into the pocket of his coat and got up from the cot to check the black stove, wetting a finger to touch to its surface, feeling warmth, but not hearing the accompanying sizzle that would mean the fire was hot enough to cook on. The chill in the room was just beginning to lessen now, but it would still be a time before he would be able to prepare supper—it was just as well, he told himself; he was not that hungry anymore. His mind was too filled with thoughts of Eason County, of home, of people he would not see again for a very long time, and of that red land he would have back only after many years of hard work and saving.
The sound was growing closer, drawing his attention, the truck cutting across country now and coming toward the barn. Janson thought he could discern individual voices, loud obscenities, and laughter from several men on the truck. Gilbert Baskin’s voice could be heard well above the rest, his words louder, more obscene, being shouted well over the voices of the other men. Baskin was one of Whitley’s hired hands, but the man did not do farm work; what he did for Whitley, Janson did not know, and he had enough common sense to realize he would probably be better off not to find out. Baskin was an unpredictable sort, liking his drinking and his pleasuring a little too much—what a man like Gilbert Baskin could be doing out in this direction so late on a Saturday night Janson did not know. What he did know was that, whatever it was, he did not like it.
He went outside into the darkness, seeing the weaving headlamps of the truck as it jounced over the rough terrain of the winter-dead cotton field nearest the barn. The voices yelled even louder as it came closer, and Janson heard his name called, but had little time to figure out what was being yelled at or about him as the truck veered to the right and seemed suddenly headed straight for him. He swore under his breath and jumped out of the way of the front wheels, hearing the truck come to a grinding halt only inches away, red dust being kicked up into a thick cloud around him by the sudden stop. He stared up at Gilbert Baskin where the man sat behind the wheel of the vehicle, Gilbert coughing on the red dust that now filled the air, but paying little attention to the threats and curses of the men on the back of the truck, men who had almost been tossed free of the vehicle by the abrupt stop.
“Damn it, Gilbert—you near ran me over!”
But Gilbert Baskin only laughed in response. “You sure jumped awful quick, boy,” he said, and Janson realized he was drunk; they were all drunk. The truck almost reeked with the smell of liquor. “You got your wages today, just like the rest of us—we thought you might want t’ go int’ town for a little socializin’ tonight, boy. We got the best looking women in all the South right here in Endicott County, and the best corn liquor, and plenty of both—here, boy, take a taste of this; you’ll see what I mean—” Gilbert reached to wave an open fruit jar out the window of the truck, sloshing some of its contents out into the red dirt at Janson’s feet. “Go on, boy. That ain’t no busthead whiskey right there; that’s good corn, some of the best made for three counties around—”
Janson stared at him for a moment, realizing the man was in no condition to be the judge of anything, much less of the quality of corn liquor. Janson had heard too much of busthead whiskey to not be wary of it, the poisonous corn liquor turned out by some of the back-country moonshiners, and by many of the new bootleggers who had gone into production since Prohibition had made bootlegging such a lucrative profession. Such men often condensed their whiskey through automobile radiators, used potash in the making, or did not strain it properly—at the very least, busthead whiskey, or popskull as many of the country people called it, well earned its name, causing violent headaches that often made the drinker pray for death. At the very worst, that death often came.
Gilbert waved the jar at him again, sloshing out more of the whiskey onto the ground. “Go on, boy. It ain’t gonna hurt you. That’s good corn liquor, made in one of the finest stills around here—go on, boy—”
Janson accepted the jar at last, looking past it and to Gilbert again. He was no stranger to corn liquor, the red hills where he had grown up having had their fair share of stills as well. Most young men in Eason County had their first taste of corn well before they entered their teens, and many were hardened drinkers by the time they had reached Janson’s age—but Janson was not. On his own he seldom drank—corn liquor cost money, and money could be put to better uses.
He tilted the jar up and drank, then wiped his mouth with the back of one hand and handed the jar back.
“See, just like I told you,” Gilbert said. “Hop on the back, boy; we’re gonna take you int’ town and show you some of the prettiest women in these parts—”
Several of the men on the rear of the truck shouted their approval, eager to get into town now as they passed a jar of corn liquor among themselves as well. Janson took a step forward, and then hesitated. “Wait a minute,” he said, and then turned to go back into his room. He came back out only a second later, his shoes and socks held in one hand.
He jumped up onto the rear of the truck, and was almost tossed back out as the vehicle jerked into motion. He settled down between two men he recognized as farmhands he had worked with clearing land days before, and took a moment to pull on his socks and shoes, then accepted the jar of corn liquor as it was passed to him.
It was not long before he was not cold anymore.
The bricked, downtown section of Main Street in Goodwin seemed lit almost as brightly as day when they reached town. There were cars still parked along the street, in front of the billiard parlor at one end of downtown, and near the drugstore at the other, as well as before the moving picture theatre that sat almost dead-center of town between the two. The wide double doors to the billiard hall were flung open to the cold night air as the truck drove past, and Janson could see the men inside through the blue haze of cigar and cigarette smoke that hung in the room, men who spent most every Saturday night there, playing billiards, discussing politics, avoiding their wives—and enjoying corn liquor and good bootleg whiskey in the back rooms, as well as the company of women who were somewhat less than ladies, so Janson had heard.
The street was brightly lit, with white globes of electric light sitting atop tall poles on one side of the street, the globes lighting the brick-fronted store buildings and sidewalks as Janson had never seen before. Pretty girls who looked almost like flappers moved along the sidewalk, going from the movie theatre to Dobbins’ Drugstore at the far end of downtown, girls in straight coats and cloche hats, with short skirts and uneven hemlines and their hair bobbed off short like modern girls were apt to do. Janson watched them, admiring the slender calves beneath the knee-length skirts, finding himself surprised as one of the other men on the back of the truck began to call out things to the girls that he would never have dared to say to any woman, lady or not. He opened his mouth to tell the man to shut up, that he could not talk to a woman like that, but got only a few words out before the truck came to a sudden and unexpected halt before the drugstore, the brakes screeching in protest as Janson and several other of the hands were thrown against the rear of the cab with the suddenness of the stop. The men cursed and shoved against him and each other, threatening Gilbert as they got down from the rear of the vehicle and made their way into the drugstore, leaving the truck parked there alongside the street with one wheel up on the sidewalk.
After a moment, Janson jumped down from the back of the truck as well, feeling the effects of the corn liquor himself now. He made his way into the drugstore alone and found a stool to sit down on at the soda fountain, knowing the other men had forgotten his presence altogether. He watched as they settled in at stools and tables throughout the fountain area at the front of the store. Gilbert already had an arm around a blonde girl who had been sitting at a table alone, and several other of the Whitley hands were already similarly occupied, but Janson did nothing more than just sit and watch, feeling suddenly very out of place.
Flat-chested flappers moved from the tables to the stools at the soda fountain, girls wearing short skirts and bobbed hair, with Kissproof lipstick and rouge on their faces, and rolled silk stockings down to
