fought with my head. The bowl of rice came next, a plate
of corn bread, and another of fried okra. Last was a baked
chicken.
She said, “Y’all go on and wash up; then let’s eat.”
Merritt went to the kitchen sink, stuck his one hand un-
der the stream of water, while I headed for the bathroom.
I avoided the mirror, avoided even a glance at the toilet. I washed my hands, staring at the rust stain from the faucet
drip. My belly urged me to fill it while at the same time I considered telling Mrs. Brewer I couldn’t eat. I was sure it would only make her worry, and fuss. I went back into the kitchen
and sat at the table.
After a quick blessing, she said, “Fill yer plates; I know you got to be hungry.”
Merritt obliged, his plate running out of room while I only
put small amounts on mine as the bowls were passed my way.
My fork hovered, while I tried to decide what my stomach
would do, rebel or not. After they started eating, I pushed the food about on my plate.
Mrs. Brewer said, “That still I got, it ain’t big as what y’all had, but it’ll make fifty gallons easy.”
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Merritt, his voice hopeful, said, “Why, sure, that’s right.”
She said, “Jessie, what do you think?”
I put my fork down.
I said, “How’re we gonna haul it?”
Mrs. Brewer said, “In the back of my old car. Right there
in the trunk. Shoot. Won’t nobody never suspect a thing.”
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Chapter 33
Nothing escaped her because she knew me, but I thought I
was smart, thought I could hide what I’d done like I always
had. My new clothes, unlike my old, fit comfortably, but
that made no difference as to how I felt, or my state of mind.
She did like always, and kept me busy after supper. I washed up the dishes, and then we sat round the table while she
and Merritt enjoyed a slice of coconut cake. We talked about making shine in her still. I only nibbled on the slice she’d given me, while drinking the special tea. The peppermint
taste was nice, and I considered I might be all right. We put our plates in the sink; then we listened to the radio for some time.
When a commercial came on, I excused myself and said,
“I’ll be right back.”
I went into the bathroom. She had a scale. I stepped on it,
and clapped a hand over my mouth to hold in a cuss word.
The walls in her house were thin, and I didn’t want her com-
ing to see what was going on. I’d somehow put on five pounds since the last time I’d weighed myself. I can’t let this happen.
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I was locked in place, staring at the number, feeling like I’d betrayed myself, when Merritt knocked on the door.
“Hey, Jessie?”
I cleared my throat, aggravated, and with irritation I said,
“What!”
“Mrs. Brewer needs help.”
I said, “Just a minute.”
“She said hurry.”
I stepped off the scale, and yanked the door open. “What
is it?”
He waved his prosthesis toward the kitchen, and said, “She
can’t open some jar, and I can’t get a grip on it neither. I tried.”
I pushed by him, irritated. In the kitchen she held a jar of homemade bread-’n-butter pickles, gnarly fingers attempting
to twist the lid with no results.
I said, “You wanting to eat pickles now?”
She said, “I get a hankering when my stomach’s upset,” and
gave me that look like she used to at the school.
I took the jar and tried. It was tight. I got a butter knife, and tapped the edge, and tried again. The seal broke with a snap, and the lid came off.
She plucked an olive-colored slice out, plopped it in her
mouth, and said, “Here, try one. Made’em myself.”
“I’m already full.”
She said, “Don’t see how.”
Merritt said, “Lemme try one.”
Mrs. Brewer offered him the jar and the both of them
crunched and smacked their lips enthusiastically, making my
mouth water.
I said, “Okay, one.”
She tipped the jar and I put a piece in my mouth and
chewed. It was really good. She ate another, and so did we. A couple minutes later, my stomach settled.
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She said, “Pickles been around hundreds of years. Always
good for what ails you, particularly the belly.”
I sighed. She was trying so hard to keep me from doing
what had become natural, ordinary, far as I was concerned.
While it didn’t necessarily make me feel better about myself, it was a need I couldn’t describe, a need once fulfilled that enabled me to function. It was as if in doing this I cleared my head the way I cleared my stomach of its contents. We
returned to the living room where the radio was tuned in to
a news station, but I didn’t pay much attention to what was
being said. Even though she’d prevented me in that moment,
all I had to do was wait until they were asleep, only she left her bedroom door open after we went to bed. She’d not done
that before. I leaned my back against the headboard, eyes on the bathroom door.
Popeye hopped up, and positioned himself on my knees.
His warmth came through the covers, as did the contented
vibration of his purring. I petted him, letting my fingers settle into his fur, and he began kneading the covers and I finally drifted off. Mrs. Brewer evidently got up at some point, eased my door almost closed, but not enough to keep the rich smell of sausage frying and coffee perking from slipping into the
room the next morning. Popeye was still on the bed, half-
asleep.
Remembering what took place yesterday, I got up and
dressed quick. I went to the bathroom door and Merritt came
out of his room.
“You using it or not?”
I backed away, motioned him to go on in. I returned to the
bedroom, made the bed with Popeye still on it. He flopped
on his side and stretched, even as I lifted the mattress and tucked in the sheet. Merritt came out, hair wet, and headed
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mind unless I did. I went in, shut the door, turned the fau-
cets on full. I went to my knees, clutched the toilet bowl like a long-lost friend. A fullness I couldn’t stand blossomed in my mid section. It was over and done fast. I stood, shaking, yet relieved. I brushed my teeth, and winced at the shooting pain when I rinsed with cold water. I dared to peek at them, remembering what Mrs. Brewer had said. I hoped what I’d
felt as a sharp, quick pain didn’t mean they were about to fall out of my head. In the kitchen, I had to confront her, and
breakfast.
I said, “I only want coffee.”
She turned from the stove and said, “Do I look like I was
born yesterday? Et.”
I told a little white lie. “It’s my, you know—”
“All t
he more reason to put something in yer stomach.”
She stuck a plate with sausage, scrambled eggs, and toast in front of me.
I blanched and she said, “You got yerself all stirred up this morning.”
Her gaze whittled away any excuse I was about to make.
“Yes’m.”
I picked up my fork and, after the first bite, regained some appetite, but couldn’t bring myself to eat all of the food. Five pounds.
She sat and sipped at her coffee, then said, “It ain’t easy to get past it, but you can do it.”
Merritt listened, shifting his gaze from her to me while
crunching on a piece of toast topped with the eggs and sau-
sage.
He said, “Get past what?”
Mrs. Brewer said, “Women things.”
Like Daddy, it was enough for him. “Oh.”
She said, “You reckon we ought to check on your house
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when y’all get back this afternoon? It would be like them
good-fer-nothings to burn it down too.”
I worried over Martin Murry. He might gather up Royce
and Willie, even bring in Leland Murry. The house would
look normal, their cars would be hidden, and they’d pull
some sort of ambush on us.
I said, “Maybe tomorrow?”
She said, “Fine by me, only a suggestion.”
I drove to school the next morning, speeding the whole
way. Merritt noticed, as I leaned forward in the seat like it would make the truck any quicker.
He said, “I sure ain’t in no hurry.”
I understood his feelings; I really wasn’t neither. My speed came from nerves, came from the worry over what Willie
Murry would or wouldn’t do. Did he go home, and get an-
grier over my threat? Would he bring the journal, and if he
had, had he done something to ruin it? If he had, what would I do about that? I had no idea.
I pulled in, barely slowing down enough to make the turn
into the parking area, and Merritt said, “Geez, it ain’t like we’re hauling, Jessie.”
“Sorry.”
I searched for Willie’s car to see if he was here yet. The lot was too full to know without checking each row and we only
had five minutes before the first bell rang. Despite that, I took my time walking toward the school, keeping an eye out for
any sign of him.
Merritt said, “What’re you looking for?”
“What?”
“You keep looking around.”
“Oh. Just Aubrey.”
“I thought you two weren’t talking no more.”
“We ain’t. I’m wanting to avoid her is all.”
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A girl from Merritt’s class approached us, long brown hair
swinging side to side in rhythm to her step. She had a sprinkle of freckles across her nose, cinnamon-colored eyes.
She gave me a little smile, then said, “Hey, Merritt.”
Merritt choked out a greeting: “Hey, Lucy.”
She walked with us, and said, “I’m real sorry about your
arm. Does it still hurt?”
Another strangled noise and some more words fell out.
“Sometimes. Not so much.”
She said, “Would you want to be in our school play?”
Merritt snorted. “I ain’t no actor.”
Lucy sounded like she’d been practicing what she’d say.
“Oh, but you’d be perfect, Merritt. We’re doing Peter Pan: you could play Captain Hook. It’s a major part!”
She took hold of his arm, the one with the hook, and said,
“You can’t say no. Come on, please! Jerry Stephens, Molly
Campbell, and Ricky Tyndall are in it too.”
“I don’t know none of them.”
“They know you.”
“Yeah? How?”
“They watched you play ball. Said you were good.”
“Oh.”
“Ricky said he bet you could learn to pitch left-handed.
He does.”
That perked Merritt up more than anything I’d seen in a
long time.
He said, “Yeah?”
She nodded quick, and said, “Yeah. Here. I got a copy of
the script. I ran a mimeograph for you this morning. See? You have lots of scenes.”
He stared down at the pages in her hand, and the poor girl
acted as nervous as Willie around Cora. Merritt must’ve no-
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didn’t take them. He hesitated, then twisted his hook, shifted his right shoulder, and pinched the pages.
She said, “Wow, that’s pretty neat how you can do that.”
He went crimson, rattled the pages at her, and said, “Well.
Maybe I’ll think about it.”
She actually squealed, and clapped her hands.
She said, “Come on. I want to introduce you to them.”
She waited, shifting with nervousness from foot to foot un-
til he said, “Okay.”
I said, “See ya this afternoon.”
He nodded and followed her inside.
Other students poured into the parking lot, and while I
hadn’t made any specific plan about Willie bringing our journal back, I decided to wait for my old bus to come. I hoped
when Cora exited, Willie would appear like magic like I’d
seen him do even before the tip of her shoe had a chance
to touch ground. The buses always came to the front and I
waited there on the sidewalk as the first one pulled in, and then another. The third one was ours, and my senses went on
high alert, like one of those emergency broadcast messages
we occasionally received on our radio or TV. I licked my lips and thought about ducking into the closest building. I had no idea what he would do, or what I should do. Maybe if he saw
me waiting it would make him madder than he already was.
Maybe he’d do something to embarrass me.
Cora came down the steps of the bus with Stacy right be-
hind her, talking. Cora walked with her head down, eyes
cutting to the left and to the right, expectant, waiting. She strolled along, taking her time. The sound of tires squeal-ing on the small street alongside the school parking lot made everyone stop and look. The top of a black car could be seen zipping in and around the other vehicles searching for a parking place. It was Willie’s car, and I couldn’t have been more rattled than if he’d sprung from behind me. As he approached, Ever_9781496717023_2p_all_r1.indd 333
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I tried to act like I was waiting for someone else, clenching my books to keep from shaking. He slowed down like he was
having a mighty hard time deciding on something. Then he
was beside me, and he stuck his hand behind his back, pulled out what he’d had tucked in the back of his belt. He held out the journal.
He said, “The old man said I had to give it back anyway.”
I didn’t understand. I took it, and before I could speak, he left to be by Cora’s side. Dumbfounded, I laid my hand on the cover, stunned I actually had it back.
I overheard Cora saying, “William? What was that? What
did you give to her?”
Willie didn’t bother to an
swer. I tucked the journal in be-
tween my books and entered the school. Going down the hall, I didn’t skirt around the edges, didn’t crouch against the walls.
I went just like everyone else, among them, the nothingness
within me not quite so deep.
After school let out that afternoon I waited in the truck for Merritt. I flipped through the pages of the journal, studying Mama’s handwriting all over again, as an unfamiliar sense of contentment settled over me. Merritt climbed in and I waited with excitement for him to see what I had. He was about to
say something, but then he saw what I held; his astonishment was worth all the fear of threatening Willie Murry.
He said, “How’d you get that back?”
“I told Willie yesterday I would tell Cora McCaskill what
he was really like if he didn’t return it. He brought it today.
I’m not sure he would have except he said his daddy told him he had to return it.”
“Why would he make him do that?”
“Geez, Merritt, if anybody could figure out why a Murry
does what they do, not a soul would have any problem
with’em.”
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“True. Still peculiar though.”
“I’ll say.”
I handed it over to Merritt and he began to flip pages while I started the truck and pulled out of the parking lot.
Every now and then he’d point to one, and say, “Wow,
all them gallons hauled in one week!” or, “Did you know
Granddaddy Sasser had him one of them turnip stills? Wait. I think he had three.”
It was like a history book, only it was filled with our past.
That word, “our,” quick and unexpected came natural, and I
accepted it without any bitterness, actually feeling like I belonged, once and for all. All the way to Mrs. Brewer’s house, our moonshine, our stills, our routes, ran through my mind.
We turned onto the small side road that led up to Mrs. Brew-
er’s, and as we came along through the cover of trees, I saw a car parked out front.
Merritt said, “I wonder who that is?”
I shook my head. “I have no idea.”
I turned into her drive, and parked. The car had a govern-
ment tag on the front, and when we went in, Nash Reardon
was sitting at Mrs. Brewer’s table, drinking coffee with her.
She motioned to a chair for me to sit.
She said, “He’s come to tell you something, Jessie.”
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