The Moonshiner's Daughter (ARC)

by Donna Everhart

  I said, “I need to see one of them agents looking for people making shine.”

  He said, “I’m with the Alcohol Tax Unit. ATU for short.

  You can speak to me.”

  I pushed fear aside and let my resolve take over.

  I said, “I got something to say.”

  He said, “Come with me.”

  I followed him back into the room he’d just exited.

  He said, “Have a seat, Miss . . . ?”

  I said, “I ain’t prepared to give my name. It’s got to be

  without it.”

  He said, “Fine. That’s not a problem. You want to go ahead,

  then?”

  I held tight to the arms of the chair, and considered how I

  might appear. My ill-fitting clothes, my expression, the shakiness of my hands, my pale skin. What did he see, some lowly

  mountain girl unfortunate in all things, even pitiable maybe?

  He waited, alert and inquisitive. The clock ticked behind him while I struggled to figure out how to begin.

  Finally, I said, “You ever watch that show The Untouchables?”

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  Chapter 11

  His name was Nash Reardon. As I tried to figure out where

  to end the discussion on the TV show and where to begin

  telling him why I was here, the sight of him, a bona fide Eliot Ness of sorts, stole my words. He’d nodded at my question

  about the TV show, then asked if I wanted some water or a

  Pepsi. I asked for water. He left the room and I stared out the window. A few more passersby went down the sidewalk, but

  one person caught my eye and sent me into a panic. Daddy

  disappeared around the corner of that hardware store as the

  office door opened, and Mr. Reardon reappeared with a pa-

  per cup of water. He set it in front of me, and sat back down behind his desk.

  He held the pencil hovering above the notepad. “Ready

  when you are,” he said.

  I was thoroughly spooked. He could’ve seen the truck. I

  had no idea where he’d been or where he was headed.

  I stalled for time. “Do many come in here and talk about

  moonshining?”

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  He tapped the end of the pencil on the pad, and said, “A

  few. Not too many.”

  I glanced at the window. There was no sign of him, but I’d

  lost my nerve.

  I cleared my throat. “You ever hear anything about them

  Murrys over near to Shine Mountain?”

  He repeated the name, “Murry?”

  I nodded.

  “Go on.”

  I shifted, certain I appeared squirrely at best. He leaned

  back in his chair, the kind that swiveled. He moved it so he no longer faced me, and instead looked at a picture on the wall and an official-looking framed document.

  He put the tips of his fingers on his right hand against the tips on his left and said, “Look. I know it ain’t easy, coming in here and doing what I think it is you’re about to do. But believe me, you aren’t the first, and you won’t be the last. Take your time.”

  The image of Merritt’s tender red wound materialized in

  my head. His pain, the words he’d said echoed and then faded, my fear of being caught after the fiasco over Boomer nudging all of it out of the way.

  “I’ll start with them for now.”

  Such a chickenshit, Jessie.

  “Fine.”

  “There’s word they got a still up near Elk Creek.”

  “Okay.”

  I stalled again, tried to untangle my thoughts.

  “They ain’t the kind of people you want to stir up. They’ll

  try to find who ratted on them and if they do, they’ll make’em pay.”

  “Are you afraid of them?”

  “Everyone is, mostly.”

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  D ON N A E V E R H A RT

  “So, why’re you here?”

  I had to give him a reason that didn’t point to us.

  “They sell rotgut. Radiator poison. I heard tell somebody

  died from drinking it. Lots of folks get sick. My uncle took sick. I’m ashamed to say he tends to like his liquor.”

  That was a good reason enough to believe I was doing this

  out of good cause.

  He said, “Why do people keep buying from them if they

  know it’s bad?”

  “Some got to have it, I guess. It’s a need I’ve seen, like my uncle’s.”

  He said, “And maybe some would say you’ve got some stake

  in it. That these Murrys are cutting in on your own family’s business. Maybe your kin are involved?”

  I spoke with conviction, “I don’t lay claim to none of it.”

  He tapped the pencil on the paper again.

  Finally, he sat forward and said, “All right then. Exactly

  where is this still?”

  I gave him the whereabouts, instructing him to go down

  Tom Dula Road, where to walk in.

  “It ain’t exact, but ought to be close.”

  Mr. Reardon took it all down and then looked up. “Any-

  thing else?”

  I paused, knowing if I walked out and didn’t do what I’d

  really come to do, I’d regret it. I’d pay for it somehow. I

  couldn’t bring myself to do more than skirt around it.

  “I got more to say; I just can’t tell it all to you right now.”

  He seemed satisfied. “All right, well, I appreciate you com-

  ing in. If you’ve got good information here, and you come back and tell me more, it’ll go a long way to help clean this county up. We got fourteen agents working the area, but I tell you

  what, folks make them hard to find. Wilkes County is known

  as the Moonshine Capital and I can see why. The mountains

  here are pockmarked with stills. I hope you’ll keep your word.”

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  I’d never heard Wilkes County identified that way before.

  It didn’t make me proud.

  “I will.”

  He got up and I stood too. He stuck out his hand, and I

  took it, and we shook, like we had us an arrangement. He

  opened the door, and I went out.

  He said, “Thank you, miss. I’ll expect I’ll see you again,

  and soon?”

  I couldn’t say yes; I could only nod and hurry away, star-

  ing at the tile floor, and then the concrete of the sidewalk the entire way back to the truck. I was so uptight at the possibil-ity I’d hear Daddy yell my name that when I got to it and it hadn’t happened, I couldn’t believe I’d been that lucky.

  Inside the warm interior, I spoke out loud. “You chicken-

  shit. You stinking pile of chickenshit.”

  I drove off, staring through the bug-spattered windshield.

  Familiar feelings of disappointment and disgust kept me

  company as I passed 10th Street where we did our shopping,

  mostly empty and unlike Saturdays when everyone came

  from all around, double-parking by the curbs, darting among

  the cars and trucks to visit or shop. A napkin blew across a sidewalk, reminiscent of a ghost town. I went down Route

  16 and then over to 18. I didn’t know how long it would take that revenuer to find Elk Creek, but once he did, a fuse would be lit under the Murrys and they’d be hell bent on finding out who done them wrong.

/>   At home Aunt Juanita’s car was parked near the back door,

  and my hackles instantly rose. Inside I found her busy putting food in the refrigerator.

  She turned and said, “I brought y’all some fried chicken

  and biscuits.”

  It was always chicken with everyone lately.

  “Thankee.”

  She smelled like she’d just come from having her hair

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  permed. Her hair rested on her scalp in tight curls, the slightly eggy sulfur odor of the product they used obvious as she

  moved back and forth from the table to the refrigerator. She wore her favorite color, a pink dress and shoes to match.

  She said, “Is that a new dress?”

  “Not really. Aubrey gave it to me.”

  She bent forward and studied my face. “You look like you

  could use some sleep. You’ve got circles under your eyes. Did you ride with the window down? Your hair’s a mess.”

  I reached up and began finger combing my hair. I stopped

  when I came away with some strands caught in my hands.

  Aunt Juanita said, “Good Lord.”

  I went to the trash and brushed them off in it. It wasn’t the first time it had happened. Didn’t everyone lose a few hairs now and then?

  Her brow was puckered and she said, “I hope you ain’t go-

  ing to end up bald. There was a woman at our church, lost

  all her hair due to hormones. You’re too young for all that, I imagine.”

  “Aunt Juanita, I’m fine.”

  “Well, you don’t look fine. You got them bags under your

  eyes and your hair’s dull as dirt.”

  “Gee, thanks. You’re always so helpful.”

  She opened up her pocketbook and got out her compact.

  She snapped it open and held it in front of me.

  She said, “Take a good look. Truth hurts, but sometimes is

  necessary.”

  I wanted her to leave, so I glanced at the tiny mirror, seeing what I was used to, pale cheeks, green eyes, confirming what I already knew. Me with pale skin and messy hair. I gave her a blank look, one that said I didn’t much care.

  Exasperated, she snapped the compact closed. “I try to help

  you, but you don’t want to be helped.” She was at the back

  door now, and said, “Why don’t you let me make you an ap-

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  pointment with my hairdresser, at least get your hair trimmed, shampooed, and styled?”

  “No,” then, “thankee,” came as an afterthought.

  She sighed, and shook her head. “Well, it’s all I can do. You don’t want to be helped, then there ain’t a thing more to say.”

  She let the door slam behind her. I had the childish urge to stick my tongue out at her back. I waited until she’d backed up, and I was sure she was gone before I went to see Merritt.

  His door was closed and I placed my ear against the wood.

  Nothing. I went back to the kitchen, opened the refrigera-

  tor, staring at the food she’d brought. To keep my mind off

  eating every single bit of it, I got some of Mrs. Brewer’s tea, filled the tea strainer ball with some of the crushed leaves. I prepared it the way she’d directed and had a cup. It got me

  straightened out good enough so I could fix Merritt a plate, my stomach settled and not feeling so inside out. After what I’d witnessed, I wanted to do something for him. I selected a couple of pieces of chicken, and put a buttered biscuit on the plate. I arranged it on the table and set the fork on the left, so he could get to it. When I was done, I went to his door and

  knocked. He didn’t respond.

  I knocked again, and opened the door a crack. “Merritt?”

  He was sitting and doing what he’d been doing earlier in

  the living room. He’d only changed rooms, and now stared

  out his bedroom window. There wasn’t much to see out there.

  I said, “Aunt Juanita brought some chicken, and all. Do you

  want something to eat?”

  He shook his head.

  “What’s wrong? Is your arm hurting you?”

  “You mean stump.”

  “Does it hurt?”

  “What do you think?”

  I said, “I think maybe you’re starting to feel a bit different, that’s what I think.”

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  He faced me. “Feel different about what? What are you

  talking about?”

  “Like why you’re sitting here in a shitty mood. Why you

  lost your arm.”

  He snapped at me, “I’m sitting here in this house because of them dumb-ass Murrys.”

  I waited for him to acknowledge Daddy had some part of

  it too, but he only turned and went back to staring out the

  window.

  I said, “That’s only half-right, you know.”

  “Here we go again.”

  “Merritt, I heard you.”

  “Heard me what?”

  “Earlier, when you were fixing your arm. What you said.”

  “Stump. Stump! It ain’t a damn arm no more. Look at it.”

  He beat his one hand on the windowsill.

  “It ain’t the point. You said, ‘I wished we could do some-

  thing else.’ It’s what I been saying all along. If it weren’t for moonshining, none of this would’ve happened. If we hadn’t

  been hauling liquor, been on that road—”

  He whipped around to face me again, filled with a wild

  anger and obvious pain.

  “It ain’t like what you’re thinking, but it don’t matter. You ain’t to blame Daddy. It ain’t his fault.”

  “It is too.”

  “Ain’t neither. He wouldn’t want nothing like this to hap-

  pen and you know it.”

  “If that were true, he’d have stopped a long time ago. He

  don’t care. He keeps going like a damn plow mule that can’t

  be controlled.”

  “It’s like you hate him.”

  “I hate what he does. What he makes us do.”

  “Well, I don’t. I like making shine, and how about you get

  out of my room. Now.”

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  “Merritt.”

  “Get out!”

  He started coming toward me, anger making him ball up

  his hand in a fist. He stopped at the tips of my shoes.

  I said, “You’re gonna change your mind one of these days.”

  “No, you will.”

  Frustrated, I stalked out of his room. He slammed the door

  behind me. I don’t know why I even tried when it was clear

  he was on Daddy’s side. In the kitchen I snatched up the plate of food I’d fixed. I didn’t bother sitting down. I ate standing at the counter, ripping pieces of chicken off and chewing furiously. I sucked on the bones till there was nothing left. I stuffed in the biscuit I’d buttered as I opened the refrigerator.

  She’d brought a whole chicken. I snatched it off the shelf, and began working on the rest of it, and the other biscuits. I ate half of them plain, and stopped. What the hell. I ate the rest with jelly. By the time I was done, I felt so tight and full, I believed I might would explode. I headed for the bathroom

  immediately. I didn’t even think about it. It was what was

  expected, only this time when I was done, I didn’t feel like I someti
mes did, that profound sense of relief. Instead, I recalled what I’d seen in Aunt Juanita’s compact. A haggard

  face, the stringy, messy hair. I got on the scale. That couldn’t be right. What I’d just done, the emptying out, it wasn’t good enough. I bent over the toilet again. I repeated the action of sticking my fingers down my throat, over and over.

  Finally, I couldn’t bring any more up, no matter how hard I

  tried. I sat on the floor, breathless, wilted by the effort, my heart quivering unevenly. A click signaled Merritt coming from out of his room and I went stiff, and stared at the bathroom door.

  He stopped near it and I waited, wheezing from the effort. He continued down the hall and into the kitchen. My dread increased at the sound of the refrigerator door opening.

  Seconds later he yelled, “Jessie, where’s the chicken?”

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  I closed my eyes.

  “Shit,” I whispered.

  I rose to my feet, drained. I turned the spigots on to fill the tub. I’d kept my secret for a long time, but if I wasn’t careful, I was going to get found out.

  “Jessie!”

  I turned them wide open and didn’t reply. I hoped he’d quit

  calling me, find something else in the cabinets to eat.

  I flinched when he banged on the door. “Where’s the food?

  You said there was chicken. Biscuits. Where’d you put it?”

  I said nothing and he left, then came back and banged on

  it harder.

  He said, “You ate it. I found all them bones in the trash, so you can’t quit pretending you can’t hear me.”

  I shut the water off.

  I said, “Yeah, I ate it. You didn’t want it. So what.”

  “But that was enough for all of us, Jessie!”

  “How do you know? Maybe she only brought a couple

  pieces.”

  “I can count bones in a chicken and she brought a whole

  damn chicken.”

  I turned the faucets back on. He hit the door with his fist

  and I bowed my head. I slid down into the tub, covering

  myself with the water, full of shame. I began scrubbing hard with a washcloth, attacking my arms, belly, legs, every single part of me, as if I could wash away the fat, rid myself of the humiliation. The feeling of failure flowed over me like water as I rinsed and scoured until my skin was as raw and hot as my embarrassment.

  His words from weeks before came like a nasty whisper in