Home to Holly Springs

by Jan Karon

  ‘He forces those visits, of course. She’s trying not to make more trouble, and believes some good could come of it, some healing.’

  ‘Without the grace of the Savior,’ Nanny said, ‘there can be no healing between two such stubborn and godless men.’

  ‘Amen and amen. That’s why we must continue to forgive—and continue to pray.’

  ‘I’m trying, Yancey. But look what happened because the innocence and trust of one motherless boy was defiled—one whole family is left suffering for it. And look at Matthew’s poor brother and how their father has sullied even that relationship. On and on the suffering goes, into the next generation and, God forbid, even into the next unless Matthew comes to his senses. We’re all held hostage by his rage.’

  He heard the striking of a match on the hearthstone; then came the scent of tobacco, sweet as cherries.

  When Louis and Peggy were pulling onions, he hunkered behind the board fence and listened.

  ‘His Gran’paw Kav’nagh goan burn in hell fo’ what he done t’ Mr. Matthew,’ Louis said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Peggy. ‘He will.’

  ‘Course, a person can’t keep blamin’ ever’thing on what happen’ a long time back, we got t’ git up an’ go on.’

  ‘Yes. We do.’

  He was consumed by wanting to ask what Grandpa Kavanagh had done to his father. But he was terrified of the answer.

  On Friday afternoons in spring and summer, he often went with Grandpa Yancey to Indian Camp, the Howard homeplace where his grandpa was born and raised.

  The two-story house stood unpainted in a cow pasture and was empty save for a furnished room on the upper floor, which was the room his grandpa had been born in. It had an iron bedstead with a corn-shuck mattress, a table, a kerosene lamp, a chair, a chamber pot under the bed, a pair of overalls hanging on a nail, and a calendar dated 1932. That was it, except for a flashlight, a fly swatter, a glass to hold his grandpa’s teeth at night, and a pouch of pipe tobacco stuffed in a tin box.

  The whole place smelled ancient—of fireplace ashes and old biscuits, of rancid grease and pine boards, all of it laced with pipe smoke and the permeating scent of horse liniment which his grandpa rubbed on his legs when they cramped.

  Sometimes he was scared of the house and its haunting loneliness—his voice ricocheted off the bare walls even when he whispered, and there were cow patties everywhere, right up to the front door. Plus if he went outside at night to pee, he was always looking over his shoulder for foxes and bears, not to mention bats. Sometimes a bat got in the house and went crazy beating itself against the walls. He hated bats, you couldn’t see a bat’s eyes; you didn’t know when they were looking at you or what disgusting things they were thinking. But worse than bats was the black snake which his grandpa called his rat catcher. It lived in the attic, and twice he saw it crawling out on a tree limb that overhung the roof, where it sunned itself like it owned the place.

  ‘Huge!’ he told Tommy, spreading his arms as wide as he could. ‘Eight foot, maybe ten, an’ lives in th’ dern attic right over where we sleep.’ He realized he was bragging about the stupid thing which Louis would have chopped up with a hoe before you could even spit.

  Each time he was invited, he plotted an excuse not to go. Then, at the last minute, he wanted to go more than anything in the whole world—he would rather die than miss smelling the liniment and the kerosene and the pipe smoke, and gobbling up cookies and sitting on the steps at night listening to his grandpa talk in his soft, happy voice. After a while, he even got to liking the corn-shuck mattress.

  ‘Grandpa, wake up,’ he once said.

  ‘What is it, boy?’

  ‘There’s somethin’ in th’ mattress.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like somethin’ chewin’.’

  ‘Bugs have to eat, too. Go back to sleep.’

  He brought books from the town library or his grandfather’s shelves, unfailingly gripped by curiosity over what he might learn or feel persuaded by the author to imagine. Grandpa Yancey brought a notebook, the Bible he used in the pulpit at First Baptist, and his favorite pipe, along with a vast picnic basket packed by Nanny Howard’s cook, Mitsy.

  There were always chocolate cookies in a round tin with a picture of Santa Claus on the lid. And his grandpa would always grin really big and wiggle his eyebrows as he dug around in the basket for the tin. ‘Ho ho ho, Timothy!’ he always said when he pulled it out. Then they’d take the lid off and say a blessing and eat the cookies before they ate the other stuff. Always.

  This evening before dark, he had helped his grandpa toss hay off the truck bed to his twenty-one steers, then they’d straggled to the house and foraged in the basket and shook the cookie crumbs from the tin into their hands.

  ‘Father, make us ever thankful for crumbs as well as banquets, in the name of our Lord, Jesus Christ.’

  ‘Amen!’ they said, and licked the crumbs from their salty palms without washing up first.

  It was May, and a whippoorwill called as they sat together on the porch step. His grandfather lit his pipe as the bird spoke its name again and again into the deep of the dusky wood.

  ‘Twenty-eight times,’ he told his grandpa. A waxing moon lit the porch and yard and silvered his grandfather’s face. ‘That’s th’ most yet.’

  ‘You still have a ways to go to beat my count, little buddy.’

  When his grandpa was a boy, he had counted a chain of forty-two calls from a single bird. He, Timothy, was determined to hear forty-three if it was the last thing he ever did. He’d even prayed about God letting him hear forty-three calls, though he wondered how it would feel to beat his grandpa, who might not like being beaten.

  His grandpa puffed his pipe, thoughtful. ‘Just think how all this good land around us was home to the Chickasaw nation.’

  Thinking about that nearly always made the hair stand up on his arms.

  ‘Think about the Indian princess whose summer camp was right behind those trees yonder and down that little hill where the springs bubble up. Several times over the years, I know I heard their horses whinnyin’ and their children laughin’. Shoot, one time I even smelled their meat roastin’ on th’ spit. It was wild boar hog, sure as you’re born.’

  ‘Do you think you really did hear th’ horses an’ all?’

  ‘Seemed real to me, but maybe it was th’ product of an overactive imagination—like somebody I know whose name begins with T.’

  “I wish I could have lived back then.’

  ‘It was a peaceful time before we rode in here an’ tore up jack. I hate we did that.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Some say those springs over yonder are the true holly springs the town was named after, but I never thought so.’

  ‘How come you never?’

  ‘Not big enough to have a whole town named after ’em, not even big enough to swim a horse. No, sir, you got to be a spring and a half to get a town named after you.’

  ‘There’s no holly bushes down there, neither.’

  ‘Not a one. That settles it.’

  His Grandpa Yancey’s voice was different from Grandpa Kavanagh, who hollered when he talked and still had a weird Irish accent after living in Mississippi for practically his entire life.

  He heard the long sucking-in of breath; amber light flamed in the bowl of the pipe; the air was sweet with the scent of mown hay and cherries and the residue of their hard sweat from feeding up.

  ‘Tell what happened when the Chickasaw ceded th’ land to the government, Gandpa.’ In this particular story, his part would come up pretty fast; he knew it as good as he knew his own name.

  ‘Soon after the government half stole th’ land from th’ Chickasaw and did that terrible thing of movin’ them west, here comes Virginia and the Carolinas troopin’ in—foundin’ towns, settin’ up shop, buildin’ mansions. Here comes doctors, lawyers, bankers, clergymen, th’ whole shebang. As you recall, it wasn’t long after that, that your great-great-grandma,
Mary Jane, lit out to Mississippi with her brother James—had th’ tools of his trade in a wood box nailed to th’ wagon bed. Mary Jane was seventeen years old, and pretty as a speckled pup. James was twenty-four. Where’d they come from?’

  ‘Th’ mountains of Tennessee. They took th’ Wilderness Road that passes through the Cumberland Gap.’

  ‘Why were they comin’ to Mississippi?’

  ‘Land was really cheap, so a whole lot of people were movin’ here, an’ lots of ’em needed hats.’

  ‘Where did they take on fresh supplies?’

  ‘Nashville, Tennessee.’

  ‘After they took on supplies in Nashville, they turned their ox team onto th’ Andrew Jackson Military Road and headed to Colbert Ferry on the Tennessee River. They’d sold up th’ homestead an’ its contents after their mama an’ daddy died of fever, an’ had all their belongin’s on that homemade covered wagon. Think of that. If we could put all our belongin’s on a wagon today, we’d be better off. Crossed th’ Tennessee River on a ferry an’ picked up th’ Old Natchez Trace to Jackson. We don’t know why they decided to use th’ Trace, as better roads were available by then, but they must have known what they were doin’. Why were they headed to Jackson?’

  ‘Uncle James knew somebody in Jackson.’ His mother and Nanny Howard had taken him to Jackson to shop at Kennington’s and get their silk stockings mended. Tommy had never been to Jackson or hardly even Oxford or Yazoo or anywhere.

  ‘So here they come in that wagon, can you see ’em comin’?’ His grandpa spit in the yard.

  ‘Yes, sir, I can.’ He spit, too.

  ‘Sometimes they’re ridin’, but mostly they’re walkin’, because those old wagons didn’t have any suspension system—they’d beat you to death. Whenever they could, they walked barefooted to save shoe leather, which I can tell you right now I wouldn’t have th’ courage to do, with all those copperheads slitherin’ every whichaway.’

  He hated that he could see the copperheads plain as day, moving through leaf mold and shimmering along creek beds.

  ‘Well, sir, here they come with a team of oxen down that crooked ol’ Trace overhung with vines, and pocked with mud holes deep enough to sink your wagon to th’ axle. There was a lot for a young man and a young woman to look out for in th’ wilderness, but some say th’ worst thing was Indians. Not all th’ Chickasaw had cottoned to th’ cession idea, which I wouldn’t, either, if I was an Indian. Some stayed on th’ land and not a few liked makin’ trouble for whoever came along th’ Trace. Then there was th’ next worst thing, don’t you know.’

  ‘Th’ weather.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Th’ weather. They got held back by hard rains that didn’t let up for three weeks, and it was three weeks more before th’ ground dried up so they could press ahead. Most of their flour went bad with weevils and damp. No hot biscuits or hoe cakes, no dumplin’s in th’ soup pot. An’ pretty soon their jerked venison was runnin’ low an’ they were givin’ out of coffee. So what kind of rations did the good Lord provide?’

  ‘Berries, lots of berries. An’ bird eggs an’ rabbit an’ squirrel an’ a turkey gobbler. An’ for tea, they boiled up sassafras root, an’ chickory root for coffee.’

  ‘Just think about that good smell of turkey stewin’ under that tarp they set up to keep th’ rain out, an’ th’ Ol’ Trace still troubled with th’ next worst thing…’

  ‘Robbers an’ murderers.’

  ‘Yessir. Th’ Trace was still haunted by th’ memory of men like th’ Harpes, who butchered travelers and homesteaders all along the way. An’ now that th’ traffic had died down a good bit because of better roads, criminals were usin’ th’Trace as a hidey-hole. Just ponder how those good cookin’ smells might be th’ very ticket to draw out th’ lowlife.’

  He imagined how a robber could have crouched in a tree right over his great-great-grandmother’s head—she could have been sitting right under the branches shelling pecans, not knowing he was up there biding his time ’til the turkey got done.

  ‘So what did Uncle James and Mary Jane do to keep safe from th’ perils of a fallen world?’

  ‘They prayed mornin’ an’ evenin’ an’ all times in between,’ he said.

  ‘Does it seem foolish to think somethin’ as simple as prayer could do even a mite of good against wild beasts, mad Indians, an’ murderers?’

  ‘No, sir. Psalm Seventy-two says, “He shall deliver th’ needy when he crieth; the poor also, and him that hath no helper.”’

  ‘Amen! And what happened?’

  ‘It turned out other people goin’ toward Jackson got stopped by th’ rain, and they all connected up ’til pretty soon there was a whole bunch of people that formed a camp that wouldn’t anybody try to rob.’

  ‘God’s grace on th’ Ol’ Trace. There’s many stories about that. So James an’ Mary Jane, they’re back in th’ wagon now, headed south. Th’ weather’s faired off an’ th’ wildflowers are bloomin’ an’ they’re on their way. You see ’em comin’?’ His grandpa spit.

  He spit, too. ‘Yessir!’

  They had stopped to water the oxen, and his great-great-grandma was sitting in the wagon on a pile of blankets, writing the story of their journey in the back of a big Bible. It had engravings of all the Old and New Testament stories, including Jesus preaching in the temple, an image which he had the honor to see anytime he wanted, as the very same Bible lay open to this picture in his grandpa’s glass-front bookcase. His imagination never let him see his great-great-grandma’s face, but she was wearing a brown dress, and the stock of a Springfield muzzle-loader poked out from under the quilts.

  ‘They’re comin’ on down to around where Tupelo is now, it was Harrisburg back then, and James, he pulls th’ wagon over in th’ bushes in case anybody wants to pass, an’ he walks back a little ways an’ steps behind a big rock. Then he pulls his britches down an’ he’s doin’ what a man has to do, when…’

  It was his cue to tell the best part of the story. ‘When he looks up an’ a big ol’ black bear is standin’ at the edge of the woods.’

  ‘What did Miss Mary Jane say th’ bear was doin’?’

  ‘Studyin’ Uncle James.’

  ‘How close was th’ bear to her brother?’

  ‘Five yards.’

  ‘How tall was th’ bear?’

  ‘Better than six foot.’

  ‘Does James get up an’ run?’

  ‘No, sir, he didn’t move. He says in a normal voice, “Mary Jane, take care of this bear.”’

  His grandpa laughed at the mimic. ‘Say on!’

  ‘She was seein’ all this from th’ back end of th’ wagon, where the rifle was lyin’ under th’ quilts. Quick as a flash, she grabbed up th’ rifle, which they kept loaded at all times, and sighted th’ bear. Then, before she got off a shot, th’ team shied an’ she kind of lost her balance and the ball went over th’ bear’s head. Th’ bear looked at th’ wagon like he was changin’ his plan, an’ she knew she didn’t have time to load again. So she stepped back and grabbed their muzzle-loadin’ pistol, which was lyin’ next to her Bible on th’ work box.’The hair stood up on his neck.

  ‘What’d she say?’ asked his grandpa.

  ‘She cocked th’ hammer an’ said, “Lord, You got to do this thing, amen.” By now th’ bear was comin’ for th’ wagon. He was gettin’ so close she could smell ’im when she fired th’ pistol.’

  ‘What did she say he smelled like?’

  ‘Leaf mold. Wet dirt. Berries an’ skunk.’

  ‘Where’d she shoot ‘im?’

  ‘Right between th’ eyes with a fifty-caliber ball.’

  ‘Good shot.’

  ‘But he kept on comin’.’

  ‘Lord have mercy.’

  ‘’Til he got right up to the wagon.’Though he knew the story like a book, his heart was beating faster. ‘Then he sort of just crumpled over and fell down. Dead as a doornail.’ Right here, he could never keep from feeling kind of sad.

  ‘If your gr
eat-great-grandma hadn’t pulled th’ trigger on that bear, you and I wouldn’t be sittin’ here tonight. Nossir, we wouldn’t even have been a twinkle in somebody’s eye.

  ‘An’ just look how many ways th’ good Lord was workin’ in this. He gave her th’ gumption and th’ wherewithal to kill that poor beast, which saved at least one life an’ maybe two—an’ on top of that, he threw in another portion of mercy and grace.’

  ‘Yessir, because they got to eat th’ bear,’ he said. ‘An’ what was left fed two more wagonloads.’

  His grandpa shook his head, marveling. ‘Knee-deep in manna and quail! What comes next?’

  ‘Pretty soon after they shot th’ bear, they had a change of heart about where they were goin’. A man on th’ Trace told ’em Jackson already had two hatmakers…’

  ‘Competition!’

  ‘…and said he knew a good place that didn’t have any hatmakers at all.’

  ‘So what’d they do?’

  ‘They turned off th’ Trace an’ cut th’ team northwest to Holly Springs.’

  ‘Hot dog! Now you’re talkin’.’

  His grandpa knocked the ashes from his pipe. ‘They pulled into Holly Springs on September th’ fourteenth, th’ year of our Lord eighteen hundred an’ thirty six, at three o’clock in the afternoon. They got busy buyin’ this land we’re sittin’ on, an’ buildin’ a dogtrot cabin down by th’ springs. Then James bought a little patch about where th’ square is now, and put up a shop an’ started makin’ hats with Mary Jane helpin’. Beaver hats, they were—warm, waterproof, an’ economical! Uncle James got his hides from th’ Chickasaw and some from th’ Choctaw. An’ all th’ time, people just swarmin’ into town like ants, nailin’ and hammerin’, diggin’ and hoein’, lawyerin’ and bankin’, midwifin’ and doctorin’.’

  The dry summer grass was loud with crickets. His grandpa spit toward the grass to see if he could hit it. ‘You remember, now, not to spit in town.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Spittin’s for th’ country.’

  ‘Yes, sir. My turn again?’

  “Your turn.’

  ‘’Til one day my Great-Great-Granddaddy Pinckney walked in th’ shop an’ took off his old beaver hat and said, “Ma’am, can you patch these holes? I was comin’ along the Trace on my little mare a while back when a rogue rifle ball passed clean through my hat—which I happened to be wearin’ at th’ time. As I heard it, a lady had fired two shots at a bear and this was th’ shot that missed.”