by Leah Weiss
She turns, standing on the second step down. I continue gently. “You’re an outsider in an insulated community that has ways vastly different than the valley. There are moonshine stills in more places than I can count. Those men are edgy and skittish with revenuers and set traps to catch people as well as animals. And this is ginseng hunting season, too.”
She looks puzzled, and I say, “You haven’t heard of ginseng? It’s an herb that grows in specific places on the steep, shadowy sides of these mountains. To tell the truth, I’ve never seen a patch, but people off the mountain pay a lot of money for that fleshy root.”
“What good does it do?”
“Some people believe it holds the key to well-being. It relieves stress and headaches.”
“Headaches, you say?”
“Helps the heart, too. Sounds like a panacea for whatever ails you, doesn’t it? Whatever the case, the root of that little plant pays big money to people around here willing to hunt for it in late summer and early fall. They guard where their patches of ginseng are like they guard their moonshine stills. They set traps. Carry guns and don’t hesitate to use them. They’d shoot first, then ask questions later. You understand why I tell you to be cautious? Please don’t explore on your own.”
Kate’s face tightens in a good way. “Yes. I understand.”
“It’ll help when you meet your close neighbors and they meet you. Some of them will come to church, and those who don’t, we will visit. Does that sound like a plan?”
“I’ll be here next Sunday,” she says, and shakes my hand once more.
She’s walking away when I remember to call out, “If you don’t mind, I’d like to drop by sometime.” I feel like a schoolboy with hope in his voice. “I’m partial to good conversation.”
She says, “I’d like that, Preacher Perkins. My door’s always open—especially since it doesn’t have a lock,” she adds easily, and makes me smile.
“Eli. Please call me Eli,” I say as she turns and waves in the air. I say a little louder, “And we can remedy that lock on your door.”
“We’ll talk about it—Eli.” She laughs that young-girl laugh and walks on.
I feel a quick shot of pride abide in hearing my simple name spoken with a cultured tone. She thrusts her hands in her coat pockets, and her loping strides take her into the woods and out of sight. I’m surprised to hear Kate Shaw whistle as she walks, a secure woman who at first glance appears to be sufficiently suited for mountain life.
Still, she has secrets. And a flaw of faith. Education to sell. Prejudices to overcome.
• • •
On Mondays I check in on the sick and lapsed Christians who could use a bit of attention and a friendly voice. After breakfast I get my Bible, walking stick, and a rucksack of supplies and walk well-worn paths and rugged hollows to the souls in my flock that live on Bentwood Mountain and in neighboring hollers.
Mentally, I’ve mapped out my route to pass the school last because I’m curious and want to check on Miss Shaw’s first day of teaching. Yesterday, at the close of service, I reminded families about the importance of education and the gifts Miss Shaw brings us. With the recent run of teachers we’ve had, they need proof before they believe. I hope someone shows up at school for curiosity’s sake.
Roosevelt Lowe is my first stop. Beanie and Weenie smell me before they see me and start their hound-dog warbles. The old man’s home is a lean-to on the north side of the mountain. Moss grows up the sides, and there’s a hole in the roof for woodsmoke to escape.
Roosevelt sits cockeyed in a saggy aluminum chair next to the doorway. An army blanket is tacked to the frame to keep out the chill. He wears his trademark grin and rubs the stump of his right leg with his arthritic fingers. The peg leg he wears to get around lies next to his chair. He lost that limb in a hunting accident a dozen years back. However, by all accounts, he didn’t lose his good disposition. Didn’t even get mad at his buddy for his carelessness. I envy Roosevelt because he appears to never harbor trouble. He is a soul at peace.
“Preacher, I sit here this morning and study on them two crows over there.”
He points and I look.
“Only seed the two of em. You know a bunch of crows is called a murder, don’t you?”
I nod. I first heard about a murder of crows at seminary. I came upon many poetic and odd phrases found in literature and mentally filed them away: an ostentation of peacocks, a parliament of owls, a knot of frogs, and a skulk of foxes. My favorite is the crows.
Roosevelt delivers the punch line: “I think them two fellas on their own is attempted murder—get it? Attempted murder…”
Roosevelt cracks himself up and that cracks me up, too.
“That’s a good one. Might have to borrow it.”
“It’s yours if you want it.”
“I got some good news/bad news of my own for you.”
“Knew you wouldn’t call with no new material.”
“Well, you might have heard yesterday the good news that I baptized five people in the river. The bad news is that we lost two of them in the swift current.”
Quick as a wink, Roosevelt says, “I know which two I hope you lost.”
We chuckle again like cohorts.
“How can I lift your spirit today, my friend?”
“Preacher, you done it when you come. Got a extra squirrel skinned and ready to cook. Tattler Swann brought two. Don’t need two. What you got in your bag to give me instead?”
“Cornmeal, dried beans, molasses…”
“I’ll take beans, if you don’t mind. Just run out. That’s the meal that comes with its own music, don’t you know.”
After more uplifting chatter, I leave with a smile and Roosevelt’s skinned squirrel that ends up in Miz Marley’s cook pot, and she gives me sassafras root that I give Susie Ward.
When I near Roy Tupkin and Sadie’s trailer, I sense the twisted heaviness that lives there when Roy is home, and my stomach tightens. Ugly talk follows Roy like fleas on a mangy dog. He’s a spiteful, small-minded man who drinks hard and plays for keeps. Sadie Blue did herself no favor taking up with Roy Tupkin.
There are women in these hills whose men beat them because they misconstrue Ephesians 5:22–23 as saying they can. They twist God’s holy words: “Wives, submit yourselves to your own husbands, as unto the Lord. For the husband is the head of the wife.” They stop short of the truth that continues, “Even as Christ is the head of the church: and he is the savior of the body.” They conveniently ignore the fact that neither God nor the law gives husbands unqualified dominion over their wives. Men like Roy Tupkin don’t hide behind the Bible when they beat their wives. They beat them because they can and no one stops them. I’ve talked often to Sheriff Loyal Sykes about this kind of crime, and every time he says, “The law’s pretty helpless in private matters like this. Nobody talks or presses charges, and our hands get tied.”
So the beaten women stay. Sadie stays. That staying makes it harder to change things.
I look for Roy’s truck. It’s gone so my stomach knot loosens. I see Sadie’s face in the kitchen window and wave. She waves back and turns to come outside.
I’ve known this sweet girl all her life. Her daddy, Otis Blue, was good-hearted and generous like his daughter and loved a good joke. When he was up in years, past the time men usually go courting, Otis fell in love with pretty Carly Hicks, an antsy girl with wanderlust that ran through her veins like her daddy Walter’s white lightning. She looked for a step up and a way out, and for some reason, she picked Otis to help change things.
With stars in his eyes, he married Carly Hicks and turned her into Carly Blue for a while. He acted like he’d won the jackpot. When Sadie was born seven months later, Carly up and left the two of them for a traveling salesman who likely promised more than he delivered.
For the baby’s sake, Otis tried to cl
ean up and not drink as much. He took her everywhere strapped to his back when she was little. When he went hunting, she was with him. When he set traps and sold skins, she was with him. But he was flawed like the lot of us. For one thing he wasn’t good at math or he chose not to count up to nine months when it came to Sadie being born. I found that commendable. He died four or five years back.
Today, Sadie comes out with a jar of jelly from her stock to add to my rucksack.
“Mighty good of you, Sadie. You want a trade?”
“No, sir. Them that got, give.”
“You understand that truth better than most.”
I look for bruises and breaks in her delicate frame, but the girl looks good today. There’s a brightness in her eyes. Being pregnant agrees with her. I hope it begins to agree with Roy.
I say, “I’m going to school next because I want to hear about Miss Shaw’s first day.”
“I seen her.”
“Did you? When?” I’m pleasantly surprised Sadie took the initiative to greet our teacher.
“Last Saturday. Went to help her set up the school.” She looks pleased with herself.
“What do you think of her?”
“Got her a globe that spins.”
“That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”
“Gonna teach me to read.” Sadie’s cheeks flush with pride.
“That’s a real good thing.”
“Don’t even have to come to school.” Sadie pulls from her apron pocket the Country Song Roundup magazine with her beloved Miss Loretta Lynn gracing the cover. She never tires of hearing the words in this article and the different one Mooney has at his store.
“Ah…Miss Loretta Lynn still lights a fire in you.”
“You brought this one up from the valley just for me.”
“I remember it well. Picked it up in a bookstore on Harrison Street. Knew you loved her music. You know Miss Loretta’s a lot like you. Smart. A problem-solver. She figures things out.”
Sadie blushes at that compliment like she always does. I’ve been planting seeds a long time to help her believe in herself.
“How many times have you heard this Miss Loretta’s story? Three?” I ask, knowing the answer.
“More like twenty.” Sadie grins. “That woman’s not afeard of nothing. She writes songs and sings, and folks line up and pay to listen. Want to read her words myself someday.” She slips the precious magazine back in her apron pocket.
“Then that you will do. Fingers crossed we can convince Miss Shaw to stay. I could use your help to make her feel welcome. She’ll be at church Sunday and we need to show our support.”
“I’ll come if I can.”
• • •
In the afternoon, like I planned, I pass the one-room schoolhouse and stick my head in the door and find the small cluster of desks empty. Miss Shaw’s name is written in chalk on the blackboard. I hear voices outside and follow them around back. The children—little Lucy Dillard and her younger sisters, Weeza and Pearl, and Grady and Petey Snow—and Miss Shaw sit on a quilt at creek’s edge. I’m relieved to see some children remembered school starts today and a few had a mind to show up.
“Afternoon, Preacher Perkins,” Miss Shaw calls out. “After story time, we brought our lunch and lesson outside and the children have turned teacher. They’ve kindly enlightened me about local flora. We’re almost done for the day.”
Kate Shaw has made the children feel important and I’m overwhelmed with tenderness. I worry I’ll tear up, sentimental fool that I am, especially after so many young teachers tried and failed. I look down at the tips of my shoes to regain composure.
They stand to leave, and young Weeza gives Miss Shaw a shy hug. I swallow the knot in my throat and say a little louder than necessary, “So the teacher is the student today.”
“Always,” she laughs. “One’s never too old to learn.” She shakes leaves off the quilt, folds it neatly, and tucks it under her arm.
This is a perfect teaching moment this place rarely sees. “I don’t have to ask how your day went. The children’s faces tell it all.”
“It’s a good start, don’t you think?”
Kate is a magician, a pied piper who has absconded with our children’s hearts. Mine, too.
• • •
I don’t see Kate Shaw until Sunday although I keep an ear to the ground for news. School attendance increases and as far as I know no pranks have been done to scare her away—at least none she talks about. The other young teachers endured snakes, bloody entrails, manure, and other crass antics left in the teacher’s cottage or schoolroom. They wilted under the pressure. I think Miss Shaw is made of stronger stuff. I do know this: Baines Creek needs Miss Shaw more than she needs us.
Soup is on and my sermon set. Curiosity and novelty mean attendance will be as high today as Homecoming Sunday. I take extra care with my attire this morning and Prudence notices.
“Why you act prissy, Brother? You tried on every tie when you only got three, and all of em blue. And you sponged that jacket front so much the stripes gonna come off.”
“Let me be. I’m getting ready for church, that’s all.” My voice stays soft, but my hands shake.
Prudence squints looking at me. “That Miss Shaw messes with your head. It’s her come to church that’s doing this. She’s a big, old woman who don’t fit in nowhere else, that’s all.”
My sister finishes the dishes and takes off her apron, picks up her thin purse, and stands by the door, impatient. I slip on my jacket and stuff a paper in the pocket. She notices.
“You write out your sermon? You don’t do that. You like to wait till the Lord moves your words.”
“I need the start. That’s all.”
“Brother, ain’t you the fool…” She shakes her head in admonishment.
There’s pity in Prudence’s eyes and extra starch in her backbone. She threw in ain’t to spite me. She was homeschooled better than that.
Suddenly I turn on her like a cur riled with a prod. “Prudence! Keep your thoughts to yourself.”
Instantly I’m shamed by my outburst. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I mumble and try to corral the guilt that always lives beneath my human skin. I raise imploring eyes toward the door to ask for forgiveness because I am the weak one. She’s already out the door.
• • •
This start of Sunday bodes poorly and I can’t seem to right it. On the walk to church I humbly pray, Lord, fill my being with your wisdom and help me choose my words wisely.
As expected, the pews are packed fifteen minutes before service starts, and I’m a nervous ninny with a knot in my belly because I want the teacher to love us. Men stand in back so women can sit. The small ones are pulled up on their mamas’ laps. I saved a seat for Miss Shaw in front at the opposite end of Prudence because I don’t want my sister’s snippy attitude to rub off.
Sadie slips in at the last moment and squeezes into the last row. Merciful heavens. Roy has battered her sweet face since I saw her Monday. I work to keep my face neutral. God only knows what injuries are out of sight under long sleeves. It angers me to see she likely paid dearly to be here today. Her Granny Gladys sits on the middle pew with a crooked straw hat on her head and her usual sour look on her face. I guess curiosity brought her here like it did a lot of folks who don’t practice church regularly.
Miss Shaw wears trousers and polished boots, and along with the absence of a hat and a thin purse clutched in rough hands, she is set apart from the women here today. She is incongruous. She is our blessing. I worry we’ll lose her before she’s even in our grasp.
I stand at the podium dizzy and don’t quite know why. I pull the folded paper out of my pocket and the words swim in front of my eyes, unreadable. Nerves. I open with a joke, then quote from Deuteronomy 32:2: “My doctrine shall drop as the rain, my speech shall distil as dew, as
the small rain upon the tender herb, and as the showers upon the grass.”
It’s a lovely, poetic opening meant to honor the teaching gift of Miss Shaw, but sadly, I fail to tie it to the sermon very well. No one looks at or listens to me anyway. All eyes are on the back of the head whose eyes are on me. I ramble on, then frustrated, I cut short my sermon and talk about what’s on everybody’s mind.
“Today, we welcome Miss Shaw into our family. She has come to us in good faith and with a willing spirit to teach our children reading and writing and important lessons. The gifts she has given us in her first week are remarkable. Your children are more eager than ever to use the brains the good Lord gave them.”
I look straight at Kate. “I speak for everybody here when I say thank you, Miss Shaw, for coming to Baines Creek.”
Just before I dismiss the crowd, Miss Shaw says, “Reverend Perkins?”
There’s a unified intake of breath at her boldness.
“May I address your congregation?”
“Of course.” I gesture for her to stand at my podium and I sit, straightening my tie. I’m mildly conscious of the fact that few women have ever stood in front of this church, and I think it’s a shame.
“Thank you.” She looks around and I hope she sees humble souls, not tattered clothes. She speaks. “I lost my last teaching job because I stood up for what I believed was right.”
She pauses, runs a hand through her short hair, and clears her throat. I’ve never seen my congregation so still. They’re mesmerized by language, appearance, and behavior foreign to their ways.
“When I lost my last post, I saw it as a chance for a new beginning. One that would test me. One that would matter more than what came before. An index card on a church bulletin board asking for a teacher looking for a challenge brought me to the education board, then to Baines Creek. Preacher Perkins’s letter made it easy for me to decide. I hope this community might benefit from my love of learning. In turn, I hope to find renewed purpose.”
Folks start to squirm in their pews. They’re confused. They don’t understand everything Miss Shaw said, but they did bits of it. She did something wrong that got her fired, then she came to Baines Creek.