, dammit! He rolled off the rake and rubbed his sore back. Pushing himself up, he grabbed the rake and slammed it against a post a few times hard as he could, wishing that he could smash it against pa's head instead. Exhausted, he threw the rake down and gripped the stall with both hands, resting his forehead between them. The mule moved closer and gently rubbed his head against Elliott's shoulder. Elliott wrapped his arms around the mule's broad neck, resting his check against the animal's warm body.
"You got it right, Buck. You and me, we do all the work around here, and he don't do a thing but drink and make babies." Buck snorted. "Oh, you think that's funny, do you? It ain't so funny to me." Elliott stood up and looked into Buck's deep brown eyes. For a minute there, he thought he saw understanding and sympathy. "I know, boy, he don't treat you so good either. What if me 'n you took off, Buck? Then he'd hafta do everything hisself."
Elliott straightened up. "Best I clean out your stall, Buck. We take care of each other, don't we. Ain't nobody else around here gonna do that." He got the pitchfork and opened the stall. Buck obligingly stepped back. "Well, at least you're better than them pigs. You ain't out to git me." The stall didn't look as bad as his pants felt. He'd have to wash himself and his clothes before he went into supper, or he might not get any supper at all. Again.
After he mucked out the stalls, Elliott drew some water from the well and settled down in a dark corner of the barn to wash himself off. It was private enough there that he could pull off his shirt and pants and clean up with the cold water and soap. Rinsing off all the sweat and red dust felt good, real good. He worked up a lather and rubbed the soiled clothes hard with a brush. The clothes were hand-me-downs and would never be nice as store-bought duds, but at least they'd smell good. His stepmother would never let him in the cabin if he still smelled like pig droppings. 'Course, even when he was shiny clean, she made it real clear she didn't want him in that house. Didn't matter how much work he had to do to keep her and her babies fed and housed. No, whatever he did, it wasn't enough for her. Who did she think she was, anyway! She wasn't his real mother! His real mother never treated him like that. But lying where she was, cold and still under the cottonwood, she couldn't help him no more. He felt tears come to his eyes again. Dammit all! He was 14 years old, nearly a man, and getting taller and stronger all the time. His mother, his real mother, had teased him about how fast he grew, naming him after the crops they coaxed out of the Texas dirt. But Pa never called him by that name after his mama died. When she died, she took his name with her.
He wiped his face with the wet shirt. Thinking about his ma always made the tears start. Guess it didn't matter none if he did cry some, so long his pa wasn't around to see. If he'd been, he'd tell Elliott, you want to cry? I'll give you something to cry about! Pa had changed, too, when Mama died. Oh, things hadn't always been sweetness and light between the men folk of the house, but at least they'd gotten along alright. Them days were gone now, too. Elliott wasn't sure how things had gone so wrong so fast, but he figured a lot of it was due to his stepmother. She thought she was moving to Texas to marry a rich rancher and live a soft life. He still remembered how she looked when she saw her new home for the first time. It sure wasn't what she'd been expecting.
Elliott took a couple deep breaths to calm himself. He looked down at the threadbare shirt and saw he'd scrubbed a hole in it. Damnation! How was he going to fix that? Sometimes he got so lost in his thoughts, so angry, that he hardly knew what he was doing. It was like someone else took over his body, and he was just standing off to one side, watching. Well, he'd just have to put up with whatever his pa said to him. He sure had a lot of experience doing that since his mother had died and that woman had moved in. Meantime, he'd wring out his clothes, get 'em dry enough to wear, and hope Pa wouldn't notice. He was getting mighty hungry, and he didn't want to get into an argument at mealtime.
When his stepmother rang the supper bell, Elliott was setting up the thresher. His stomach answered with a loud growl. The sun had come out strong after the brief storm, and everything, including him, was drying out fast. The bell rang again, louder. He put the tools down and sprinted towards the cabin. His stepmother stood on the porch, hands on her narrow hips.
"Ain't you forgetting something?" He looked at her cross face. "Wipe your feet. I won't have you dragging your dirt in my house."
He stepped over to the boot bar and scraped mud off. She frowned at him.
"What happened to your shirt?"
"Ma'am?"
"What happened to your shirt?" She pointed at the hole he'd torn in it.
"Pa told me to wash it, ma'am."
"Did he tell you to put a hole in it?"
"He told me to wash it real good, ma'am."
"Don't you sass me, boy. You ain't nothing to me. And if you think I'm gonna to patch that for you, you got another think comin'." She turned her back to him and stomped across the threshold, letting the door slam shut behind her. Elliott felt his temper rise again. Her house? Who did she think she was anyway, the Queen of Sheba? A picture of his mother in that same doorway flew into his mind, but he pushed it away. He was a man, and he wasn't going to let himself start blubbering again like some boy.
The air in the small cabin was humid and smoky. Looked like she'd throw a ham hock in with some beans, and steam was rising from the hot range. The babies were in their chairs, chewing on bread. His father was already sitting at the head of the table. Elliott took his seat without speaking.
She carried the iron pot over from the stove and set it carefully on the trivet on the center of the table. She served Pa and gave the babies a small amount of beans as well before handing a bowl to Elliott. The food was almost wasted on the twins, Elliott thought. They were more likely to wear it than eat it. Oh, he knew her and his Pa favored them two way more than him, but there was something about those little ones you just couldn't resist. He wanted to dislike them, 'cause they came from her, but they were kind of cute and funny. When they got a little older, he planned to teach them everything he knew, just like his big brothers had tried to do for him. He frowned a little to himself, trying to remember what they looked like. It had been a long time. His brother Jeremiah went to California to strike it rich and died of cholera, and Albert died in some forgotten battle during the Mexican war. Each death had sent his mother into bed for weeks and his father deeper into his bottle. No one ever mentioned his brothers again.
Pa and his wife chatted a little during supper, but Elliott kept his eyes lowered and said as little as possible. Seemed like he could hardly do anything to please his Pa anymore, so it was easier to just eat and get out of there soon as he could. Not that he was looking forward to another long day of chores in the hot sun. The older Elliott got, the more he hated farming. He didn't know exactly what he was going to do with his life, but he was sure it didn't involve working dawn to dusk and then some. There had to be a way to make some real money, some way that wasn't so hard on the back.
"Boy! Boy! I'm talking to you!" Pa's voice startled him. He'd gone off and daydreamed again, and he hadn't heard one word Pa had said to him. He hadn't meant to ignore Pa, but he knew that's what it looked like. Now he was in for it.
"I'm sorry, Pa, what did you say?"
Pa was getting red in the face. "There's only one way to get your attention, ain't there, you retard." Pa slapped Elliott across the face, hard. Elliott was stunned.
Pa slapped him again. This time, Elliott felt tears come to his eyes. For an old drunk, Pa was real strong. He heard his stepmother make a strange sound. She was laughing. He looked at their faces, his twisted and furious, hers smiling, and the rage that had been simmering in him for so long finally boiled over.
Elliott saw Pa raise his hand again, getting ready to hit once more. Elliott stood up quick and knocked Pa's hand away. He saw Pa's face get red and heard his stepmother draw in a quick sharp breath. Something lit up in Elliott's brain all of a sudden. His hand balled up in a tight fist, and he punched his Pa in the face, hard and straight. Pa fell to the floor, blood streaming from his broken nose. Elliott noticed his stepmother stand up, almost like she was going to hit him. He was drawing his arm back to hit her first when he heard his mother's voice in his head, telling him how he should always protect and defend ladies.
His stepmother was shouting obscenities at him. He was kind of impressed that she knew so many. Guess that proved she was no lady, not that he'd ever had any doubt about that anyhow. With a silent apology to his mother, he picked up the pot of beans and dumped them over his stepmother's head. The twins were starting to howl, and their shrieks were mixed in with her crying and cursing.
Elliott stepped over to where his pa was getting up off the floor. Pa was saying something, but Elliott was done listening. He picked up a chair and hit Pa with it once, twice, three times. Maybe it was more, maybe it was less, but Elliott wasn't counting. It felt like somebody else had taken over his body, and he was just carrying out orders. Finally he stopped, breathing hard, and he saw his Pa wasn't moving. There was blood on Pa's face and shirt, and on the floor around him.
He realized his stepmother had left the room. The kitchen door burst open, and she came in carrying Pa's rifle. Carrying it, but not pointing it. Elliott pulled it out of her hands. Her tears were carving a trail down her face among the beans. She wiped her eyes and smeared the mess even worse, sniveling and crying. She looked up at Elliott, and he saw she was afraid of him. About time, he thought.
"You do what I tell you to do, and you do it now. You hear me?" he said. She nodded, shaking. "Get me that money you hide in the sugar cabinet." Her jaw dropped in shock.
"Oh, you thought 'cause Pa didn't know you was hidin' money there, that meant I didn't? Guess I ain't so stupid as you thought." When she hesitated, he raised the rifle. "Now." She moved over to the sugar cabinet and pulled out a glass jar almost filled with coins.
"Just put it on the table, careful like." She put it down, reluctantly, he thought. Her eyes kept shifting between him and the babies and his pa, still bleeding and motionless on the floor.
"Now wrap up some trail food. Anything you got in the larder. Bread, bacon, whatever. And wrap it up good." The babies were still crying, but seemed to be calming down, now that the adults weren't screaming and fighting. Elliott spared a glance at his pa. Still out of it, but his chest was rising and falling. Elliott felt relieved and disappointed that his pa wasn't dead. At least nobody could pin a murder charge on him. He waited while his stepmother put together food and placed it on the table next to the jar filled with money. He swung the rifle over his shoulder.
"I'm outta here, and there ain't nothing you or him can do about it."
"Go and be damned to you," she said. "Nobody wants you here anyhow."
He picked up the money and the food and looked at her for the last time. "Hope you still think so, when this a-hole you call a husband drinks himself to death and leaves you starvin'." He looked down at his pa lying on the floor. He felt a brief urge to kick the old man a couple of times, hard, in the ribs, but he shook it off. That's the sort of thing Pa might do, and Elliott wasn't going to be like him at all. He was his mother's son. He stepped over Pa and strode out the door, slamming it behind him. The last thing he heard was his stepmother calling out insults.
He saddled up Buck. The mule wasn't a fancy ride, but he was reliable and steady. That was more than he could say about any other member of his family.
There was only one goodbye Elliott hated to make. He stopped under the cottonwood tree and kneeled next to his mother's grave. He didn't expect to see her again, either, and the thought of that made his chest ache.
"Ma," he said, "I promise, I'll make something of myself. I'm gonna be rich and famous. There's a big world out there, but I won't be calling myself Elliott no more, 'cause I don't want Pa to come lookin' for me. You always told me I was more like you than like him, and I sure hope that's true. I ain't never gonna treat anyone the way he's treated me. I'm your boy, mama, and I'm a-takin' my name back. I'll make you proud of me. And I promise you, someday everybody west of the Mississippi will know the name of Wheat Carlson."
He placed one palm on the cool ground that held his mother, wishing he could reach far enough to touch her just one more time, let her know that he was going to be alright, but there was only dirt in his hand. He got up and swung onto Buck's broad back, pulling on the reins to head north, maybe Colorado or Wyoming. He didn't let himself look back.
9