“The Little General.”
“Exactly.” Fin pronounced it egg-zackly.
“That’s the nickname Cora’s father gave her when she was a girl.”
“Well, that makes sense. Angie tries to walk like Miss Cora and talk like her and boss people around like—”
He stopped abruptly, glancing at Lucy, as if he just realized to whom he was griping. Lucy had to bite on her lip to keep from laughing.
Fin spotted another woodpecker, which seemed to cheer him up. He chatted companionably for what seemed like a long stretch on a thin dirt trail, though it was difficult to get any sense of time in the thick woods.
“Up that ridge is by Sam Stamper’s place. You oughta stay clear of Sam’s place.”
“Why’s that?”
“He’s a whiskey maker. He ain’t here but his son is working in his place till he gets out of jail. If’n he ever gits out. I think he likes the pokey. Three meals a day.” Fin grinned, rubbing his stomach. “He had his chance to git out. Last February, four prisoners escaped from the county jail. Sam coulda made a break for it along with them prisoners, but he decided he’d jest ruther stay put.”
“How did they escape?”
“They’d been sawing the bars on the window for months and the sheriff never caught wind of it. Middle of the night, out they climbed, free as birds.”
“Why were they in jail in the first place?”
“Well, let’s see. Grant Gilkerson, he was in for cutting Marshall Moore.”
“Cutting?”
“Murder.” Fin made a slashing movement with his hand. “He’s known for being good with the knife. I figure he’s the one who got the ideer of cutting the bars. Now, Jess Adkins . . . I do believe he was arrested for forging checks. Cooper Alley and Nora Byron . . . hmm, I can’t remember what they was in the pokey for.”
“After the escape, were they ever caught?”
“Naw. Sheriff’s still workin’ on it.” He glanced at Lucy. “You might hear about mountain folks catching glimpses of Grant Gilkerson roaming the hollers on moonlit nights, slashing away. Practicin’.” He brandished his arm like a sword. “Grant left a note on his jail bunk that he’s out for revenge on the town for lockin’ him up.”
Lucy couldn’t quite tell if Fin was making stories up to frighten her or if this was the strange new world she had come to. And if it was the latter, she had no one to blame but herself. Her father had tried to warn her.
Just ahead of Fin, in the gloom among the thick shelter of trees, she could barely make out the bones of a tiny dilapidated cabin.
When they came to the clearing of the yard, Fin hopped off his horse in one seamless move. He cupped his hand around his mouth. “Miss Mollie? Mollie McGlothin? It’s me. Finley James.” He turned to Lucy. “Some folks say she’s as mad as the moon, but don’t believe a word o’ it.” He shouted out to her again. “Always best to let her know who you be. She’s a little deef and she may be older than dirt, but she still got good aim.”
Three
FINLEY JAMES WALKED past a rusty iron kettle and hopped over a large ax in a chunk of tree stump, then jumped up to the porch to rap on the door. “Miss Mollie? You in there? I brung you a visitor.” He put his ear to the door, then turned to nod at Lucy. “She’s a-comin’.”
The door creaked open and a small cloud of gray grizzled hair poked out.
“Hey, Miss Mollie,” Fin said. “How y’ doing today?”
“Tolable like.”
“Well, that’s good t’ hear.”
“Oh, I got me a touch of the collywobbles.” The door opened a little wider to reveal a wrinkled face, crackled as an old mixing bowl. “Who you got there?”
“This here’s Miss Cora’s second cousin. On her paw’s side. She’s a Wilson. Goes by Lucy. Miss Cora sent her to write yor letter so ya don’t have to travel to town this week.”
The door opened wide to reveal a bent figure as old as Methuselah. Near her feet, a chicken pecked. Then another.
“Chickens!” Lucy burst out. “There’s chickens in the cabin. Fin! Do something! Help her collect them!”
“Mollie likes ’em inside.”
She looked at him in astonishment. “Whyever for?”
“To keep ’em safe. They’s like pets to her.”
“But . . . safe from what?”
“Foxes. Bobcats. The occasional wolf or bar.”
“What kind of animal is a bar?”
“Ain’t ya ever met up with a grizzly bar?”
“Bear?” He meant bear?!
His eyes twinkled and she hoped he was teasing her again. He waved to her. “Come on down off that pony and be friendly.”
Lucy lifted a leg over the pony’s head and caught her dress on the saddle cantle, nearly toppling headfirst. She hung on to the saddle horn for dear life.
“No, no! Not that way.” Fin jumped off the porch and ran to untangle her dress and hold her steady as she slid clumsily down the side of the pony. “Thunderation! Ain’t ya ever got off a pony afore?”
Lucy swayed on her feet. Her backside was completely numb. Smoothing out her skirt, she said, “I told you. Not a horse. Not a pony. Not any kind of beast.”
“How’d you git places?”
“By carriage, of course.”
“Y’ mean, a jolt wagon?”
“What’s that?”
Fin looked at her as if she were from another world. “An ox cart.”
“Oh misery me! No! Never!”
Exasperated, Fin started toward the cabin. “Come on and meet Miss Mollie.”
Picking her way gingerly through the weedy yard, Lucy reached Miss Mollie and put her hand out to shake. The old woman didn’t take it, only peered at Lucy through milky pale blue eyes, rimmed red, sunken deep. “You don’t look much like Cora. I’ve knowed her since she was jest a girl.” She looked past Lucy. “Where’s yor pony off to?”
Lucy spun around to see Jenny’s hindquarters trot down the path toward the woods. “Oh no! No! Stop!” She’d had to nudge and kick that pony all the way up that mountain, and now Jenny seemed to be in a hurry to get home. She started to chase after the pony, but Fin got to her first and grabbed the reins.
“Ya didn’t tie her up!”
“Tie her up? To what?”
Fin shook his head in disbelief. “If ya don’t have something to tie a horse to, ya never leave it facing home. Always turn yor mount around. Everybody knows that much.”
“I didn’t.”
He seemed appalled at her ignorance. “I’m gonna water them horses. You go read and write for Miss Mollie afore she needs her afternoon nap.” He lowered his voice to add, “She’ll offer you food but don’t take it.”
“Why not? I’m quite hungry.”
Fin rolled his eyes. “Cuz then she might not have no supper for herself.”
Lucy went to the porch where Miss Mollie continued to eye her with suspicion. “Shall we get started?” She wanted to get back down that mountain and into a hot bath at Miss Maude’s boarding house. At least, she hoped there was a bathtub at Miss Maude’s.
“Jest how be you kin to Cora? You shore don’t look like her.”
“Miss Mollie,” Fin said firmly, leading the horse and pony to a rusty trough filled with dirty rainwater. “Cora said to tell you she’s kin. That’d be all that matters.”
“Cora said you needed help writing a letter,” Lucy said.
Mollie scratched her chin. “Mebbe I’ll jest wait on Cora.”
“No, ya cain’t,” Fin shouted, though he was far on the other side of the yard.
He must have ears like an owl, Lucy thought.
“You know as well as I do what Miss Cora tol’ you,” he yelled.
Gingerly, Lucy climbed the porch steps, stepping around rotted boards and who knew what else. “What exactly did Miss Cora tell you?”
“She sez that from now on, you’ll be doing the reading and writing chores.”
From now on? Lucy had no such intention.
Miss Mollie called down to Fin. “I don’t want no jasper knowin’ my business.”
Fin had left the pony and horse at the trough and picked up the axe that had been jammed in a tree stump. “Miss Mollie, Miss Cora sent along a letter from Jane. How ’bout if Miss Lucy reads it to ya? Then you can decide if ya want to let her know yor business.”
Fin had found just the right words to soften the old woman. “Come on in then,” she said, still eyeing Lucy.
As Lucy followed her into the one-room cabin, she was slapped in the face by a mélange of strong, heavy smells: cooking fat, tobacco smoke, and something sour and musty and tangy. Chicken dung? She nearly lost her breakfast from the rank stink. She took a handkerchief out of her skirt pocket and covered her nose as her eyes adjusted to the gloom. She could see nothing at first, other than the glow of coals coming from a fireplace. When she realized the floor was made of dirt, she gasped.
Miss Mollie didn’t notice. She hobbled over to a rocking chair in front of an open stone hearth, so large it nearly took up the full wall. She took a clay pipe that was resting on the hearth and settled into the rocking chair, stuck the pipe between her lips, and sucked in air so that her cheeks disappeared. She exhaled, coughing, and pointed to a stool. “Sit down by the far. Better laht.”
Far? What did she mean? Oh . . . fire! Laht. Light.
“Lemme hear what m’ girl has to say.”
Stalling to cover her shock at the condition of the cabin, Lucy pretended to blow her nose behind her handkerchief. There was a small rope mattress bed tucked against the wall near the fireplace, and a large blackened kettle hung on a hook in the open hearth. Besides the rocking chair and the stool, there was no place else to sit or to eat. And chickens strutted about, making discontent squawks, leaving feathers and other remains behind. The only heat came from the coals in the fire, and they gave off more sooty smoke than warmth. It all seemed so . . . primitive. How could anyone live like this?
Swallowing a groan, Lucy tucked the handkerchief away, eased her aching bottom onto the little stool, and opened the large envelope to find the letter meant for Mollie McGlothin. Lucy cleared her throat and began.
Dear Maw,
It was wonderful to hear from you. We are settling into Chicago and getting used to the bustle and noise. Clive is happy with his job as a meat packer and wants to stay put. I miss the peace and quiet of the mountains, and the people, but I think he is right about cities and opportunities. He says to tell others who want to stop working in the timber. He says he will help find them work, so long as they can cipher numbers and write their own name.
Maw, I have some good news. My Eliza and her Bobby are going to have a baby come summer. How many great-grandchildren will that make for you?
Please ask Miss Cora to write again for you soon.
Fondly, Jane
Lucy put the letter down and took a fresh piece of stationery out of the large envelope. “Shall I take dictation for you?”
Mollie’s sparse eyebrows shot up. “Y’ take the drink?” She pointed to a mason jar on the hearth. She smiled then, eyes twinkling, a lovely smile except for her missing teeth. “Go on. Holp y’self.”
Confused, Lucy tried again. “Shall I write down what you’d like to say to your daughter?”
“Oh shore, like Cora does.” She settled back in her rocking chair and folded her arms against her and closed her eyes. “Dear Jane. It was a real treat to git yor letter and hear another baby is a’ coming. I do believe this will make eight great-grans for me, but each one is mighty special soz I don’t like thinking about them as if they was jest numbers . . .”
Lucy wrote as fast as she could, not wanting to interrupt Mollie’s stream of consciousness. One page was filled, then another, then another. Lucy’s hand started aching at the sheer volume of Mollie’s soliloquy. Finally, the old woman slowed down to a drizzle. “One more thing, dear Jane. Do not neglect yor Bible reading each and every day. The mighty Word of God has a way of working its way into yor soul. Love, your Maw.”
Lucy paused, pondering that last phrase. She’d never considered the Word of God to be much more than a list of dos and don’ts.
“Read it back to me, soz I know you done right.”
Lucy cleared her throat and read Mollie’s letter just as she’d dictated it. She thought the old woman nodded off during page 2, as her chin dropped to her chest. Then she realized that tears were trickling down the old woman’s parchment-like cheeks. “Mollie, what’s wrong?”
“If only I could read and write m’ own words.”
“But . . . I took care to write down just what you said.” In the exact way she’d spoken. Lucy didn’t even try to correct her shocking grammar.
“You done jest fine. But it ain’t the same.”
Considering Mollie McGlothin had spent most of her life without reading and writing, it seemed a little silly to fuss over it now.
“Mebbe you can teach me.” The old woman leaned forward in her rocking chair. “Cora’s too busy, but you gots time. What else ya gots to do?”
The eagerness in her voice caught Lucy by surprise. “Oh my goodness . . . I’m no teacher. I’m here to help Cora with her work as superintendent of the county schools. And I’m sure that will keep me quite busy.” Lucy wasn’t really sure what work that might be, but she hoped it would be significant. For a moment, she forgot she wanted to leave Rowan County as soon as possible.
Clearly disappointed in Lucy, Miss Mollie leaned back in her rocker. “I’m feeling a little tarred.”
“Tarred?”
“Tarred,” Miss Mollie repeated with a yawn. She turned away from her to stare into the coals, and it wasn’t long before Lucy heard a whiffling snore.
Lucy folded Jane’s letter and tucked it in an envelope to mail from the Morehead post office. Quietly, she tiptoed to the open door, longing for fresh air. Mollie’s snoring deepened and Lucy suddenly realized what “tarred” meant. Tired! Outside, she took several gulps of cold, clean air, eager to get the smelly stink of chickens out of her nose. She felt as if she had stepped off the train this morning into another country, separated from the world she had known.
Fin was tossing wood up on the porch and had taken his shirt off, sweating from the labor. Lucy was startled to see the boy was bone thin, ribs sticking out. But then Mollie McGlothin’s living condition shocked her too. It shamed Lucy to realize she’d had no idea this kind of poverty existed, just sixty-five miles from Lexington. She cringed as she thought of how she must have sounded in Cora’s office earlier today, wondering where her next meal might come from. Lucy had never gone hungry a day in her life. Watching Fin work so hard for a meal and a few bits, she wondered how many meals he’d gone without.
She set down Cora’s large envelope and got to work to help Fin finish the stacking. She noticed that under the porch were rows of mason jars, like the one on the hearth that Mollie had offered to her. She bent down and took one out, unscrewed it, and got a whiff of strong liquor. “Pew!”
Fin stopped stacking wood and put his hands on his hips, eyes dancing with amusement. “Why, Miss Lucy, ya didn’t strike me as a gal with a taste for moonshine.”
Moonshine? “I’m not! Truly, I’m not. There were so many jars lined up and I wondered what was in them.”
“Don’t ya worry none. I won’t tell nobody. It’ll be our little secret.”
As she started to sputter away, defending herself, he doubled over in laughter, and she realized he was teasing her again, and she found she didn’t mind so much. They smiled at each other then. Their first moment of affinity.
When all the wood was leaning against the wall, Fin shielded his eyes to see how low the sun was dropping. “We’d best be off.”
They stopped beside the creek to rest. Fin broke his corn bread in half and shared it with her. Sunlight dappled through the trees; a gentle breeze rustled the leaves. It was peaceful here with the creek gurgling and the birds chirping in the treetops and the soft sound of the
horses’ tails as they swished. Every now and then the birds would grow quiet, and she had never experienced such stillness.
Such a deep, deep quiet.
Without realizing it, she let out a soft sigh.
He grinned. “It’s even nicer when the weather warms some and the leaves finish comin’ out. But I think fall’s my favorite time. All them colors in the leaves, and the way they rustle under the horse’s feet . . . it’s real nice.”
Lucy tilted her head. So this boy had a bit of poetry in him. “Do others live like Mollie?”
“How’s that?”
The dirt, the poverty. Mason jars full of home-brewed alcohol under the porch. “Chickens wandering in and out of the house.”
He bit off a piece of corn bread and took a moment to chew. “Them chickens, they be good company for Mollie. She don’t have no family around no more.”
“Why didn’t she move to Chicago with her daughter and son-in-law? Or her other children? Why doesn’t she go live with them?”
“This holler is her home. She don’t know nothin’ different.”
Lucy cringed at his grammar but took care not to show it. Oh, it was awful! It hurt her ears to hear him butcher the English language so. “It must be lonely for her.”
He shrugged. “Folks look out for each other. They’s good to each other.”
“Mollie’s son-in-law . . . his name is Clive?”
Fin nodded. “Yep.”
“Jane wrote that Clive wanted to encourage workers to leave the timber. He said to tell others he’d help them get jobs, so long as they can read and write.”
Fin chewed thoughtfully. “Most cain’t.”
“I thought the lumber companies needed workers.” Lumber was king, her father always said. Other eastern Kentucky counties had coal reserves, but for Rowan County, their treasure was their trees. She waited for him to chime in, but he was peering up at the treetops.
“Fin?”
He dropped his chin and gave her a long, steady look, and she caught a fleeting glimpse of the man he would become, strong-willed and determined. “Yor paw owns Valley View Lumber? Ain’t that so?” Then he glanced away, as if deciding not to say more.
The Moonlight School Page 4