Lord of the Mountain

by Ronald Kidd

  It was something Daddy might say. Somehow, though, coming out of her mouth, it didn’t bother me.

  A.P. cleared his throat. “Miz Washburn, I’ll get to the point. I’m hunting songs. Mandy Groves gave me some good ones, and she thought you might do the same.”

  “Songs? What kind?”

  “What do you have?”

  She closed her eyes and started to sing. For such a big woman, she had a sweet, little voice, like Bernicia Flynn back in Daddy’s church. Bernicia was eight years old.

  It was a song about Jesus. Maybe it was her voice, but I imagined her as a young girl and wondered if she had smoked a pipe back then. She finished the song, then sang another and another. The woman was a walking hymnal.

  I noticed that A.P. had pulled an envelope and a stubby pencil from his pocket and was scribbling as she sang, his hands shaking like they always did. Next to me, Esley fingered his guitar, picking out the tunes.

  I like machines, and the Carter machine was running just fine. A.P. got the words. Esley got the notes. It was as sleek and efficient as Mr. Lane’s Packard.

  After twenty minutes or so, she said, “That’s it.”

  “Now, Miz Washburn—”

  Her eyes flashed. “That’s it. Show’s over.”

  Esley said, “We won’t ask you to sing any more. But I have a question.”

  “What’s that?” she asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

  “There’s a song—have you ever heard it?”

  Esley nodded to me. A.P. looked on, puzzled. I took a deep breath and sang, while Esley played along.

  Hattie Washburn scrunched up her eyes, like she was trying to spot something a long way off, on the horizon.

  Finally she shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

  Esley said, “Years ago? When you were young?”

  “Nope. Sorry.”

  A.P. nodded politely. “Thank you for your kindness.”

  “What about my songs?” she asked him. “What’ll you do with them?”

  “Take ’em home. Roll ’em around. See what happens. If I like one, is it all right to use it? You know, on a record or concert?”

  “Who did you say you are?”

  “A. P. Carter of the Carter Family. We sing the old songs. People seem to like it.”

  “You think they’ll like mine?”

  “Hope so,” said A.P.

  “You wouldn’t take out the Jesus, would you?”

  “No’m. I’ll leave him in.”

  She thought about it for a minute and said, “All right, then.”

  A.P. stuffed the envelope into his pocket, and Esley put his guitar in the case. As we headed for the car, A.P. turned back and said to her, “You sing good. Pretty as lace.”

  She blushed. People surprise you sometimes.

  CHAPTER 37

  We bumped down her driveway and got back on the road, with Esley behind the wheel again.

  “Was she really that good?” I asked A.P.

  “She was. Songs weren’t. I’ve heard ’em a dozen times.”

  “You said you might record them.”

  “I always say that, just in case,” he said. “I don’t want to be accused of stealing.”

  “Do people ever say no?”

  “Not so far.”

  Esley explained, “They’re proud of the songs. They’ve handed ’em down for years. They want people to hear ’em.”

  “That song you did,” A.P. told me. “I’ve heard it before.”

  My breath caught in my throat. “You have?”

  “You sang it in Bristol when we were waiting in line.”

  I had to chuckle. A.P. was always picking up sounds, like Mr. Peer’s recording machine.

  “I like that first verse,” he said. “Maybe we can ask around and find the other ones.”

  Esley steered the car out of the canyon and east on Highway 421. The road wound through the hills. A warm breeze had started to blow. I knew because Esley liked to drive with the window down and his elbow hooked over the door.

  My mind wandered back to Sue Dean, taking care of those children in Poor Valley. Neither she nor I had grown up in what you’d call a happy family, and now she was trying to reconstruct hers with some new parts. I wished her luck. I wished her more than that.

  Soon the hills leveled off, and we passed some farms. I didn’t think A.P. was paying attention, but suddenly he said, “Stop!”

  Esley slammed on the brakes like before. I checked for cars behind us. Luckily, there weren’t any.

  “You know,” I told A.P., “you should give him some warning.”

  But A.P. had other things on his mind. He got out, walked over, and stood with his hands on his hips, gazing down at something by the road.

  Esley pulled off next to him, and we got out to see what it was. I figured A.P. had spotted a dead possum or raccoon, though I couldn’t imagine why he would be interested.

  When we got there, Esley said, “Not again.”

  We were staring at a rusty pile of metal.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Blades,” said A.P. “Can’t you see?”

  I stepped closer and made out a jumble of what looked like metal wheels, in various shapes and sizes, with teeth around the edges.

  “For a sawmill,” said A.P. “Let’s take ’em, boys.”

  “A.P. started out working at a sawmill,” Esley explained. “He still keeps an eye out for spare parts.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Never can tell when you’ll need one,” said A.P. “Kinda like with songs.”

  I looked over at Esley, and he smiled.

  A.P. told Esley, “Open the trunk.” Then he said to me, “Come on, boy, lend a hand.”

  We loaded the rusty parts and headed off down the road. When we went over a bump, I could hear them in the back, clanging and clunking. A few minutes later, A.P. spoke up again.

  “I’m hungry,” he said.

  If A.P. wanted something, he said so. I thought of my house, where you had to fix up your feelings before saying them—trim them, prep them, paint them with God. I liked A.P.’s way better.

  We started looking for a place to eat, and a few miles on, we passed a little cottage by the road with a sign in front: Country Ham and Peanut Pie.

  “Looks good,” said Esley.

  “Turn around,” said A.P.

  Esley did a U-turn, and we found a parking space in front of the cottage. A couple of cars were next to us, along with a horse tied to a post. We got out, and to my surprise, A.P. and Esley walked by the front door and headed around the side.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  A.P. kept walking. There was a screen door in back, and A.P. knocked. A woman’s face appeared behind the screen.

  “Three hams, three peanut pies,” said A.P.

  “And three lemonades,” said Esley.

  The woman stared at Esley.

  “Please, ma’am,” he said.

  She sighed, shook her head, and disappeared.

  Esley said, “They won’t serve me in front.”

  I started to ask why, then realized it was because Esley’s skin was a different color from mine and A.P.’s.

  A.P. said, “Esley goes to the back, we all go to the back.”

  The woman returned a few minutes later and handed us three brown paper sacks. A.P. pulled a crumpled-up bill from his pocket, flattened it out, and handed it to her.

  “Keep the change,” he said.

  “Don’t come back,” said the woman.

  It was still chilly outside, so we sat in the car and ate. The food was good, but the conversation at the door had left a bad taste in my mouth.

  “Why couldn’t we eat inside?” I asked, finishing my last bite of pie.

  “Got our lunch, didn’t we?” said A.P.

  “It doesn’t seem right.”

  A.P. studied me. “You ever see black people eat with white?”

  “In the jungle,” I said.

  “T
he jungle!”

  “It’s a camp for hoboes.”

  “I’m talking about regular folks,” said A.P.

  I thought back to Bristol. “I guess not. But Daddy’s church had black people.”

  “Your daddy’s unusual,” said A.P.

  He wiped his mouth with a handkerchief. I collected the trash and put it in a can by the parking lot, then Esley got behind the wheel and we pulled back onto the highway. I thought of all the places A.P. and Esley had traveled together and wondered how often they had eaten in the car, maybe even slept there.

  “I’ve spent time in Bristol,” Esley told me. “Rough place for colored folks.”

  “Bristol? Really?”

  He glanced back at me. “I think your Bristol is different from mine.”

  My Bristol was split in two. The hobo Bristol had a jungle. I wondered what Esley’s Bristol was like. Maybe there were four or five Bristols, or six, or a dozen.

  “Ever hear of the Klan?” asked Esley.

  “I heard of them,” I said. “Never saw them.”

  The Ku Klux Klan. KKK. People called it the Invisible Empire, and maybe it was. Like the wind blowing through the passenger-side window, you couldn’t see it but you knew it was there. I’d heard people whisper the name, but when I asked my parents about it, they didn’t want to talk.

  “Klan says they’re protecting white folks,” said Esley, “but we’re the ones need protecting.”

  I looked at A.P. to see what he thought, but he was humming softly to himself.

  Esley said, “In this world, there’s a line—black on one side, white on the other. If you step across, the Klan might come visit.”

  “And do what?” I asked.

  “Well, the first time they might burn a cross on your lawn. Like a warning. The second time would be worse. You don’t want a third time.”

  “Did they ever visit you?” I asked.

  “Not so far. But they went to see my uncle Luther. Stubborn man—too stubborn.”

  “What happened?”

  “They came in the night, wearing white sheets and hoods. Beat him up, threatened a lot worse. He wasn’t as stubborn after that.”

  “You think that happens in Bristol?” I asked him, still puzzling over my hometown.

  “Every month. Every week. But your mayor didn’t like it. He said, ‘First hooded SOB who steps into my yard, I’ll shoot him.’ Brave man. Course, he lost the next election.”

  Esley shook his head. “I could have told him the Klan isn’t the worst thing. The worst thing is jobs. The mills won’t hire us. If you’re black, you can be a janitor or a maid. These days you’re lucky to find that.”

  I glanced over at A.P. to see what he thought, but he had barely heard. He was off in the hills someplace, pulled along by music.

  “Where to?” asked Esley.

  “South on Highway 194,” said A.P., studying the map.

  I looked over his shoulder. “To that little town? Valle Crucis?”

  “You can wave as we drive by,” he said. “We’re going to the mountains.”

  PART VI

  ROOM IN HEAVEN FOR ME

  Beyond the sea where faiths of glorious beam

  Where things abide that I have never seen

  The soul’s sweet home desperate never more

  Will there be room for me on that bright shore

  —A. P. Carter, “Room in Heaven for Me”

  CHAPTER 38

  The highway looped through the countryside, then up toward the hills, where there were endless creeks and hollers, all of which A.P. seemed to know. We would pass a holler, and he’d call out the name of a song he had heard there. Esley would hum it, and we’d pull in to see if they had any more. We slept in the car, and the folks we visited gave us enough food to get by. The food was important to Esley and me, but A.P. didn’t much care. As far as I could tell, he ran on music.

  We met pickers and singers, housewives and carpenters, farmers and weavers and hoboes, and every one of them had a song. For mountain people, it seemed that a song was as important as their name, and they were proud to share both. Afterward, I would share the verse of Mama’s song, but no one seemed to recognize it.

  Sometime, weeks later, we entered a town called Blowing Rock. A.P. knew a fiddler there who collected songs the way some people collect butterflies or stamps. Boone was next, where Esley met some people at the teachers college who let us stay with them. Leaving Boone, A.P. said it was time circle back toward home.

  “I’d like to try one more place,” Esley told him, glancing at me. “Ever been to Deep Gap?”

  A.P. furrowed his brow. “Can’t say as I have.”

  “It’s Nate’s home place. He said they have good music.”

  I had said no such thing but wasn’t about to contradict him. My heart was suspended in my chest, split between Tennessee and North Carolina, forward and back, Daddy’s tent and the picture in my wallet.

  “I checked the map,” said Esley. “It’s ten miles up the road.”

  A.P. shrugged. “Let’s go.”

  Deep Gap was just a few streets and buildings, what some people might call a “wide place in the road.” Glancing around, I wondered what had brought Mama and Daddy there. I imagined them walking the streets, holding Sister’s hand, pushing me in a baby carriage.

  We parked in front of something called the Hello Café. A.P. and Esley set out searching for songs, while I went inside to do some searching of my own.

  Behind the cash register stood a stout woman wearing an apron. I asked if she remembered Wilvur and Etta May Owens. She didn’t, which surprised me in a town that small.

  The woman asked, “When were they here?”

  “They left in 1916. So maybe twelve years ago.”

  She turned to an older couple at a nearby table. “Wilvur and Etta May Owens—ever hear of ’em?”

  The man looked at his companion, then shook his head. “Sorry.”

  “That’s the mayor,” the woman told me. “He knows everybody.”

  I asked her about the library, and she directed me to a small, cinder block building on the next street, where I was greeted by an elderly man with wire-rimmed glasses and a quick smile.

  “Welcome! I love to see young people reading.”

  “Actually, I was looking for a city directory—1916? Maybe before?”

  He led me to the reference section, which amounted to a couple of packing crates stacked sideways. I flipped through the books and hit pay dirt in a shabby 1915 directory. Wilvur and Etta May Owens were listed, along with an address. The strange thing was that there was no number, just a street: Callahan Road. The man pulled out a town map and showed me where it was.

  “What kind of neighborhood is it?” I asked, excited.

  He scratched his chin. “Not sure I’d call it a neighborhood. Go on over there—you’ll see.”

  Deep Gap was tiny, so you could walk pretty much anyplace in town. But I didn’t walk; I ran. I’d been digging, and my shovel had struck something hard. I was eager to pull it out and look at it.

  I found Callahan Road. I stopped and stared. It wasn’t much more than a dirt path with a street sign. There were no houses—in fact, no buildings at all. Empty fields stretched to the horizon.

  In the distance was a barn with a farmhouse next to it. Determined to learn something, I made my way across a field and up a gravel driveway, passing chickens and a few cows on the way. Reaching the front door of the house, I knocked. The door opened, and a sandy-haired man peered out at me. He was gaunt, with a face like leather, and his bib overalls hung loose over a wrinkled shirt. He appeared to be middle-aged, but when I looked closer, I realized he was no older than thirty-five.

  “Help you?” he grunted.

  What could I say? I’m searching for my past. I’m hunting my dreams. I’m a blank, and I want to be filled in.

  I told him, “My family lived here when I was little, in 1916. Maybe you’ve heard of my parents, Wilvur and Etta May Owens?”


  The man shook his head. “Can’t say as I have.”

  “The address said Callahan Road, but there are no houses.”

  “Never were,” he said.

  I waited for him to say more, but he didn’t.

  “Then where did they live?” I asked. My family seemed like a they, even though I had been part of it.

  He gazed down the driveway to the road. “Back then, the place belonged to old Mr. Callahan. Got sick and had to sell it. He’s gone now. Told me a family came and parked an old house trailer on that road. Called ’em squatters.”

  “Squatters?”

  The man frowned. “He let ’em stay for a while if they helped with chores. Don’t believe I’d have done that.”

  “Was their name Owens?” I asked.

  “Didn’t say.”

  I asked a few more questions, but that was all he knew. I wandered around the area, spotting a few people and asking them, then went back to town and did the same. No one had heard of them.

  I was about to give up when I remembered the grave. It had been raining that night, and Daddy had gone to be with Sister. I hurried back inside the Hello Café, where the woman was cleaning off some tables.

  “Is there a town cemetery?” I asked.

  “By Brown’s Chapel, up the old highway,” she said, pointing.

  The chapel was neatly kept and newly painted. Next to it, sure enough, was a small cemetery with rows of tombstones. I hurried up and down the rows, getting a glimpse of Deep Gap history. Some of the oldest graves went back to the late 1800s. Finally I found it, off on its own in a far corner. It was a simple stone marker. I took out the photo and held it up next to the marker.

  Sweet Sister

  1910–1916

  She had only been six years old and always would be, a little thing for all the commotion she had caused, changing the course of three lives at the time and another one yet to come. At first it seemed odd that the marker showed no last name, but then I decided it was fitting. She was Sister, just Sister.

  I looked up at the sky. Rain had fallen. Daddy had hugged the grave and, so they said, tried to climb in. What makes a person that sad and desperate?

  “You seem to have found what you’re looking for.”