And the Creek Don't Rise

by R. M. Gilmore

  Copyright © 2020 All rights reserved.

  The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval systems, without express permission from the author. The only exception is in the case of brief quotations for reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Creative Design: RMGraphX

  Executive Editor: Becky Johnson

  Based on an original short story by R.M. Gilmore

  Table of Contents

  How‘do?

  Hell-bent

  You Really Askin’?

  Kissin’ & Sacrifices

  Found girl lost

  A damn miracle

  Arguing with ghosts

  Words with God

  Fire Burn & Cauldron Bubbles

  Predecessor

  Cryin’ in the dirt

  Tell Me I’m No Monster

  Home again, home again

  Becoming

  Good Mourning

  Loving Things’ll Kill You

  Old Women Have Old Ways

  Jiggedy-Jog

  Saving Grace

  Hope Restored

  What’s up, Doc?

  Allies

  Long Gone

  Refuge

  Just One Bag

  Farewell

  Old Friend

  Mended in Gold

  Back in the Saddle

  Ogham and whiskey

  Days gone by

  Daydream believer

  Taking Flight

  Lord and Lady Mishap

  Crime and Punishment

  The meek shall inherit the earth

  Successor

  Thanks to my southern heritage for the advanced degree in colloquialisms.

  For AJ

  How‘do?

  My name is Sharlene Carolynn Diamond Russell. It’s a mouthful, I know.

  To most of the world, I was a redneck. Hillbilly. Poor white trash. Just a little ol’ Southern brat who’d never amount to anything. But in Havana, Arkansas, I was just an American girl. Raised on Promises.

  Actually, I’m pretty sure that’s a Tom Petty song.

  They were wrong. So was I.

  I can’t tell you what I really am without telling you how it came to be. Most stories start just before the action begins, when the juicy bits are ripe. I think mine is better told from the beginning. Or close enough to it.

  It’s what kicked it all off. The day I turned twenty.

  Hell-bent

  “What are you doing here, Lynn?” Sam asked from behind a rack of chips. “You’re off today.”

  A grin pushed my sun-kissed cheeks into mounds. “Just came to get my—”

  Sam—the best boss a girl could have—pulled my paycheck from the pocket of his apron, gripping it tight between two thick fingertips. “Don’t you go spending it all down at Maldoon’s, ya hear?”

  I looked up at him from under my lashes. “You know I ain’t old enough to be down there at that old bar, Sam. Just a quiet evening at home with Garret and Hattie.” And lied through my teeth.

  I reached out to snatch the handwritten check and he pulled me into a hug. “Happy birthday, sweet pea,” he rumbled against my ear.

  I nuzzled his broad chest. Sam always smelled like diesel fuel and even though he was about a hundred pounds heavier, it reminded me of my dad. The biological one.

  Daddy drove long-haul. He was never home, and when he was, it wasn’t long enough to get to know him. Didn’t doubt he loved me—brought me gifts and things; he just didn’t give up his time too often.

  “Thanks, old man.”

  “You be good out there tonight, girl.” He ran a heavy hand over the thick cushion of tight black curls at his neck, clearly a few months since his last trip to the barber shop.

  “You know I will.” I winked over my shoulder and shoved the check into the back pocket of my cutoff shorts.

  “Carolynn Russell, I don’t want to hear about you wrapping that old truck around a tree down there in Logan county.” He wagged a calloused finger at me.

  We’re taking Hattie’s truck. I smirked. “I’ll be fine. Don’t you worry about me. It’s Havana, Sam. What in the world could I get up to?”

  “You tell your mom and them I said hi,” he shouted after me.

  “Will do.” I pushed out the door, ringing the bell that hung from the corner. “Whenever I see her,” I grumbled on my way out.

  My mama, God love her, never could stay in one place too long without a man to keep her there—Daddy was gone too often, too long to keep her put. She loved us kids with all her soul, but if it weren’t for me and my brother, she’d have left Havana a long time ago and never looked back.

  I had a mind to do the same, but I’d never get out of this damn town working part-time at Sam’s pump station.

  I always figured I’d be out on my own by twenty. Maybe I’d be living in a college dorm miles away from my parents and this hick town. Poor life choices and lack of funds kept me trapped in Havana, Arkansas. Or what I like to call, bum fuck.

  My old beater bounced along the pocked road up to our property. Dead of summer, the weeds were lighter than my blonde hair and tall as my knees. You’d think with humidity thick enough to bathe in, the foliage would get a little drink every now and then.

  Stifled by my overbearing—yet equally aloof—mama and ignored by my absentee daddy, I didn’t have too many opportunities to spread my wings, as they say. Moving in with my brother had been my best option.

  Garret bought himself a few acres and a double-wide just out of my town. Havana only had a few streets to its name, so just outside of town wasn’t saying much. But it was far enough away from home that I didn’t have to see Mama out there mowing her lawn in a pair of short-shorts every Saturday morning.

  I knew eventually I’d break free of my backwoods, redneck prison. When and how were the only things I hadn’t yet worked out.

  Clouds of dust settled behind me as I pulled up in front of the house. It wasn’t much, but I was happy to call it home. Even if it was shared with someone who liked to fart in my gravy.

  It was twelve on the dot when Garret walked through the front door. “Whatchu got on the stove, girl? Damn,” he hollered from the front mat. The clonk of his dirty work boots echoed when they tumbled to the hollow foundation.

  If I learned anything being stuck at home with my mama, it was to always have something on the table. “I got beans in the pot and the bread’s just ’bout done,” I said, grinning at him from over my shoulder, and he smiled back.

  We looked a lot alike, my brother and me. Our smiles were almost the same. Bright and shiny and showing a lot of teeth.

  “Did you talk to Mama today?” he asked while he picked at the beans in the pot on the stove.

  “She called at eight. Woke me up on my day off to say happy birthday. You know the speech. It’s the same every year. ‘Twenty years ago today you were born. It was eleven fifty-four at night, your birthday could have been tomorrow, but out you popped, cryin’ and hollerin’ all the way.’“ I copied Mama and Garret laughed. I looked too much like her to keep it up for long without making myself shudder so I changed the subject. “You coming to Maldoon’s with us tonight?”

  Thanks to my brother and my one and o
nly real friend, Hattie, it was Maldoon’s for my birthday celebration. I wasn’t really into honky-tonks, but Carolynn Russell never turned down a good time and living in Havana opportunities for that were slim.

  I was one of the lucky twenty-thousand county residents who couldn’t drink, legally, regardless of age. Yell County, Arkansas was a dry county—dry as in no booze. Ever.

  Maldoon’s was just over the county line, technically in Logan County, just up the highway from Blue Mountain Lake. The old place was nothing big, basically a glorified barn with a full bar and a bandstand. It was regularly chock full of cowboys in tight jeans and muddy boots, but it was the closest place to Havana that served alcohol.

  Old Leroy would get anyone drunk for a price, or a smile and wink. Leroy Maldoon was pushing eighty, feisty as all get-out, and had been the sheriff of Yell County in the sixties. He always said, when you’re the law, you can do what you want. Kids had been running off to Maldoon’s to drink since before I was born. In fact, I had it on good authority that yours truly was conceived in that very parking lot.

  “You bet.” He gulped a glass of milk. “I’ll be bringin’ Rusty.” I scowled. Garret grinned around a spoonful of beans.

  Rusty Kemp was a scoundrel. Ornery. No good. A goathead in my heel since I’d hit puberty. He’d also been my brother’s best friend since grade two.

  My fork clanged against the plate. “Jesus H., Garret, why you bringin’ that idiot?” From day one Rusty made my blood burn under my skin. He’d ask to play but always ended up being mean or embarrassing. I usually just kicked dirt at him. My mama used to say it was ’cause I liked him. I never could figure out why my mama would ever think I liked a boy I kicked dirt at.

  “You know he can’t be left alone too long. He might chew things up,” Garret said with that stupid grin.

  “It is my birthday, you know? Maybe I can have a say in somethin’? Y’all wanna blow my candles out too?” I sat back in my chair and folded my arms across my chest. “Can’t you leave him in the kennel?”

  Garret watched the corners of my mouth tuck into a frown. He shoveled one last heap of beans into his mouth, never breaking his smile. The squeak of his spoon dropping into his bowl ruffled every one of my feathers. My rotten brother’s ocean eyes locked onto mine, a sniggering call to arms. One blink. Two. He wiped his mouth and tossed his napkin over top of the spoon. One of my eyes twitched as I scowled. Long legs pushed his chair back away from the table.

  “Com’on now, Lynn. Every girl wants a puppy for her birthday.” He kissed the top of my head. “He just ain’t housebroke yet.” Garret laughed over the sound of the running sink.

  It was useless to argue, one never left the house without the other, and if I wanted my brother there for my birthday, I had to take the shit with the dog.

  I was alone in the house, which typically was how I liked it. I used the time to clean up lunch and straighten the house. I swore my brother only let me move in so he’d have a live-in maid. He was too scared of marriage to get a wife, so his sister was the next best thing.

  I realized that comment could be taken wrong by certain folks seeing as though we’re from Arkansas. But it was not that way. I loved him and he loved me. In a “take a bullet for each other” kinda way, not the marrying kind. He was all I had to lean on coming up in that fake-smile, Daddy’s-gone-again home of ours. Garret was the only man I ever trusted. We got close.

  I cleaned for well into two hours, but the old shag carpet and dull wood-paneling still looked unkempt. You can’t polish a turd, as they say. And a crusty old double-wide full of yard sale furniture sure was turd-like. I finally gave up and decided to leave it be.

  I headed off to my bedroom to figure out what I’d wear. It wasn’t like I was overly excited about the plans my people had made for me. I didn’t like Maldoon’s all that much and I couldn’t stand Rusty Kemp, but I was determined to have fun if it killed me.

  Normally, I’d be working till five, but it was tradition at Sam’s to get your birthday off, so I had the entire day to relax—if you call cleaning the house relaxing—and wash the stink off me. On any other night, I’d’ve just pulled on a pair of shorts and a tank top, but it was my birthday so I figured I’d gussy up a bit.

  I put a dress on for the first time in six years. Sticky Arkansas heat didn’t account for heavy fabrics, so I chose a short cotton summer dress with tiny pink flowers printed on it. It showed my chest off. My mama would’ve never let me leave the house in something that revealing, but I was a grown woman free to do as I pleased. Hell, by twenty, she was nursing Garret. I figured I had myself on the right track in life, all things considered.

  The front screen squeaked open and slammed shut, boots tumbled to the floor. Four of them. I let out a sigh heard by even Satan himself. “Lord, so help me,” I grumbled, swiping a coat of mascara on my lashes.

  “Whoo-wee! Look at you.” My brother’s voice came from the doorway of the bathroom a few moments later.

  A smile spread before I could stop it. “Oh, shut your mouth.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned, Lynn.” Rusty squeezed in the doorway beside Garret.

  “You shut your mouth too, Rusty.” I snarled.

  Behind me in the mirror, Rusty grinned and mussed his hair. If there’d been a pile of dirt nearby, I’d’ve kicked it at him.

  I ignored him and gave my big blonde hair one last coat of hairspray. I’d set it in hot-curlers and the result was big curly hair. The last of the hairspray promised it would stay that way for at least an hour in that damn humidity. The higher the hair, the closer to God, my nana used to say—she may have stolen that from Dolly Parton. I was pretty damned close.

  I plopped down on our hand-me-down couch and started pulling on my boots. Rusty sat in the Barcalounger by the front door. Dark gray smudges around his blue eyes made the color pop. My lip curled instinctively and I looked away. Him and Garret worked together over in Russellville laying asphalt and they both regularly came home looking like something the cat dragged through a damn chimney. I knew under all that dirt was a handsome face. But under that handsome face was an ornery, no good, rotten pig’s ass. Curly tail and all.

  Garret came through the room and brought us both a beer that they snuck over the county line in their lunch pails. Garret tilted his at me to toast. “One year closer to legal.”

  “You ready to get goin’, birthday girl?” Rusty said with a wink.

  “Go wash your face, Rusty. You got shit all over it,” I said to him and guzzled down my beer.

  The doorbell rang as the last drop hit my tongue signaling the end of the round. I grinned at the timing and leapt from the couch to answer the door. Hattie stood on the porch, one hand on her hip, a monstrous box of chocolates in the other.

  Been friends since kindergarten, Hattie and me. She’d spent every birthday with me since I turned five. And every year I got the same thing. Chocolate. Henrietta Ruby Savanna Willits knew the way to my heart. We also shared long, obnoxious names. Her daddy’s named Henry, she’s Henrietta. How you get Hattie from that I don’t know, but that’s who she was. Just Hattie. The only sister I’d ever known.

  “Your hair is so big, Lynn. Mine don’t get that big,” Hattie said with a pout, fluffing her hair.

  I just smiled at her. There was a part of Hattie that could be a bit uppity. She was Arkie as shit, but she sure as hell didn’t think so.

  “All right, y’all meet us there?” I asked Garret over my shoulder.

  He grinned at Hattie. “Yeah, we’ll be along. Go on now, scoot,” he said, pushing me out the door.

  I poked my head back in. “Wash your damn face,” I said to Rusty with a sneer.

  Me and Hattie piled into her daddy’s pickup truck. The oversized tires kicked up rooster tails when she stomped on the gas and peeled away from the house. I hooted, shouting out the window, “Hurry on up, boys.” Hattie smiled from ear t
o ear, bouncing in the old truck seat as we bounded over potholes.

  The sun was about set and the two-lane highway that connected Havana and Logan county was getting dark. The only lights were the high beams on the old Ford. I wasn’t scared though. I knew that highway like the back of my hand. Hell, everyone old enough to reach the pedals could get to that lake blindfolded. And drunk. Maybe not at the same time, but you get the idea.

  You Really Askin’?

  Maldoon’s was crowded for a Thursday night. The dirt parking lot was filled with old beat-up trucks, classic muscle cars, and a few shiny new ones too. Everyone from Logan and Yell counties came out to Maldoon’s—probably more. It was a pain in the ass to find if you’d never been there before, but once someone showed you the way, you never forgot how to get there.

  The big, red wooden barn stood in the center of a wooded area. Christmas lights hung from the eaves of the roof and a huge canvas banner stretched over the double barn doors. The banner read Maldoon’s, painted in giant black letters. As far as I knew, the place had never changed as long as it’d been there. A fresh coat of red paint or new hay bales in the dancehall maybe, but other than that, it was the same as when my mama and daddy were honky-tonkin’ before Garret came along.

  I kicked up dirt with the toes of my boots as Hattie and I walked through the open doors. An old woman on the fiddle stomped a bare foot with the beat of an old country song. Couples swung around the dance floor. The whole place smelled like cheap cologne, hay, and beer, reminding me of home.

  “Get this girl a beer. And make it on the house, Leroy; it’s her birthday!” Hattie yelled over the makeshift bar at the old man behind it. She slapped imaginary drums against the wood while we waited.

  Damn near eighty years old and the man was still pouring drinks. Those folks who say drinking and smoking causes an early death obviously ain’t met Leroy Maldoon.

  “You got it. You turnin’ twenty-one again, Miss Lynnie?” Leroy winked a wrinkly blue eye at me. Wrinkles he’d earned outright on a ruddy face, topped with dove white hair, made for a comical character.