by Austin Boyd
“It’s not welfare, honey. It’s help,” Granny Apple said, a hand on Laura Ann’s forearm. “Lots of people need assistance at some point in their lives.”
Laura Ann shook her head. “Daddy would never want me to do that.”
“Angus didn’t want to leave this life so early, either,” Auntie Rose said, gripping Laura Ann’s hands hard and pulling them toward her. “He raised you to be a survivor, sweetheart. But that doesn’t mean that you cheapen yourself to accept help when it’s offered.”
Cheapen myself? The words pierced her. She dared not tell her aunt why.
Laura Ann shook her head again. “I’ll find a way to get through this.”
Granny Apple smiled, crow’s-feet wrinkling into a leathery landscape of skin that reminded Laura Ann of a plowed field. Little girls ran from Granny sometimes, scared of the “Wrinkled Lady.” Laura Ann knew better. Every fold in that face was a book in her friend’s encyclopedia of wisdom, years of experience ready to be unearthed over a glass of milk and a biscuit.
“It’s not about you,” Granny Apple said in a slow raspy voice. “So don’t do this alone. Lean on us. And lean on Him.”
Laura Ann nodded, glad for the support and the counsel from her mentor. A woman of the woods.
Auntie Rose took a deep breath and let it out slowly. For her, understanding took a little longer, the McGehee independence and courage beaten out of her after so many years.
Granny Apple touched the joined hands of Laura Ann and Auntie Rose, a heavenly huddle at the farm’s kitchen table.
“Good thing you had that skillet, dear.”
Auntie Rose shrugged.
“You can’t go home, can you?” Granny Apple’s grey-blue eyes locked on Auntie Rose like a mountaineer microscope. She never missed a hint, a twitch of the mouth or a misty eye.
Rose shook her head, lowering her gaze, no doubt to avoid Granny Apple’s knowing look. “It’s worse than you know,” she said, her voice cracking.
Granny Apple exhaled patience. No words, just a loving smile and a squeeze of Rose’s forearm. Together, they waited for Auntie Rose to share more. She looked up at last, lip quivering when she spoke to Laura Ann.
“Jack wants more,” Auntie Rose volunteered. “Not just the farm. He wants the tobacco too — the allotment. He demanded that I get it back.”
Granny Apple nodded as if she could read minds, a gesture that seemed to say, “I could see this coming.”
“I don’t understand,” Laura Ann said, their hands clasped tight together.
Auntie Rose took a deep breath, as though steeling herself for some pain she could not avoid. “He’s got him a lawyer. Gonna sue for the allotment, if he has to.”
“He can’t. Not without your support,” Laura Ann said, her pulse quickening.
Auntie Rose looked up, years of grief bound in wet eyes, her lips pursed tight. Words fought to release themselves, but she bit them back.
“I don’t understand,” Laura Ann said again, releasing her aunt’s hands. She ran fingers through her hair, then propped her chin on laced hands.
“Daniel Whitt — the lawyer — is an old friend of your uncle Jack,” Granny Apple said, patting Auntie Rose on the forearm. She stood and moved to the stove, picked up a coffee pot, then returned to the table. She freshened Rose’s cup, and pointed to Laura Ann’s water glass. “More?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know him. Is Mr. Whitt local?”
“Yes,” Granny Apple replied, replacing the pot on the stove. She returned to her seat. “He has an office over in Culloden. He and your uncle were friends in school.” Her last words had an edge on them, as though the story they hid was still raw for her. Or for Auntie Rose, whose head hung, her face without expression.
“Your tobacco allotment must be farmed every year to keep it active,” Granny Apple said, looking at Laura Ann.
“I know. And I told Uncle Jack last night that I had no intention to farm it. Tobacco killed Daddy and I’ll never grow it again.”
“I admire your pluck, sweetheart. But your uncle doesn’t.”
Auntie Rose smiled the briefest of grins and took another long breath, remaining silent.
“I heard about this some time ago,” Granny Apple said, patting Auntie Rose on the forearm. “Jack knew you hated what tobacco did to your father, but he’s determined to keep that allotment alive, no matter what. Word in the valley is that he’ll sue for a review of your father’s will and ensure that the allotment passes to his sibling. Your aunt.”
“What difference would it make, Granny Apple? That allotment’s not valid anywhere else. Whoever farms it has to grow the tobacco on my land. And I won’t let that happen.”
Granny Apple shrugged, raising an eyebrow. “That’s why he has a lawyer, child.”
Auntie Rose looked up. “He doesn’t think he can win.” These words came out different than any others that day. Words of defiance, of strength. “That’s why he got me involved. He threatened me if I didn’t get you to support the deal. But I don’t want that allotment. I hate it. I hate what that horrible plant did to my brother, and now it’s dividing our family.”
Laura Ann shook her head and placed a hand on Auntie Rose’s. “Tobacco will not split us up.” She put her best effort into a smile. The pain between her eyes screamed for relief. For sleep. Or aspirin.
“Jack will be tough to beat,” Granny Apple said. “He’s got experts.”
“But I’ve got time.” Laura Ann stiffened, then stood, and pointed out the window toward the barn and a fallow field beyond it.
“If a tobacco allotment isn’t farmed every year then it expires. And you have to get the tobacco in the ground by June.” She crossed her arms, staring out the window. “I only need to keep him off balance for six months. Then it’s too late.”
“That could work,” Granny Apple said, picking up a pair of used plates from the table. “What did your daddy’s will say?”
“Everything passes to me, except for some family mementos that go to Auntie Rose. Grandmother’s things.”
“Then you’d better stiffen your back, girl. Your uncle’s coming after you with a vengeance. And he won’t be easy to beat.”
After Aunt Rose left, Granny Apple followed Laura Ann out to the barn to help with chores. “Thanks for coming over,” Laura Ann said. “I’m worn to a frazzle and it’s nice to have some company.”
Granny Apple bent and broke open a bale of hay, tossing flakes to pregnant Angus mothers below. They stomped with heavy hooves on a manure-layered concrete floor, jostling for position as new hay fell into their feeding area. Feed the cows and shovel manure through the winter, then struggle through calving season in the spring. Turn them out the rest of the year and raise the crops to feed them. Never relax.
“There’s a story you need to hear, Laura Ann. Something that you need to understand.” Both women exhaled clouds of fog in the frigid air, busting apart bale after bale to fuel the crunching jaws underneath them. “A story about your uncle. And your mom.”
Laura Ann stopped her work, a hank of twine wrapped about her hand, one loop of hemp still holding the bale together. Flakes of hay sprang open as far as the cord would allow, creating a fan of dried grass.
Granny Apple never looked up, continuing her work. “Jack Harris loved Hope Sinclair. Your mom. He set his eyes on her in middle school, and she’s all he ever talked about. I can remember that boy shoveling manure for me one winter and all he did was recite her name. Every time that shovel scraped concrete, he shouted out ‘Hope!’ I thought he was trying to motivate himself to move slop. I guess he was, in a way.”
Laura Ann pushed her bale toward Granny Apple, and then sat on another to listen. The elder woman kept up the feeding process, happy, it seemed, to work and talk.
“Jack asked your momma to the prom every year throughout high school, and she turned him down every time. Hope only had eyes for Angus McGehee. Your mom and dad were courting from ninth grade on, and no surprise to most of
us when your dad asked her to marry him after they graduated.” Granny Apple stopped her labor and looked at Laura Ann, curled up on a pile of hay. “When they got engaged, Jack was devastated.”
Granny Apple pushed the last flake down to the cows and took a broom to sweep the loose hay off the floor. “Jack decided to get revenge. Leastwise, that’s the way I see it.”
“How?” Laura Ann hung up the broom when Granny Apple finished sweeping, and together they walked to the stair.
“He took advantage of your father’s sister.”
“Auntie Rose?”
Granny Apple nodded and frowned, then headed down the stair to the corncrib. Together they shoveled cobs into the troughs, no words between them for minutes. Laura Ann waited, determined to match her mentor’s patience.
“They had to get married, Laura Ann. Fast. We pretended to be happy for them, but I worried it might not last.” She held a cob in her hands for a long time, studying it carefully. “It’s a wonder they’re still together.” She tossed the cob to a waiting cow that crunched the end of the hard corn as soon as the grain hit the feeder.
“No, it’s not.”
“Pardon?”
“It’s not a wonder they’re together. That’s because of Preacher,” Laura Ann said, staring blankly at the tall pile of corn. Immense, like the unspoken burden she carried. “You don’t have to listen to him every Sunday, Granny Apple. Preacher’s put an incredible fear in her. She’ll never leave Uncle Jack.”
“She might.”
“Not likely. She’s convinced that the beatings are her fault.” Laura Ann picked up an errant cob, turning it over in her hands through a long silence. “And Preacher confirms that every time they talk.”
Granny Apple stopped a moment, staring beyond the cows, then started shoveling more corn. “And what about you?”
“I was raised in that church — “
“And you can leave it. Come worship with me. Or visit Pastor Culpeper’s church in Pursley.” She paused her shoveling, then added, “Now that your father’s passed, no one’s holding you back.”
Laura Ann looked down, her eyes studying the worn concrete below her feet. It seemed a long time before she noticed that the scraping of Granny Apple’s tin shovel had silenced.
“Your dad’s holding you back, isn’t he?”
Laura Ann tried to quell the quivering chin that gave her away. At last, she nodded.
“Five generations of McGehees are buried in that cemetery, child. I know how hard it is. When my Max died, it took everything I had to leave Alma and find a new place to worship. But I’m glad I did. Preacher’s got his own gospel, and it’s not good.” She stooped to pick up a portion of a cob and tossed it to Laura Ann, motioning toward a hungry black mouth.
“What about Auntie Rose?” Laura Ann asked, anxious to change the subject. “What did Daddy say?” Uncle Jack was never allowed to touch her, not even to get close. It all made sense now.
“Your dad hated Jack for what he did to his sister, for ripping her away from the family and the farm,” Granny Apple replied, shoveling harder than ever. Anger swelled in her voice. “Your aunt loved this place. Always has. When your grandparents died, Jack pulled a fast one and got her to sign over her half of the property to him. He sold it to the state, probably to the same fella who’s trying to buy it now.” She stopped shoveling, breathing hard in the cold. “Jack used that money to buy his way to influence around here.” She wiped her face, knocking back cobwebs that drifted down from the dusty joists above.
“Jack took your Aunt Rose to bed—just to get back at your dad for marrying Hope. Then, when your mother died young, his anger flared. He blamed your dad for Hope’s death. And that’s when he started beating your aunt. Hope’s gone, he’s stuck with a bad decision, and your aunt’s miserable. It’s a sorry affair.”
Granny plucked at a broken cob, ripping off individual kernels one at a time. “Part of me feels sorry for him.”
“For Uncle Jack? Why?”
Granny Apple’s lips formed a half-smile, half-frown. “Jack wanted kids. Rose lost her baby and couldn’t conceive again. No idea why. I’ll never condone what your uncle has done to your aunt, but there’s this little part of him that I still remember when he was a boy, a cute young man with big eyes and bigger dreams, talking about growing up and having a large family. Maybe …,” she began, her voice breaking, “maybe if that family had happened, he’d a’ settled down and wouldn’t be what he is today. Frustrated dreams do that to people.”
Granny Apple leaned on her grain shovel again, exhaling a deep breath, pain blown out with her next words. “And then there’s you, child—the spitting image of your mother. The older you got, the more Jack saw her in your face. You rub salt in his wounds every time he looks at you.” She paused, looking Laura Ann up and down, and smiled. “Especially now. You’re tall just like Hope, with the same pretty figure. Even the eyes, one green and one blue.” Her brief smile faded.
Granny Apple set her shovel aside and took a seat on a milking stool. “Need me one of these at home, something sturdy I can stand on.” She adjusted herself on the wood seat and then let out a long sigh. Laura Ann waited, practicing the patience she learned every day from this remarkable woman.
“Rose lost her baby in the summer after they finished high school. A miscarriage. Barely seventeen at the time. Now you’re all the family she’s got.” She looked at Laura Ann, tears flowing down deep creases.
“Don’t trust your uncle,” Granny Apple said at last, wiping at wet eyes. She picked up an ear of corn, bending it slowly with both hands until it snapped in the middle, then stared at the fresh break in the reddish-tan cob, surrounded by rows of yellow.
“Never be caught alone with him, Laura Ann,” she added, her voice a raspy half-whisper.
She paused, then tossed the two halves to a drooling black mouth.
CHAPTER 5
DECEMBER 27
Laura Ann pared away oak in gentle curls, advancing her tool along the lathe rest as spinning wood contacted her sharp blade in a mesmerizing flow of shavings. She imagined Daddy with her here in the shop, a blank of poplar wood in his lathe, peeling away curls of greenish-grey to reveal yet another stair baluster for the custom woodwork company he supplied back east. Today, he stood nearby in her memory, guiding the razor-sharp gouge along a short section of red oak, shaping a stool leg for Granny Apple.
The delicious tang of oak filled the air, its aroma sharp like a wood version of cheddar cheese. Three stool legs stood ready to assemble, waiting on their last brother to become Granny’s combination of a seat and step-up. Shifting to a new tool, Laura Ann slid a skew chisel against the left end of the round cylinder, her gentle pressure relieving a tiny “V” in the wood, shaping the first evidence of a decorative bead. With deeper and deeper cuts, she pared away three more grooves, rounded over by the flat of the skew blade into gentle semicircles. Ten minutes after she started the job, she sanded her work, fast but accurate on the old lathe that once defined her daddy’s life each evening.
Oak dust settled on her like beige pollen, raining down as she bored holes, then glued legs and stretcher dowels to form the frame of a stool. She’d watched Daddy assemble these a hundred times, frames he shipped to the Mennonites in Tennessee where someone wove an oak-splint seat and sold the product as “country made.” She blew dust off the finished frame, adjusting her glue job to ensure it sat square on the top of Daddy’s table saw. Laura Ann wrapped her arms about herself, imagining Daddy there behind her, hugging her while he admired her work. Years ago, as a middle schooler, she’d built her first stool. He never shipped it, but hung that oak stool from the rafters of the shop as a testament to his favorite helper. Layered in dust, it dangled from the ceiling above her.
The compressor sang its pressure song for a minute as she cleaned her shavings from the floor, sweeping up dust and curled oak into an ancient pan. At pressure, the motor shut off and the shop went silent. Stooping to scoop the sweeping
s, Laura Ann settled onto the smooth wood of the floor, worn shiny by years of Daddy’s boots. She drew her knees into her chest, arms wrapped about them, and waited.
Christmas, now two days past, tugged at her as a bad memory. Auntie Rose had gone home that morning. Laura Ann’s only companion, Lucky, nuzzled at her leg, his black fur tinged with dabs of sawdust. His purr sang tenor to the soprano whistle of cold wind against leaky windows. Her own heart measured the beat with a deep bass as she hung on, smelling Daddy in the oak. Eyes closed, she held on to him, dreaming of mornings long ago at his knee, and more recent nights at his side.
Daddy, her best friend.
“It’s beautiful, child. How on earth did you do it?” Granny Apple asked, cradling the stool in her lap later that afternoon. Seated close together in the kitchen of her friend’s tiny mountain home, Laura Ann watched with pride as she caressed the smooth oak, rubbed soft with a layer of finish that deepened the color of the veins and grain of red oak. She ran a finger along the warp and woof of a blue woven seat, where faded blue-scarred denim rose and fell in a patchwork of inch-wide squares. “Is this made from blue jeans?” Granny Apple asked, thumping the tight weave like a ripe watermelon.
Laura Ann put an arm around her friend and squeezed tight. “It’s got part of Daddy in it.” She traced the seat’s tight weaving with a finger. “His overalls.” Her voice cracked.
Granny Apple drew a deep breath. “It’s such a beautiful gift, Laura Ann. But this has too much of your dad in it for me to accept. Do you understand?”
Laura Ann faced her, eyes wet. “No. Please. I want you to have this.”
Granny Apple ran her hand across the top of the blue seat, her hand gentle on the fabric. “Angus McGehee lives in these threads, child.” She smiled. “I’m honored. But you don’t use any more of his clothes to make stools, you hear? Next one you weave, get some old jeans down at the thrift store. They bale the ones they can’t use and send them to Cumberland to process into insulation. Mary Ellen Harper will give you some. You tell her I sent you.”