by Leah Weiss
Unlike Daddy and Granddaddy’s good fortune, I never found my life’s companion and have settled into a routine with my spinster sister, Prudence, twelve years my junior. Despite a kind upbringing and a decent education, she came into the world with a sour disposition that taints the sunniest of days. She’s a martyr who wears poverty intentionally, even though we can afford adequate clothes and proper shoes with attached soles. Prudence takes sacrifice to unwieldy heights.
I choose to believe her heart has some good, though there’s little proof except her devotion to me. To everyone else, her words sting and her giving is stingy. She knows what we sow we reap, and her return can be pitiful. That doesn’t change her; Prudence lives in the shadows, and no amount of coaxing brings her spirit into the light.
I shake the sawdust off my carpenter’s apron, hang it on the nail, and head in to the kitchen for lunch. The kitchen smells good with a simmering skillet of rabbit stew, dense and lean, made from Jerome Biddle’s gift of two varying hares. We know to watch for random buckshot pellets that can crack a tooth.
On the pine table, crusty bread sits beside a large bowl of stew for me and a modest one for Prudence. She’s sliced an apple and left on the red skin. Against white flesh, the crimson looks decadent inside this plain place with hardly a speck of color, except for the fancy green woodstove Mama got as a surprise long ago. I used to pick wildflowers to bring cheer indoors. Prudence would turn right around and throw them out. Said, “If God wanted flowers in a jar, He’d a planted em there.”
We bow our heads to pray, then eat.
“The new teacher comes tomorrow,” I say between spooning stew and sopping bread. “The one who answered my letter and our prayers.”
Prudence nods.
“You going to meet her, take her to the cabin, and get her settled?”
She nods again.
“I think this one’s a keeper, don’t you?”
Prudence puts down her spoon and places her hands in her lap, as if ordered to stop eating. “No. She’s old. Won’t last.”
“Old? She’s not young, but she’s close to my age, for heaven’s sake! And what gives you the idea before you meet her that she’ll quit on us?” I feel my bushy eyebrows spike up in a question.
“Why you think this one’s different, Brother?” Her brows naturally crease into a frown. “She’s the same as the others cause she come from the valley, all uppity…cept she’s old. Like you.”
I sigh. This would have been a good place for some levity about my age, but Prudence doesn’t tease. I’ve got to preach a burial tomorrow or I’d meet Miss Kathleen Shaw and see her settled in myself. I’ve read her papers the Asheville education office sent, and it’s true she’s fifty-one and might not get around as well as these mountains require, but she has exceptional teaching experience.
I’m drawn unabashedly to a mind that works well, and my limited library helps only so much. There’s no one within two days’ walk who enjoys dissecting issues of the world and politics. For that reason, I venture into the valley once a year for convention to soak up conversation. On this mountain I often reel in my words for fear I’ll offend a limited soul.
We’ve scared off more teachers than the law should allow. The last two teachers were young and full of the wrong kind of hope. They barely knew the classics and didn’t get my jokes. They were too young for this remote post. When the last one left after the teacher’s cottage burned down, I wrote a letter to the school board to explain why we need a teacher with experience. An ethical and morally strong individual, one up for a challenge. Miss Kathleen Shaw answered my letter.
Now, I worry. What good will we be to her? These cloistered families don’t easily welcome jaspers. I worry Miss Shaw may not understand my people’s shyness and see only their inadequacies. I’ve studied her letter of introduction and can read little between the lines except that she’s taught at fine institutions. Sadly, I fear Prudence might be right: Miss Shaw may not last long if she’s infirm or set in her ways. That will be a loss for our children and their future. It’ll be a loss of wishful thinking for me.
We’re running out of options.
• • •
When I was eighteen, Daddy walked me up to Rooster’s Ridge. He was strong enough that day and determined to walk, though cancer crumbled his edges. It was a slow trek that morning on the familiar trail, but we made it to the top. A cool breeze lifted his damp hair and dried the sweat on his pasty face while the kind sun hid behind clouds to make the light more tolerable. I stood next to him and realized I was taller, or else he’d shrunk; Daddy usually made five feet seven feel like full stature.
That day he held on to a gnarled dogwood tree and said, “Eli, I never had regrets about the path or place I’ve chosen to live my destiny. Your granddaddy didn’t either, and we were lucky. Up here is a little world, and you’ve got a big curiosity. You think a lot in that head of yours. If you aim to follow in my footsteps—”
“I do!”
“—then you have to go explore before you can settle here and know peace.”
“How can I leave now?” I looked away, not naming the sadness that tainted my daddy’s life. “You need me. Mama needs me. I need me…here.”
“We’ll do fine. Folks will help out like always. If I can, I’ll take my time leaving this earth. I’ll write every week and keep you up on things. Don’t want you to fret your time at seminary about home matters. Besides, Son, this isn’t about my life; it’s about yours.”
I was caught in a painful place. Daddy was the smartest man I’d ever known, and his advice came from a deep well of wisdom primed by hard life on this mountain. My mind struggled with the gift I was being given. Then, like always, I did what Daddy thought best.
• • •
In the fall of 1937 I came down off the mountain and rode a Greyhound bus for the first time. The bus took me to seminary in Louisville, Kentucky, riding across state lines on the Dixie Highway. Five hundred and eighteen miles separated me from the home I wouldn’t see for two years.
I lived at Miss Vader’s boardinghouse and cut her grass in exchange for meals. Walked to class on sidewalks bordered by trimmed green lawns. Seminary classes were free back then, and I worked a library job to pay for extras I’d need. Besides Bible studies taught in sixteen weekly lectures, I read the likes of James Joyce and Dostoyevsky, mixed with the wisdom of Misters Twain and Will Rogers.
Daddy sent news every week, and I didn’t borrow trouble when I read his words. I got plumb drunk on book learning is what I did—though I never lost my appreciation for a good joke. Every joke I heard reminded me of Daddy and Granddaddy’s penchant for humor to ease the hard.
Daddy waited for me to come home, then he died.
• • •
There were forty-one men from the state of North Carolina attending seminary the year I entered, and Henry Clayton was one of them. He had the spark of the Holy Spirit and sass about him that resonated in me. You’d have thought Henry and I were brothers the way we got on from the first. To the chagrin of our professors, we collected church jokes like ladies collect recipes or poems, and we learned the important key to good storytelling—add real people to the mix.
Henry’s eyes always sparkled extra when he had a new joke to share. “Eli, you hear what Reverend Brooks told his congregation last Sunday?” he asked when he caught up with me as I headed to class on Revelations.
“No, Henry, what?” I played along.
“He said, ‘Next week I’ll preach about the sin of lying. To help you understand my sermon, I want you to read Mark 17.’”
“You don’t say.”
Henry delivered a joke like a pro. Straight-faced. He didn’t get ahead of himself.
“Well, next Sunday, when it came time to deliver his sermon, Brother Brooks stood stately in his pulpit and looked down on the faithful. He asked for a show of hands. �
�How many found time in their busy week to read Mark 17?’ Several hands shot up, and he said, ‘Well, the gospel of Mark has only sixteen chapters. I will now proceed with my sermon on lying.’”
At the punch line I already knew, Henry slapped his bony thigh and laughed that donkey laugh of his that got both of us in trouble more times than I care to admit. He’s now the longtime pastor at Reedy Branch Free Will Baptist in Winterville in eastern North Carolina, and we’ve stayed in touch.
We trade jokes and meet up at the annual convention at the end of September. In between, every few months, Henry sends me a box of brain food holding back issues of the New Yorker, Time, and Life, and in recent years, back issues of the full-color National Geographic. Henry cuts out the suggestive pictures, like the bare-breasted native women, in case Prudence looks at the magazines. She would have thrown them in the woodstove embers, given half a reason. I’m proud of the stack of them on my shelf. It’s a source of admitted pride for me, but I rationalize it this way: I believe the mystery of God’s great and varied world is captured nowhere better than on those glossy pages. If you don’t believe in God Almighty, Maker of Heaven and Earth, before you read National Geographic, you will after.
• • •
Prudence and I finish eating, and I pop the last slice of apple in my mouth and stand and stretch. I say, “Why don’t you take some apples for Miss Shaw’s welcome tomorrow? I think she’d appreciate the thought.” I push my chair under the table.
“Didn’t do it for the others,” Prudence states.
“Maybe a better start will mean better results. We’re running through teacher candidates faster than the law should allow. Second Corinthians 9:7 says, ‘Every man according as he purposeth in his heart, so let him give…”
Prudence quickly retreats to her room and slams the door before the next words grate against her selfish nature.
I raise my voice and finish the verse. “So let him give; not grudgingly, or of necessity: for God loveth a cheerful giver.”
I have no choice but to give up but say before I turn away, “At least invite her to church so she can meet her neighbors.”
Prudence doesn’t answer.
• • •
Two days later, on Sunday, when the horizon turns pink with a new day, I head to church to start stone soup. An iron pot stays in the yard covered with a piece of plywood to keep out dirt and bugs during the week. I light the kindling under the pot, fill it with spring water, and throw in a smooth stone. Stone soup has been a weekly tradition here since my granddaddy’s days. Baines Creek Baptist Church feeds more than souls with an idea birthed five hundred years ago.
That tale involves a stranger who declares he could make soup from a stone. While the water boils and the stone cooks, he regales the villagers with tales of travel—much like a preacher regales his flock with the holy truth. When the stranger declares the soup ready, the people sample it and say it tastes like water! The stranger says, “We forgot the herbs, didn’t we? A sweet onion, perhaps?” The entertainment softens the crowd, and in the spirit of teamwork, the soup grows into something nourishing.
In the case of my little congregation, the recipe is simple: share what you can spare. Prudence no longer complains about the potatoes and onions I slice every Saturday night, nor does she offer to help. Others arrive at church and add wild mushrooms, a piece of venison, or ramp and chard. The soup simmers while I preach, and I start with a joke.
“My friends, many of you have asked me what’s the best way to get to heaven, and I am here today to remind you of the one, true answer.”
I pause for effect.
“Turn right and go straight.”
I get a few chuckles, a sprinkle of smiles, and some dull faces, Prudence among them.
When church is over and soup is eaten, bodies and souls drift away, satisfied. I stay behind to wash out the pot. I’ve taken off my jacket, rolled up my shirtsleeves, and am bent over scrubbing the insides when I hear a voice I don’t recognize.
“Preacher Perkins?”
I push up on my knees to stand upright, conscious my face is flushed from exertion and strands of limp hair have fallen to my forehead. This must be Kathleen Shaw, who stands tall, ten paces away. Short salt-and-pepper hair, freckles across her nose, glasses, tan trousers, a long-sleeved shirt, and a lovely smile. The picture of health and intellect in an oversized body.
She offers her hand and I wipe mine on a rag before I extend it. Her shake is firm. Her gaze solid behind round, wire-rimmed glasses. She is formidable in so many ways, and unlike any woman I’ve ever seen. For starters, she has me by seven or eight inches. Her stance says confident. Her clothes say polished.
“Miss Kathleen Shaw, at last we meet.” My voice is extra cheerful.
“Please call me Kate. I hoped I’d find you here today.” She laughs easily. “Is this a good time to catch up?”
“Yes, it is, Kate. Yes, indeed.”
Miss Shaw follows me into church and down the aisle as I unroll my cuffs, button them, and slip on my coat to recover some dignity. There are ten pews on each side, and we sit in front. Other than the cross on the wall and the pine lectern built by my granddaddy, there are no trimmings here. I turn toward her, rest an arm on the back of the bench, and notice a dribble of soup stain on my tie. I cover it with my hand, surprised at my vanity.
“Are you adjusting to mountain life?”
“I’m making progress.” She runs fingers through her short hair, then adjusts her eyeglasses.
“Is your cabin adequate?” I intentionally don’t talk about the teacher’s cottage that burned down. I am embarrassed when I see the remains every time I come to church. It burned in the night two months back. Thank goodness it was empty. Nobody’s talking about the culprit, but I suspect the reason for the fire: they hoped to stop outside teachers from coming to Baines Creek. I had to scramble to find an alternate place to house the new teacher. Pickings were slim and it is almost a mile walk up the mountain to her cabin.
“It’ll do fine. I’m staying mostly warm and dry.”
“Well, those are the basics, aren’t they? It must pale in comparison to your last post at Ravenscroft. I’ve never ventured that far east in the state, but I’ve heard it’s beautiful.”
“It’s different there. Flat as a tabletop.”
“And here is…breathtaking?”
Her laugh is part giggle and grin, a young girl’s laugh in a mature woman’s frame. Delightful. And she catches my inference to thin mountain air!
“Ravenscroft has a different kind of beauty. Up here, I’m challenged in a good way. I confess at this early stage I prefer to walk down the mountainside, but that won’t get me where I need to go, will it?”
“You’re right there,” and we chuckle together. This kind of easy exchange bodes well.
“Did you like teaching at Ravenscroft?”
“I brought good memories with me.”
Because I am incessantly curious, I wade smack-dab into the deep end. “Why’d you leave your last post…if you don’t mind me asking?” I work to sound natural, although I’m being nosy and know it.
Kate Shaw pauses slightly and looks down at her hands in her lap. “I was dismissed.”
“Oh my…”
She adds, “It was personal. Unrelated to classroom skills. It won’t affect my teaching.”
I want to know more, but I’m at a crossroad and must decide to trust or doubt. “Well, Miss Kate Shaw, I take you at your word. I can’t speak for everybody in these parts, but I believe we’re lucky to have you with us. Thank you for answering my plea. Our children need structure, empathy, and, above all, hope. I want them to know they can have a more promising future.”
“I want the same thing.”
I’m so relieved at first meeting to see that Kate Shaw is all we need her to be. I add, “Can you join us on Sundays?
Service starts at eleven.”
Miss Shaw shakes her head. “I’m not a Christian. I don’t believe or disbelieve in your god or your devil. I simply have little use for church dogma and man-made rituals that stifle people through fear and superstition. I’ve never seen any proof to support the teachings of your Bible.” She looks me in the eye. “Nature makes a pretty strong case for its own evolution.”
I’m taken aback. It is apparent Miss Shaw never met the likes of Pharrell Moody, nor has she seen the likes of her closest neighbor, Birdie Rocas. Miss Shaw’s world hasn’t been complicated by raw truths that defy science or logic, and can only be understood by faith. Few have put their lack of belief as succinctly as Kate Shaw just did, but she needs to attend church to satisfy the curious. I drop a different line to reel in my fish.
“Well, you might consider church a social vehicle up here, a place where your neighbors come together as a family to touch base and to offer help. They’re all curious about you. In truth, it won’t make you popular if you keep to yourself. I want you to work out, Miss Shaw.”
“Kate.”
“Kate.” I say, and grin. “I want you to feel welcome here, Kate. You need to get to know these folks, and they need you and don’t even know it yet. Could you do that for us? Come to church to get to know us?” For effect, my head tilts to the right in a plea.
She nods at my logic. “I’ll come a time or two. For now, I’ve taken up enough of your day.”
Kate Shaw stands, looks down on me, and ends our conversation before it got started. I follow her out and note her polished boots with the rim of mud on the bottom and the confident strike of her heel. She is not of this place and a moment of truth crosses my mind as I realize there are dangers up here that could harm her if she became too curious.
“Kate, I don’t want to be a naysayer, but please tread cautiously on the mountain. Don’t stray off the path. Don’t be too curious.”