The Moonshiner's Daughter

by Donna Everhart

  Chapter 13

  Just like the Murrys’ still, the house fire made front-page news. The Wilkes Journal-Patriot said nothing more than the renters had lost everything and more had to be done to determine the reason for the blaze. The fire chief was shown against the backdrop of flames, pointing to the house, stating the only thing they could look for was signs of gasoline and that process would take a while.

  Uncle Virgil talked for days after. “Shit, we know who it was; we don’t need no official ruling from them. I say we get’em now.”

  Of course Daddy gave him more money to keep him from doing something irrational and Uncle Virgil took it, because as he said, it was owed him. I saw how Oral’s eyes glittered and he found ways to be near the back door when Daddy went out, like he was trying to figure out where he kept his stockpile. It was apparent Oral had a hankering even stronger than the liquor held on to his daddy.

  The last day of school came and final test scores were handed out, creating sighs of relief or groans of disappointment. Yearbooks went hand to hand, everyone busy getting friends to sign the bound dark green leather books adorned with a gold pinecone design. Engraved in gold as well were the words “Piney Tops High School Warriors, 1959-1960.” I held mine tight to my chest, the pages without one single signature. I eventually saw Aubrey standing with a bunch of people, including Cora and Stacy, laughing, having herself a grand old time. She saw me hovering at the edge of the crowd, and I started to raise my hand, to wave her over. I hadn’t told her about Uncle Virgil’s house, proof the Murrys were no good, and dangerous, the sort intent on only causing trouble. She ought to distance herself from Willie, if she knew what was good for her.

  Someone said something and she turned away. Everyone took turns placing their books on each other’s backs, and scribbling in the sort of notes I surely wouldn’t see on my blank pages. Like, “It was great getting to know you in Mrs. Walker’s history class, hope to see you this summer!” Or, “Hey, beautiful, here’s my number, call me and we’ll get together!” At the moment, I had no idea why I’d even bothered to buy one. The longer I watched the joyful interactions, the more uncomfortable I became of how I might look, like a dog begging for scraps. I left, and when I passed by a trash can I tossed the yearbook into it. Why force myself to look through pictures of people who didn’t know I existed, and the ones who did acted like they wished they didn’t?

  I went to my last class and sat waiting for the final bell to ring. The room was empty. Out the windows to my left were my classmates standing or sitting under a perfect blue sky, a buttery sun shining warm on their flawless world. I saw myself in their midst, a mar on their perfection, a weed in their manicured garden. The bell rang and the quiet room filled with noise, laughter, the scuffling of shoes on the slick tiles. One by one, they filed in, filling up seats, and I could smell them, wearing the scent of fresh air, mixed with starched cotton, soap, and sweat. I fingered the edges of my science book, the last one to turn in for the year. I listened to their conversations, occasionally interrupted by a burst of laughter, happiness overflowing. A pair of legs appeared by my side, feet in scuffed oxfords, skirt midway to the calves. I raised my head and encountered the obscure eyes of Darlene Wilson. She popped a wad of bubble gum, made a show of looking under my desk, and then at the science book I fiddled with.

  “Yearbook?”

  Self-conscious, I hoped no one paid us any mind.

  “I tossed it.”

  Her jaws quit moving for a second.

  “Trash? ”

  I gave one nod.

  I couldn’t say she smiled, but she appeared to approve.

  She said, “Superfluous junk.”

  She plunked herself on the seat in front of me. I wanted to get up and move away.

  She said, “You’re like me.”

  I started to shake my head and stopped.

  She said, “No friends. Nope.”

  Her lips popped on the p.

  “Aubrey Whitaker’s my friend,” I argued.

  “No, she ain’t.”

  I said, “Well, I don’t see you talking to anyone except yourself.”

  She got up, chomping on her gum faster, and said, “That’s what you think. There is one bit of difference between us. I know who I am.”

  She sauntered over to sit in her usual spot by the windows, wearing a tiny smile. What did she know? Nothing.

  When the final bell rang, I didn’t wait like usual for the class to empty before I made my way out. I didn’t want Darlene handing out any more of her weird wisdom. I followed the rest of the students into the hot sun, my head turning left and right, hoping to spot Aubrey. Darlene made sure I saw her watching me, that same stupid grin on her face. Exasperated, I moved toward the bus while scanning the parking lot where Willie Murry’s car was parked. Just before I got on, I noticed Aubrey with him. She had her head tilted as he talked and I couldn’t imagine what he could be saying, but it couldn’t have been good, because she looked serious. I kept glancing at her, hoping she’d break away and come find me. She didn’t. She got in his car, and I saw he didn’t even open or shut the door for her.

  I climbed the bus steps, and because I was earlier than usual, there were only a few students already on, and still plenty of empty seats. I chose the one Aubrey and I had always used, feeling a little sad about that. Soon others filed by talking about summertime plans of visiting relatives, swimming in the Yadkin River or at Moravian Falls, of summer picnics. I half-listened as I stared toward the front, but when Willie Murry unexpectedly got on the bus, I bent my head and focused on the rubbery mat that lined the aisle. His Wearmasters came into view and stopped. He eased himself into the seat beside me.

  He said, “Give me your yearbook. I got something to write in it.”

  I kept my arms crossed tight.

  I said, “I ain’t got it.”

  He looked under the seat, and then beyond my lap to the small empty space between me and the side of the bus.

  He said, “Don’t lie. You were carrying one earlier.”

  I ignored that while I went to cussing in my head. I could hear the whispers starting up behind me.

  He said, “Fine. I’ll just tell you what I was going to write. Let’s see, it would’ve been something like, ‘Watch out. There’s more to come.’ Yeah. That would’ve been it.”

  It was as close to admitting they’d been responsible for our still and Uncle Virgil’s house as it could get. I kept my head turned so he couldn’t see my fear. The seat rose and I knew he’d left. I leaned my head against the window, understanding I’d made a big mistake.

  * * *

  Uncle Virgil and Aunt Juanita quickly settled into a routine at the house, and soon got to acting like it was theirs. No matter where I went, they were either sprawled in the living room watching TV, sitting in the kitchen waiting on food to be put before them, or taking naps in my room all hours of the day. Daddy got up every morning and went to work, while Uncle Virgil and Aunt Juanita got up about midmorning and expected me to cook them breakfast. Uncle Virgil sat at the kitchen table, rubbing on his belly and yawning, while Aunt Juanita took about an hour in the bathroom doing herself up only to sit around the rest of the day. After her first offer to help cook, she hadn’t offered again, other than to make a new pot of coffee sometimes. It didn’t seem to bother either of them how it looked and it was easy enough to see why Uncle Virgil couldn’t hold him a job. Sometime before noon dinner, he would go out to their car, and come back in with a jar. He’d unscrew the lid and start in on his daily dose of shine.

  He smacked his lips and said, “Ain’t nothing better than strong coffee followed by a little jumpin’ juice.”

  After he had a little more, he went into the bathroom, shut the door, and then it was him in there for some time, smoking, drinking, shaving. He’d come out smelling like Daddy’s Aqua Velva, and by then, the liquor was working on him, and he paced around the house raving about revenge on the Murrys. It would get on toward late afternoon
, and it was clear he’d had more than enough as his voice grew louder, and he’d get to acting more ridiculous.

  Aunt Juanita went along until he got like that, and then she told him, “Shut up, Virgil, for God’s sake! You’re giving me a headache!”

  She got ahold of one jar once when he made the mistake of setting it down, and dumped it in the sink. He got mad, went outside, and came back with another. He held on to them after that like they would sprout legs and run off. He had to have a stash, jars that should’ve been sold, but he’d somehow managed to have kept hidden for his own personal enjoyment.

  Uncle Virgil hadn’t been at the chicken houses far as I could tell since he’d been here. Aunt Juanita prodded him a time or two about getting on to work, but it was one reason or another as to why he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—as the days went by. Daddy went down the hall the second week they were there and banged on my bedroom door.

  He yelled through it, “Ain’t you got to go into work?”

  Uncle Virgil hollered back, “I ain’t got that job no more!”

  Daddy said, “Ain’t got the job? What the hell, Virgil.”

  Uncle Virgil opened the door and said, “I figured we’d do some runs, and you’d pay me. You’re always saying how much more money you can make. Hell, what do I need that chickenshit job for?”

  He laughed at his own joke and when Daddy came into the kitchen, his expression was the exact same as when he was mad at me. I didn’t need to tell him about Uncle Virgil drinking all day. I was pretty sure he knew. Later on when we sat down to supper, Uncle Virgil propped himself up on his elbows, weaving back and forth. Eventually he was slouched over his plate, slurring words.

  Aunt Juanita poked him and said, “Nobody wants to be around you like this. Sit up, act right.”

  He went to slide his fork through some mashed potatoes, and the food fell off. He frowned at the fork, perplexed as to where the potatoes went. He dropped it on his plate and started crying, declaring how much he loved her. This didn’t set well with her, him blubbering, and trying to hold her hand.

  She pushed him away and said, “Sit up, Virgil, for God’s sake. Act like a man. And quit bawling. Christamighty.”

  Oral tossed ugly looks at his daddy while he ate, and for the first time I could recollect, I felt sorry for him and his situation, even though he acted like a little twit most times. Aunt Juanita showed her own ragged edges at Uncle Virgil being underfoot, more sharp edged, and snappish. She stabbed out one cigarette only to light another one. She took little bites of food now and then between long puffs and exasperated exhalations. Uncle Virgil eventually leaned back in his chair with a groan. Before long his head fell forward, chin resting on his chest, and he started snoring. Aunt Juanita looked relieved, while Daddy said a word I was sure I’d only heard out of his mouth once when he banged his knee against the bumper of Sally Sue. He sprang up and grabbed the back of Uncle Virgil’s chair and hauled him away from the table. He twisted it to one side and dumped him on the floor. Uncle Virgil came to for a second, saw where he was, then rested his head on his arms and passed out again.

  Daddy said, “Oral, Juanita, y’all grab a leg, and I’ll get his arms, and let’s get him to the bedroom.”

  They did as he asked, faces flushed with the effort or shame, I couldn’t tell which. They struggled under the dead weight, but lugged him down the hall, where a solid thump signaled he’d been deposited onto the floor.

  The door slammed, and before they got back to the kitchen, I pointed my finger at Merritt and whispered, “See? Now ain’t that a pretty sight? You want to end up like that, you just keep talking about how much you like it. Ain’t a damn thing it’s good for.”

  He was silent, and I was satisfied I’d made a point. The rest of them came back and sat down to finish eating. Even though nothing more was said, the mood around the table relaxed. I watched them eat, counted the mouthfuls I took, and hoped the scale would be kind.

  The next morning I fried bacon and listened to Daddy talk to Merritt about getting his new arm. Merritt’s disposition had improved somewhat, and he was already going on about what he’d be able to do once he got it.

  Daddy approved, and said, “You’ll be good as new.”

  Merritt said, “Yeah, I’ll be able to go outside and toss the ball, maybe even start back to practice, and play on the team again when I get back to school.”

  Oral said, “Yeah, once you get it, it’ll be like nothing ever happened.”

  The wound was raw with a red, raised ridge and tender-looking. The flap ends of skin were drawn together above the elbow joint and stitched together. I couldn’t picture him trying to cram it into that plastic cup thing in the brochure Daddy brought home one afternoon. They’d gone for a plaster mold, and fitting, and while there was soft material inside, it would seem like anything resting against that delicate spot would hurt. It made me cringe. I kept turning the bacon, the grease popping and hitting me now and then. The smell made my mouth water and I looked over my shoulder to see if anyone was looking. No one paid me any mind, so I snatched a piece and plopped it in my mouth.

  I finished frying the rest of the package, and filled a pot with water for grits when Daddy motioned for me to follow him outside. Wary, I set the pot down, turned the burner off, and wiped my hands down the front of my pants. The boys stopped talking as I went out the back door behind him. He walked across the yard and stopped by the truck. He leaned against it and waited until I was within a few feet of him. My back to the house, I inhaled deep the scent of morning, a mixture of dewy grass and wild grapes. He pulled his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and tapped the filter against the fender before lighting the opposite end. He blew smoke toward the sky and I shifted from one foot to the other, uncertain where this unexpected conversation might go.

  He said, “Jessie, can I trust you?”

  The question took me by surprise and the taste of the bacon I’d eaten earlier turned rancid. My mind went haywire, thoughts scattering like gunshot. He must’ve seen me on Main Street that day.

  He said, “We got us a bit of a problem.”

  He was cryptic, and I was too rattled to ask questions. He tossed his cigarette on the ground, and rubbed a hand over his face like he was unsure of what to say.

  Finally, he began to talk, but it wasn’t what I expected. It wasn’t about Main Street, or even about the Boomer still and what he thought about that.

  He said, “I really need me somebody to rely on.”

  He waited for me to respond. I didn’t know what he was after, because I already did what he expected, even though he knew I hated it.

  I said, “What about Uncle Virgil, and Oral?”

  “You’ve seen your uncle Virgil, and the way it can get with him. Him doing right is hit-or-miss, and lately, I ain’t sure I can trust him to do much at all. I got to have someone I can depend on, and it ought to be you.”

  This was different in that he was saying he needed me. As if that was supposed to make a difference.

  He said, “Merritt’s arm’s gonna cost a pretty penny, and with them all here, and not having a red cent to their name, I’m gonna have to do all I can to get them on their way. I got to have someone dependable, to check them stills regular, not be drunk, and screw something up.”

  Through the screen door I saw the faint outline of Merritt sitting at the table. Oral had Merritt’s baseball and he was tossing it up in the air and catching it. Merritt watched, but turned to look outside at us every now and then, curious. Daddy wanted the best for him, while all he wanted for me was to obey him whether I liked it or not. I understood, but I didn’t want to. I brought up a subject I hadn’t in a while, giving up on it as something that would never happen. Since he was asking, maybe now was the time to try again.

  “Tell me about Mama.”

  He looked away, staring into the distance, and I began to think he might. When he spoke, his voice was low.

  He said, “You know I can’t talk about it.”

/>   He was holding on to her, but she wasn’t only his.

  “I have a right to know her too. She ain’t for your memory alone.”

  I didn’t bother pleading, or even arguing. It was like being lost, walking endlessly while hoping to find your way only to recognize you’re right back where you started.

  He repeated the question he’d asked me before: “Jessie, can I trust you?”

  I walked toward the house without answering his question and he stayed outside for a while. When he finally came in, he didn’t put much food on his plate, and what was there went mostly untouched. Aunt Juanita drifted into the kitchen with Uncle Virgil and they filled their plates, eating and talking like nothing had happened the night before. Meanwhile, Daddy watched me like he needed to hear me promise, or at least know I wouldn’t add to his problems. Maybe I could give him the answers he needed if only he could do the same in return.

  Chapter 14

  By July, it was necessary to find ways to get away from Aunt Juanita and Uncle Virgil’s constant bickering, so I actually did volunteer to go to Big Warrior and Blood Creek on my own. It was late one afternoon after Daddy said they needed tending.

  He hesitated when I spoke up, then said, “Get your uncle and Oral to help you. There’s corn to be hauled in to both.”

  “No. I’d rather do it on my own.”

  He went to the sink and rinsed out his coffee cup and gave me a look like I’d spoken in a foreign language. It meant nothing more than I needed to get out of the house, and away from them for a little while.

  I was desperate enough I added, “You said you needed someone trustworthy, dependable.”

  Without a word, he reached into his pocket and gave me the keys. That’s where he kept them lately instead of on the hook by the door. I couldn’t read his expression, yet I had the feeling I was being tested in some way.

  He said, “I took the last run off of both of them yesterday. Everything you need is in the back of the truck. Do Blood Creek first.”

  I nodded and said, “Okay.”

  A short while later, I parked near the old poplar, got out, and assessed what was in the truck bed that I had to carry in. I hefted a bag and began to walk. It was an uneventful journey, but tough going as I wound my way around the recent growth of catbrier and Virginia creeper, balancing the weight as best as I could. When I got nearer to the still area, everything was in place. He’d cleaned it out, made it ready. I dumped the corn, and started adding water to the boiler and got the burner going. I headed back, the only noise my footsteps and the running water of the creek. It took several more trips, and by the time I was done, the sun touched the treetops while my heart flickered like a lightbulb about to go out. Despite that, I was still glad I’d come alone. The peacefulness was worth it. If nothing else, I loved being in the woods and, most of all, being alone.