Deuce’s rickety chair creaked as his weight shifted foreword, casting the candle’s light on his ancient face. His dark, leathery skin glowed, holding secrets in its creases and lines while his chest shook from a raspy cough under his gray, dust-stained coat. Lines ran from the corners of his eyes, cheeks sagging in concentration. His face showed weariness through sagging brow and glazed, wet eyes; deep, green eyes that pierced cold with one glance. Wrinkles were barely noticeable in his black skin, but raised scars ran through his cheeks.
Phillip E. William’s strong bony frame was silhouetted by the fire’s warm light. Tattered blue jeans hung down over his dull boots, which were covered in pollen and briars from walks through the fields. Above him on a hand crafted shelf stood a row of wooden ducks, lined up like minutemen, ready to dart when the time came. Many of them were still rough and unfinished, anxious for the feeling of their maker’s hands and stoically waiting for an artist’s touch to bring them to life. Those that were ready showed signs of constant handling by the fingers of visitors to the woodland cabin, mainly children’s sticky fingers grasping at Uncle Deuce’s toys. Other shelves showed geese, raccoons, and foxes, all with faces high as if proud of their heritage as his creations. Not a speck of dust could be spotted on their shiny backs; a contrast to the rest of the cabin, which one would guess wasn’t lived in. The only exceptions to time’s effects of neglect were Deuce’s oak bed, with quilt crumpled in disarray on the headboard, and the wobbly table at which the old man sat. Thunder rumbled in the distance, foreboding and threatening the meek cabin to beware.
The piercing eyes now warmed as Deuce gazed at the bird in his hand. This one was to be a gift to Joe Jacock’s little girl, whose captivation with the creatures on his shelf made him unable to resist her pleading. With eyes wide as saucers and jaw dangling in amazement, the little girl with just a few missing baby teeth in her dimple guarded mouth had begged her father to let her have one of Uncle’s ducks. Deuce had no immediate family around, but every child in the small community affectionately called him Uncle. Grown men and women, having moved off and started their own families, would often come back to the cabin in the woods to hear Uncle Deuce’s deep, bass voice talk about whatever was on his mind. He was happy to talk, because out in his secluded den a friendly conversation was hard to come by. So out of gratitude he would sit at his creaky chair, carving anything a person could think of, just to show them he appreciated them. His rough, dusty hand ran along the length of the duck, finding any uneven or scratchy patches, yet his eyes drifted out to the window, listening to the sound of rushing water miles and miles away. The storm was heading closer, rumbling the ground with its mighty roars. Deuce turned back to his work, ready to finish off what he had started. But this night he had no more energy to muster, and his strong frame slowly eased onto the table, the candle still flickering at his side and crickets still serenading the forest. The weary eyes shut as his head folded onto his crossed arms, his breath barely noticeable. His wide nostrils released a long exhale, a small sigh of contentment as he drifted off to his dreams. The candle and fire stood alone in activity, their life fragile as the wind blew in through the small window. The fire was left to burn itself down, the candle left to the will of the wind.
Deuce woke with a start.
“G’moanin’ Uncle Deuce! Mighty strowng storm ‘dat hit us las’ night don’t yah thank? I is gwyne ta’ head ova’ to da’ river soon to….oh I’m sorreh Uncle, didn’t know you ‘us sleepin’. I’ll be comin’ back anudder time…”
The old man blinked his watery eyes. “No, Alfred, it’s alright. Mighty too late for me to be sleepin’ anyhow.”
“Alright then, whatchu doin’ sleepin’ in a chair like dat Uncle?”
“Oh I must have dosed off. What brings you around here? Don’t tell me you in trouble again…..You know what I told you, you can’t be runnin’ to me everytime you get caught it mischief.”
“Naw, naw, it’s not like dat Uncle. I was jus’ comin’ tah see if you’d be willin’ tah help me find my canoe again. Dat dang thang plum ran off again in dat der storm, and you’s always knowin’ where we should bees lookin’ foe it. I ain’t got dat intishun’ like you Uncle.”
“You shore it wasn’t them Bradley boys that took it Alfred? I don’t see how it could be turnin’ up missin’ down the river all the time without someone givin’ it a little “motahvation.” Them two boys ain’t fallin’ far from the tree, I’ll tell yah. Their daddy was always tyin’ some foul thing to my cat’s tail, an’ each time it would come in my house, I’d have the most dreadful mess to be cleanin’ up.”
“Naw Uncle, I been foegitten’ to tie up my canoe an’….”
“Alfred Percy what are you tryin’ to do son?! Ain’t you got the common sense in that beady little head of yours tah tie down your boat? What, and the third time at that! Responsibility starts with learnin’ tah keep up with your things boy, and most youngin’s got that done by at least the time they grown. You hear me?”
“Yessa, I hear yah. I won’t never let it happen again Uncle Deuce. I is very, very sorry. But….could you help me out just this one more time?”
“Boy I’m bound by your father to keep watch of you till you’re able to watch yahself, now that ain’t seemin’ to be comin’ round till you’re at least eighty years old. If I wasn’t so tired I’d smack you on top of the head so hard you’d have to unbutton your shirt tah brush your teeth.”
“Please Uncle, jus’ dis one more time? I is desperately needin’ yore help.”
“Fine. I’ll come as soon as I fix me up some breakfast.”
“Thank yah sir, it won’t never happen again.”
“Boy don’t be givin’ me yore lip service. You already on my last nerve as it is. Amazes me your Momma can stand you. How’s things with her?”
“She’s doin’ fine Uncle. Jus’ las’ week Miss Watson gave her three whole apple pies. Of cose they was the burnt ones from a batch she was makin’ foe’ her family…Old woman wouldn’t give Momma the best a’ anythin’ I suspect.”
“Alfred, don’t you ever let me hear another bad word about Miss Watson come from yore lips. That woman has done more for your family than you could evah know. Without her you might be down somewhere in the south lookin’ for work after they set your family free, but she gave yall jobs boy, and don’t you forget that. Now run back home.”
Deuce drearily rubbed his eyes and let out a deep, soft sigh as the boy trampled away from the cabin through the wet autumn leaves. Shuffling back towards his bench, he glanced out the window to see the boy jogging away with his eyes directed towards the sky. With a swift jerk, Alfred caught his foot on a high root and fell flat onto the orange bed of leaves, sliding a couple of feet down a slight slope. Deuce’s hearty chuckle filled the cabin as he slowly shook his head. The soaking wet boy whipped around to make sure nobody had seen his blunder, then hesitantly made his way down the hill.
While the beams of sunlight fell onto the dusty windowsill and the breeze blew through the barren trees, one of Deuce’s small carvings sat, watchful of the boy’s path. The bacon grease from the stove sizzled and popped as he drifted farther and farther away through long shadows while a chirping orchestra serenaded the forest. The small carving stood stoically on the windowsill; it’s shiny back glowing. Though still through the journey, the lone duck and his loving master stood in guiding silence as a boy became a man.