All In

I was thirteen years old that July in 1952 that they let Uncle Buddy out of the pen long enough to come home for Mammaw’s funeral, or so they thought. Ernest Wayne Slone, or Buddy, was four years into a twelve-year hitch at the state penitentiary at Eddyville. Him and Leon Stratton had got in a knife fight in the parking lot of the Caboose, a honky-tonk at the mouth of the holler. Folks said that Leon started it, and Buddy claimed self-defense, but when Leon died in the Miner’s Hospital over in West Virginia a few days later, Uncle Buddy was charged with first-degree manslaughter. He was tried, found guilty, and sentenced to twelve years. His lawyer said he could get out on good behavior in eight, but Daddy said that was about as likely as a bull giving milk.

My name is Edward Thomas, but most everybody calls me Eddy T. Me and Daddy moved in with Mammaw and Aunt Lilly, Daddy’s older sister, when I was six years old. Lilly had never married, but not for a lack of trying, and my momma had run off with some asshole that drove a beer truck—Daddy’s words, not mine.

It was high summer and the evening air was thick with gnat swarms as snake doctors danced on the surface of the frog pond. Mammaw was laid out in the front room in her flowered church dress with a store-bought bouquet clutched in her folded arms. Neighbors had been bringing in food for the past couple of days, and the whole house smelled of tuna fish casserole and scorched coffee. Aunt Lilly said Mammaw died of a broken heart on account of Uncle Buddy, but Doc Fleming said it was the dropsy. Whatever the reason, Mammaw had taken to her bed a couple of weeks earlier, predicting that her time on this earth was fleeting. Daddy said this was at least the fourth time Mammaw had had such a revelation, but turns out this time she was right.

“Eddy T.,” Daddy said, “you best go set up some chairs on the side porch. Mamma’s church is having a singing this evening, and they’ll probably be a passel of ’em come out.”

Mammaw went to the Larks Creek Free Will Baptist Church, where she faithfully attended every time the doors were opened. She had previously been a sainted member of the Old Regular Baptists until they disfellowshipped her for divorcing Pappaw, who died a short six months later. Mammaw always said if she’d have known he was going to go so soon she’d have waited him out. Even though Pappaw was a drunk and a runaround, the Old Regulars didn’t abide divorce, so Mammaw cut her hair, gave herself a permanent, and joined up with the Free Wills.

“What time is Uncle Buddy getting in?” I asked.

“I’m not sure,” Daddy said. “It’s supposed to be this evening sometime. They’re sending a guard with him.”

On the day Mammaw passed, Daddy called the prison and requested a funeral furlough for his kid brother, which was swiftly denied. The warden said there was no way to get it approved in such a short time, and he was too busy to be bothered with the likes of Buddy anyway. Daddy being Daddy called his cousin Judge John Morgan, and Judge Morgan in turn called his friend the lieutenant governor, who called the warden.

It was early dusk and the first few lightning bugs were flickering their tails when the sedan with the Kentucky Department of Corrections decal pulled up in front of Mammaw’s house. The church people were singing their last song, “The Old Ship of Zion,” as the uniformed guard helped Uncle Buddy out of the back seat.

“Hey, Squirt,” Uncle Buddy said as he shuffled up the stone steps. “Damn, you’ve got grown since I been gone.”

“Hey, Uncle Buddy,” I said. “I ain’t a squirt anymore. I’m almost fourteen.”

Buddy turned to the guard. “Are you going to make me wear these shackles in to see my own blessed mother laid out in her casket?”

“I suppose not.” The guard squatted to unlock the fetters.

“And these clothes . . . prison rags, for God’s sake. I’m sure my brother has something decent he can loan me.”

“Okay, but let’s get one thing straight. Soon as we get back to Eddyville, I start mustering out. After twenty years, I’m hanging it up. So if you even think about running, I’ll shoot you like you was a shithouse rat.” He patted his sidearm. “I ain’t about to let a low-life punk sully my record. You got that, number 476928?”

“My name’s Ernest Wayne, but you can call me Buddy.”

“I know your goddamn name.”

Just then Aunt Lilly came busting out onto the porch.

“Buddy, Buddy, Buddy,” she said, dabbing at her eyes with a lace-lined handkerchief.

“Mamma missed you so terribly. All she talked about her last few days was her baby boy.”

“Well, Lilly, unfortunately I haven’t exactly been available of late,” Buddy snapped.

“Oh, let’s not start in on each other, Buddy, especially with our poor Mamma lying cold in her coffin just inside. Anyway, who’s your handsome escort?” Aunt Lilly batted her big brown eyes at the state prison guard.

“Sergeant William Sargent, ma’am,” the officer responded.

“I do declare. Sergeant Sargent.” Aunt Lilly giggled and extended her arm as if she were the Queen of England expecting him to kiss her hand. The officer just nodded.

“Well then, come on Buddy, let’s go find your big brother. Hershel is dying to see you. And let’s get you out of those prison clothes.”

After Uncle Buddy changed into a pair of khakis and a starched white shirt, we all went into the front room to view Mammaw.

“She made such a pretty corpse,” Aunt Lilly said, rubbing Mammaw’s cheek with the back of her hand. “Here we all are, Mamma.” Aunt Lilly continued as if Mammaw could hear her. “Me and Hershel and Buddy and Eddy T.” Once again Aunt Lilly dabbed at her eyes.

“Come on, Squirt, let’s go get something to eat,” Uncle Buddy said, tousling my hair. “I’m sick of prison food, and there’s nothing like a hillbilly wake to bring out a big bait of home-cooked grub.”

“Do you have to be so crude, Buddy?” Aunt Lilly asked. “But yes, it would be nice for us all to sit down to a meal together. Officer, would you care to join us?”

“Thank you, ma’am, I’d be obliged. Besides, the prisoner ain’t going anywhere without me.”

“I declare, I hope eating this late don’t give me the heartburn,” Aunt Lilly said. “I think there’s some of Mamma’s stomach pills left in there. I may have to take one before I lie down.”

“Reckon there’s some of her pain pills in there too?” Uncle Buddy winked.

The guard scowled at Buddy and cleared his throat.

“I was just joking,” Uncle Buddy said. “You all need to lighten up.”

Daddy spoke. “Yep, everything is a big joke for Buddy. Everything is a big party. While our boys have been fighting over in Korea, Buddy’s been laid up in Eddyville sucking on the government’s teat.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Hershel,” Buddy said. “You wouldn’t last a day in the pen. I’d trade places with one of them soldiers anytime.”

“You want to trade places with your pal Doug Gibson? He’s buried up there on the hill where we’re fixing to lay Mamma in the morning. You want to trade places with him, Buddy?”

“That would probably suit you fine, wouldn’t it Hershel?”

“Now that’s enough.” Aunt Lilly slammed her palms down on the table. “Can’t we keep civil for just long enough to get our poor mother in the ground?”

Just then Maxine Short, an old girlfriend of Buddy’s, came tiptoeing into the room. She had on a pair of cigarette pants and a red blouse unbuttoned to the top of her cleavage. With her pointer finger across her pursed lips she eased up behind Uncle Buddy’s chair.

“Guess who,” she whispered, capping her hands over his eyes.

“I hope it’s Jane Russell.”

“Close enough.” Maxine leaned over and planted a wet, sloppy kiss on Buddy’s mouth.

“Good Lord, Maxine, control yourself,” Aunt Lilly said. “We are a grieving family and we don’t need your shenanigans.”

“Oh, lighten up, for Christ’s sake, Lilly.”

“That’s exactly what I said just before you got here.” Uncle Buddy put his arm around Maxine’s waist, pulling her close.

To be so much alike, Aunt Lilly and Maxine could hardly abide one other. They were close to the same age, and both attractive—round and busty. Only Aunt Lilly was a brunette and Maxine a redhead. Neither had been successful in landing a husband, but neither was ready to give up the hunt either.

“Hey Mister Guard,” Maxine said, turning her attention to the sergeant, “I saw in this month’s True Detective that they allow jugular visits in Mississippi. Do y’all have that at Eddyville?”

“I think you mean conjugal visits, and no, thank God, we don’t do that in Kentucky.”

“Pity,” Maxine said. “Might make for a more pleasant environment.”

“It’s not supposed to be pleasant, ma’am. It’s a prison, not a country club.”

“Amen to that,” Buddy chimed in.

After supper Aunt Lilly directed us to the front room, where she had arranged the chairs so that everyone could have a good view of Mammaw. Why, I don’t know. I didn’t see the point, but I had learned it was usually best just to go along with Aunt Lilly.

“Sergeant, why don’t you sit in Mamma’s chair,” Aunt Lilly said. “The crushed velvet one with the doily on the back. Mamma made that doily herself. Me and Hershel will take the settee. Buddy, you sit in the wingback, and Eddy T. and Maxine can grab a couple of folding chairs from the porch.”

“I’ll put on a fresh pot of coffee,” Maxine said, heading toward the kitchen.

“That’ll be good,” the guard said. “I’ve got a long night ahead of me.”

“Hershel, you’ve been awfully quiet, even for you,” Buddy said. “Have you missed me at all?”

“The boy has missed you. He’s missed you a lot,” Daddy said, nodding at me.

“I’ve missed Squirt too,” Buddy said.

“I’ve got an idea.” Aunt Lilly spoke up. “Let’s all go around the room and tell a favorite memory of Mamma.”

Daddy groaned.

“No, now Hershel. Go ahead, you go first. What is something you’ll always remember about Mamma?”

Daddy thought for a moment. “Well, Mamma was fun,” Daddy said. “Hell. Everybody in this whole goddamn family is fun. Buddy’s fun, Lilly’s fun. Even Eddy T. is fun. Everybody except for me. I’ve been too fucking busy keeping food on the table and a roof over our heads to be fun.”

“Well, that didn’t exactly go the way I had envisioned,” Aunt Lilly said.

“Who’s ready for coffee?” Maxine came in from the kitchen. “Sergeant, how do you take it? Your coffee, that is.”

“Black and strong,” he replied.

Maxine brought the guard his coffee first and then served Uncle Buddy.

“The rest of y’all can serve yourselves,” she said.

“Buddy, why don’t you sing us a song,” Aunt Lilly said. “Mamma always loved to hear you sing.”

Uncle Buddy had a good voice. When I was little, he used to sing me “Jimmy Crack Corn” and Roy Rogers cowboy songs. He also showed me how to play spit in the ocean, and he taught me what beats what—a pair, two pair, three of a kind, and so on. Daddy didn’t approve of gambling, but Mammaw said it would help me with my numbers.

“Yeah, come on Uncle Buddy, sing us a song,” I said.

“Well, just for you, Squirt. How about ‘That Lucky Old Sun.’ ”

Just as Uncle Buddy ended the song, the prison guard put his empty cup on the coffee table.

“That was beautiful, Buddy. Sing us one more,” Maxine pleaded.

“Okay,” Buddy said. “Just one more.” He cleared his throat. “Down in the valley, valley so low . . .”

By the time Uncle Buddy had sung the last refrain, the prison guard’s chin was on his chest and his breath was coming in a deep, even cadence.

“Let’s go have a smoke, Buddy,” Maxine said.

“What about Sleeping Beauty over there?”

“We aren’t going to have to worry about Rip van Winkle for a while.” Maxine winked.

“Did you drug that man’s coffee, Maxine?” Aunt Lilly asked.

“I’m not saying I did, but . . .” Maxine took Buddy by the hand and led him down the hall.

What began as a gentle, rhythmic thud became a loud thumping, and finally a jarring pounding as the headboard slapped the wall in the next room.

“My God in heaven,” Aunt Lilly said, “those horndogs are going at it like two goats in heat. And in our poor dead mother’s bed. Shameful—that’s what it is.”

In a few minutes Uncle Buddy came back into the front room tucking his shirttail into his britches.

“That sure didn’t take long, Buddy,” Aunt Lilly said. “Where’s your floozie?”

“Maxine went on home. She said she’d be at the funeral in the morning. I think I’ll go down to the Caboose for a beer. I figure I’ve got a couple of hours before Wyatt Earp over there rejoins the party. It’d be good to see some of the old gang. Are your keys in the truck, Hershel?”

“Just a doggone minute,” Aunt Lilly said. “What if the sergeant comes to while you’re gone? What are we supposed to do then? And what if you get spotted by the state police or something? This a bad idea, Buddy.”

“Come on, lighten up. I won’t be gone long.”

“Only if you take Eddy T. with you. Surely you’ll behave for the boy’s sake if nothing else.”

“Good enough,” Uncle Buddy said. “Come on, Squirt, you’ll be my wingman.”

The Caboose turned out to be a bust. It was just past midnight when we arrived, and only two old drunks, Judd Larson and Humpy Jacobs, were at the bar, neither of whom even looked up from their nearly empty glasses. Florence had unplugged the jukebox and was putting the chairs up on the tables.

“Hey, Buddy. I heard you was getting out for the funeral. Kitchen’s closed and I’m getting ready to lock up.”

“That’s not much of a welcome, Flo. Are you still pissed about the ruckus?”

“Ruckus? Is that what you call it? You damn near cost me my liquor license, Buddy. So yes, I’m still pissed.”

Judd and Humpy tossed back the last of their drinks and left a few crumpled-up bills on the bar.

“You want a beer to go?” Florence asked.

Uncle Buddy got a Schlitz “Tall Boy” and bought me a Coca-Cola. We sat in Daddy’s truck in the parking lot and watched through the grimy windows as Flo mopped the floors and then shut off the lights.

“I sure have missed you, Squirt,” Buddy said.

“I’ve missed you too, Uncle Buddy.”

“I’ve even missed Hershel.” Buddy laughed.

“Daddy don’t ever do anything with me like you used to. He’s always in a bad mood. I just try to keep my distance.”

“I know it’s hard, but you need to try to cut your daddy some slack, Squirt. He can be a dickwad, and he sure enough has a rod stuck up his ass, but he has always been the one to look out for us. And it wasn’t his job. I guess he’s doing the best he can.”

“I know, but it’s just that I can’t talk to him about anything without him getting all pissed. I don’t have a girlfriend, but if I did, I sure wouldn’t bring her around. Between Daddy being such a turd and Aunt Lilly flitting around like Loretta Young . . .”

“Speaking of girlfriends, have you lost your cherry yet?” Buddy asked.

“What?” I blushed.

“Don’t ‘what’ me. You’re a good-looking boy, almost fourteen years old.”

“You always said don’t kiss and tell.”

“So I did.” Uncle Buddy thought for a moment. “Just don’t get yourself in trouble.”

“But no,” I said.

“No what?”

“No, I haven’t lost my cherry.”

“You’ve got plenty time, Squirt.” Uncle Buddy slapped my shoulder. “And just between me and you, it ain’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

“Do you ever think about Leon, the guy you . . . you know?”

“The guy I killed? Yes, I think about him a lot. But it’s like spit in the ocean, Squirt. When your back’s up against the wall you got to go all in. I had no choice.”

“I sure wish you didn’t have to go back,” I said.

“I don’t think I can go back, Eddy T.” That was the only time I remember him ever calling me anything but Squirt.

“But you have to. Just think, if you get out on good behavior you’re over halfway done.”

“I don’t see that happening. I’m young and lean and I’m good-looking. While that plays pretty well with the gals here at the Caboose, it can cause problems in prison. I’ve had my share of fights and ended up spending some time in the hole. I just can’t go through that again.”

“What are your choices? You’re not going to run. Where would you go? And I heard that guard say he would shoot you in a heartbeat, and I believe he would, too.”

“Oh, I’m just talking bullshit. Don’t worry about me, Squirt.”

It was almost two in the morning before we got back to the house. Aunt Lilly was thumbing through a Life magazine.

“Your friend there has been stirring around.” Aunt Lilly nodded at the sergeant. “Hershel went on to bed, and I’m getting ready to. You’d better get some rest, Buddy. The funeral home is coming at nine in the morning to take Mamma down to the church. The service is at eleven.”

Officer Sargent didn’t rouse for another thirty minutes. Uncle Buddy was on the settee and I had taken the wingback.

“I must have dozed off,” he said.

“Well, you didn’t miss anything,” Uncle Buddy said. “We’re all still right here.”

“Something don’t feel right about this. I’ve never fallen asleep on watch. And my head is splitting. That redheaded bitch didn’t put something in my coffee, did she?”

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Buddy said. “Good thing I’m not a runner, or a snitch. I’m sure the warden wouldn’t take kindly to a guard who can’t stay awake for his shift.”

“I’ve about had it with you trashy, ignorant-assed hillbillies.”

“You’ve got a lot of room to talk, Sergeant Sargent,” Uncle Buddy said. “Living in a rented trailer just outside the prison gates and selling cigarettes to the inmates for a dime apiece. Yep, you’re a real class act.”

“Well, I know this much. Twenty-four hours from now I’ll be sleeping in my own bed with my old lady laid up against my back. Reckon who’ll be laid up against your back, Slone?”

“Asshole,” I blurted out.

“Let it go, Squirt. He ain’t worth the worry,” Uncle Buddy said.

Just after breakfast, Mr. Taul, the undertaker, backed his hearse up into the front yard. Me, Aunt Lilly, Daddy, and Uncle Buddy stood in a semicircle in front of Mammaw’s casket, and under the watchful eye of Officer Sargent, we looked on as Mr. Taul lowered the lid for the final time.

“Buddy, I laid out a suit of clothes for you on Mamma’s bed,” Daddy said. “You go change and then we’ll head on down to the church.”

Buddy went to the bedroom, the guard at his heels.

“Do you mind?” Buddy asked as he closed the door.

“I’ll be right here,” Sargent said, folding his arms.

“I’m going to move the casket to the porch now,” Mr. Taul explained. “As soon as Buddy is ready, the pallbearers will carry it down to the hearse. Then we will travel to the church in a procession. Any questions?”

“No, you’ve been most kind.” Aunt Lilly sniffled.

“You’ll think kind when you see the bill,” Daddy said, leading us down the hall. He paused at Mammaw’s room. “Come on, Buddy, time to go.”

“Slone, are you ready?” the guard asked, turning the doorknob. It wouldn’t budge. “Son of a bitch.” Officer Sargent raised his foot and with one powerful kick, the door splintered open. There on the bed lay Daddy’s suit of clothes. The window was agape and Mammaw’s chintz curtains with the lotus print were waving in the breeze.

By the time we got out to the porch, Uncle Buddy was in Daddy’s truck grinding the engine. It came to life with a rumble.

The sergeant pulled his pistol and fired one round just over the cab of the truck.

“Shut it off and get out with your hands up, motherfucker.”

  Buddy put his hands in the air above the steering wheel and slowly turned to face us. The officer held his government issue Smith & Wesson in both hands, his arms outstretched, one eye closed and the other trained on Uncle Buddy.

“You all need to lighten up,” Uncle Buddy said. “I was just joking around.” Then he slammed the truck into gear and floored it, attempting a U-turn. Sargent fired through the open window and in a spray of red mist I saw Uncle Buddy’s head jerk violently to the side before he slumped over in the seat.

What followed was a commotion the likes of which our little community had never seen. The sergeant radioed the Kentucky State Police and soon a convoy of cruisers, their sirens ablare, were racing up our curvy holler road, the sheriff and the county coroner on their tails. I did the only thing I knew to do. I hiked up to the high rocks and I sobbed.

It’s funny the things I remember most about that day. Not so much the grisly images you would think, but things like the sulfury taste of gunpowder or the ringing in my ears so loud that it muffled Aunt Lilly’s screams. Or Mr. Taul hurriedly rolling Mammaw’s casket back inside the house, as if that could somehow undo what had been done.

They took Uncle Buddy’s body to Frankfort for an autopsy at the state medical examiner’s office, even though there were no doubts as to the cause of death. “SOP,” the coroner said. Daddy and Aunt Lilly agreed that, given the circumstances, it would be best to forgo Mammaw’s funeral, so we had a private burial just as the sun set that evening. We laid Uncle Buddy to rest beside her a week later.

It’s been almost four years now. Daddy is still Daddy. I try to cut him some slack. Like Uncle Buddy said, he’s probably doing the best he can. Aunt Lilly is dating some insurance man from the next county over. Daddy says he’s an old desperate divorcé, but he seems to make Aunt Lilly happy. Maxine is still looking for a husband, but she visits Uncle Buddy often and usually leaves a flower or a little note on his grave. Aunt Lilly says she’s glad Mammaw died before she could see how Uncle Buddy ended up. Funny thing is, if Mammaw hadn’t died, Uncle Buddy probably would have had to serve out his hitch. Maybe he knew how all this was going to turn out—one way or the other. I don’t know.

Back when I turned sixteen, Flo gave me a part-time job at the Caboose, bussing tables and mopping floors. Daddy says work builds character, but Aunt Lilly says nothing good’s ever come out of the Caboose. She says that’s where Buddy found trouble, but I think that’s where trouble found him. Anyway, just this spring I finally lost my cherry. I went straightaway and told Uncle Buddy about it. I told him I thought it was all it was cracked up to be and more. I bet he laughed.

John Mitchell Johnson is a lifelong resident of Kentucky, having been reared in the eastern coalfields. His debut novel, "Kudzu," published in 2018, was selected for inclusion at the 2018 Kentucky Book Festival. Johnson also published a collection of short stories, "Where I’m From," in 2021. His stories have twice won awards at Lexington's Carnegie Center for Literacy and Learning, including 2017's Next Great Writer's Competition. His short stories have appeared eight times in Silver Threads, a literary collaborative of The Carnegie Center and Lexington Senior Citizens Center. Johnson’s latest work, “84 X 28 X 20,” a short foray into the macabre, was recently published by “Dark Harbor Magazine.”