by Chris Fabry
And I feared that would change everything. Like the flood that swept through these people’s lives, I feared this might be used against me and, more frighteningly, against Him.
3
I have heard that your first childhood memory is telling. Mine is a mixture of scents, sounds, and visuals. Of wood smoke and bluegrass and wrinkled hands on a mandolin.
I can see my daddy’s black shoes tapping to the beat. Mama says I would sit on the floor and listen to him and his friends play in the evening. Just sit right there in the middle of the hardwood floor with toes tapping and my hands clapping. We lost the picture in the flood, but there was one of me looking up at them with the biggest grin a kid could ever have, listening to the music. “Sally Goodin’” and “Cripple Creek” and “Old Joe Clark.”
That’s what is imprinted on my brain: fingers on an old mandolin and people sitting in a circle in hardback chairs tapping on the wood floor and playing music that came from the soul. I believe that’s where the music comes from. And it doesn’t matter if all those instruments are exactly in tune, but it does help.
You might think that my daddy learned the mandolin from his own daddy or a relative, but it was actually another miner who traded him the instrument for a few of his chickens. From the time I was little, I remember watching his gnarled fingers moving up and down that neck. It was hard for him to get his fingertips in there to play and that’s partly the reason why I think he wanted me to learn, so that he could see somebody with smaller fingers do it the way it was meant to be played. He would put his hand on the back of my head or on my shoulder while he was teaching me, and it felt like a warm biscuit back there. My daddy taught me to be a gentle man with such rough hands you could sand plywood with them.
I never really learned to read the notes from the page and transfer that to the instrument. But I did learn the sequence of chords and what strings and frets went with those chord progressions. To me, music is a mathematical equation or a signal flow from the transmitter to the antenna. Daddy taught me to be in the music, to be present with the chord structure and the notes being played by others. In those early days when his friends would come over and he would hand the mandolin to me, it was almost like a bluegrass blues session as his friends presented the musical playground for me and I simply danced and frolicked from note to note. I can still remember the looks on the faces of those miners when I played “Tennessee Waltz” and “Foggy Mountain Breakdown.” There are some songs that are just part of you, and I suppose “Amazing Grace” is the other one that not a soul on earth can teach you. You just have to feel it.
Daddy taught me all he could in the years after the flood, but he and I both knew there was only so much he could give to me and that it was something I needed to fly with, like a little bird who is pushed from the nest.
We stayed in Lorado a little while, moving into one of the trailers the government provided. Other people sued the company but not my daddy. They gave him something like $4,000 for everything, and that was all she wrote. He said we were fortunate to get out of there with our lives. The damage had been done to him, though. He already had the black lung, and after the flood it crippled him so that he couldn’t walk well. Just kind of hobbled around wherever it was he was going by using a cane.
He finally took the money they gave and left Logan County for good. We moved to a town called Dogwood because some of my mama’s kin were there at the time.
We found a place to rent for a good price and moved what little stuff we had inside. Others in the community heard about our plight and gave us some clothes and furniture. Nothing in the house matched, but Mama treated it like a castle, moving an old couch around the living room like it mattered. I can still remember the day we went to Heck’s and bought a television. That was a big day.
My daddy would sit out on the porch in a lawn chair somebody gave to us and smoke his Pall Malls and watch cars go by on the interstate, tucked in between the hills like we were. One thing the flood did for us was cause us to take a lot of pictures. I still have photos of my father laughing, though trying not to show his bad teeth. Kind of a half laugh that people of the mountain give you because they are more ashamed of what’s behind their lips than they are happy about laughing. There’s one of him in that old lawn chair, which would have fallen through with anybody else because all of the slats were rotten, but by then he didn’t weigh more than a bird, his body wracked with coughing. He was just a shell of the man I knew when I was little, but he was a survivor.
Dogwood didn’t have any coal mines and he didn’t have the strength to do much but cough up the black stuff inside his lungs. The only thing he could do with the little breath he had in him was auctioneering. There was an old boy at the feed store who heard he had kind of a talent for it, and he hired him to sell some farm equipment for a family that was going through a hard time. The only problem was my daddy couldn’t talk as loud as he needed to, and he worried that he would try too hard and start coughing and that would be the end of his auctioneering.
That year I turned twelve and the more I thought about it, the more I set on a plan to help. One of my cousins was named Elvis and their family didn’t have a whole lot more than we did, but he did have this old electric guitar that he’d bring outside and try to play of a night. It was just about the most terrible sound you have ever heard because he didn’t know how to tune the thing. I would go over and tune it for him and show him a few chords.
There was also an ancient recorder with a microphone at our schoolhouse, and I knew it wasn’t right when I did it, but one Friday I took the microphone and wound the cord around it and stuffed it inside my pocket and took it home. The only problem was, the plug on the end of it was the wrong kind, so I had to strip it off and do the same with Elvis’s guitar cord. I got it ready late the night before the auction and took it to my daddy.
I turned the amp on and the speaker hummed and rattled a little until the tubes warmed up. When I plugged in the microphone and held it close to his lips while he talked, his eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. The next day at the feed store, I borrowed a long, black extension cord and plugged it in. That little amp worked like a charm and Daddy did cough a few times, but he got through it all right.
The people whose stuff he auctioned off got a fair price for their equipment, and I guess one of them heard what I had done because after he paid my daddy, the man took me inside and bought me a Zagnut bar and a bottle of grape Nehi. I’ll tell you, I was getting to like Dogwood a lot after that. I fixed the microphone cable back up and returned it every weekend after Daddy used it.
Daddy’s health didn’t improve and pretty soon he was in bed. By then, Mama was working at the beauty shop part-time, and he sat there by himself all day. I felt sorry for him. He wanted to get up out of that bed and throw a ball with me or just go for a walk, but he didn’t have the strength.
I remember one Sunday morning before the end, I found him in the kitchen getting his jacket on. It was October and the leaves had started to turn and the ground smelled like an earth pie you could eat.
“Where do you think you’re going?” I said.
“Out for a walk; you want to come?”
“Mama’s going to kill you.”
He smiled. “Can’t kill what you can’t catch.”
He handed me his walking stick, the one he had carved all kinds of things in, even part of a Scripture verse that says, “Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” Except some of the words you couldn’t read because the letters got knocked off. He grabbed a smaller stick and shook his head. “No, you take that one.”
“I got one; you go ahead and take it.”
He wouldn’t hear anything of the sort, so we walked outside on the road and then up into the woods with the trees sporting the most beautiful colored leaves you have ever seen. It was like an explosion had happened at a Glidden factory and all of that paint fell on the trees. It was such a good feeling to have my dadd
y walking with me, even if he did have to go slow. I thought he was getting better and that this was the first of many walks we’d take.
“One of these days I’m going to buy this hill,” Daddy said. “Such a pretty piece of land.”
“What would you do with it if you had the money?” I said.
He laughed. “Now you’re talking like your mama. I’d clear off a spot over there on the side of the hill and build us a nice house. Then I’d clear off the stumps and brush on top and have us a garden that would feed the whole town for three winters in a row. Maybe even raise some cattle and pigs and chickens.”
“I don’t like chickens.”
“And why is that?”
“They wake me up. When we lived back on the creek, they’d get me up every day.”
Something happened when I mentioned our old place and I wished I hadn’t. Just saying things that spark a memory will do that. He sat down on an old stump and leaned on his stick. I offered him mine, but he waved me off.
“There’s something I need to tell you. Something I haven’t told anybody. Not even your mama.”
I knelt in the wet leaves. Looking back on it, I think he was inviting me in, knowing that time was short.
“What is it?”
He took out a cigarette and put it between his lips, leaving it unlit. “Those two little girls at the house, the ones I carried—they died because of me.”
“That’s not true.”
“Yes, it is, because I let go. They were just as scared as pups and they were screaming to go back with their mama.”
“But everybody in that house died, Daddy. Except for you. Leaving them with their mama wouldn’t have helped. You were their best chance.”
“I was a poor excuse for a chance to those girls. Every night when I go to sleep, I can hear them screaming. And then the sound of their voices in the sludge.” He looked away and shook his head. “There are some things a man can’t ever leave behind, Billy. I hope to God you’ll never have anything like that happen to you.”
I stared at his shoes. There was a leaf stuck to the underside of one of them. His shoes were like new, only a few sizes bigger than mine. I would wear those shoes on my first day at a real job.
“There comes a time in a man’s life when he knows he’s been beat. When he knows the world just came up and smacked him across the face. And you can either get up and go on or just lay there and watch everything roll right on by. I think I’ve come to that point.”
“Daddy, you don’t have to worry. Mama’s got a job, and pretty soon I’ll be old enough to maybe work at the feed store. I’ll bet I can make enough money to buy this hillside and a few more.”
He patted me on the head like I was a dog on a chain that wants to run. “I hope you do that, Son. With the talent you have with that mandolin and the way you can rig electronics, I wouldn’t doubt that you’ll make it big someday.”
“I’m going to be on the Grand Ole Opry,” I said.
“I don’t doubt that’ll happen. Probably up there playing with Bill Monroe.”
“I want to play gospel music. Songs that will lead people to Jesus.”
He nodded. “That’s what I was hoping you’d say. You can get fame and fortune and then you have your reward. But leading people to Jesus is what will bring you the most satisfaction. You remember that.”
He pulled out his lighter and opened the top with a kerthunk. Then he lit the cigarette and pulled in a few drags of the killing smoke. “You know what I think we ought to do?”
“What’s that?”
“We ought to get up one day when your mother has to work a full day and have the neighbors call you in sick to school. Then you and I can go hunting. Get us a rabbit or a squirrel and surprise her by having it cooking when she gets home. Wouldn’t that be something?”
“You mean it?” I said. That sounded about the most wonderful thing I could think of, particularly because it meant my daddy was feeling stronger. To think of him going hunting with me was almost too good of an answer to prayer.
“Tell you what. You go over to Elvis’s house and see if you can borrow his .410 and some shells.”
“Now?”
“No, after we’re finished with the walk. But don’t tell your mother. She’d have my hide if she knew I was going to keep you home from school.”
We made it all the way to the top of the ridge, where you could look out and see the town and the hills in the distance. It was like having your own private box on God’s handiwork.
He put his hand on my neck and held it there. “You see all the beauty out there?” When I nodded, he said, “That’s nothing compared to the beauty of a heart that wants to know God and follow him. And you have that kind of heart, Billy. I know you do. So don’t you let anything or anyone take that from you. You understand?”
I nodded, but I didn’t understand. If I had, I would never have gotten the gun and hid it under my bed that night. I got him alone later at the house and told him Elvis only had five shells, and he said, “That’s plenty.”
“For squirrel hunting?” I said.
He laughed. “Five shells, five squirrels. You just wait.”
* * *
The next day Daddy made a special effort to get up before I went to school. He kissed me on the head and his eyes got all watery. When I left, he had his arm around Mama, hugging her close as he watched me walk to the bus.
Mama went into the shop in the afternoon, so she wasn’t there when I reached home. I ran all the way from the bus and threw my books down before the screen door slammed. Some of our best times together came right after the bus let me off and I’d sit there and talk with him or I’d turn on the radio in his room and play the mandolin to those songs. This time, I knew something was wrong. There was a stillness to it I can’t explain. Like somebody had broken in and stolen something, though at the time I didn’t know what.
I walked into his room and thought he was fooling with me. He had pillows up over his head and his arms were down by his side. I noticed Elvis’s gun lying on his chest.
“You can’t hide from me,” I said, bumping into the bed. “Let’s go out and get a few squirrels.”
He didn’t move, so I pulled the pillows away. He had three towels from the bathroom wrapped around his head. I took hold of his arm and he was cold. Then I noticed the red on the towels and the stains on the wall. The towels had flowers all over them, and my heart started pounding when I pulled them away from his face. I can’t describe what that looked like, but I can still see it.
I turned away and noticed two envelopes at the foot of his bed. One had Billy written on it and the other one said, Mama. That’s what he called her when he was tender toward her. I opened the one to me.
Dear Billy,
I’m sorry. You have to believe me when I say that. I don’t ask you to understand what I’ve done, but I hope one day you will find it in your heart to forgive me.
I know this is a lot to take in, but I need your help. Go get Ruthie Bowles and tell her to come quick before Mama comes home. She’ll know what to do. I don’t want your mama to see me like this. I hate it that you will, but I have come to the end of what I can take.
I love you with all my heart, and you and your mama have been the only reasons for me to stay awhile. I just want to go to Jesus now. I’m hoping to see Harless when I get there and those little girls from Buffalo Creek and tell them how sorry I am. I never should have made it, and they should have.
It makes me sick of heart not to be able to see you grow up and make something of yourself. I know you’re going to do that. I’ll be watching every step of the way and cheering you on.
I know I don’t have to ask you to take care of your mother. She’s going to need you now more than ever. You will both bounce back from this. I just ask you to forgive me because I can’t take it anymore.
Love,
Daddy
I sat on the bed reading his words over and over. It was the only letter he ever wrote me
other than a birthday card he would just sign. And then I looked at the gun. No wonder he had told me not to tell Mama. He used me. I found out later that Mama had taken away all the sharp knives and locked up the medicine, but I guess a man who is determined can find a way to do what he wants.
I cried as I ran to Mrs. Bowles’s house. Like some of our neighbors, we didn’t have a phone, and there was nobody I would have called faster than her. She was known in the community as someone you could turn to if you were in trouble. I’d been there a few times with my parents, so I knew where she lived, but I didn’t know her well. When Mama and Daddy got into some disagreement and couldn’t work it out, Mrs. Bowles was the one they went to. She’d had her own trouble, I guess, and when people go through hard times, it helps them know how to help others. I remember her sitting and listening, just crying with them about the house and Harless and all our changes.
Mrs. Bowles opened the door and right away took me by the shoulders, looking me in the eyes and asking what was wrong. I couldn’t stop sobbing, and when I told her, she hugged me and held on like a grandmother. She called the police, and then we both hopped in her car and drove back to the house.
She told me to stay in the front room while she went back to the bedroom. The police came and I let them in. Then an ambulance came and some men carried my daddy out. He still had his black shoes on, and they stuck out from underneath the sheet. Ruthie called Mama, and by the time she got home, Mrs. Bowles had the room cleaned with the bed made; she’d wrapped up all the bloody pillows and sheets and put them in the back of her car, and she’d found a little vase full of fake daisies and put them on Mama’s dresser with the envelope Daddy left propped up in front of it.