The Ballad of Trenchmouth Taggart. Glenn Taylor
eyes on Ewart, then opened that mouth of his again, just as slow and deliberate as he’d closed it. He gave the copperhead’s tail a little incentive pull and the girl watched the snake loop its head back toward her, a candy cane pose held briefly before slithering back down the arm. Then it was still.
‘How bout that?’ Trenchmouth said.
She let her hands fall from her face. ‘You’ve got to leave,’ she said.
He bent down to the open box and let the snake fall back to its brethren. ‘Did I scare you?’
‘Daddy’s done convertin. Can’t you hear how quiet it’s got?’
From the time he’d opened that box, his whole world had been more quiet than anytime he could remember. Quiet like it must be under the ground.
‘Daddy won’t like that you’re here. You’ve got to go.’
He swiveled the brass latch into place and stood up. He walked to her and kissed her on the cheek, and it was warm and dry, without the electricity of Clarissa’s. Then he slid through the open door of the little back room, his coat knocking paint chips from the molding, and walked out the back. The preacher and the convert descended the stairs inside, laughing.
It was obvious to the Widow Dorsett that for her boy, school was like being put on the rack. And she didn’t say a word when he announced he’d spent his last Sunday at the Methodist Church. She and Clarissa continued to go without him, and he continued to bow his head and hold their hands for the mealtime blessing. Little else was spoken in terms of Trenchmouth’s exile. It was simply accepted that the boy would not be accepted. What mattered was that he learned. That he kept up, surpassed even, those that would not accept. Above all, that he did not become a miner. And it was for this reason that the Widow, on most days, left the newspaper out on the kitchen table for him to read. She’d mark the articles she thought educational with black ink advice like Think on this one awhile or Ever thought of trying your hand at this?
Trenchmouth got home from school on a Tuesday to find one of these left notes on newsprint. It was warm enough out that he didn’t have to refill with coal or wood the heating stove fire, an after-school chore assigned to him during fall and winter months. He broke a piece of hard cornbread off a brick she’d left out and sat down to read. The newspaper settled him like little else could. It was almost as comforting as moonshine somehow.
The Widow had written I hope you don’t associate with these boys above an article titled Robbed Passenger Coach. Some local boys had robbed a coach car containing a stock of goods for the local newsstands. They’d been caught sleeping inside a cave they’d fashioned on top of Horsepen Mountain not far from Trenchmouth’s hideout. They slept between the open, stolen hampers and baskets of cigarettes, cigars, chewing gum, candy, popcorn, groceries, fruits, novels, and magazines, gorged no doubt on romance and sugar.
Trenchmouth tore off a piece of newspaper and scrawled on it move hideout for safety? He put it in his pocket.
A page in, she had written Think I’ll ever get me one of these? above an ad for a cooking oven. It read Every woman who wants a steel range will certainly buy The Peninsular if they can only get a view of it. They could do so if they got themselves to A.H. Beal Hardware in Williamson. The power of steel. It was everywhere to behold. Trenchmouth looked at the beat up Acme cook stove against the wall. It had seen better days.
The door opened and Clarissa walked in with Fred Dallara in tow. Trenchmouth nodded and looked back to his paper.
‘Hi,’ Clarissa said. She’d blossomed full to beautiful.
‘Afternoon, little T.T.,’ Fred said. His voice had gone suddenly low that winter, his torso thicker. He had a mustache that looked like somebody had smudged two fingers across his lip and halfway wiped it off. Fred enjoyed pointing out their age differential.
The two lovebirds climbed the ladder to the loft and went quiet.
Trenchmouth knew that Fred and Clarissa kissed up there. The soft sounds echoed in his ears. He knew that they knew the Widow was at work on her still again, moving and hiding and covering up, and that she wouldn’t be back to catch them in the act. He broke off two miniature pieces of cornbread, shoved them in each earhole, and got back to reading.
See here? she had written above another story. Turns out you just got more brains than the rest of us, in more places, more stubborn. It was another new finding from the scientists who were always finding. Throat Brain Is Latest Discovery the title read, and under that Scientists Say Gray Matter is in Fingers and Cells are in Toes. Numerous Thinking Organs Distributed Throughout Whole Body. According to the columnist, the fingertips of the blind contained brain tissue, and so did the throat. If a throat surgeon slipped up during his operation, the throat brain would react by refusing to cooperate.
The boy couldn’t help but wonder what had been done to his mouth brain to make it so uncooperative.
He thought he heard a giggle from the loft, so he pushed the bread further into his ears and read on. Above Railroad Progress Moving Forward, she’d written You could see the world if you wanted to by the time they finish this. The big men of the N&W and the C&O were barreling through hills and valleys, blasting tunnels and building homes for workers. The word tonnage was used again and again to describe the coal that was bringing the railroad to West Virginia. The tonnage was here, so they were coming to secure it. To move it out to everybody else.
Trenchmouth thought of the tipples he’d seen being built from solid wood. He wondered how somebody could figure a kitchen range ought to be fashioned from steel but not a coal tipple. He ripped off another piece of paper and scrawled a new design. The power of steel. It was everywhere.
Another giggle. It made him sick. He gave the bread plugs another push and started reading out loud. Almost a holler. ‘Millions of dollars are being invested in coal properties, which will within a year furnish tonnage for the railroads, which are being built at a cost of more than millions of dollars.’ A shoe boomeranged down at him from above and caught his collarbone, hard. He didn’t look up, just rubbed at his injury. Had he looked to the loft, had he pulled the bread from his ears, he would have heard Fred Dallara say, ‘Pipe down little boy,’ and he would have seen Clarissa, up on her elbows with her neck stretched to check on him, a mix of worry and sadness and defeat in her eyes.
But he didn’t look up at them. He kept on reading.
He read that the druggist at the pharmacy had been confined to his bed. Like others in the county, he’d been taken hold of by Typhoid Fever.
That’s when Trenchmouth saw the toy advertisement. Mysto Erector Structural Steel Builder the banner read.
The boy could scarcely take it in.
Under this heading was a picture nearly identical to the scrap metal tipple on his drawing table at the hideout. The picture showed skinny steel strips, holes punched and connected to other holes. It was a steel construction toy, an erector set, and some fellow by the name of A.C. Gilbert was taking credit for having invented it.
Without knowing, Trenchmouth had made a toy, and now somebody else was getting paid for it. What he’d thought was an idea toward protecting the progress of civilization was nothing more than adolescent entertainment.
He sighed and sat and stared.
His ears were plugged up while his sister broke his heart within whisper distance, and he came to understand that ideas could be stolen before they were even ideas. But no tears would smear the newsprint that day or any other, as far as Trenchmouth was concerned. He was not yet twelve and had lost nearly everything he loved. But he knew this on that day: like toys, tears were for boys, and it was time to leave all that behind. It was time to become a man.
The hideout lay in ruin and the