“You know him?”
He said, “That was Leland Tew. He ain’t right, a little tetched in the head. You could blame it on him being drunk most of the time off a moonshine, except most anyone knows him knows he gets these crazy spells. Good days. Bad days. He lives in an old hunting shack over that a way.”
I shivered and looked over my shoulder again.
While I continued to survey the woods, expecting Leland Tew to pop out again, the new acquaintance said, “My name’s Joe Calhoun.”
I quit looking for Tew and replied, “Nice to meet you. I’m Wallis Ann Stamper.”
There was an awkward few seconds of quiet, and in that short bit of time I picked up an air of misery, his shoulders rounded under the weight of a sorrow so tangible, I thought if I touched him I would feel his pain shooting into me, merging his grief with my own.
He said, “Pleased to meet you. Like I said, I heard yelling and come to see what was going on. If it’s all right, I got to get on back to my place,” and he pointed at a hill. “It’s that a way, not too far.”
I was certain that was the source of his unhappiness because his hand shook when he pointed. He lowered it quick, as if it had embarrassed him.
He said, “You’re welcome to follow me and refill your water jar. I got cleaner water than that.”
He gestured at the half-empty jar I held. I hesitated. I was a bit uneasy after what just took place, but the idea of fresh water was tempting. He didn’t wait for me to make up my mind, heading off in the direction he’d pointed out, and after a few seconds I followed. We took a crooked trail and there won’t any more talking. A log cabin come into view within a few minutes, and like many others I’d seen, it was damaged badly. In this case, a huge pine tree lay over one end, and a mule, with a length of chain hitched to the animal’s harness, stood waiting. Nearby squatted a small boy by the pine tree lying partially on the cabin. He stood when he seen us, dropping the other end of the chain he’d held, his face red from crying. They’d been working on moving the tree, and considering the pile of limbs and logs they’d cut off it and gathered, they’d been at it steady.
Joe Calhoun wiped sweat from his brow while the boy pushed his straw hat up on his head, staring at me like he couldn’t put together where I’d come from. I set the walking stick and jar down. The boy looked as if he was thinking about running to hide. He was barefoot too, wearing only a ragged pair of coveralls that looked like they was about to fall off him. Streaks of wet cleared two rows down his dirt-covered cheeks.
Joe Calhoun hesitated, then said, “Where’s your family?”
“I’m from over to Stampers Creek. We got separated during the flood. My papa is William Stamper, and Momma is Ann Wallis Stamper.”
Joe Calhoun watched me as I took the end of the chain the boy had been holding in my hands and started towards the broken end of the pine.
“What’re you doing?”
“Helping out.”
“It ain’t necessary.”
“I aim to work for that water you’re gonna give me.”
Joe cocked his head and looked surprised, then said, “Suit yourself. Think I heard a y’all. You’re part of that singing family what goes around the county, The Stampers, ain’t you?”
“Yes. That’s my family. I’m looking for’em.”
He scratched at his arm, and said, “I’m sorry.”
Anything else I might have offered sat in my throat heavy as the biggest stones in the river, and thankfully he motioned towards the section of cabin under the tree and stated the obvious.
“When the storm come, that old tree come down.”
He looked like he didn’t know exactly what had happened or how things got the way they was now.
I said, “Is it only you and your boy?”
He shrugged uncomfortably, his words choked off like mine. I looked at what appeared to be a jumbled pile of cut and scraped logs under the tree, just a heap of rubble really. Some fluttery kind of material like curtains, maybe a tablecloth rippled and danced between the mangled wood. I was about to turn to him when I noted something what didn’t belong. When it clicked what I was looking at, it felt like somebody had all of the sudden dropped me from a great height. My stomach bottomed out as I stared at the foot, turned all blue and purplish, like a beet. The fluttering material was a dress. I stumbled backwards, my mouth opening and closing only no words coming out. They was crammed so far down into my throat, I couldn’t bring them up. I stared at Joe Calhoun, disbelief and alarm apparent on my face. He wore a rather stoic look while I processed what I seen while the boy made a noise, gulping in sobs. Joe Calhoun pulled a handkerchief from a pocket and give it to the boy.
He motioned towards the foot, his words tumbled one over the other in a hushed tone. “We tried to git her out all day yesterday. Her and the little one she’d held. That’s my wife, Sally, and our little Josie, who won’t but two years old.”
I found my voice, and I said, “How horrible. I’m so sorry.”
He moved closer to the distorted, swollen foot and stared at the flapping material. I was half nervous he was going to touch it. Flies landed all around and on it too. He flapped his hand to shoo them off.
He said in a voice flat, broken sounding with disbelief, “Course, it come on us so quick. And when it was all said and done, I realized she was gone. I tried with my bare hands, at first, and of course, nothing won’t budge. I finally found our mule upstream just today, and I was hoping maybe with him we can get her out.” He looked my way and said, “No need for you to stay and see this. Let me get your water, and you can be on your way.”
“No. I mean, I’d like some water, but what do you need me to do?”
Joe Calhoun stared at my hands, and I clenched them to hide the blisters. He seemed to assess the potential strength of my arms.
I guess I didn’t look as puny as I felt, because he said, “If you don’t mind, go and give young Lyle a hand there.”
I walked over to the boy, a miniature of his papa. He refused to meet my gaze.
He was too young to be wearing the look he had, and I whispered, “I’m real, real sorry.”
He didn’t respond. He only wiped at his eyes quick, and then he and I worked together to wrap the chain around and around the end, while he hooked his end to the mule’s harness. Soon, it was all set, and he took the reins in his hands and stood directly behind the mule like he was going to plow.
He said, “Heeya!” and slapped them. The mule leaned into his harness willingly. I didn’t want to see what might be happening behind me, so I focused on him and so did Lyle. Joe Calhoun guided the mule to the right, then to the left, and with some momentum, the mule got his feet under him good and after a few more seconds of steady pulling, we heard a heavy thump.
He yelled, “Whoa!”
I still didn’t turn around. He patted the mule on the shoulder, and from that vantage point he slowly glanced where the section of the tree had rested. When he crumpled to his knees, I didn’t know what all to do. I was scared of this kind of a death. I didn’t want to look. I’d never seen such awful things, and won’t sure I wanted to now. Compared to this, Coy Skinner’s story was like listening to a radio. Same thing with the awful tragedies Papa talked about at his job. Trees not going where the workers intended; equipment malfunctions; people losing digits, limbs, or lives. Seeing it right in front of you is different altogether. Joe Calhoun motioned to Lyle to come to him. I stared intently at my dirty, mosquito-bitten arms and the scratches on my legs. The boy thundered past me into his papa’s arms. I looked away as the two of them hugged, the boy starting to sob again. I give the sky my attention, and wondered why such hardships was delivered to such good people. Momma always said, The Lord works in mysterious ways.
I didn’t want to think about if they’d suffered something long and enduring. I dropped my gaze from the sky to stare at the undamaged side of the cabin, and then slowly let my eyes slide towards the crushed end, skimming over Mrs. Calhoun�
��s foot, then, going a little higher still. She had her hands clasped together and held off to her side and around a clump of different material altogether. It weighed heavy on my heart when I seen them tiny arms and legs, and I had to blink, and then I leaned forward. I thought I’d seen movement. I squinted. Lordy, them little legs was moving. I drew in a sharp breath and started running towards Mrs. Calhoun and the little girl named Josie.
Joe Calhoun shouted, “Ain’t no use! They’s gone!”
I kept running, seeing how the small, curly blond head turned this way and that, while her small arms pushed until suddenly she was sitting up, moving away from the protection of her momma’s side. The little girl, her hair a wild array of spun gold, started to wail. Footsteps thudded behind me. Mrs. Calhoun was surely gone, the nasty blow to her head visible, yet her face remained beautiful, and so was the child’s cry. I clambered over crushed wood to reach her, and lifted her out and away from the ruin. She clung to my dress, shaking, covered in dirt, leaves, and dried blood. She stunk to high heaven, having soiled herself time and again.
Holding her carefully, I stepped over the twisted pile of logs, slipping a little from the mud on them. Joe Calhoun reached for her, and Josie for him. Lyle, hypnotized by the sight of his little sister, stood several feet from us, his red-rimmed eyes wide and blinking. Recovering after a few seconds, he approached and stared at his baby sister, a dusty hand rubbing her bruised leg. It was startling how the child had survived, protected by her momma’s body, tucked in a little divot, out of the way of the weight that could have crushed her. Such a miraculous thing, yet sad at the same time.
“I can’t hardly believe it,” I said.
Joe Calhoun buried his face in the tangle of his daughter’s hair. She was quiet now, her head lying on his shoulder.
He spoke with a shaky voice. “A blessed miracle.”
My thoughts only moments before retrieved a similar word. “It sure is.”
I felt a great need, a tremendous wanting for an outcome like this for my own self and my family.
I said, “I’m happy I stayed, but I best be on my way now.” I gestured at the mangled wreckage of his home, the distressing view of his wife’s body, “I’m real sorry about Mrs. Calhoun, and your home.”
Joe Calhoun asked me, “What will you do?”
Staring back the way I’d come, I replied, “I’ll keep looking,” my hand gesturing in the direction I’d walked. “They may be waiting on me at our place, that is, if it’s still there. Either way, I’ll wait for’em if they ain’t.”
Joe Calhoun said, “You happen to know the Powells, who live just beyond Stampers Creek?”
His question startled me, but I said, “Yes, that’s them folks over to the next holler.”
Joe Calhoun said, “You see’em, tell’em, all’s well except for Sally. And if anybody comes by here lookin’, I’ll be sure to tell’em I seen you, and where you was headed.”
“Thank you kindly.”
I waved at them and began to retrace my earlier steps, looking over my shoulder only once before I got out of sight. Joe Calhoun watched with little Josie’s head on his shoulder and Lyle beside him. The last I seen of them, they was going towards Mrs. Calhoun. I faced forward and trudged on. It took me only a short while to get where I’d stopped to address the problem of Leland Tew, and as I walked along, I ruminated on Joe Calhoun. I couldn’t quit thinking about what happened, and what a stunning turn of events it had been to find his little girl alive. The idea he was familiar with the Powells won’t all that surprising, but I couldn’t help but wonder how come we’d never met before.
Within the hour, I was wishing I’d remembered to get the water he’d offered. Passing the grossly swollen Mill Creek, I come to the stretch that would take me home to Stampers Creek, and knowing I was so close set me to singing to cut through the quiet, and to keep myself company. The afternoon sun sat plump and full, and I was glad I’d get there before dark. I stopped to rest, preparing for the final push. I sat down on part of an uprooted oak tree and finished what was left of the water, yet still felt parched. I pulled the tin from my dress and ate two more crackers, hoping to stave off the light-headed dizziness I kept having, like I’d been spinning in circles. I shook the can lightly, peered into it and counted only six more crackers.
Sliding the lid in place, I stared at the broken, littered trail ahead and noticed how the ruts made from years of use was gone, smoothed over from the passing current and filled in with sediment and mud. To the west, in the hazy, bluish distance, Cullowhee Mountain met Cherry Gap as they had for maybe millions of years. The distant hills opposite cut a familiar jagged line across the blue sky, offering a view of deep valleys and crests that shifted from rich greens to black shadows, an ever-changing display created by the sun as the peaks punctured the clouds. I never tired of the view. I breathed in and out slowly, taking it in, and bracing myself for the rest of the walk home, and what I might find. I didn’t sing no more the rest of the way.
Chapter 6
The dirt path to the cabin was blocked by a gigantic fallen oak. I recollected Papa telling me once it had been a sapling when my great-grandpa Stamper was a boy, and seeing it lying over on its side felt like part of our history had been taken. Momma had spoke of seeing coffins floating by in the flood of ’16, and after seeing this huge tree torn up from its roots, I thought about our family graveyards, and wondered if anything had happened to them. Momma and Papa’s people was buried only a short distance away, set apart in different areas as if the idea of burying Scottish and English together won’t a consideration, even though Momma was Scottish, and had married Papa, who was English.
During winter when trees was barren, I could see both graveyards. They was set in right pretty places, each having old wrought-iron fences circling them. All but two of Papa’s brothers was buried there. My uncle Seph, who little Seph was named for, and who died in WWI, was buried in Arlington National Cemetery, and Uncle Hardy, Papa’s oldest brother who lived in Pine Mountain, South Carolina. I seen Uncle Hardy all of twice in my lifetime, and Papa hardly ever talked about him. All of Momma’s family was buried about a half mile away from Papa’s family. There we set flowers on graves holding my grandparents, Momma’s little sister who died as a baby, and a great-aunt and uncle.
I went on by the tree and turned my ear to the alder flycatchers, sapsuckers, and various other birds crying out, chirping along the way as if telling me about their lives interrupted by the storm. I got to walking faster, my concern growing by the minute as I realized Stampers Creek had risen to the highest point ever. Seconds later I come to where our cabin should have been. I immediately dropped everything I carried on the ground. I stopped and stared at the stone foundation laid by Papa almost twenty years ago, the only thing left. My breath pumped in and out of me as I moved about the edges of the property. I thought of Momma and those last moments seeing her touching this and that as we was about to leave.
The barn still stood, although it won’t going to last long from the look of it. I’d hoped maybe the chickens might be roosting in some of the trees, but there won’t a squawk or the grunt of a hog to be heard. I whistled for Liberty and Pete. I got nothing from either of them, not a whicker or a bray. I went and sat on the foundation, realizing the day was near bout gone.With a wary eye towards the setting sun, my immediate need was on having something to eat. Maybe the garden would have a remnant of a vegetable, a tomato, some beans, or maybe a melon.
I walked to the backside of where our cabin had been, to where the rows of vegetables once thrived, and found not even a spare shucky bean.The garden existed of a few stripped stalks what had somehow withstood the surge of water. Melons, once abundant, with vines growing as long as fifteen feet, had only two of the fruit left behind, but they’d split open and the pale, carroty flesh had gone yellow with rot, while a swarm of fruit flies fizzed about happily. The root cellar had been exposed to the flood, and a nasty-looking slurry reached the top step. I had the feeling
the jars of the vegetables we’d canned had been broken, or was buried under it.
I swore to myself I’d find something. It was better to think like this, optimistically is what Papa would say. I continued exploring, looking for some part of our lives what had existed only days ago. While hunting for food I also looked for other possessions, like the wooden benches used at our kitchen table Papa made. The worktable. Momma’s lovely bone china from Granny Wallis. It was eerie not finding even a fragment from our home intact, like it had all been imagined. It made me feel like I had when Leland Tew did his disappearing act, making it seem like he won’t real. Other than the rock foundation, and the barn, all other traces of our presence here was gone.
I was pretty thirsty after all the rummaging around. I went back to the foundation wall again, my hands hanging between my knees, throbbing in time with my head. I shut my eyes, not wanting to see any more. I sat that way for I don’t know how long, wondering should I leave. Only, there was something about being in this spot where I’d been born what made me want to stay, even though I had nothing to hold on to, nothing to gather and save. I thought of Joe Calhoun and his boy, and it come to me he’d likely rather have his wife alive than any of the possessions they’d salvaged. I straightened my back at that thought. Papa always said if you go round with your head down, it’s hard to be mindful of what you got, and you might overlook something important.
It was growing cooler as the sun dropped behind the ridges. It would be nighttime soon. I started looking around again, and having had a bit of time for things to sink in, I regarded the scenery with a degree of calm. I went to a different area I hadn’t searched and spotted something after a few minutes of poking around near the woods. There was some shapes what didn’t match the natural lay of the land. I hurried over, and found, of all things, Momma’s stove, covered in mud, setting on one end, and banged up, an unbelievable find. I yanked the door open and inside was the small kettle and skillet. Behind them was the familiar coffeepot what usually sat on a burner in the mornings. I retrieved these and took them over to the foundation. I was almost giddy with a happiness I couldn’t explain.
The Road to Bittersweet Page 5
