Read Online A Natural History of Hell: Stories by Jeffrey Ford - Free Book Online
Authors: Jeffrey Ford
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delivered the Galore and collected her cash. Once a couple of smart-alec kids thought they’d have some fun with the old lady and then make off with her velvet sack of quarters and dimes. Legs were swiftly broken, and, as it’s told, those boys were lucky it wasn’t necks. Jundle was a jolly creature, but he had a serious side when it came to the well-being of Mrs. Oftshaw.
A jar of the Galore cost fifty cents, which, at the time, was a dear price. There were folks with steady income who went for a jar of the green mystery every month, and there were others who had to use it sparingly, skimping on the application to achieve at least half-rightness half the time. Mote Kimber, a veteran of the Great War, who had seen the fellows of his regiment mowed down like summer wheat at the Belleau Wood in France and when captured was tortured—a thin, white hot iron inserted into the opening of his pecker—slathered the Galore onto his bald noggin like he was painting a fence post. After a while the crown of his head had turned jade green, and he could be counted on at any hour after that of breakfast to usually be way past right . He was a bona-fide war hero, though, and drew a nice pension for his courage. Before being taken by the enemy, he’d rescued three men who’d been wounded and pinned down. Mote would tell you himself that he bought two jars of Galore a month from Lillian. “Either that or kill myself,” he said, and everybody knew he meant it.
There were a number of folks in town who used the liniment for medical purposes—gout, heartburn, bad back, aches and pains of the joints, the head, the heart. Even Dr. Shevin used it. When asked about its unscientific nature and reliance on backwoods hoodoo, he smiled as if realizing his guilt, shrugged, and said, “When I get a crick in my neck, which I do often enough from a bad sleeping posture, just a dab of that Galore on the stiff patch and all’s well and then some. Now, if you’re asking me if I prescribe it for my patients, I’d have to give you an unequivocal ‘No.’ I’m a man of Science. I don’t suggest anyone else use it, but if they do . . . ?” The discussion never went any further. There was no point. If the doctor had been laying it on like old Mote Kimber and was too right all the time, now that would have been a problem, but as it was, he used it like most everyone else—“Pro re nata,” as he said, which Postmaster Scott translated for us as, “When the bullshit gets too thick.”
Old lady Oftshaw was mysterious, that’s for certain, but I wouldn’t say she was evil. There were a lot of folks who just couldn’t afford the Galore, and some of them were the ones that needed it most. My ma was one of them. Ever since my daddy ran off on us, she had to work double shifts over at the chicken-packing plant in Hartmere just to keep the house, put food on the table, and gas in the Chevy. And it wasn’t just me and her. There was Alice Jane and Pretty Please who also lived under our roof. They were the kids of the woman who Daddy ran off with. Their mother simply abandoned them—something no wild animal would do. Instead of letting Sheriff Bedlow cart the kids away to an orphanage in Johnston, the county seat, my ma asked him to leave them with her. I was there when she made her case. “No sense in having everybody suffer,” she said. “They’re just kids, and they need to know a little love before they get too old.” The sheriff, though short on courage, was long on heart, and he trusted her. He closed his eyes to the law, something that could never happen today, letting Alice Jane become my sort of sister and Pretty Please become my sort of brother.
I suspect you want to know something else about my daddy and why he left Ma, but I truly don’t know anything to tell. I was happy to see him go. He was a moody fellow. Quiet. Never did anything father-like with me that I can remember. Although I will say he did buy me a 22 rifle and taught
A jar of the Galore cost fifty cents, which, at the time, was a dear price. There were folks with steady income who went for a jar of the green mystery every month, and there were others who had to use it sparingly, skimping on the application to achieve at least half-rightness half the time. Mote Kimber, a veteran of the Great War, who had seen the fellows of his regiment mowed down like summer wheat at the Belleau Wood in France and when captured was tortured—a thin, white hot iron inserted into the opening of his pecker—slathered the Galore onto his bald noggin like he was painting a fence post. After a while the crown of his head had turned jade green, and he could be counted on at any hour after that of breakfast to usually be way past right . He was a bona-fide war hero, though, and drew a nice pension for his courage. Before being taken by the enemy, he’d rescued three men who’d been wounded and pinned down. Mote would tell you himself that he bought two jars of Galore a month from Lillian. “Either that or kill myself,” he said, and everybody knew he meant it.
There were a number of folks in town who used the liniment for medical purposes—gout, heartburn, bad back, aches and pains of the joints, the head, the heart. Even Dr. Shevin used it. When asked about its unscientific nature and reliance on backwoods hoodoo, he smiled as if realizing his guilt, shrugged, and said, “When I get a crick in my neck, which I do often enough from a bad sleeping posture, just a dab of that Galore on the stiff patch and all’s well and then some. Now, if you’re asking me if I prescribe it for my patients, I’d have to give you an unequivocal ‘No.’ I’m a man of Science. I don’t suggest anyone else use it, but if they do . . . ?” The discussion never went any further. There was no point. If the doctor had been laying it on like old Mote Kimber and was too right all the time, now that would have been a problem, but as it was, he used it like most everyone else—“Pro re nata,” as he said, which Postmaster Scott translated for us as, “When the bullshit gets too thick.”
Old lady Oftshaw was mysterious, that’s for certain, but I wouldn’t say she was evil. There were a lot of folks who just couldn’t afford the Galore, and some of them were the ones that needed it most. My ma was one of them. Ever since my daddy ran off on us, she had to work double shifts over at the chicken-packing plant in Hartmere just to keep the house, put food on the table, and gas in the Chevy. And it wasn’t just me and her. There was Alice Jane and Pretty Please who also lived under our roof. They were the kids of the woman who Daddy ran off with. Their mother simply abandoned them—something no wild animal would do. Instead of letting Sheriff Bedlow cart the kids away to an orphanage in Johnston, the county seat, my ma asked him to leave them with her. I was there when she made her case. “No sense in having everybody suffer,” she said. “They’re just kids, and they need to know a little love before they get too old.” The sheriff, though short on courage, was long on heart, and he trusted her. He closed his eyes to the law, something that could never happen today, letting Alice Jane become my sort of sister and Pretty Please become my sort of brother.
I suspect you want to know something else about my daddy and why he left Ma, but I truly don’t know anything to tell. I was happy to see him go. He was a moody fellow. Quiet. Never did anything father-like with me that I can remember. Although I will say he did buy me a 22 rifle and taught
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