Ralph Harris was a drunk son-of-a-bitch. And a bitch his mother was. She once signed up to be a “foster grandparent” for a local hospital just to get the stipend. She looked down her nose at everyone except Preacher Roberson, and she talked about him behind his back. In those days, the only phone lines were party lines, and Mrs. Harris spent 14 hours a day on the phone gossiping. Nobody else on Barnes Ferry Road could use the phone. You’d have to ask her, “Mrs. Harris, can I please use the phone?” to which she would say that it would only be a few more minutes. After several more minutes, “Mrs. Harris, I have GOT to use the phone. Please.” To which Mrs. Harris, personally offended, would huff and puff, “Well, alright then!”

The Harris family had a mean streak. Years of impoverished rural farm life had inspired the Harris daughters to marry and get the hell out of there while the ones left were hardened and bitter. They had always been dirt poor. But the people of Route 3 took care of their own. Daddy gave the widow Harris an acre next to his own farmland, upon which Mrs. Harris built a small house and settled. Until the day he died, Daddy regretted giving up that acre.

The boys had tried to do better. Ralph enlisted during the Korean Conflict. Joe tried to make it in Lincoln County, where the railroad and kaolin mines gave young men the chance to earn an honest living. But Joe chose booze over his job, wife, and kids, and by the early 60s, both men were back at home with their ornery Mama fighting over the TV.

Of course, I didn’t know all this at the time. I was only 8 years old, and all I knew was how much I wanted to drive Ralph’s ’64 Galaxy 500.

Back then, I had a motorized scooter that I must’ve put 100,000 miles on. It was loud as hell, and I tore up Barnes Ferry Road on that thing. I didn’t realize how aggravating I must have been until Joe shot a .22 over my head as soon as I passed their house one day. Scared shitless, I tore off through the cow pasture as fast as my little legs could carry me. Next thing I know, Mama and Aunt Lou were packing heat and headed over to the Harris’s to give them what for. I reckon it worked.

Ralph helped Daddy around the farm when he was sober. He’d be fine for a while. Good as gold until something would set him off and he’d be drunk for six weeks. Daddy hated it when he’d get drunk, but I didn’t mind. When Ralph was drunk, he let me drive.

I could barely see over the steering wheel. I had to stretch my toes out as far as they’d go just to get to the gas and brake pedals. The crunch of the tires over the little rocks in the road set my heart on fire. A left out of the driveway, past Granny Gilmer’s, past our house, past the parsonage, and another left at the stop sign put us on Montpelier Highway. The sun reflected off the shiny blue hood and into my already limited line of sight. I was in paradise.

“How fast do you think this thing will go, Ralph?”

“Faster than the 15 miles an hour you’re going right now, that’s for damn sure.”

He reached over and pushed my knee down. The engine revved and the car accelerated. I felt the blood in my veins pulse a little bit harder. The sun through the driver’s window warmed my arm and cheek. I sat up a little taller and scooted to the very edge of the seat, trying to keep up the increased speed. Ralph rolled down his window. The wind blowing over the car made a thunderous noise as it caught the window frame. As we passed the Epps place, Ralph snorted and spit.

“Ain’t as hot as it was in Korea. Shit, we’d be burning up one day and freezing the next. Never knew what you’d be dealing with.”

“So you happy to be home?”

“I’d be happier if my Mama’d get off the damn phone and do something. What’s your Mama cooking for supper?”

“I don’t know, probably rooster and rice. Daddy said he was gone kill that sumbitch Bantam if he got after him one more time.”

“Prob’ly so. I heard a ruckus this morning near the coop. Your Daddy prob’ly wrung his neck. Reckon your Ma would mind me eating with y’all tonight?”

“Yeah, you know Mama’ll feed anybody. I think Lizzy and them are coming over. And Aunt Ruby and Uncle Ray will come over to play rummy. I’m sure Mama can pull up another seat.”

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Link sausage was sweating on the stove while Mama peeled an orange. The scent of citrus cut through the greasy air in the kitchen where we sat awaiting breakfast. Mama and Daddy had a handful of beliefs they would never sway from, not the least of which were the resurrection of Christ and the dominance of breakfast as the most important meal of the day, never to be skipped. I was sitting at the kitchen table over a Corelle mug of milky coffee when Ralph walked up and knocked on the door. “Mr. Turner, I done messed up. I done killed Mama and Joe.”

Daddy sat him down outside on the back stoop and called the sheriff. As soon as they got there, they took Ralph and picked up the bodies. I didn’t think I’d ever see him again. After everybody left, you couldn’t tell from the outside that anything had happened. But there the Harris house sat, quiet. No hum of the TV. No slapping screen door. Just a little quiet house with a Galaxy 500 sitting silent in the yard.

Don’t ask me how he got off, but they only made Ralph serve two years in prison.

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The last time I saw Ralph was in old man Simmons’ corner store. My brother Jim and I had stopped to get a Coca-Cola after a long day fishing on Lake Eufaula.

A little black boy walked in and started wandering up and down the rows. Out of the corner of his eye, Ralph caught the boy slipping a piece of candy in his pocket. Without comment, Ralph stormed out to his car and brought back a shotgun. When he shoved the barrel right between the boy’s eyes, the poor kid fell to the floor and pissed himself. “Don’t you ever steal nothin’ or I’ll blow your brains out! Now you go take that candy back to Mr. Simmons and apologize.”

We thought the kid was a goner. Hell, Ralph had already killed his own Mama and brother. But as soon as the kid gave back the candy and apologized, Ralph told him to “git”. The kid ran as fast as he could out that door. Ralph nodded at Mr. Simmons, then turned to us like nothing out of the ordinary had happened. “Boys, y’all tell your Pa I said hello.”

He walked out, revved up that Galaxy 500, and drove away.