The Pheasant

Old man Thomas used to live halfway down the end of the dirt road from our house that led back to Highway 17. We’d bought the second half of our farm from him in ‘86 but didn’t set to work on it for a couple of years. He owned everything from our house back down the road, probably close to a thousand acres. He lived alone in a two-room cinder block house surrounded by a half dozen outbuildings filled with God knows what. I’d been in one of the outbuildings when I went down there with my old man. They needed to talk about something so Nixxon and I sat in the truck. The door to the building was open. We were sitting there, hanging out in the pick-up with the radio still lazily playing, heat of the day beginning to rise. It looked dark and cool, so I snuck over for a peek. There were piles of old papers, faded boxes of mesh gloves for butchering chickens, finger cots and a wall of replacement fan belts. That was just the stuff I could make out before I heard the spring whine on the screen door, and I knew if Daddy caught me in there he’d wear me out. I shot back to the truck before he’d noticed; nothing left but the trail of dust and hayseed in my wake.

Thomas was a strange old man. His skin was so dry and coarse it looked like it could have come off a bull’s belly. He lived alone. There was tell that he’d had a wife, a Mexican lady, but she’d run off with his money, so he went ahead and decided that was it for him and women. He had a few dogs to keep him company, and we always saw him up at the cattle auction on Thursdays. He only went up there for the companionship, because he didn’t have any cattle on his land anymore. He was just slowly selling off land to see his life out. He didn’t have any children or much else for family as far as anyone knew.

What he did have was a peacock. I had seen a peacock at the Atlanta zoo as a youngster, but I had never seen one out of captivity. I didn’t think much of it the first time I saw it. It was just a strange looking bird, much the size

of a wild turkey, meandering around his yard scratching in the clumps of overgrown grass at the corners of his screened porch. Peacocks never took me as particularly threatening creatures. In my mind, they were all show – dandies of the avian world.

So I didn’t think much of it when I saw it wandering up the driveway to our house. It was some time after lunch, when everything starts to move in slow motion from the building heat of the day. I saw it nonchalantly trotting up the gravel driveway, round the edge of the yard, making its way up to the oak tree where daddy parked his truck to keep it cool in the shade. I was sitting in the porte cochère – that’s what mama always called it. It sounded so much fancier than carport. I liked to sit there in the heat of the day because the concrete slab was cool. Mama was the only one who parked there, because daddy’s truck was too tall to fit. Since mama was always up at the beauty shop, the porte cochère was always empty. I could see the bird moving up the driveway, initially from movement in the reflection off of a slick of oil left on the concrete by mama’s little Ford Festiva. I looked up and sure enough it was the strange bird from Thomas’s place, sauntering up our driveway. I came out to make sure that the dog wasn’t around. Normally in the middle of the day Blue would sleep in the barn, but I ran out to check just in case. Blue would have torn the bird to pieces. I called in to Nixxon, and he came out, slowing his pace as he saw my gaze and the fact that I was standing in the middle of the driveway. The bird just waltzed up like it owned the place. He slowed within fifty paces or so but never turned, he just headed straight at us. I thought, ‘If a bird could have a set of balls…’ Something about the bird’s confidence was disarming. Nixxon and I just sat there not really knowing what to do, except watch the thing slowly approach us. Then in a split second his tail whipped open so quickly it made a snap, and I swear it blew my hair back. The bird began shaking all over in spasmodic waves that rattled his plumage. The sum of the display resulted in a wicked dance that transmitted fear straight to my core. It happened so fast and was such a spectacle that both Nixxon and I froze for a second or two before both yelping and shooting back through the porte cochère and into the house as quick as we could for fear of our lives!

What I took from this, then and there, is that what seems to fit as significant or threatening or admirable in your own world sometimes just doesn’t fit the scheme of another. When you get out of your own set of circumstances and find yourself in the middle of someone or something else’s, you get one of those debasing new angles on the way you see the world. I no longer doubt the purpose or the potency of a peacock’s plumage.

Thomas used to cuss about the peacock and would spit tobacco juice on its back if it ever wandered too close to him. What he’d really been after was pheasant. Apparently he had always wanted to keep pheasant, but he couldn’t make it happen in Georgia because the summers were much too hot. The peacock would have to do. He’d become fascinated by pheasant after a relative of his had run into them in Europe during the Second World War. It was an uncle of Thomas’s who they called ‘Big Dad’. He was from Thomas’s mother’s side of the family, the Ghormleys, who originated in the hardwood creek bottoms of southwest Arkansas. Thomas only got down to see the Ghormleys, and his wider family every couple of years, but apparently Big Dad’s war stories were a main course of family lore at every Thanksgiving or Christmas dinner table. I heard the pheasant story in the church parking lot when we were waiting on Mama to finish up something before we went out to Sunday lunch. Thomas was parked next to us in his dusty Oldsmobile. He and my old man hung out the windows with their elbows resting on the doors.

‘What does it taste like?’ Daddy asked.

‘I don’t know, ain’t never had one. Big Dad couldn’t stand it, said it was greasy as hell and gamey. Weren’t much meat on it neither,’ Thomas replied.

‘What the hell they all so crazy about it for then?’ Daddy asked.

‘I think it’s more for the hunt,’ Thomas said.

‘They hard to shoot or something?’ asked Daddy.

‘No I don’t think so, Big Dad said they raise ‘em up just to shoot ‘em. Said it’s a sight to see! Everybody gets all dressed up and brings their dogs out all brushed up. It’s more of a display of tradition than it is huntin’ as such,’ Thomas explained.

‘Well that don’t make no sense to me,’ my old man sniggered.

Thomas went on to tell how Big Dad was called to duty after he’d been stationed at Fort Jackson in South Carolina. He said Big Dad was just looking to get out of there as quick as he could. I can understand why. The air never moves in the middle of South Carolina. The mountains push the weather south, and the coast blows it all up to meet in the middle, where it just sits. In the summer it amounts to dead heat, a slow-moving vortex of stagnation. It seeps into a person; the town feels like it’s surviving. People walk around like they’re just trying to make it to the next swinging door to find refuge from the sun’s oppression. I can’t imagine what it must be like to run around in military fatigues in those conditions.

Big Dad was sent over to northern France to sweep through a few of the border scuffles that were still going on. This was in the summer of ‘45, and despite the German retreat, there was still plenty of resistance on the Alsatian front. On the convoy over, Big Dad made buddies with a fellow Arkansan named Bob O’Dell. It turned out that Bob was the company’s bursar and was in charge of budgeting all of the petty cash for the tour.

‘You wouldn’t thank of this sort of thang unless you was out there,’ Thomas explained. ‘I mean, you still had to have money to buy the shit you need. Hell, for a lot of these fellers they was just happy to get out and see France. They was never gonna get another chance to go to Europe. A lot of’em was bringing their own money to see if they could buy knick-knacks for their ladies and what not.’

So Big Dad and Bob got to talking on the plane, and Big Dad came to find out that Bob had a big canvas sack full of money, all sorts of money. He had French and Swiss francs, German reichsmarks, and all of the notes

stretching through Eastern Europe over to as far as Turkey. They sat looking through it all, the different designs and sizes of the notes, the leaders and illustrations printed on the bills. Big Dad and Bob had never left the country, and with the exception of going to Carolina for his military training and a trip to New Orleans, Big Dad had never really left Arkansas. This was an opportunity, just the type of opportunity a small-town Southerner looked forward to when they walked through the recruiting office doors, escaping the heat of another dead day.

Big Dad and Bob were heading to the Colmar Pocket on the Alsatian border of France, Switzerland and Germany. They would fly into Strasbourg and fight their way up and down the border in other towns like Mulhouse and Burnhaupt, advancing to Basel. Although most of the major fighting had taken place earlier in the year, there were still pockets of resistance. Big Dad and Bob were one of many rounds of reinforcements sent to support the Sixth Army Division, which had been the major force that applied the pressure necessary to break the German hold on the area. So Big Dad got to come in at a time when the fighting would be minimal but the rewards great. It would be a hero’s welcome.

‘I don’t reckon they’ll put us up to much more than cleaning up messes out here,’ Bob said to Big Dad.

‘Well, at least we’ll see some mountains and maybe a few pretty girls,’ Big Dad grinned.

‘I might come back with a little less money in my sack!’ Bob chimed in.

The thought hadn’t occurred to Big Dad until Bob mentioned this possibility.

‘Ain’t you got to account for that money somehow?’ he asked.

‘Well yeah, but hell. I’m the one got to spend it, too,’ Bob explained. ‘Man it’s war out there. War’s messy.’

As soon as they landed, his division was bumping shoulders with a crowd of English soldiers that was heading off to another front. Big Dad and Bob became immediately acquainted with a young fellow named Arthur Asbury. Bob had noticed a knife that Asbury was using and mentioned its resemblance to his own Case knife and was curious where he’d acquired it.

‘This was a gift from my father,’ Asbury replied. ‘He gave it to me to mark the first hunt I shot in.’

‘What sort of huntin’ you do?’ Big Dad asked.

‘Mainly pheasant,’ Arthur replied.

Over a couple cups of coffee, Arthur, Big Dad and Bob swapped stories of the things they’d shot and the land they had roamed. Hunting stories were an obvious fabric of all of their upbringings. Arthur was from a family of hunters in and around Staffordshire, England, where game bird hunting was big business. He’d grown up near a 2,000-acre estate. Here his father and his father before him managed the grounds and kept game. He explained to the Southern boys how it was organised in England, and then they explained to Arthur the way it was organised in the South. The English had their high levels of pageantry and hierarchy, while the boys from Arkansas operated by codes enforced through discussion at weigh points after the hunt. Each party was equally intrigued, and the three of them instantly concocted a plan, that if the war was going to end anytime soon, and their time in the Colmar Pocket was to be short-lived, well, then they’d better find a way to get a hunt in before they go. This almost justified Bob’s suggestion of spending a bit of the army loot. It seemed only right that they engage in the local traditions, as a matter of education and enlightenment necessary for their travels. And again, they had that sack of money that would certainly need spending. As they were stationed on the outskirts of Strasbourg for a few days, they’d agreed to investigate the possibilities of shooting birds in the Alsace, then they would reconvene to set a plan.

In a day or two Bob had made contact with a man at a small tabac who spoke decent English and had given him the lowdown on hunting in the

area. It turned out that there were plenty of birds to hunt in this part of the world, mostly done by bird dogs such as Weimaraners and Pointers. But for all of the shooting and war, there would be nothing for miles. He’d told Bob that if he wanted to hunt, he would have to travel farther inland, away from the front and toward the forests of Germany and Switzerland. Bob reported this to Arthur and Big Dad, and the three gentlemen looked at one another with possibility in their eyes.

‘So, exactly how much money do you have in that sack?’ Arthur asked with a grin.

‘You reckon we ought try and find out?’ Bob shot back.

The next morning the three men all met at the little tabac and headed out toward Basel. Bob had an army-issue jeep that they all piled into. He, being the bursar of his company, was a fairly important member of the unit. However, his importance wasn’t really noticed, as they were part of a much larger division stationed in Strasbourg. Alarms would only be raised if they were going to break off into individual groups for smaller details, and he reckoned they had a few days before anyone would start asking questions. Both Arthur and Big Dad were just there for the ride. So the three of them decided that they would head out for a few-days-expedition, then would rejoin their companies who weren’t doing much other than cleaning up messes and drinking.

At this point, Mama made it out to the truck as Thomas was telling his story. Daddy and Thomas made no intention of cranking up and rolling on. This was a story that had to be finished.

‘Listen to this baby,’ Daddy said to mama. ‘Thomas is telling us about an uncle of his that was in the war and was out huntin’ pheasant. You know what pheasant is?’

‘No, I ain’t never heard of it,’ Mama said.

‘Well, his uncle went AWOL in the army to go huntin’ for ‘em when they was stationed in France,’ Daddy explained.

Thomas started back in on the story. The hunting of pheasant soon fell to the wayside as a motive for Big Dad and his gang. Supposedly he and the gentleman had come across a farmer who let them sleep at his place. The farmer was himself an avid hunter. Arthur spoke a bit of French, so he was able to converse with the man, who told him that there wouldn’t be much hunting anywhere in France and that they would have to make their way to Switzerland. Surprisingly, the best hunting was in the forests of Germany, as Hitler (a stalwart vegetarian) had outlawed hunting, and now the forests were teeming with game. In fact, the farmer had said that before fighting broke out in the Pocket, and after Hitler had put into place the bans on hunting, there were plenty of German hunters coming across the border into France and Switzerland to hunt because it was the only place they could! Now, as Hitler and most of the German army had retreated to Berlin, where they were being pounded by an allied attack, the forests of Southern Germany were left for the taking.

The three men decided then and there that they would go to Basel, stock up on a few supplies and then make it up to the forest for a couple of days of good hunting. By the time they got to Basel, Bob could barely keep the jeep on the road. They had stopped at every little mountain auberge they saw to have a drink and ponder the locals. It was a beautiful country. They were crawling over stunning peaks and pristine valleys, opening up on Alpine meadows with thawing snow and dewponds that reflected the sharp blue radiance above. Big Dad felt as though he were working his way through the set of Heidi. The mountain air and fine wine went straight to his head. The three young men were drunk on the endless possibilities of their little adventure. There was no worry of getting themselves into trouble with their superiors back in the forces. They were young and this was the end of yet another great war. The world was tired and loose and needed a drink for which they felt obliged.

Basel was the most incredible place that Bob had ever laid his eyes on. The crumbling Gothic architecture, market squares, and stately boulevards

were the grandest thing his Arkansas country-boy eyes had ever feasted upon. It was as if the war had not been there. There was the odd uniform or two, but no one ever questioned the fact that they’d rolled into town in a U.S. Army jeep, half-drunk and in uniform. They found a place to stay in the centre of town, the most superb accommodation Big Dad had ever witnessed where they’d strode in with muddy boots and a sack of money. They were spending days in bars drinking as much beer as they could stomach and taking in the finest food they would ever consume until belts had to be loosened. A time or two they were questioned about their purpose there.

‘By this time, the war was actually over,’ Thomas explained.

‘Wait, so the war wasn’t even happening then?’ Daddy asked.

‘Yeh, the ceasefire had been signed before they ran off,’ Thomas continued. ‘They were just trying to have as much fun as they could before they got caught and had to go home. Big Dad just kept acting like he didn’t know what was going on. Like he was just waiting on some order to come through from somewhere to tell him to stop dranking all that fine wine and meetin’ all of them women!’

Big Dad did meet a woman. Apparently he had made the acquaintance of a young lady named Helen. Both Arthur and Bob had plenty of time with female company as well, and even though they’d never made it up to the forests to hunt pheasant, they had a dinner that had left a lasting legacy on the Thomas family ever since. The gentlemen took their ladies out to a dinner the night before the rest of the army rolled in and slapped them on the wrists for deserting. One of the main courses was pheasant, and Arthur demanded that they all try it. Big Dad said that it was served with some sort of sweetened red wine sauce that tasted something like raisins. He didn’t care for it at all. In fact, he passed the rest of his plate over to Arthur who was raving about it, saying that it was the finest pheasant he’d ever eaten. The sweetness of the sauce was a turnoff for Big Dad. Food was either sweet or savoury, mixing the two so blatantly just wasn’t part of the

Arkansas palate. Arthur told him if he were to eat pheasant he’d just have to get used to it. He claimed that they normally ate it with mango chutney. Bob had never heard tell of such a strange arrangement of food. He knew what a mango was, but to put it on a bird and eat it sounded outlandish.

‘Pheasant is a meat that wants sweet, much like pork or lamb,’ Arthur said.

‘I like a baked apple with my hawg, but I want it to taste like hickory smoke and vinegar sauce more than I do sugar,’ Big Dad explained. ‘I don’t eat much lamb.’

‘You yanks have some strange tastes,’ Arthur replied.

‘You call me a yank again and I’ll remind you what the Civil War was all about!,’ Big Dad chirped back.

Bob laughed so hard wine shot out of his nose. To call a Southerner a Yankee cut deeper than Arthur would ever be able to know.

The next day the Sixth Army Division rolled into town and hauled the boys back in. They were making their way on into Germany to finish out the last details of any lingering effects of the Colmar conflict. Big Dad and Bob left Arthur there with his new female acquaintance, saying goodbye to their own. They never saw a single pheasant.

When Big Dad was making his way back, he happened on a jar of mango chutney on a stopover in London before the final boat ride home. He picked it up and brought it to the family gathering the next Christmas. The Ghormleys spread it on saltine crackers as he told his story of the little getaway, how he’d went to war and had the time of his life. They didn’t make it through the sack of money before the army hauled him back in, but he’d had a couple of weeks of eating and drinking the finest fare he’d ever put his teeth on. He ended up naming his first daughter Helen, and he brought a jar of mango chutney to every Christmas gathering after that. His niece Cindy Lynn ended up winning a prize at her church bake sale by using it as a secret ingredient in a raspberry icebox cake.

‘You ever been over there?’ Daddy asked Thomas.

‘Naw, I’d love to, though. I reckon they probly know about Big Dad,’ Thomas said.

‘What, over in Basel?’ Daddy asked.

‘Yep. They was big stuff,’ Thomas said proudly. ‘Big Dad said they was in the newspaper.’

‘I’ll be damned,’ Daddy said as he cranked up the truck. ‘We going up to Quincy’s to eat some chicken. You want to join us?’

Thomas cranked up his Oldsmobile, ‘Nah, I reckon I’ll just head back home.’