Summer Corn

It was coming on sunset when we got to Miz Lilly's cornfield. The wind had shifted and like all island raised children, we knew a storm was on the way even though we couldn't see the passage or the rolling fogbank just off Peter's Island. Keeping to the dusty dirt road meant risking getting caught in the rain - worse, being late for supper - so after a quick vote, we decided to cut through the corn.

Just as we'd been taught, we walked single file through the green, ripening rows, now and again dodging wayward stalks and watching the sky. We were almost to the pasture behind Uncle Willie's when we stumbled into the bad patch of trampled corn and zigzgged broken stalks.

Jeezum crow, Ruthie said in surprise, What happened here?

Looks like a runaway tractor, don't it, Betty Jean agreed, Mebbe Miz Lilly done took to drinkin'.

Not likley, I said mildly, mebbe somethin' chasing the cows.

Yeah, Betty muttered, somethin' like a tractor. Move yer ass, Ruth, I'm feelin' raindrops.

By the time we got to the edge of the pasture, it was sprinkling, light but steady, and we could see the fog rolling in from the west. I was thinking it reminded me of one of those giant paving machines smoothing out a newly laid road when I heard Ruthie laugh.

Lookie there, she called to us, somethin' even got the scarecrow!

Miz Lilly ain't never had no scarecrow, Betty said with a frown, You seein' things, Ruth.

But she wasn't. We caught up with her and saw what she was gesturing at. From a distance it looked like a bundle of rags in overalls, a flannel shirt and side by side muddy work boots pointed skyward.

Oh, Jaysus, Betty said under her breath, That ain't no scarecrow. It's Stump Sullivan. Goddam, I hope he ain't dead.

Now there weren't a livin' soul on the islands didn't know Stump Sullivan was nuttier than a Christmas fruitcake. Folks said he had some kinda fallin' down shack in the woods, no one knew exactly where, and that he lived on the whiskey he stole from the stills. Come winter, he slipped into the summer houses for shelter, moving from one night to the next and never doing any real damage. In the summer months though, he holed up in the woods and only came out once a month to pick up his disability check. It was enough to persuade some islander making a trip to the mainland to stop at the provincial liquor - an id and a clean shirt were really all you needed to make a purchase, no matter how ridiculously huge - and bring him back several bottles of rotgut vodka.

Dumber'n dirt, Sparrow liked to say, and bedbug crazy even when he ain't likkored up.

And now, here was ol' Stump, splayed out on the damp ground of Uncle Willie's back pasture in the rain, dead to the world and snoring up a storm.

Well, Ruthie said, leastways he ain't dead. What we 'sposed to do?

Do? Betty snapped incredulously, Do? We ain't 'sposed to do nothin'! Reckon he'll wake up or drown and I don't much care which!

Ruthie stood her ground. We cain't just leave him! she protested stubbornly.

Hell if'n we cain't, Betty shot back, He's jist a nasty, crazy, old drunk! I'm goin' on! And with that, she gave us both an angry glare, turned on her heel and stalked off. We watched her go until the fog swallowed her whole.

Now what? I asked Ruthie mildly, You have some kind of a plan?

Reckon we could drag him yonder to the hay wagon, she said, nodding back toward the corn,

It'd be some shelter.

I thought about arguing, decided it wasn't worth the time it would take, and shrugged. Feet or hands?

She considered this. Stump Sullivan was built - not to be indelicate but as Sparrow would've said, “like a brick shithouse” - and I'm not sure either of thought we could do it.

Feet, Ruthie said finally, That way if'n he wakes up, he cain't latch onto us.

This made a certain amount of sense so we each grabbed a muddy boot and started to pull.

Ol' Stump never made a sound, but Lord help us, he was heavy and when we got to the hay wagon, we both had to get down on our hands and knees to haul him under. He still never stirred though for a few seconds the snoring seemed to stop and we weren't sure he was breathing. Ruthie gave him a nudge in the ribs and he kind of groaned, then turned on his side, curled up and resumed snoring. An empty vodka bottle fell out of his back pocket.

So long, Stump, I said, wiping corn silk and mud off my hands.

Ayuh, Ruthie agreed cheerfully, Sweet dreams, Stump. Jist don't die.

We made for home. We didn't beat the storm, Betty Jean told on us - What were you thinkin'? my grandmother demanded irritably, Upstairs and out of them wet clothes 'fore you catch your death! - but Stump Sullivan lived to drink another day and was none the wiser.