The Road to Bittersweet

by Donna Everhart

  It was the Powells. The Powells we thought was long gone and likely dead, coming towards us, big smiles on their faces.

  I said, “It’s the Powells!”

  Momma stood by the tent, washing one of Papa’s shirts and some of our underthings, and hanging everything out to dry. She heard the shouting and turned to look. When she seen them, she dropped what she held and hurried across the yard.

  She cried out, “Lordamighty, I can’t believe it!”

  Everyone started talking at the same time.

  Mr. Powell said, “My word, it sure is good to see y’all!”

  There was hugging between Mama, Mrs. Powell, and me, and back slapping between Papa and Mr. Powell.

  When things settled down a little, Mr. Powell said, “We’d noticed smoke over this way.”

  Papa said, “We been here just over a week.”

  Mr. Powell said, “We hadn’t seen nothing in so long, we figured we ought to come check it out.”

  Papa replied, “We was here some weeks after the flood. Wallis Ann said she’d checked on your place, said it was gone. Honestly, we didn’t know what might had become of you.”

  Mr. Powell said, “Seen where she’d scraped her initials and a date on the post. It was real smart, considering how things was so tore up. We’d caught word y’all was all in one piece from Joe Calhoun over to the next holler. He come by few weeks ago to see if he could help us out. He wanted to know if we had any idea as to where y’all might have gone to. I said I didn’t know, but I was sure glad to find out y’all was all right. I suspected you’d come back sooner or later.”

  Momma said, “We got some coffee, won’t you sit a spell and have some?”

  Mrs. Powell nodded and said, “That would be mighty fine. We’ve been having to be right careful since stores is having trouble getting stock in.”

  Momma said, “Yes, we’ve had to do the same,” and then fell silent as she made the coffee.

  It was only midmorning, but it was nice to sit around the campfire and catch up. As the Powells sipped and shared a bit of what happened to them, we found out they’d been in Charlotte visiting Mrs. Powell’s sister and had missed the flood altogether. They couldn’t come home for a while due to the roads, and by the time they did, we was gone. Mrs. Powell looked around our yard with some hesitation.

  She leaned closer to Momma and whispered, “I’m afraid to ask . . . but, where’s your little chap, and Laci?”

  Momma’s head dipped down, and she couldn’t speak. Mrs. Powell took her hand, and for a long few moments nobody said a word.

  Papa cleared his throat and then told our story in the briefest way possible. “Seph took sick a few days after the flood. He drunk some water, and we sent Wallis Ann to get the doc, but it had got hold a him so bad he didn’t make it. He’s buried on yonder hill. We went on trying to put things right, working to rebuild, but for everything we did, it seemed there was a setback. Finally, we decided maybe we ought to use our God-given talents and make some money singing. It won’t easy. Then we had a chance to join this traveling show for a while. Been down in South Carolina some weeks, and it was going along all right until—” and Papa stopped.

  I held myself real still. I didn’t look to see if his eyes was on me. The fire crackled and popped, and the Powells waited.

  The silence went on until Mrs. Powell, in a hesitant manner, asked, “Did . . . she take sick too?”

  Papa said, “No. You might say, we think she got took.”

  Mr. Powell’s tone was incredulous. “Took? What do you mean?”

  “Sheriff there seemed to think them show folks snatched her. They was real keen on her music and all. We’d done all right down there. Got nice crowds in to hear us. But it was when Laci learned some new music, the likes we’d never heard of, the owner must a got dollar signs in his eyes. They got her, stole her away we believe.”

  Papa stopped again.

  Momma heaved a big sigh and finished the explanation. “There was this young man. He could have something to do with it. We don’t know.”

  The Powells’ expressions conveyed their astonishment at this news, both of them sitting and staring at Momma and Papa in disbelief. Mrs. Powell made a clucking sound and shook her head.

  She said, “I declare, that has got to be one of the saddest outcomes from all I’ve heard happening in this area. Losing two of your young’uns is horrible, but not knowing exactly what’s happened to one? Why, it’s unimaginable.”

  Momma and Papa made a point not to mention me at all, and their avoidance showed how much they blamed me. If they’d a said, “Wallis Ann did this, or did that,” even if they’d a told a part truth, it would meant they didn’t hold me to account so much. Humiliation come over me and I could hardly breathe for it, like they was hiding what I done out of pure shame themselves.

  Papa changed the subject. “Is there any word on anyone else in the area, how’s things towards Cullowhee, East Laporte and all?”

  Mr. Powell seemed glad to change the topic. “Things is slowly coming around. It’s gonna be awhile ’fore roads and bridges is fixed. Trains ain’t running yet. Be careful with what you have. Eat sparingly. We been having to hunt regular to keep food on the table.”

  These were things we was accustomed to, and while the adults went on and talked on the work yet to do, the mention of Joe Calhoun brought him to mind. It had been a while since I’d thought of him, and the idea of him asking after us seemed like something he’d do. I was reminded again of how he’d been so helpful to us. Giving me and Laci dresses. Blankets and food. How he’d helped me to get the doc. Papa had let it be known how he felt about the Calhouns, yet the Powells didn’t seem to have any bad judgment of him, and I’d formed my own opinion given how he’d helped me.

  The Powells went to leave, and Mr. Powell said, “I can come give you a hand over here, help you get things started.”

  Papa said, “Much obliged. Wallis Ann works bout like a growed man, but puttin’ up the roof sure would go quicker with another set of hands.”

  Mr. Powell nodded, and said, “Let me know, and I’ll come.”

  “Sure do appreciate that.”

  After they was gone, we worked some more, taking advantage of the hours left. We’d already fell into a ritual of sunup to sundown, and while the weather was always our biggest challenge, we had tried not to let it interfere much. We’d lose sleep now and again when snow come, because like before, we had to keep it from piling on top of the tent, and would have to get up at all hours to knock it off, plus keep the fire going.

  We spent many days climbing the hillsides looking for good timber till my leg muscles burned like I was standing near a hot stove. There won’t any chore Papa asked of me I didn’t do. Handling Pete, scraping and peeling logs, notching them out, or holding one end so he could place the other. I worked with him to fashion a front and back door. On days we couldn’t work because of the weather, and had to sit in the tent, I won’t sure who was most despondent, me or him. I was happiest outside, keeping busy. I was grateful Momma didn’t chide me on working so hard. Maybe she’d come to realize I needed it, like she needed solitude.

  Despite the fact we won’t as comfortable as we could a been, and food was getting on scarce end once more, time went by faster than I’d have thought. One morning I awoke feeling the ache of the previous day’s work, and heard a robin singing outside the tent. I listened, and the song come again.

  Momma’s eyes was open, and watching me. “There’ll be a spring thaw afore we know it.”

  “Yes, ma’am. It’s coming on early March.”

  I preferred not to think of time so specifically. Keeping track of days to my way of thinking meant knowing too much. I only paid attention to sunrises and sunsets.

  I sat up and said, “I’ll get the coffee going.”

  After I was done, I looked at the progress of the cabin. We had the walls set midway, and it was getting hard for me to be of any use to Papa. The wall height was getting such that I
couldn’t hold one end of the logs for him. They had to go at least another two feet higher before we got to the roof.

  Papa come out of the tent, and made an offhanded comment. “Should’ve had us some linseed oil.”

  I studied his profile. His face was thinner, harder looking.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Reckon them bottom logs will last all right without it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  There won’t the same ease to our conversations anymore, and he fell silent as I leaned over to pour the coffee. That day he went across the holler to Mr. Powell’s place, and afterwards Mr. Powell joined in to help Papa with spots I couldn’t reach. They agreed Papa would help him finish with his own roof in exchange.

  Mr. Powell said, “Ought to go with a gambrel, like we’ll be doing. It’s best with that steep pitch for water runoff. Just thinking ahead and all.”

  Papa said, “Yep, and it’ll make shingles last longer.”

  Mr. Powell said, “You going with hand-rived?”

  “Them’s the best looking, in my opinion, though it might take a while longer.”

  Mr. Powell agreed, and then said something what got my attention. “I could get us another pair a hands, the Calhoun feller over here. I’m sure he’d be happy to help.”

  Papa looked uncomfortable and he spoke carefully. “You know him pretty good, eh?”

  “Sure do. Can’t say much about his pappy. He was a son of a buck, but young Joe Calhoun? Now there’s a fine, upstanding young man as I ever did meet.”

  Papa still won’t sure. “How’d you come to know him?”

  Mr. Powell tamped some tobacco into his pipe like he was thinking on another time. He placed the stem in his mouth, and struck a match against the bottom of his work boot. He held the flame over the small bowl and sucked in his cheeks a few times. The tiny flame flared above the bowl. I watched as it dissipated, while Papa waited for the answer to his question.

  Mr. Powell puffed a few seconds, and then he said, “We practically raised him. We used to live close to his pappy’s place over to Cherry Gap ’fore we come here, and let me tell you what. That young man went through hell, him and his momma. She died when he was young. I wouldn’t doubt if Joe’s pappy didn’t kill her.”

  Papa said, “That right?”

  Mr. Powell went on. “Some nights we could hear him yelling at her, or the boy. The missus, she couldn’t hardly abide by it. It got so bad one night, next day, she told me she had to go over there, used the excuse of taking some blackberry jam. She come back, her face white as a lily. Said young Joe was sitting on the steps. Said she asked to see his pappy. Said young Joe got himself up, moving backwards up the steps while facing her, like he was hiding something. His pappy come out, half drunk, and didn’t see the missus. He pushed the boy back down the steps. That’s when she seen how his back was all striped where he’d been whupped. Joe’s pappy turned all sweet and charming once he noticed her standing there. She give him the jam, but seeing what all was going on like to tore her out of the frame. She started going over, taking things for them to eat, although she’d of preferred his pappy not get a drop. She eventually got a chance to ask if she could “borrow” Joe for some chores. He come ever morning before school to milk the cows, feed the chickens, and whatnot. Missus, she’d send him off with a good breakfast and some dinner to eat at school. It went on a while until he was doing chores in the evening, and eating supper with us most nights. When school ended, she went to his pappy and it was ‘Can I borrow Joe for the summer? ’ And his pappy couldn’t a cared less. Joe, he got to staying the night, and when he was about fifteen or so, he moved in with us. He’s a good man.”

  As Mr. Powell talked, Papa’s expression had gone from uncomfortable to something like shame.

  He said, “Good thing your wife found out what was going on. I’d never heard nothing good about the old man, and you know they say an apple don’t fall far from the tree.”

  Mr. Powell said, “It can be like that. In his case, it’s like he ain’t even of the same tree. He must a been like his momma. Heard she was kindly and gentle.”

  Papa looked thoughtful. “I got nothing against him coming if you vouch for him.”

  Mr. Powell said, “That I do.”

  * * *

  A few days later, Joe Calhoun returned to Stampers Creek. It was a bitter cold morning, but sunny. Patches of snow still lay on the ground, and I was busy trying to clear the area where we’d work. It was an unnecessary chore, but I needed something to do. It had been six months or longer since the last time I’d seen him, and I was having a hard time remembering exactly what he looked like. I heard the clopping of horse’s hooves and when he come around the curve of the path with Lyle riding behind him, and little Josie in the front, I stopped swishing the end of the pine branch around in useless circles. This strange, overwhelming sense of the familiar rushed over me like standing in a downpour, a peculiar sense like seeing someone from my own family coming home.

  Joe didn’t see me at first. He lifted a hand in greeting to Mr. Powell, and Papa, who stood by the cabin talking about what they might could do in a day with another pair of hands. Joe waited till Lyle had dropped to the ground before he handed Josie down to him, and then he got off the horse. Mr. Powell shook Joe’s hand, and then he scooped Josie up. He swung her around and her laughter rang out, as pure as the early birdsong I’d heard this morning. Momma was already on her way over to greet everyone, and she shook Joe’s hand, then bent down to say something to Lyle, whose face flamed red as a strawberry. She squatted down to Josie’s level, and the little girl gazed at her, half shy, half curious.

  Josie, so close to Seph’s age, conducted herself with the simplicity of all children that young, a lack of awareness or opinions, other than what they see right before them. I could see Momma wanting to hold her, or at least touch her in some way. She missed Seph intensely and seeing another child his age likely filled her full of the melancholia. I moved to go towards her, thinking she might get upset. When I did, Joe, who’d been watching his children, saw me. He studied me the same way his daughter studied Momma. My hair was below my shoulders now, and I’d not had time to put it up, but I had washed it, and had put on one of the new dresses, and my new shoes. I hoped I looked some better than what he’d seen me in last time.

  Momma spoke, “How old is she?” and he turned to her.

  She brushed a hand over Josie’s hair.

  Joe said, “Three going on four.”

  Papa was still slow to warm up. Awkward, he thrust his hand out to Joe for a handshake.

  By way of explanation for the sudden change, Papa said, “Jim here tells me you stayed over to their place for some time and worked for them.”

  Joe said, “Yes, sir. Mr. and Mrs. Powell, they’s family to me.”

  “I don’t think I ever properly thanked you for what you did right after the storm. What all you brought. Thank you.”

  Joe raised a hand. “No need. We all was having tough times then.”

  And with those simple words, Joe Calhoun took Papa’s guilty conscience and pushed it away.

  Joe turned to me and said, “Good to see you too. Lyle? Remember Miss Wallis Ann? Josie, go say hi.”

  Both children approached me, and I smiled down at them. Josie immediately grabbed my hand, and held on, swinging my arm playfully. Lyle remained reserved, staring at the ground, but when I looked away from him, I felt his eyes on me. His gaze won’t the only one I sensed. Joe appeared to study me as well, only I refused to look directly at him. I was filled with too much sadness and guilt, and thinking the world could surely see what I done. It clouded everything before me, like trying to swim in a muddy pool of water. And it didn’t matter much, for I was certain he could only see me the way I seen myself, a scrappy girl who could work like a man, who didn’t favor fancy things, a little bit of nothing all that extraordinary. Plain and simple as they come.

  Chapter 27

  What took the longest was forming the
shingles. Mr. Powell and Joe did that job, which required patience and several red oak tree logs. Joe estimated we needed a couple thousand shingles. Four hundred shingles for every one hundred square foot while Momma beamed over the size of the new cabin in general, bigger than the old one by a good eighty square foot.The number of shingles was a mind-boggling number, but once the men got to working, they stacked up quick. Soon as they was made, Papa put them on. Before long, the roof was done and Mr. Powell brought Mrs. Powell over and everyone drank some of his homemade wine to celebrate the roof raising. We was all flushed with the wine. This would have normally been a time when Papa would have suggested some singing and dancing, only nobody did because it didn’t seem appropriate for any sort of celebrating really, not without Laci.

  It was the first of April, when Papa, Mr. Powell and Joe moved inside to work on the floors. They sawed logs in half, laid the boards side by side until the knotty pine floors was done, and the rooms now glowed like melted butter. The smell of fresh-cut wood was heaven, and I think Momma allowed herself to feel a little bit happy knowing we’d soon move inside. At least she looked a bit like she used to. And she was over the moon with admiration for Joe Calhoun. She was certain if it hadn’t been for him, we’d still be looking at only the foundation. It was possible. He had a knack for organizing and finishing the work of three men.

  She would say, “That Joe Calhoun is one hardworking young man.” Or, “That Joe Calhoun is so smart, look how he figured out the sigoggling problem with the one side of the cabin.”

  That had been something. It seemed the foundation had settled because of water underground, and the crookedness, or sigoggling as Momma called it, was solved by shimming a couple rows of logs to a point where the crookedness went straight. I’d never seen Momma hug nobody but us, or one of the church ladies maybe, but she give Joe a big hug when he finished.

  My mind stayed consumed by Laci, even though I tried best as I could to turn my thoughts in a different direction. Momma and Papa understood I was struggling mighty hard and they was too, only they didn’t bear the burden of guilt like I did. Not only for Laci, but for Seph. As time went on, guilt soaked into my skin, muscles and deep into my bones. It tugged on my soul the way the Tuckasegee had tried to drag me under, and my apparent melancholy got Momma into the habit of asking me what I was thinking at least once a day when I got too quiet.