The Road to Bittersweet

by Donna Everhart

  Uncle Hardy fixed Papa with a hard stare. “You always was too big for yer britches.”

  I said, “I can do it. Laci can sit in the sun and watch me.”

  Uncle Hardy said, “See?”

  Papa said, “Wallis Ann, don’t move.”

  I froze again. Uncle Hardy reached down by his chair and raised a jug to his mouth. He sort of snickered as he took a swig, and Momma, who was cleaning a pot, looked fit to be tied.

  Uncle Hardy said, “If ’n she wants to, let her earn her keep.”

  Papa’s jaw tightened. “I’ll say what she can or can’t do.”

  Papa motioned at me, and we went outside, Laci following, and then Momma too. Nobody wanted to stay in the house with Uncle Hardy.

  Papa said, “You’re a good girl, Wallis Ann. I appreciate you trying to smooth things over, but your uncle Hardy would have you chopping wood, then he’d think of other things, and it would never end. Don’t think I don’t know how he is.”

  “He ain’t like you, Papa. He’s meaner’n a snake bite.”

  Papa looked down the path, and said, “He’s always been that a way.”

  He went to the wood pile, and I went with him. For an hour or so, it was like old times with me and Papa working together, Momma sitting on the porch in the rocking chair and Laci perched on the steps watching us or flicking her fingers over an imaginary instrument. When the sun was straight over our heads, we paused for a spell to get some water. Admittedly, I craved it almost more than the scanty food. It was the sweetest, best tasting I’d had in a long time. It was the one thing I could have as much of as I wanted, and I drank and drank to fill the hole in my belly. That night after we’d eat another paltry meal, we bunked down in front of the fireplace again. I was dog-tired. I could hear Momma and Papa murmuring to each other, and I went to sleep to the hum of their voices, too tired to care what they whispered about.

  * * *

  Day in and day out, it was the same thing. Early one Sunday morning after we’d been there two weeks, Papa woke me. He put his finger to his lips, and motioned for me to get Laci up. Momma stood by the door. It was clear we was leaving and it give me such a good feeling, I forgot about feeling so hollow inside. Papa went to Uncle Hardy’s table and laid down a fifty-cent piece. My jaw dropped because I thought we ought to keep it. Uncle Hardy was a stingy, mean old man.

  Papa motioned for Momma to open the door carefully and Uncle Hardy kept snoring, even as a draft of cold air moved his curtain about. We stepped outside into crisp fresh air. The hound dog, whose name I never asked, crawled out from under the porch and shook. He let his tail wag, give us the once-over, and come over to press his nose into my hand as if to ask, Where y’all goin’? I give him a good, long rubbing over his head and body while Papa, Momma and Laci piled into the truck. I almost wished I could take the dog with us. I headed for the truck, looking back, and he wagged his tail at me before he scooched back under the porch, and hard for me to admit, I realized he was better off than us.

  After I got in, Papa said, “I sure hope it starts.”

  I held my breath as once again, our fate was placed on this poor old truck. It did. Papa put it in gear, and we rolled down the hill. I shot a look over my shoulder and Uncle Hardy was rubbing his belly as he stood on the porch. There was a small, curly puff of smoke rising in the air from his chimney, and I thought about being cold all over again, but I didn’t care. No matter what we had to do, anything else had to be better than staying with him. I turned away to face forward, not understanding how somebody could be so hateful. Momma sat with a little smile on her face, almost cheery looking as we headed down the bumpy trail.

  The sun crested the hills, and by midmorning our optimism was a little less bright because we’d had no food, having eaten what we’d brought with us. I thought of what Uncle Hardy had in his root cellar and wished we’d took some of it. I considered if that would have been like stealing. I thought of that fifty-cent piece.

  We come to what looked like a harvested sweet tater field and Papa stopped the truck on the side of the road.

  “Let’s see what’s out here.”

  Momma was flabbergasted. “William, are you serious? You want us to go digging around in someone else’s field?”

  “Can’t nobody see. There’s not a soul or cabin nearby. Could be a tater or two been left out there, maybe more. We got to have something to eat.”

  Momma said, “We should have stayed put on Stampers Creek.”

  Papa left the truck, slamming the door. I sat for a moment watching as he bent over and began digging and felt bad he was out there on his own.

  I said, “I’m going to go help him, okay?”

  Momma shrugged and when I got out, Laci wanted to come too. There was times when I wished she’d understand it won’t right. Momma needed somebody too at the moment. I put my hand up to stop her.

  “Stay here with Momma, Laci.”

  She settled down onto the seat, and commenced on rocking. I was beginning to perceive it as a sign of distress. I followed Papa out to the field, and we dug around for an hour, neither one of us talking, and neither one of us finding not one measly little tater.

  He finally give up and said, “There’s nothing here, let’s go on back.”

  I straightened my aching back, feeling dizzy and faint, and a bit mad at finding nothing. I walked to the truck with Papa, the thick silence as tangible as our hunger.

  Chapter 15

  We kept going south like dandelion pods, floating with the wind and with no sense of where we might land. After a while we come to a sign saying we was entering Oconee County, South Carolina. The land was full of rolling hills and as we rode along we didn’t see much, a house here or there, and after a while Papa pulled the truck off to the side of the road when he spotted a little white church and a couple men standing outside smoking.

  Papa said, “Maybe we ought to try a little singing. Maybe these folks is feeling generous since they just got out of church.”

  Momma shook her head. “William, for shame. Nobody has a blunt nickel to their name for that sort of thing, and even if they did, they’ve given it in church this morning.”

  I was disturbed by the idea altogether.

  I said, “We gonna ask for a handout?”

  Papa grunted and we drove on past the church. It got on into the late afternoon, and we come to a small crossroads, in the center of a tiny town called Pearl Springs. A small cluster of folks stood outside of a country store, and Papa quickly jammed on the brakes.

  He said, “Girls, get ready, this is it. I got a good feeling. Let’s entertain these good folks.”

  Momma whispered, “Dear God, this is crazy.”

  We was about to do what I’d feared, and here we had these strangers looking at us with suspicion as Papa parked the truck. Surely we looked something awful to these clean folks, what with our filthy, smoky clothes, our greasy, uncombed hair and thin faces. Momma looked gaunt and pale, and Laci the same. I put my grubby hands up and felt along my cheekbones. I closed my eyes, feeling nothing except shame, even though we couldn’t help ourselves. Still. What might these people think? We couldn’t get out and sing—no, beg. I sure couldn’t.

  “Papa . . .”

  He was already halfway out, waving his arms to get their attention. “Hey now, folks! Listen up! Me and my family here . . .” He turned around and motioned for us to get out of the truck. “Me and my family here, we’re known as The Stampers, a singing group the likes you’ve never heard.”

  Papa seemed to think recognition of our name would have traveled all the way down here, like saying “The Stampers!” give us star quality, made us official, like the Monroe Brothers, or the Coon Creek Girls. I guess it did make us sound like we’d been somewhere, experienced worldly things. I slid out, dragging Laci with me. She was trying to tuck in behind me, which was like trying to hide a horse behind a goat. It was like we was on display, because everyone turned to stare. This one girl about my own age talked wi
th another girl, pointing and laughing behind their hands. I dropped my head. I stared down at the now snagged and linty dress I wore, at my scratched-up, dusty legs and feet. My breath hitched in my chest as I fought wave after wave of embarrassment as Papa’s voice droned on building us up. I felt like my very soul was eat up with shame as people went quiet, a few of them looking like they felt sorry for us.

  Papa set his hat down in front of his feet. If I thought I’d felt shame at his introduction, I was now absolutely mortified. He started singing “Black Jack Davey,” stomping his boots in a rhythmic clog, while waving at Momma and urging her to join in. Weakly, she began singing, though she didn’t dance with him like usual. I come in on the second stanza because I couldn’t let Momma carry it all on her own. Poor Laci had no fiddle, so all she could do was keep to herself, and the singing really lacked something without her fiddling to back us up. We done the best we could. Two ladies about Momma’s age clapped politely in time, until we finished the first song, but then Papa went on to “The Little Old Cabin in the Lane,” and as if he couldn’t stop, he started on “Short Life of Trouble,” which seemed right fitting at the moment. Folks started drifting off by then as if to spare us any more humiliation, and when there won’t but three left, our voices faded. The ones left was the two women who’d clapped and a man who smiled encouragement at each new song, and whistled a few times when Papa started stomping his boots and pounding out intricate footwork. Papa noticed folks leaving and finished with a flourish.

  The man come forward and said, “Y’all sound good though it seems like you’ve run into a spell of hard luck.”

  Papa spoke in a quiet voice. “That we have.”

  “What all happened?”

  “We lost our home, food crops, livestock, everything, in them storms what come through North Carolina just over a month ago. None of that don’t matter much as the fact we lost our little chap when he took sick after drinking some tainted water. What’s left of our lives is what you see.”

  Momma kept her face turned away, and the two women who’d stayed back a little went over to her side.

  One took her by the hand, and said, “They’s nothing worse than losin’ your own child. I knowed it for myself.”

  Momma’s voice trembled when she spoke. “It happened so fast.”

  The woman nodded. “Hard as it seems, if it had to happen, the Lord seen fit to take him. All what matters is where he is now.”

  Momma remained passive, unable to break down and cry in front of strangers.

  The man said, “Well, look a here. Y’all sure are some mighty fine singers, and I imagine even better under other circumstances. See now, I run this here store. I’d be proud for you to come on in and let me get you some things to help you on your way.”

  Papa said, “We don’t want to put no one to no trouble.”

  The man said, “No, no trouble at all. Name’s Ammon Johnson. This here’s my wife, Harriet, and her sister, Hazel Moore.”

  The women nodded at Momma.

  Papa shook Mr. Johnson’s hand and said, “I’m William Stamper, this is my wife Ann, and these are my daughters, Laci, and Wallis Ann.”

  “We’re pleased to meet y’all.”

  Mr. Johnson led us inside, where he pointed to a wood display with candy in it.

  He said, “You girls get you a lollipop, and some a them Mary Janes, if ’n you want.”

  I hadn’t had any candy since last Christmas, when I’d found a peppermint stick, caramels, and a pack of Wrigley’s gum in my stocking. I chose two lollipops and several pieces of Mary Janes. I handed half to Laci. It was real hard not to cram all of it into my mouth at once. I ate the Mary Janes slow as I could and watched what Mr. Johnson give Papa. He gathered up some loaf bread, cheese, coffee, a few cans of pork and beans, can peaches, a long link of hot dogs and some oranges.

  He put the items in a box, and said, “What else?” as if Papa was shopping with money.

  Papa shook his head, overcome by the generosity.

  He said, “It’s a gracious plenty. I can’t pay. When I get on my feet, I promise you, I will come and pay you for all a this. Tally it up, and I’ll write you an I.O.U.”

  Mr. Johnson made a gesture, and said, “It ain’t necessary. We’ve all had our share of hard times. We know what it’s like.”

  Papa gathered up the box, and shook Mr. Johnson’s hand again. “I won’t forget this kindness.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  Mrs. Johnson and her sister come forward to hug Momma, then me. When they went to do the same to Laci, she backed away from them, hands gripped tight behind her, looking at the floor, her jaw bulging on one side with a Mary Jane.

  I felt a tinge of embarrassment while Momma explained her odd behavior. “Our Laci’s not one to talk, or even sing, but she’s got musical abilities you didn’t get to see because she lost her fiddle in the flood. She’s not used to strange folks. Please accept our gratefulness on her behalf.”

  Mrs. Johnson said, “She plays fiddle? Well, it just so happens we have two, don’t we, Sister?”

  Hazel Moore said, “Sure do. Only I can’t play mine like I used to since I got the arthritis. Let me fetch it. She’s welcome to it. It’s only sitting up in my room, gathering dust.”

  She opened a door and we could hear her slowly climbing the steps, a dull hollow sound. She eventually returned, fiddle and bow in her hands, wiping it off with a cloth. She approached Laci, who held her head down, arms folded looking like she wanted badly to disappear. She’d finished the Mary Janes, and likely wanted to unwrap the lollipop, but not while she thought she was being stared at. Hazel Moore went up to her, leaned down and put the instrument where Laci could see it, almost under her nose. Laci’s face flushed, the color rising under her skin like watching pink color deepen as the sun sets. She raised her head to stare at Hazel Moore, her mouth slightly parted, and then she looked at Momma.

  Momma spoke, encouraging her. “Go on, Laci, take it.”

  Laci handed me the lollipop, and took the fiddle the way you’d capture a butterfly, gentle and easy. As she was rejoined with the one thing on this earth what could show us her spirit, a change come over her instantly, like shoving open the door on an old room what had been closed a long, long time, or pulling open the drapes at a window and letting the sun shine in after days of rain. She didn’t need coaxing to play. She placed it under her chin, and drew the bow across the strings. She made a few adjustments, tuning it. How she knowed to do this, none of us could explain. She tilted her head and listened to the tone and then her fingers danced up and down the neck, nimble as soft, wiggly earthworms. She commenced on to playing “Amazing Grace,” and the sound filled the room, resonating with purity as fresh as new snow on the ground, or the first sweet scent of jonquils after a long, cold winter.

  Laci shut her eyes tight and swayed, lost to everything but the song. When she finished, she left the fiddle under her chin for a few seconds, her throat moving as she swallowed over and over. She lowered it and cradled it in her arms like a baby, and she couldn’t stop staring down at it while the Johnsons and Hazel Moore couldn’t stop staring at her, their expressions a mixture of astonishment and wonder.

  Finally Mr. Johnson said, “I think that’s the most beautiful rendition of ‘Amazing Grace’ I ever heard. She’s got a gift all right.”

  Papa and Momma looked real proud, and happier than I’d seen them in a long time. They thanked the Johnsons, and Hazel Moore again.

  Finally, Papa said, “We ought to be heading on.”

  Mr. Johnson said, “Where y’all going?”

  Papa said, “Further south, I suppose.”

  “We wish you luck. Stop by if you come this way again. We’d be pleased to hear Miss Laci any time.”

  Papa went to the truck with the box of food, and Laci scrambled in with what mattered most to her. As we turned around and left, waving through the back window at that nice group of folks, Papa considered this first attempt a grand success. He g
ot fired up, talking about stopping whenever, wherever, saying our musical abilities would have everyone begging for more, while I thought his choice of words interesting. He talked with the self-assurance he used to have at Stampers Creek, and he made big promises to Momma.

  “It’s going to get better now, and soon as we get some money saved, first thing we’ll do is buy them girls some shoes. We’ll take our money and go back to Stampers Creek, and build us a new place all over again.”

  What could Momma say? She wanted to give us what we needed, only her heart won’t into this plan entirely. We felt alike, her and me. Looking a handout is what we’d be doing. Her heart and mind stayed behind with Seph, while I wanted us to not go on wishing on the stars, so to speak. Afterwards, each time we stopped and Papa announced we was going to perform, Momma’s voice, what used to sound so strong and wonderful, come out less and less powerful, a paler version of before, like her very soul was fading away like the food always did. We traveled up and down the same stretch of highway and Papa was always able, somehow, to come up with gas money from a song here and there. We went to places like Big Creek, Merry Mountain and Tucker’s Branch. Then Stoney Creek, Bonny’s Peak and Little Top.

  Once we set up camp near to what like an abandoned tobacco barn, until this old man come out of it with a shotgun and yelled at us. “Git off ’n my property ya bunch a no-good bums!”

  He fired a shot into the air, and we heard the pellets scatter, some hitting trees nearby. When Papa tried to talk to him, he fired another one, and we left quick. That was the night Momma cried herself to sleep. It seemed to me we was always barely hanging on, and I’d had the notion we’d never have enough to buy anything, not shoes, or decent clothes, much less food. I had paid attention. There was only this ongoing cycle of singing, earning a bit of money, and Papa turning right around and spending it on gas and a little for food. He maintained this was our best choice. He couldn’t seem to see how people wouldn’t look at us directly sometimes. He didn’t seem to notice how Momma had lost her spark, or how Laci had come to be clingy as ivy growing along the side of a tree, barely letting me go tend to my privy needs.