The Road to Bittersweet

by Donna Everhart

  A loud, splintering sound followed by a heavy thud close to the cabin woke me. I scrambled out from under the thin muslin sheet, breathing heavy like I sometimes do when we’re about to sing. The spot where Laci’s arm had pressed against my side left a moist imprint on my nightgown, the humid night air sitting heavy inside our small room because we couldn’t open the window with all the rain. I pinched a section of my nightgown to free it from my sticky skin. My newly cropped bob allowed some air to reach my neck, and hot as it was, it was an odd but welcome sensation I hadn’t growed used to yet.

  I could hear the creek. It didn’t sound right, not the soft whoosh over the rocks, more like an angry churning, which meant it was running swift and fast. The downstairs clock chimed four times. The heart pine floor under my feet vibrated with every boom of thunder, and the wind’s force made the cabin creak with every gust. Lightning flashed constantly, and the odd flickers illuminated the room. As I made my way to the window, I glanced over my shoulder at the spindle bed, but Laci had her face turned towards the wall, her form a slender twist of long arms and legs under the sheet.

  I stared out, waiting for lightning to flash again, and when it did, I seen the creek foaming like the mouth of a rabid dog, the edges sloshing into the garden in rivulets. It was much wider than what it had been earlier. I recognized that kind of fast rise would only keep on, and I backed away from the window, my mouth gone cotton dry, my chest tightening like somebody was squeezing me. I rushed over to the bed and shook Laci. She rose on her elbows, looking at me like she always does, without expression, without alarm.

  I said, “Get up, Laci!”

  She swung her legs over the side of the bed, and without waiting, I run from the room, my feet finding the stairs in the dark. Momma stood at the bottom, her face tense, pale, and she whispered because Seph was still asleep on her shoulder.

  “Wallis Ann, you know what to do and be quick about it. Help your sister, understand?”

  Papa was tucking his shirt into his coveralls.

  I asked him, “We going to try to get up to Salt Rock?”

  He nodded, facial features fixed and tight, like his skin was too snug, removing the usual soft crinkles and curves. He got the lantern off the worktable, striking a match to light it. He carried it to the door and slapped his hat on his head. I hurried to open the door, and he went out. I heard Liberty, our horse, and Pete, our mule, down in the barn, their hooves delivering a sporadic pounding to the stall doors. They was animals we sure couldn’t afford to lose.

  Papa run across the yard, the rain quickly obscuring his shape so he looked flat and gray, while the spark from the lantern was so weak, it didn’t give any more light than what a firefly might provide. It vanished seconds later as he entered the barn. Another boom of thunder and a flash of lightning wrapped around everything. The wind turned into this enormous force, pushing on the door as I struggled to close it. I finally slammed it shut, and hurried to the kitchen window, where I could see the creek water was now well past the weeping willows. The stormy sky pulsed with continuous flickers of light.

  Momma cried, “Wallis Ann, why are you staring out the window? Get dressed! When you’re done, be sure to get the basket in the kitchen I’ve packed. Hurry now!”

  I hurried back up the stairs and seen Laci sitting on her bed, dress in her lap, fingering the material. The dresses made me think of Momma working late at night sewing them from feed sacks, attaching Peter Pan collars, stitching extra cloth at the bottom of Laci’s since she was so tall, just to make it respectable. Laci made like she wanted to lie down in the bed again.

  I said, “Nooooo,” while pulling off my nightgown, putting on my underthings, and stepping into my dress in less than a minute.

  Everything I did was like a ritual, because that was how I got Laci to do what I needed. Thunder clapped overhead, and there come the familiar press of Laci’s fingers on my arm.

  I told her, “It’s only a thunderstorm.”

  I motioned again for her to get her dress on and she pulled it over her head, then turned around for me to button it. I lifted her hair out of the way, did her up, and then we sat on the edge of the bed to pull on socks and shoes.

  I stood up and said, “Laci, come on!”

  Her chin went forward, and her mouth turned down in one of a handful of expressions we sometimes witnessed. Of all times for Laci’s stubborn streak to show up. I grabbed her hand. She refused to budge, her arm gone stiff and resistant as a board.

  “What? What is it?”

  Her eyes went to the corner of our room, past the old wooden washstand, beyond the cane-back chair by the window where I’d often sit, chin in hand, daydreaming about what the world looked like beyond Stampers Creek, beyond the hills and hollers I called home. Laci’s intense gaze fell on the dimmest part of the room to the one thing she had to have. Her fiddle. I retrieved a blanket from the chest at the foot of the bed, wrapped the instrument in it and handed it to her. She hugged it tight, like you would a baby, and only then did her chin square into its rightful place. I grabbed the extra clothes I’d tied into a bundle only hours ago.

  I clattered down the stairs, Laci on my heels, and rushed into the kitchen. I grabbed the basket from the table as Momma had directed and set it by the front door. I took the bundled instrument from Laci, set it on the table and handed her the burlap sack I’d retrieved from a hook by the wash pan. I motioned to the pantry. She went for the fiddle again, and I put my hand on her arm.

  “Leave it there, for now, and help me.”

  I sighed with relief when she obliged, my attention drawn to the window. The creek was even closer. My sense of urgency increased as I put beans, a small poke of flour, coffee and sugar into the bigger one Laci held open. I wrapped slices of cured bacon in cheesecloth, grabbed a loaf of bread, and added all of it to the basket by the door. Another clap of thunder shook the cabin as Momma come into the kitchen, dressed and leading Seph, who stumbled along, not understanding, and seeming determined to outdo the noise from the storm. Her hand shook as she brushed a strand of hair back. Momma’s own papa was swept away along with their house after twenty-two inches of rain fell in a twenty-four-hour period over near Altapass and Grandfather Mountain. She’d been Laci’s age then. Her demeanor was still calm, but with the squall right over us, a hint of fear had entered her voice.

  Her tone elevated, she asked, “Did you get everything?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You sure, Wallis Ann?”

  “I did, see?”

  I pointed at the basket by the door, and took the poke from Laci and held it for her to see. She nodded distractedly and give the kitchen one last look. She went to Granny Wallis’s pie safe, opened it, looked in at the birthday cake she’d baked, only to close the small door again. It was a family keepsake, given to her and Papa on their wedding day along with Grandma Wallis’s chifforobe. She went to her prized possession last, a green and cream-colored Glenwood C stove. She traced a hand along the burners, and turned to distractedly brush cake crumbs from the worktable. It was as if by doing these little things, she was reassuring herself all would be well. She turned to me, the look on her face causing my heart to race, like Papa revving the engine on his truck.

  I whispered, “It’s going to be fine, Momma.”

  Sometimes saying words helped me believe what I wanted others to believe. We went to the front door and Momma tugged on Seph’s small jacket. I put a scarf on my head, nervously twisting and tying it tight as I could stand, and Laci did the same. We pulled on our coats, and stood there for a few seconds preparing to make our way out into the storm. Momma bent down and got Seph, holding him tight in her arms. I lifted the basket, and the poke filled with food, and Laci had her fiddle. Momma give me another one of them looks and opened the door, exposing us to a blast of wind. It actually pushed her back a step or two. The fiddle dug into my backbone as Laci’s forehead pressed between my shoulder blades.

  We heard Papa yell, “Git on! Shoo!�
� to the animals in the barn.

  We moved as one, stepping into a violent wind what drove the rain at a slant, and soaked us in seconds. Hunching our bodies, we made a run for the truck, our shoes slapping the puddles of dirty water and soaking through our socks. The rain actually hurt, and stung my exposed skin like millions of needles. It reminded me of the time I’d stood under Dismal Falls, only there I could control how the spray hit me, my toes digging into slick rocks as I stepped in and out of it. This almost took my breath away. Laci stayed pressed against me, and it’s a wonder one of us didn’t trip over the other’s foot and fall flat-faced into the mud.

  Reaching for the door handle, I paused as Liberty and Pete went galloping by full speed, taking to the hill behind the barn. Their instincts told them what to do, and they faded into the gray, heading away from the rising creek, which was looking more like a river by the minute.

  “Wallis Ann! Hurry up! Open the door!” Momma hollered at me while Seph screamed in her ear.

  I yanked the door open and stood aside as she scrambled in, setting Seph on her lap. Even above the storm, I could hear the Tuckasegee. The usual soothing flow of water we could only hear on the quietest of days had intensified to a loud and constant rush, like the sound of a locomotive. I couldn’t see how it was possible for rain to come down any harder, or for wind gusts to get any stronger. Momma reached for the basket and slid it under the seat, and then Laci crawled in. She was still trying to get her legs in good when I come in right on top of her, onto her lap, holding our food tight against my chest.

  Typically, Laci and I would ride in the truck bed, not crammed into the cab. I slammed the door shut, and looked to Momma. The whiteness of her face and her shadowed eyes was almost spooky. With our wet clothes pasted to our skin, flattened scarves on our heads, not one inch of us was dry to speak of. I shivered, and felt Laci doing the same. Papa come running from the side of the cabin where we had the chicken coops and hog pens. He’d opened the doors, giving hens, the rooster and the pigs an opportunity to fend for themselves however they could. When he got in we was packed tight as ticks. He had trouble cranking the truck, but, after he adjusted the throttle and the advance, it caught. He hammered his fist on the dashboard as if to encourage the vehicle, and we started driving away from Stampers Creek.

  The tail end slid in the mud once or twice, and Papa turned the wheel to compensate. I had the urge to look at our cabin, only I couldn’t move. We headed down the dirt trail before turning onto the dirt road running alongside the Tuckasegee. It was hard to see anything, and it looked like we was driving in the middle of the river where the water already started washing over the lower areas causing deep ruts. It was nerve-rattling, and Papa gripped the steering wheel tight with both hands, spinning it one direction and the other to avoid what he could, when he could. Still, we heard a lot of thumping, and banging underneath. Every now and then, curious scraping sounds come from all sides, like some creature might be trying to claw its way in.

  The continuous rushing water had created huge holes and ruts and even with the headlights, we couldn’t see to avoid them. At times we’d hit a pothole and bounce around inside the cab like peas in a can. Papa said a few choice words when that happened. Momma stayed silent, concentrating on keeping Seph from hitting his head on the dashboard. The further we went, the worse it got. Out the front window the waterlogged road continued to look as if it had merged with the river, like there’d never been any separation of road or an embankment. The truck abruptly went horizontal, then jerked straight.

  Momma said, “William.”

  Papa said, “We got to go quicker, if we can.”

  And then, it went sideways again, losing purchase, and this time it didn’t regain traction. Almost immediately it was like we was in a boat. As we went to floating, we picked up speed.

  Papa cursed, “Lord, damn it!”

  Momma would usually say something about all them curse words coming out of his mouth except the truck going along of its own accord had put a fear into her and struck her silent. Her hand patted Seph a little quicker and the truck jerked violently as it found its purchase with the road once more. Papa steered erratically to straighten us out, and we kept on till we finally turned onto Highway 107, where Papa become a little more confident. He mashed on the gas pedal and the needle went from fifteen mph to twenty-five mph.

  Of course, when things go really, really wrong, you tend to think back on what you did or didn’t do. You wonder if staying put might have been a better choice. The tires lost their grip again and then we went sideways once more, floating. My feet felt wetter than they’d already been, and curious, I leaned forward to touch the floorboard. Water sloshed about, touching my hand. No one else seemed to have noticed. Papa was fixated on getting the truck to go right, but when I raised up quick, he glanced my way. I nodded towards the floorboard. Momma closed her eyes and went to praying. Papa leaned forward to see out the windshield better, yet with no control anyway, he might as well have taken his hands off the wheel and been blindfolded.

  Maybe what was about to happen should have been expected, yet, when the engine sputtered, then knocked off, Momma bowed her head, silent again. I stared out at the storm-whipped trees and the blackness beyond the dim headlights that seemed to bounce one way and the other. Water swirled all around and I wished we could somehow find a way to maneuver away from the flood, as it took us where it wanted, faster and faster. I drew up, realizing there won’t anything we could do about it.

  “William.” Momma said Papa’s name again, real quiet, yet her voice held a special level of fear and alarm what set my heart to jumping the way an earthworm does if caught out in the hot sun.

  The water started coming up faster inside and I now felt it on my ankles. The truck jerked hard and went dead still again, like a giant hand had been placed on the front end. The water rose steady, inside and out, and there we sat. Seph whined, and Momma jiggled her leg while shushing him. The slow rise and fall of Laci’s front against me showed me she won’t afraid—not yet. The only noise she produced come from a finger occasionally trying to pluck an exposed string. Our predicament created a bizarre lull in me too, as my throat felt closed off, my voice gone. I become as mute as Laci, waiting for Papa to tell us what to do. He studied what lay ahead, which, best as we could all tell, was water and more water. It kept rising inside and now reached my calves.

  Finally, after what felt like hours, he said, “I think the water’s broke over the dam. We got to get out, get in the back where we can get on the roof if necessary. Roll your window down, Wallis Ann, quick now.”

  The rigid sound to his voice burned my belly, and I tasted a bitterness in my mouth. That’s what fear tastes like. It’s bitter, and nasty, and makes you feel like you’re going to throw up.

  I managed to say, “Yes, sir.”

  I cranked the window down. I got it only halfway when the rain blowed in and made Laci lean towards Momma in an attempt to shy away from it. Papa had his down too and it was like each side tried to be in contention with the other as the wind created a cross draft through the cab.

  Papa yelled to be heard above the storm’s noise. “Sit on the window’s edge. Be sure you can stand on the runner without getting knocked down. Be quick as you can, and get in the back. Understand?”

  No speaking my nickname, Wally Girl, no wink, no smile to ease my worry. This situation we was in scared me worse than anything I’d ever been scared about. Worse than the stories Papa told about them haunted rooms over at the Balsam Inn in Sylva. Worse than the time Momma got real sick and we won’t certain she was going to make it. Worse than when the mean boy Harlan Tillis from my class threatened to push me down the long, slippery rock at Jawbone Falls, knowing I’d get hurt bad—or worse.

  Papa continued, “Grab hold tight wherever you can, and then help Laci. I’ll help your momma and Seph. Understand?”

  I replied, “Yes, sir,” only it come out more like, “y-y-yes, s-s-sir.”

  It w
as awkward as I tried to maneuver myself off Laci’s lap so my rear was on the window’s edge. Somehow I managed. Where the runner should be won’t nothing but swift running water. I ducked my head to look inside the cab, only Papa was already out, standing by his window. I looked over the cab of the truck and he was barely visible through the driving rain.

  His hands rested on the top of the roof and he motioned at me, yelling above the noise, “Wait!”

  He stuck his right leg into the truck bed and hurried to pull his self in. Holding on best as he could, he come over to my side and reached out for one of my hands. He’d probably realized I was too short to do as he’d said. I shot my arm out and he grabbed it. I let go with my other hand and when he had both my wrists, he’d hauled me into the back and I found myself standing beside him.

  He hollered into my ear, “Help Laci while I get your momma and Seph! Hold on to her hands tight!”

  Petrified, I could only nod.

  He carefully eased his way over to the driver’s side, and leaned down to the window. I could see through the back glass Momma was behind the steering wheel, and Seph’s mouth was wide open, crying at fever pitch. I couldn’t watch no more. I had to get Laci.

  I smacked the glass right behind her head and yelled, “Laci!”

  She sat with her fiddle clamped to her chest. I stuck my hand through the open window for her to give it to me, pleased when she shoved it into my hands. I took it, and turned to the old box Papa used for carrying tools and other things when he went into town. I lifted the lid open, set the instrument inside, hoping it would be protected. By now Laci had noticed how we’d all bailed out on her and she sat on the window’s ledge like I had.

  “Laci! Wait!” I yelled at her.

  Without waiting at all, she clambered out onto the running board. Them long legs a hers did what mine couldn’t, because with little help from me other than the fact I’d grabbed hold of one of her hands, she was suddenly standing beside me. She turned and sat on the box where her beloved fiddle had gone. With Laci out, I took Seph from Papa. He’d managed to get him and now needed to help Momma. She sat like we had, and it made me nervous seeing her perched there, because she was too focused on Seph screaming in my arms and not paying attention. She found her footing on the runner, and her hands gripped the opened window’s edge while the water was only inches from breaching the truck bed. She thrust her hand out to Papa, but an unexpected surge moved the truck and took her feet right out from under her, and she was forced to grab the window ledge again. She let out a tiny scream as the drag of the water stretched her body horizontal. I almost couldn’t look. I was afraid the water would rip her hands loose.