The Road to Bittersweet

by Donna Everhart

  I let go a him as we got close and said, “Don’t you get near the creek and fall in now, you hear me?”

  Seph looked at me, his nose running down his lip and he shook his head no. I took my forefinger and swiped the wetness from his upper lip.

  “Okay then. You stay right here. Don’t get into trouble.”

  “I firsty, Wally. I real firsty.”

  He worked his chapped, dry mouth, making little smacking noises as if to show me.

  “I know. I’m getting us some water. You wait here, okay?”

  I went down to the creek, taking care to dodge the softer areas where it had receded. I rinsed my hand of Seph’s nose drippings, then stood a minute looking at how far it had dropped, a good two feet or so, though it was still high. Papa said it would take a long time because of the ever persistent drizzly days. We’d already been out here about two weeks, and because it kept raining every other day or so, the flow washing down from higher points didn’t help. I bent and dipped the bucket in, filling it almost to the top. I wished I had two. It would mean less trips. I thought about the crisp, cold water from our well. Papa said he’d eventually figure how to get us water, but it would have to come after he got the roof on the cabin. Since we had a way to boil it, it won’t urgent, though it would sure taste better and save some work.

  I set the refilled bucket down. Seph squatted by a rock with a stick in his hand poking at the ground. Seeing he was preoccupied, I commenced to looking for chicory root from a plant Momma showed me long time ago called Blue Sailor. I spotted some near the embankment, and started gathering as much as I could hold. After a few minutes, I checked to see what Seph was doing, and couldn’t believe my eyes. He was laid flat out on his belly, slurping away like a dog at a small puddle of nasty-looking water. In that brief second of shock, I pictured dead animals, overrun privies, and no telling what all else the water had come in contact with while creating these little contaminated cesspools. I envisioned poison filling his gut.

  I threw the chicory root down and hollered, “Seph, no!”

  He raised his head, muddy mouth quivering with uncertainty and his already red-rimmed eyes filled. I run over to him and yanked him up and shook him hard.

  “No!” I yelled again.

  I took my hand and frantically wiped at his mouth, like I could remove the water he’d drank. I smacked him on the back several times, like I would knock it out of him. He went to crying and shaking, his hands flying up and down in distress, like a little bird trying to take flight, wanting to get away from me, away from my slapping hands. Shocked, I thought, How could I be so stupid? I should have kept him by my side! He didn’t know no better, and I immediately felt bad for yelling at him, and hitting him so hard. I picked him up and held him tight.

  “I’m sorry, Seph. I’m sorry. It’s okay, you was just thirsty, won’t you? It’s bad water, Seph! Bad water! Remember? I told you it’s nasty and full of bugs and it could make you sick! Why didn’t you do as I said?”

  He was crying so hard he’d expelled every ounce of air in his lungs, his mouth wide, and he’d yet to take in a fresh gulp. In my panic I slapped him on his back again, thinking he was choking. His face turned purple as an eggplant.

  I grabbed him by his arms and shook him, and yelled, “Seph! Seph! Breathe!”

  He recovered from the shock of being hit, and took a good lungful of air and let out a wail loud enough to be heard in the next county. I felt horrible, certain he wouldn’t understand why Wally had hit him. I never had. I rubbed his shoulders, smoothing my hand softly over the area. By now I was half crying too. I was surprised Momma or Papa hadn’t come running after all the commotion.

  “Oh, Seph. You scared me! Are you all right? Seph?”

  “I-I-I was firssssstttttyyyyy!”

  “I know, it’s okay. Look. Come on. Let’s play a game. You want us to play a game?”

  He wailed a bit more and I let him. I kept talking nonsense, telling him Wally won’t mad, Wally was scared, and Wally didn’t want him to be sick. Finally, he sniffed, relaxed in my arms and looked up at me. His eyes was so serious, so grown-up looking. I wanted to make it up to him. I needed to see Seph smiling at me again.

  “Wally, you was scared?”

  “I sure was. You give me a fright. Look a here. See these?”

  I pointed at the chicory roots I’d dropped on the ground. “Can you find some more like this? We got to find where these little roots is hiding, see? You got to look for this,” and I showed him the green leaves. “Then you got to pull real hard. And when you do? Out pops these little hiding roots. You’re big and strong, you can do that, can’t you?”

  He hiccupped and nodded at the same time. I put him down. He bent over and did what I asked. I was overcome with mixed feelings as I watched his small hands work, looking at me for approval, and when I’d smile he’d go on back to his task. I kept a close watch and he kept licking his lips. He was still thirsty, yet I imagined a horrible pestilence weaving its way deep down into his body.

  Every now and then he’d turn and say, “Like fis one, Wally? Like fis one?”

  Worried sick, I reassured him. “Yes, like that, Seph. You’re such a big boy!”

  We gathered for only a little while, my heart not in it anymore, so I helped him. I took him back after a few more minutes and had him give Momma all the roots we’d dug for.

  She smiled and said, “Oh now aren’t you being such a helpful boy!”

  She hugged him, and placed the roots out to dry, lining them up on the ground in a row, in an area out of the way. Seph seemed like he’d forgot all about my hollering and smacking the devil out of him. When he spotted Papa, he hurried over to where he was working with some small, flexible-looking vines. Papa was making homemade snares trying to catch a few wily squirrels who found it great fun to scamper up and down tree trunks right in front of us. Squirrel meat would be heaven. Even one tiny varmint would make a huge difference in my perception of our limited successes thus far.

  I worried over having to tell Momma what I’d caught Seph doing, particularly when I noticed how strained she looked, so different from only days ago even. In the past her hair had always been perfectly combed. She always wore clean aprons and dresses, and smelled of the fresh mint she favored and chewed from out of her herb garden. Momma was sensible, no matter what had happened, she’d know what to do—if anything needed doing. It was for that very reason I finally got the nerve to approach her while she worked with the chicory roots.

  I said, “Momma.”

  She stopped arranging the tubers and straightened up.

  Some emotion tinted my voice, because she come towards me quick asking, “What is it?”

  My stomach tightened. “I caught Seph drinking out of a puddle down to the creek.”

  She turned to look at him running in circles around Papa’s legs.

  She asked the first thing what had come to my mind. “He take in much?”

  I didn’t answer her question directly. I felt a need to explain myself. “I’d already got the water and decided I ought to look for the chicory. He was already drinking, so I don’t really know.”

  The disappointed look she leveled at me was worse than if she’d yelled in anger.

  I tried to reassure her, and myself, “I don’t think he drunk much.”

  As it sank in, she become more bothered by it. “Why didn’t you keep him with you? Even a little bit might could make him feel poorly.”

  “He won’t far. I could see him. He was playing with a stick, and I looked away for a second.”

  Momma’s disposition was testy these days, all of us on edge and feeling less tolerant for stupid mistakes. She glanced at Seph again, her lips clamped together.

  Eventually she let out a sigh and said, “Let’s hope he’s all right. You know you got to watch him ever so close, Wallis Ann.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I already felt bad enough, and Momma’s sharp tone, so unlike her, didn’t help. Later on, while working near Pa
pa, I wished I could rewind a clock and do the earlier part of the day all over. Seph got to crying as he followed Momma about, his hands pulling at her dress. Was he hungry? We was all hungry. That was expected. Was it something else? Momma stopped to pick him up, patting him.

  Her voice sounded concerned when she asked him, “Are you tired? We’re tired, aren’t we?”

  Seph only whined, then laid his head on her shoulder. He faced me and Papa, and it about killed me to see them blue eyes looking dull, and so . . . old. Come time to eat, we each had a handful a pecans Papa had found when he set the snares out, a bite or so of dandelion greens, and the horrible chicory root “coffee.” Seph pushed against Momma’s hand when she offered him a few nuts. He continued to act tired and cranky. There won’t much conversation. There was a short prayer by Papa, and we each took our few bites, and swallows of the acrid chicory, and then we went to bed soon after the sun set. Laci and I huddled near as we could get to the blaze, our feet planted together as usual. I drifted off, wanting to return to dreamland where food was abundant and served inside a warm home filled with soft beds.

  A distorted voice cut through my sleep.

  “Seph?”

  My eyes opened as Momma’s voice pricked the edges of a murky, but satisfying, fulfilling dream. I sat up, my back as creaky as an old, worn-out chair. A light, first frost had come overnight, and I can’t say how I was sleeping at all when it was so cold. My breath left milky little clouds suspended in the chilly air. Laci was balled up, hugging her knees to her chest, close to the dying fire. She shivered in her sleep. A wave of dizziness hit me, and it was like I viewed everything through a fogged window. My chest felt congested, and I coughed, then took a breath or two to quell my nausea.

  Shivering violently, I poked at the fire, and when it sparked bright, I seen Momma with Seph in her arms. He won’t moving. There was a foul smell drifting on the early morning air, reminiscent of a too full outhouse. I rose to my knees and seen something running down Momma’s arm where his backside rested. His head rolled towards me, his mouth slack, eyes half closed. My own misery left, and alarm took its place.

  I jumped up, asking stupid questions, as if I couldn’t see for myself. “What’s wrong? Is something the matter with Seph?”

  Momma’s face was fearful, and she said, “He’s so hot. He’s been sick a few times. I was hoping he’d get it all out and be fine, but now I can’t rouse him.”

  Papa was beside Momma, staring at Seph like he wanted to do something and didn’t know what.

  He gestured at her and said, “Ann, he’s done dirtied his self.”

  She laid him down on the ground by the fire and began taking his britches off.

  “Momma, we don’t have nothing else to put on him.”

  “I know, but he can’t stay like this. It’s the water, it’s done made him sick.”

  I didn’t know what to say or do. Papa began stacking wood in a different spot.

  He said, “I’ll build another fire over here. It’ll help keep him warmer.”

  I went to Momma’s side, picked up the clothes and said, “What do you want me to do? Should I try to clean them?”

  Seph woke and whimpered.

  Momma patted his arm when he abruptly sat up and cried out, “I gotta go!”

  Momma didn’t answer me, and barely had time to set him down when he took off running for the woods. As he went, a watery, brown discharge trailed down his legs. He stopped running, squatting right where he was. Momma made it to his side, and she bent down, her hands round his middle, talking to him. The foul sickness in him let go, and Momma’s face lost what little color it had, going white as if all her blood had drained out like what was emptying out of Seph. She glanced at us, overcome with distress and alarm, until Seph cried out again. He struggled out of her hands, then crawled away from the spot only to give up what little was in his stomach. My heart broke seeing him being sick. Again. And again. When he was done, Momma held him, ignoring his soiled condition.

  She said to Papa, “We got to do something! He’s got to have medicine!”

  I said, “I’ll go. It’s my fault. I’ll go find Doc Stuart.”

  Laci appeared by my side, and I stepped away from her because I couldn’t handle her clinging at the moment. Not when Seph was retching and dry heaving once again in the background, like his very insides was coming up.

  Papa said, “You can’t go off by yourself, Wallis Ann. I’ll go.”

  “I was by myself for days when I couldn’t find you and Momma. I took care of myself. I can ride Pete easier than you. I know where Doc Stuart lives.”

  Papa looked uncertain until Seph retched, then howled in pain.

  He said, “Alright. See if you can find him. Tell him what’s happened. It will take you at least a day and a night to get there and back. Hurry fast as you can. Remember, don’t give Pete his head too much.”

  He went to get the mule where he’d him tied for the night. He helped me climb on him and handed me the reins of his harness.

  Papa said, “Wait a minute.”

  He walked towards the fire. Momma was there with Seph in her lap, rocking and singing to him. She didn’t look at me. Papa returned and handed me a pocketful of pecans.

  He give me the jar of water, and said, “Drink as much as you can. Wished I could give you a pistol.”

  “I’ll be all right, Papa.”

  I ate the handful of pecans and drank the water while looking at Papa’s face. It was as worn as a piece of old rawhide, his eyes saggy with the newly formed bags underneath.

  He patted my knee and said, “Be careful, Wallis Ann. Come back to us quick as you can.”

  “Yes, sir. I will.”

  He stepped away and give Pete a slap on the rump. I glanced over my shoulder only once, my eyes finding Momma by the fire, Seph’s black hair against the white of her arms and Laci watching me leave. And when our eyes met, she started to come forward, and I turned abruptly. I couldn’t worry about her right now.

  Chapter 11

  My legs curved round the warm, barreled rib cage of Pete as I headed northwest. The flooded area of the Tuckasegee required me to backtrack in spots impossible to pass, so it took a good hour before Cullowhee Mountain and Cherry Gap come into view, and for a second it was like staring at the faces of old, long lost friends. I would have lingered, only the image of Seph and him needing the attention of Doc urged me to hurry. I prodded at Pete’s sides with my heels when he slowed as if to begin grazing. I tugged on the reins, refused to give him his head and he tossed it in protest, and finally did what I wanted. I hoped he wouldn’t turn ornery on me and decide to get spunky and take off like he’d done in the past. I didn’t think I’d have the strength to hang on.

  A variety of trees, oak, ash, sugar maple and more what had withstood the flood rose all round me as I come to Mill Creek branch. Some had their roots exposed, like blackened arthritic fingers while the soaked spruce and fir give off a hint of their spicy odors. Cardinals dotted limbs here and there, an array of bright, scarlet spots, busy in their search for food. I passed the Powells, kicking at Pete to get him moving faster because I couldn’t stand such a desolate scene. I realized the worst must have happened since the place looked abandoned. The only time I stopped was to hop off Pete for my own needs every now and then. The pecans hadn’t lasted long in my belly, and of course I was awful thirsty. Then I’d think of Seph’s misery and any piddly discomfort I might be feeling seemed plain selfish.

  I judged it to be dinnertime by the time I come to where I’d met the creepy Leland Tew and Joe Calhoun. The sun was at its highest, and if I was going to make it to Caney Fork by nightfall I needed to pick up the pace as much as possible. Off to the left was where I’d followed Joe Calhoun to help him out. Maybe one day I’d know what happened to him and his young’uns. I turned my attention to Pete, who picked his way around a tricky area littered with broken trees, an assortment of destroyed buildings and other garbage. I looked down, watching as he placed
his hooves carefully around rocks and slippery muddy spots, concentrating so hard I didn’t hear the creaking noise of the wagon coming behind me.

  Someone said, “Hey now.”

  I turned to look over my shoulder at none other than who I’d just been thinking about. I pulled on the reins to stop Pete. Joe Calhoun, Lyle and Josie sat perched on the seat of a buckboard wagon. Joe leaned forward and give me a hard look.

  He asked, “How’re you, Wallis Ann Stamper?”

  I said, “Mr. Calhoun, how you doing?”

  He pushed his hat up on his head. “Call me Joe. Fine, thank you. We was on our way home. Where you heading?”

  “Doc Stuart’s place over to Caney Fork. My little brother drunk some tainted water and took sick from it.”

  He pulled his wagon beside me, and said, “I’ll take you. We got room. Lyle, you and Josie git in the back.”

  “It ain’t necessary. I’ve made good time.”

  Joe looked in the direction I was headed.

  He said, “I reckon with things being as they are, you ain’t heard. The town was hit hard. I doubt Doc’s there. It’s going to git dark in a few hours. You can’t be riding round the countryside by yourself at night. Besides, I owe you for helping us out.”

  He was persuasive, sounding a lot like Papa.

  He said, “I’ll hitch your mule to the wagon, and take you and you can see for yourself.”

  He hopped out of his wagon as I started to refuse him. He come over to Pete, reached up and put his hands on me, helping me down. The idea of him being so close, smelling me, seeing how filthy I was, was enough to shut me up and do as he said. He helped me onto the seat of his wagon. I sat there, bunched in a knot, my arms folded over my waist, my bare, grimy feet tucked out of sight under the seat. I don’t know why I felt so self-conscious, or worried how greasy my hair might be, or how I’d not been able to bathe in forever. Joe didn’t act like he noticed. He’d likely be too polite if he did. He tied Pete to the rear of his wagon, climbed up and whistled at his own mule. The wagon lurched forward and when we was in the clear again, he chucked the reins and clicked and his mule went to trotting at a right good pace.