The Road From Gap Creek: A Novel Hardcover

by Robert Morgan

  Alice was nervous because she was used to Mama milking her and because I was late bringing her from the pasture. At first she didn’t let down her milk easy, but as she begun to eat from the box, and I leaned my head against the side of her belly and talked to her, she relaxed. A milk cow likes to hear her name said, and I said it again and again. And I told her Troy was dead and wouldn’t be coming to the barn ever again. I told her she was the best cow and give the best milk we ever had, sweet golden milk with an inch of cream on top of every quart. The secret of milking is you don’t squeeze the teat you pull down. I talked to her and she give down her milk so fast it shot into the bucket with every pull and foamed and filled the air with the scent of sweet warm milk.

  “That’s a good cow,” I said.

  “Who’re you talking to?” somebody said in the barn hallway. It was Velmer.

  “Where have you been?” I said.

  “I had to see a man about a dog.” It was what Velmer liked to say when he’d been out in the woods to do his business.

  “Well, you’d better water the horse,” I said.

  “Thanks for reminding me,” Velmer said.

  TWO WEEKS BEFORE I’d had a dream about Troy. Maybe not really a dream, more like a vision. It was a still night at the end of October and the crickets was loud, a weekend when Muir was home from Holly Ridge and we was staying in the Powell house down by the river bottoms. I was about ready to go to bed and had turned off the lamp and Muir was already asleep.

  It was the kind of night when there was just enough light to see by, though the moon hadn’t come up yet. I was thinking about the war and all the bad news we’d heard about the Air Corps in England where Troy was stationed, how many planes we lost every day, though men sometimes got fished out of the Channel or North Sea before they froze to death.

  Troy had joined up in the summer of ’41 when he was working at Fort Bragg with Papa and Velmer and Muir, building barracks. It was mighty hot there in August and he watched the soldiers training, the paratroopers climbing ropes, crawling through mud, while sergeants yelled at them, jumping off platforms and towers. Everybody knowed the war was coming. The war had been going on for two years overseas. Because he’d been in the Civilian Conservation Corps and studied welding and learned to use dynamite when they was blasting rocks on the Blue Ridge Parkway—they called him a powder man—maybe they offered him a special deal when he went to talk to the recruiter of the Army Air Corps. Anyway, the next thing we heard was we got this card in the mail addressed to Mama saying her son Troy had volunteered for the Air Corps and was training at the base in Georgia. Though she didn’t say nothing, I could tell it made Mama sick to get that little yellow card. She put it on the mantelpiece above the fireplace where it was still gathering dust.

  After Troy was sent to England in 1942 we just got these little letters that had been photographed with half the words blacked out. When I seen Troy’s girlfriend, Sharon, she’d say there was nothing in Troy’s letters, and rather than get such empty messages about nothing but weather and mud, she’d sooner get no letters at all. That showed how she didn’t think about nobody but herself. She didn’t worry about all Troy was going through day after day. All we knowed was what they said in the papers about airplanes catching fire or getting shot down. But we’d get a card saying Troy had been promoted to sergeant with four stripes. And then one saying he had been raised to a master sergeant.

  Troy sent me money to get Sharon a Christmas present. He sent ten dollars to buy her something nice, cause he had no way of giving her something from way overseas. I went to the best store in Asheville, riding on the bus with all the soldiers, standing room only, and I bought the prettiest comb and brush and mirror set you ever saw. It was amber and brown and gold, the finest vanity set you could get. Because of the war, stores didn’t have as much stuff as they used to, so I was lucky to find it. Would you believe Sharon didn’t even like it? She said if Troy wanted to get her a present he should get it hisself. Just sending money and letting somebody else buy it wasn’t the same. I was ashamed for her, to think that she didn’t care what he was going through in those dark days over there. She was just thinking about herself.

  In his letters that summer of ’43 Troy told us he’d been moved to a new unit and a new job. But he couldn’t tell us a thing about it, not even where he was exactly. He just said it rained all the time and the place was an ocean of mud. He was going to be promoted again, but he didn’t say what there was above a master sergeant with six stripes. Troy was smart and worked hard and I guess they was going to make him an officer.

  THAT NIGHT TWO weeks before as I set by the window before going to bed, looking across the branch toward Chinquapin Hill, which is in the pasture to the west of the Squirrel Hill and makes a kind of bluff above the bottom land, I could see the trees clear against the sky. The moon wasn’t up yet, but you could see there was light back there, like the light of a distant town or the light of a fairground. Stars seemed stuck in the limbs of trees like tiny Christmas lights. Maybe it was dew sparkling on the trees and in the pasture, beyond the springhouse and smokehouse and the old molasses furnace above the branch.

  Suddenly I didn’t see none of that. It was like a light had gone out, and instead of the window, I saw Troy and he was almost close enough to touch. He was setting with his head down and he looked worried. I was so surprised I didn’t think to say nothing. He just looked down at something and he seemed terrible sad. And he looked older. His hair was still light red and curly like it had always been. Whatever he was thinking about, it was bad and a weight seemed to be crushing down on his shoulders.

  Troy, I wanted to say, but my tongue was set like it was froze, the way your throat and voice are in a dream. I couldn’t reach out to him, and I couldn’t say nothing, not even his name.

  And then he looked at me. It was like he seen me there, so close to him. He turned and it was like he was going to say something, though his expression was awful sad. I thought he was going to tell me where he was and what he was doing. He just wore these drab work clothes, like a mechanic would, not a uniform. He looked like he’d been working a long time without sleep.

  But suddenly there was this roar, as if a thousand shotguns had gone off at once. And a whoosh of flame that covered everything fast as lightning. It was a many-colored flame with purple and green but mostly white that flooded out, unfurling like a big cloth, and burned up everything. And then it was all gone. I wanted to see what happened. I wanted to reach out and save Troy, but there was nothing but the window and Chinquapin Hill and the sound of crickets. And I heard the roar of Johnson Shoals over on the creek.

  WHEN I TOLD Muir the next morning about what I’d seen he didn’t hardly seem to listen. Muir was a preacher who sometimes spoke at different churches, though he wasn’t a pastor yet. He didn’t like people to talk about superstitions. He said superstition showed a lack of faith. He was making coffee when I told him what I’d seen.

  “You must’ve had a bad dream,” he said.

  “How could I have dreamed when I was awake before it started and awake when it was over. I was looking out the window toward Chinquapin Hill and I was awake as I am now.”

  “You just dreamed you was awake. Looking out the window and across the branch was part of the dream.”

  Nobody can make me mad the way Muir can. I guess it’s them that you love that can rile you the most. I reckon a difference with somebody you love scares you cause you expect them to be of one mind and one feeling with you.

  “How do you know if you didn’t see it?” I snapped.

  “Ain’t saying you’re lying,” Muir said. “I just think you forgot you was dreaming.” He dippered water from the bucket on the counter into the coffeepot before lowering the holder with the coffee in. Ginny, his mama, had never got running water into the Powell house and we had to carry water from the springhouse out near the pasture fence. The spring itself was way around the pasture hill, beyond the molasses furnace, but Muir’s
grandpa Peace had piped it all the way down to the springhouse. Muir had got electricity run to the house, but had not put in plumbing.

  “No one can tell you nothing,” I said, and put on water to make grits. The way Muir acted when I told him I’d seen Troy as close as on the other side of the window made me decide not to tell another soul. Everybody was worried about the war and about getting gasoline and tires and sugar because of the rationing. You had to have stamps to buy almost anything, coffee or meat or tea. Mr. Sharp that was the principal of the school give out ration books and he’d signed some for me. You took the ration books with you to the store, and when you bought sugar or coffee you had to give a stamp with your money. The stamps didn’t make nothing cheaper.

  Now I kept thinking about what I’d seen in the vision or whatever it was. Maybe it was a kind of dream. In the Bible it said young men will see visions and old men will dream dreams. Didn’t say nothing about girls or women. What bothered me most was how worried Troy looked bent over that way, like he was waiting for something. Couldn’t see where he was, but the awful blast and flash of light just seemed to come out of nowhere. And then as I played it over in my mind I remembered there was something else, something I’d forgot. After the flash and just before it all disappeared there was a smell for an instant, a smell like burnt paint or some burnt chemical. It was a terrible smell, like leather had been scorched, and maybe hair, like when a cat gets too close to a hot stove. That smell come back to me and it made me a little sick.

  “How come you know everything?” I said to Muir, but he just laughed and shook his head, like he usually does when I get mad, acting like I’m not worth arguing with, just being an emotional woman. I’ve seen him do it a hundred times, backing out of an argument and shaking his head and chuckling, like he couldn’t make sense of what I said anyway. And that always makes me madder still.

  WHEN I GOT back to the house Aunt Daisy had left and Mama was warming up the soup beans and the rice was about ready and the sweet taters smelled almost baked. I strained the milk into pitchers and put them into the icebox. Mama placed bowls and spoons on the table while I washed out the straining cloth and the milk bucket. When I put the rice and taters on the table I called for Papa to come.

  “Don’t feel like eating,” he called back.

  “You come on,” I said. “You’ve got to eat something.”

  Papa shuffled in and set down at the head of the table while I poured each a glass of cold milk. Velmer was still outside, but I knowed he’d come in when we set down. Papa said a short blessing and helped hisself to the soup beans but didn’t start eating. “I told that boy to stay away from old airplanes,” he said.

  Mama set with her bowl empty. “Let me give you some rice,” I said.

  “He never paid no mind to what I said,” Papa said.

  “Best not to talk about it,” I said. “Won’t do no good.”

  Velmer come in through the kitchen door and set down at the table. I passed him the bowl of soup beans. Just then the front door opened and somebody walked into the living room. “Come on into the kitchen,” I called. I looked through the door and there was Preacher Rice.

  “If you folks are eating, I’ll just stay here by the fire,” the preacher said.

  “Come on in and set down and we’ll find you a plate,” Papa said.

  The preacher stepped into the kitchen but didn’t set down. “I just come to say how awful sorry I am,” he said, holding his hat in front of him.

  “Won’t you have a sweet tater?” I said. Last thing I wanted to do was discuss Troy’s death with the preacher. And I guess Mama and Papa felt the same way. For when a preacher comes to comfort you it always makes you feel worser. I don’t know why that is, but a preacher’s kind words make you feel more miserable. Maybe I shouldn’t say that, being married to a preacher. But a preacher’s words always seem faraway. You know what he’s going to say and what he has to say. And somehow the fact that he goes ahead and says them makes you even sadder. For the preacher will say God’s ways are mysterious and beyond our understanding. What seems unbearable to humans must be part of a plan. If something bad is an accident it’s bad, but if it’s part of a plan that’s much worse. I’ve never understood why preachers think that is comforting. They make you feel so hopeless and stupid. For they remind you there’s nothing you can do. Your suffering is all part of God’s plan. You don’t have control over nothing, no matter what you do. It makes you feel weak and sick in your bones, the way a bad fever does.

  “The Lord is looking down in his infinite mercy,” the preacher said. “But with our limited understanding we can’t always understand.”

  “That’s right, Brother Rice,” Papa said, and took another spoonful of soup beans. Mama didn’t say nothing, and she still hadn’t touched her plate. I eat some sweet tater just to be polite.

  “The Lord tries us as he tried Job,” Preacher Rice said. “Because he loves us he tries us.”

  Somebody else opened the front door and walked into the living room. I called out that we was in the kitchen. Helen Ballard stepped into the firelight holding a plate, and her husband, Hilliard, was just behind her.

  “I have brought a chocolate cake,” she said.

  “Your chocolate cake is my favorite,” I said.

  “Come, pull up a chair,” Papa said.

  “We’ll just stay here by the fire,” Helen called. “We was awful sorry to hear about Troy.”

  I got up and took the cake from her and put it on the counter.

  Two

  I don’t know which come first, Troy’s love of drawing or the dog we called Old Pat that he loved so much and drawed so many pictures of. By the time he was in high school Troy must have made a hundred pictures of that dog. The German shepherd was give to Troy by the Osborne family from Columbia, South Carolina. Papa built a summer house for them on the lake and both Velmer and Troy helped him in the summer when there wasn’t any school. Velmer had already quit school by then, but Troy hadn’t even started high school yet. Troy helped Papa out, carrying nails and boards, going for water, mixing cement to make the foundation.

  The Osbornes would come up to see how their house on the lake was taking shape and they brought their German shepherd named Prissy. That dog and Troy took a liking for each other and they played together there by the water. Mrs. Osborne said he’d never seen Prissy take to anybody outside the family. German police dogs didn’t usually make friends so easy. But there seemed to be a kind of understanding between her and Troy from the first. I wasn’t surprised because Troy always had a special way with animals, even chickens and cats for that matter.

  Prissy was one of those police dogs that have silver-and-black fur in different places and a little brown on their shoulders and flanks. She must have weighed a hundred pounds at least, maybe a hundred twenty-five. And she was expecting pups. Mrs. Osborne said since Troy liked her so well and got along so well with Prissy and they was so tickled to have the house by the cool lake that when Prissy got her litter of pups she’d give one to Troy. He could come and take his pick.

  As it turned out Prissy had her litter just about the time the house by the lake was finished. School had already started and it was fodder-pulling time. I walked with Troy down to the lake to get his puppy. It was a pretty sunny day, but already there was red leaves on the sumacs and yellow leaves on the poplars and a chill note in the breeze.

  The Osbornes had Prissy and her pups on the screened-in porch out over the lake. They give us lemonade, which tasted mighty good after the long walk. City people always knowed how to be real nice when they wanted to be. “You pick any one you want,” Mrs. Osborne said to Troy. Me and Troy knelt down to look at the squirming and whimpering pups in the big baskets. They must have been five or six weeks old by then.

  Now all those young police dogs looked the same to me as they scrambled and nudged each other. Their noses looked wet and their eyes looked wet. But from the first, Troy seemed to light on one special one. It was not
the biggest of the litter, but it wasn’t the littlest either. He put his hand on it and it rolled over and licked his hand. It was a girl dog.

  “That’s the one I want,” Troy said.

  “Then you shall have her,” Mrs. Osborne said.

  Mrs. Osborne said the puppy could already drink milk out of a saucer and eat things made out of meat and maybe a little meal or bread with grease. Neither Troy nor me told her we planned to feed the dog scraps from the table.

  I told Troy I’d help him carry the dog home, but he picked her up in his arms and never would let me hold her. She whimpered and got restless, but he held on to her. We walked past the store, but we didn’t have no money so we didn’t stop. All the way up the road Troy held on to his dog like he was afraid she’d run away if he put her down.

  At the house Troy fixed up a box on the back porch with a tow sack for a bed. Papa wouldn’t let us bring any dog in the house. He got a bowl of milk for the pup and he got corn bread dipped in bacon grease. It was still warm weather, but Troy made a door in the box and put a sack on top to keep it warm.

  It wasn’t many days after Troy got the pup that he quit calling her Patsy and said instead Old Pat. “Come here, Old Pat,” he’d say, like she was a grown-up dog and he’d knowed her for years. For such a young dog you wouldn’t think he’d call her old. But he did. Old, I guess, meant affection and closeness. He could have called her just Pat, but almost always he said Old Pat. And first thing you know all the rest of us called her Old Pat too. All the time we had the dog she was Old Pat, and she knowed her name too. It was like she wanted to be called that. Wherever she was, if Troy called out “Old Pat,” she’d come running.

  It wasn’t many weeks after he got Old Pat that Troy started drawing pictures of her. He’d take a pencil and a piece of paper, even a sheet cut out of a paper bag, and sketch a likeness. At first he had trouble making the parts all fit together. The nose would be too long or too short, the ears too far back or forward. He used both sides of a sheet of paper, working on the porch or by the fireplace and sometimes at the kitchen table. He tried drawing Old Pat from the side and from the front and somewhere in between. He drawed her running and jumping up. But mostly he drawed her from the side.