I flung my uneaten sandwich across the back seat. “Dammit!” Mom plugged her ears with spangled fingers, but I didn’t care if I offended her. Cardboard sawed my flesh as I opened a fresh box of books and scribbled my name. “Here. I’m signing them. Ten of them. You’d better sell every last one of these today.”
“I already sold—”
“I don’t care what you already sold, Dad. You’ve got two miles left. If I have to sign these in the shape I’m in, you have to sell them.”
“But—”
“What’s the matter? I bet you can’t get rid of half these books in an hour.”
“Watch me.” Dad flicked the visor and grinned. Verbal sparring was his lifeline to me.
But when I opened the door and faced hurricane-like gusts, I saw my resolve fly away. I still had one significant landmark to cross. The John Coffee Memorial Bridge. The longest bridge on the Natchez Trace, its two lanes straddled the Tennessee River.
“Mom, I’ve got a bridge coming up. If we drive down to the landing, I’ll scope it out first. You know, before I walk it. I’m not sure I should be on foot in this wind.”
“I don’t think you should,” Dad muttered.
I squeezed his shoulder and fought to mask a laugh. “I don’t care what you think, Dad.”
“Heh-heh. I know.”
Mom wound the car through the site and parked on a bluff. The Tennessee River churned like a pot boiling over.
Colbert Ferry got its name from the man-and-boat that moved people, animals and things back and forth across the river. In the aftermath of the Battle of New Orleans, the ferryman earned infamy by charging Andrew Jackson $50,000 to haul troops and materiel from one bank to the other. I eyed the rock-strewn gorge where the Old Trace met the water’s edge. If Meriwether Lewis traveled that far south, he crossed the river there. Maybe he stood where I did, awaiting the ferry.
I imagined his day. Illness forced him from the Mississippi River at Memphis. He recuperated at Fort Pickering for two weeks before embarking upon an overland journey with Chickasaw Indian agent James Neely and two servants. Neely was headed as far as Nashville. He offered to escort the ailing Lewis and help him find another travel companion.
They drank their way through the backcountry and lost a valuable horse. According to Neely, Lewis ordered him to find it, while he pressed onward to Grinder’s Stand.
Windblown voices smacked my face. “Have you been listening, girl? We couldn’t walk on water. We were all ferried across.”
I looked around the empty parking lot. Mom and Dad waved from the Mercury, engine running.
A car would be my ferry.
When I settled in the back seat, the wind still roared in my head. “Drive me across the bridge, Mom.”
Dad fastened his seat belt. “That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said on this entire trip, Andra.”
“You just figure out how to sell ten books in two miles, Old Man.” I leaned into the leather headrest and closed my eyes.
Two miles to go. Another 114 miles to the end.
Would I ever cross the finish line?
FOLLOW YOU, FOLLOW ME
Genesis
Collinwood, Tennessee. Population 991.
“Here’s the room, Hon.” I limped through a commercial glass door and followed another Linda into an oblong room. Two beds shared the same space. Fluorescent lighting dotted ceiling tile. “The bathroom is so small, because we planned it as an office initially. But with all the bicyclists on the Trace and whatnot, we converted it into places to stay.”
When I closed the door, I couldn’t turn around in the bathroom. I inspected the minuscule shower and wondered whether Dad would fit.
But a bed was a bed, and I needed a bed. And a welcoming soul.
I opened the bathroom door and smiled at the Other Linda. “It’s perfect.”
With a bed three feet from me, I didn’t care where I stayed. The place was clean. The main room was spacious, and the Other Linda was attentive and helpful. After fifteen miles of wind and rain and more wind, I wanted to collapse.
Mom interrupted my bed-ward trajectory. “We were really hoping for a bathtub. She needs to soak her feet.”
“Mom, I don’t—”
Mom put one manicured hand on a hip. “Show her your feet, Andra.”
“No. Really. Nobody needs to see my feet. Nobody.” Still, I fiddled with my laces, ready to play.
“You can come upstairs and use my tub.” The Other Linda scooted to the door at the sight of one crusty sock. “I’ll get it ready. You don’t even have to knock. You just come on in.” She was gone before we could argue.
Mom’s face glowed with victory. “I don’t know how you did fifteen miles today. You look like you’re about to fall over. You go ahead. I’ll bring our stuff in.”
“Isn’t Dad going to help?” I winced as I peeled sock-and-skin from my other foot.
“No. I dropped him on Main Street. He mumbled something about five books to sell.”
“He’ll never do it.”
I left her to unload and dragged myself up outdoor stairs to the owners’ suite.
The Other Linda met me at the door. “My grandchildren’s with me, so you lock yourself in. The five-year-old might surprise you if you don’t. I got everything ready, Hon.”
I followed her through a bedroom to her master bath. While I waited for epsom salts to dissolve, I held the counter and tugged my clothes. Undressing was never easy when I couldn’t bend my legs. I inched compression pants down my thighs and wondered how I didn’t fall and crack my skull.
Strength seeped through pain. The Tennessee River buffeted me, but its waves applauded. I was almost through my second state of three, territory Meriwether Lewis touched. Agony couldn’t obliterate my pride at seeing my father keep going, at knowing I shared an unusual gift. An adventure with my aging parents.
I sank into scalding water and picked bandage adhesive from my feet. One toenail clung to a web of dead skin. Two toes glowed purple. Remnants of dark nail polish mimicked gangrene. I rolled my eyes and murmured, “My feet will never be the same.”
Fifteen minutes. Thirty. I leaned into steam and soaked until the water cooled, my longest bath since the jacuzzi in Raymond, Mississippi. I swabbed out the bath and returned to my room, hoping the Other Linda didn’t think me tacky for staying an hour.
Because Dad wasn’t lurking outside, always needing to pee.
I missed him. I didn’t realize how I’d grown accustomed to his toilet urges until he wasn’t there to interrupt. Dad blew through our room’s glass door before sleep claimed me. “Hey, Andra. An-dra! You asleep? Hey! You sleeping?” He poked my arm. Once. Twice.
Opening my eyes hurt. “Not anymore, Dad.”
“Well, I done sold ten books. Ten. To that coffee shop up the street.”
“You bribed them. Or gave them away for free.”
“No, I did not. You bet me I couldn’t sell five books before the end of today, and I done sold ten. Double.”
“Okay. Great.” I sank into satin sheets and covered my face with a pillow.
Dad lorded over me, jabbing his finger into my shield. “There’s a catch, though.”
“What?”
“They want ’em wholesale. Discounted, ’cause they’re gonna sell ’em in their store. What’ll you sell ’em for?”
His finger almost gouged my eye when I bolted upright. “They don’t count! You can’t claim to sell ten books and discount them!”
“Ten books is ten books. You didn’t define how I had to do it. Just that I had to sell ’em before the end of the day. And the coffee shop wants to buy ’em, for a wholesale price.” He crossed his arms over his bulge of belly, his eyes glittering. The man never stopped pushing me.
I threw my pillow across the room and hit Mom coming in the door, but I continued my rant. “Fine. You sell them for this price, and not one penny less. And if they won’t agree to that, then you lost our bet.”
Dad wagged his f
inger in my face. “You’re buying my dinner tonight, and I’m powerful hungry.” The door slapped his behind on his way out.
I looked at Mom. “He’s walking all the way over there? Seriously? It’s almost four blocks to the coffee shop. This is what I have to do to get that fat man to exercise?”
“Let me get you some dinner before he gets back.” She handed me a menu for the local diner, one of Collinwood’s only eating establishments. My stomach rumbled as I scanned two pages of fried carbs. Almost 350 miles walked, and I wasn’t down a single pound. My mouth watered at the description of their homemade burger, but I kept my eyes trained to the salad section, never a good choice when the specialty was deep fried goodness.
I tossed the menu aside. “I’m not hungry.”
“You’ve got to eat, Andra. You barely ate lunch.” Mom forced the plastic-coated pages between my fingers.
“That was Dad’s fault.”
“No, you both enjoy sparring.”
I dropped the menu and pulled the bedspread over my head. Mom’s voice penetrated my cocoon. “I’m going to get you a hamburger. Roy’ll be up at that place for at least an hour, sussing out new strangers to talk to. You can eat your dinner and pretend to be asleep when he tries to claim his prize.”
Bedding vaulted everywhere when I sat up. “How am I gonna sleep, when the whole sleep apnea machine business’ll be gurgling feet from my bed?”
“I don’t know how you’re going to sleep, but I know I’m sleeping with you. Three nights of sharing a bed with him is plenty.”
Before I could argue, she darted through the front door. I ran my fingers along the arches of my shredded feet. Every bloody gash was a personal victory. “Only a few more days, Andra. Exactly a week. You never thought you’d get this far.”
Dad strutted into the room waving a check. “I sold ’em. Ten books.” He threw the check onto the bedspread. “I won our bet. Now, aren’t you gonna buy your dear old dad some fried onion rings?”
“Mom’s over at the diner, getting my supper. You go over there and tell her to buy whatever you want.” Before he made it through the door, I yelled, “But if you eat a whole order of onion rings, you’d better not stink up this room all night!”
I WALK THE LINE
Johnny Cash
Two days later, I stood on the brink of another fifteen miles and wondered what five hours walking uphill would do to hamstrings and desiccated feet. When I tightened my laces at milepost 360, I distracted myself with the sound of falling water. A rocky creek burbled through a chasm next to the highway, soothing company through my first two miles.
By the time I made the restroom facility at Glenrock Branch, my legs and feet warmed to my will. I used a real toilet and jogged down a steep path to the creek. If I stretched, I could dip my toes into rushing water, still icy at the tail end of winter. After a few minutes, I couldn’t feel anything below my ankles. For the first time in almost a month, I numbed both feet at once.
I almost had an orgasm.
“Andra! You okay?” Dad’s gut strained over the fence bordering the parking lot.
“I’m great, Dad! Just making a video in front of this rock formation.” I waved my iPhone in his direction. The creek powered around a natural rock cairn. It teetered over my head, stacked by a giant hand.
Dad took a couple of steps down the incline. Just two, lest he exert himself in the reverse climb. He waited for me to join him. Before I was halfway, he was talking. “You know there’s a big hill coming up.”
“Don’t tell me. Don’t tell me. Don’t tell me!” I panted next to him. “I don’t look at the map for anything other than a bathroom or a place in the book, Dad. You know that.”
“But we done drove it, and it’s mighty steep.”
I pulled my hat over my ears. “I told you I don’t want to know what’s coming.”
“And crooked.”
“Dad—”
“Cars probably won’t be able to see you on them curves.” He twisted his black Georgia Bulldog hat and looked at his feet. “I, uh………I just want you to be careful.”
I touched his arm and tried to keep my voice even. “I’ll walk on the shoulder.”
“Ain’t no shoulder. That’s what I’m saying.” He shrugged away from me. “One side of the road’s a sheer wall of rock, with a big drop off to this here creek on the other. You gotta climb it on the highway, and drivers, if they’re going fast and all, well, they might not see you.”
I remembered the time I rode a school friend’s moped. He took me for a fifteen-year-old joyride. I didn’t ask my parents. I just hopped on. We putted along neighborhood streets. Even found a few piles of dirt to jump for an elevated heartbeat.
When I got home, Dad sat stone faced in his recliner.
“Get to your room, Andra. I’m giving you a spanking.” He already had his belt stretched taut in his hands.
“Why? What did I do?” I couldn’t remember the last time my parents spanked me. Corporal punishment was a faint memory from elementary school.
He waved the belt inches from my face. “Do you know what I saw from them motor bikes when I worked at that funeral home at the University of Georgia? Mangled-up bodies? Girls I couldn’t even tell was girls? I had to scrape one of ‘em off the highway. In pieces. Didn’t know if it was a person or roadkill.”
Tears filmed his eyes. I couldn’t ignore the strength of his memories, the manifestation of his pain. “I didn’t know, Dad. You never told me.”
“Well, I just did.” He fiddled with his belt clasp and wouldn’t look at me.
“Dad.” I slipped my arm around his broad shoulder. “I didn’t know riding a moped would upset you like that. Please don’t punish me for your memories. If it’s that big a deal, I won’t do it again, okay?”
It took him almost three more decades to admit he feared seeing his daughter turned into shredded meat.
I jiggled the circa-1980 hearing aid perched above a hairy ear. “At least, I’ll be able to hear them coming. I love you, too, Dad.” Before he responded, I trotted toward the road.
Maybe we were both growing.
The Trace took a right turn and followed a cliff. My knuckles scraped wet rock layers as I charged up the slope, determined my will would make it easy.
From Natchez to Nashville, I gained almost a thousand feet of elevation. Spread over 444 miles, I thought I wouldn’t feel the incline. It was only when a reader asked about actual elevation changes that I looked online. Serious climbing would happen in Tennessee.
By the next bend, I cursed Achilles and his stupid heel. Pavement merged with sky along a ten percent grade. Tight ankles refused to stretch downward, forcing me to charge the slope on tiptoe. Oozing blisters were my sole grip on the roadway. My determination fled as the novelty of rolling hills and picturesque creeks was replaced with wheezing and grinding teeth.
“I know I read it, but I didn’t think I’d have to do it all at once.” I swiped my sweaty face on my sleeve and blinked to refocus. Falling water. Newborn red buds. A woodpecker zooming back and forth ahead of me. It tapped a tree trunk, and I imagined Morse code. “You can do it. You can do it. You can.”
As I took a clearer step, a car blasted around the curve, thirty feet from me. I rolled along the shoulder to avoid being hit and smacked into a ragged rock wall. Burning oil clogged my nostrils. I examined knuckles, elbows, knees. “I can’t believe I didn’t take off several layers of skin.” I heaved my right foot onto empty pavement and ignored the stitch in my back. The car never braked.
I hauled myself to a plateau. Rocky outcrops gave way to graceful fields and fenced pastures. I tried to skip along the grassy shoulder. Beauty over pain. Adventure over agony. Two trees squeaked together, a melody I didn’t notice in the snarl of everyday life. I snapped a picture with my foot on milepost 370.
“This is probably the last day I’m going to walk alone.”
Acknowledgement gutted me. In spite of the challenges, I found joy in walking alone.
Just my broken body. The rolling movie reel of Nature. And my thoughts. My soul bled remorse on an empty hornets nest, into the spiky balls of a gum tree. I squeaked through a drenched field, and I stood amid thousands of daffodils.
I spread my arms and twirled, startled by the realization that I didn’t want to finish. My walk was magical, mythic joy. Even at its hardest, the Natchez Trace rewarded me. Tears ran through the dirt on my cheeks. “I’m gonna miss this Life when it’s over.”
A car slowed as it approached me, and before I could wave, the passenger flashed green and white through the open window. I threw both hands over my head, thumbs up. “My book! You’re reading my book!” I danced with daffodils long after engine noise faded.
I almost forgot about my book. I risked my life to convince people to try my novel, because I thought if I demonstrated dedication to my story, a few more people might read it.
I no longer cared.
Countless layers of blistered skin slathered off selfish motives. My walk was about more than pages, bound in colored paper. I never understood the value of an adventure with my aging parents. Civilizations repeat the mistakes of history, much like families replicate dysfunctional dynamics, generation after generation. Walking almost 444 miles stripped away expectations and knit me to Mom and Dad. We would leave a storied place and rewrite history.
Milepost 373 wobbled into sight. I peeled off my hat. My scalp tingled when I ran fingers through my hair. I blinked several times, but the world still tilted. “Two more miles. Damn. I was so busy being in the moment, I think I forgot to eat.”
My phone lit up before I could summon Mom. I slid my finger along the screen. “Mom? Where are you?”
“On a side road, just down from milepost 374.”
“Good. Wait there. I’m dizzy.”
“I can come and get you if you’re—”
“No.” My teeth ripped into a protein bar. “Time got away from me, and I didn’t eat. I’m gonna sit with you and Dad and eat my lunch, okay?”
Dad’s voice was background static. “Maybe I can hold it ’til she’s through.”
“Not having a place to go hasn’t stopped you anywhere else, Roy. And Andra? I’ve got potato chips for you.”
Not Without My Father: One Woman's 444-Mile Walk of the Natchez Trace Page 14