The Farmer's Son

Chapter 16 Shave and a Haircut, Two Whiskeys

Down the stairs and out the back door, Ray followed Alan across the backyard and towards the grain bins. In the shade between the two large, galvanized steel bins was a small wooden shed, locked and bolted. With a key, Alan opened it and stepped in, almost instantly swallowed by the dim interior made dimmer by the brightness outside. He tugged on a cord hanging from the roof, making a bulb flicker to life, and Ray stepped into the hot, stuffy confines of what looked like a makeshift kitchen.

Two single burners with two large cooking pots sat on a steel table in the middle, surrounded on the floor by bags of corn and yeast. On two of the walls with floor to ceiling wooden shelves, were bottles and mason jars filled with spices and fruits and wood chips. The third wall was stacked with small oak barrels, each with a paper label of a date and what looked like a recipe. Right beside the door where the two young men stood was a small crate with about a dozen small bottles.

"Whoa..." Ray breathed, gazing around. "Is this what I think it is?"

"Pa's whiskey still," Alan said. "Don't tell him I showed you."

Bending down, Ray slid a bottle with a wide body and slender neck from the crate. Holding it up to the light, he admired the rich, earthy hue of the liquid inside. He sighed with something like contentment. "This is all kinds of illegal, isn't it?"

"Who's going to believe you, cowboy?" Alan chuckled as Ray bumped him with his shoulder. "Grab a bottle," he said. "Pa won't miss it."

Outside the shed the shade of the grain bins offered small relief from the heat. But the only available seating was one large crate, upturned against the back of the shed, where a small patch of dirt held the remnants of old barrels and a fire pit, before giving way to the sea of corn.

Ray sat on one side of the crate and Alan on the other. The skin of Ray's bare arm pressed lightly against Alan's exposed elbow and forearm, their skin warm and slightly sticky. Alan shifted on the crate, and their shoulders touched. His foot scuffed the ground a few inches, and their knees bumped together.

Ray took the first drink. "Ahhhh..." he sighed. "Nothing like homemade. Your Pa knows what's he's doing."

"Most farmer's do," Alan said. Taking the bottle, he put it to his lips, tasting smokey whiskey and salty sweat. "During prohibition this was what farmer's round here supplemented their income with—still do."

"Long as you don't drink the supply."

"Speaking of—want to know something else?" Alan asked, handing the bottle back.

"Always," Ray said, tipping the bottle up and feeling the smooth liquid flow down his throat.

"You remember the fire they blamed on the cowboys? Yeah, the cowboys got drunk and caused it, but where do you think they got the alcohol? The farms with the biggest distilleries were the ones that caught fire, cause the farmers were drinking with the cowboys."

Ray, about to lean back against the shed, bounced forward in shock, jaw dropping open in a scandalized gasp. "Folks round here got more secrets than a government official's hooker," he said.

Alan laughed as he took the bottle back. "We all got things we ain't proud of. Secret or not."

"Feels like we had this conversation about secrets before," Ray said.

"And I'm no closer to knowing your secrets than I was then," Alan said, holding out the bottle.

"What do you want to know?"

Alan glanced back as a hand lightly clasped his around the bottle. Looking back further, he caught the twinkling blue gaze and subtle smile. "Whatever you're not telling me," he said, holding the gaze.