The Legend of Bucket Smith
Chapter 3
Julia panicked. She couldn’t find her car keys. She shuffled through the bottom of her purse one more time. The keys were always there. She took a deep breath. She had an hour to get to the train station in downtown Phoenix, park her car, and rush to the gate. Bucket was near. He had been gone for so long.
Julia made sure the blanket was snug, giving plenty of warmth to Maggie. She kissed her on the forehead. Maggie was sleeping peacefully. She left the room, headed downstairs, and ran out the front door of Wilhelm Gables. It was a clear day. Blue sky, a little on the warm side, but not hot. Within seconds, she was in her car and heading out of Carefree.
The ride south on I-17 was like being in an Indy 500 race. Julia had learned a long time ago that putting the pedal to the metal wouldn’t get her to her destination any faster. Keep at 65 miles per hour, and the exits would fly by just the same — Bell Rd., Peoria, Dunlap, Thomas, Indian School...she was getting closer. It seemed like a lifetime ago when she hugged Bucket on the sideline of a Cordes Junction High School basketball game. She was a cheerleader then; she is a woman now. A people person, a businesswoman, and very good at getting things done.
She ran a hardware store in Cordes Junction. The owner, Stoney Johnson — Maggie’s longtime boss and ranch owner- opened the store in 1959, his third hardware and feed store in the state. He hired Julia, and by the summer of 1960, Stoney handed over the keys, making her the manager of the establishment.
*****
Bucket threw his duffel bag over his shoulder and waited for the crowd to disperse. He could see over everyone. He looked to the left and then to the right, and back to the left...and then he saw her.
“Julia!” he yelled, “Over here...over here!”
Julia rushed to him. Her blond hair bounced to and fro.
“Bucket...Bucket!”
“My soldier boy,” she exclaimed as she rushed into his arms. “You look so handsome.”
Within minutes, Bucket and Julia were out of the train station, in Julia’s car, and heading north on the interstate to Wilhelm Gables. Bucket listened intently as Julia explained the latest developments regarding Maggie’s condition.
Bucket covered his face with both hands. He tried to hold back the tears. He couldn’t, so he let it all out. Julia placed her right hand on his lap.
Bucket looked at her and said, “Two weeks...two weeks!”
Julia continued to explain the recent change in Maggie as Bucket stared out the window and watched the exits fly by — Thomas, Dunlap...Bell.
“Julia, your letter. The doctor said a year...maybe two.”
“I know, Bucket. I know.”
Bucket was angry. He could have been home a week ago. The military transport had broken down in Saigon. To make matters worse, the weather forecast wasn’t good. His quick decision to take the first commercial flight to New York and the long train ride home had cost him hours — and days.
“I should have been here sooner.”
“You did the best you could, Bucket. You’re here now. Your mother will be waking up soon. She’s as beautiful as ever. Your mother can’t wait to see you,” Julia said as she brushed away her tears with a tissue. “Bucket, you’re the strongest man I know...and you need to be even stronger when you walk through the door and into her room.”
Bucket looked at Julia and touched her right cheek with his left hand. “I will be, Julia. I will be.”
“Maggie...Maggie,” Julia said softly as she sat down in a chair next to the bed and leaned over and touched Maggie’s forehead.
“Bucket is here. Bucket is here.”
“My Bucket,” the woman opened her eyes and smiled.
Bucket knelt, and his mother wrapped both arms around him.
“Bucket, I’ve missed you so. I have so much to tell you, and there’s so little time.”
"Mom, please, put your head back on the pillow. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
Maggie nodded, her body shaking. She pointed to the closet.
“Son, get my jewelry box. You know what it looks like. You made it for me when you were just eleven years old.”
Bucket looked at Julia, and then he shook his head.
“Okay, Mom, okay.”
Before Bucket closed the closet door and turned around, he knew in his heart that his mother was gone. The sound was deafening. It was that dull, long ring of the monitor. He had heard the sound so many times before, at another hospital in another land.
The doctors and the nurses rushed in.
Bucket held the hand-carved jewelry box to his chest. Tears flowed freely as he fell to his knees. Julia rushed to him and held him. She slowly took the box from his hands. She glanced at the four words in dark lettering: To Mom, with Love.
*****
The Cordes Lawn Cemetery sat on a five-acre piece of land one mile north of town. It was in a secluded area with a lush, green, well-manicured entrance. The area was three hundred feet higher in elevation than the town of Cordes Junction. If you were inclined to sit on one of the numerous benches scattered throughout the complex, you could see Main Street, the Village Square, the Valley National Bank, the sheriff’s office, and the newly constructed Johnson Library.
The name Johnson was visible everywhere. If you were a passerby or an overnight visitor, you would probably assume the town was called Johnsonville.
Stoney Johnson ensured that Cordes Junction had everything it needed and more. He lent a helping hand to half the residents of Cordes at one time or another.
Bucket was soon to find out that his mother had been at the top of that list.
Maggie was laid to rest alongside her friend, Mildred, her partner-in-crime. Bucket and Julia placed the flowers on top of the casket as the two workers continued to lower Maggie into her final resting place. Bucket removed his sunglasses. His eyes were glazed...his pupils red...his face puffy.
The entire town of Cordes Junction was there to pay their respects. Stoney Johnson couldn’t bring himself to move closer than one hundred feet to the ceremony. He stood next to the town sheriff, Joe Arano, and the town’s mayor, Roman Walker. The trio, standing together but alone in their thoughts of Maggie, Bucket...and the past.
*****
Julia and Bucket took the turn-off and headed to the Cherry Farms homestead. It had been just 48 hours since the funeral, and both of them were still dazed, stunned, and not quite themselves, but it was time to focus on Maggie’s wishes...time to figure out just what the contents inside the jewelry box meant.
Bucket had opened the box the day before on the porch of Stoney’s ranch house. Stoney had gathered all of Maggie’s friends, allowing them to pay their final respects to a woman they loved and admired. The sun was setting, and a beautiful, bright, streaky orange-colored sunset had unfolded above the mountains to the west as they sat on Stoney‘s porch and let the late afternoon wind glide by them as if the wind had the power to clear their thoughts.
Julia sat by Bucket’s side as they opened the box and eyed the contents: A set of keys, a will, a deed, a note, and an envelope containing only a piece of paper with what looked to be a license plate number — AZ649-43.
Bucket eyed the setting sun and looked upward. A handful of stars were barely visible — one twinkled.
“Mother, what is this all about?”
Julia and Bucket stayed at the ranch overnight, but they both slept no more than an hour or two, if that. Now, they were en route to Maggie’s place. Bucket’s home, his room, his backyard, and his makeshift basketball court — memories of another life long before Vietnam.
The Dodge sped toward the house with two very anxious people aboard. A cloud of dust rolled out from underneath the automobile and left a dark-colored, tunnel-like trail for 200 feet down the road, finally dissipating and disappearing into the atmosphere.
A giant oak tree covered the entrance to the house on Cherry Farms. The branches reached the edge of the front porch. A wooden fence separated the small, white-framed building from what used to be an open clearing located just a few feet away from the eastern edge of the house. The area was now all high grass and needed Bucket’s attention. Somewhere in that pasture was a pole and a tomato bucket. Bucket didn’t see either one as he pulled Julia’s car into the driveway in front of the house.
“This is home, Julia....our home.” Julia looked at Bucket, touched his face, and smiled.
The couple walked around to the back of the house. A gate, wired shut, led to the old rustic barn. A flock of birds was startled by the visitors and flew away to a safer haven.
“The barn is still standing. Needs a lot of work,” said Bucket as he held Julia close to him. They returned to the front of the house and used one of the three keys they had found in the jewelry box.
The living room was just as he had remembered.
A photo of his mom, a photo of Mildred, and a little boy with a basketball on his lap was the only picture on the eastern wall of the room. The window on the opposite side of the room was covered with a light, tan-colored rolling shade. Bucket raised the shade and looked up the dirt road, which led back to the Clay Road turnoff and the town of Cordes Junction.
Julia and Bucket sat down at the kitchen table. They both took a deep breath and stared at each other. Bucket took out the other two keys from the jewelry box and laid them in the center of the small, oval-shaped table — the same table where Bucket had sat years ago and had conversations with his mother about childhood things. The questions seemed important then, especially to a young boy growing up. Now, he has 25 years under his belt. His mother was gone. The questions and the answers were about to get harder.
“Julia, the second key is for the cedar chest in Mom’s room, and the other looks like a key to the safe deposit box down at the bank.”
“Honey, we can deal with that on Monday. We'd better take a look at the cedar chest. Your mom’s note...she said jewelry box first, cedar chest second, and deposit box third.”
Bucket reread the note. It was no more than a few paragraphs long and signed, “I love you, Bucket...and I am so sorry...please forgive me.”
The box also contained the deed to the house, a will leaving the home and all of Maggie’s possessions to him, and a small envelope containing a wrinkled piece of paper with a license number.
It was just like his mother to blame herself for leaving him, for dying. Bucket shook his head. She was apologizing. As far as the partial five-digit plate number, he had no idea what that was all about.
“Bucket, come here!”
He rushed to the doorway. Julia had taken the second key, gone to the bedroom, and opened the cedar chest. “It’s my wedding dress! It’s my wedding dress...and there is another note!”
Bucket motioned from the doorway for Julia to read the note.
“She wants us to get married. She wants us to see Judge Crider over at the courthouse and then go see Stoney.”
“This is crazy,” Bucket said, his voice rattled on. What does Stoney have to do with this...all of this?”
“It’s a beautiful dress,” Julia said. “Maggie and Mildred made it for me...for us.”
“I know, Julia,” Bucket said, trying to smile. His emotions were bouncing around like a basketball. “It’s a lovely dress, and you know I want to marry you. Why all these steps...the urgency...why was she doing all of this?”
Julia rushed to him and hugged him. It was just too much for him...less than two days since the funeral...and now all this. She had a feeling there was more to come — and so did he.
Julia persuaded him to take a walk with her. “Let’s get some air,” she said. They went outside and around to the back of the house. They unhooked the gate and made their way to the barn. Parked in the breezeway was Maggie’s old Ford pickup. The hood was dusty, and the pigeons had left their mark on all the windows.
Bucket opened the passenger side, reached across the seat, and fiddled for the keys under the floor mat on the driver’s side. He pulled them out. “Right where she’s always kept them...she trusted everybody.”
“Start it up,” Julia said.
So he did. He cracked a smile. “Listen to that engine. I can’t believe it turned over.”
He turned on the radio and tuned in to his favorite channel. It was the Righteous Brothers and ’You’ve Lost That Loving Feeling.’ “This must be a new one, you know these guys?”
“I sure do, honey. I listen to them all the time.”
So much time lost, he thought, as he listened to the tune.
Bucket turned off the radio and the engine. He took a quick look under the hood and then closed it. He softly rolled his right hand over the hood. “Well, Julia. We have a house and a pickup. It’s what Mother wanted. Her tactics are a mystery, but tomorrow we’ll make some calls, see Judge Crider, then we’ll take this old Ford out to Stoney’s and get some answers.”
“Bucket, are you sure?” Julia said. “My head is swimming. Are you thinking clearly?”
“We’ve waited too long. Whatever Mother has in store for us down the road? She’s right about one thing: we need to do this together.”
Bucket and Julie wrapped their arms around each other. In the back of their minds, they knew Maggie had something in store for them...something that they both needed to do together.
The wedding may not happen tomorrow, but soon. Maggie would get her to wish...it may take a couple of weeks longer than his mother had wanted, but Bucket would honor his mother’s wishes — all of them.
*****
Judge Samuel Crider had aged some.
Bucket remembers being in his office many years ago, tagging along with his mother, with his basketball close to his side. Crider was a lawyer then. He had certainly moved up in the world, at least in the small town of Cordes Junction. Bucket figured Crider must have been in his late 40s then...and now, he must be pushing 60...maybe 61, with a bald head and some bushy eyebrows under that Arizona State University football cap that he loved to wear daily.
“Come on in, you two. I’ve been expecting you.”
Julia and Bucket walked into the chambers and sat down next to each other on a leather sofa near Judge Criner’s desk.
“Bucket, I’m so sorry to hear about your mother,” Judge Crider said. “But I’m pleased to see you back from that ugly war and in one piece.”
“Thank you, Judge. I’m not sure I’m in one piece, but I seem to be on the mend. It’s such a shocker with my mother gone. I guess we knew it was coming, but I thought we’d have more time...enough time to do things together...catch up on all those lost years. I feel so robbed of that.”
“I know, Bucket, I know,” the Judge said sadly.
Bucket grabbed Julia’s hand. She sat quietly. They both looked around the chambers, and Bucket blurted out, “Why are we here, Judge?”
“Aw, yes," Judge Criner said. Your mother’s wishes.”
Judge Crider reached for the folder on his desk. “In here is the marriage license. I need a couple of signatures, and I’ll take care of the rest. I’m sure you’ve gone through the jewelry box by now. Oh, how she loved that box. She’s specific about what you two are to do next. So, I’ll keep my mouth shut and send you out to Stoney’s place.”
“But...Judge Crider!”
“Sorry, Bucket. I’ll handle all this legal stuff. We’ll go over it all in good time. You two head on out and see Stoney.”
Bucket was beside himself but relented. “Okay, Judge, okay.”
*****
It had been eight years since Bucket had been out to Stoney’s ranch. He had always enjoyed the trip. His mother would gas up the pickup on a Saturday morning, and the two of them would head north toward Camp Verde. Of course, his mother made the drive every day for years, but occasionally, she’d surprise Bucket and say to him, “Grab that old bamboo pole out in the barn...get some worms out of the compost pile, and let’s head up to Stoney’s place.”
Sometimes, if he was lucky, they’d stay the weekend. He’d get to sleep in the bunkhouse, stay up late, and listen to the ranch hands discuss everything from cows and horses to branding and lassoing...and probably a few things a young boy shouldn’t hear.
On this afternoon, with Julia next to him, he drove down the highway, emotionally spent. The words of the song, blaring out of the radio, sounded familiar. He had heard the tune a few days ago at the little cafe at the train station in Memphis. The voice of Percy Sledge...the song: When a Man Loves a Woman.
He looked over at Julia. She was so beautiful. He had had very little time to tell her so or discuss such things. They would build a life together...she would look so lovely in her wedding dress.
Julia would have her wedding, but something was wrong. He could feel it. It had nothing to do with Julia...that uneasy feeling...that pain in his chest had nothing to do with his injuries from the war, but something else...something down the road...thirty miles away. Stoney had the answers to all his questions...he could feel it.
The entrance to the ranch was just ahead. The area reminded Bucket of a scene from an old Gene Autry television series. When he was a wide-eyed, innocent child, he used to sit in front of the black and white RCA television and watch Autry ride through the desert, chasing bad guys in black hats. Looking back on it now, he realized how simple life was then...and could there have been that many bad guys to contend with every week?
Bucket shook his head. His mind was wandering as he took his right foot off the pedal, slowed the car down, pulled in behind the slow-moving 16-wheeler ahead of him, and awaited the entrance to the ranch.
“Bucket, are you...okay?” Julia said as she watched him make the right turn off the highway and maneuver his way over the cattle guard and through the open gate. She could see both his hands clutching the steering wheel so hard that his fingers were turning red.
“I’m all right, honey. I was in another place for a moment. I’m fine,” he said as the automobile rambled on, leaving in its wake the vibration below. A sign rattled on the fence post as they crossed the cattle guard. It read: property of Stoney Johnson, no hunting, no fishing without permission from Johnson Properties.
Stoney stood on the porch. He had just instructed four of his cowhands, and as they dispersed, he looked up the road. He knew it was Bucket and Julia. The time had come.
Bucket and Julia got out of the car and made their way to the ranch house. Bucket would never forget Stoney’s porch. It circled the entire first floor of the three-story structure.
One hot summer afternoon many years ago, Bucket circled the porch a dozen times after being stung by a wasp. He remembers his mother, Stoney, and a couple of ranch hands ignoring him.
They all thought he was playing a game of ‘Cowboys and Indians.' Instead, he was putting his hand to his mouth, yelling in pain, as the unwanted visitor had planted its stinger onto his upper lip.
“Hello, Bucket...Julia,” Stoney said as he stepped off the porch, hugged Julia, and shook hands with Bucket.
“Boy, Bucket, you’re looking more like country folk with those jeans on, a T-shirt, and that John Deere hat from... I bet that hat is from Lyle Crandall’s old clothing store over on Sycamore Street.”
Bucket, realizing he had everyday attire on for the first time since his return, took off the hat and eyed the brim.
“You know, you’re right. Mom got this hat for me when I was thirteen.”
“That's a great hat. You know, old man Crandall owned that clothing store for more than 20 years. He closed down last spring." Stoney said. “He couldn’t compete with Randall Lewiston anymore. That man has things pretty well wrapped up with stores in Camp Verde, Prescott, and North Phoenix.”
Stoney scratched his chin.
“Last I heard, Lyle moved to Tucson to be near his daughter; she owns a bed-and-breakfast in the foothills near the Catalina Mountains. A beautiful place. I’ve been there a couple of times.”
Bucket shook his head. “Stoney, you still get around, don’t you?”
“Yeah, Bucket, I try to keep busy. I’ll be seventy-two next month. I’m afraid that, if I slow down, this old arthritis will get the best of me.”
Stoney flexed his fingers on his left hand. “I don’t do much calf roping anymore.”
There was a moment of silence. It was as if the three of them knew it was time for the small talk to end...and time for Bucket and Julia to get some answers.
Stoney cleared his throat.
“I want you two to take a ride with me,” Stoney said as he took a deep breath and pointed to his Willys Jeep. The Jeep was parked next to the corral where two ranch hands were hard at work unloading the flatbed of a semi-truck full of hay.
Stoney then took Bucket and Julia down the dusty road.
Bucket had been on the road before. He knew after a few twists and turns, the road would come to an end at the closest of the six ponds on the ranch. Bucket thought back. His mother had sat with him on a picnic table at the edge of the pond. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. He was maybe eight or nine years old at the time.
Bucket remembers the exact words his mother had uttered that day. She had said to him, “I can’t tell you, Bucket...I can’t tell you!"
Suddenly, those words were pounding in his ears, over and over again, as Stoney made a swift turn and drove the Jeep the final few yards through a meadow and finally into a U-shaped bend in the road.
The picnic table was still there.
The three of them got out of the Jeep and headed for the table.
Bucket reached the cemented table first, and he ran his right hand across the surface, his fingertips edging closer and finally stopping on the carved initials — TS and MS. Six months ago, he couldn’t remember one moment of his past...and now he remembers everything.
The three of them sat down on the picnic table and gazed out at the clear blue surface of the water. They looked north across the pond and took in the breathtaking view of the purple mountains far off in the distance.
“You’re going to tell me about my father, Herman Smith, aren’t you, Stoney?”
“We can begin there, Bucket. We can begin there.”
Stoney looked up at the sky.
He warned Julia and Bucket that he had so much to tell them, but the late-afternoon wind gust would make it uncomfortable to stay for very long. The surface of the water was already showing ripples, which were becoming miniature waves as they rolled to and fro from the southern edge of the pond to the northern end.
He was stalling, but he also knew the trip to the pond would help Bucket in the long run. He was right. He could see it in the young man’s eyes. The picnic table, the pond, the meadow, the view of the mountains — all of it would be good for Bucket. This was just the first step in the process. It would be a long day...and a long night for all three of them.
He explained to Bucket and Julia that Alexandra was making dinner, and it would be better if he could continue their talk after dinner in the privacy of his den.
Julia nodded. Bucket agreed. Julia knew Alexandra. She had sat in the front row of the Methodist Church in Cordes last summer and watched the couple recite their wedding vows. Bucket, of course, would be meeting Alexandra for the first time.
The Johnson marriage had been a surprise to everyone in town, except for Stoney and Alexandra, that is. The two met a year ago in February at the Prescott Rodeo. They have been inseparable ever since. The fact that Alexandra was twelve years younger, Italian, and a little stubborn didn't seem to matter to Stoney. After all, Stoney had a stubborn streak as well. They mirrored each other in that regard, and whatever flaws they had, well, they seemed to work around them.
On the ride back to the ranch, Bucket squeezed Julia’s hand. He wasn’t sure he wanted Stoney to rehash the past if it involved his father, Herman Smith. He knew enough about the man, mostly from listening to Aunt Mildred and his mother talk about him at the kitchen table — just once, as he, at the age of seven — maybe eight, hid in the hallway with his left ear pushed against the wall. They were whispering, and he didn’t catch all the conversation, but his young ears had heard enough.
The man had left them. That was all he needed to know. His father had left him and his mother to fend for themselves. He never secretly hid in the hallway ever again. He had heard enough...and even now, he remembers the pain in his mother’s voice as she mentioned the name of Herman Smith to Aunt Mildred on that afternoon as the two women sipped on iced tea and discussed adult things.
He recalls putting both hands over his ears and quickly running out the back door, into the barn, up the steps of the ladder, and into the far corner of the hayloft...hiding behind the most enormous bale of hay he could find.
Theodore “Bucket” Smith discovered early on that things were a little different down on Cherry Farms Road. Sure, the other boys and girls in Cordes Junction had a mother and a father, but they didn’t have the best mom in the world; they didn‘t have a Maggie Smith... nor did they have an Aunt Mildred.
He decided on that day in the dark corner of the barn, while listening to the sounds of the pigeons — cooing in the rafters, that the two women, sitting at the kitchen table, sipping on their tea, would make him feel safe. He didn’t need a father. He didn’t need a man called Herman Smith.
Stoney’s den looked the same to Bucket as it had years ago when he used to jump around on the huge leather sofa and get dirty looks from his mother.
The Elk head above the fireplace couldn’t be ignored. It was the biggest rack of antlers Bucket had ever seen as a little boy...and still. On the northern wall of the den was a glass case containing the map of the Johnson Ranch.
Bucket and Julia sat on the sofa while Stoney and Alexandra sat in the matching dark brown leather chairs -- one located on one side of the fireplace and the other centered on the south side of the room. Beautiful hand-woven rugs covered the wooden floor. A mahogany desk with a black top and a matching swivel chair was located at the western end of the room.
“That was a great dinner, Alex,” Julia said.
“Yes, it was,” Bucket added as he stared at the beautiful Alexandra Johnson, trying to put the two of them — Stoney and Alexandra- together as a couple. The two were definitely in love with each other. Bucket could tell that right off.
Stoney smiled at his wife. “Alex, why don’t you show Julia your latest artwork?” He then glanced back over at Bucket.
The two women headed for the doorway. Alexandra stopped and listened to Stoney carry on.
“Bucket, she’s something else. We met at the Prescott Rodeo. She was doing a portrait of an old cowboy, who just an hour before had been knocked off a bronc. He might have lasted six seconds...the sketch took about an hour and a half. Alex would have finished the sketch sooner, but I came along with my two left feet and knocked over the painting.”
“That’s exactly how we met, and he is still stumbling around,” Alex said jokingly. “Come on, Julia. I want to show you what we've done to the girls’ rooms, too. My studio is across the hall.”
The girls, Judy and Katherine Anne, were the only children left at home...and they were no longer children. Judy was sixteen, and Katherine Anne would be seventeen in just three days. The boys, Jacob and Stoney, Jr., were in college — Jacob at Michigan State, and Stoney, Jr. was closer to home in his senior year at Northern Arizona University.
Bucket remembered Judy and Katherine Anne. Both Johnson girls chased him all over the confines, in and around the ranch house. The girl’s older brothers were in middle school or just getting out of elementary school when he was a senior in high school. Bucket couldn’t remember all their ages, but one thing was for sure...his mother had a hand in raising all of them.
With Alex and Julia out of the room, Stoney headed for the fireplace and grabbed a 5X7 photo off the mantel.
“Bucket, here’s a photo of all my kids, you, and Maggie. “There was never a dull moment back then. You kids, were always in and out of trouble.”
Stoney placed the picture back on the mantel and headed for his desk. Bucket saw him take something out of the middle drawer. It was another photo. Stoney handed the picture to Bucket, took a deep breath, and said, “This is a picture of me...and Maggie...and Herman Smith.”
Bucket squirmed in his seat as he listened to each word out of Stoney’s mouth.
Stoney cleared his throat, took a deep breath, and said, “Herman Smith always felt like he was swimming upstream.
To him, life was indeed a journey. The trouble was he was always going one way, and everyone else was headed in the opposite direction. He didn’t plan it that way. It just happened. As a child growing up on the outskirts of Los Angeles in the 1920s, he was often left to his own devices.
Herman’s parents were both gamblers. Horse racing, card playing...they went where the money was. They couldn’t survive like normal folk; no, that was just too hard; instead, they hustled in and out of smoky, dark card rooms and dusty race tracks—scheming and conniving their way through life, involved in one illegal activity after another.
There were good times. He used to come home from school and find a present or two on his bed, or they’d spend a day at the park or zoo, or the three of them would spend a lazy Sunday afternoon on the beach. Those times were rare, and they only occurred when his parents were on a winning streak and rolling in the dough.
When things were going bad, his parents would argue, throw things, and curse at each other. Herman would grab his coat, run out the back door, hit the streets, and look for trouble.
The young Smith was always in trouble with the local police—shoplifting, throwing rocks through the windows of businesses, you name it, chances are Herman was involved in it—all the things a young boy, left unattended, could get involved in.
The only skill he learned as a young teenager was playing cards. He could shuffle, deal, and take cash from an unsuspecting novice player to a professional card shark. Sometimes, he’d win, get beaten up, thrown in an alley by much older men, and more often than naught, he’d walk around whatever town he happened to be in with a lot of money in his pocket — acting like he didn’t have a care in the world.
His parents had taught him plenty. He was street-smart, tough — a survivor.
Herman left Los Angeles just a few months after his parents were killed in a rollover accident along the coastal highway near Long Beach. Photos of the accident made the front page of all the LA papers. Herman felt alone in the world after that, but he was accustomed to it. Leaving town was no problem.
Money was not a problem. To his surprise, his parents had taken out an accidental death insurance policy, and as it turned out, he was the recipient. Add to that his poker winnings, and that left him with enough cash to keep himself adrift in the gambling world. At least for a few years, that is.
He decided to set up shop in Prescott. His new home: the Palace Bar on Whiskey Row. He took on a day job as a used car salesman at O’Reilly Motors and, to his surprise, held onto the gig for quite a while. He became very skilled at it and even advanced to assistant manager. He’d drive around town in a late-model Ford or Chevy. Of course, the cars were not his...they were all owned by the dealership, but that didn‘t matter; the residents of Prescott didn’t know that. The man behind the wheel appeared successful, and in the long run, his showmanship likely contributed to a sale or two.
The young poker-playing sales executive was good-looking and personable, and he had a knack for reading the minds of his victims. He could close the deal with a customer, send them out of the dealership smiling from ear to ear, or sit across from them in a poker game and take their money.
More often than naught, Herman would lean back in his chair at the Palace Bar and stare at the poker player across from him. The man would lower the brim of his Stetson, shade his eyes, take a puff on his cigar, and nudge his bet toward the center of the table. The man figured he had the goods on the young man, who wore a pleasant smile.
Herman would let out a big grin and yell out, "Raise!"
Chances are, the old poker player would take the cigar out of his mouth, take a deep sigh, and throw his cards into the center of the pot.
If the man only knew that Herman was holding Ace High. Absolutely...nothing.
Of course, Herman realized that someday, if he didn’t change his ways, he would end up just like the old fellow with the cigar. But Herman was a little different from most when it came to poker. He loved winning, but he always felt bad about taking their money. He never quite put a handle on why he felt that way, but he did.
It wasn’t that he was embarrassed about letting the outside world know that he made his living playing cards. It wasn’t a deep concern of his until he went to a Prescott rodeo dance on a Saturday night in February of 1938.
Maggie Haggerty changed his way of thinking...at least temporarily.”
Bucket held the photo for a moment and then handed it back to Stoney. He shrugged his shoulders and sat back down.
It was hard for Stoney to continue speaking. Of course, he looked across the room and knew the young man was in for a long night, and the tale of Herman Smith was just the tip of the iceberg.
Stoney explained to Bucket that he had met Maggie and Herman in the late 1930s in Prescott. “Don’t hold me to the date. I’m getting older, and my memory is not what it used to be.” Stoney looked at the back of the photo. “I guess it was 1938. Alice, bless her heart, could have told you the day, the time, and the days leading up to it... and after, for that matter.”
Bucket remembered Alice. She would always pinch his cheeks and give him big hugs every time his mother brought him out to the ranch for a visit.
Alice kept Stoney on a short leash. Bucket did recall that. Stoney took care of the ranch, but Alice was the boss once he walked through the ranch house door and threw his Stetson on the hat rack.
Alice passed away from an unknown virus just two years after Johnson’s fourth child was born. It was a sad time — his mother had told him. Many of the residents of Cordes Junction rallied behind Stoney and gave him all the support they could during those agonizing months following her untimely death.
Bucket knew for a fact that Stoney Johnson had repaid the townsfolk tenfold.
The rancher quickly let his thoughts of Alice subside as he continued to clue Bucket in on the saga of Maggie and Herman.
“It was at a dance hall on the outskirts of town. The two of them kinda reminded me of another young couple — a redheaded, full-of-vinegar cowgirl by the name of Alice and a stubborn and clumsy, know-it-all rancher with an SJ on his belt buckle. Herman and Maggie fell for each other...just like we did.”
Bucket listened intently as Stoney recalled losing sight of the young couple after the Prescott rodeo dance, but running into them on Main Street in Cordes Junction a few months later.
I had heard that Herman had become a professional card player and spent a lot of time in Prescott at the tables. He must have been good at it...he always had money in his pocket...and, at one time, had enough money to go in with Maggie and buy those forty acres over on Cherry Farms Rd. It was a great little place. A little white house with a big red barn...certainly big enough for a couple...and maybe a kid or two. Stoney stopped talking for a second, looked at Bucket, and said, “I guess you know all about Cherry Farms...I’m not telling you anything new, there.”
Stoney said many rumors were circulating that Herman was spending too much time away from home — especially at night. “Herman didn’t come right out and say to Maggie the reason he was leaving her was that he was drawn to the poker tables; no, he probably came up with another excuse for leaving, an excuse that would satisfy him and make more sense to Maggie. At any rate, a year later, he was gone.”
“Oh, I think he loved Maggie, all right. But the thirst for the poker tables was something he had grown up with. He wanted to change. I think he had in his mind that he could leave that life behind. He couldn’t pull it off. His addiction to cards won out.”
Stoney paused, picked up the glass of water that was on the table, and took a swig.
“I’ll never get over what he did to my mother,” Bucket said. “It’s weird that I can’t remember a thing about him. I must have been a baby. My mother wouldn’t talk about him...the only bits and pieces of information I got...was one time when I overheard a conversation between my mother and Mildred.”
Stoney sighed. “Let’s talk about Maggie.”
Bucket still had plenty of questions about Herman Smith, but he allowed Stoney to continue.
As Stoney continued, Bucket began to realize how little he knew about his mother’s early years. He learned that the most important person in her life was him
.
Bucket didn’t know at that precise moment that the man sitting across from him wanted him to know that particular fact...and much more. The rancher had seen a lot in his seventy-plus years. Still, he also knew that Bucket, even at twenty-five, had been through a lifetime of pain, most of that pain caused not by an upbringing in Cordes Junction — that would turn out to be the good times. Still, the pain in the young man’s gut was from another land, in a place that the older of the two men couldn’t even begin to imagine.
Bucket knew his mother was from Tennessee. She was brilliant, graduating from high school in just three years, and consistently ranked at the top of her class. She was beautiful, full of life, and was alone in Cordes Junction — at least, in the beginning.
Stoney talked fast. He was quickly filling in the blanks.
Maggie’s parents had passed on — first, her father when she was just sixteen, and her mother a year later. Her father was a heavy smoker.
He died in his mid-50s. Her mother died of natural causes. She just passed away on a Sunday morning while her daughter was outside on the porch, dressed for church, waiting patiently for her mother to bring the car around.
Six months later, Maggie boarded a bus and headed for Arizona, hoping to start a new life. She didn’t know what to expect. For all she knew, there were Cowboys and Indians at every corner. That, of course, was not the case.
She didn't feel comfortable in Phoenix. The town seemed too big for her — ten, maybe twenty times the size of her hometown back in Andersonville, Tennessee.
Instead, she settled in Cordes Junction. The town seemed more like her hometown. She answered an ad in the Cordes Examiner and took a job at Walden’s Drugstore. She had saved her money and deposited the funds she had received from selling her parents’ place in Andersonville.
Maggie rented a small, one-bedroom apartment on Second Street. It even had a white picket fence with a small, maybe 20-foot-long section of grass located just to the left of the sidewalk and another 10 feet or so along the east side. It came furnished. Her first purchase, other than the essentials, was a used push mower from Crandall’s hardware store.
Maggie kept busy, and things were going well. She loved to dance — especially the Jitterbug, a dance she had learned from her mother at an early age. Dancing the Jitterbug is not something you do alone. So, on Friday nights, she’d join the so-called “wild group” in town and spend hour after hour dancing the night away at Sonny’s Hideout, a bar and grill located just south of town at the end of Clay Road.
Eventually, it wasn’t the nights at Sonny’s that got her in trouble, but it was the Saturday night jaunts to Prescott. It was there she met Herman Smith. Upon their first meeting, he said to her, “I can’t dance.” He lied.
A few months later, they were married at the Cordes Junction courthouse. Judge Criner did the honors. The Judge’s wife, Greta, witnessed the ceremony. As usual, a handful of photos were snapped by a court-beat reporter by the name of Ricky Jackson.
Bucket was hearing all of this for the first time…and there was plenty more to come.
Stoney had taken a moment. There was a small icebox in the corner of the den. He reached in and grabbed two bottles of beer. He opened the bottles and handed one to Bucket.
“I hired your mom...I’d say it must have been just after she quit her job at the drugstore and not long after Herman had left. She needed more money, and I needed a nanny in the worst way.”
“One Saturday afternoon....”
Stoney had reached down within himself and let out some air, which had been stored up inside of him.
“Maggie had taken you out to the pond...you know, the pond we just came from. When you came back, Alice took you and the kids horseback riding. Maggie was crying. She sat right where you’re sitting.”
Bucket remembered all right. It was the second time today that he had relived the agony...the feeling of that moment when his mother had been so upset.
He was about to find out why. Bucket knew the following words out of Stoney‘s mouth would not be good. He could feel it. He wanted to hear it all...yet he was now terrified.
Stoney got up, went to the doorway, and yelled. “Alex, could you send in Julia?”
Bucket heard the commotion as both women made their way down the spiral staircase. Alex took her right hand and held Julia’s hands...and then gave the young girl a concerned look...smiled, and headed off to the kitchen.
Julia sat next to Bucket. They both waited.
“It was June 1941, and Maggie had just taken her laundry basket...”
Bucket and Julia were frozen, stunned, shocked, and unable to move as Stoney’s words echoed off the walls of the den. Bucket expected to hear a strange tale, especially after all that had happened in the last forty-eight hours. He had hoped Stoney would be able to answer all his questions, wrap everything up in a big bow, and hand it to him. Over and done with.
Instead, his life...the past he had fought so hard to regain memory of…now shattered. His battle to stay alive...for what? For a lie!
Stoney and Julia rushed to the window. Bucket was gone.
Julia and Stoney listened as the sound of the grandfather clock signaled the top of the hour. Julia realized the old freestanding antique clock in the corner of Stoney’s living room had rung three times since Bucket had rushed out of the ranch house.
“Stoney, shouldn’t we go after him?” “No, Julia. I know where he’s at. I just talked to Sheriff Arano.”
“Sheriff Arano!” Julia shouted. “He knows about this?“
Yes, Joe knows. So does Judge Criner.”
“My God! How did Maggie...how did all of you keep this a secret?”
Stoney explained it was Maggie’s secret. “She had stayed true to her story for years, along with Mildred...God rest her soul...God rest both of them. It wasn’t until Bucket was in grade school that she could no longer keep up with her make-believe story that Bucket was the child of her cousin, Belle, from Tennessee. Of course, there was no cousin Belle. The story worked, and the townsfolk bought into it...and after a while, I think the two women believed their own story.”
Stoney looked out the window and stared up the road. “He’s at Maggie’s...I mean Cherry Farms...I mean, Bucket is there. He’s parked in front of the house. Joe will keep an eye on him. He’s got to be going through...”
“Stoney, Bucket is never going to get a handle on this. This is too much. Nobody should have to go through this.”
“Bucket will get through it, and he’ll come back to you. He’s going to need you...all of us. When he’s ready, we’ll be there for him.”
“My God. Stoney, you’re going to be there? Help us, whatever it takes, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I signed on...forever. I’m Bucket’s godfather!”
*****
Bucket got up from the kitchen table, opened the cupboard over the sink, and reached for the matches. He had to lash out at something or someone.
He yelled out for Joey and unleashed all his ammo...he didn’t stop...he didn’t hear the click, nor did he realize the shell casings were no longer falling into the muddy surface below his feet.
He rubbed his eyes and realized he was at Cherry Farms, in the living room...staring at a photo of a little boy with a basketball in his hand. A lovely, slender woman to the left of the boy and an older woman to the right.
Bucket got up, walked outside, down the steps, and headed for the field.
The small area east of the house burned quickly. The fire subsided. Only a layer of smoke was visible, swirling, high above the old oak tree, heading in a westerly direction, moving directly over the head of Sheriff Arona, who stood next to his police car...and waited.
“Wanda, don’t send the fire truck, copy?”
“Copy!” the female voice echoed through Joe’s radio. “Over and out.”
Sheriff Arona started up his vehicle and edged closer to the house. He could see Bucket standing in the center of the field, eyeing the rubble at his feet. It was what was left of a wired tomato basket and a pole...covered with ashes and smoldering.
“Are you okay, Bucket?”
“I’m okay, Joe.” Bucket responded. “I’m okay.”
It was as if Bucket knew the sheriff was watching over him. His response was soft-spoken. Even in his emotional state, Bucket was aware of his surroundings. His military training had seen to that.
Arona could sense the soldier’s awareness right off. He could feel the young man's strength. He knew Bucket had been bombarded not with bullets over the last forty-eight to seventy-two hours. Instead, he had dealt with an emotional trauma with the loss of his mother...the lies that followed her to her grave, the mystery surrounding it all, and the powers-to-be in the small town of Cordes Junction that ultimately would fill in the blanks and help him get his life back on track.
“Bucket, we need to get your hand looked at.”
Arona surveyed the field. The fire had done minor damage, and Bucket’s hand would be fine. A twenty-minute visit to the emergency room would resolve the issue.
The two men watched as the fire burned out and the smoke settled. “Joe, would you call Julia?”
“Done.”
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