M.C. Higgens: the Great

MAYO CORNELIUS HIGGINS RAISED HIS ARMS HIGH TO THE SKY and spread them wide. He glanced furtively around. It was all right. There was no one to see his greeting to the coming sunrise. But the motion of his arms caused a flutter of lettuce leaves he had bound to his wrists with rubber bands. Like bracelets of green feathers, the leaves commenced to wave.
M.C., as he was called, felt warm, moist air surround him. Humidity trapped in the hills clung to the mountainside as the night passed on. In seconds, his skin grew clammy. But he paid no attention to the oppressive heat with its odors of summer growth and decay. For he was staring out over a grand sweep of hills, whose rolling outlines grew clearer by the minute. As he stood on the gallery of his home, the outcropping on which he lived on the mountainside seemed to fade out from under him.
I’m standing in midair, he thought.
He saw dim light touch clouds clustered behind the eastern hills. Bounce the sun beside me if I want.
All others of his family were still asleep in the house. To be by himself in the perfect quiet was reason enough for him to wake up way early. Alone for half an hour, he could believe he had been chosen to remain forever suspended, facing the hills. He could pretend there was nothing terrible behind him, above his head. Arms outstretched, picture-framed by pine uprights supporting the gallery roof, he was M.C. Higgins, higher than everything.
M.C. smiled. Going to be my best day, he told himself. He let his arms fall, and sniffed a bracelet of cold, fresh vegetable. He bit gently into a lettuce stem, pulling at it until he had an entire leaf to chew.
Will it really be mine this mountain? Daddy says it will one day.
He loved the mountain, its long, lingering dawns. But he frowned, squinting off at the hills with night still huddled in their folds.
Now it won’t ever be mine.
He shivered as with a sudden chill, and stepped off the gallery. Pay no mind to what Daddy says.
“We have to leave it,” he said softly, “and that’s a shame.”           M.C. walked quickly to the edge of the outcropping where tangled undergrowth made deep shadows. He avoided looking at the side yard with its burial ground covered with car junk, and his prize like no other. See it later, he told himself, thinking of the prize. See it when the sun is making it shine.
Slipping through the undergrowth, he took one of the paths down the mountainside. Soon he was striding swiftly through piney woods. The leaf bracelets wafted on air as though in flight, as he plunged and wove among the trees.
M.C. was barefoot, wearing carefully ironed blue jeans and a brown, faded T-shirt. The shirt was the color and fit of a second skin over his broad shoulders. Already he was perspiring. But his motions remained lithe and natural, as he moved easily among trees and shade. Pushing through pine boughs, he continued on his errand.
Bet I haven’t caught a single rabbit, just like on Thursday and Saturday, too.
He had to check all three of his rabbit traps and then get home to wait for this new dude to arrive.