Chapter 14
The Cobbs met in a building originally built by Owen Hughes, a 1930s farmer. Located adjacent the house was a field that at one time produced corn, cotton, and other southern crops in abundance. Oats owned the property, which was part of his purchase of Flood’s Place. Everyone around knew the property as the “clubhouse.” It was like most houses of the period. It had a high pointed roof and sat on wooden blocks two feet high. The blocks were of huge cross sections of heart pine naturally soaked in pine tar for hundreds of years before being cut. In the ‘30s, the landscape was dotted with stumps and fallen trees, their outer shells having rotted leaving pieces of heart pine. Most houses of the period were built on blocks cut from these old pine hearts. Usually, the houses had an open space beneath the entire floor the home. Every rural family had several dogs, and this was a perfect place for them as well as for storage. The dogs were the ruler of their domain under the houses, riding the dwelling of snakes and other wild creatures which may otherwise have been attracted to the comfortable shelter. The pitch of the roof ran across the full length of the building forming a comfortable cover for the porch across the front of the house. In its day, the porch served as a center for family gatherings, as well as providing protection from the hot summer sun. Today, several chairs, a suspended chain swing, and a couple of rockers sat on the porch, where some of the Cobb members relaxed as they drank and engaged in the sport of social bashing.
By 5:30 PM, other members of the club, began arriving for the special meeting Oats had called. He always ran the food and drinks concession and would return any unsold items to his stock at Flood’s Place. As usual, he made sure that the cooler was well stocked with beer and soda. He also had several gallon jars of pickled pig’s feet and sausages and some potato chips, which would likely be finished off before the end of the night. The assortment of vehicles parked around the building spoke for the member’s economic status, as much as the rugged apparel they wore did. Motorcycles, old pickup trucks and pre-1990 dented and faded cars, parked underneath the huge hanging limbs of the 100-year-old live oak tree. Local bikers in leather mingled alongside the areas finest who for the most part wore bib overalls. Bikers, fisherman, and farmers exemplified an odd combination of human kind. Two of the bike members sported long scraggly handlebar mustaches turned down at the ends.
Budweiser, topped the list of preferred drinks but moonshine was a close second. Peter Duel had brought some of his famous “quality-shine,” for all to enjoy. The locals swore by it. In their opinion, it was superior to 100 Proof Jack Daniels. The formality of pouring the delicacy into shot glasses was never a consideration with Peter’s shine. Instead, the jar passed from person to person for a nip. Moonshine etiquette dictated that each person takes one good swallow, smack the lips, squint the eyes, and shake the head, all at the same time. Finally, a comment such as, “damn old Peter’s stuff is good,” or woo-wee,” would be in order. Then the next connoisseur down the line would do the same. After 45 minutes or so, the same ritual would resume until the jar was empty. Tonight, Peter brought three-quart jars of his stuff, so the process would be repeated several times before most of the men were “knockdown, drag out” drunk.
T.J. Beckett, Junior, the club treasurer, arrived in his faded, rusty, and dented blue ’85 Chevy Pickup. T.J.’s real name was Telford Jeremiah, but his parents shortened it to T.J. to distinguish it from his father’s name. Then, his friends shortened it further, by calling him Tee. Tee was laid back and easy going most of the time. He made his living planting and selling 40 acres of watermelons from his pickup at a Shell Gas station in Warrenton. He also planted a variety of vegetables and sweet potatoes, which he was able to sell to people at the gas station. Tee owned a boat and strung nets across the Combahee River, where he caught shad to sell to several small restaurants along Highway 17. Shad roe was a season delicacy, especially when fried in pure lard, which was hard to find, but Crisco was a good substitute. It was more sought after than fine Russian Beluga roe in the restaurants of Paris. Tee made a good living from his various bucolic activities. Supplemented by a small monthly social security, the 75-year-old was living pretty well. Overall, he was above the economic scale of most people around the area. As busy as he was with his farming venture, he still made time to contribute to the chaos and mischievous activities of the Cobbs.
Tee’s hate for the Geechees was ingrained at an early age. His father had a maintenance job in Warrenton, and the family lived in an area where they were the only white family for miles. When Tee was about 10 years old, there were two Geechee boys who liked to bully him. One of them, Ajay, was several years older than Tee. Ajay never passed up the opportunity to make “white trash” slurs at Tee when they saw each other. One time Ajay and his buddy Amos bloodied Tee’s nose and shoved him in the ditch. Ajay threatened to smash more than his face if Tee told his parents. He didn’t of course, since he was horribly afraid of the two bullies. The juvenile behavior continued until Ajay’s parents moved, but Tee’s opinion of all Geechees had been cemented by this time. Over the years, it was further reinforced by the racially charged Southern environment.
The meeting of the club was supposed to begin at 6:00 PM, but tonight Oats let the boys drink and carry on their rancorous revelry for an extra hour or so after the scheduled meeting time. Around 7:00 PM, he closed the bar for the duration of the formal meeting such as it was. By that time, just about everybody was well on their way to being drunk, and as a result, the meeting wound up being nothing more than a disorganized shouting match.
The major event was to recognize their newest member, Jeff Ireland. Almost every member knew that Jeff was being brought in by Oats. If Oats recommended him, no one would dare oppose the membership. In any event, the club had no official roster anyway. To record member names in writing may tie them to some of the nefarious deeds in which the club was often involved. Oats had learned this from his experience in the KKK. Initiating Jeff into the club was no more ceremonious than introducing him as the newest member. Several of the men didn’t hear the introduction or much else for that matter because they were nodding off from the first round of drinking, regaining energy to begin round two. After about 45 minutes of chastising the recently elected “liberal Governor,” the “dumb” President and a few other politicians, Oats said, “this meeting is adjourned, God bless America, and God bless the National Rifle Association (NRA).”
It was hard to tell if they were expressing their support for America or the NRA, but every member stood up and yelled, clapped and stomped the floor, literally almost bringing the old house down. Then most of them continued to drink, lament about how the nation is going to hell, and conspired to create enough evil acts, that if they were carried out, the state would have to call out the National Guard. Fortunately, when most of them sobered up the next day, the schemes they discussed the night before would lose their relevance.
This was Jeff’s first meeting, and his enthusiasm didn’t match that of the rest of the group. He drank only one beer the whole night, and in spite of many members congratulating him on joining the club, he didn’t feel good about the decision to join up. At a loss regarding the goals of the organization, he left by 9:30 PM. He pulled onto the main highway heading north. As he passed the house where Cyndi’s mother Hattie lived, he stopped on the side of the road and stared at the house. I made a big mistake by hurting these people. I’ve got to do something about my involvement in that girl’s death. I just can’t live with it any longer.
More despondent than he had been since the death of his wife, he pulled into the front yard, Jake’s distinctive howl welcoming him home. Now, Jake seemed to be Jeff’s only friend in the world. Although he wasn’t conscious of it, he was slowly spiraling into psychological oblivion. His only comfort was the sight of Jake’s wagging tail, as they went up the steps and into the house together. His life had hit bottom. In a state of dee
p depression, he curled up in a fetal position and slept for two days.
Back at the clubhouse, the party continued. By 2:00 AM, Skeeter walked out the door and left Oats at the bar with his head down on his arms in a deep sleep. It must have been 4:00 AM when he lifted his head and looked around. A party leftover was asleep on the floor on one side of the room. The man was curled up with his face toward the wall snoring away. The only surprise to Oats was that only one person was sleeping off a hangover. Occasionally there were two or three men that decided to spend the night after the party. He recognized the sleeping body on the floor as that of the 300 pound Big Al. Oats had a splitting headache from all the nights drinking and didn’t feel like going anywhere either. He vaguely remembered having an argument with someone about guns. He couldn’t remember who it was, or what the argument was about, but he did remember getting his .45 Automatic out of his pickup and bringing it into the clubhouse. He probably had intentions of threatening someone. At this time, he just couldn’t remember why he had it inside. He staggered over to the light switch and turned it off. Then he stretched out on the couch against the wall behind the door and slid his pistol under the couch on the floor with his right hand. In the quite dark, he could hear crickets chirping and a ray of moon shown through one of the windows, making an eerie shadow on the pool table.
Within five minutes, he was hard and fast asleep. He was snoring and catching raspy breaths in between. His old body quivered each time he inhaled, and his lips palpitated as he exhaled. He had a stream of spittle dripping down his face and onto his shirt. His right hand was hanging off the couch. His left hand was resting on his chest. Oats was dead to the world around him. He didn’t wake up all night. The sun had risen several hours ago. Surrounded by the darkness of the room, his body still inebriated from the amount alcohol he had consumed, he was about one-step removed from total comatose. He didn’t hear the sound of the vehicle as it pulled to a stop in front of the house.