by Chris Offutt
Three hours later they arrived in town. Morehead sat in the widest holler in the hills, which allowed sufficient space for a train station, a hotel, three stores, and a diner. Tucker stopped at a filling station, where a man pumped gas into the car. He wore greasy coveralls with his name stitched in cursive on an oval patch: Chester.
Tucker went inside for a pack of smokes, two RC colas, a bag of peanuts, a Valomilk, and a moon pie. He had no idea what Rhonda might like and didn’t want to go out and ask her in front of the gas station attendant. Chester came in, made change from a ten-dollar bill, and accompanied Tucker outside. He walked slowly around the car and gave a long low whistle of admiration.
“Nice rig,” he said, then dropped his voice. “Who you running for?”
Tucker looked at him without talking.
“Don’t tell me nothing,” Chester said. “But I know a run-rig when I see it. If you got ary a spare jar, I don’t mind a drink now and then.”
“A run-rig.”
“No need to play dumb. Fact is, I work on them. But I ain’t seen this one before. If you ain’t running for Beanpole, I’d keep on going right straight out of the county. Beanpole ain’t one to like competition.”
“I just got out of the army,” Tucker said. “Looking for work. Maybe I’ll drive for Beanpole. How do I get hold of him?”
“You don’t,” Chester said. “A little bird will let him know and he’ll get hold of you.”
Tucker nodded.
“What’s your name, buddy?” Chester said.
“Tucker. From the last hill on the line at Carter County.”
“Say you’re a Tucker? Heard you’uns was bad to be wild.”
Tucker faced the man square on, shoulders relaxing on their own, breathing slowly. His fingers brushed the Ka-Bar hilt as he lifted his eyes to the man’s face for the first time. Chester took a step back.
“Might not have been your bunch,” Chester said. “Job like this, you hear a lot. Hard to keep the bullshit straight from the real.”
“You tell Beanpole I’m real.”
Tucker turned his back on the man, knowing Chester was all hole and no coal, a mouthy man pushing gas. In the car he gave Rhonda the pop and candy.
“How about we eat a regular meal at that diner yonder,” she said. “I only ate in one once. They had the coldest Co-Colas ever was.”
They sat in the back near the noisy kitchen, less for privacy than the sudden self-consciousness due to their bedraggled state. Eight other people ate lunch or drank coffee, all dressed better than Tucker and Rhonda. An older waitress brought them glasses of pop, french fries, and cheeseburgers. They ate quickly, then ordered milk shakes to go and walked to the car, eager to get away from the sidelong looks of town people. They didn’t belong and everyone in there knew it, most of all Tucker and Rhonda.
They drove east along a dirt side road that ended at Triplett Creek. Tucker smoked while Rhonda finished her milk shake. For two hours they made plans. They’d get married in the Clay Creek Church of God and move into his great-grandfather’s old house. He told her what Chester had said about Beanpole. She thought that if he had a run-car, he might as well put it to use. They’d need money for the kids they’d have. Tucker agreed with everything.
1964
Chapter Five
Hattie Johnson left Frankfort early, heading east toward the hills. She usually made the trip alone every three months, but this time her boss insisted on accompanying her. Hattie didn’t like it. She worried that Marvin was finding fault or didn’t trust her. He’d dismissed her concern, explaining that it was good for him to be in the field and get his hands dirty once in a while. Hattie didn’t care for the implication that her job or the people she assisted were in any way dirty.
They entered the hills, thick and dense as if a bolt of heavy moleskin had been unfurled in a hurry, still bunched up, its folds and dips never straightened. Marvin opened a worn folder on his lap. It was labeled “Tucker,” the ink slightly faded, thick with forms and reports. He thumbed through the file rapidly, then slowed and read it all, becoming more and more appalled.
“Are the parents related?” he said.
“No,” she said. “First thing I checked.”
“You sure?”
“Might be some overlap if you go far enough back, but not enough to worry over. I ran through state records and county.”
“Any history in either one’s family?”
“Nothing,” she said.
“Water?”
“Tested out okay. Deep well, same as everybody thereabouts.”
“We got to put a stop to it.”
“No law against it,” she said.
“There should be.”
“Lots of things in families they can’t help. I haven’t seen a perfect one yet.”
“This is a far cry from perfect,” he said. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
She stiffened slightly, fingers clenching the steering wheel. She cut him a quick glance but he wasn’t being accusatory, just perplexed.
“I filed my reports,” she said.
“I see that,” he said. “For eight years, looks like. Who else knows?”
“Neighbors. Teachers. State doesn’t send anyone but me.”
“There has to be a reason.”
“Bad luck, my opinion.”
“Good gosh almighty,” he said. “Does luck get this bad?”
“For some.”
They drove through Morehead and followed the railroad tracks deeper into the hills. Walls of impenetrable forest covered the land. Marvin’s anxiety grew as if he were entering a foreign country. The hills made him claustrophobic. Once in a while they passed a slight opening in the woods where a dirt lane led into a narrow gap. It was early autumn, still warm during the day, but Marvin shivered inside his clothes.
Past town, the blacktop became a series of dirt roads. Hattie stopped at the foot of a steep slope with a dry creek bed coming off the hill. She left the car and examined the dirt. Marvin joined her.
“What, pray tell, are you doing?” he said.
“Making sure we can pull the hill,” she said. “Lot of clay in this land. Easy to get stuck if it’s wet. But I don’t think it’s rained in a while. We can make it.”
“Make it where?”
“Up the hill,” she said and pointed to the creek bed. “That’s the road.”
“I need a minute,” he said.
“You can wait here, if you want.”
“No,” he said. “I’ll go, I’ll go.”
The air was silent save for the rumbling engine of her car. Hattie leaned on the rear fender. There were two Kentuckys, east and west, dirt and blacktop. She straddled them through her work. Marvin had made his first step across the boundary and was already out of sorts.
He inhaled as deeply as possible but the air didn’t seem to reach the bottom part of his lungs. Everything felt thick and heavy—the air, the terrain, the woods. Maybe at the top of the hill he’d be able to breathe easier. He got in the car and shut the door carefully, preferring to keep all movement as slow as possible. Something existed in the hills he didn’t want to disturb. It scared him and the fear made him angry. He wondered what kind of people lived here.
Hattie slid behind the wheel, battled the old clutch into low, and began climbing the hill, her feet moving among the pedals like playing a piano. Gravity pressed her against the seat. Tree limbs scraped the car on a sharp turn. The road flattened abruptly and a house presented itself in a wedge of trees. Scattered scraps of grass lay in patches on the bare earth. The small house had a new roof and a tar paper add-on tight against the hillside. A washtub covered the chimney to keep rain out.
Hattie honked twice, announcing her presence to the Tucker family. A scruffy brown dog lifted its lips to bare glinting teeth. A dirty yellow dog kept its distance. Marvin locked the car and Hattie grinned to herself. She’d never seen a dog yet that could operate a car door.
A young girl stepped onto the porc
h. She wore a homemade shift with no sleeves, its hand-sewn hems uneven and tattered. She slid two fingers into her mouth and whistled, then yelled. The yard dogs slank away, scruffs high like dorsal fins.
Hattie got out of the car and approached the house.
“Hidy, Jo,” she said. “You all right?”
Jo nodded.
“Mommy’s laying in the bed,” she said.
“Well, all right,” Hattie said. “I’ll wait for her. Got something in the car you might like.”
Jo’s face didn’t change, her expression maintaining its blank demeanor, freckled heavily as if by specks of flung gravy. She had thin arms and thin legs but Hattie wasn’t worried—they were a small-framed bunch.
Marvin left the car, aware of his proximity to the dogs and the thick brush marking the edge of the hill. The road or driveway or creek bed—whatever they’d just traveled—ended at the house with no room to turn around, no way to flee quickly. He joined Hattie, determined to stay close. She opened the trunk. Snugged against the spare tire was a wooden milk crate containing a bar of chocolate and a small stuffed pony with a yellow mane and tail.
“Wouldn’t a doll be a more appropriate gift?” Marvin said.
“Not really, no.”
“All the kids like Betsy Braid, Dick Tracy’s daughter.”
“That girl doesn’t need a doll to fool with,” Hattie said. “You’ll understand in a minute.”
Jo skittered off the porch and across the yard, her tiny feet raising tufts of dust. Hattie handed her the chocolate.
“Thank ye,” the girl said, her voice a shy muttering whisper.
She broke off a small piece, slid it in her mouth, and folded the paper around the rest. She smiled at Hattie, her dark eyes filled with appreciation. Hattie gave her the pony.
“It’s a palomino,” Hattie said. “You can name it yourself.”
The girl examined the stuffed animal as if it were a foreign object discovered in a lost city.
“Store-bought, ain’t it,” she said.
“That’s right,” Hattie said. “It’s from a factory in China.”
“A factory horse,” Jo said. “I’m going to name it China.”
Hattie spoke quietly to Marvin’s frown. “Most of the kids around here have homemade toys, but her mother hasn’t been able.”
Marvin nodded. The girl was slight as a vine, but appeared healthy and strong. Her limbs were well-muscled beneath her tan skin.
“How’s the little ones?” Hattie said.
“Good,” Jo said. “Same.”
“And your mama?”
“She ain’t much help here lately.”
“Your daddy home?”
Jo shook her head, her tiny shoulders tensing slightly. Marvin decided it was time for him to exert authority.
“Is he working?” he said.
The little girl turned and ran to the porch, disturbing a chicken that had emerged from the woods and idly pecked at the yellow-clay dirt. Hattie leveled a stare at Marvin, flat as barn wood and twice as hard.
“What?” he said. “It’s on the list of specific questions.”
“More than one way to get answers,” Hattie said. “Let me tell you something. You ask yes-or-no questions and you won’t get anything. Folks around here don’t think that way. A yes-or-no question will make them think there’s a right answer and a wrong one. They won’t speak because they don’t want to make a mistake.”
“How is being honest a mistake?”
“When the asker has an agenda. The police do that. Teachers and doctors, too. Now you’re doing it. I don’t, and that’s why they trust me. I know you’re my boss, Dr. Miller, but things in the hills aren’t that simple—who’s boss and who’s not. If somebody’s working or not, if a little girl is happy or sad. It’s not black and white here. It’s all gray.”
“Call me Marvin.”
“You’re learning. Now come on. Try not to look so scared.”
“I’m not scared.”
“All right, then. Whatever it is, try not to look it. Especially in their home.”
Marvin nodded, and followed her across the dirt to the worn three-step rise to the porch. The oak slats were grayed by weather and surprisingly smooth, years of tread having rounded the edges and rubbed splinters away. A broom leaned against the screen door. Wire and string mended the old mesh to keep bugs out. Hattie rapped on the warped door frame.
“Yoo-hoo,” she said. “Anybody home?”
Jo opened the door. “Mommy’s coming,” she said. “You-uns can set in the front room.”
Hattie and Marvin stepped into a kitchen with a red Formica table, trimmed by a metal band, and six chairs. A small Frigidaire hummed beside a single-basin sink. The wall held a faded reproduction of the Last Supper. Marvin nodded to himself, appreciating the Christian element, the general cleanliness, and the presence of running water.
Jo led them to the front room, where a couch with broad flat arms faced two easy chairs. The furniture was old and worn. A plaited oval rug lay on the floor. The walls held four black-and-white photographs of babies, and two color pictures depicting Jo in first and second grades. A bare bulb dangled overhead. A child’s crib with high sides sat in the corner.
Marvin looked inside the crib. A slender ten-year-old boy wearing a cloth diaper lay on his back, his face turned to the side. He breathed through his mouth. Drool ran from his mouth to a wet area on the bare mattress. The boy’s head was misshapen, three times the normal size, its weight preventing him from moving. The plates of the skull had never fused and two were distinctly visible, rising like flat islands from the pale skin. The flesh of his forehead was stretched so tightly that the bottom of each eyelid was pulled over his eyes, rendering him blind.
Jo stroked his arm. His fingers clenched spasmodically like a baby trying to cling. “Hey, Big Billy,” she said. “Hey, Big Billy.” The boy’s coo ended in a gasping wheeze due to pressure on his windpipe from elongated muscles in his neck. “Sissy loves you,” Jo said.
The odor of a freshly fouled diaper assailed Marvin and he turned away. A woman entered the room, the boy’s mother, he surmised—remarkably lithe and pretty, wearing a housecoat.
“Hidy, Rhonda,” Hattie said. “It’s nice to see you. How’re you feeling?”
“Getting my strength back,” Rhonda said. “Jo’s a blessing. Set down a spell. Want anything to drink? Jo, run get them some water.”
Jo obediently departed. Rhonda moved to a rocking chair with a flat pillow tied to the seat.
“Rhonda,” Hattie said, “I’d like you to meet Dr. Miller. He works with me.”
“Is he a teacher-doctor or a doctor-doctor?”
Marvin glanced at Hattie, confused.
“She means,” Hattie said, “MD or professor.”
“Neither one,” Marvin said.
“He just stayed in school a long time,” Hattie said.
“I had a aunt went to the Normal,” Rhonda said. “She always said I was smart enough to. But I got married and had my babies.”
Marvin was struck by the combination of youth and age in her face—smooth skin and old eyes. She needed sleep. Her dark hair retained the luster of recent childbirth.
“How can I help you?” she said.
Marvin blinked at the question. It was beyond his comprehension that she didn’t understand it was his job to help her. The only sound was the raspy breathing of the boy in the crib.
“Big Billy seems like he’s doing good,” Hattie said.
“The same,” Rhonda said. “He don’t change. Happy as the day he was born.”
“How’s the others getting along?”
“They’re eating good and sleeping good.”
“And your new baby?”
“I can’t tell nothing yet,” Rhonda said. “But I get scared for her.”
“How she might turn out?”
“Yes’m. She’s a good baby. They all are. I love them.”
“I know you do,” Hattie said. �
��It’s a hardship.”
“Sometimes I think it’s my fault. But they’re God’s children.”
“We all are,” Marvin said.
“I can’t hardly get my husband to go to church with me.” She stared at Marvin. “You think if he did, things might change?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
“That’s the pity of it,” Rhonda said. “Nobody does.”
The screen door banged and Jo carried in two cups, blue tin with white spots. She offered them handle first and Marvin drank, the sudden cold stunning his gums as if each tooth had popped from its socket.
“Thank you,” Hattie said.
“Coldest I ever drank,” Marvin said.
“Always is,” Rhonda said, her voice tinged with buried pride. “It’s from way deep. My husband got a dowser and I’m telling you, that willow switch jumped around like it was alive. He let me hold the stick. It like to pulled my arms off my body, it was drawing so hard.”
“And where is your husband?” Marvin said.
“At work. Up to Ohio. He goes there for them factories. Comes home of the weekends.”
“That’s a long drive,” Marvin said.
“He misses his babies. Bible says provide for your own or you ain’t no more account than a infidel.”
Hattie sipped the water. Small brown slivers floated on top, pieces broken off the dried and hollowed gourd used as a dipper. She mentally added a metal dipper to a list of necessities for the next visit.
“Can I see your baby?” she said.
Rhonda pressed her hands against the rocker arms and pushed herself to her feet, moving with little energy. Marvin studied her, trying to discern if she was physically ill or had been beaten.
“She’s in here,” Rhonda said, and led them through a doorway off the front room. A twin bed occupied most of the space, two pillows at the head, a quilt neatly folded at the foot. Wish Book pages made a mural on one wall, taped and peeling. In the corner stood a small crib beside a window. Hattie opened the curtains.