Not Without My Father: One Woman's 444-Mile Walk of the Natchez Trace

by Watkins, Andra

  “Walking the Trace?” The woman smiled at me. “Nobody does that.”

  “Well, she is,” Dad announced before I could respond. “She’s walked all the way from Natchez. Got through Jackson today.”

  The lady dabbed her lips with a paper napkin. “All to launch a book? I hope the book’s good enough to warrant the abuse.”

  “Don’t know. Hadn’t read it. Did I tell you it’s about Meriwether Lewis?”

  “Dad—”

  “We got some paperbacks in the car.”

  “Dad—”

  “If you buy one, she can sign it for you.”

  I yanked his sleeve and wedged myself between them, almost upending their wine. “I’m so sorry.” I grabbed the bottle’s neck before it crashed. “Dad gets carried away sometimes. Old age.”

  “I ain’t too old to sell books. Used to spend my summers selling Bibles in—”

  “Dad, the server’s ready to take our order.” I crumpled in my chair.

  The woman moved closer and adjusted the angle of her chair. An unobstructed view of the Roy Show. I expected her to settle in for the next act, but instead she hoisted her purse into her lap and rummaged through it.

  Maybe she was looking for a concealed weapon to shoot the vociferous old man who was ruining her date.

  She pulled out a stuffed leather wallet. “I’d like to buy one of your books.”

  “You would?” Dad and I barked in unison.

  “Of course.” She unsnapped the clasp and fingered through bills. “If you were from around these parts, you’d know that John Grisham story.”

  Her husband chimed in. “Oh yeah. The one about the barn.”

  Dad punched my arm. “Go get her a book, Andra. And sign it.”

  “Wait a minute. I want to hear this story.” I pulled my chair closer to her table.

  “Well, when John Grisham wrote his first book—”

  “Who’s this John Grisham character?”

  “Dad! He’s a writer. Will you let her talk?” I thrust a plastic glass of unsweetened tea into his hands and hoped it would keep him occupied. “You’re talking about A Time to Kill.”

  “A Time to Kill, yes.”

  “Ain’t ever no time to kill.”

  “Dad!!!”

  “All right. I’ll be quiet.”

  I turned back to the woman. “Please. Go on.”

  “The book only came out in paperback, ’cause it was practically self-published. John bought a bunch and stored them in a friend’s barn, where they sat. And sat. And sat. Until the roof leaked.”

  “Destroyed most of them,” her husband interjected.

  “Happened right before the movie The Firm came out. His books became real popular after that.” She winked at me. “So I always buy paperbacks from undiscovered authors. Those Grisham paperbacks are worth tons. I’ve got several.”

  I floated from my chair, macerated feet forgotten. “I’ll be right back.”

  As I stumbled into the starry night, Dad turned to the musicians and yelled, “You ever heard that song Rednecks, White Socks and Blue Ribbon Beer?”

  I dug into the trunk and cradled my little green book. White letters glowed through starlight. Would our crazy father/daughter sales team ever become a story like the one I just heard? I couldn’t imagine a hundred people reading my novel, let alone millions. I stood at the door and watched Dad, tapping his foot and singing along with the band.

  “Rednecks, whiiiiiiiite socks and Blue Ribbon beer!”

  Was Life about achieving success? Or was success a thing I made myself, following my rules? Whoever read my book, I was shocked to find myself having fun with Dad. People lit up when he talked and encouraged him to tell one more tale. I came back ready to hear him talk all night.

  The final chords of Dad’s song finished as I autographed my book and sat down to a two-inch slab of perfect pink medium rare-ness. Dad tucked into his piece of fish and talked through a bite. “I’m glad I insisted we come to this place.”

  “Did I hear you say you’re from South Carolina?” The owner stood behind us, our plates reflected in her glasses.

  “Yeah.” Flecks of fish fell from Dad’s mouth. “I live in Florence, and my daughter here’s from Charleston.”

  “Ever heard of Denmark?”

  For the second time in fifteen minutes, I almost snapped my neck. “How do you know Denmark?”

  “My only cousin lives there. She owns that antique store, the one in the old phone company building.”

  “You’re Caroline’s cousin?”

  She nodded. “You know her?”

  “She’s my friend Alice’s godmother. Alice just left this morning. She was my wingman all week, and she really wanted to come here, but you were closed last night.”

  “Oh my God. Alice Guess? I know her parents.”

  “I can’t believe she just missed meeting you.” I looked over at Dad, his chins mottled with remnants of dinner. “Can you believe that, Dad?”

  “I been around long enough to believe just about anything, Andra. Just about anything.”

  YOU’LL NEVER WALK ALONE

  Elvis Presley

  I spent my first day of rest on my feet. As I shoved things into the car, I mourned the loss of the jacuzzi tub at our cozy inn. Dad stood beside his suitcase. Sugar-free cookies dangled from each hand.

  “Aren’t you gonna bring that bag out, Dad?”

  “Can’t bend over to pick it up. You get it.”

  “Why-oh-why-oh-why did Alice leave me?” Every muscle screeched when I rammed his suitcase into the back seat.

  At the beginning of the trip, I mapped my rest days. Sleep until ten. A long, scalding bath. Carb-loaded lunch mid-afternoon, hand-delivered to my bedside. A nap followed by another bath. Lights out early.

  Instead, I unloaded the car at a Marriott north of Jackson. While my legs wailed through dragging our things up three floors, Dad hung out in the lobby. Every time I stalked past, he responded to my murderous looks with, “I’m selling books!”

  “I wish I could sell you,” I muttered as I grabbed the last bit of groceries and slammed the trunk.

  Dad teetered into our two-bedroom suite and crowed, “Now, this is a room! I got a sofa right in front of the TV and everything.” He stepped around piles, rocked himself onto the sofa and started flipping channels.

  “Dad! Can you at least tell me where—”

  “Ssh. I’m watching this.”

  “Fox News? Seriously, Dad?”

  He toggled the volume to STUN. Even with my bedroom door closed, I couldn’t miss the developing story. A Malaysian jetliner bound for Beijing went missing shortly after takeoff from Kuala Lumpur. Dad morphed into his Gulf War I version. He spent hours worshipping the TV while talking heads speculated, ad-libbed and revealed secret military locations to fill air time.

  Even with earplugs, sleep wouldn’t come.

  When I limped past Dad, he was too hypnotized by intrigue and hypothesis to notice the door crash. I stood in the hallway and tallied the cost of our remaining stops against the number of books we already sold. Desperate, I fantasized about buying my own room.

  At another hotel.

  But as I gimped to the elevator, sneakers in hand, I knew another room wasn’t the answer. A couple hundred dollars in book sales would never cancel out the thousands I committed to the trip. Money bled from our savings for months, finite funds I feared I’d never recover. Expenses for sturdy outdoor wear and the right backpack. Supplies to train for an endurance walk. Publicity. Advertising. Free print copies for reviews. Every time I uttered the words ‘Natchez Trace,’ money evaporated.

  I couldn’t afford a pair of hiking sandals, but as I took in my decaying feet, I realized I didn’t have a choice. Seven days of walking caused my toes to swell beyond the bounds of my sneakers. Every morning, I winced as I applied blister band-aids and layers of duct tape. Chunks of skin tore away each night. I expected raw bone to poke through remaining patches of flesh.

 
“At least, some open-toed Keens might give my abused toes a break. I’ll just put them on my credit card.” I maneuvered the car into traffic, determined to have something productive from failing to rest on a rest day.

  I scraped my feet into every pair of hiking sandals in Jackson’s paltry collection, but three stops later, I still didn’t own new sandals. Salesperson after salesperson delivered the same news. “Too early in the season for those, but if you come back in a few weeks—”

  “I don’t have a few weeks.” I fought to keep my voice light when I wanted to choke them with my smelly sock. “I’m walking the Trace, and—”

  “The whole thing?”

  “Uh-huh, and—”

  “Well, no shoe’s gonna cushion crazy.”

  I hobbled to the car, pounded the steering wheel and screamed. “Why can’t freaking Meriwether Lewis be here to make me some blasted shoes?”

  It was better than telling the salesperson to screw himself.

  At my last stop, I settled on a clearance pair of Tevas with open toes. I tried not to notice red welts and oozing blisters in the floor mirror. “All this after seven days of walking.”

  “That’s how you tore your feet up like that, just walking?”

  I turned to find another salesperson standing next to me. His name tag read Brad.

  “Yeah.” I undid the velcro, determined not to talk about my Natchez Trace walk with another person who wouldn’t care.

  “Where’re you walking?” He took the box and waited while I tried to pry my feet into sneakers. After watching me struggle for a few beats, he said, “You know. Maybe you should give me those things and wear these sandals out of here.”

  I whisked water from my eyes. Kindness. I forgot what it was in a slog of unkindness to self. Smiling, I traded shoes with him. “I’m walking the Trace.”

  “The Parkway?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How far?”

  “Natchez to Nashville.”

  “Wow. So you still got a ways to go, huh.”

  I tried to avoid nicking open skin with velcro and laughed. “Don’t remind me.”

  “I’ve known some people who walked parts of it, but never the whole thing.”

  I stood and followed him to the register. “Well, now you know someone. Maybe. If I finish.”

  “Alternate sides of the highway every mile. It’ll help with crowning.” He put my old shoes in a bag and handed it to me. “Good luck. And be careful out there. Paltry ranger patrols between here and Tupelo. The feds don’t give the Trace money for anything. Let us know if you make it to Nashville.”

  Why didn’t I think of that strategy to deal with crowning? No wonder my left foot was pulpier than my right. I drove back to the hotel, stalked past Dad and fell asleep, convinced that sandals and my discovery would make my second week easier on my feet.

  If I learned anything from my study of Meriwether Lewis, it should have been this: Ignorant assumptions about the unknown almost always heralded disaster.

  HOLIDAY ROAD

  Lindsey Buckingham

  “Why am I crying?” The barren highway didn’t answer.

  It was the beginning of my second week. Fifteen miles past Jackson, the world was impenetrable forest with a strip of highway through its heart.

  I wove past milepost 121. A Monday. Every step drilled into my toes. Tortured ankles and spent legs threatened to stop moving.

  A familiar horn blasted behind me.

  “Dad. Think about him, and he will appear.”

  He pulled onto the grass and motioned me over. His belly knocked the steering wheel. “I’m driving up to Vaiden. See that woman I grew up with. Eighty-nine years old, she is.”

  Needles thrummed along my left eye and pin cushioned an eyebrow. A migraine. I fought to focus on Dad.

  “Everybody called me Hot Shot back then. ‘That you, Hot Shot?’ First thing she said when she picked up the phone.”

  I pretended understanding while my mind howled, “I will not give into this headache. I will not.”

  Wind lashed me into Dad’s door. He leaned through the window. “I hope you didn’t dent this Mercury. Linda’ll kill you if you mess up her car.”

  “Dad—”

  “Supposed to be gusts of up to thirty miles an hour today, Andra. Coming from the north.”

  I tugged the stays of my hood taut. Fiery points of light cracked in the corner of one eye. “Damn,” I whispered.

  Dad put the car in gear. “I got to get going. See that woman. She called me Hot Shot, and—”

  I hurled myself into the car and rained hormonal, time-of-the-month fury on him. “Why is it so freaking important to see someone you haven’t laid eyes on since you were a kid?” I rubbed my left temple and heard my voice crack. “I know what’s gonna happen. You’re gonna drive over there, and get to reliving the good old days—”

  “She called me Hot Shot. Did I tell you that?”

  “Yes, Dad. Several times. And you’re gonna get lost in your stories. And I’ll be waiting by the side of the godforsaken road for hours.” I blasted his face with morning breath. “Don’t. You. Forget. I’ll feel like those poor people, waiting for that lost Malaysian plane. Do you hear me? Don’t you dare forget to pick me up.”

  “I won’t.” Dad closed the window, my signal to start my five hour walk through a wind tunnel.

  With a migraine.

  Physical pain dredged the well of painful memories.

  “Toby Denham, your mother’s here!” Second grade. Hot concrete dug into my tender legs when I scooted closer to the front of car line. Every time another car shot around the side of the building, I held my breath. Was that Mommy? Or Daddy? I took in the little girl next to me. Her wilted curls. Our teacher loomed over us, hands on hips. “What’re we gonna do with you two?”

  We were the only remaining kids.

  The teacher glanced at her watch. “Well, I’ve got a pile of papers to grade before I head home. I’ll give your parents a couple more minutes, but if they don’t show, I’m gonna have to put you in daycare.”

  “No!” I squeaked, prostrate beneath her skirt’s hem. “Please, please don’t put me in daycare. I can clean your chalkboards, or dust your erasers, or—”

  “Andra, that’s silly.” Her disdain knifed through me. “If you go to daycare, you can just play.”

  A car hurled into the parking lot, and the other little girl flashed a thumbs up. “Yessssss. That’s my mom.” She climbed into the front seat and smirked at me, but I focused on the ground. I wouldn’t let her see angry tears. By the time my mother raced around the corner, I was in daycare, my mind a mishmash of insecure chanting.

  How could my parents forget me?

  When I could never, ever forget them?

  Howling wind slapped my words into chafed cheeks. “You’d better not forget me, Hot Shot.”

  Near milepost 125, bullets of rain shot through me, a sideways downpour that gained velocity with every gust. Niagara Falls streamed into my eyes. “Not this, too.” I dug out migraine pills and dragged my sore gaze to the turbulence overhead. “I will not quit.”

  Rain mingled with tears as I swam an inland sea. Chilled liquid seeped through my rainproof clothing and doused my resolve. No matter how much I focused on the few feet I could see, I stumbled and fell in mud and weeds.

  I rolled onto my back and pounded puddles with my fists. Beaten, I crawled toward the trees to wait out the storm. The sky above the Mississippi hills mutated. Purple to charcoal to gray. When I stood, a light mist clouded the air, and the world was still. Soggy earth sucked my hiking boots as I limped to the highway.

  Another curse of the weather. I couldn’t wear my just-purchased athletic sandals in the rain.

  At milepost 133, a robin landed on the white line ahead of me. In good weather, birds swirled around me by the hundreds. Dappled grey and cardinal red. Magic music and feather kisses. When the breeze heralded a tweeted symphony, I stopped. Held my breath. And watched Nature preen.
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  When I noticed, Nature granted gifts that superseded pain.

  “What are you doing out here alone, little bird?” I followed it along the white line. “Are you hurt? Lost, maybe?”

  But it didn’t break its twiggy trajectory. It hopped a few steps and stopped. I froze when it turned and looked up at me.

  “I wish I could read your mind.”

  I kept my step light, lest the vibration frighten the robin, and we walked together for a minute. Two minutes. The robin maintained its pattern of looking back every few seconds. Checking on me. Or, that’s how I took it. Another magical gift from the Trace.

  “Nobody will believe a robin walked with me,” I breathed. At milepost 134, I fumbled with my pocket to retrieve my phone and snap enchantment. Before I touched it, the robin flew into the trees and rebuked me in a flutter of leaves.

  We were making a memory.

  Together.

  Why couldn’t I just experience it?

  My senses were dulled by migraine drugs, drowned in a deluge and congealed by wind. I dragged out my phone anyway, to check the time. “One mile to go, and Hot Shot better be waiting for me.” I blinked into another squall and kicked through the last steps of the day. When I walked up to the final milepost—135—Roy wasn’t there.

  My migraine dug out a hammer and pummeled the left side of my face. I clenched my teeth and called him. Once. Twice. Five times.

  “Okay. This is just like when you were a kid, Andra. Distract yourself with something else until he gets here.” I scanned the piney landscape. The closest pull-off was Robinson Road. Milepost 136.

  One effing mile.

  When I tried to take a few more steps to shorten the following day, my legs buckled. They were finished. Done. I crawled back to milepost 135 and pulled myself to my feet.

  “Pictures. I can take pictures to pass the time.” I snapped several photos of my foot on the milepost. My feet adjacent to the milepost. My leg wrapped around the milepost.

  Still no Dad.

  I leaned against the milepost and worked the pictures in my photo app. Angle and light and contrast, visual relationships that mimicked connection in life.

  Why did Dad and I always get the angles wrong?