through the dining room and the living room into the family room, where she sat in the chair and he lay on the stairs. All this space, and they’d never had kids. You would have thought they would’ve had kids.
To kill the silence, if for no other reason.
MOONSHINER’S LAMENT
BY RICK McMAHAN
Chapter 1
Goat McKnight’s hands ached for a gun.
Walking up the mountain path, he yearned for one. The moonlight, where it penetrated the canopy of trees, bleached the open spaces in pools of white and created twisted shadows in the lee of crooked branches. Goat never feared the dark of night. Darkness held no sway over him. Not even while he trudged through the blackest jungles did fear of the dark edge into his heart.
Goat had never feared the law either, not even after he was caught with a load of moonshine. The judge had given him a choice. Prison or the army. Sometimes late at night, freezing on a jungle trail or facedown in a rice paddy under a hot sun as Charlie zinged rounds at him, Goat had thought he’d made the wrong choice. When he got back home, Goat had two options — go down in the mines or go back to hauling whiskey. The thought of the law catching him running untaxed whiskey didn’t scare him, nor did it make him yearn for a gun.
A simple smell made Goat’s hands ache for a gun. The thick and earthy scent rose up from the loamy creek Goat and Ralphie had waded across at the base of the hill. The primal smell brought back a rush of memories from the not-so-distant past spent hunting Vietcong. As the aroma filled his lungs, Goat found himself scanning the ground, his eyes searching for trip wires leading to bouncing Betties or scuffed earth that signaled an ambush. Oblivious, pulling the wagon, Ralphie babbled on the whole time.
When they were halfway up the path, a movement on the opposite hillside drew Goat’s attention. As a figure slipped through a clear spot of moonlight, Goat saw the glint of a belt buckle and a shoulder and arm covered in a tan uniform just before the NVA soldier slipped back into the shadows.
Goat stopped.
He knew it was his imagination projecting the picture like a Friday-night drive-in movie. There were no NVA soldiers stalking the hills of eastern Kentucky. Still, he held his breath as he scanned the woods. He waited a whole minute, not taking a breath until his chest was tight, but the soldier never reappeared.
“Goat?” Ralphie called from up ahead in a low whisper. “Goat.” This time louder.
Pushing the phantom soldier from his mind, Goat jogged up the trail. He nodded to his young cousin to keep moving. With the wagon wheels once again creaking, Ralphie continued his one-sided conversation. Goat wasn’t sure what made more noise, the banging of the empty wagon or Ralphie.
“Groovy, I’m telling you,” Ralphie was saying. Even though Goat had zoned out for a bit, he was sure Ralphie was still talking about what all teenage boys talked about. Girls. Ralphie had a crush on his new English teacher. Ralphie thought she was a hippie, even though Ralphie wouldn’t know a hippie if one bit him in the ass. “She drives one of those little German buses painted up like a rainbow with a peace sign. I’m telling you, Miss Love’s a hippie.”
Goat glanced over his shoulder, searching the trail for the NVA soldier.
“And you know what they say about those hippies,” Ralphie intoned. Goat wasn’t sure what they said about hippies, but he was sure Ralphie was going to tell him.
“What do they say about them hippies?” a voice called down.
Goat grinned. From up ahead, a yellow glow leaked out around the edges of a tarp hung across the trail. Leave it to Luther to pull Ralphie’s chain.
“Come on, Ralphie,” Luther called, pushing aside the tarp so the glow from the lanterns and fire pit lit up the trail all the way to Goat and his cousin. “Tell me about them hippie gals like Carrie Love.” From farther back in the stand of trees came low laughter.
Ralphie and the Radio Flyer were quiet.
Sliding past his cousin, Goat glanced at the younger man’s face. Even in the dim glow of the lantern light, he saw that the kid was the same shade of red as the wagon.
Goat called, “Luther, at least the boy’s got the good sense to have a crush on a young teacher. He’s not prattling on about Old Mrs. Napier.”
“No-Neck Napier.” Ralphie gasped. “She has a mustache.” There was more cackling from underneath the lean-to, and Luther told someone to shut up.
Luther held the tarp open so Ralphie could pull the Radio Flyer underneath and park it next to the other two. These weren’t your kid’s Radio Flyer wagons. No, sir. The original wheels had been replaced with thicker, bigger tires to handle more weight, and the wagon sides had been cut out and several-foot-high metal slats welded in so that boxes of full mason jars and plastic jugs could be stacked up. It made it a little easier getting the bootleg whiskey down the hill.
Once the wagon was in, Luther dropped the tarp. The tarp was meant to hide the lanterns’ and fire’s light. Not that anyone would venture up the mountain, but Luther’s daddy was careful.
“No-Neck Napier,” Luther said, punching Goat in the arm. “Like I’d ever.” Luther was solidly built although shorter than Goat, which Goat thought served the man well down in the mines. Even in the lanterns’ flickering light, the black coal flecks ingrained in his skin were visible. Just as the men stripping coal out of the dark holes they’d dug left an imprint in the mountain, the coal left its mark on the men. The coal dust permeated the clothes and soaked into the skin. And if it soaked in deep, it took a man’s life.
Farther back in the grove sat the liquor still — all copper tubing and barrels holding the mash being heated by a fire tended by Luther’s dad. Nearby, a pair of men sat on wooden milking stools. They were seventy if they were a day, and over time they’d become almost mirror images of each other, both white-headed, grizzled, and skinny in overalls and white dress shirts. One filled the mason jars from the still. The second screwed on the lids, wiped off the jars, and slid them into waiting cases. The sour smell of fermenting mash hung heavy in the air.
“Luther, what’re you doing up here with us outlaws?” Goat asked.
“Just helping out.” Nearby stacked knee-high were full cases of mason jars ready to go. Ralphie started hoisting the liquor up onto the red Radio Flyer, the glass jars rattling.
“You don’t need to be up here. You have an honest job,” Goat replied.
“Foolishness,” Luther’s dad said, stalking toward them, waving a piece of firewood. “Plumb foolishness.”
“I took a stand,” Luther replied.
“Ah.” Luther’s dad waved a hand. “Striking from a good job. Unions and such. Causing trouble, and a man won’t be able to go back to that job.”
“Me? I’m not stepping on Cassidy’s toes.”
Cassidy Lane was the closest thing Bell County had to organized crime. Though he owned gas stations all the way to Knoxville, everyone knew Cassidy’s real money came from the bootlegging, gambling, and whoring he provided up on Kayjay Mountain. When preachers railed about a Sodom and Gomorrah in their midst, they were talking about Kayjay and Cassidy Lane.
“Ah, Cassidy just likes talking big,” Luther’s dad said, turning away from his son. In the glint of the light, Goat saw the smooth brown grip of a pistol poking out of the old man’s back pocket.
Luther opened his mouth and closed it. Shaking his head, he turned away to help load the wagon. Goat figured the two had gone round and round as much about the father’s making white lightning as they did about Luther’s striking.
Deciding to stay out of the fight, Goat told Luther’s daddy, “I’ll have your money in two days, as soon as I run this load down to Jellico.”
“Mama’s wanting you to come to supper,” Luther’s daddy said.
Goat smiled. “I’ll pay you then.”
“You’re ready,” Luther said. Moving to the front of the wagon, Goat took over. Just like in the Pontiac parked below, when there was whiskey onboard, Goat drove.
