Lord of the Mountain

by Ronald Kidd

  I ventured up the steps to the porch and the big front door. I lifted the brass knocker and gave a few taps. The sound rang out. I waited, then knocked again and waited again.

  No one answered, so I did what Bill had told me hoboes do—I went to the back door. I knocked, this time with my knuckles. The door opened a crack, and a woman’s eye appeared. It was bright blue, with wrinkles around it. The eye blinked and the door opened.

  The woman must have been seventy years old. She wore the kind of old-fashioned robe they called a wrapper, with a knit cap on her head and fuzzy slippers, which explained why I hadn’t heard her coming. She had a kind face and a welcoming smile.

  “Thank you for opening the door,” I said. “I was just wondering if you could spare some food. Table scraps, anything.”

  She studied me. “You’re filthy. You need food. Would you like to come in?”

  On the train, Bill had told me about handouts. He said they fell into three categories. A lump was food in a bag, which you had to take somewhere else. A knee-shaker was food on a tray, so you could eat sitting on the back step. And a sit-down, the rarest of all handouts, was food at the table, when you were invited inside. This would be a sit-down, on my very first try.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said, trying not to sound too eager. “Could I?”

  “Not if you keep standing there.”

  CHAPTER 30

  The woman turned and headed into the kitchen. I followed, shutting the door behind me.

  It was a big kitchen, the kind where servants might have worked. There were no servants now, just an old woman drawing water at the sink.

  “Tea?” she asked.

  “Uh, yes. Please.”

  Next to the sink was the biggest stove I’d ever seen. As long as a good-sized couch, the stove had a white enamel finish, three oven doors, and six burners with a knob for each. The woman set the teapot on a burner and turned a knob. She saw me gaping and smiled.

  “I used to be rich,” she said. “Can you tell?”

  Across from the stove was another big appliance, with a couple of latched doors on the front.

  “That’s a Frigidaire,” she told me. “In 1925 it was the best icebox money could buy. We had lots of money, my husband and I. Then his business went bad, and he killed himself.”

  “I’m sorry,” I mumbled.

  She waved her hand. “Spilt milk. Can’t do nothing about it.”

  Looking me up and down, she said, “You’re tired. Sit down.”

  The kitchen table was long and sturdy. I moved to one end of it and settled in. After spending the night on the hard ground, the wooden chair seemed almost soft.

  She opened the Frigidaire and pulled out a couple of dishes with tinfoil on them.

  “There’s sausage and potato salad,” she said, transferring some of the food to a plate. She put it in front of me, along with silverware and a paper napkin.

  I ate a few bites, trying not to wolf it all down. I couldn’t tell you if it was good, because it was going down so fast.

  She watched me eat. “I’m Dolly. What’s your name?”

  “Nate,” I managed between bites. “Nate Owens.”

  “You’re hungry,” she said.

  I blushed. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You’re hungry and I’m blunt,” said Dolly. “Somewhere between the suicide and the funeral, I got tired of pussyfooting around. Just woke up one morning and thought, I’m gonna say what’s on my mind. If they don’t like it, too bad.”

  She leaned forward. “Here’s the deal. I’m not rich anymore, but I have some money. Others don’t. So I share. When folks come around, I let them in. I feed them. All I ask is that they pass it on—the kindness, not the food.”

  For a minute, I wondered if she was going to ask me to pray. She must have noticed my concern.

  “No conditions,” she said. “No strings attached. Just do good. Don’t hit people. Don’t steal their things. Treat ’em right. That’s it.”

  I nodded, my mouth stuffed with food. I’d heard a lot of sermons, but that one may have been the best.

  She pushed the dishes toward me. “Keep eating. Plenty more where that came from.”

  The teapot whistled, and Dolly poured two cups of tea. She sipped hers in silence and watched me eat. It took a while. Somewhere around my third plateful, she finished her tea and excused herself for a minute.

  “Dang bladder,” she said. “Size of an acorn.”

  She had brought me into the kitchen through the back. Now she headed the other way, opening a door into what looked like the dining room. As she did, I heard the faint sound of music. But it wasn’t just any music. It was the Carters, playing on a phonograph.

  Out in the cold world and far away from home

  Somebody’s boy is wandering alone

  No one to guide him and keep his footsteps right

  Somebody’s boy is homeless tonight

  Bring back my boy, my wandering boy

  Far, far away, wherever he may be

  Tell him his mother, with faded cheeks and hair

  At their old home is waiting him there

  I was back in Bristol at the hat company. Sara was singing, and Maybelle was strumming her guitar in that odd, wonderful way of hers. There was a little catch in Sara’s voice, and now I heard it again. This was one of the records they had made that day. I hadn’t realized it at the time, but just a year later, the song would be about me.

  I thought of Mama waiting at home, maybe washing dishes, not knowing where I was. I hadn’t told her goodbye. I’d been afraid that if I had, I wouldn’t have been able to leave. Daddy had always been shout and bluster. He prayed out loud for everyone to hear. Mama stayed in the background. But every meal she cooked, every sock she darned, every face she scrubbed—those were prayers too. She was praying for me now. I could feel it.

  When Dolly came back, she walked over and put her hand on my shoulder.

  “You’re crying,” she said.

  That’s just the way she was. If she saw it, she said it. She was like Mr. Peer’s recording machine, walking around on two legs.

  She waited patiently. My feelings leaked out. I’d been holding them in—on the train, through the mountains, in the town, and, truth be told, at home before I’d ever left. Daddy had always shared his feelings with everyone. Mama and I kept ours inside. Arnie was like Daddy, and I was like Mama. I could see that now. The only difference was I’d been able to leave.

  I wiped my eyes on a napkin, and it came away smudged with black. Dolly went into the other room, and a minute later I heard another record, “Keep on the Sunny Side.”

  When Dolly came back, I told her, “I know them. The Carters.”

  She picked up the dishes and took them to the sink. “We all know them.”

  “You do?”

  “Well, around here at least. I see A.P. in town sometimes. They live in Poor Valley, just up the road.”

  I started to tell her about meeting them in Bristol, but suddenly it didn’t matter. The Carters weren’t some distant memory. They were real, and they lived nearby. They were singing in the other room—calling me, just as surely as if they had picked up a telephone.

  “Can you tell me how to get there?” I asked. “I might want to say hi.”

  “Easiest way is by train. Go east one stop. Get off at Neal’s store. That’s Poor Valley. A.P. bought a new house there last year when they got back from New Jersey. Folks say they used their recording profits. Imagine, singing for money.”

  I got up from the table. “Thank you for the food. And for everything.”

  Dolly started to hug me, then stepped back. “My God, you’re dirty. It’s all right though. You seem like a good boy.”

  ***

  I hopped a freight train, this time headed east. A short time after I got on, the train slowed down again. I looked ahead and saw what looked like a store, so I picked a spot and jumped off. I had to admit, I was getting pretty good at it.

  The train
came to a stop, then rumbled on again, around the bend, and up into the mountains. The store I’d seen had a sign on top: Neal’s. People were milling around—neighbors visiting, children laughing, folks playing checkers in front. I crossed the railroad tracks and mounted the steps. I got a few looks, but nobody said anything.

  Inside, the place was as big as Daddy’s tent, which was large by anybody’s standards. There was a counter with prices posted for train tickets and another one for US mail. In the center was a potbellied stove. A table was set up next to it, and four old men were playing cards. Daddy said cards were Satan’s tools, but I always thought they looked like fun.

  I walked over and stood nearby, trying to see what the men were doing. One of them glanced up and eyed me.

  “Help you?” he asked.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “Don’t mind me.”

  A little while later, he pulled his cards to his chest and glanced up at me again. “Looking for something? Cause it ain’t in this hand.”

  “Sorry,” I stammered. I decided to plunge in. “I heard the Carter Family lives around here. Is that true?”

  “Who wants to know?” he asked.

  The man across from him smiled. “Don’t mind Horace,” he told me. “He gets like that when he’s losing.”

  “I ain’t losing,” said Horace.

  “The Carters live just down the hill,” said the other man. “Step outside and look for a house with a cedar tree in front. Can’t miss it.”

  I nodded. “Much obliged.”

  “Anyway,” said the man, “we all know what Horace is holding—diddly squat.”

  The other men laughed, and I moved off toward the door. On the way I passed some barrels filled with candy and nuts. It was all I could do to keep from reaching out and grabbing some.

  I went through the front door and looked down the hill. Sure enough, I saw a house with a cedar tree. The house wasn’t as large as Dolly’s, but for Poor Valley, I figured it qualified as big.

  Walking down the hill, I studied the place. The house itself was square with a pointed roof. It was unpainted, so it blended in with the hillside. A porch with six pillars stretched across the front, making it seem wider than it was, and a creek ran along the back with an outhouse next to it. The house didn’t seem like the sort of place where anyone famous lived. For that matter, the Carters didn’t seem famous. They were just regular people. Maybe that’s why folks liked them.

  It was one of those warm fall days, so the front door was open, leaving just the screen door. I took a deep breath, crossed the porch, and knocked. A figure appeared behind the screen.

  It was Sue Dean.

  PART V

  DON’T FORGET THIS SONG

  My home’s in old Virginia among the lovely hills

  The memory of my birthplace lies in my bosom still

  I did not like my fireside, I did not like my home

  I have a mind for rambling so far away from home

  —A. P. Carter, “Don’t Forget This Song”

  CHAPTER 31

  She was holding a little boy who was a year or two old. Wearing an apron, she was as pretty as ever. Her hair was red. Freckles dotted her face, like I remembered. I had traced them with my finger.

  I realized the little boy was Joe, who had been a baby the last time I’d seen him. Peeking out from behind Sue Dean’s skirt was a dark-haired girl maybe five years older than Joe, and beyond her was Gladys, who had grown a few inches but was still short.

  “Yes?” said Sue Dean.

  I must have looked pretty different. I felt different too. There was the soot, of course, but maybe there were other things.

  “It’s Nate,” I said.

  Her eyes widened. “Oh my God.”

  As quickly as it came, amazement was replaced by something else. It was cold and hard. The last time she’d seen me I’d made a promise, and I had broken it.

  In my mind, I had imagined this moment over and over again. Now that the time had arrived, all I could do was stand there. We stared at each other through the screen.

  Someone came up behind her. It was Sara.

  “Mama,” said Gladys, “it’s Sue Dean’s friend, Nate. You know, the boy from Bristol.”

  “Sorry to bother you,” I said, finding my tongue. “I’ve been…traveling. I heard your records and decided to say hello. I didn’t expect to find Sue Dean.”

  Sara squinted through the screen, then smiled. “I remember you.”

  “Your records are beautiful,” I told her.

  “You helped make them,” said Gladys. “Didn’t he, Mama?”

  Sara pushed open the screen door. “Don’t just stand out there. Come on in.”

  I glanced at Sue Dean. She didn’t seem too keen on the idea.

  Sara didn’t notice. “Come on, now,” she told me.

  I nodded my thanks and stepped inside. The room was simple and well kept, with magazines on the table and pansies in a vase. A stone fireplace took up one wall, and on the mantel was a lantern. Apparently, electricity hadn’t come to Poor Valley.

  Little Joe squirmed out of Sue Dean’s arms, came up beside me, and wrinkled his nose. “He smells.”

  “Shush!” hissed Sara. “He’s our guest.”

  Meanwhile, Sue Dean studied me, the way you’d study an insect.

  “We’re about to have our midday dinner,” said Sara. “Can you join us?”

  I looked at Sue Dean again. This time hunger won out over guilt.

  “Yes’m. I’d like that.”

  “It’ll be ready in a few minutes,” she said, eyeing Sue Dean. “You all probably have some catching up to do.”

  Sara headed for the kitchen, and her parade followed. Gladys kept looking back at me.

  Sue Dean pushed open the screen door, and I followed her outside. I sat on the porch swing and expected her to join me. Instead she stood over me, arms crossed.

  “You hurt me,” she said.

  For three years I had dreaded those words.

  “I didn’t mean to,” I told her.

  “Don’t whine,” she snapped. “When you feel bad, you whine.”

  “I do?”

  “I needed to see you. I wanted to say goodbye. You didn’t let me. Why didn’t you come?”

  There was pain in her voice. She deserved an answer.

  I said, “Remember Beelzebub? The rattler?”

  “I suppose.”

  “That night at the service, it bit Arnie. They took him to the hospital. He lived, but just barely.”

  She stared at me.

  “Maybe it sounds like whining,” I said, “but with Arnie hurt and everything, I forgot. That’s the truth, Sue Dean. I forgot.”

  She closed her eyes, then sighed and sat down beside me.

  “I’m sorry about your brother,” she said. “But it was important. I thought we were friends.”

  “When I got to the cabin, I saw your note. I didn’t know your father was in trouble.”

  “We had to go away,” she said. “I waited for you as long as I could.”

  “You could have sent me your address.”

  “There wasn’t one. We had no idea where we were going. Then later, when we had one, I didn’t want to.”

  I winced, knowing I deserved it. “How did you end up here?” I asked.

  “We went to Virginia. Mama and Daddy kept fighting. Daddy was looking for another factory job but couldn’t find one. Finally he gave up, so we got a little place and tried farming. Daddy was no good at it. It made him mad. Everything made him mad. He and Mama would fight, and I’d try to imagine a happy family. I recalled that I’d seen one, even been part of it for a few days.”

  “The Carters,” I said.

  She nodded. “They were famous by then. What I remembered best was those children. I wondered if Sara still needed help. I packed my bags, and a few days later I found them. I miss Mama and Daddy, but I’m happy to be here.”

  “What are you going to do?” I asked.

  �
�I’m doing it.”

  “I mean eventually.”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

  I said, “So I guess we both left home.”

  “I guess.”

  Maybe she didn’t want to hear why I left, but I wanted to tell her.

  “The snake escaped. People were afraid to come back, and the church shut down. Things got bad at home. Daddy and I had a fight.”

  “Did you keep going to the cabin?”

  I shook my head. “That was our place, not mine.”

  I thought that might catch her interest, but she just looked away.

  I said, “After you left, Mr. Lane kept firing people. He blocked the union. I told him he was a terrible person.”

  Sue Dean looked up.

  “So, he fired me,” I said. “Like he fired your father.”

  “Good,” she said.

  It seemed that I couldn’t do anything right, no matter how hard I tried.

  “I messed things up,” I told her. “I’m still messing up. But I’m glad you’re here.” I looked out at the yard and the fields and the mountains beyond. I said, “It’s good to see the Carters again. I love their music.”

  “‘Single Girl, Married Girl,’” she said. “That’s my favorite.”

  “You know what my favorite is?”

  I took out my wallet, removed the waxed paper, and opened it. There, dried out, breaking apart, was a lily with six pointed petals, orange at the center and red on the tips.

  “‘Wildwood Flower,’” I said.

  She gazed at it. Then she turned away, got to her feet, and went inside.

  CHAPTER 32

  I followed Sue Dean inside, and we sat at the rough kitchen table. I was pretty sure the table, along with most of the house, had started out as trees on the hill above Neal’s. Settling in, I told myself this wasn’t a sit-down, like at Dolly’s house. It seemed different, more like visiting friends.

  As Sara finished cooking the meal, Gladys opened the icebox and poured me a glass of buttermilk. It was cold and thick. I tried to sip it, not gulp it. The children stood around me in a circle, watching.