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Chapter 9
Daddy couldn’t sit still. He went from the stove to the back door, to the table and to the sink. Round and round. I didn’t talk, and before too long, a truck door slammed announcing
Uncle Virgil. He walked into the kitchen bringing with him
an odor, pungent and tangy, his day working in the chicken
houses still clinging to his clothes. I sat at the table with Merritt, tired, edgy, and feeling like I could eat every single thing we had in the fridge and cabinets. As was typical, Uncle Virgil looked to me for a glass of cold tea. I jumped up to get it, more accommodating than usual, while thanking my lucky
stars Daddy hadn’t questioned me harder.
Daddy said, “Might be time to go see one of them agents.”
He’d never done such before, only threatened it, because
those who lived here didn’t like to rely on outsiders. They
liked to handle their own matters, and didn’t take kindly to anyone else butting in. I brought glasses of tea to the table, and sat down to listen. More than likely he’d go, but he might have Uncle Virgil do it. Daddy sipped on his tea, got his pack of Winstons from his shirt pocket, shook one out, and lit it.
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He said what we’d heard before. “Ain’t a one of them Mur-
rys worth a blunt nickel.”
Uncle Virgil agreed. “They act like they the only ones
ought to be making and running. They ain’t been in it near
as long as us.”
Daddy said, “That’s a fact. Hell, they don’t even drink what they sell. They know it ain’t nothing but rotgut.”
Uncle Virgil said, “Heard Jerry Watkins took real sick af-
ter drinking some of it the other day. Somebody over to the
chicken houses said they’d tried it. Said it tasted like poison
’cause that’s what it is.”
Daddy said, “Jerry’s lucky he lived.”
Uncle Virgil said, “I found out they been using Elk Creek
for a water source just a ways down Tom Dula Road. There’s
a twin oak near where they go in; start there, and it ain’t too far. ’Bout ten minutes north. They got several boilers going.”
Daddy blew out a cloud of gray smoke and said, “Jessie, you
got to be the one to go tell this agent feller.”
I sat up straight.
“What? Why me?”
“They’ll believe a woman ’fore they’ll believe a man. They
think somebody like me showing up, or your uncle Virgil, is
only trying to stir up trouble. Plus, it draws attention, seems suspicious, like maybe we’re talking because we got some part in it.”
Uncle Virgil said, “That’s the truth. Mrs. Taylor, she’s been to’em several times when her and Dinky found themselves
cut out of their profits by that no-account, good-for-nothing Fred Cullers. They listened to her, and that was the end of
Fred Cullers’ still.”
Daddy tapped his ash into the ashtray and agreed with him.
“That’s right.”
I crossed my arms. “I ain’t doing it.”
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He said, “You will do it unless what happened up there
ain’t exactly like you said.”
I shifted in my chair, and said, “I found it the way I said, and that’s the truth.”
Merritt and Uncle Virgil studied the tabletop while Daddy
studied me. I reconsidered my quick answer. It would prove
I’d told the truth if I agreed to what he asked.
I said, “Fine. What would I have to say to him?”
Daddy stubbed out his cigarette. “Tell’em you got informa-
tion on the whereabouts of a still. They’ll take it down and you walk out. Anonymous, and all.”
“All right.”
Uncle Virgil said, “Can’t hardly believe ole sourpuss here
ain’t putting up more fight than that.”
Daddy said, “You bring them jumper cables with you?”
Uncle Virgil said, “Yeah,” and they got up from the table
and went out the back door. I got up too, wanting to take a
bath, tend to my foot, and fill the hole in my center growing by the minute.
Merritt, his face flushed an exceptional bright pink, said,
“Shoot, wonder how long it takes them agents to find a still, even when they got directions?”
Irritable, I said, “How would I know?”
He grunted, then went to get up from the table and had
a hard time keeping his balance. Maybe I shouldn’t have
snapped his head off. I reached out to help him and he used
his good hand to push me away
He said, “I ain’t that bad off.”
His hand felt hot; his eyes were glassy.
I said, “Shit, Merritt, you been into the hooch?”
He said, “Hell no. Leave me alone.”
I leaned forward and sniffed, and he stuck his hand out
again, warning me off.
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“Merritt!”
“Well, get away from me.”
I waited for him to turn, and then I put a hand on his back.
It also felt abnormally warm. He spun around, lifted the hand again like he would smack me. I took several steps back and
raised my hands up to let him know I wasn’t going to touch
him again.
I said, “Merritt, I think you got a fever.”
“Probably.”
“You feel bad?”
“It ain’t nothing. I’m going to bed.”
“Get some of them BCs in the bathroom cabinet.”
He said, “I already did.”
He was probably lying, but if he wanted to feel miserable,
what could I do about it? He clumped down the hall, holding
his bad arm with his good. He’d been using the fingers that
poked out the end of the cast some before, and now he relied solely on his left arm and hand. After he shut his bedroom
door, I went into the bathroom, and filled the tub with water.
I stayed off the scale. I didn’t look in the mirror. I stuck my blistered heel into the hot water first. It hurt like the dickens, but once I got all the way in, it eased off. I stretched out, avoided looking down the length of my body. I didn’t want to start obsessing about my breasts, my belly, my thighs, without clothes. I listened to the internal workings of my gut. The
gurgles and protestations. I wanted to eat. It didn’t have to be much. Just enough to feel less wobbly-legged. Just enough so I wouldn’t need to put my finger down my throat.
I dropped lower, used my foot to turn on the handle for
more hot water. The wish for food went away when I thought
about talking to the revenuer, but what bothered me just as
much was Aubrey. I stared at the water gushing from the
spout. Maybe she was like Zeb. Maybe her mouth worked
like this faucet. After a while I pulled the plug, and it was Ever_9781496717023_2p_all_r1.indd 92
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while I was drying off I heard a muffled noise. I wrapped
the towel around me and opened the bathroom door. Steam
rolled out and around me, swirling like white smoke. I poked my head out and listened as Merritt mumbled to himself.
I said, “Merritt? You all right?”
The mumbling stopped. No more sounds came fr
om his
room.
I shook my head, shut the bathroom door, and finished
drying off. When I was done, I put on my housecoat, and car-
ried the wet towel out to the back porch where an old rusty
washing machine sat. I dropped the towel in the drum, and
when I came back into the kitchen, I eyed the refrigerator,
then the clock. It was almost nine. Daddy could come back
any minute. I leaned against the counter, my belly crying for something. I got the glass from where I’d left it on the table earlier and refilled it with more tea. I drank and all that did was make me hungrier.
I flicked off the overhead light, liking the dark as I went
toward the refrigerator, and pulled on the handle. There on
the top shelf sat a white paper bag, grease spots staining the outside. I remembered Merritt eating a Smithey Burger when
I came in earlier. Daddy brought them home at least once
a week and it couldn’t have worked out better, since there
was nothing else. I took the bag out, and shut the door, re-
turning the room to darkness. I reached in, got one out, and set it on the table. The paper crinkled loudly as I closed the bag. I went to the kitchen door, checked to see if anyone was coming, then gave a quick peek down the hall at Merritt’s
door. Still closed. I was alone. I was deliberate when I put the bag back in the refrigerator. Only one, Jessie. That’s al . I went back to the table and unwrapped the hamburger. It was slick
with mustard and ketchup. I brought it up to my nose, and
the smell made my mouth water while I gagged at the same
time, my midsection and head in conflict. I bit into it, taking Ever_9781496717023_2p_all_r1.indd 93
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only a small bite, chewed once. Twice. I chewed some more,
and fought the rising nausea. That happened sometimes, and
I didn’t know why. I swallowed and waited to see if it would stay down. Depending on how long it had been, sometimes I
found myself running for the bathroom to get sick.
It stayed and I wanted more. This time I took a regular bite, and another, and another, until I was cramming the rest of it in, my fingers pressing against my lips as I acted on impulse, going back to the refrigerator a second time. I grabbed the
bag, took it to the sink, and stood over it to eat. I was still chewing while reaching for another when the sound of our
truck coming up the drive sent me rushing to the metal trash can by the stove. I spit the clump of hamburger out, knowing I had to bury the empty wrappers. I put my hand over
my mouth, fighting the need to release the pressure in my
stomach as I grabbed them, and shoved them underneath the
newspapers and food scraps.
I grabbed the bag with the rest of the food, opened the re-
frigerator door, and was putting it back when Daddy came in.
I slammed the door shut as he flipped on the light. He shoved his cap back off his head, revealing pale skin that didn’t match the lower part of his face.
He said, “Why’s this light off ?”
“I was about to turn it on. I was putting the tea up. I saw
the glasses needed washing. I was going to wash them, and—”
He cut in and said, “Explain something to me.”
His voice didn’t sound right. I walked to the sink, turned
on the faucet, got the water good and hot. I didn’t like the way he spoke, low, almost ominous, like he was going to tell me something bad happened. I swished the water around and
waited with my back turned.
“Tell me why this axe was under the front seat.”
Shit, the axe. I’d forgot about the axe.
I faced him. He held it out, like he was wanting me to take
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it. I didn’t move. I couldn’t. Dumb. So dumb. I should have
brought it with me when I walked home. I could’ve thrown
it down a hillside on Lore Mountain Road. It would have
been one of them things, mysteriously gone. Left somewhere,
never to be found again.
“Don’t hand me no bullshit about how you didn’t know
about it. I ain’t put it there.”
There wasn’t nothing else to do but tell him the truth.
“I took it with me. But I didn’t do that to the still.”
“You mean to tell me it’s busted all to hell, and you were
out there with this, and you didn’t do it?”
“I didn’t.”
He said, “That story don’t seem possible. Not when all I
ever hear out of that mouth of yourn is how much you hate
it. You don’t never want to do a damn thing except be a pain in the ass. Swear to God, this here’s lower than anything them damn Murrys would do. Worse. They ain’t family.”
I pressed my hands together. The hamburgers tried to climb
back up my throat and I swallowed repeatedly.
Daddy said, “What a goddamn mess. My own daughter.”
Trembling, I said, “I didn’t do it. I didn’t.”
His voice was low when he said, “You know what I say to
that? Bull. Shit.”
Resentment took over, and I yelled, “Okay, fine! I was going to do it. I was going to hack it to pieces, beat the hell out of it, but I didn’t have to. I’m telling you, it was like that when I got there.”
The silence grew and the taste in my mouth turned oily and
repulsive. I went to the sink and started scrubbing the glasses so hard it was a wonder they didn’t break. Pissed, I splashed water everywhere as my indignation grew. Daddy went back
outside and I was glad. Merritt came from his room back into the kitchen and that made me madder than I already was. I
didn’t want to hear him take sides. I let the water out of the Ever_9781496717023_2p_all_r1.indd 95
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sink and heard a funny scraping noise. I saw he hadn’t quite made it to the chair yet and wobbled back and forth, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to sit or stand. He pitched about and I was sure he’d fall. He acted like he was drunk, and I
began to think he’d lied. I bet he had a jar of it hidden somewhere, and my earlier concern he might be sick was replaced
by an even hotter anger.
Feeling stupid over the axe, I snipped at him, “What’s the
matter with you? You’re drunk, that’s what’s the matter. Be-
tween the two of you, it’s a wonder I ain’t into it myself.”
He ignored me and sat on a kitchen chair. Impatient, I be-
gan wiping the counter off in a frenzied fit of cleaning. I went over to the table, scrubbing at the top, working to dispel my anger. I was only about a foot away from where he sat and heat came off him like I’d opened the oven door. I stopped wiping the table and studied him, trying to determine if something
was actually wrong. He had his head down on his good arm
and was making this little rocking motion with his body. His face was turned toward the wall, and he didn’t look up, but I made out what he said.
“Something’s wrong with my arm.”
I said, “Is it hurting worse?”
He had trouble focusing on where I was, his face scrunched
in pain.
He said, “I can’t hardly stand it.”
I went to the back door. I couldn’t see Daddy anywhere.
I hollered, “Easton!”
Merritt looked like he’d been put under a broiler. I got a
clean dish towel and wet it, and brought it to him He
leaned back, put it across his forehead, and I caught the odor of something putrid.
I said, “Merritt, what is that smell? God. Ain’t you been
bathing?”
He tugged the sleeve of his pajamas up, exposing the length
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of the cast and a small part of his arm above it. That and his hand, really the entire sight, made me gasp. What wasn’t covered up with plaster was swollen almost twice the normal size, constricted so his wrist and hand bulged, as did his upper arm.
He’d been trying to get at something down inside the cast.
There were long, scarlet streaks on his skin, like cat scratches.
The tips of his fingers were bloated, and were an uncharacter-istic whitish color.
I said, “Oh my God, Merritt, how long’s it been like that?”
He placed his head on the tabletop, and said, “I don’t know.
It was okay; then it started itching real bad last week. I got to scratching it by sticking a coat hanger down inside, until it got like this.”
His eyes were barely there slits and I was sure his fever was high when he began shivering. I went into the hall closet,
grabbed a blanket, and brought it to him. He sat with it
around his shoulders, slumped over and trembling. Other-
wise, he didn’t move. I sat on the chair beside him and hoped wherever Daddy was, he wouldn’t be long. Merritt needed to
go to the hospital again, or at least see a doctor.
There was an occasional miserable groan out of him and I
sat with him for what felt like a long time before the screen door opened and Daddy came inside. He didn’t look at us. I
was about to speak, to tell him about Merritt, when I noticed he held a mason jar with the clear liquid I despised.
He brought the jar up to the light, and said, “It ain’t half-bad. I can see why some got to have it.” He dropped his arm, and in a curious, musing tone he said, “Wonder why it is you think you got the right to judge, to act like you ain’t a part of this family.”
I ignored what he said and pointed at Merritt.
I said, “Look.”
Merritt lifted his head, and quickly put it back down on the dish towel, as if even that caused a lot of discomfort.
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Daddy noticed and he said, “Son?”
The Moonshiner's Daughter (ARC) Page 11
