“Where is the tater pit?” I said.
He looked around slow at me and grinned. “You’re standing right over it,” he said.
I didn’t want to ask him where the steps to the cellar was. I would just find them for myself. He watched me as I walked out into the backyard and looked to the right of the house. I didn’t see any door or steps there. I looked on the left side of the house, and at first didn’t see anything but weeds and the chimney. And then I saw a door like a lid on a trunk. The door was covered with tin and when I lifted it back, sure enough, there was steps going down to the cellar.
The steps was made of logs and covered with dirt, and they went right down into the dark under the house. I wished I had a lamp or a lantern. “Go ahead, ain’t nothing to be afraid of,” Mr. Pendergast said. He had come up behind me.
Cobwebs hung from the door frame. I went down the steps and stooped to avoid the dirty webs. It was so dark inside I couldn’t see a thing at first. But the smell was sharp. It was the smell of old wood and damp ground that hadn’t seen the sun in a long time. It was a smell of dead things, of dead beetles and dead mice, and the pee mice leave on nests of straw and string. Something buzzed by my ear, and I tried to slap it away. A moth fluttered to the door behind me.
I seen the gleam of eyes in the dark, but knowed it must be lids on mason jars. And something moved at about the level of my eyes, on a shelf, like a mouse or a snake sliding over dry ground.
“Don’t you see the taters?” Mr. Pendergast called from outside.
“I can’t see a thing,” I called back.
“On your right,” he yelled.
I stepped aside on something slick and soft. And then I seen the taters. They looked like twisted swollen bodies with tails. I grabbed up half a dozen and put them in my apron. Before leaving I looked around the cellar again. As my eyes adjusted to the dark a little I seen shelves loaded with jars of canned stuff, quart jars and pint jars, jelly and green beans. Some of the stuff looked like it had bleached or faded from being in the dark too long. Something that looked like a snake head was poking out of one of the jars. A tongue flicked in the dim light. I turned toward the door and banged my head on the lintel. A cobweb caught in my hair.
“Did you see my pet snake?” Mr. Pendergast said as I climbed the steps.
The sunlight burned my eyes and I wanted to brush the cobwebs away. But I didn’t want Mr. Pendergast to think I was scared. “Didn’t see no snake,” I said.
“He’s a cute little feller,” Mr. Pendergast said, “about three feet long.”
I hurried past him with the taters in my apron. I didn’t want him to think he could get my goat.
TO MAKE CORNBREAD, to make good cornbread, I had to have some buttermilk, and I knowed the buttermilk would be in the springhouse. I took the water bucket to fill and rushed out to the springhouse. It was a low log building over the branch. The floor was water, except for a row of stepping stones from the door. And in the water set jars of milk and pitchers of cream, butter inside tin pails. As I was bending down to get a jar of buttermilk I seen something watching me from the corner of the building. It looked long as a furry snake. But I knowed it must be some kind of animal like a weasel. It was long and its eyes sparkled. It was looking at me from a little face that was pointed. I stamped my foot and it slipped away under one of the logs of the sill. It must have been a mink, for it was too black and long to be a weasel.
WHEN HANK COME home that evening I could see he was tired. He had walked all the way to Lyman and he had worked all day at the brick kiln and then he had walked back. His face looked burned a little from the heat of the kiln where he had kept the fire blazing.
I had been ignoring Mr. Pendergast all day, ever since breakfast, and I went on ignoring him after Hank come home. Hank went out to milk the cow and when he brought the warm milk in I strained it into one of the earthenware pitchers. I figured the milk would keep colder in a pitcher than in a mason jar. I tied a cloth over the top of the pitcher and was going to carry it out to the springhouse when Mr. Pendergast come into the kitchen. Maybe he forgot Hank was there. I don’t know. He said, “No no no, don’t put all the milk in the springhouse like a fool. You’ve got to save some to clabber, if you want any butter.”
Hank had just washed his hands and set down at the table. “You hadn’t ought to call her a fool,” he said to Mr. Pendergast in a low voice I hadn’t heard before.
Mr. Pendergast wheeled around. “Somebody has to give orders around here,” he said.
“You don’t give Julie orders,” Hank said. He stood up and shook his finger at Mr. Pendergast.
“This is my house,” Mr. Pendergast said.
“And she is my wife,” Hank said. “Don’t nobody give her orders but me.”
I started to say don’t nobody give me orders, but I figured I better keep my mouth shut.
Mr. Pendergast looked like he had been caught by surprise, like he wasn’t used to arguing with another man. “I ain’t used to a girl that don’t know nothing,” he said.
“If you don’t like the way she does things you can find somebody else to live in your dang-blasted dirty house,” Hank said.
Mr. Pendergast turned like he was going to walk away, and then he looked at me by the stove. He started to say something, but didn’t.
“We can pack up and get out of here tonight,” Hank said. “You can find somebody else to clean up your nastiness.”
“Now hold on,” Mr. Pendergast said.
“We can take our things and head back up the mountain,” Hank said. He thought he had the advantage over Mr. Pendergast, and it was advantage he was going to use. It was the first time I ever seen Hank do that.
“Now hold on,” Mr. Pendergast said again.
“We can do a lot better than live in this place on Gap Creek,” Hank said. His voice trembled, but I didn’t know if he was really that mad. Mr. Pendergast heard the tremble in his voice.
“You can go if you want to,” Mr. Pendergast said.
“I won’t have you giving Julie orders,” Hank said. “And I won’t have you interfering with us.”
“I’ll do what I damn well please in my own house,” Mr. Pendergast said, his mood changing.
I seen Hank was caught, because we couldn’t leave after living on Gap Creek only one day. We didn’t have a place to go. He had thought he had the advantage of Mr. Pendergast, but it turned out he didn’t. I waited to see what he would say.
“If Julie has to look after this place we shouldn’t have to pay for any groceries,” Hank said.
“You don’t have to pay for no groceries,” Mr. Pendergast said.
“But I’ll damn well say what I please in my house.”
“You just be careful who you say it to,” Hank said.
“And you watch out who you’re talking to,” Mr. Pendergast said. But Mr. Pendergast and Hank had to stop, because even though they was mad, neither could afford to quarrel anymore. Mr. Pendergast probably couldn’t find nobody else to look after his house and cook for him, and Hank and me didn’t have anyplace else to go. Hank went back outside without saying another word and Mr. Pendergast set there looking at the table in front of him, and he set that way till supper was ready.
IT WAS THE next week while I was doing the washing again that I heard a voice around the front of the house. I ignored it at first, thinking maybe it was a crow calling across the creek or a fox barking in the woods. Sometimes a sound will carry a long way when the wind is right.
“Piieendergaaassss!” somebody called. Something was wrong with the voice. It sounded all stretched and twisted. “Piieendergaasss!” it said again, as if the person hollering couldn’t talk plain.
As far as I knowed Mr. Pendergast was in the house, setting at the kitchen table where he had eat breakfast. Surely he could hear the voice if I could.
“Piieendergaaassss!” the man yelled, as if he was strangling on the name as he said it.
I started to run around the house to see wh
o it was, but something about the voice made me not want to go. We didn’t get many visitors there on Gap Creek. I hurried to the back door and looked in the kitchen, but Mr. Pendergast wasn’t setting at the table. I tried to adjust my eyes to the dim light but didn’t see him anywhere.
“Mr. Pendergast,” I said, a little louder than a whisper. I didn’t want whoever it was calling to hear me.
“Piieendergaasss!” the man yelled from the front yard.
I started toward the living room to look through the window and see who it was, but almost run into Mr. Pendergast in the doorway. He was standing stooped over with his finger to his lips.
“They’re calling for you,” I said.
“Shhhhhh,” Mr. Pendergast said. He looked like he was trying to shrink into hisself.
“Piieendergaasss, I know where you arrrrrre,” the voice hollered.
“Who is that?” I said. It didn’t make sense for Mr. Pendergast to be hiding in his own house. I stepped toward the window to look out.
“Don’t let him see you,” Mr. Pendergast hissed.
“What does he want?” I said.
“Piieendergaasss, you ooooowe me,” the man shouted.
“It’s just Timmy Gosnell,” Mr. Pendergast said, “on one of his drunks.”
There was a bang on the porch, like a rock or piece of iron had hit the planks and rolled till it slammed the wall. I had a cold, sour feeling deep in my belly.
“Can’t you ask him to leave?” I said.
“He’s drunk,” Mr. Pendergast said.
“And when Timmy’s drunk he’s crazy.”
“Piieendergaasss!” the man screamed. “You got to make it riiiighghghttt.”
I leaned over to where I could look between the curtains. The man in the yard wore a long black coat with no buttons. His overalls looked like they was hanging on him by only one gallus. His hat resembled a ragged bird perched on his head, and there was a cut on his forehead. He leaned as though he was bracing hisself against a hard wind and shaded his eyes and stared at the window.
“Piieendergaasss!” he yelled.
“Ain’t you going to talk to him?” I said to Mr. Pendergast.
“Won’t do no good,” Mr. Pendergast said. “You can’t talk sense to Timmy Gosnell when he’s drunk.”
The man in the yard picked up a rock and flung it at the door. The bang made my heart stop for a second. I had not been around drunk men very much. Papa only took a little blackberry wine for his rheumatism. And when one of the Willard boys got drunk and come around the house Papa always persuaded him to go on home.
“Piieendergaasss,” the man hollered, “when you die smoke will come out of your graaaaaavvveee!”
“What does he mean?” I said.
“He thinks I never paid him for some ginseng,” Mr. Pendergast said. “I paid him, but he was too drunk to remember.”
Another rock hit the front door. The bang made something in the marrow of my bones ache. It was awful to stand in your own living room and be hollered at.
“I’m going out there,” I said.
“Don’t you go,” Mr. Pendergast said. “Timmy can be ugly when he’s drunk.”
Lurching from one foot to the other Timmy Gosnell climbed the steps to the porch. There was a stick Mr. Pendergast used as a walking stick leaning against the door jamb, and the drunk man picked it up and banged on the door. It made a terrible racket, and the licks seemed to shake the foundations of the house.
“Go way!” Mr. Pendergast hollered.
“Ssssssmoke will come out of your graaaavvveee!” the drunk man yelled. He beat on the wall like he was punishing the house.
“Ain’t you going to do nothing?” I said. My breath was short and my ears humming.
“You ooooowe me,” Timmy Gosnell screamed. He rapped on the wood like he wanted to wake the dead on the faraway hill. I couldn’t take any more of the rapping. The noise tore something inside of me. I marched to the door and flung it open. The drunk man staggered back in surprise and dropped the stick. He shaded his eyes to see who I was.
“You ain’t Pieendergaasss,” he said.
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” I hollered. I was so mad, and scared, I was trembling. I could smell the drunk man in the breeze. He stunk like soured fruit and foul rags and pee. He shaded his eyes and looked at me sideways, squinting.
“Are you Piendergaasss’s whore?” he said.
“You get away from here,” I said. I picked up the walking stick like I was going to hit him with it. I felt like swinging the stick right at his grizzled face.
“Piieendergaasss is a coward,” he said, “letting a wo-wo-woman take up for him.”
“You get away from here!” I hollered.
The drunk man looked at the door and he looked at me, and he looked up the road. He acted like he couldn’t remember where he was, or what he was doing. He looked at the ground like there might be a clue there. Then he reached into the coat pocket and pulled out a bottle. He jerked out the stopper and took a drink, then put the bottle back in the pocket. “Piieendergaasss!” he hollered.
“Go on now, get,” I said. But I was shaking as I held the stick and watched him stagger back to the road. I didn’t know what I would do if he lunged at me, or swung at me. He stopped once and started to say something, then swept his hand like it wasn’t any use and went on. I watched him lurch and reel all the way to the bend in the road.
WHEN HANK GOT home I told him what happened, and he was so mad his face turned white before it got red. He wheeled around at Mr. Pendergast. “You mean you let him throw rocks at the house?” Hank said.
“He didn’t break nothing,” I said.
“And you let Julie go out to deal with a drunk man?” Hank said.
“I begged her not to go,” Mr. Pendergast said.
“I told her it wouldn’t do no good.”
“I told him to go away, and he went,” I said.
Hank was so mad he walked up and down in the kitchen, slamming his fist in his palm. “I wish I’d been here,” he said.
“You can’t talk sense to a drunk man,” Mr. Pendergast said, “not to Timmy Gosnell.”
“Not if you hide in the house you can’t,” Hank said.
“It didn’t amount to much,” I said. I was sorry I had told Hank about it.
“Next time I hope I’m here,” Hank said.
“I hope you are,” Mr. Pendergast said.
But I hoped Timmy Gosnell never did come back to Mr. Pendergast’s house. And I hoped that Hank would not be there if he did.
“That man needs somebody to knock him sober,” Hank said.
“And you’re just the man to do it,” Mr. Pendergast said.
Five
Hank had told me at the time we got married that his mama, Ma Richards, would be coming down for a visit. She was going to get a ride down from Painter Mountain, and she was going to stay for several weeks. I had never met Ma Richards, and I was looking forward to her visit, for I had not seen many women since we moved to Gap Creek. It was getting up toward late fall by then, toward hog-killing time.
One day Hank got a letter from his ma, scribbled with a pencil on tablet paper. “Hank, you come up here and get me on a Saturday,” it said. “I’ll be ready by ten o’clock.” That was the whole letter.
“How’re you going to get her?” I said. For Hank didn’t even have a horse, much less a buggy or wagon. He walked to work every day to the mill at Lyman. Mr. Pendergast had an old mare with a bad foot, but Hank doubted if she could make it up the mountain and back. There was an old buggy in the barn, but it was buried under dust and harness and other junk.
“You’re going to have to write your ma and tell her you can’t come,” I said. “She’ll understand.”
“She’s expecting me,” Hank said, like there wasn’t a choice.
We dug the buggy out from under the hay and trash and dusted it off. I got a bucket of warm water and a rag and washed the whole thing. There was a shaft broke, and H
ank whittled a new one out of a hickory pole and smoothed it with a piece of glass. He took the wheels off and put grease on the ends of the axles, then replaced a spoke in one of the wheels.
“Now all you need is a horse,” I said.
“I have a horse,” Hank said. He caught Mr. Pendergast’s mare out of the pasture and showed me the sore on her right front foot. It was a place with pus coming out, right on the frog of her hoof. “She’ll just have to go slow,” he said. “And besides, I’m going to put a sock on her foot.”
“What do you mean a sock?”
Hank took a piece of leather and put cotton inside it. Then he tied the leather around the mare’s foot. It looked like she had a swelled hoof.
I DIDN’T EXPECT to be nervous because Ma Richards was coming for a visit, but I was. After Hank left before daylight to go to Painter Mountain, I started thinking of all the stories I’d heard about mothers-inlaw. I had heard a hundred tales about how mean they was to girls that marry their sons. And I never had made a lot of friends with women anyway.
All day while I waited for Hank to come back with his ma, I thought about what I was going to say to her, and what she would think of my cooking and housekeeping. I had fixed up the bedroom upstairs next to ours, cleared out all the dust and rags and cardboard boxes, and went up to the attic to look for a single bed. Mr. Pendergast said the bed was there, but when I climbed up to the loft there was such a mess I couldn’t see the bed at first. There was fruit jars and old chairs, and cobwebs hanging from everything. There was some roots hanging from rafters that I thought was ginseng. But everything was covered with dust.
When I finally found the little bed I had to scour it with soap and water. And I washed the floor in the little bedroom and the one window and hung curtains there. Mr. Pendergast watched me and didn’t say much. Since the quarrel with Hank the second night, he had been a little quieter, though he still liked to snap at me from time to time. Some days he didn’t get out of bed until after noon. When he set at the table in the kitchen while I was working, he complained that he didn’t have no relations but his stepchildren, and they never come to see him.
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