The Road to Bittersweet

by Donna Everhart

  Papa leaned over, holding both her wrists and yelling at her to “let go!” and every time he did, Momma screamed at him, “No!”

  He bellowed, “Ann! Listen! On the count of three! One! Two!”

  Momma’s expression become set with a determined look, lips thinned out like when she was mad at something.

  When Papa said, “Three!” she let go.

  It had to have required tremendous effort to pull her over the side and into the back, considering it appeared impossible, but he did it. Momma lay flat in the truck bed for a few seconds and then she pushed herself into a sitting position. Papa gripped the side, and after he got his breath, he reached down to grasp her hands and helped her sit on the box beside Laci. He kissed each of her hands and brushed her hair off her face. He placed his hands on her cheeks for a few seconds, and she covered them with her own. She wanted to cry and wouldn’t. She stared up at him, and times like this, I seen their love so clearly, it was like somebody had placed me in front of a dirty window and then wiped it sparkling clean. Love like theirs was what I wanted, the kind what held on and never let go. The lasting kind, equal in measure for each person.

  The moment passed and Papa released Momma’s face, motioning for me to hand him Seph. Above the wind, and the pounding rain, Seph’s crying was barely audible. Spreading my legs to gain some balance, I passed him off carefully.

  I bent toward Momma’s ear, “Rest, Momma, catch your breath!”

  She leaned against Laci while Papa set his feet wide, and held on to Seph, facing her. I stood on Laci’s other side, hanging on to the top of the truck. It shifted, going sideways until something large and solid slammed into it, throwing us all off balance. Momma almost lost her seat, and I fell to my knees. Laci looked like she wanted to crawl into the box she sat on. Thing was, Papa couldn’t grab nothing since he held the squirming, crying Seph. It happened so fast and yet so slow as he stumbled backwards, a look of stunned surprise on his face. One second, he and Seph was right there, and next, the back a Papa’s legs connected to the side of the truck bed and he flipped over and into the water.

  It was odd how it got quiet for the length of a breath, with me and Momma staring dumbstruck at where they’d been standing only seconds ago. It was like hearing the big sawmill at Evergreen going for hours on end until it was cut off. The silence what followed always seemed louder than when it was on, an eerie hush what lasted until me and Momma broke it with shrieks of disbelief. We crawled to the side where he went over, as if it would be possible to see him and Seph. There was only the whitish froth of the water.

  Gripping the slick, wet metal sides, our frantic screams blended together. “Papa! William!”

  Lightning flashed, and I seen them about thirty feet away. I pointed, gripping Momma’s shoulder with one hand while my other trembled and shook. Papa held his arms rigid and above the water as he fought to keep Seph out of harm’s way. He was moving away from us fast, and seconds later with another flash of lightning, he was barely visible, his head a tiny, dark knot in the current, and beyond hearing our shouts.What shook us to the point of absolute panic was seeing how hard it had been for him as he tried to save Seph.

  Momma said, “He’ll do it, he’ll keep Seph safe, no matter what, he’ll keep him safe.”

  She kept repeating it over and over. I said nothing, my breaths short and hard, like I’d been running hours on end. I thought it impossible. Papa’s resolve was something I’d seen in the past, but how long could he last? We leaned out far as we dared, even long after they’d disappeared around a bend. We kept screaming till our throats was raw, our hopes relying on fickle weather, and a capricious river. More objects hit the truck, like the storm would beat it to expel its anger. Water started seeping in where we were, yet all we could do was splash from one side to the other while continuing to holler for Papa. After a few minutes, I fell into a shocked silence. Then, Momma did too. The Tuckasegee had them now. It would do as it seen fit.

  She sank onto the box beside Laci, mouth open, crying without noise. Laci sat hunched, rocking back and forth, back and forth. Right then, I wished I could be like her.

  Unmindful of what I’d seen.

  Chapter 3

  The truck shifted like it might start moving again and we clambered onto the small, cramped roof, driven by the relentless rise of water in the back. Momma faced forwards, legs hanging down the windshield, her body slumped as if she’d already give up on everything. I kept hold of her, linked at the elbow, while I sat with Laci facing the other direction. My back rested against Momma’s, only there was no warmth to share. Our backbones knocked together, and only later would I notice a bruised soreness.

  Thing was, if we’d thought the worst had happened we was wrong. So wrong. Above the storm’s fury, I somehow discerned another noise I couldn’t rightly place at first. It reminded me of walking through the woods when off in the distance comes a sound, a constant, deep rumbling what turns into an unrelenting roar. That’s how you know you’re coming to a waterfall. You can hear all them millions of gallons of water rushing over the edges, and crashing onto rocks below, and when a noise like that come from the front of the truck, I turned my head to look over my left shoulder. It was like the monstrous storm wanted me to see what it had planned for us, because right at that moment, the heaven’s own lantern lit the sky. A muddy wall of water was coming straight for us, a churning, swirling mass, and I barely had time to grasp its enormity.

  I yelled, “Momma!”

  Linking my arm tighter with hers, I grabbed Laci’s hand as it slammed into us with all the power of a charging, angry bull. The truck rose and bucked. I slid off the top, pulling Momma and Laci with me into the bed of the truck again, and for a few seconds we went into a sodden, crazy spin. Despite the fact I was petrified, I was strangely aware of Laci’s silence. It was like she existed somewhere else other than here in this moment with us. The truck jerked violently, knocking me sideways, and like Papa I was flipped, without warning, over the side. The last thing I seen as I hit the water was the horrified look on Momma’s face, her mouth a black hole where no sound come out.

  I went under and then I was rolling around, topsy-turvy, and didn’t know which end was up. Hard, sharp objects hit my legs and body as I was spun about. The water tossed me like I weighed no more than a twig. I fought hard, panicking when my arms and legs made no progress, and my lungs began to burn, feeling full to bursting. I kicked and kicked till my head broke the surface. I gulped in as much air as I could, and then I was dragged under again. I let the current carry me, sensing the flows and swells as I struggled to the surface. When my head broke, a large object banged into my lower back. It hurt something fierce, but I ignored the pain, quickly turning around, letting my hands explore and finding the rough, uneven bark of a tree. My fingertips dug into grooves, and I hung on for dear life, clinging to it like I would have clung to Momma, had she been there. I felt I might cry, only there won’t time for it.

  I tried to see what was ahead, worried about being crushed or caught between other trees and large rocks. I took a beating as other objects thumped against my back and legs. A cow bellowed as it went flying by. If it had been Angus, I’d have never seen it, except dawn was near upon us and it was light enough to know it was a breed called Charolaise. I made out the creamy pale head barely above water, and the disturbed and desperate lowing of a creature nearly spent. More farm animals went by, most already dead, and if not dead, close to it. Pigs floundered, trying to swim, and the ones already gone spun and twirled like bloated pinwheels.

  There was lots of chickens bobbing by, and it was hard looking at their wings and legs all bent and broken, their dingy white feathers chaotic and in disarray. I felt something soft brush against into my side. I twisted and jerked away from someone’s head, full of gray hair. The current changed and whoever it was floated facedown by me. I almost let go of the log so I could go after this person, lift his head and see who it was, except he remained facedown, and that to
ld me what I needed to know. The water took him quick downstream and I was glad it won’t one of my family, and then immediately felt guilty for thinking in such a way. Afterwards, I prayed I wouldn’t see nobody else, at least not like that. I felt sick to my stomach when I thought of Momma, Papa, Laci, and Seph. Was someone else letting one of them slip by, while looking the other way and thanking their lucky stars it won’t someone they recognized? Was it selfish to think about protecting my own life?

  My arms began to really ache. The awkwardness and instability of the log meant it wanted to roll so I was constantly struggling to keep my head and shoulders from being dragged under again. Cold set into my bones, like when a fever comes over you. My teeth chattered and clacked, and I shivered and shook, muscles burning. Enough time had passed since we’d left the cabin for the sky to lose some of the night dark, and I kept my eyes peeled for a standing tree. If the opportunity presented itself, I would swim hard as I could for it. Despite the rain hindering my vision, I finally made out a huge one with limbs hanging low, and I prepared to let go of the one thing what had kept me safe.

  I moved towards the rear of the log so I could be free and clear when ready. I was moving fast and had to time it just right.About a hundred or so feet away, I took my hands off the trunk, and began swimming. I got close enough to reach a narrow bough and when it hit my palm, I closed my fingers tight around it. It won’t thick as I wanted, but what was odd was how sluggish my arms felt when I lifted them, like they weighed hundreds of pounds. I could tell the limb won’t going to hold me anyway, and I let go.

  As soon as I did, the water closed over my head, and my mouth instantly filled with a brackish, foul taste. I had no choice but to fight being dragged under all over again. I kicked hard, and resurfaced, coughing and sputtering. I passed line after line of trees, frantic to get to them, but I was swept by much too fast. I was growing weaker, my efforts hampered by my coat, expending energy with each chance. I was about to go under again when a massive tree come into view. As I was swept beneath it, I reached up and snagged a branch. I willed my fingers to hold on, my weakened arms straining and trembling with effort. I learned right then what it felt like to try and go against the current. It twisted me about like clothes hung on a line in a stiff wind. My arms felt like they might get wrenched clear out of their sockets, and yet I got to going in a hand-over-hand climb, like going up a rope. The higher I went, the more determined I got, and slowly, gradually, the river let go its sucking hold. Finally, I was free of the pull of the water, dangling above it.

  I rested a few seconds and when I thought I could lift a leg up and put it around the limb, I did. There come a sharp, stinging pain seared into the center of my hands as my weight pulled at the skin, yet I only had this one chance. I closed my eyes, panted and grunted with frustrated resolve. I used every ounce of muscle I had to lift my leg and hook it around the branch. I lifted the other, and now I hung upside down, like a slaughtered pig. I gritted my teeth and wiggled my way around until I was on top. Unbelievably, I was at last straddling the branch and completely out of the water. I felt momentarily victorious, and I bent forward so I could lie there, exhausted, my cheek resting against the damp bark, my arms and legs still shaking.

  After a while, I sat up. I felt spent as a nickel in a dime store. I stared down at the roaring mass below me and seen the water yet rising. My hands throbbed and I touched my palms where puffy, soft blisters had formed. I traced fingers over the scratches and scrapes of my shins, and everything I touched burned or felt badly bruised. I found raised lumps here and there, and realized I’d also lost a shoe. I was lucky. I hadn’t been killed, and I didn’t have any broken bones. I looked up, trying to determine how tall the tree was. With the rain coming down and the wind acting like a huge hand determined to shove me off, it was impossible to make out what was above me. No matter, my instincts said climb higher and that I should be on the side of the tree where I wouldn’t have to fight against the wind so much.

  I carefully inched backwards towards the trunk. Once there, I stood up, and maneuvered around to the other side. I put my foot on a higher limb, and tested. It held, and seemed strong. I climbed until I sensed I shouldn’t go any further, certain the water wouldn’t come this high. Holding tight to the trunk, I lowered myself to the limb and sat, tucking my face into the crook of my right arm, away from the force of the rain. I closed my eyes, thinking I would rest a little, best as I could. I refused to cry over what I didn’t know, but the raindrops made up for it, as I sat shivering among the branches, waiting on the day to come and a new hell to begin.

  * * *

  I moved one more time for reasons I can only describe as panic that come more from the noises below me than anything I’d seen. The wind remained relentless, and I was in a precarious position, with the tree swaying like it was. As much as I kept my head buried, I was actually more exposed than ever and after such a long time in the elements I was wearing down, consumed with an aching chill, and hands so wrinkled and pruned, they’d gone to the point of hardness. I kept shifting, from sitting to standing and back to sitting to keep my feet from going numb, while watching the churning, muddy river beneath me. Eventually, I quit looking down. Wouldn’t do no good no ways.

  Midmorning the rain and wind let up and like some distant, long lost relative, the sun found a hole in the fast-moving clouds and peeked through. With better weather, I could see the extent of my dilemma. I first gazed down the length of the trunk. It was amazing in of itself, how the tree had held its ground with the water rising halfway to where I stood. Papa would’ve said I’d picked a “good’un.” I pushed the memory away and looked out beyond the dripping branches, first one way and then the other. I had no idea where I was. Off to the west was a clearing, and I thought it could’ve been the road we’d been on, except now it looked like the rest of the river, as if it had grown in width by hundreds of feet. What else was alarming was the destruction, everything had been taken, like swiping a dishrag across a dirty table.

  Seeing the devastation took the air straight out of my lungs and I gripped the trunk hard, feeling a blister break. My hands, truly, was only a minor hindrance. What was more disturbing was wondering where all this water would go, and how long it would take. I dropped my gaze from the destruction of the land and instead I anxiously waited to see what the river brought. It was a never-ending line of dead farm animals, blow flies already buzzing above their poor, swollen carcasses. Various parts of property, even a bicycle, drifted by. My mind stayed with Papa, Momma, Laci, and Seph, worrying about what had become of them. Soon, I couldn’t look no more, and I studied my palms. Two large, red-looking blisters sat in the center of each, looking like bull’s-eyes. I carefully reached for the hem of my dress. With apologies to Momma and all her hard work, I worked at the stitching until it come loose and tore a strip off. I tied a piece around my right hand. Then I tore another section, and fashioned a similar bandage for my left.

  It was a long and strangely hot afternoon. My dress dried out, and I hung my damaged coat on the end of a branch. I was actually warm for a change, but that soon turned to a damp sweat, and my mouth felt sticky and tasted like old rags. With twilight, I thought I would welcome the shade and cooler air. I should have known better. With it come different afflictions, different levels of what a body could conceive as worse than what it had already been through. Without regard for my misery, a variety of bugs swarmed, bit, and tormented any part of my exposed skin. I swatted at them, and did my best to slap at my legs without falling. Bats appeared and flew, swooping in and out of the trees to eat the bugs, close enough to my head they brung a wisp of cool air as they went by. Night fell, and screech owls shrieked.

  An unidentifiable huffing sort of noise rose somewhere off to my left. It sounded as if it come from a tree about a hundred feet from me. Wildcat, I thought. Something making that noise had to have teeth. Did it know I was sitting here, almost beside it? Could it scent me? Once the water was gone, would it skulk about,
waiting for me to leave? I detected a faint stink on the night air, a distinct smell of rot wafting up, reaching me even this high. And with the odor of the dead, another memory of a man I’d heard about from time to time crept its way into my weary mind, dislodging concerns about a wildcat and anything else in that moment.

  I realized what would be worse than anything in that moment would be dying like Coy Skinner.

  Chapter 4

  Coy Skinner’s ghost sat with me through the night like a heckling haint. Trying not to think about him was like being able to ignore the facts of where I was and why. I kept telling myself he’d been really old, and I was young. He’d been weak, whereas I was sturdy. His death, one of many in that 1916 flood, was legend round Jackson County only because it had been so peculiar. Momma had talked about it, and her account had worked its way right into my head the way a worm works into a tomato or an apple. Lemuel Dodd, a neighbor of his, found him dangling amongst the branches of a sourwood tree he’d climbed to get out of the water, five miles from his shack on Pistol Creek. He’d waited and waited, growing too weak and feeble to get back down. Remembering Coy Skinner’s demise only made my unease about my own circumstances worse.