Lord of the Mountain

by Ronald Kidd

  There was no fog that day, so I could see Holston Mountain in the distance against the sky. I left my bike at the trailhead and hiked up to the cabin, lugging the box. I plopped it down on the table and pulled out my project, along with the magazine article. Flattening the pages, I studied the diagrams.

  A few minutes later, Sue Dean arrived. When she saw me, her face brightened.

  “What’s this?” she asked.

  “A surprise. Here, sit down.”

  The magazine was open on the table, and the nearly built crystal set was next to it. There was a wooden board that I’d sawed and sanded. Metal pins and holders were fastened to the board, with copper wire stretched between. At one end was a Quaker Oats canister that I’d turned on its side, wrapped with wire to form a coil, attached to the crystal rock, and screwed onto the board.

  Sue Dean watched as I checked a diagram, then attached the last few parts, including a brass arm that ran at an angle from the board to the coil and could be swung across it.

  I unwound the long antenna wire that the man at Bunting’s had found at the back of the store, and I connected it to the part of the set called the ground post. From there I looped the antenna around a pipe, ran it out the window, and hung the other end between two trees. Sue Dean followed me.

  We came back inside, and I hooked up the final part of the crystal set: earphones. I put them on and said, “Here goes nothing.”

  I ran the brass arm across the coil. There was static in the earphones. I leaned in, listening more closely. Someone spoke, then there was music. It sounded like a fiddle. People were singing. Actual voices were coming through the air and into the cabin—beautiful voices.

  “It works,” I breathed. “It works!”

  Sue Dean said, “Give me that.”

  Grabbing the earphones, she listened with one ear, her eyes open wide. She put the phones over both ears and pressed them against her head, like she was trying to squeeze out all the sound.

  “It’s science,” I told her. “Science did that.”

  She closed her eyes and sang along, softly at first and then full-voiced, beaming. When the song ended, Sue Dean opened her eyes and handed back the earphones. I put them up to my ears and heard a man saying, “That was Dr. Humphrey Bate and His Possum Hunters. This is WSM, ‘We Shield Millions,’ broadcasting from the National Life and Insurance Company in Nashville, Tennessee.”

  Stunned, I took off the earphones and set them on the table.

  “I built a radio,” I said. “I have a place to play it.”

  “And someone to play it with,” said Sue Dean.

  We took turns with the earphones, then decided to listen at the same time, leaning our heads together and each using one earphone. Her face was close to mine. When she shut her eyes, I studied her up close. Her eyelashes were red and dusty. Her skin was like cream.

  A little while later, we put down the earphones. I pulled out the fig newtons, and we went out on the front step to sit down.

  “Where did you learn to sing like that?” I asked.

  “Nowhere special.” She glanced at me warily. “Mama says it’s frivolous. Your daddy says it’s a sin.”

  “It’s beautiful,” I said.

  “You’re crazy,” she answered, but I noticed she was smiling.

  We went back inside to the crystal set, leaning close to share the earphones. WSM was the strongest station, but there were others too—WWNC in Asheville, a naval station in Arlington, and, at the far end of the coil, WFBC in Knoxville, broadcasting from the First Baptist Church.

  As we listened, I reached for the set at the same time she did, and our fingers bumped together. She gave my hand a squeeze, then smiled, closed her eyes, and sang along. Her rough, lovely voice filled the cabin, the way Mama’s voice had filled the kitchen that night.

  After a while she leaned back. “Oh, I almost forgot. Look what I found outside.”

  She reached into the pocket of her dress and pulled something out. Holding her palm flat, she showed me. It was a flower with six pointed petals, orange at the center and red on the tips.

  “It’s a lily,” she told me. “Mama calls it a wildwood flower. She says it’s kind of like of me, I guess because of the color. You can have it if you want.”

  She handed me the flower. I held it up in the sunlight and watched it shine.

  CHAPTER 19

  My family didn’t know about Sue Dean. Then one Saturday night after church, she came marching up the aisle to where I stood with Mama and Arnie, waiting for Daddy to finish greeting people.

  “Hey,” she said, looking at me defiantly.

  I glanced at Mama, who was staring at her.

  Arnie asked, “Who are you?”

  Instead of answering, Sue Dean poked me with her elbow.

  “Uh, this is a friend of mine, Sue Dean Baker.”

  “She’s a girl,” said Arnie.

  Sue Dean held out her hand to Mama. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”

  Mama shook her hand. “I’m Etta May Owens. You two know each other?”

  “We met in town a few weeks ago,” I said. “Her father works at the lumber mill.”

  “Where’s your mother?” asked Mama.

  “She’s talking with some friends out front. I thought I’d come and say hi.”

  Arnie sang out, “Nate’s got a girlfriend, Nate’s got a girlfriend.”

  I reached for him, but he danced away.

  Mama shot us a look. “In case you boys have forgotten, we’re still in church.” She and Sue Dean exchanged glances, and I could have sworn Mama rolled her eyes.

  Sue Dean smiled. “I’d better go. Nice meeting you, Mrs. Owens.”

  “Same,” said Mama.

  Arnie watched her walk back up the aisle and out the entrance. Then he looked at me.

  “Shut up,” I said.

  ***

  I heard that radio signals travel better at night and decided to find out if it was true. It would mean sneaking out after bedtime, but I thought I could do it. It would have to be on a Friday night, so there would be no school the next day.

  When I told Sue Dean my plan, she looked me in the eye. “I’m going too.”

  I had learned a few things about Sue Dean since we had met. When she asked you something, she wanted an answer. When she told you something, she didn’t.

  I shrugged. “Okay.”

  A couple of weeks later, there was a Friday night with a full moon. I figured we’d need it to light the way. I waited until Mama and Daddy had gone to bed, then slipped out the window, got my bike, and walked it to the road, where I started to ride.

  Sue Dean joined me a few blocks later, and we pedaled silently out of town, like a couple of explorers. The night was warm, and the moon had risen above the trees. Next to us, moon shadows skimmed along the ground, dark, flat versions of Sue Dean and me. Sue Dean herself looked different in the moonlight—pale, serious, thoughtful.

  We reached the cabin after eleven, a time when I was usually fast asleep. It was strange to think that the world went on while I slept. Owls hooted. Cicadas sang. The earth moved through space, a tiny rock at the edge of the galaxy. On that rock, two specks came to a stop so close together it looked like they were touching.

  I opened the door. It creaked in the darkness. Sue Dean lit the lantern. The crystal set glittered like gold.

  What I had heard was true. The radio stations did come in better at night, with less static. Nashville was nearby, just outside the window. Sue Dean sang, and I listened. Along about midnight, we set down the earphones.

  “I sure like this place,” said Sue Dean. “I wish we could just stay here.”

  I looked around. The room flickered in the light of the lantern.

  “I was surprised when you came up after the service,” I said.

  “I wanted to see what your family looked like.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “I like your mother. I don’t know about your brother.”

  “He’s an i
diot,” I said.

  I thought about that night and all the nights at church. Daddy would preach, and my mind would struggle to escape.

  I asked Sue Dean, “If you could start your own church, what would it be like?”

  “You’re funny,” she said. “You can’t wait to get out of church, but you want to start a new one.”

  “My church wouldn’t have a cross. It would have a radio.”

  She smiled. “I’d like that.”

  “People wouldn’t yell and jump around. They would just sit and listen. They would think.”

  “About what?”

  “Science. Ideas. Why things are like they are.”

  “I’d come to your church,” she said.

  “What would you think about?”

  She gazed down at her hands. They had bumps and calluses. They were strong, I could tell. “I’d think about Mama and Daddy. The way they work. The way they want things and can’t have them.”

  Whatever Sue Dean was looking for, it probably was different from what her parents wanted. I thought of science class and the big diagram on the wall, showing the bones, muscles, and nerves in the human body. Watching Sue Dean, I wondered if you could ever really know what was under a person’s skin.

  I leaned across the table, over the crystal set and earphones. She leaned too. We met in the middle, and our lips touched. There was a shock, like you get from a rug on a dry winter day, and we burst out laughing. Then we leaned in again and kissed. My fingers searched for hers and found them.

  A moment later, we sat back. Sue Dean looked at me.

  “You know what?” she said. “I think you have your church. I think this is it.”

  CHAPTER 20

  And that’s the way it was, through the fall and into the winter. Sue Dean and I would see each other at school, but our favorite times were at the cabin. Then December came, and the roads were covered with snow and ice, making our bike trips long, difficult, and sometimes dangerous. As a result, we didn’t make it to the cabin very often and never at night. When we did, though, we found that the cabin walls kept the wind out, and the woodstove worked just fine. We used the axe to chop wood to feed the stove.

  The sun came out a few days before Christmas and melted the snow, so we were able to steal an afternoon at the cabin to exchange gifts. I had bought Sue Dean some mittens, and she had knitted me a scarf. A month later we had our birthdays, both in January. So I bought her a scarf and she knitted me some mittens. We were fourteen years old. Our lives were all about getting away, which we did every chance we got.

  Looking back, it’s surprising that our families didn’t find out. I guess they had more pressing things to think about. Sue Dean’s parents were worried about work, money, and food. Daddy and Arnie were worried about the everlasting God. Mama was worried about Daddy and Arnie.

  Another reason they didn’t find out was that I may have stretched the truth every now and then. I had told Mama and Daddy about Gray, and they didn’t mind my going to visit him. I suppose it didn’t hurt that his father was rich. So if I needed an excuse to sneak off to the cabin, I’d tell them I was going to Gray’s house.

  Meanwhile, the deeper we got into winter, the smaller the crowds got at church. Maybe it was the tent, which was hard to heat because of its size. Daddy bought some woodstoves and set them out around the place, and Mr. Fowler donated a big coal-fired heater. Daddy called it his “hellfire machine,” and I had to smile when folks clustered around it. Personally, I would have welcomed Satan himself if he’d been able to warm up that tent.

  As the crowds dwindled, so did the money in the offering plate. I saw the plate go by every Saturday night, and it started looking pretty empty. Daddy said there was nothing as sad as a light offering plate. He tried to prime the pump, which meant putting some of his own money in there to start with. Sometimes when the plate reached the back of the tent, Daddy’s dollar bills would be the only thing in it.

  Daddy tried to preach the crowds back up. He got louder and holier. He got so holy his face would turn red, and there were nights when I thought his head would explode—just fly apart and scatter, half to heaven and half to hell, where the devil would see his holiness and laugh.

  I would sit there, picturing comeuppance for Daddy or imagining myself at the cabin with Sue Dean. Arnie would perch beside me, back straight, eyes blinking, energy just pouring out of him, like God’s battery. Mama would glance from Arnie to Daddy and back again, clenching her handkerchief and dabbing her cheeks. She tended to cry during services. I knew she wasn’t crying about Daddy’s message though. It was something else, something buried deep inside her, and it leaked out when Daddy was preaching.

  Daddy was convinced that preaching would bring the crowds back, but I knew otherwise. Attendance was down because the town was down. People weren’t buying tables and chairs and houses and whatever else you make out of wood, so the lumber mill was hurting, and workers were losing their jobs.

  Finally, one day, Mama pulled me aside. “Things are getting bad for us, Nate. You know that, right?”

  “You mean money?”

  She nodded. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but lately we’ve been eating a lot of beans. We’ve cut back all we can. We had a little nest egg, but it’s gone.”

  “What does Daddy say?”

  “You know him. He’s off in heaven, jawing with Jesus. Arnie too. You and me, our feet are on the ground.”

  I’d never heard Mama talk that way about Daddy. I had figured whatever was fine with him was fine with her. I remembered the time she had dragged us to see Billy Sunday and get Daddy healed. Maybe Daddy wasn’t the family leader at all. Maybe it was Mama. The thought was startling.

  “What should we do?” I asked.

  “I’ll try to sell some of my sewing. You could get a job.”

  “A job? Really?”

  “You’re fourteen years old, Nate. When I was your age, some of my friends were already working.”

  “I suppose I could get a job after school. But what?”

  She gazed at me. Suddenly it was obvious.

  “Mr. Lane,” I said.

  “You already help with his car. Maybe he’d pay you.”

  The next day I mentioned the idea to Mr. Lane. He clapped me on the shoulder, and, for one of the only times I could remember, he actually grinned.

  “Splendid!” he said. “You can start today.”

  That was a Saturday, and by the following week he had set up a schedule for me. Two days each week, I would wash the car and work on it when he got home. I’d wax it on Saturdays and fix anything that went wrong. But that wasn’t the best part.

  “He’s letting you drive?” exclaimed Gray when I told him. “What about me?”

  I shrugged. “You should ask him.”

  “I did. He said no.”

  Seeing that he felt bad, I told him, “It’s not for fun. It’s for work. I need to drive it if I’m going to fix it.”

  There was talk of passing a law that drivers would need a license, but in the meantime anyone could do it, which was fine with me and apparently with Mr. Lane. The next Saturday after I waxed the car, he asked me to drive him and Gray into town to run some errands. I pulled out from their driveway onto Taylor Street, taking it slow.

  “What do you think?” asked Mr. Lane.

  “It’s beautiful,” I breathed.

  We drifted past the mansions on Maryland Avenue and Poplar Street. It was like a dream. Under the hood, things were firing and turning and pumping up and down, but inside the car, it was as quiet as the Lanes’ front hall.

  As for me, I felt like I’d been driving my whole life, like settling into those soft leather seats, I was finally where I belonged. It wasn’t about engines or car repairs or nuts and bolts—it was a feeling. It just seemed right.

  Turning onto State Street, I drove under the Bristol sign and past the hat company. Mr. Lane asked me to pull up in front of Bunting’s Drug Store, and when we did, I saw Sue Dean. Or rat
her, she saw me. I gave her a wave and a sheepish smile. She stared, then turned away.

  When I saw her at school the next day, she glared at me. “Nate, what are you doing?”

  “I have a job.”

  “You work for him?”

  I didn’t know whether to be proud or embarrassed. “Mr. Lane hired me. I’m part mechanic, part driver. Part grunt.”

  “He’s a terrible person,” she said.

  “We need the money, like your father does. Like you do.”

  “What about his son? Trey or whatever. Are you really his best friend?”

  “Maybe I’m his best friend, but he’s not mine. And his name is Gray.”

  “That’s not a name. It’s a paint color.”

  “Look, I admit Mr. Lane isn’t the greatest person, but he gave me a job.”

  “He’s firing everybody else.”

  “It’s not just his fault, you know. The mill isn’t selling lumber. They have to cut back.”

  “Are you his publicist? What did Mr. Peer call it—his agent?”

  Hearing that name took me back—to the hat company, to the sessions, to the music and the hope that it might set me free. Only it hadn’t. I was stuck in Bristol with a crazy family, working for a terrible man, pretending to like his son, and arguing with Sue Dean, my real best friend.

  CHAPTER 21

  Sue Dean and I patched up our differences, but the damage was done. Winter had come. Dark clouds descended. The cold settled in.

  At the cabin, things were strained. At school, my grades were dropping because of the job. At home, we never had enough money. I gave Mama my checks from Mr. Lane, but it was like dropping them down a deep hole.

  I had trouble sleeping, and sometimes late at night I’d hear Mama and Daddy talking. I couldn’t hear the words, just the tone of their voices, but I could tell they were scared. The next Saturday night, Daddy’s preaching would be louder and more desperate. The swampy pit of sin got bigger each week.