Holding on to Nothing

by Elizabeth Chiles Shelburne

For in this world I’m bound to ramble

  I have no friends to help me now.

  It’s fare thee well my one true lover

  I never expect to see you again

  For I’m bound to ride that northern railroad,

  Perhaps I’ll die upon this train.

  The sorrow and the joy flowed out of him. He sang, loud and true, his every thought of Jared and Lucy, of their lives, and of the devastation he was responsible for. He whispered the last few verses.

  You can bury me in some deep valley

  For many years where I may lay

  Then you may learn to love another

  While I am sleeping in my grave.

  It’s fare you well to a native country

  The places I have loved so well

  For I have seen all kinds of trouble

  In this cruel world, no tongue can tell.

  Maybe your friends think I’m a stranger

  My face you’ll never see no more

  But there is one promise that is given

  I’ll meet you on God’s golden shore.

  The song ended on a long, drawn-out note from his mandolin. Silence followed. Jeptha wiped a tear off his cheek and looked out at the silent crowd. He peered past them, to where a light was shining down on a woman in the back—her long blond hair hanging wavy down her back and her nose upturned in a way that was more cute than beautiful. Lucy’s face was lined with the same tears and etched with the same never-ending sorrow as Jeptha’s. The saddest smile in the world flickered on her face as she nodded at him. Then the audience burst into applause, and she walked out the door.

  THE NEXT DAY Jeptha sat on his porch, mandolin in his hands. He looked out over the land. The hills, the grass, and the tobacco were as green as spring caterpillars. He closed his eyes for a moment and enjoyed the sun beating down on his face. He was so glad to be home, and yet so guilty at the blessing of it all. “I’m sorry,” he said to his son, as he did whenever he got to enjoy a moment that Jared should have.

  His new puppy licked his ankle, and Jeptha looked down at her with a smile. Bobby had shyly brought her over a week back. She was a little nip of a thing, blonde and fluffy and cuter than Crystal Gayle had been, but with those same awful teeth. Jeptha took it as a peace offering and snuggled her up on his chest where she promptly fell asleep. She’d followed Jeptha everywhere the last week and, like Crystal Gayle before her, most enjoyed sitting in front of his feet while he played, wagging her tail as he tapped his foot against her back in time to the music. Jeptha played a few bars but, hearing a note out of tune, bent his ear to his mandolin. He fiddled with it for a moment but stopped when he heard a car crunching up the gravel. It was Lucy’s beat-up Honda. His hands froze.

  She left her door open when she got out, clearly not meaning to stay long. He watched her walk up the hill, her blond hair as tangled and gorgeous as it had been the night that had started their whole story together. Jeptha was oddly relieved to realize he felt neither desire nor love for her. Their shared history had left him scrubbed raw, cauterized of all the emotions that had gotten them both in so much trouble. He saw her now and felt nothing but sorrow.

  She stood, one leg on the bottom step, her hands in the back pockets of her shorts. Her face was hard and planed. Unlike years before, when he’d seen this same look on her face when she was angry, he knew this wasn’t temporary; everything he’d done had permanently shaved the young, cute girl she used to be from her features. He saw her looking around at the place, knowing she hadn’t been there since Jared died. He choked up thinking about it and saw the same look on her face.

  “You got a dog,” she finally said.

  “Patsy Cline.”

  “She’s got teeth like Crystal Gayle.”

  “I know. Poor thing.”

  Patsy Cline’s tail thumped, and she looked up at Lucy with an interested woof.

  “Bobby brought her over last week. Think he was trying to apologize.”

  “Heard they put you on the deeds to the land.”

  “That’s what they say,” he said, shrugging. What had seemed like the worst insult in the world and the only thing that mattered three years ago now seemed so small, not remotely worth the worry and the people he’d thrown away over it. His plan these days was to work the land he got told to, get paid what he got paid, and focus on playing his mandolin and staying away from alcohol. He’d given up on the larger picture—he was just trying to get through each day.

  “Last night …” She stopped and swallowed. “You were good.”

  “I was just trying to apologize.”

  “You did. You have.”

  He stood up. “I’m so sorry, Lucy. Every day, every minute—I am sorry.”

  She looked away, over at the tobacco field, nearly ready to cut, and Jeptha saw her eyes fill with tears. “Me too.”

  They both stared at the land. The cicadas switched on, filling the low, oppressive air with their steady, pulsing drone, punctuated by the maraca shakes of katydids.

  She cleared her throat. “Just wanted to see the place. One more time.”

  He nodded. She walked back to her car. Leaning on the door, she stared up at the trailer behind Jeptha. He saw a tiny shiver shake her frame. Suddenly, the insects quieted, the world gone silent between them.

  “Take care of yourself,” she said and pulled the door closed behind her.

  Through the dust her car kicked up, Jeptha could see the cardboard boxes in her back seat. He guessed they were the ones labeled Knoxville, the same ones she’d been saving since he first came over to her house to assemble that crib so many years ago. He waved and saw her hand rise in reply. Then her car rolled toward the road. He watched long past the time when it disappeared from view. Around the time Lucy would have been turning onto 11w, her headlights pointing west to Knoxville, the cicadas came back on, the sound flooding Jeptha’s thoughts. Patsy Cline nudged her body into the space between Jeptha’s foot and the edge of the porch and whimpered low in her throat until he began stroking her fur with the toe of his boot.

  Jeptha picked up his mandolin and began to play.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  It’s been a very happy year for me, in large part because I have spent my days talking with an amazing team of women—the most talented, smart, and fun bunch a writer could hope to fall in with. Huge thanks to Ann Collette, my agent and guru for big necklaces and red lipstick, whose love for this book made me love it even more too, and whose perseverance found it a very happy home. For everyone at Blair, thank you for being the best publisher I could have hoped for. Robin Miura, editor extraordinaire, who “got” this book in a way that writers can only dream of. She’s an amazing editor, a joy to work with, and has a laugh that just makes you smile when you hear it. Lynn York, the best publisher one could hope to have, who brought all her know-how and genius to Blair and makes it a thriving house for books about the South and beyond; Carla Aviles, in-house publicity goddess for keeping it all straight; Arielle Hebert, the ops genius who keeps everything working smoothly; and Callie Riek, for beautiful banners. Laura Williams, for a cover that knocks me out with its beauty and depth every time I see it. Beth Parker, for laughter, good cheer, and having patience with me for every shitty idea I tossed her way but really celebrating the good ideas and making them better!

  This book wouldn’t be what it is without Grub Street. Thank you to Eve Bridburg, Chris Castellani, Sonya Larson, Kathy Sherbrooke, and everyone at Grub for the amazing work they do making Boston home to the very best writing community in the world. For my first teacher there, Yael Goldstein, whose support for the first twenty pages helped me keep writing the rest.

  I count myself so lucky to have gotten into Grub Street’s Novel Incubator many years ago—a million thank yous to Michelle Hoover and Lisa Borders for their wisdom, insight, and support for me and this book, and for all the authors you’ve nourished through that program! And for my Season Two friends and readers: Ashley Stone, Jerry Whelan, Mike Nolan, Ma
ndy Syers, Stephanie Gayle, Patricia Park, Hesse Phillips, Lisa Birk, and Carol Gray. For everyone in the other Incubator classes (we are a crew, y’all!) but especially Kelly Ford, beta reader and project manager launch extraordinaire; Jennie Wood, who has known and loved this book and me (and the feeling is mutual!) for too long; Susan Bernhard, who inspired me to keep writing and keep submitting; Michelle Ferrari, for being a burst of life and support when I needed it; and Rachel Barenbaum, an incredible writer and friend whose hard work is an inspiration. And to Sarah Pruski, whose web design genius brought y’all an actual website instead of the sad shell I would have put together. Thank you to Jamie Vacca Chambliss, Yun Soo Vermeule, and John Boveri who read parts of this book eighteen or more iterations ago. To William Dameron, Katrin Schumann, and Louise Miller for answering frantic debut-year questions. For the Facebook Debut Authors 19 group, y’all are like an encyclopedia and therapist all rolled into one. (With special thanks to the very generous James Charlesworth!) For my post-Incubator classmates Bob Fernandes, Janet Edwards, Bonnie Waltch, Andrea Meyer, Julia Rold, Desmond Hall, Sharissa Jones, Rebecca Rolland, Leslie Teel, Helen Bronk, Julie Carrick Dalton, and Louise Berliner: your wisdom and laughter kept me going! To E. B. Bartels and Natalie at Shay’s!

  Thank you to the team at MFN Partners, who let me turn your conference room into a WeWork and talked to me over cups of coffee in the kitchen, when I emerged from the dark lair of writing, starved for human contact. Special thanks to Nicole Whitney for making our trains run on time and cheerfully printing things out for me; to Rosemary Concepcion for catching all my editing mistakes; and for Avery Strassenberg, for making sure I got something to eat!

  I want to thank Rinn Mandeville, Indra Ali, and Lisa Lincoln who helped me with my human babies in too many ways to count, all of which helped me be able to think about these characters and write this book. Indra, you are missed. And to our beloved Val Brocco. We miss you, too.

  For blurbs and support and general lifetime awesomeness: Lisa Borders, Patricia Park, Jennie Wood, Kelly J. Ford, Susan Bernhard, Whitney Scharer, Michelle Hoover, Amy Greene, Bret Anthony Johnston, Lauren Groff, Ron Rash, and Lee Smith. Your amazingly kind words about this book left me speechless.

  I’ve got some amazing friends, y’all, and I can’t believe I’m so lucky as to know them: Lauren Margulies, Abby Freirech, Karlis Kirsis, Jill Brennan, Joanna Lydgate, Katie Pickett, Marion Min-Barron, Kate Flaim, Caroline Adler, Jennie Weiner, Debbie Goldstein, Elli Bonnett, Cristina Ferrer, Missy Schneller, Lisa Alpern, Karen Nanji, and Ellie Chu. With a special shout-out to Ivana Ma, my friend and unpaid West Coast publicist!

  For Raven Ladon, the best nanny any family could ever have, whose hard work and love for our kids has allowed me the space to write this book.

  For Mike’s family, into which I have happily been adopted: Diana and Pat Ryan, Paula Studzinski, Viola Vanderzwalm, Stefanie, Manny and Tino Velez, Katina and Brett Henderson, and Kara Studzinski.

  For my grandparents, my first models for readers and thinkers and talkers: Lesley and Betty Shelburne and John Russell and Sarah Parham Chiles.

  For Amherst College, which taught me so much about books and about the world. I am so grateful you gave this Tennessee girl a shot. To The Atlantic, when it was here in Boston, who gave me my first real gig and taught me to keep asking questions.

  For my mom, Sally Chiles Shelburne, who wrote fearlessly and beautifully in the face of people who wished she wouldn’t, and continues to parent fiercely every day of her life—thank you for being the model. For my dad, Thomas David Shelburne, who taught me the value of telling stories and listening to the people whose stories don’t get told. Plus, the value of a great punch line. For my sister Sarah, and brothers Tommy and Will, who are the best siblings one could ever hope for. I loved growing up dirty and half-wild with y’all as my pack. And to Lesli and Sara, the best sisters-in-law!

  Eliza Jane, David, Theo, and Charlie, y’all are the most awesome, hilarious, adventurous, and personable lot I’ve ever seen. See, Mama told you she was working! Keep reading and writing and laughing. I love you.

  For my husband, Mike: I’m not sure how twenty years has gone by, but you’ve made me laugh every day and given me the space and ability to write. I thank God that I drank all that gin and kissed you that night. I am beyond lucky to have you.