Black Gold

Distantly, a river churns. Wind whips and snaps at gnarled branches. A broiling thunderhead forms on the eastern horizon. The air is heavy with static.

                It is difficult to remember the last time it rained. Honestly, I had forgotten what it smelled like. Barnes was a slow, lonely, hot town. Very hot. Everything in Barnes was hot. All things which moved beneath the sun in Barnes was meltin’ like warm butter on hot toast in the late springtime. From heavily powdered, heavily set women to the very glass which held your lemonade, everything seemed to be crying out in silence against the wretched heat.  This year was especially bad, in terms of precipitation at the very least. Even the river bed, which was usually a popular swimmin’ spot and a place for the locals to cool off during the dog days, had dried up completely. I stood right in the center of it, weeds and brush which had rooted in the now barren soil itching at my fair ankles, the hot powdery dirt workin’ its way between my toes and under the nails. It felt awful, truthfully, but it was too hot to strap on the clunky shoes my Ma bought for me to wear to Sunday school at the local Winn Dixie. Rain wasn’t just a pleasant break from the heat for us though, it was a part of our livelihood. Every day, my Pa would wake up and strap on his boots as per usual. I would always slip out of bed when I heard him stirrin’ in the parlor, to see if he would find what he was looking for out in those there fields of ours. “Black Gold”, as he had gotten ‘round to calling it. I would always creep down the stairs and spy on him for the few moments I had before he saw me with those big, dopey eyes of his, which looked plum tired of being held open and just wanted to fall back down over his very face.

                “Do you want to see if God’s given us our pennies from heaven yet, Carolanne?” He would always say to me, in a patronizing voice which gave the impression he saw me still as nothin’ but a little girl, even though I have been in relative height and stature for a good little while now, at least compared to little Jimmy.

                “Sure thing, Pa.” I would say, tip-toeing my way across the rough, cold floor and landing safely in a warm pair of slippers half a size too small. I turned to my father, with a cautious smile. Both worried and excited about the possibility of rain appearing overnight, or the lack thereof. Pa grabbed his coat, and I my sweater, and we huddled together in anticipation of the blast of cold morning air we was about to face as soon as he opened that creaky old door. I felt his massive, weathered hand fall on my shoulder, a warm and comforting gesture as he pulls open the gateway to our home.

                There always was a moment of anticipation and hope, whenever Pa and I would walk out first thing. Maybe, just maybe…

                But the answer, as always, was a resounding no. The air was still, cool, and dry, as if the entire world had up and died around our very farm. I would then look up at Pa, to see what he would say ‘bout the news. He may not be the smartest man, but he sure was wise. Every morning, he would turn to me and come back against the misfortune of his life with a little wisdom or wit, in a peaceful jab at the black heart of life’s troubles which seemed to plague us a little more each and every day. But yesterday, when I turned to meet his eyes, he said nothing. He just huffed softly before ushering me back into the house. And just this morning, when I turned to my Pa as we stood on the porch, I saw nothing but the completely still rocking chair against the banister. I heard the door slam behind me, and everything, my shoulder especially, seemed to grow cold.

                Smell is the sense which is the most intertwined with our memories, at least that’s what Mrs. Winnograd said in school, when she talked about her apple pie and how it made her think of her momma, who; “Passed on to the kingdom of the lord long before any of you little sprouts was even a glimmer in your momma’s eye.” In her own words. I didn’t understand how smelling something could bring back so many memories, until right now. I took a slow breath as I watched them storm clouds roll in. Then, it hit me. Like that feelin’ you get when you’ve just sucked on a few too many sugar canes, the musty, earthy, fresh scent of rain rushed deep up my nose and into my head, causin’ the very hair on my arms to stand up on one end. My shimmering green eyes flew open and I bolted up the dusty ditch, practically falling over myself as I made it to the top. As I sprinted across the field towards my humble home, I took a brief moment to be thankful my Ma didn’t make me wear a stupid dress today. I don’t care how old and ladylike I’m looking these days, how are you even supposed to make a full stride if you’re bein’ smothered by all those layers and ruffles?

                I usually walked with caution down the gravel path and the splintered porch of my house, but this was far too exiting. I ran so fast across those wooden slats I wouldn’t be surprised if I were to look back and see little footprints where the chipped red paint had burned off in the scuffle.  Adrenaline made it so that I barely felt the splinters I’m sure I received, and gave me the strength to practically tear the door off its hinges as I busted in.

                “Pennies!” I gasped, as I tumbled into the Livingroom from the door in a single movement, my long, lanky legs frantically trying to stop my locomotion. I looked around and saw both my ma and Pa looking at me as if I was the skunk ape himself who had just broken into their home. My father, visibly anxious, peered at me over his newspaper, little Jimmy sitting on the floor beneath him playing with a worn tin soldier.

                “What in sam-hill are you talking about, Carolanne?” Pa inquired with a tone of legitimate concern. Jimmy pulled himself up off of ground level to stare at me as well, revealing his overall pockets to be filled with little knickknacks and toys, like a kangaroo from one of them books holding their young in a pouch. Ma set down her needlepoint, her stern jaws tensing as she seemed to be on the edge of a long-winded talking-to about a topic she was still trying to nitpick from the situation.

                “Black gold!” I practically yelled, and my Pa’s eyes widened, lowering his paper slightly to reveal his pipe, freshly lit and chock full of tobacco leaves, laying slack in the corner of his mouth and emanating a dull sweetness into the air.

                The air remained still and silent, as everybody in the room bore holes through my head with their eyes frozen on my freckled nose. Then, the first drop came. Then another, and another, and eventually came a rhythm of droplets plunking onto our sizzling tin roof. It was at the first rolling boom of thunder which broke the serenity of the moment that my Pa stood up with a spryness not even Jimmy could come near imitating. Pa threw his lit pipe and paper on the table, and trumpeted onward like a warrior going to battle by the pitter patter of rain and the horrified shrieks of my mother, he marched out of the house, quickly and silently. The door opened and slammed, the sound of rain growing louder and softer along with each of those very sounds, respectively. Then, my brother and I were left in silence once again, as my ma frantically tried to sweep up the still-lit tobacco to avoid a house fire. Suddenly from outside, we heard a barbaric yelp. It was so primal and exhilarated in nature one could easily mistake it for a teenage boy who just got kissed for the first time and needed to announce to the world in some deep primal way his fulfilled desire. I couldn’t stay inside a moment more, and I bounded down the hall and out the door, slamming it behind me as I was hit by a blast of warm, musty, wet air. The deck, which now seemed supple under a layer of lubrication, was used as a spring-board for my giddy feet as I leapt off the top step to the side, my feet falling softly into a patch of dirt which was quickly becoming a pool of greasy mud. I sprinted across the wet grass towards my Pa, my cries almost completely drowned out by roaring thunder at a rate which seemed borderline unnatural. Once I reached the crops and I saw my Pa, I pushed my way excitedly through the withered and wet sad excuses for wheat sheaves as I grew closer to his towering figure in the center of it all. I stopped next to him, and the rush of it all melted away into pure grace and peace. I looked at Pa’s face. His weathered, tan, leathery skin bunched up into a toothy grin, revealing misshapen and wild teeth as he closed his eyes and looked up into the dark sky, taking his hat off to allow warm water to gently kiss his shiny, exposed scalp. I watched the water slowly drip down the creases in his face, as I turned by head to the sky and felt the rain droplets caress my skin, getting stuck on my long, soft orange eyelashes as they began to drench my every inch.

                “Look here, Carolanne.” Pa said, as I opened my eyes. He held out a clod of dirt, jet black and so soft it looked as if sleeping on it would be more peaceful than inside an angel’s wing. He had the sincerest look on his face I had ever seen, as he reached out to embrace me. “God has made us richer than we could have ever dreamed.” I began to shake with deep sobs as he held me close, and to this day, I’m not convinced that rain was the only thing streaming down his cheeks either.

Reviews

[Guardian Of The Lost]

I dig the ending. It's sweet and closes the story with a tone of warmth. I noticed some technical errors that could benefit from some refinement and some word choice that could be altered. I'm not a fan of the setting at all, but I still enjoyed it. In my opinion, not your best work, but I could be biased to the Fallout-esq Silly Milly. Come to think of it I believe I've only read three of your stories. This piece does have a pleasant variety of words woven together that subtly leave an impression. Good work, brudda.