by Janie DeVos
“What’s wrong with your foot?” he asked without hesitation once I’d sat back down, face aflame.
“There was an accident, when I was four, at Papa’s sawmill,” I stared down at my paper bag. The wind kicked up again, and blew curling strands of my long brown hair across my mouth. I reached up and drew them away, then, after taking in a deep, bracing breath, I turned and boldly looked at him. “It won’t get any better,” I stated flatly, looking into his brown eyes. It was the first chance I’d had to really look at them, and they were unlike any eye color I’d ever seen before. They were a lovely golden brown, kind of like dark honey.
“I’m sorry,” he answered quietly. And when he did, I felt that there was no pity attached. It was a different thing entirely that came from him. It was true sadness that I would have to bear my disability forever. And in a small and gentle show of compassion, he reached up and drew away another wayward strand of my wild hair, and tucked it behind my ear.
“We have to get back to class,” I said, suddenly self-conscious about his attention. “Mr. Gary just called us in.”
“See you later, peppermint girl,” he said with a smile, although it wasn’t quite the same one that I remembered so well. This one was more thoughtful, less big and bright. Beautiful though it was, it was softer, more muted, rather than being an outward display of joy or delight. I waited for a moment, hoping to see it broaden, but he redirected his attention instead and stood up, grabbed his lunch pail, and walked back into the schoolhouse for the afternoon’s lessons.
The remaining weeks flew by without much more interaction with Jack. He’d become friendly with Prescott, our cousin Peter, and Frank Tilley, who lived a mountain over but made it to school every day, no matter how inclement the weather was or how treacherous the roads and passes could be. The four spent long hours hunting, fishing, throwing horseshoes, or playing ball with some of the other boys in the area. But sometimes Prescott had to forego play and help Papa at the sawmill and when that was the case, the remaining three ventured off into the warm and wild woods of the ancient Appalachian Mountains, enjoying their fleeting days of youth with innocent abandon.
CHAPTER 31
A Merry Fourth of July
Taft’s Mercantile’s annual Fourth of July picnic of 1924 was nearly canceled due to the rare occurrence of a tornado that suddenly appeared north of town just two hours before the first eager picnickers were due to arrive. The destructive force carved out a path through the largely uninhabited woods and steep land on the outskirts of town. Then it finally moved due east toward Silver Mountain. Once there, it did little damage with one exception; it blew through the farm of Mildred and Oscar Lentz, overturning their silo, picking up their brand new John Deere tractor, then dropping it in their neighbor’s pond, and stranding their prize-winning heifer on top of their two-story barn. It was a good thing Oscar had over-ridden Mildred’s objection to replacing the barn’s deteriorating roof the year before because the sound structure held, saving the life of the highflying heifer, not to mention two horses, one mule, twelve chickens, and Mildred’s prized possession, a Model T Ford, that were all safely tucked inside the undamaged barn. After the newspaper had been called, and a dozen or more photos of the cow on the roof had been taken for posterity, as well as the next day’s edition, the cow was removed by using a winch-and-pulley system. Needless to say, there was much to talk about at that year’s picnic, and the tornado was a topic that was always included in every Fourth of July picnic thereafter.
We arrived at the lake just shortly before noon and immediately surveyed the social situation. Prescott joined Peter Guinn and Frank Hardy, who were already swimming. Papa struck up a conversation with Luther Grange, who was one of Papa’s best friends and a deacon at our church. Lydia Harris found Grandma. Mama got involved with setting out the deviled eggs, pole beans, and peanut butter pie we’d brought as our contribution, while Merry Beth ran down to the shore after spotting Corrine in the shallows. I walked over to talk with Patricia Truman, who was a classmate, as well as a member of our church. She was a bland, spindly little thing, with thin medium-length blond hair and round black-rimmed glasses that did very little to help with her severe case of astigmatism. To be perfectly honest about things, she was blind as a bat, but looked like a surprised owl due to her greatly magnified eyes. I felt sorry for her, and I could certainly identify with the pain she felt at being laughed at and ridiculed, or, perhaps even worse, being totally ignored.
Patricia (not Patty—she was always quick to correct) was eating a piece of watermelon Mr. Taft had given her from a platter he was passing around to every family in attendance. Watermelon juice had escaped the left corner of her mouth and dripped unattractively from her chin. “Hi, Patricia, good melon?” I asked, looking around as I did to take in who had already arrived and with whom.
“Uh-huh,” Patricia absently confirmed. “Is your brother here?” she inquired, cutting right to the chase. It was no secret that she had a crush on Prescott, and had for the last year. As far as he was concerned, though, she didn’t exist. He not only didn’t look at her, but far worse, he looked past her. The one who would have eagerly returned her affections was, ironically, Ray Coons’s younger—and much kinder—brother, Ronnie. Ray was merciless with her, constantly tormenting her about her glasses. Through his cruelty she had earned the nickname “bug eyes.” And, because Ray was bigger than everyone in class, he bullied all the others into joining his teasing.
Fortunately for me, but unfortunately for Patricia, most of Ray’s teasing was centered on her, mostly because Patricia let it show how much he bothered her, whereas I refused to. Her crying and ranting only fueled Ray’s sadistic taunting, and just like the hound that smells the injured prey’s blood, it sent him into a frenzy of the cruelest kind of teasing. On several occasions, Patricia had left school in hiccupping sobs (which only gave Ray more fodder for his incessant tormenting), and walked the three miles back home alone just to be away from him.
Ronnie had tried to get his older brother to stop by actually stepping in front of Ray while he was in the middle of one of his taunts. Mr. Gary had excused himself to take care of “nature calling,” and that’s when the attack had begun. All the poor girl had done was sneeze, but it was enough to bring Ray’s attention to her. Hesitantly, yet courageously, Ronnie stood up, walked over to Ray and timidly asked him to leave her alone. First it stunned and then infuriated Ray. No one, but no one, told him what to do, especially his snotty-nosed younger brother, and certainly not with the whole class watching. Ray retaliated by letting the accusations fly about Ronnie still wetting the bed even though he was twelve, and waking up in a compromising pubescent physical condition every morning after murmuring things about Patricia in his sleep. Had there been a hole to dive into, Ronnie would have done so. Instead, he ordered Ray to shut his “damn mouth,” which ended with Ray shutting Ronnie’s mouth, and for exactly six weeks. The break inflicted by Ray’s right fist to the left side of Ronnie’s jaw fractured it, which resulted in his jaw being wired shut.
Into the melee jumped Prescott, and, grabbing Ray by the back of his shirt, he pulled him off of Ronnie; then, with the help of Jack, Prescott dragged Ray out to the watering trough in the front yard of the school house and thrust his face under until he spat out the word “Uncle!” along with a strangling mouthful of water. Thus, Prescott had become more than just a crush, he’d also become Patricia’s hero, and Jack was not too far behind. Not too far at all. What the girl couldn’t quite understand, though, was that Prescott was not defending her, but rather Ronnie. Prescott liked the younger boy and made it quite clear that that was the true impetus for his getting involved. And even though there was a part of Prescott that might have felt compelled to defend the owl-eyed, hiccupping little girl, it was against some unwritten but well understood law that teenage boys would never admit such a thing.
As I shared the bench with Patricia, munching on a half-burned corn muffin her much-too-thin mother had bak
ed, I scanned the area of the lake where I’d seen Prescott with the other boys earlier, and finally spotted my brother on a large floating platform about twenty yards offshore. People were diving from it, or lying back and enjoying the sun on a day that had gone from potentially disastrous to clear, hot, and beautiful. And as I watched those I’d grown up with, gone to school with, and worshipped God with, one I knew better than the rest came climbing up the platform’s ladder. Her dripping tangled mass of black hair spread out like a spider’s web across her thin cotton blouse, which clearly showed her unrestricted, newly budded, twelve-year-old nipples beneath. The beautiful woman-child gracefully walked out to the edge of the platform, stood for a moment, then reacted to something someone said by throwing her head back in a rich and easy laugh. With absolute abandon, she raised her arms and dove back into the water, then Merry Beth resurfaced and was instantly and familiarly pulled in close by Jack Harris, who’d been waiting in the water for her. Then he gave my little sister the gift that I had been waiting for, and longing for—Jack smiled his beautiful, glorious smile at her.
CHAPTER 32
Those We Think We Know
I avoided Merry Beth the rest of that afternoon by acting as though I was thoroughly involved in helping the older women with the food, as well as watching over the younger children as they played near the lake’s edge. It was a good thing not one of them got into trouble under my less-than-watchful eye, for my mind was a million miles away, wondering just how Jack and Merry might have become so “familiar” with each other. I’d never seen them talk much in school, and she’d never mentioned him to me. On the way home, however, I just couldn’t stand another minute of not knowing so I asked her straight out how she’d gotten to know him.
“I’ve been over to the orchard a couple of times,” Merry vaguely answered. “You know how Grandma’s gone over there to help Mrs. Harris set up the gift shop. Well, I’d visit Harriet then . . . and Jack some, too.”
She looked at me hard as she said the last half of her sentence, as though daring me to challenge her. But I didn’t want anyone to know I was as interested in him as I was, and, for some inexplicable reason, I especially didn’t want Merry to know. There had never been much sibling rivalry between us, but I felt an unfamiliar and uncomfortable dose of it then. She and I were so different from each other, with her being so much more outgoing, and mischievous, while I was quieter—shyer, really—and more serious. The difference had never been an issue before; in fact, we seemed to balance each other out in some way, but that balance seemed to shift now. It occurred to me that perhaps Grandma had said something to Merry. After all, Grandma knew. But as soon as the thought entered my head, it went right back out for I knew that secrets were always safe with her.
The apple orchard opened for business by the end of August, but on a smaller scale than when the Lomaxes ran it. According to the Harrises, it would be running at one hundred percent by the summer of 1925, but at least the gift shop was open and some of their trees were bearing fruit again. The apples were plenty fine for cooking, baking, and sauce making, and some were good enough for just plain eating. We were happy for the Harris clan, knowing the blows they’d taken getting things up and running, and I was happy to be getting my favorite peppermint sticks again. Mrs. Harris had taken careful note when I explained in detail about the type I had been unable to get since the orchard’s closing, and she made a special effort to restock them.
Merry Beth often rode our younger horse Mack over to the orchard on the pretense of seeing Harriet. But it was no secret to anyone anymore that she gave her undivided attention to Jack. According to Lydia, Jack treated her like a little sister, “Just another nuisance,” she laughed, when telling Grandma about how Harriet and Merry followed Jack around like playful pups, annoying him to no end. Mama objected to her going alone, to which Merry would respond by saying that anyone was welcome to accompany her, but most often supper still needed to be fixed and other chores completed, thus my adventurous little sister happily made the trek herself.
Papa was none too pleased about Merry’s solo trips to the orchard. And he was especially upset when Mama told him over his noon dinner that she had given Merry permission to sleep over there that night to celebrate Harriet’s birthday. “There’s plenty for her to do here,” he admonished, while sopping up chicken gravy with a slice of hot bread. “And anything that she can’t do here but can do there can’t be any good for anybody!” he pointed out, using his soggy bread to punctuate each syllable of his statement.
“Now, Calvin, tomorrow’s Harriet’s birthday,” Mama said, trying to smooth his feathers. “Besides, don’t you remember? I was just a wee bit older than Merry when you and I met.”
“Yes, Anna, I remember. I remember it well,” he said, grimacing. “And that’s what’s got me so damn worried!”
“Calvin!” Mama protested, though I wasn’t sure exactly why. Was it simply because Papa was being difficult about letting Merry grow up, or was it because of the memories that had just been resurrected in both Mama’s and Papa’s middle-aged minds, embarrassing my mother to the roots of her still-black hair, and increasing my father’s gray ones? Either way, it caused Mama to become almost flustered and head off to the kitchen mumbling something about helping Grandma with the dishes.
“Ya know as well as I do, woman,” he called after her as he rose from the table, “a lot can happen to a girl that age—a girl that looks too damn much like a woman for her own good—or ours,” he amended, shaking his head.
Grandma, who had wisely stayed quiet, acted like she was minding her own business as she stood at the kitchen counter wrapping up the leftovers. But when Papa poked his head through the door to say he was heading back to the mill and wouldn’t be home until late, she speared him with a piercing look—one I’d never seen her give my father before. The only reason I noticed it was because I happened to look up at her as I was walking back into the kitchen after retrieving the remainder of a bowl of okra and tomatoes. And the look she shot him was like bright blue fire and ice.
“Thanks for dinner, Willa,” he said quietly, suddenly finding something quite interesting on the top of his shoes. As he turned to go, she uttered a chilly goodbye and mumbled something under her breath that was too faint for any of us to hear. I didn’t need to hear her words, though, to know something was off between them. The look she gave him spoke volumes. They were at odds with each other over something, and I knew that it went much further than any possible goings-on with my sister in the apple orchard.
All evening, Grandma seemed restless. First she tried to knit, but gave up on that rather quickly and turned to reading a well-worn copy of Little Women instead. Even the antics of Jo March couldn’t keep Grandma’s attention, so she told Mama and me that she was calling it an early night (even though it was apparent that sleep was the farthest thing from her mind), and went into her bedroom, shutting the door solidly behind her.
Prescott had wanted to return to the mill with Papa, but Papa said that there wasn’t enough for him to do, which left Prescott working on another lovely carving of a nativity scene he planned to sell in the orchard’s gift store. He’d already sold half a dozen, and Mrs. Harris had ordered ten more. She sold the handcrafted Christmas favorite at a dollar and a half, keeping fifty cents for the store, and Prescott was thrilled. It had become apparent that this was his God-given talent.
I often wondered what mine was, but still wasn’t sure I’d figured it out. Mr. Gary, however, had assured me that I did have a talent, and one, he said, that was “indeed rare for women.” My newly recognized skill was my ability with numbers. I was good at math. And I was good with reading comprehension, too. Mr. Gary said I would be a natural in business, and told me that he could truly see me heading up a woman’s necessaries shop someday, or perhaps a boarding house, both of which I knew would bore me to tears. However, the fact that I was told I had the makings of being a good businesswoman made me feel far better about myself than if he’
d told me I had a lovely voice, or could bake like no one’s business.
Though we were well into the twentieth century, few women were acknowledged as being capable of handling business, and that fact not only amazed me but infuriated me. I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that had it not been for the ingenuity, and calm, rational thinking of the women in my community (and worldwide, too, I figured), most of us would have starved or frozen to death, or died from infections, diseases, or wounds. And there would have been so much in-fighting and chaos that the social structure would have broken down completely.
Men might give the sweat and blood to build nations, but women were often the driving forces behind them. Many a night, while tucked between the covers with the women they loved—or, at least lusted after—men were told just how things were going to be. Many a town and institution was built; legislation was written up and signed; businesses boomed or went bust because women dangled that one trump card that only they can play. But the irony of it all was that the one obstacle women couldn’t overcome was the men they’d helped to seat in positions of power, but who denied those of “the weaker sex” the right to the same opportunities.
CHAPTER 33
Moonshine on the Mountain
March, 1925
The pounding on the door came soon after we’d gone to bed. And our hearts echoed the loud beating as we jumped up in a mixed state of alarm and half sleep. It was getting late, but Papa was still at the mill, so seventeen-year-old Prescott grabbed the rifle from over the doorframe and pulled the door open. Grandma stood in front of my frightened mother, who held on to an equally frightened Merry Beth, while I stood off to the side.
