And that was why David had a valid point about the “Black Betty.” Everyone in Cutter Gap knew that it was on occasions like this that the potent whiskey unlocked old grudges. Tempers usually flared, knives and guns might be whipped out. Fights and eye-gougings, knifings and shooting—celebrations all too often ended in tragedy.
So if they were going to insist on mountain dew as usual, David had almost refused to perform the ceremony. But there was not another preacher within many miles, and he could scarcely see the couple start out without benefit of clergy.
There was loud chatter and much squealing as the crowd backed away from the old squire to leave plenty of space for the racing horsemen, then quietness as everyone listened for the hoof beats and the shouts of the racers. At last we heard them. From the gleeful shouts, I knew that the bridegroom’s friends who had been elected to run for the bottle were riding dangerously, whipping and spurring their horses, streaking over boulders and gulleys and streams, jumping fences, headlong and heedless.
“They’re a-comin’,” yelled Uncle Bogg as the horses’ hooves pounded closer and closer. “And they’re not moseyin’. Yippee, Ya, Ya! Makin’ a noise like the whole Cher’kee nation full of corn juice.”
The crowd surged forward to see, then fell back for safety as Uncle Bogg held the bottle high. Soon we could see that it was Arrowood Holcombe out in front, Wraight Holt several hundred yards behind. Arrowood’s horse sailed over the fence, and with a swoop and a holler, horse and rider were into the yard, Arrowood’s hand stuck out to grab the bottle, the horse rearing and pawing as he reined him in. Now the crowd surged forward engulfing the winner. From where I was standing on the porch I watched Arrowood uncork the bottle and offer it first to the girl-bride. Ruby Mae tilted her head back to drink, then red of face, coughing and sputtering, handed it back. Now Arrowood was taking his dram, and from his hands the bottle would start the rounds of the bridegroom and his friends. Looking at the poor horses, their sides still heaving, their flanks glistening with sweat—all done in—it seemed that it was the horses that could have used the drinks.
David made no move until the last drop of Black Betty was gone. Then before any other bottles or jugs could be brought out, his booming voice rang out from the top step. “Ruby Mae—Will—big moment’s come. Make way for the bride and bridegroom, folks.”
The ceremony was to take place inside the cabin. David stood with his back to the fireplace. Something in his bearing must have seemed a rebuke to the attitude of many in the crowd, for the conversation ceased and one by one the men began removing their hats. And then the ancient and beautiful words rang out: “Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God and in the presence of these witnesses, to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony, which is an honorable estate—” I knew that David was doing his best to throw a cloak of love and caring over the unseemly situation in its shabby setting. The meaning he was pouring into his words had an immediate effect on the bride: her voice was quavery as she spoke her vows.
“Look ye,” Granny Barclay whispered to me. “Her eyes be a-puddlin’ already.” I noticed tears in the groom’s eyes too.
As I stood there thinking of the life this girl-bride was assuming, more than ever the plight of the mountain women was dramatized for me. Typically, the couple would pile a brokendown bedstead, a few quilts, some split-bottom “settin’ chairs,” a minimum of kitchen utensils on a lumber wagon, hitch a cow to the tailboard, and be off to make their way in the world. In these mountains even that many possessions were considered “a heap of house plunder.” Yet the women accomplished so much with so little.
In fact, I had never known such courageous and hardworking women as many of these. Literally and symbolically, they never let the fires go out on their hearths. I wondered how city wives back in Asheville would react to having to spin wool or flax into yarn or thread, then weave the cloth, then make all the family’s clothing. They not only did all the washing and ironing (without tap water too) but even made the soap. They baked all the bread and cakes, milked the cows and churned the butter, or there would not be any butter. I thought of the advice I had overheard a granny giving a younger woman after church one Sunday. “You’ll jest have to do like the rest of us wimmin and stand what the good Lord sees fit to put on us. He’ll not overload ye, honey.”
Well, the good Lord was blamed for a lot of things. And “overload” was too mild a word for what these women suffered—often while their men were spending whole days roaming the wood with their favorite hounds, hunting. Or else the womenfolk stood by helplessly in misery and heartbreak over the feuding.
David’s voice went on, “So you are pledging each other in the language of Ruth and Naomi, ‘Whither thou goest, I will go: where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God, my God; where thou diest, I will die, and there will I be buried: the Lord do so to me and more also, if aught but death part thee and me.’ ”
Then came the exchange of the vows themselves, only there was no ring for Ruby Mae. David’s deep voice rang out, “Whom God hath joined, let no man put asunder. By the authority committed unto me as a minister of the church of Christ, I declare that Ruby Mae and William are now husband and wife. Let us pray.”
After that, Ruby Mae laid her head on the bridegroom’s shoulder and let her tears flow. Once she raised her head to choke out, “Hit was so beautiful, Rev’rend Grantland. Didn’t know as I could stand it.”
The Cove people scarcely knew what to make of this ceremony. All around me I heard comments: “Best talkin-est preacher-parson I ever saw. Lifts my heart” . . . “Lorda-mercy, that couple should stick better’n mollasses. They was shorely j’ined in that sarvice.”
Suddenly Opal was standing beside me. Her eyes were red. “Guess I shouldn’t have come. Whole way through, right from the start my eyes were shammily with tears. I kept rememberin’ . . .”
I pressed her hand, “I know, Opal. But this fall you must see more of your friends. Being here is better than staying home by yourself.”
Now the room was clearing around us since all the guests knew that the feast came next. Boards over sawhorses formed long tables. They were soon groaning under wild roast turkeys, deer meat, fried ham and sausage, all sorts of vegetables, pies, and cakes.
It was later on while we were eating that Dr. MacNeill made his way across the room to me. He was munching on a wedge of sweet-potato pie. “Still mad at me, Christy?”
I looked at him in astonishment. “Why, hello, Dr. MacNeill. Of course not! Why should I be mad at you?”
“For today I haven’t the least idea. Seems like the last time we were together you ran out on me.” He took another bite of the pie. “Could I get you some pie or cake or something?”
“Thanks, no. I’ve finished.”
My mind was not on food. Why, he must be referring to that conversation in my schoolroom. Here he is picking it up as if it had happened last week. Perhaps time does all but stand still back in these mountains. But our talk was so long ago. To me, it seems like years ago. And since then so much has happened. Tom’s murder. Miss Alice’s revelation. My trip home. The speech in Knoxville. Then with a start, I realized that I had not seen Dr. MacNeill since back in July.
“That day in your school,” Dr. MacNeill went on, “you know, you actually thought I knew something that would save Tom. Do you still think that, Christy? I’d hate to have you blaming me for Tom’s death.”
Such a frontal approach caught me unprepared. I cast around for a quick way to change the subject. “Maybe this isn’t the best place to talk about it. Too many people to overhear, don’t you think? Opal, for instance.”
“True.”
“And not exactly wedding festivity talk.”
“Point made. Another time then.” He rumpled the back of his hair with his restless fingers in that characteristic gesture of his. Banter came into his voice, “Are you prepared for the ceremonies?”
“I thought we
’d had the ceremony.”
“That’s right, you’ve never attended one of our mountain weddings before, have you?” He waved a hand in the direction of the fireplace where David had stood. “That now, David’s part, that was pure preliminary. Real ceremony’s coming up—if the scalawag boys can catch the bride and groom to shivaree them. Riding the rail’s another name for it. Then there’s belling the bride. And putting the bride to bed.”
The last topic seemed like a good one to avoid, so I pounced on the first, “I’ve heard of riding the rail but I never quite saw the point. It always seemed like children playing horse.”
Dr. MacNeill’s eyes crinkled. “Christy, you amaze me. Grown girl leaves home to be on her own.” He shook his head at me. “All right, Papa will explain. Bit more to it than children playing horse. Practical joke stuff, sure. Pretty crude. Let me think how I can put this so’s not to offend you. No riding the rail side-saddle for the bride allowed. Strictly astride.”
The doctor was enjoying the look on my face, making no effort to hide his raillery. Well, he was more right than he knew. For no reason at all, at that moment I thought of my mother and how little sex information she had given me. How could she, mother, who could scarcely even bring herself to say the word “sex”? On these rare occasions when she could not sidestep it, she had a way of half-swallowing the word so that it came out sounding like “sect.”
Over the doctor’s shoulder I saw that Jeb Spencer had set the fiddle against his chest and was tuning up. Wraight Holt had joined him with a banjo. With twangy chords sliding into a fast jog and Jeb’s bow singing across the strings the music started. As in the past Uncle Bogg was in the middle of things ready to call the figures. I marveled that from all appearances the old man had recovered so quickly from his son’s murder. Or, I wondered, was this just another example of Uncle Bogg’s callousness?
“Scrooch them settin’ chairs against the walls, boys. Gonna need a heap of room.” The old squire was clapping his hands. “Gyarner ’em in, folks. In—a—cir-cle. The Tenn’see Wag-on Wheel. Here—we—go!”
The tune was the familiar “Skip to My Lou.” The music snaked across the floor, swirled around my ankles, set my toes to tapping. Dr. MacNeill saw. “Come on, Christy. Into the circle we go.”
“Cir-cle left! ” . . . Cir-cle right! . . . Swing your partner . . . Now . . .” The doctor was surprisingly nimble. I had never done much square dancing, so did not know all the intricate figures. But by whispered instruction and skillful leading, he was steering me with scarcely a step missed by either of us. The rhythm beat and surged around us. The man must have learned this dance in his cradle!
“La-dies back . . . Gents to the cen-ter . . .”
Close up, some of these men were a little pungent. Out behind the cabin or somewhere the jugs were being tilted.
“With a Right Hand Wheel . . . And back the other way . . . With a Left Hand Wheel! . . . Pick up your partner!”
The doctor’s strong arms lifted me off the floor as easily as if I had been a child. Whirl and twirl . . . bend and swing . . . round and round. The music was so delicious. It ached behind my eyes and pulled and titillated.
“Swing your part-ner!”
I was spun through the air, blood racing with the music, aware of the doctor’s face close to mine, sometimes half-smiling, sometimes laughing, drawing me to him. “Right—left, Right—left . . . Right—left, Right—”
“And now, once a-gain, swing your part-ner—Prom-e-nade!”
We were making an arch with our raised arms and the couples were coming through. “Bend low! Through the tunnel. Follow the leader . . . Now for the Bas-ket . . . All to the center! . . . Ladies stay in and the gents come back!”
This one was really ingenious. Soon I saw how “the basket” was made. Women in the inner circle joined hands raised; men in the outer circle ducking under. We were joining arms at waist level to circle the basket. As complicated and delightful as an old quilt pattern, I was thinking. The American frontier had its dangers and its hard work but it also had a rare talent for making its own fun.
“Off the floor . . .” And the Tennessee Wagon Wheel ended.
I half collapsed against the wall. “You aren’t—breathless—a bit—” I chided Dr. MacNeill.
“Used to it. Anyway that was only a middlin’ fast tune.”
More music . . . Jeb had itchy fingers for his fiddle bow today. But no one was dancing this one, so I took it to be an in-between tune. In a rich baritone the doctor started singing the words:
Cheeks as red as a bloomin’ rose,
Eyes of the deepest brown,
You are the darlin’ of my heart,
Stay till the sun goes down.
All around us, voices picked up the song. Such an enigmatic look on the doctor’s face! What did that look mean?
Shady Grove, my little love,
Shady Grove, my dear,
Shady Grove, my little love,
I’m goin’ to leave you here.
Only a song, but why did he keep his eyes on my face? “I’m thirsty,” I said abruptly—and turned toward the one sawhorse table left pushed against the wall. There were pitchers of spring water and what looked like several kinds of fruit juice. I poured a little of one and gingerly tasted it. Raspberry juice, I thought. It was refreshing. So I poured a full glass.
As I drank, I spied David across the room talking to Miss Alice. I had not seen much of her today because she had been so busy in the kitchen. As I stood there sipping the fragrant juice, I was thinking what a difficult position David was in even with the dancing. Most of the shouting mountain parsons forbade dancing, in fact preached that dancing feet might be on the slippery road to hell-fires. This was not David’s viewpoint naturally, since he had enjoyed dancing back home. It was not Dr. Ferrand’s either, I had heard, and since the little doctor had left behind all denominational shelters, the Cutter Gap people felt more freedom about dancing and other customs. On the other hand, they were still not willing to give their preacher the liberties they enjoyed. “Ain’t fitten. Not proper for a preacher-parson.” So David, not wanting to flaunt this, was not joining in. Perhaps, I was thinking, I should go and keep David company.
But Jeb, that natural-born fiddler, was tuning up again. Jeb must like fiddling better than he liked eating, and that was saying a lot. The fiddle whined and cried and sang.
“We’re a-goin’ ‘Step Charlie,’ folks,” Uncle Bogg called, dancing a pigeon-wing all by himself in the middle of the floor.
Charlie’s neat and Charlie’s sweet,
And Charlie he’s a dan-dy—
“Circle up, folks . . . Circle up . . . Wimmin on the right.”
Dr. MacNeill was instantly at my side, expertly propelling me to the center of the floor.
Over the river to feed my sheep
And over the river, Charlie,
Over the river to feed my sheep
And to measure up my barley.
“La-dies in!”
The doctor sang as he swung me:
My pretty little pink, I once did
think I never could do without you . . .
“Gents in! . . . Grab, boys! Grab!”
This was fun! I was feeling better and better, warm and tingly. My feet had wings.
Overhead strange noises cut into my thoughts, girlish giggling, laughs and squeals. I had not noticed anyone leaving but now I saw that the circle of dancers was noticeably smaller.
As if in answer to my unspoken question Dr. MacNeill jerked one thumb to point at the ceiling. “I told you. Ceremony’s beginning. Putting the bride to bed.
“All to the cen-ter. Just go!”
Charlie’s neat, and Charlie’s sweet
And Charlie he’s a dan-dy—
Scrape, scrape, scrape over our heads. More giggling and shrieking. Step . . . step . . . right and left . . . right and left.
“You mean really putting the bride to bed—now—with all of us still here?” I asked.
“Sure—now.”
The girls were trouping down from the loft—without Ruby Mae—and the men made a dive for Will Beck. There was a lot of scuffling, several chairs turned over, while the music went right on. “Git him. Pound him. Sure’s the world, we’ll fix him proper.”
“I’m batchin’ it, fellers,” Will yelled from where he had been flattened on the floor and was lying now between the legs of one of his friends. “Didn’t I tell ye? Con-found you—Un-unh!”
Will never had a chance. Held roughly by the scruff of his neck, jerked and pummeled, he was already on his way to the loft, tightly wedged in the group of boys. The whole picture was absurd.
And then somehow, what was happening to Will and the wedding night scene in the loft receded into the distance. I was caught up in the gleeful harmony beating at my temples, singing in my blood, pulling at my nerves, tinglingly delightful. The doctor danced as naturally as a bird flies or a fish swims. By now I knew that I didn’t even have to think; I could just give myself to his arm around me with assurance. The guiding arm was so sure and firm, the rhythm such a part of my body now that I could almost forget about my feet.
It ended too soon. My partner spun me around with a final flourish. As I let my head fall back in a moment of joyous rapture, I met the doctor’s eyes. They glistened with approval—and something else. When I pulled my head back up, his lips brushed my forehead. For a moment his arm stayed firmly behind my back with my body pressed tightly against him.
Then he loosened his arm around me and the room spun slightly. Was it the music and the twirling which made me feel this way? A panicky thought chased through my mind. What was happening to me? I was dizzy!
Dr. MacNeill was pulling out a chair for me, then he sat down backwards on one near me, propping his arms on the back of the chair. Fortunately, at that moment, there were new and bawdy noises overhead. The partitions of the cabin were so thin. Cornshuck mattresses were self-advertisers. Inwardly I was wincing and the doctor knew it.
Christy Page 44