Uncle Bill's Boys

When I was a boy in the hills of Arkansas I used to visit my Uncle Bill who had a farm on top of Crow Mountain just outside Atkins.

Uncle Bill was born and bred in those hills and knew them like the back of his hand.  There wasn't a cliff face, pond, gully, or creek for a good thirty miles around he hadn't explored sometime during his life.  If a calf wandered off or chickens went missing, he knew where to go to find them.  He knew where the badgers holed up and where the snakes hid.  He knew where the raccoons and the foxes napped during the day. 

He knew where the eagles nested, the falcons hunted, and where the cougars dozed until dark.  He was just as much of a kid at heart as we were.  In spite of his age, Aunt Maude could often find him frolicking with us children in the pond or chasing dragonflies or gigging frogs.  She would chatter at him and call him foolish, and he would nod his head and say "Yes, dear," then give us a wink and a half-grin before dutifully following her back inside.  When we got into trouble, he'd always be there to fix it for us.  I don't think I ever saw him sad.  Not until that day in late 1963.

The weather had just turned chilly.  Frost stood on the chicken houses longer and burned off later each day.  We had arrived early on Friday morning and settled in for a two-week visit while my cousin Edith prepared for her wedding.  The house was bustling with people.  Cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandparents hovered, fussed, and offered advice, aid, and criticism all day.  My parents were almost immediately caught up in the confusion, so I slipped away and ran into the little barn that stood behind the main house.

The barn usually sheltered Uncle Bill's tractor, the one he used to knock down brush and drag hay bales to his fifty head of cattle.  Assorted farming implements gathered dust within its walls until the planting season.  Often a couple dozen cats of all shapes, sizes, and colors prowled the barn for rats and other vermin.  But for me the real star of the place was the rusting shell of a 1942 Chevy sedan.  That Chevy had served as my vehicle to exotic places.  New York, Los Angeles, Paris, London, they all fell to the conquering wheels of my 1942 sedan.  Every time I visited Uncle Bill, I had to spend at least one day adventuring in style from the front seat of that old car. 

I crossed the packed earth floor, covered in old straw, and opened the driver's door.  A pile of black fur seemed to jump out at me.  I hopped back with a little shout, startled, heart pounding.

It was a cat, or, rather, the remains of one.  The head, legs, and paws were intact, but the body was badly mangled.  It looked like it had been hit by the tractor or its discs. 

I looked around and for the first time realized Uncle Bill's cats were missing.  Usually two or three would be perched on the car or the tractor, lazily watching me with feline indifference, but the barn was empty.

I prodded the body experimentally with the tip of my shoe.  It was stiff and lifeless.  I peered into the car.  There was no sign of blood on the tattered cloth seats.  I wondered how it got there.

"What'd ya find?"

I jumped again and frowned at my cousin George.  He was only a few years older than me, but he treated me like a little kid most of the time.  I had heard he was a twin, but the other one had died young.  To me that was kind of spooky, and, added to how he treated me, it made me like him less.

"'S just a dead cat," I said.

George came over and looked at the carcass.  "Hmmm.  Don't look like one o' our'n."  He kicked it gently with his boot.  "Looks like it's been dead a while."

"Yeah."

"Looks like somethin' big chewed on it."

I bent down to get a better look, only to realize the cold air had protected me from the carrion stench.  I had to back off.

"Stinks, don't it?" George grinned at me.

"How can you tell something chewed on it?"

He picked up a piece of straw and squatted down beside me.  Using it as a pointer, he indicated places on the body.

"See them tears there?  That's teeth marks.  I seen `em on a dead calf we lost last fall."

"A dead calf?"

"Yeah.  It was about this time last year.  Dad said it was wolves."

"Wow!  Wolves?  Really?"  Visions of prowling packs of wolves terrorizing nearby farms danced in my mind.  "You think a wolf did this?"

"May be," he nodded, tossing the straw away and brushing his hands on his pants as he stood.

"But how'd it get there?" I asked.  "The barn door was closed.  And where are the other cats?  Did the wolf get `em all?"

"Dunno," George admitted, frowning.  He paced around, peering at the base of the walls.  "Maybe there's a hole somewheres.  Could be it dragged the cat in here, then got scared off."

"The cat was in the car," I told him.

He stood up and looked at me in puzzlement.  "Huh?"

"It was in the front seat.  When I opened the door it fell out."

"Nah, couldn't be."

"It was."

"Maybe it was on the roof and dropped off when you opened the door."

"It came out of the front seat," I insisted.

"What do ya mean, it came out of the front seat?  It's dead."

"I opened the door and it came out."

"You're full of it."

"Am not!"

He waved my retort away.  "Never mind.  Time to come in for lunch, anyway.  Get a move on," he said, and headed for the door.

I took one last look at the dead cat and considered telling Uncle Bill.  If there were wolves around, they could go after the chickens.  Yes, I decided, Uncle Bill would know what to do.

Lunch was southern fried chicken, potato salad, and green beans with biscuits and iced tea.  The families settled down around the dining room table and Aunt Maude said grace before we all dug in.  I forgot all about the cat until we went out back of the house for watermelon.

Uncle Bill sliced the melon into a dozen pieces and handed them out, first to the kids, then to the adults.  George and I got ours and sat down in the grass to attack it.

"You boys wanna help me feed the chickens this evenin'?" Uncle Bill asked, spitting out a seed.

We nodded enthusiastically, too busy eating to talk.

"Well, go get me a couple o' buckets from the barn when you get done eatin', then."

"Frankie found a dead cat out in the barn," George piped up.

Uncle Bill eyed us both thoughtfully.  "That so?"

"Yep.  Said he found it in the ol' Chevy.  It was chewed up like that calf we lost last fall."

My uncle stopped eating for a moment, interest lighting in his eyes.  "He found it in the Chevy?"

"So he says," George laughed around a mouthful.

I was ready to defend myself, but Uncle Bill looked away before I could say anything.  I watched him for a chance to talk to him, but he avoided me for the next hour. 

It wasn't until everyone had finished eating and had gone back into the house that he led George and me to the barn.  I noticed him hesitate for just a second before opening the door and slipping inside.  He paused at the threshold, blocking our way.

"Frankie," he said, "come here."

I pushed past George and leaned into the doorway.  The inside was dark after the brightness of the afternoon sun.

"Yes, sir?"

"You say you found the dead cat in the ol' Chevy?"

"Yes, sir."

"Inside the car?"

"Yes, sir.  It fell out when I opened the door."

"Where is it?"

"Sir?"

"What did you do with the cat?"

"I left it over there by the car."

"Well, it ain't there now," Uncle Bill said softly.

"It was there, Uncle Bill, I swear!"

"Hush, boy!" he hissed.  "I believe you.  George, run get my 12 gauge."

"Huh?"

"Git!" Uncle Bill snapped, stepping out of the barn and closing the door softly.  "Tell your ma to get out here, too."

"Yes, sir!" George blurted and bolted toward the house.

My uncle stood gazing at the door for a moment, then looked down at me. 

"You'd best git back to the house, too, Frankie."

"You think the wolf's in there, don't ya?" I said.

"Do as I say, boy!" Uncle Bill said sternly.

I had never heard him sound like that before and it scared me more than the thought of a wolf in the barn.  I backed away from him and he lost interest in me, turning to stare at the door.

As I ran for the house, Aunt Maude passed me carrying a double-barreled shotgun, the same intensity on her face I had seen on Uncle Bill's.  My parents met me at the door and rushed me into the house without a word.  The expressions on their faces kept me from asking any questions. 

The rest of our stay was taken up from dawn to dark with wedding stuff.  I never got a chance to ask Uncle Bill about what had happened, and he never volunteered any information.  I did notice that he didn't smile as often as he had.

Toward the end of our time there, I gave in to my curiosity and sneaked into the barn after dinner one day.  I was scared to be in there after dark, so I propped the door open so I would know when the sun got ready to set.  If anything moved inside that barn, I was prepared to scurry out of there on all fours if necessary.  It took a few seconds for my vision to adjust to the twilight inside the barn, and when it did I froze.

Huddled near the Chevy was my cousin George, only he was dressed in filthy rags and looked like he'd been rolling in the mud.  I started toward him but he scuttled back toward the rear of the car.  I stopped.

"George, what's wrong?" I asked.  "Are you sick?"

He continued around until he disappeared behind the car.  When I didn't pursue, he peeked out around the fender.

"George, stop messin' around," I said, irritated.  "Aunt Maude's gonna kill ya when she sees how muddy you are."

"Who're you?"

This was too much.  What kind of game did he think he was playing?  I stomped toward him.  "Get out from behind there, you -"

I ground to a halt.  It wasn't George.  I could see scars on his face and arms where the dirt didn't cover them.  He was darker and leaner than George; his hair was a little coarser and a bit lighter in color.  If George had lived outside all his life, he might have looked like this.  This could be only one person.

George's supposedly dead twin.

A thousand questions instantly popped into my head.  Why would they say he was dead?  What was wrong with him?  Why was he living like this?  Why didn't Uncle Bill and Aunt Maude let him live in the house?

"Go away," he said.

"Oh, no, not `til I figure out what's goin' on here," I said.  "Like fer instance, who are you?"

"Sammy," he said, shyly.  He glanced quickly at the door, as if afraid someone might come in at any moment.

"Okay, Sammy.  Are you George's brother?"

He nodded.

"Are you sick?  Is that why you're out here in the barn?"

He lowered his head.  "Go away and leave me alone," he said, a catch in his voice.

"In a minute.  Why are you out here?"

"Pa says I cain't go near the house."

"Why not?"

He made a wry face but said nothing.  I felt like he wanted to tell me something but was afraid.  It occurred to me he might not trust me very much.  I tried to think of a way to make him like me enough to talk.  An idea struck me.

"Are you hungry?" I asked.

He gave me such a look of raw hatred that I stepped back and a shiver ran through me.

"Go away!" he said.

"All right, all right," I said, slowly backing toward the door.  "I'm goin'."

"No, wait," he said.  He came out from behind the car and stood up slowly.  He looked even more like George when he was at full height, only several pounds lighter.  "I'm sorry.  Please stay.  Talk to me."

"Sure."

"Nobody talks to me."

"Why not?"

"They're all afraid of me."

"Afraid of you?  What for?"

He opened the door of the Chevy and sat down on the seat, his legs dangling out the door, toes just touching the ground.  "You ever been off this mountain?" he asked.

"Course.  I live down in Russellville."

He nodded to himself.  "I seen Russellville once.  A while ago.  Purty place.  Lotsa people."

"I guess so."

"You could get lost in so many people."

"Uh -"

He started nibbling the side of his thumbnail.  "Lotsa people down there."

"Maybe you can come visit us sometime," I offered.

He shook his head.  "Pa says I cain't leave the farm."

"Why not?"

He left off chewing his nail and tilted his head at me.  "Ya ever heard tell o' spirits?"

"Spirits?  You mean, ghosts?"

"Yeah.  Spirits."

I shrugged.  "I've heard of `em.  Don't rightly know if I believe in `em."

"I do," he said with firmness.  "I seen `em."

A thrill ran up my spine.  "Really?"

"Yep."

"Where?"

He jabbed a thumb toward the south wall of the barn.  "Out yonder in th' south pasture."

I frowned at him.  "In the pasture?  Why would a ghost be in the pasture?  Shouldn't it be hauntin' a house or somethin'?"

It was his turn to shrug.  "Dunno.  It was just a spirit.  Ya wanna see it?"

"Well, yeah!"

He smiled and showed rotten teeth.  "Come on, then."

"Frankie!"

I jumped.  Uncle Bill was at the door of the barn, the shotgun draped in the crook of his right arm.  Sammy ducked back behind the car.

"Frankie, you get out here right now!"

I swallowed hard and slowly made my way toward the door.  Uncle Bill stepped aside to let me go by, then closed the door after us.  I saw Aunt Maude standing on the other side holding a small paint can and brush, drawing something on the side of the barn, but I didn't get a chance to see what before Uncle Bill grabbed my arm and hustled me into the house.  Everyone was abuzz about the wolf in the barn and the rest of the day people swapped stories about lost livestock and missing pets.  I listened in fascination to all this, a side of life in the foothills of the Ozarks I never knew existed.  After an hour or so, Uncle Bill and Aunt Maude came inside and things slowly got back to normal.  I peeked out at the barn to see what Aunt Maude had painted on its side.

It was a strange symbol.  A circle with a dot in the center and six wavy lines stood out in bright white against the dull red of the barn.  It was on the side I could see, the door to the bottom, and the door to the loft.  It gave me a funny feeling when I looked at it, like it was moving without actually moving.  I wanted to ask Uncle Bill about it, but the grown-ups were too busy to listen to my questions. 

Late that night I got up to go to the bathroom.  I was sleeping in George's room and to get to the toilet I had to go through a hallway that connected with the living and dining rooms.  As I passed the living room door I heard Uncle Bill's voice and stopped to listen.

"I told him never to come near the house," he was saying.  The hard edge on his voice made him sound like a stranger.

"He's lonely, Bill," I heard Aunt Maude say.  "He wants company."

"That's too dangerous, Maude, and you know it.  You heard what the boys said about the cat."

"I know," she said sadly.  "At least the sign'll keep him in there `til we can figure out what to do."

"He was tryin' to get Frankie out to th' south pasture.  I heard him."

"Oh my God," Aunt Maude gasped.

"If I hadn't gone out to check on him, I think he would have -"

"Stop it, Bill!  Stop it, please," she sobbed.

"Now, Maude, don't go blubberin' on me," he said kindly.

"I cain't help it.  My poor little boy."

"He ain't yer little boy no more, Maude."

"He'll always be my little boy, no matter what happens."

They were quiet for a while and I peeked around the corner.  Uncle Bill was holding her and she was crying quietly on his shoulder.  I'll never forget the look on his face, a look of grim resignation.

Whenever I saw Uncle Bill after that, he was a changed man.  He never lost the easy laugh, but there was always sadness just behind his eyes, a kind of haunted look that never really left him.  Shortly after Edith's wedding, he took sick.  The doctors said it was cancer.  Aunt Maude said it was a broken heart.  No one ever asked her what she meant.

The last time we visited Uncle Bill's was just before he died in 1988.  I went straight to the barn.  I don't know what I expected to find there.  Certainly not Sammy.

The old Chevy was still there, rusted almost completely down to its frame.  The tractor tires were nearly given over to dry rot.  The cats were back in force and watched me as I walked slowly around, touching this and that, remembering.
In the very back of the barn I came across something odd.  There was a pile of stones about five feet long and three feet wide, arranged in a perfect rectangle.  Scratched into the wall above it was an odd symbol, a circle with a dot in the center and six wavy lines coming out of it.  Whatever it was, it had been there for some time.  Spider webs and dead insects lay thick among the rocks.

Uncle Bill was close to his end, we all knew that, and we each sat vigil for a few hours at a time.  He would drift in and out of consciousness, slipping from reality to fantasy.  Sometimes he looked peaceful, like his old self.  Other times the haunted look came back and he would shift uneasily in his bed.

I was sitting with him and reading a book when he suddenly grabbed my arm, eyes wide.  For a moment I thought he was having a seizure.

"Frankie, I gotta tell you before it's too late," he said weakly.  His grip was light and nearly strengthless.  I knew he must be closer than ever.

"Tell me what, Uncle Bill?"

"About Sammy," he gasped heavily.  He seemed to be in distress.

"You want me to get Aunt Maude?"

"No!" he said with surprising energy.  "No, not Maude.  I need to tell you."

"Okay, Uncle Bill."

He settled back into bed and his hand dropped onto the sheets.  "It was nearly forty year ago.  We was workin' the south pasture, getting' ready for plantin'.  Sammy was only about five or six but he used to like to ride the tractor with me."  He smiled at the memory and for a moment it seemed he gathered strength from it.  "He was a good boy, Sammy was.  Happy and playful.  Him and George were my pride an' joy."  He had to stop to cough, a cough that took what life he'd taken from his past.  I held his head until it passed and he nodded his gratitude.  "Thanks.  Well, the discs tore up a boulder and I had to git down to fix `em.  I left Sammy on the seat like I'd done a hunnert time before.  Only this time, it was different."

He went quiet, eyes moving left and right as if he was seeing it happen all over again.  The pain on his face was terrible to see.  When the words came, they came in a rush.

"I dunno where it came from, out o' the south woods, I guess.  It was the biggest damn wolf I ever seen, nearly seven feet long and three feet at the shoulder easy.  It bounded up over the tractor, snatched Sammy off the seat, and was gone afore I could move."  He closed his eyes and covered them with a thin arm.  "God, Sammy, I'm sorry, boy," he choked.

I sat speechless.  The story was so fantastic I wanted to pass it off as the fancy of a dying man, but memories of that day in `63 came back to stop me.

"We looked for him for weeks, but he was gone," Uncle Bill struggled on through tears.  "They told us there was no hope o' findin' him alive after that.  Somethin' about exposure and such.  Maude never accepted it.  She kept his room jest like it was when he left and spent more time with George.  She wouldn't let me carry George out on the tractor afterwards.  Can't say's I blame her."  He paused to let another coughing fit pass.

"You need to rest, Uncle Bill," I told him.

He shook his head.  "Rest when I'm dead, Frankie.  This is more important."  He took a moment to catch his breath, then went on.  "Anyways, we went on with our lives until, I guess it was about '60.  I was in the south pasture when I saw him.  He was naked an' filthy, runnin' a rabbit.  At first it didn't dawn on me, then I realized it was Sammy.  I started to yell at him but jest then the wolf come outta the woods.  I remember my blood ran cold when I saw it.  If anything, it had got bigger.  It stood at the edge of the pasture, watchin' Sammy catch that rabbit, jest stood there watchin'.  I couldn't yell for fear it'd spook the wolf into doin' somethin' to Sammy.  Then I saw it wouldn't have made any difference."  He turned and looked me straight in the eye.  "You gotta swear to God you won't tell a soul what I'm gonna tell ya, Frankie.  Not a soul, ya hear?"

"Sure, Uncle Bill."

"Swear."

"I swear."

"Swear to God."

"I swear to God I won't tell anybody."

His gaze was hot and intense, searching my face and eyes.  I got the feeling he was gauging, even as close to death as he was, whether he wanted to trust me with the information.  Finally, he nodded.

"Sammy caught that rabbit, Frankie.  He caught it on the run."

I was impressed.  "He was pretty quick."

"Too quick for a normal person," Uncle Bill said.  "Then he took the rabbit to the wolf and put it down in front of it."

I thought about that for a moment.  "He gave the wolf the rabbit?"

"Yep.  An' the damn thing picked it up an' carried it into the woods."

"What about Sammy?"

"He went into the woods after it."

"Wait a minute," I said, confused.  "Sammy caught the rabbit, gave it to this huge wolf, then followed it into the woods?"

"You got the same expression on yer face I musta had," he grinned.

"But -"  I shook my head in puzzlement.  "I don't get it.  The wolf didn't attack him?"

"Nope."

"Why not?"

Uncle Bill held up a finger to get my attention.  "Now there's a really good question, and one I asked myself plenty the next couple o' days after that.  I went every day to the south pasture, hopin' to get another glimpse o' Sammy.  About five days later, he come out o' the woods and was runnin' close to the ground, like he was trackin' somethin'.  I'd been waitin' for the chance to snatch him.  I run out there an' grabbed him an' skedaddled for the house as fast as I could with the boy growlin' and snappin' and clawin' all the way.  I closed him up in the barn an' ran an' got Maude."  He stopped to get his breath again.  A fine sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead.  He wiped at it and dried his fingers on the bed sheets.  "We spent the better part of a month tryin' to figure out what to do with him.  He was wild as they come, a real animal.  We figured the wolf had brought him up like one o' her own cubs.  Don't ask me why, boy, I don't know.  Why do wolves do anything?  All we knew was we had our boy back, and we was gonna see to it he got well again."  He licked his lips.  I handed him a glass of water and he sipped from it briefly.  "We did everythin' we could think of, but the best we could do was teach him a few words and how not to run around naked."

"Why didn't you just take him to the doctor?" I asked.

"He was our boy," Uncle Bill said, as if it should be obvious.  "He was our responsibility.  We figured we knew what was best for him.  All the doctors would do would be put him under glass an' study him like some kinda freak and we'd never git to see him again.  No, we'd lost him once.  We wouldn't gonna lose him again."

"I see.  So, what happened?"

"That big wolf come lookin' for him the next full moon, snufflin' round the house an' barn.  An' Sammy went to howlin' and makin' God's own awful racket, too.  It was so bad, we was both afraid to go out there.

"The next day I went out to check on him an' he was gone.  He'd dug his way under the back wall o' the barn an' run off.  His tracks weren't hard to follow.  They went straight for the south pasture.  An', Frankie, those tracks -"  He swallowed some more water and looked down into the glass, reluctant to go on.  "They changed."

"Changed?  What do you mean?"

"They started out footprints, but that wasn't what they were when they got to the south woods."

"I don't understand."

"I mean, boy," Uncle Bill said with irritation creeping into his voice, "that a wolf an' a boy come out o' them woods, but two wolves went back in."

I stared at him in disbelief.  I couldn't fathom why Uncle Bill would be pulling such a joke on me, not now.  If he'd done it when I was a kid back in '63 it might have made sense.  Did he really expect me to accept what he was saying?  I couldn't find the words to stop him when he went on.

"I know you been out to the barn.  He's out there, under the sign.  He deserves a Christian burial.  It's the least I can do for him."

"Sammy's buried in the barn?" I blurted out.  "Why?"

"When he came back that fall ya'll were here for Edith's weddin', I knew he was up to no good.  He'd been to the house a couple times before.  Both times I'd drove him off an' told him to stay away from the house.  We was scared George'd see him.  Can you imagine what that'd done to George?"

"Yeah," I nodded.

"Well, that last time in '63 he told me he was thinkin' about goin' down into Russellville."  He wiped his forehead again.  His breathing was becoming more labored, but he was determined to get the tale told.  "That scared me, it scared me real bad.  I'd seen him hunt, Frankie, an' even though he talked good enough an' looked human, there was more wolf in him than person."  He placed a hand over his mouth and closed his eyes.  A single tear rolled down his cheek.  "God forgive me.  I couldn't think of another way out.  I prob'ly would'nt've been able to do it `cept --"

I sat stunned and speechless.  He turned a pleading look at me.

"Maude knows, but she don't go out there.  I can't no more, so I'm askin' you to do it.  Give Sammy a Christian burial, Frankie.  Please."

I put a hand on his shoulder and smiled at him.  In that moment, I understood what he had felt for all those years.  All the terror, the sorrow, and the grief he'd carried was plain on his face.  He had lived with this terrible secret for 25 years and now he wanted to be rid of it.  Well, he was my uncle, and I loved him.  This was such a little thing and it meant so much to him.

"Don't worry, Uncle Bill.  I'll see to it."

He heaved a great sigh and relief washed the lines away from his forehead.  "You always was a good boy, Frankie."

"You sleep now," I said.  "You need your rest."

He didn't object.

He died in his sleep.

Two months after Uncle Bill's funeral, I arranged for Sammy's body to be disinterred, intending to transfer it to one of the nearby churchyards.  The coroner's office had a thousand questions, and I did my best to answer them without implicating Aunt Maude.  The toughest part was trying to explain to them why I had called them out to dig up the body of a wolf.

END