Hot Air
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So your mama let it slip that I was there with the Brayboys back in ’92. Now you want to know what happened to these folks that you grew up with and thought you knew. Well, I can tell you what, but I don’t know for sure about why.
It was the day before the Fourth of July. Your mama was canning some tomatoes because we’d had so many turn ripe, and she didn’t want them to go bad. But she’d run out of mason jars and asked if I could run down to Wallace’s store to pick up some more jars and lids.
I knew the store would have them. George Wallace kept plenty of canning supplies for the ladies. It’s funny, we always called George Wallace by both names, and when that boy shot the governor of Alabama back in ’72, folks around here thought it was our George Wallace and couldn’t figure out why anybody would want to kill him.
When I got to the store, I checked to see if Bryant James’s two-tone Chevy C/K was there, but I didn’t see it. I’d shied away from him ever since that run-in about his hunting dog.
What about the hunting dog? Well, I used to go hunting sometimes with the Jameses — Bryant and his brother and their daddy — before his daddy died and his brother moved away to Richmond to be a state trooper. I didn’t like hunting so much with Bryant because he was a talker and a tramper and scared up the birds half the time. But once I helped him break in a new setter bitch, and he was so grateful that he told me I could borrow her anytime, especially since he wouldn’t have as much time to hunt now that he was working for the state, on the road crew.
Now this was good news. The man was in his 40s and had never held down a steady job, other than working on his daddy’s tobacco farm. He had tried several things — construction, painting, laying carpet — but sooner or later he’d get fired because he was so dang lazy, showing up late or not at all.
But working for the state was different. It was pretty dang hard to get fired as a state employee — you had to shoot or screw somebody to lose a state job, folks said — especially on the road crew. Everybody knew the men on a road crew did as little work as possible to make the job last. But I had a feeling that he’d figure out a way to lose this job, too.
I didn’t really think I would ever use his dog myself, but then my dog Trixie got stung by a bumblebee on her foot and came up lame during prime quail season. I drove down that long dirt driveway to Bryant’s house, and his setter came running up to the fence, whining to go out in the field. It sure was a pretty day for hunting, that first nip of fall in the air. It would be a shame to waste it.
I didn’t see Bryant or his truck, so I wrote him a note and stuck it inside his screen door and loaded the setter in my dogbox. We had real good luck that day, and when I brought the dog back, I set aside two quail in a burlap sack for Bryant as a thank you. But when I unloaded the dog and tried to hand him the sack with the birds in it, Bryant pushed it back at me so hard in my chest that I almost fell over. All the while, he was yelling at me about stealing his dog. I hightailed it out of there, tires spinning gravel.
When I stopped at Wallace’s store later that week, I found out that Bryant had lost his job with the road crew. A few weeks later, I got a summons to appear in court for stealing Bryant’s dog. The case was dismissed, but I never wanted anything to do with Bryant after that.
So you better believe when I walked into Wallace’s store that day and heard that loud, complaining voice, I was ready to walk right back out again. But I knew your mama needed those mason jars and getting them from the store in town would take another hour.
I could hear Bryant braying in the store’s “amen corner,” where the old men reared their cane-bottom chairs against the wall. He was railing against Randy Brayboy and his brother, Royce. About five years before this all happened, Bryant’s daddy had sold Randy Brayboy five acres of land that fronted the hard-surface road, 658. The understanding was that Randy would keep up the dirt driveway — barely wide enough to allow two pickups to pass without one running into the ditch — so that Bryant and his daddy would still be able to get to their houses, about a mile off the road. Randy told Bryant and his daddy not to worry about it. “That driveway will be here long after we’re all dead and gone.”
And the Brayboys had pretty much kept their promise. Of course, Randy owned the livestock market in town, and the big cattle or horse trailers he parked behind his house sometimes stuck out into the driveway. He also farmed, so the tractors kicked up dust in dry weather and left deep ruts when it was wet. When Royce retired from Burlington and built a new ranch house next to the Brayboy homeplace, the construction trucks blocked the drive some days. But the Brayboys did their best to keep it open.
Bryant got a taste of small claims court when he accused me of stealing his hunting dog. He lost that one, but that didn’t keep him from trying, usually with some grievance against the Brayboys. The judges got wise to him after a while, and he didn’t win very often. So he began to use George Wallace’s country store as his courtroom, the way he was doing now, waving his arms around and yelling.
“And now Randy is getting even more of these big-ass Clydesdale horses. Thinks he’s hot shit because he’s head of some horse association. And everything about these monsters is big. Trailers taking up the whole driveway, blocking my access. Wagons he hitches them up to for parades and such. Or maybe he’s hauling Budweiser, for all I know.” You might remember that ad was all over the TV back then, so the old men chuckled.
While everybody else was paying attention to Bryant, I got a box of mason jars and lids and took them to the counter for George Wallace to ring up. “I’m kind of in a hurry,” I told him. “I’ve seen this show before, and I don’t care for it.”
“Aw, he’s just a lot of hot air,” George Wallace said, still looking Bryant’s way.
I didn’t want to, but I wound up looking, too. Bryant was a little paunchier than I remembered, a beer belly hanging over the big belt buckle in his jeans. He’d tried a combover to hide his bald spot, but the overhead fan running at full speed kept blowing it out of place. His face grew redder by the minute as he talked, and a sheen of sweat spread across his forehead. You could see the spit spray from his mouth as he groused about the horses.
“And the piles of horseshit they leave! You just wouldn’t believe it unless you’ve seen it. Trailers, wagons, monster Clydesdales. I can’t get past it all to get to my own house on my own land.”
I cleared my throat and even tapped on the counter with my keys to get George Wallace’s attention. But he was just as caught up in Bryant’s nonsense as everybody else.
“They ain’t Clydesdales, Bryant. They’re Percherons. They come from France,” George Wallace set him straight. “Y’all can see them tomorrow at the Fourth of July parade in Scottsburg. Kids just love those big horses.”
“Kids might love ’em, but I sure as hell don’t.” Now Bryant was looking this way, so I put more than enough cash on the counter, picked up the boxes, and scooted to the back door. That’s when I saw Bryant’s two-tone Chevy parked in back, behind the dumpster.
“Hey, Dan,” George Wallace called after me, “don’t you want your change?”
I knew your mama was waiting for those mason jars, but all that talk about the Percherons made me want to stop by the Brayboy place on the way home and take a look. Or maybe it was something else. Anyway, I pulled off 658 and into the circle driveway in the front of the homeplace. I love a good circle driveway; you never have to back up.
I waved at Ida, Royce’s wife, who was in the garden, picking tomatoes and putting them in a plastic bucket. “We got more here than we’ll ever eat. Don’t you want some?”
“Oh, no, Lily would skin me alive if I brought her any more tomatoes. She’s home now, getting ready to can what we got before we go down to the lake.”
Ida just laughed. “Why do couples like us keep planting these big old gardens when there’s just two people to eat it all? I swear, I could feed an army with what I got here.”
“Randy and Royce at home?”
“They’re out back, checking on the horses before the parade tomorrow.”
I followed the sound of loud sneezes to the barn. Randy had terrible allergies. His eyes and nose were as red as the bandana he was using to wipe them. He was dressed in his stock market outfit of western shirt, jeans and straw cowboy hat. Royce had on jeans, a Virginia Tech baseball jersey and a “Bad to the Bone” ballcap. He was running his fingers through the thick black mane of one of the Percherons.
“If Lisa and your teenagers can braid the horses’ manes tonight, then we can load them up first thing in the morning,” Royce was telling his brother.
“Sounds like a plan,” I put in. “Just make sure you do it when Bryant’s not likely to use the driveway. He’s down at Wallace’s store now, complaining about y’all again.”
“I’m not surprised. He’s just a lot of hot air,” Royce said.
“That’s what George Wallace says, too.”
“I almost wish I never bought that land from his daddy. Been more trouble than it’s worth,” Randy said.
“You mean Bryant’s been more trouble. That boy’s got too much time on his hands. He needs to find a job,” Royce told him.
“Doing what? Who would hire him?” I said.
“Well, it’s not just Bryant. I have been doing more with the stock market and with the horses. When it gets a little cooler, I’m going to talk to Mason Powell about widening that drive, maybe even pave it, at least the part around the house.”
“Won’t you need to get Bryant’s permission for that?” I was just pulling his leg, but Royce picked up on it.
“Hell, naw! Just do it and send him the bill!”
We had a good laugh at that. Then Randy flung his arm out toward the soybeans on the far side of the driveway. “I decided not to double-crop that field this month. After the harvest, I’m going to move the fence back about ten feet. That should give Bryant plenty of room to get by.”
“You’re too good to that boy,” Royce said.
Randy shook his head. “Just trying to do what the good book says and follow the Golden Rule.”
“You mean, ‘The one with the gold makes the rules’?” Royce shot back.
Randy grinned at him. “Naw, it’s ‘Do unto others and then split.’”
But I knew Randy had a good heart and meant well. “I think it’s right nice of you. But don’t expect him to thank you for it.”
“I’m not doing it for his thanks. Just want to keep the peace. That driveway is going to be here long after we’re all dead and gone.” Randy checked his watch. “We better get back to the stock market for the afternoon sale. Lisa will be wondering why I’ve been gone so long.”
They got into the white Ford truck with “Stock Market” painted in gold letters on the sides, Royce behind the wheel and Randy riding shotgun.
But blocking their way, with his beat-up two-tone Chevy stopped in the middle of the driveway, was Bryant.
“Aw, hell,” Royce swore, putting the truck in park.
“Let me talk to him,” Randy said. He got out of the truck and almost bumped into Ida.
“Here, give him some tomatoes.” She shoved the bucket into his hands.
“Can’t hurt, I guess,” Randy shrugged. He walked to the passenger side of Bryant’s truck, opened the door to set down the tomatoes, and leaned into the cab to talk to him. Me and Royce watched as Randy flung out his arm toward the soybean field, just like he done with us a few minutes ago.
“He’s telling him about the turnaround,” Royce said.
We couldn’t tell what Bryant said or even if he said anything. He seemed to be staring straight ahead, hands still gripping the steering wheel.
Randy came back to the truck and got in.
“What did he say?” Royce asked.
“Nothing.” Randy shrugged.
“Figures. Most of the time you can’t shut him up.” He started to put the truck in drive then stopped. “Is he gonna move or what?”
Randy shrugged again.
I figured this standoff might go on for a while, so I said I’d see them later and went back to my truck. I waved goodbye to Ida, who was toting another bucket to the garden.
I drove to the end of the circle drive and looked to my right. Bryant’s truck was still blocking the Brayboys. And as I watched, Bryant got out of the truck, carrying a 12-gauge shotgun.
With his first shot, he blasted the windshield and hit Randy in the face. By then, Royce was scrambling out of the cab, screaming, “Why are you shooting?” Bryant’s next shot caught him in the leg, sending him sprawling into the ditch. Then Bryant stood above Royce and fired into the back of his head.
From the garden, Ida called out, “What are you doing?” and Bryant shot her in the chest.
Now I know what you’re thinking. It’s the same thing I’ve been thinking every day since that one. I was watching all this happen and hadn’t done a dang thing about it, watching it just like it was a movie or something on TV. Actually, something they do in the movies now is the closest I can get to tell you how it felt. You know how they speed up the action and then slow it down so much that you can see a bullet just floating by? That’s how it felt: the blink of an eye that dragged on forever.
The first time I moved after Bryant started shooting was right after Ida cried out. I grabbed the shotgun from the gunrack in my cab and stood by my truck. I knew my gun was only loaded with birdshot, and Bryant must be using buckshot. And he had a pump shotgun, so five rounds before reloading. Three people down, at least three shots fired. No, make that four, because he hit Royce twice, one in the leg and once in the head. But what about Randy? Had that very first shot been just one loud boom or a quick boom-boom? Did Bryant still have one more round?
I never knew for sure because when I raised my own shotgun, Bryant turned and ran into the woods. I waited just long enough to make sure he wasn’t coming back and went inside to make two calls. One to your mama to tell her something bad had happened to the Brayboys and that she needed to lock all the doors and hide in the basement till I got home. And not to open the door to anybody, especially Bryant James. Then I called the sheriff’s office to tell them what happened. I thought about calling Randy’s wife, Lisa, at the livestock market office. But I figured I should let the sheriff handle that.
I went back outside and heard the sound of all three trucks still running. I turned my motor off first, then went to the Brayboy truck, trying hard not to look but still seeing Randy slumped down in the seat, the inside splattered red with his blood and brains.
In Bryant’s truck, there were no blood splatters. The only red was the tomatoes in the plastic bucket.
Randy had said, “That driveway will be here long after we’re all dead and gone.” It turned out to be true. Because the sheriff found Bryant within 24 hours, hiding in the woods not a mile from his house. He came along peaceably and pled guilty to everything. The judge gave him the death penalty, and the families of the victims cheered in the courtroom. And he wouldn’t let his lawyer appeal. Just over two years later, without meeting with a preacher or any family he had left, he died by lethal injection. He never said why he did what he did.
What do I think? I think it was the tomatoes. We were always saying Bryant was full of hot air. He kept blowing off steam on me and his neighbors and his bosses and especially on Randy and Royce. And most of the time they’d blow it right back at him. But then Randy decided to give him a turnaround in the soybean field. And Ida gave him those tomatoes. They swallowed up all of Bryant’s hot air. And that made him madder than ever.
