The Moonshiner's Daughter (ARC)

by Donna Everhart

  difference between you, and that’s what’s got to come first.

  He’s your brother, and she’s your sister, whether you like it or not. Nothin’s gon’ change that. You can make this easy on yerselves, or you can make it hard, but y’all know this already.

  It’s time for the both of you to come to a different understandin’. It’s the only thing’s gon’ work, and get you through it.

  You got to help one another, not work against one another.”

  She opened her door and sent a spurt of tobacco juice off

  into the yard. Then she heaved herself up out of the seat, and Ever_9781496717023_2p_all_r1.indd 249

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  shut the door. Merritt didn’t move and I didn’t either. I could see him working his mouth over the tobacco wad, getting

  used to it being there.

  I said, “What’s it taste like?”

  He said, “If you want to know the truth, it tastes like shit.

  Mixed with mint.”

  He opened the door and spit the wad out in the dirt.

  I said, “I’m gonna say it again; then I ain’t saying it no

  more. If you don’t want to believe me, that’s okay too. I set out to ruin Daddy’s stills, but I didn’t. If I could do everything all over again, I wouldn’t have said nothing to Aubrey. She

  told Willie, and he must’ve told his family, and that’s how it all got started. They’re about half-crazy, and you know that good as I do.”

  Merritt got that mad look on his face again and his jaw

  muscle rippled as he clenched it.

  He said, “Maybe. Either way, even if it wasn’t you who

  ruined the Boomer still, the Murrys doing what they been

  doing is because of you, even if indirectly. What you say don’t account for you letting Uncle Virgil and that little shit, Oral, take Daddy’s money.”

  He got out and slammed the door. I stayed in the car for a

  while, knowing that putting all this back right was going to be a lot harder than I’d ever imagined.

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  Chapter 25

  A couple days passed and I decided it was time to leave Mrs.

  Brewer’s house.

  I said, “I need to get back and make sure nothing’s been

  done at home, like what happened to our uncle’s house.”

  Merritt said, “Yeah, we need to get back.”

  It was about the only thing he’d agreed with me on in

  months, maybe years. He’d already been nodding his head

  toward the door, sending a silent message he wanted to go

  home.

  Mrs. Brewer said, “Maybe I ought to go too. If only for a

  few days, just to be sure there ain’t nothin’ out of sorts.”

  I was reluctant to drag her into our troubles, especially

  since dealing with the Murrys was dangerous, reckless, and

  they didn’t care about hurting someone. She didn’t wait for

  our approval or disapproval. She said, “We’ll go in the morning. It’s getting on late, and y’all need a good night’s rest.”

  This was the sort of mothering we weren’t used to and

  Merritt and I stared after her as she went into the kitchen and started cooking supper.

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  He said, “I kind of like her.”

  I said, “I do too.”

  The next day we went back to Shine Mountain with Mrs.

  Brewer trailing behind us in her car and when the house

  came into view it was obvious something was wrong. We came

  around the curve, and I immediately saw the black marks on

  the white siding where somebody had taken black paint and

  put “A traitor lives here,” the words seen clearly from the

  road.

  In another spot there was, “Stay away if you know what’s

  good for you.”

  I pulled into the drive and we sat in the car, staring at the damage. Mrs. Brewer got out of hers and came over to my

  open window.

  I said, “They ain’t getting away with this.”

  Merritt nodded.

  She cautioned me, “You need to be careful now. Can’t act

  out of anger. Them’s only words. Don’t let them git in yer

  head, make you go and do something rash.”

  I glared toward the house and said, “I’m tired of them

  thinking they can do what they want, stomping all over us

  like nothing can’t never be done about it.”

  Merritt, his face pale, appeared like he was half-afraid and I couldn’t blame him. He’d already paid a price, and so had

  the rest of my family. I drummed my fingers on the steering

  wheel while I considered the painted-on words. Who was my

  real enemy here? Maybe not the shine as I’d always thought.

  I whispered, “It ain’t right what’s happened. None of it.”

  Mrs. Brewer said, “Bunch a bullies is all they are, always

  have been. That daddy of theirs, he’s a terrible man. Acts like he ain’t never knowed right from wrong all along. Him responsible for their raisin’ was bound to produce a bunch a nitwits. Can’t say as I knew nothing much ’bout their mama. She died when that Willie boy wa’n’t but two years old. Heard tell Ever_9781496717023_2p_all_r1.indd 252

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  she fell and cracked her head on a rock. Bottom line, nothing but trouble is what they are, and probably ain’t worth your

  time.”

  I squinted up at her, and said, “Maybe not.”

  I drove Sally Sue up behind the house and parked in the

  shed. Mrs. Brewer parked in the back too, and when we

  started down the hill, we saw jailbird painted near the back door where I’d blasted that hole into the wall. I pointed, my finger shaking with rage at the message there.

  “Just look at that.”

  Mrs. Brewer was calm.

  She said, “Y’all got some white paint you keep around?”

  Merritt said, “Up on the shelves back in the shed there. I’ll get it. I’ll take care of what they done.”

  She nodded at him while I thought, Painting’s not the answer.

  He said, “And there’s some plywood out there too. I’ll fix

  that hole by the door too.”

  Merritt wanting something to do was good, even while

  I doubted his abilities. I said nothing, and we went inside

  and I told Mrs. Brewer she could have my room and I’d take

  Daddy’s.

  She’d brought a small bag and said, “Thankee kindly.”

  No sooner had I gotten my room back that I was loaning it

  out again, but in this instance, I was happy to do so.

  I said, “I just got to move a few things out of there, and

  then it’s all yours.”

  I quickly grabbed some clothes, and dumped them on

  Daddy’s bed. I took Mama’s picture out of my back pocket,

  and decided I’d prop it on the dashboard of Sally Sue. I stuck it in my back pocket again and went out to the kitchen. Having

  Mrs. Brewer in the house was nice, and for reasons I couldn’t explain, it felt like she belonged here. She stood in the living room staring at the TV.

  She said, “I ain’t ever had one, but I reckon it’s right en-

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  tertainin’. I mostly listen to my radio, gospel songs, and some preachin’ now and then. When no
thin’ like that’s on, I turn it off and sit and listen to Mother Nature.”

  Merritt came out of his room carrying his prosthetic arm.

  She saw it and said, “Let me see that thing.”

  He handed it to her and she went to studying it, while pull-

  ing on a strap here and there.

  She finally said, “I knew this man who had him one a lot

  like this after the power takeoff on his tractor took his arm.

  After a while he could near ’bout do anythin’ with it. He got so fast at switchin’ that hook around, you know, upright or

  sideways depending on what he was wanting to use it for, he

  operated it like a Wild West gunslinger.”

  Merritt stared down at the hook with a hint of new interest.

  He said, “I ain’t worked it much since I got it.”

  She said, “It don’t take long you keep at it. No different

  than breathin’. It gets natural like. He ’bout wore his out, but he wouldn’t get him a new one. He said he’d got so attached

  to it, he liked it good as his old arm.”

  Merritt was transformed by this information, and he ea-

  gerly fastened it on and began working with the straps and

  the hook. An hour or so later when I was sitting in Sally Sue situating Mama’s picture in the vent on the dash, I saw him

  twist the hook, place a paintbrush in it, and carefully begin to cover the ugly words.

  We got word Daddy had been to court and was given a year

  instead of the three to four he could’ve received. This was

  because he’d never been in jail, and never caused no trouble.

  Even the judge said he hated it, but had to give him some

  time. This was what we heard through connections Mrs.

  Brewer had. It was still possible he’d be sent to Atlanta, but for now there he sat, and it had been real apparent how much he hated it, and how much he blamed me. Merritt called him

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  as often as he could, but I never asked to speak to him and

  Daddy didn’t ask about me either, far as I could tell. From

  the incident on Lore Mountain Road, and all that had come

  about since, I recognized I was the cause of it getting worse, even if I hadn’t been the one to initiate it. I had gone and seen Nash Reardon, and the Murrys did what they always did,

  came back harder, and wouldn’t quit.

  The guilt I carried grew heavier as time went by. I began

  to realize sometimes it’s necessary to make a sacrifice. What I needed to do was obvious; it was only that I didn’t want

  to. But if I didn’t, I’d have to live with it, like Mrs. Brewer had said, and I began to understand how that could be even

  worse. Daddy would be coming back home and I’d have to

  face him every day and Merritt already couldn’t hardly abide my presence most of the time. All the worrying over this had me slipping in and out of the bathroom often, doing what I

  needed while wishing I could empty my brain the way I did

  my stomach. Mrs. Brewer said nothing, but every time I came

  out she was in the kitchen making me something to eat to

  replace what I just got rid of.

  What she didn’t know was I was pretty good at what I did.

  I could go in and out of the bathroom in less than a minute, like I’d been in there for natural reasons. It was like a tug-of-war between us. One afternoon I came out of the bathroom

  and found her right outside the door.

  Without commenting on what she suspected, she said,

  “Come on in here. Sit.”

  I sat at the table while she made up some concoction,

  pinching this and that from some of the many little bags she’d brought along, all of it going into the steeping ball. She didn’t talk. After she poured hot water over it and let it set for a minute or so, she set it in front of me.

  She said, “Drink it,” and nodded to herself, like she was

  sure it would set me straight in some miraculous way.

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  It was a pale gold liquid, and the steam rising up smelled

  like peppermint. I sipped, and found it tasted like that and was sweet.

  “What is it?”

  She countered that with, “Honey, and some other special

  things just for what you got.”

  I sipped again, and said, “I like it.”

  “It ain’t for you to like. It’s to help. Finish it all.”

  I did and it settled my stomach, taking away the discomfort.

  After a week with her there, and without me even realizing

  it, we were in this routine. I would occasionally feel normal hunger, did my best to eat typical amounts, drank the tea,

  and kept food down in a more consistent manner than I had

  in years. I felt better, stronger. Out of the blue, she repeated what she’d said before.

  She said, “Don’t let it get you. You’re strong, you’re capable, and it ain’t nothing you can’t do. I believe that.”

  I was beginning to believe her too, but I still felt fat and longed to empty my stomach.

  School was starting soon, and while I was feeling better, I

  wished there was a tonic I could drink to help me deal with

  my feelings of shame and worthlessness. Everyone would

  know about Daddy, and I tried to think of anyone else in this same predicament and couldn’t come up with a soul. Being

  talked about was nothing new, or hearing the little snick-

  ers behind my back, but Merritt wasn’t used to it. Not only

  would he have that to contend with; it would also be the first time anyone saw him with his prosthetic.

  In Daddy’s room I stretched out on Mama’s side of the bed

  with the journal. I’d been studying the entries, and I was

  finding out some right interesting details. Daddy had never

  mentioned any secrets, but there were a few in here. Not only with relation to making shine, but how to get it down Shine

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  ers. I’d never asked how it was possible, didn’t know there

  were secret trails. They came by way of people who had al-

  lowed my granddaddy and daddy access through their land,

  by the use of their private roads. They were paid in shine and it was all highly intriguing, and explained how he and Mama

  beat the Murrys on this run or that. It really wasn’t about

  speed, but about outsmarting them, which they’d done time

  and again, evidently.

  He also had a list of regulars, and a separate list of people getting it from the Murrys. He worked to win the Murry customers over, letting them sample what he had for free. He’d

  made notes where he’d left his goods and indicated if they’d taken him up on buying his. I was beginning to find all of it fascinating. I had no idea how he’d got the names, but there was a mark beside some and a note indicating they were new,

  and when he’d started to supply them. There were mysterious

  entries too, like the one updated with a note that said: “MM

  showed up, no delivery,” and another that said: “MM along

  Lore Mountain Road.”

  M could mean “Murry,” but since it was “MM,” I had no idea who it was.

  The very, very best things I found were entries written in

  a feminine scribble recording the amount of liquor
run into

  this or that town, or the measurements of corn, malt, rye, and yeast, and even pages with recipes for shine mixed with other ingredients she was evidently trying out, and couldn’t quite get the taste of these new liquors to her liking.

  There were notations like “try three parts sweet tea with

  peach juice to only one part liquor next time.”

  And: “Too bitter, add honey or maybe some sugar.”

  Deep in my soul I believed it was Mama’s handwriting, not

  only because of the style, but because it was right alongside Daddy’s handwriting and abruptly stopped after the day she

  died. I had another piece of her right here, in my hands. I

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  remembered telling Daddy I would have burned it and how

  he’d looked at me. Little did I know what it had held, and it would have been like setting a flame to her all over again. I would’ve destroyed something I’d wished for all along, an

  actual part of her I could see and touch. Like the photo.

  I hugged the journal to my chest and whispered, “I’m sorry,

  Mama.”

  I set it down by my side, my fingers resting on the scratched leather. I let that solitary image of her settle in my mind, the carefree smile, windblown hair, booted foot surrounded by

  jugs of shine. What I’d been pushing away started to come together, and while I was afraid, I also began to recognize what I ought to do, not only for Daddy, and Merritt, but for myself.

  I didn’t know if I could make shine, or be good at running

  it, but I was beginning to understand I wanted to try, that by doing this, I could make it right with us.

  I knew some parts of what to do, but I’d never been re-

  sponsible for each and every step, all the way to distilling.

  I’d watched Daddy enough to believe I could. I knew how

  to gauge the strength of it, how to, as he put it, a “get a good bead.” Delivering it was a whole other matter. His comments

  about Mama being the best gave me plenty of reason to doubt

  myself. I slid off the bed, and took the journal with me. I went into the kitchen, and even though Uncle Virgil, Aunt Juanita, and Oral had seen me take money out of the tin, I held out

  hope something might be left in there. An oversight on their part in their eagerness to leave. I was surprised to see there wasn’t eight dollars in there, but twelve. Daddy had probably taken some, added more back in before things went the way