The Moonshiner's Daughter (ARC)

by Donna Everhart

the air over her head. Her white hair in a chaotic swirl, her mouth a thin line, I could tell she was distressed. I threw

  the shovel aside and walked down to where she stood by the

  driver’s door, her apron covered with cherry-colored stains, splotchy and uneven, like she’d wrung a chicken’s neck, or

  spilled some of them fruit bitters she touted as a cure-all. She handed the paper to me and on the front page of the Wilkes Journal-Patriot was a picture of Daddy with Nash Reardon.

  One of them had evidently snapped it right after he’d been

  caught. I studied the lack of expression on Daddy’s face, flat as a dinner plate, his hands clenched into fists the only sign he was upset by what was taking place. She stabbed at the page

  with a knobby finger, crooked as an old tree branch.

  She said, “Saw this and it like to have stopped my ticker. I’ll tell who it otter be, it otter be one of them low-down good-for-nothing Murrys, that’s who. Them and all their good-fer-

  nothing kind.”

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  She looked down at the photo, made a sound of disgust like

  she might spit on the ground.

  I said, “It’s them who’s been causing all the trouble we’ve

  had, like what happened to my cousin.”

  “That boy I seen the other day with that M burned into his chest?”

  “Yes’m.”

  “They must’ve gone to them revenuers.”

  “I don’t know. I think it was them that destroyed the still

  near to Boomer.”

  I didn’t elaborate as to what everyone else thought hap-

  pened.

  “Who all’s here?”

  “Me and my brother.”

  Merritt had only come out of his room once since he’d

  spilled everything to Daddy the day before, and then it was

  to rummage about the kitchen for something to eat. It was

  tough because of his one arm, and I thought about helping,

  but I didn’t. I let him do for himself. He was going to have to learn anyway. After Daddy hung up on me, I’d kept myself

  preoccupied straightening out my room, putting it back in

  order while trying not to think too much.

  I said, “You want some coffee?”

  She nodded. “I wouldn’t mind me a cup.”

  We went into the kitchen and the pot I’d made earlier was

  still on the back of the stove, and hot. I poured, then set the cup in front of her. She sat fanning herself, while sipping the hot liquid. It was into August already and the day was warm, but would get even warmer. I opened the paper to read the

  article. It was brief, stated what I already knew. I skimmed by that page, wondering what people thought, especially those

  who knew him well. I absentmindedly scanned articles, not

  really paying much attention until I came to the community

  news where I saw another photo that made me pick the paper

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  up for a closer look. It was of Aubrey and a few other classmates I recognized standing behind some tables set up on the lawn of the Shine Mountain Episcopalian church.

  The caption said: “Students of Piney Tops High School

  hold church yard sale to raise money for the purchase of new sports equipment for their school.”

  In the background leaning against a tree behind Aubrey’s

  table was Willie Murry wearing his customary unfriendly ex-

  pression. His attention wasn’t on her though. He was clearly eyeballing Cora McCaskill, who must be her new best friend.

  Even in this fuzzy black-and-white photo, I could see the

  want in Willie Murry, not unlike what Uncle Virgil had for

  the liquor. I was certain Aubrey was going to find out the

  hard way Willie would be about as difficult to nail down as a cockroach on the run after a light is switched on. I missed the old Aubrey, her energy, her presence by my side giving me a

  boost of confidence. I’d trusted her to keep my secret though, and she’d turned right around and betrayed me to Willie.

  Whatever she felt for him had been stronger than our connec-

  tion. Did she even regret it? The picture said no. The picture said she was doing fine. I tossed the paper aside.

  Mrs. Brewer said, “Where’s your aunt and uncle?”

  I didn’t want her knowing we were on our own.

  I gave a flimsy answer: “They’ll be back.”

  Secretly I hoped not.

  She pointed at the paper. “It’s plumb ridiculous. Man mind-

  ing his own business while the government thinks they got

  a say in what’s what. Folks round here been making shine all their lives. Born doing it, like me. Ain’t no different than selling jam, you ask me.”

  I didn’t agree. I’d seen too much bad come out of it. Peo-

  ple didn’t get upset over the sale of jam, and the like. People didn’t get run off the road. People didn’t get branded. People didn’t get killed.

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  I said, “Uncle Virgil said the odds was against Daddy.”

  “How’s your daddy holding up?”

  “Okay, I reckon. We ain’t had the chance to talk much.”

  I picked up my coffee cup and sipped at the bitter brew.

  The cramping in my middle was uncomfortable because I’d

  not eaten much these past few days and I was drinking it black like her, trying to conserve sugar and milk. I thought I should talk, but I didn’t want to get into all the sorry details of how we’d fallen apart as a family. What my family thought about

  me, how Daddy’s own brother stole off of him, then aban-

  doned us, or how my brother evidently blamed me for all the

  bad that had happened, including losing his arm.

  She stood as if to go, and I did too, but had to grab the edge of the table to steady myself.

  She said, “Dizzy?”

  Mrs. Brewer missed nothing.

  “My foot went to sleep.”

  She said, “I brung something for y’all to eat. Figured you

  wasn’t doing as I said.”

  I followed her outside and she retrieved a plate off the back seat. Whatever it was, it was covered up with a dish towel. She handed it to me, lifted a jar of honey, and another of homemade strawberry jam. She shut the door and we went back

  into the house, the smoky odor of sausage teasing my nose the entire way. In the kitchen I set the plate down and took off the towel. I was right. It was sausage biscuits on one side and peach jacks on the other.

  She said, “I don’t know any boy who ain’t always ready to

  eat. You want to get your brother?”

  I hesitated, then said, “Sure.”

  I went down the hall, pausing outside his door before I

  knocked. A heavy thud came, like he’d thrown a shoe at the

  door.

  I said, “Merritt, there’s—”

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  He yelled over me, “Leave me the hell alone, Jessie!”

  Mrs. Brewer was right behind me.

  She said, “It ain’t surprising he’s upset.”

  “He ain’t the only one—”

  The door jerked open with Merritt ready to give me what

  for, until he saw her.

  Mrs. Brewer calmly said, “You want something to et?”

  Merritt’s manners required him to speak, and with a crim
-

  son face, he said, “Yes’m.”

  We went into the kitchen and sat at the table. Having Mrs.

  Brewer here was comforting, and if I could’ve forgot about

  Daddy sitting in a damp jail cell, I might would’ve enjoyed

  her company more. She offered the plate to Merritt and he

  took a sausage biscuit and one of the peach jacks. When she

  passed it to me, I didn’t dare refuse. I decided on a peach jack.

  She said a blessing, and then the two of them proceeded to

  eat while I eyeballed the pastry, as my stomach flip-flopped.

  I broke off a small piece and stuck it in my mouth, where it sat on my tongue. I sipped on coffee and was finally able to swallow. I waited a moment or so, and that was all it took.

  My brain got the message something was happening, and I

  was able to take another bite, and another, and before long, I’d finished it. I scrutinized what was left. I could’ve eaten all of them. Meanwhile Mrs. Brewer and Merritt finished their

  biscuits and had moved on to having themselves the jacks.

  In between bites, she said, “Judges, sometimes they’re fear-

  ful somebody’ll run and they won’t never catch’em again, but maybe it’ll work out all right if your uncle will vouch for

  him.”

  Even if that were possible, Uncle Virgil wouldn’t vouch for

  nobody but himself. Merritt quit chewing and his forehead

  wrinkled.

  He said, “We can forget about that.”

  Mrs. Brewer said, “What do you mean?”

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  Merritt’s demeanor changed. He scowled at his plate, and

  jerked a thumb in my direction.

  He said, “Uncle Virgil took off with all of Daddy’s money.

  We could’ve had bail if it hadn’t been for her.”

  Mrs. Brewer sat back on the chair.

  She said, “He stole from y’all?”

  He nodded.

  She said, “Why, shoot! Ain’t no call to take from your

  own.”

  Merritt leaned forward, doing like he’d done with Daddy,

  filling in Mrs. Brewer. He started with Uncle Virgil, Aunt

  Juanita, and cousin Oral leaving, and how it was just as well.

  He cast rotten looks my way when he described how I’d seen

  them taking what belonged to us and said nothing. His belly

  full, he was talkative, and Mrs. Brewer listened, picking at the edge of the table. He went all the way back to the evening

  we got run off the road, and went from there. He even told

  her about how everyone at school thought I was peculiar, and how I’d only ever had one friend, and now had none. I tried

  to think of some way of explaining it all away that didn’t

  make me sound so terrible. I couldn’t think of how to defend myself. Finally, he was done.

  I whispered, “There’s reasons why it ended up like it did.”

  Merritt said, “Ain’t no good ones.”

  I got up from the table and went out the back door.

  Mrs. Brewer said, “Jessie?”

  I didn’t stop. I wasn’t going to try and explain, or listen to Merritt making snorting noises each time I brought up how

  he had it wrong, what I’d done was because of Mama and

  her horrible death, how I’d turned against making shine be-

  cause of it, and partly because of Daddy. It was rude to leave so abruptly, but who cared? If everyone already had such a

  crappy opinion of me, why not add rude to it?

  Merritt said, “She just feels sorry for herself.”

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  My insides bubbled like a still about to cap. He was wrong,

  all of them were wrong, about everything. I marched up the hill to the shed. The field behind it was pockmarked with

  dark holes where I’d been violating the land, punishing it for all my troubles. The shovel was leaning against a post as well as the pick I used to loosen the soil. I grabbed the pick and began stabbing at the earth repeatedly, working out my anger and, yes, maybe even a tiny bit of sorrow for being misunderstood. Mrs. Brewer had come after me. She stood by the shed, but I didn’t slow down.

  She said, “You wanting to tell me your side of it?”

  I raised the pick overhead and brought it down hard.

  “No’m.”

  “I know you mean no real harm, child. Things just get out

  of hand sometimes when you think you’re doing the right

  thing.”

  I couldn’t handle that sympathetic tone, the soft way she

  spoke like she believed I wasn’t all that bad, even without having heard me say a word in my own defense. I wanted to tell

  her how it happened. How I’d come to my conclusions and

  why I was the way I was—except I didn’t know for sure if I

  understood it myself. I slowed, wondering how I would even

  start to unravel what was like a knot of strings pulled tight, how to begin to justify myself.

  I leaned into the handle, spoke to the ground. “It’s because of what happened to Mama I’m like I am, and that’s why

  Daddy’s like he is. It’s why I hate making shine, and why I

  think like I do. Am I crazy?”

  Mrs. Brewer said, “Shoot, no. You’re confused is all. You

  got to figure it out, and when you do, it’ll be fine.”

  I shifted position, my arms and legs feeling fragile as twigs.

  I said, “I ain’t figured out nothing yet.”

  “Sure you have.”

  “Ma’am?”

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  “Last time you and I went and ate them tamales, you called

  him Easton. You calling him proper now.”

  She started down the hill, then stopped.

  She said, “You know, I seen her about town some years

  ago.”

  “Who?”

  “Your mama.”

  Those two words caught me off guard.

  I whispered, incredulous at this news, “You did?”

  She nodded, and said, “Here and there, sure, I seen her. I’ll tell you ’bout it next time.”

  Encouraged, I said, “I thought I’d never know what she

  looked like until Daddy finally gave me a black-and-white of her.”

  She said, “That’s good. Every girl needs to know about her

  own mama. Now, listen, I got to get on to the house ’fore it gets dark. My eyes at night, they ain’t so good. You and your brother, you’re welcome to come stay with me. I don’t like the idea of y’all up here alone with all that’s going on.”

  “We can’t leave. If Daddy calls, he’ll wonder where we

  are.”

  She said, “Well, that’s true. I’ll keep a check then. Keep

  them doors locked.”

  She went down the hill and waved at Merritt, who stood

  on the back steps, the empty sleeve of his T-shirt moving ever so slightly in the breeze. Thinking on what he’d done, I got angry all over again. To me, at this moment, he was no better than Oral, or Uncle Virgil. I went back to work, determined

  to find something, anything.

  Before long, I was jittery and limp and had to stop. What

  I’d done had brought me not one jar, not even that one-dollar bill. The sky had lost its light, like a rainbow fading. I rubbed my sore hands together and gazed at a purple-edged horizon,

  pinpricks of brightness winking and a quarter moon tilted

&
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  against the deepening night sky. The wind lifted damp hair

  off my neck, and as I listened to the forlorn hoot of an owl, I stayed long enough to watch dark descend over us, turning

  the mountains black. I’d never felt so alone before and realized the hollow feeling wasn’t always hunger.

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  Chapter 23

  Somewhere between the croaking of tree frogs and the chir-

  rup of crickets came the raspy sound of someone walking

  across gravel, then a scraping sound beneath my bedroom

  window. This was followed by mumbling. I sat up in the bed,

  and stared toward the darkened glass, at the white sash sitting halfway. I threw the covers off, and soon as my feet hit the floor there was a thump against the kitchen door. I stepped

  into the hall as Merritt opened his door too, and stuck his

  head out.

  He whispered, “You hearing that?”

  I put my finger to my lips, and motioned at him, much

  like we did when we were getting close to a still. We tiptoed toward the kitchen. Through the curtains at the back door I

  saw a shadow, the moon creating just enough light to reveal

  the form of someone hunched over. Subtle clicks came from

  the doorknob. Merritt punched my arm.

  He said, “They’re trying to break in.”

  I mumbled, “Get Daddy’s shotgun.”

  He scurried down the hall while I kept an eye on the door.

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  They were getting brave, turning careless even, making more

  noise as if the darkened house signaled no one was up to hear.

  The doorknob wiggled; then came more rattling as they tried

  to pick the lock. Merritt was back and carrying the gun in his left hand.

  He whispered, “You ain’t ever shot it much. You even re-

  member how?”

  Aggravated, I took it and whispered back, “Yeah, Merritt,

  I remember.”

  I’d only ever done it twice before, but he sure couldn’t with one arm.

  He said, “It’s got buckshot, and I’d shoot at that spot right there. Scare’em off.”

  I cocked the gun, then hesitated. I wanted to know who it