UNCLE JOHN
By
Carter Swart

While waiting for the wife and grand kids to return from the store, I was rummaging through some stuff in the garage this morning when I accidentally knocked over a box of tools. Included in the cacophony of metal on concrete was the high-pitched squeak of something mortally wounded. I gingerly righted the box and found beneath it a small roof rat, its back broken. A crimson smear of blood framed the stricken body.

"Damn." Reaching down to stroke the rat's sleek hide, I recalled my Uncle John's advice when faced with such a circumstance. Slipping the paralyzed rat's neck between my thumb and forefinger, I promptly snapped it, thereby putting the poor creature out of its misery. The incident prompted a host of grim memories from the deepest corridors of my mind, a tangle of morbid recollections of barbarity, sexual exploitation, and life-long guilt.

Once more my genie had escaped it's bottle.

Years ago, before WWII, I lived with my family in southern California. One morning my father dropped me off at school with a shiny new quarter and a cheerful wave. An hour later he was dead. For some arcane reason he'd driven his old Ford into a speeding freight train. The police listed it as a suicide. My mother disagreed vehemently. I guess we'll never know. Regrettably the life insurance company found it convenient to believe the official version and denied my mother's claim, citing their two-year suicide clause. And so it wasn't long before the money ran out. There was no "safety net" available in those days; one worked or the family didn't eat. And so my mother, Ruth, took a job packing glazed fruit for a dollar-an-hour. Claire, my thirteen-year-old sister, was too young to work, and I was just eight-years-old. And soon we lost the house to the bank, as well as the replacement car. Friends tried to help but nobody in our neighborhood drove a Mercedes. My mother slowly lost weight and hope, taking on the desperate patina of a Chinese war refugee.

But one day my Aunt Trudy wrote in answer to my mother's last-ditch appeal for help. She invited us to come live with her and my Uncle John in Hunterville, a small mountain community in North Carolina. She also sent the train fare. Naturally my mother's relief was palpable. We sold the furniture, packed our bags, and left California two weeks later.

Hunterville is a sleepy village located in the rugged oak, hickory, and loblolly pine forests of Appalachia. Back then the town consisted of a grocery store, drugstore, garage/gas station, three taverns, a city hall, three restaurants, two veneer mills, ten churches and a combination grammar/high school. Dad always said one could measure the character of a town by comparing the ratio of taverns to churches, the more churches, the better the town. By his reckoning this was a good place to live.

Aunt Trudy was a slim pale woman who welcomed us cordially, as did Uncle John. She soon found a part-time job for my mother at the mill where she worked. It was back-breaking labor and both women were exhausted by day's end. I felt sorry for them. But we had wholesome meals there and slept in warm beds. Uncle John worked at the garage and was a part-time trapper. Many's the night we ate succulent squirrel stew or opossum pie, the result of my uncle's string of traps and snares. He kept a large garden as well. But the enervating humid heat of the southern summer and those hard hours at the mill took the starch out of my mom.

Uncle John worked all week at the garage and harvested his trap and trot lines on the weekends and at night. What we didn't consume he sold in town. He was a large man, heavy in the gut, but powerful. Loud, forceful, and energetic he had a commanding presence and strutted around my aunt's 460-acre wooded property like the head rooster. The property, including a private lake, had been inherited from her first husband. She'd also inherited his large mortgage, something that John brooded about a lot. "Ain't we never gonna get ahead," was his continual lament.

At first things were tolerable, though my uncle would ofttimes playfully embrace mom and flirt with her, being a gruff, gregarious sort of person. And if my mom found his borderline attentions unwelcome, she never said so. My aunt was likewise mute on the subject. But it was evident that John thought himself quite the ladies man. He wasn't exactly handsome, but he had large brown eyes, a shock of black wavy hair, and an engaging, if vainglorious, persona. Now and then, though, I'd catch him eyeing my little sister with a vague sort of speculation. At the time I didn't understand its significance, in fact I'd have done anything for him. He was jolly and attentive to me, completely unlike my late father, a man of quiet habits and introspection. But while I was basking in the glow of Uncle John's considerable charm, the women were treated as though they were living under the rules of a Periclean despot. If I heard, "hurry up woman," once, I heard it a thousand times.

Out on the forest trails, though, he was a different person, relaxed and very much the generous mentor. I learned a lot from him. One thing he drilled into me was that animals have feelings and that they should be treated in a humane way. It seems oxymoronic for a trapper to speak in those terms, but that's the way he felt. He respected his prey, able to separate gathering meat for the table from the cruelty of his traps. Often he'd poke me in the chest with a blunt finger and say, "Bruce, I trap critters to feed us. It don't give me no pleasure to kill anything. In fact when I find me a sick animal you watch how quick I put it out of its misery." I saw him do it a hundred times. There was no cruelty in my uncle -- at least not then, not until he lost his job.

Sadly, though, he did have a darker side. Mom began to suspect it a few months after we moved in. I assume my aunt had her suspicions as well. And later, when it came to full flower, it was terrible.

His "problem" developed from a third enterprise -- the cooking of moonshine. He and another man worked a small still back in the hollow, selling corn to a select group of regulars. Unfortunately, after he lost his job at the garage, he began drinking up the profits. My aunt once opined that booze could turn a pretty good man into a pretty bad one; she didn't know the half. Sitting around all day with his ne'er-do-well friends drinking and cussing, my uncle quit his trap line and lay around all day complaining about his bad luck. He got very short with the women. At night he'd go to town and bring back his barfly buddies, their jalopies often parked on the unmowed lawn until dawn. The deep summer evenings got more and more raucous and bawdy, and Uncle John continued his unwanted attentions toward my mother. Accordingly her life became a living hell.

One wild night she ran into the house and hustled Claire and me upstairs. She didn't explain, but she was breathing real hard. Her breath smelled of liquor, and there was a haunted look in her eye. I could tell she'd been crying. Her dress was pulled down off her shoulders and her lipstick was smeared. She ordered us to lock our bedroom doors. Later that night I heard cries of female protest and rough laughter from the men.

The next morning mom had bruises on her face and arms. She and Trudy would not look at my uncle. He wandered around sheepishly, ignored them, and left for town in the afternoon. From then on mom locked Claire in the attic whenever the men began their late-night weekend drinking. Of course I was unaware of what all this meant, my child's naivete securing me in my ignorance. But something so degrading and criminal must eventually find the light, even to an eight-year-old boy.

I went outside one morning to help Trudy with the milking. Approaching the barn I heard muffled voices. Something about the lift and urgency of the give-and-take caused me to slip quietly inside and hide in an empty stall.

"Ruthie," cried my aunt with venom. "How could he do that to you? I should never have invited you and the kids. I'm so sorry. But I've never seen him like this. I could just kill the bastard."

"Shush. It's not your fault. But now he wants Claire. She's only thirteen!"

"Yes. He's sick. Losin' that job done something to him."

"So what can we do, Trudy? It can't go on like this."

There was a pause. "I could leave the swine. We could march right out of here."

"Sure. And go where?"

"I know. He keeps the checkbook; he handles the money. How could I have been so stupid to have given him such total control?"

"You didn't know."

Trudy's voice was low-key, but I could sense the fear in it when she murmured, "Anyway I'm afraid to leave him. He's gotten so mean and sly. We try to run, he might kill us."

There was another protracted silence, then mom hissed, "The answer is obvious. We take this to the sheriff."

"No. John and the men will just say it was consensual; it's their word against ours. And afterward we'd really catch it."

"But the sheriff might believe us."

"The sheriff? Not likely."

"Why?"

"Remember the perverted fella with the bad teeth and that big shiner?"

"Yeah."

"That's Hawg, the sheriff's deputy."

"But --"

"No buts. Ain't nothing Hawg does that sheriff Tom don't know about. Forget it, it's a dead end."

"Well, what can we do?" Minutes passed and they considered their options as the first heavy drops of rain hit the tin roof like grapeshot.

"I won't let him have Claire," snapped mom, finally. "I'll kill him first."

My aunt's response was phlegmatic, slow to form: "Be like killing a sick animal," she drawled coldly.

"What?"

"Somethin' John's always preachin'."

The silence that followed deepened, and I took that opportunity to skin out and run back to the house. Upstairs I lay on my bed and sobbed, a boy in shocked isolation, his kindly role model destroyed in a nanno-second. Uncle John, a sick animal. This was certainly a new perspective for me to consider. Was it possible?

The next morning, angered by something my aunt said, John reached across the table and smacked her hard in the face, drawing blood from her nose. His overnight "guest," a stupid lout named Smitty, laughed. Shocked, Claire and I rushed upstairs. The thing sickened me and absolutely terrified my sister. She couldn't stop trembling. We huddled together on my cot. Downstairs we could hear John raving about my unappreciative mother and Trudy, his faithless wife, threatening in a thunderous voice to pack his grip, clean out the accounts, move to the city, and leave them destitute.

Trudy rushed by my door sobbing and grumbling, "I'll murder that bastard."

That night a sharp scuffle occurred outside my door. I woke up to hear mom screaming hysterically, "You stay away from her."

"Get out of my way, bitch," My uncle shouted.

Trudy's thin voice piped in, "John Crandle, stop it this instant!" There followed more shouts, grunts, slaps and screams. Then came the sound of a door being kicked in; it shook the house. I hid under the covers. After awhile John went away. But I couldn't sleep the rest of the night.

I was a believer. My uncle was an animal.

In the morning John was gone. Mom and my aunt sat at the breakfast table and dawdled over coffee, talking in monosyllables. I sat on the stairs and listened, finding that mom had wisely hidden Claire that night in the attic under a pile of rags. John hadn't touched her -- at least not physically. Nevertheless she was in a terrified state.

I eased up to the table and sat down. "Morning."

I shall never forget the bleak face my mother turned to me. There was a disquieting intensity behind her pale gray eyes, as though she'd come to some irreversible decision. After I'd eaten my cereal she ordered me outside.

It rained heavily the next day. The tension in the house was unbearable. My uncle sat alone in the parlor, alternately sipping corn and snoring like a pig. No one spoke. A grave is not so quiet as that house was.

Early the next morning the rain slackened, and I was surprised to hear my uncle's Dodge crank over, for lately he'd been sleeping in until noon. It was pitch black. I rolled out of bed, dressed, and went downstairs. No one was about so I toasted some bread in the oven. Claire came down and I made her coffee. Her face was tight with tension, and she didn't speak, just sat at the table studying the smudges on the polished wood. Every sound from outside made her jump. Her anxious glance reflected the subornation of her personality, of her innocence, of her security.

Mom and Trudy came in from the barn about 8:00 a.m. We sat at the table, our collective fear and loathing for my uncle unspoken. The women conversed as if by rote, while Claire and I said nothing for some time.

Curious, I asked, "Where's Uncle John?"

They both jumped as though they'd been stuck with a cattle prod.

"He's gone," said my mother. Her glance was flat and rigid -- yet edgy.

"He's run out on us, Bruce," added my aunt. "Packed his stuff and drove off. Just like he threatened. You remember when he did that?"

"Yeah."

"Good boy."

"He -- he won't be back, will he?" my sister asked, her voice shaking.

Mom and Trudy shared a brief glance, then said "no," in unison.

Mom got up and began preparing dough for biscuits. I noticed how very strong her arms were. Treating the dough as if it were a mortal enemy she savagely kneaded it, slapping and smashing at it with an inhuman vigor.

"Will those -- men still come around," I asked.

"Not on your life," snapped Trudy. From her tone I knew she meant it.

Satisfied I ate breakfast, then prowled the parlor, noting with some surprise that my near-sighted uncle's glasses and gold watch were still lying on the sidebar, and his prized Remington pistol still hung in its holster. He never left home without his watch and glasses. It made me curious so I went outside and found faint tire tracks in the muddy earth -- but they weren't headed for town; they disappeared into the forest behind the house.

Mom and Trudy had lied to me.

This was disquieting so I loped into the barn and took up a silent vigil. My patience was rewarded when my aunt slipped out the back door, looked around carefully, then moved into the trees at flank speed, heading in the direction of the lake. There was a stealthiness to her step that prompted me to follow. She led me along a seldom-used track. I saw that the Dodge had recently driven along here, judging by the bent grass lying on both sides of the trail. I stayed far back, keeping her in sight as she walked on purposefully. This was a familiar place. I'd been here before with Uncle John. The path eventually ended in a sheer cliff which fronted the deepest part of the lake, ninety feet down according to my uncle. He'd cautioned me never to go there as it was a treacherous place of swirling currents, black stagnant water, dark spirits, and tragedy. A boy had drowned there in '34 and another in '37. It was mostly fenced now and well-posted.

Trudy reached the cliff, peered down, then commenced to pace back and forth along the top of bank. She seemed agitated. Turning abruptly she started my way. I ducked behind a tree as she went by, crying and wringing her hands.

What on earth was down there? I waited until she'd gone, then trotted to the cliff and looked over the edge. What I saw chilled my blood. Hung up on a hidden stump was my uncle's four-door Dodge sedan. It was upright and halfway submerged. Located not five feet from shore it had evidently been driven off the cliff at a slow speed. The door handles were wired shut with baling wire. My uncle was half-floating on his back in the rear seat, bound and gagged and desperately kicking at the half-closed side windows. He wasn't having much luck.

He twisted around and spotted me, screaming desperately through his gag; it sounded like the cry of a mortally wounded deer. He'd been beaten pretty badly, too -- one eye was closed shut and there was blood all over his face and head. Though he couldn't speak I got the message loud and clear: For God's sakes Bruce, come help me!

Powerful emotions of pity and fright crowded my mind. Then came disbelief. Clearly, my aunt was trying to murder Uncle John. Murder! My mom was surely in on it too. The horror of it paralyzed me, and I had a tremendous urge to dive in the water, unhook the wire, and save him. I knew I could do it. There was still time. With all his faults he was still a human being -- or was he?

I shrank at the thought. It gave me pause to remember Trudy's words in the barn: Be like killin' a sick animal. I likewise considered my uncle's perversity and cruelty to my mother, of how he had wanted to harm my sister.

He was sick.

I gazed at the sinking car, knowing I was my uncle's only hope. The Dodge creaked, gave a lurch, and dropped another three feet -- the executioner's switch half-pulled. John was frantic now, imploring me with his good eye. I was torn, whipsawed between saving him or letting him die in that dreadful black water.

I slid down the bank, took off my shoes and socks, and contemplated my chances of getting him out of there before the car was irretrievably lost. It seemed just a matter of minutes.

A muffled shriek of encouragement greeted me. A frenzy of hope was reflected in my uncle's wide-eyed expression, and he urged me on with energetic nods and bumps and cries.

But now my uncle's own words stopped me: When I find me a sick animal, I put it out of its misery. His words. Hadn't Trudy called him a sick animal as well? And didn't this make sense in a bizarre sort of way? I sat there pondering it while my uncle screamed and screamed in the most inhuman way. I can hear it now, just as though it were yesterday. It was awful.

Making up my mind I put on my socks and shoes and watched the car slowly slip into the stygian void. A sudden wind whipped the water to froth, as though in approval of this deed and of my passive part in it. I shivered. Toward the end I could barely see anything through the rear window, except the top of my uncle's head, his long black hair waving back-and-forth like kelp fronds caught in a dark ocean current. Finally the car tipped down, its rear end rose from the water, and it silently disappeared, bubbles and debris marking its passage to the bottom.

It's still down there.

In retrospect I probably should have saved him; I have to live with that. But I was afraid that he'd kill my aunt and mom -- all of us -- if I let him loose. It's what really convinced me to remain a bystander -- a choking fear of my uncle.

Afterward there was an investigation. John's specific threat to leave, the testimony of a witness to that effect, the absence of his car and personal belongings -- no doubt buried in the forest by my aunt -- tended to support her fabricated story of his desertion. It was not an uncommon thing. And although they tried to crack my aunt's story, she was as cool as a snow cone in July. The sheriff finally gave up and listed my uncle as a missing person.

He's still on the books that way.

Mom later found a job in Raleigh and we moved there in '42. With the war in full swing jobs were plentiful. She met a machinist at the plant and married him. He was a good man, a good provider, and when the war ended we all moved back to Los Angeles.

Claire went to college, but never married; she's never trusted men. Living alone in Phoenix she writes books on gardening. Her letters are short, cryptic, and emotionless.

Mom died in '85 of cancer, taking to her grave what she knew of my uncle's disappearance. We found it convenient never to discuss it. I doubt that she knew of my part in it, and I never told her that I knew of her part. They had their reasons.

Aunt Trudy still lives on the property. She's never remarried, claiming one John Crandle was enough. But I think it's because she wants no one prowling around the forest or lake. She doesn't want an intimate finding the Dodge down there in that black ooze. There's no statute of limitations on murder. We write now and then; it's been a polite but distant relationship.

Me? I married a fine woman, have two strapping sons, and am now a grandfather five times over. Life's been good.

Uh-oh, here's the wife and grand kids. Time to put this genie back in the bottle and forget Uncle John -- if only I could.

###

Carter began writing in 1979, prompted by three years of idleness, resulting from a 1976 bout with Guillain-Barre syndrome, a disease which left him a lifetime paraplegic. To date, he's sold over one hundred and forty magazine fictional stories and articles, including over forty professional sales. His fiction has appeared in prozines: P.I. Magazine, Hardboiled, The Thoroughbred of California, Backstretch, Blood Review, Into the Darkness, and Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine. In addition he's had two books published by Hollis Books: Deceived by Death (mystery) and Bitter Creek (western). His third novel, Nightingale, is currently in layout at HB. He has just finished Insufficient Evidence (mystery novel) and is hard at work on Dunnigan's Game (another western novel). When not at his computer, Carter reads the classics, listens to Italian opera, watches English mysteries on the telly, and corresponds with his four daughters. He lives with his artist wife, Bonnie, in Lancaster, CA. Carter Swart's website: 
http://as.net/~cswart/index2.html