R.J. Meaddough, III,
The Death of Tommy Grimes (1962)
Tommy had become part of the ground. At least he felt that way as he watched the dew
and the daylight make giant shiny cobwebs of the treetops. The sun had not yet risen and
a mist lay over the ground, which made the forest seem rather spooky to him.
His nose itched and he longed to scratch it, maybe just nudge1 it a little, but Pa said
don’t move, don’t twitch2, don’t even breathe hard. Not one arm, one hand, even one
finger, he said. “He knows the woods,” Pa told him; “you’ll never know he’s there;
suddenly he’ll just be there looking at you, just looking.”
It started so long ago, Tommy remembered, almost a year, when he was just eleven.
That night, in the hen-yard, with the weasel’s3 eyes glistening in the flashlight. He never
even fired a shot, just stood there with his mouth open, foolish, while the weasel dashed4
into the woods.
And Pa knocking the rifle from his hands and asking, “Why didn’t you shoot? What
you waiting on? What’s wrong with you, boy?”
“Pa, I . . . I couldn’t, Pa. I just couldn’t.”
Pa hunkered5 down and pulled on a blade of grass. He didn’t say anything for a minute,
just knelt there chewing on that grass.
“You never did like to kill nothing did you, boy? Even when you was small.”
Tommy looked at the ground with out saying anything and his father sighed, “Tommy,
dammit, a man always dies a little when he kills something, but it just plain has to be
done. Some animals just ain’t no damn good and got the be killed. Understand?”
He nodded without answering, still looking at the ground, and Pa stood up with a groan
and they walked into the hen-house without speaking. They counted forty-three dead
pullets6, lying in red and white patches7 of feathers, blood and confusion.
So he began to practice with the rifle, shooting at moving targets, and the rifle became
part of his arm. It seemed so long that Pa practiced with him, so long. Again and again
he would take a deep breath, let some out, then squeeze the trigger. So long, so very long.
Tommy felt beads8 of sweat form on his forehead despite the chill that remained in the
forest air. Soon the beads would form into droplets9 and run down his face and burn his
eyes. There was a handkerchief in his coat pocket just a few inches away but he could
not, dare not reach for it. But soon it would be over. Soon.
It got so that he could hit anything he aimed at, even things a good bit out. And
sometimes, when he turned real quick, he would see pride in Pa’s eyes. But then Pa
would always make his face blank10 and say, “We-e-ell, Tommy,” real grim-like, “you’re
getting better but you need more practice.”
Pa taught him how to track animals and how to lead quail11, and how to lean into the
rifle to take up the recoil. And Pa showed him how to lie quiet so the forest forgot he was
there and Nature went on about her business.
And the time came last night when Pa came home and mentioned that some of the men
were going into the forest to get a buck12; and how it might be some good shooting
because bucks were fast, real fast.
1
touch or scratch lightly
jerk or move suddenly
3
væsel
4
run suddenly
5
kneel down on one’s buttocks
6
young hen
7
spot
8
small drop
9
small drop
10
without expression
11
vagtel
12
hanhjort
2
He bent his head to eat his beans, yet he knew without looking that his father was
watching him, way out of the corner of his eye. He knew, too, that Pa wouldn’t have said
a word if Ma was there - she was always saying he was too young for something or other but she was visiting overnight up in Colliersville. And he thought how it must be for Pa
when the other men bragged about their boys, and him so scared to kill a weasel, and he
knew what he had to do.
“Pa,” he murmured, “think maybe I could go a time13 at that old buck?”
“Boy, this ain’t no old buck, it’s a young one,” Pa said, making like he was14 surprised.
“Boy, you might get hurt.”
“Some time, I think I’d like to take my turn,” he answered, face even closer to the beans.
“Well, I’ll think about it, boy,” Pa mumbled, but he couldn’t hide a gleam in his eye.
Tommy slowly, ever so slowly, rubbed his forehead along his sleeve and watched the
gloom in front of him. Somewhere out there Pa had circled around and was trampling
through the woods, scaring everything away, away toward the clearing where he lay
waiting.
He laughed in his mind when he thought of the last time when Pa had gone down to the
hut for a drink with the “boys”, as he called them. And when he came out his eyes were
gleaming like the mischief15 and he wobbled16 in to the yard like he didn’t know how to
walk. He had gone downstairs in his pajamas and they sat on the back porch and listened
to the crickets17 and looked at the stars. Maybe afterwards Pa would let him go into the
Hut and talk with the men and drink liquor. But right then he had to be satisfied with
listening to Pa tell stories that he had heard at the Hut and then squeeze his arm at the end
and laugh, oh my, how he would laugh. Then he filled his pipe and stared out across the
backyard toward the north pasture.
“Dawn in the forest is a beautiful thing, boy, beautiful. All the colors and wild flowers,
fresh streams, cool breeze, you feel like, boy, feel it! Even though there ain’t a sound you
feel it. You see a flash of white and you know some rabbit’s going home. Or you might
see a chuck18 burrowing19 in. And the trees,” he whispered, “they just stand there
watching you. Been there before you came, be there after you gone.”
“Gee, Pa,” he murmured, “you make it sound so nice I don’t know’s I want to hunt
tomorrow.”
Pa smiled, “It is nice, boy, real nice, but things got to be done to keep it that way. Fox
eats rabbit, he keeps the rabbit population down, else they’d overrun the land. Same here.
You hunt ‘cause you hungry and got to eat, that’s one reason. Then you might hunt for
the sport - pit your mind20 against animal cunning21 - ‘course I don’t hold much22 with
that, but some do. Some do. But there’s some varmints23 that do damage and just plain
got to be killed. Understand?”
“I . . . think so. But what about what you said about a man dying when he kills
something?”
“Man kills once and he starts to get callous. Next time it ain’t so hard. Then you get
so’s you make a decision that something’s got to die and you to kill it, just like that. Then
you dead, boy. You got no feeling no more so you just as good as dead. You just ain’t
had time to lay down.”
13
have a go at
pretending he was
15
like he had been up to some trick
16
walk unsteadily
17
fårekylling
18
chuck-will’s widow = American bird
19
make a hole in the ground
20
match (in a game or fight)
21
snuhed
22
care about
23
skadedyr
14
Tommy wiggled24 his toes and got no response. They felt like sticks of wood, stilts that
somebody had glued on his legs. An ant left the ground and started climbing his arm until
he blew, softly, blew the ant into some brave25 new world. The mist was thinning and the
sun began to shine dully through the trees. Pa was right, he thought. Seems as if
everything had a place in the scheme26 of things. Birds are worms they found in the
ground. Then they got eaten by bigger birds. Rabbits got eaten by foxes and foxes by
bobcats27, and bobcats by bears or something all the way up to elephants. And elephants
were killed by man. Pa said that man preyed on28 himself, whatever that meant, but
everything had a place, and when they got out of place they upset the balance. Like too
many rabbits or squirrels29 or anything.
A twig snapped like dynamite and he froze on the ground and swiveled30 the gun to the
left and waited. Slowly, clumsily, with three blades of grass waving like pennants31 ahead
of him, a porcupine32 strolled33 into view, made his way through the sunlight, and
vanished into the grass. Tommy laughed, out loud almost, he could hardly keep from
blowing up34 he was so relieved, so happy. Instead he settled down again to wait.
But things had changed somehow. The sunlight was duller, almost disappearing and he
felt a chill again as he had before the sun came up. And the silence somehow nettled35
him . . . the silence! Not a sound! No crickets, no chirping36, no rustling37, nothing.
There was something out there! The happy-scared feeling ran up and down Tommy’s
back and his breath came in painful gasps. His chest hammered, almost pushing his lungs
into his mouth with its rhythm which seemed to be saying: Soon! Soon! Soon they
would be calling him Tom Grimes like his father. Soon he would be able to go into the
Hut and drink liquor with the rest of the men. Soon the waiting would be over. Soon he
would be grown. Soon. Soon. Soon. Soon! Soon! Soon!
There! In the bushes! A little pinch38 of color behind the bramble39 bush moving light
and easy, so very easy, behind the bushes. He slid down still further behind the gun and
spread his feet wide, toes digging into the soft earth. “Put the whole side of your body
behind the gun to take the recoil40,” Pa had said. “Spread your legs wide to brace41
yourself. Make the gun, your arm, your hip, your leg into one long line.” Tommy drew
his breath in and nearly gagged42 trying to hold it, sighting along the clean black ridges43
of the rifle. The outline was clear behind the bush, creeping, sniffing, gliding along.
”You won’t see it, or hear it, or smell it, or anything,” Pa had told him. “You’ll just feel
it, and it’ll be there.”
Tommy breathed out and in, let some of the air out and chokingly began to squeeze the
trigger. Would it never go off, his mind asked, reeling and stumbling and clinging
desperately to reality, and the earth stuttered. The light blinked. His ears rang. His nose
24
vrikke
(lettere ironisk): wonderful (cf. Brave New World)
26
ordered system
27
rødlos
28
hunt
29
egern
30
turn
31
flag, vimpel
32
pindsvin
33
slentre
34
laugh one’s head off
35
irritate
36
a short, sharp sound
37
the sound of dry leaves blown by the wind
38
spot
39
brombær
40
tilbageslag
41
steady oneself
42
stop breathing
43
sigtekorn
25
reacted to the smell of smoke and the taste of ink crept into his mouth. There was a
terrible thrashing44 and rattling45, but it stopped. Suddenly it stopped. Tommy blinked. It
was over; just like that, it was over.
He got to his feet and the stiffness forced him to lean against a tree trunk. Before there
had been nothing, then suddenly there was something, a small patch of color the same as
Pa’s jacket. Tommy blinked and listened for the crashing sound of someone coming
through the forest - but there was nothing. Nothing. He strained his ears and heard the
new-sprung crickets and birdcalls, but no crashing, no rustling, no voice, and he started
for the bush and stopped, trembling.
“Pa?” he whispered, “Pa-a-a?” There was no sound except his own voice, twisted and
shapeless and mocking, twirling46 through the trees like vapors47 in the dull, chilly air.
“Pa! Pa! Pa!”
Then came the rushing and the crashing to the left and the tall husky48 figure coming out
of the gloom saying, “Boy? What’s wrong, boy?” And Tommy ran over and slammed his
head against his father’s chest. “Pa! I thought I killed you, Pa, I thought I killed a man!”
“Now, Tommy, it’s all right, everything’s all right,” Pa said, walking behind the bush
and kneeling and then rising and coming back.
“See?” he said. “What did I tell you? Right through the heart. Now that’s good
shooting. Come on over here and look; come on now.”
So he looked, and then it wasn’t so bad.
Later, much later, they walked the mile from town to the Hut and walked inside
together. There were some men sitting at tables and they looked up as Pa hoisted49 him
onto the bar, running his fingers through his dark, blond hair.
“Boys, I wanna tell you my boy became a man today. Yes, killed his first nigger.”
“No!” a man said. “Who?”
“Swamp-buck50 got away from the chain gang51 yes-tidy52.”
“Git out53!” the man said.
“Yes, got him right through the heart.”
The man grabbed Tommy and hugged him around the knees. “You a man now, boy!”
he yelled, “you a real live honest-to-goodness ‘fore God man!”
And Pa, his blue eyes agleam, yelled out, “Bartender! Don’t just stand there! Give this
man a drink!”
The man sat Tommy down on the bar and the liquor made him cough a bit as it coursed
down54 his throat and it made his ears ring like the tolling55 of bells. But he smiled
happily as the feeling of warmth like Mississippi sunshine56 spread through his insides.
For now he belonged.
44
beating (cp. tærsken)
rallen
46
snurre rundt
47
mist
48
big and strong
49
lift (cp. hejse)
50
sump-nigger
51
prisoners chained together doing forced labor
52
yesterday
53
“Hold da helt kæft!”
54
run down
55
ringe med (døds)klokker
56
probably same as ‘moonshine’ = illegally made liquor
45