The Moonshiner's Daughter

by Donna Everhart

  Merritt said, “Yeah, we need to get back.”

  It was about the only thing he’d agreed with me on in months, maybe years. He’d already been nodding his head toward the door, sending a silent message he wanted to go home.

  Mrs. Brewer said, “Maybe I ought to go too. If only for a few days, just to be sure there ain’t nothin’ out of sorts.”

  I was reluctant to drag her into our troubles, especially since dealing with the Murrys was dangerous, reckless, and they didn’t care about hurting someone. She didn’t wait for our approval or disapproval. She said, “We’ll go in the morning. It’s getting on late, and y’all need a good night’s rest.”

  This was the sort of mothering we weren’t used to and Merritt and I stared after her as she went into the kitchen and started cooking supper.

  He said, “I kind of like her.”

  I said, “I do too.”

  The next day we went back to Shine Mountain with Mrs. Brewer trailing behind us in her car and when the house came into view it was obvious something was wrong. We came around the curve, and I immediately saw the black marks on the white siding where somebody had taken black paint and put “A traitor lives here,” the words seen clearly from the road.

  In another spot there was, “Stay away if you know what’s good for you.”

  I pulled into the drive and we sat in the car, staring at the damage. Mrs. Brewer got out of hers and came over to my open window.

  I said, “They ain’t getting away with this.”

  Merritt nodded.

  She cautioned me, “You need to be careful now. Can’t act out of anger. Them’s only words. Don’t let them git in yer head, make you go and do something rash.”

  I glared toward the house and said, “I’m tired of them thinking they can do what they want, stomping all over us like nothing can’t never be done about it.”

  Merritt, his face pale, appeared like he was half-afraid and I couldn’t blame him. He’d already paid a price, and so had the rest of my family. I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel while I considered the painted-on words. Who was my real enemy here? Maybe not the shine as I’d always thought.

  I whispered, “It ain’t right what’s happened. None of it.”

  Mrs. Brewer said, “Bunch a bullies is all they are, always have been. That daddy of theirs, he’s a terrible man. Acts like he ain’t never knowed right from wrong all along. Him responsible for their raisin’ was bound to produce a bunch a nitwits. Can’t say as I knew nothing much ’bout their mama. She died when that Willie boy wa’n’t but two years old. Heard tell she fell and cracked her head on a rock. Bottom line, nothing but trouble is what they are, and probably ain’t worth your time.”

  I squinted up at her, and said, “Maybe not.”

  I drove Sally Sue up behind the house and parked in the shed. Mrs. Brewer parked in the back too, and when we started down the hill, we saw jailbird painted near the back door where I’d blasted that hole into the wall. I pointed, my finger shaking with rage at the message there.

  “Just look at that.”

  Mrs. Brewer was calm.

  She said, “Y’all got some white paint you keep around?”

  Merritt said, “Up on the shelves back in the shed there. I’ll get it. I’ll take care of what they done.”

  She nodded at him while I thought, Painting’s not the answer.

  He said, “And there’s some plywood out there too. I’ll fix that hole by the door too.”

  Merritt wanting something to do was good, even while I doubted his abilities. I said nothing, and we went inside and I told Mrs. Brewer she could have my room and I’d take Daddy’s.

  She’d brought a small bag and said, “Thankee kindly.”

  No sooner had I gotten my room back that I was loaning it out again, but in this instance, I was happy to do so.

  I said, “I just got to move a few things out of there, and then it’s all yours.”

  I quickly grabbed some clothes, and dumped them on Daddy’s bed. I took Mama’s picture out of my back pocket, and decided I’d prop it on the dashboard of Sally Sue. I stuck it in my back pocket again and went out to the kitchen. Having Mrs. Brewer in the house was nice, and for reasons I couldn’t explain, it felt like she belonged here. She stood in the living room staring at the TV.

  She said, “I ain’t ever had one, but I reckon it’s right entertainin’. I mostly listen to my radio, gospel songs, and some preachin’ now and then. When nothin’ like that’s on, I turn it off and sit and listen to Mother Nature.”

  Merritt came out of his room carrying his prosthetic arm.

  She saw it and said, “Let me see that thing.”

  He handed it to her and she went to studying it, while pulling on a strap here and there.

  She finally said, “I knew this man who had him one a lot like this after the power takeoff on his tractor took his arm. After a while he could near ’bout do anythin’ with it. He got so fast at switchin’ that hook around, you know, upright or sideways depending on what he was wanting to use it for, he operated it like a Wild West gunslinger.”

  Merritt stared down at the hook with a hint of new interest.

  He said, “I ain’t worked it much since I got it.”

  She said, “It don’t take long you keep at it. No different than breathin’. It gets natural like. He ’bout wore his out, but he wouldn’t get him a new one. He said he’d got so attached to it, he liked it good as his old arm.”

  Merritt was transformed by this information, and he eagerly fastened it on and began working with the straps and the hook. An hour or so later when I was sitting in Sally Sue situating Mama’s picture in the vent on the dash, I saw him twist the hook, place a paintbrush in it, and carefully begin to cover the ugly words.

  * * *

  We got word Daddy had been to court and was given a year instead of the three to four he could’ve received. This was because he’d never been in jail, and never caused no trouble. Even the judge said he hated it, but had to give him some time. This was what we heard through connections Mrs. Brewer had. It was still possible he’d be sent to Atlanta, but for now there he sat, and it had been real apparent how much he hated it, and how much he blamed me. Merritt called him as often as he could, but I never asked to speak to him and Daddy didn’t ask about me either, far as I could tell. From the incident on Lore Mountain Road, and all that had come about since, I recognized I was the cause of it getting worse, even if I hadn’t been the one to initiate it. I had gone and seen Nash Reardon, and the Murrys did what they always did, came back harder, and wouldn’t quit.

  The guilt I carried grew heavier as time went by. I began to realize sometimes it’s necessary to make a sacrifice. What I needed to do was obvious; it was only that I didn’t want to. But if I didn’t, I’d have to live with it, like Mrs. Brewer had said, and I began to understand how that could be even worse. Daddy would be coming back home and I’d have to face him every day and Merritt already couldn’t hardly abide my presence most of the time. All the worrying over this had me slipping in and out of the bathroom often, doing what I needed while wishing I could empty my brain the way I did my stomach. Mrs. Brewer said nothing, but every time I came out she was in the kitchen making me something to eat to replace what I just got rid of.

  What she didn’t know was I was pretty good at what I did. I could go in and out of the bathroom in less than a minute, like I’d been in there for natural reasons. It was like a tug-of-war between us. One afternoon I came out of the bathroom and found her right outside the door.

  Without commenting on what she suspected, she said, “Come on in here. Sit.”

  I sat at the table while she made up some concoction, pinching this and that from some of the many little bags she’d brought along, all of it going into the steeping ball. She didn’t talk. After she poured hot water over it and let it set for a minute or so, she set it in front of me.

  She said, “Drink it,” and nodded to herself, like she was sure it woul
d set me straight in some miraculous way.

  It was a pale gold liquid, and the steam rising up smelled like peppermint. I sipped, and found it tasted like that and was sweet.

  “What is it?”

  She countered that with, “Honey, and some other special things just for what you got.”

  I sipped again, and said, “I like it.”

  “It ain’t for you to like. It’s to help. Finish it all.”

  I did and it settled my stomach, taking away the discomfort.

  After a week with her there, and without me even realizing it, we were in this routine. I would occasionally feel normal hunger, did my best to eat typical amounts, drank the tea, and kept food down in a more consistent manner than I had in years. I felt better, stronger. Out of the blue, she repeated what she’d said before.

  She said, “Don’t let it get you. You’re strong, you’re capable, and it ain’t nothing you can’t do. I believe that.”

  I was beginning to believe her too, but I still felt fat and longed to empty my stomach.

  School was starting soon, and while I was feeling better, I wished there was a tonic I could drink to help me deal with my feelings of shame and worthlessness. Everyone would know about Daddy, and I tried to think of anyone else in this same predicament and couldn’t come up with a soul. Being talked about was nothing new, or hearing the little snickers behind my back, but Merritt wasn’t used to it. Not only would he have that to contend with; it would also be the first time anyone saw him with his prosthetic.

  In Daddy’s room I stretched out on Mama’s side of the bed with the journal. I’d been studying the entries, and I was finding out some right interesting details. Daddy had never mentioned any secrets, but there were a few in here. Not only with relation to making shine, but how to get it down Shine Mountain quick as possible, and into the hands of his customers. I’d never asked how it was possible, didn’t know there were secret trails. They came by way of people who had allowed my granddaddy and daddy access through their land, by the use of their private roads. They were paid in shine and it was all highly intriguing, and explained how he and Mama beat the Murrys on this run or that. It really wasn’t about speed, but about outsmarting them, which they’d done time and again, evidently.

  He also had a list of regulars, and a separate list of people getting it from the Murrys. He worked to win the Murry customers over, letting them sample what he had for free. He’d made notes where he’d left his goods and indicated if they’d taken him up on buying his. I was beginning to find all of it fascinating. I had no idea how he’d got the names, but there was a mark beside some and a note indicating they were new, and when he’d started to supply them. There were mysterious entries too, like the one updated with a note that said: “MM showed up, no delivery,” and another that said: “MM along Lore Mountain Road.”

  M could mean “Murry,” but since it was “MM,” I had no idea who it was.

  The very, very best things I found were entries written in a feminine scribble recording the amount of liquor run into this or that town, or the measurements of corn, malt, rye, and yeast, and even pages with recipes for shine mixed with other ingredients she was evidently trying out, and couldn’t quite get the taste of these new liquors to her liking.

  There were notations like “try three parts sweet tea with peach juice to only one part liquor next time.”

  And: “Too bitter, add honey or maybe some sugar.”

  Deep in my soul I believed it was Mama’s handwriting, not only because of the style, but because it was right alongside Daddy’s handwriting and abruptly stopped after the day she died. I had another piece of her right here, in my hands. I remembered telling Daddy I would have burned it and how he’d looked at me. Little did I know what it had held, and it would have been like setting a flame to her all over again. I would’ve destroyed something I’d wished for all along, an actual part of her I could see and touch. Like the photo.

  I hugged the journal to my chest and whispered, “I’m sorry, Mama.”

  I set it down by my side, my fingers resting on the scratched leather. I let that solitary image of her settle in my mind, the carefree smile, windblown hair, booted foot surrounded by jugs of shine. What I’d been pushing away started to come together, and while I was afraid, I also began to recognize what I ought to do, not only for Daddy, and Merritt, but for myself. I didn’t know if I could make shine, or be good at running it, but I was beginning to understand I wanted to try, that by doing this, I could make it right with us.

  I knew some parts of what to do, but I’d never been responsible for each and every step, all the way to distilling. I’d watched Daddy enough to believe I could. I knew how to gauge the strength of it, how to, as he put it, a “get a good bead.” Delivering it was a whole other matter. His comments about Mama being the best gave me plenty of reason to doubt myself. I slid off the bed, and took the journal with me. I went into the kitchen, and even though Uncle Virgil, Aunt Juanita, and Oral had seen me take money out of the tin, I held out hope something might be left in there. An oversight on their part in their eagerness to leave. I was surprised to see there wasn’t eight dollars in there, but twelve. Daddy had probably taken some, added more back in before things went the way they did with him. I put the money back in the tin, feeling good it was there.

  Mrs. Brewer was in the living room with Merritt and they were watching a movie we’d seen before called The Defiant Ones.

  I went in and sat in a chair, and after a minute, I said, “I’ve been thinking.”

  Mrs. Brewer turned to me, curious, while Merritt remained fixated on the movie, though I was pretty sure he’d seen it at least three times already.

  Mrs. Brewer said, “About what?”

  “I’ve been studying this journal,” and held it up.

  Mrs. Brewer said, “What’s in it?”

  “All kinds of stuff. Entries dating way back to when our granddaddy started making the shine. Earliest one is 1899. He would’ve been thirteen. He took a hundred gallons over into West Jefferson.”

  That got Merritt’s attention.

  He said, “What’re you studying that for? It don’t hold nothing that interests you.”

  I ignored him, my attention on Mrs. Brewer. “I’ve been thinking I ought to try it, like Mama did.”

  Mrs. Brewer sat up, and nodded like she approved.

  She said, “Well, see now? That don’t surprise me none atall.”

  Merritt laughed like I just told the funniest joke, then abruptly quit like somebody slapped their hand on his mouth.

  He said, “It sure surprises the hell outta me.”

  I ignored him, and said, “I’m gonna need help.”

  He grunted. “You ain’t lying about that.”

  Mrs. Brewer waved in irritation at him, and said, “Your sister’s having a revelation; she’s coming to grips with something real important.”

  Merritt rolled his eyes in my direction and shook his head.

  I already knew where it had to be. Big Warrior. The site Mama had preferred with her clandestine little pool, and, of course, where Daddy had been caught. I planned to get what we needed from the only still left, Blood Creek, no matter how long it took. I would set it all back up at Big Warrior. I was certain the agents wouldn’t come back, because for them they’d caught the owner, and sent him to jail. They could move on, focusing elsewhere. I told Mrs. Brewer my ideas.

  I ended by saying, “It’s in here. It ain’t ever been about being fast; it’s been about outsmarting them.”

  She said, “Exactly right, child.”

  It was apparent Mama had been proud of what she did, and if she had been, how could I disrespect that? While I still wanted to find out what happened to her, maybe that wasn’t the important thing right now. Maybe what mattered was for me to feel like less of an outsider, more like I belonged, a part of something. The only way I’d ever know would be to try and do what I’d fought against long as I could remember.

  Cha
pter 26

  The next day both Merritt and Mrs. Brewer ended up helping, and by midmorning I could see it was going to take us a good while. Merritt got to grumbling as he struggled to help tear the still down. Of all three we’d had, Blood Creek was the biggest in size, the submarine boiler being the most challenging part of it.

  He said, “We ain’t never gonna keep track of what’s what.”

  He spun his hook around and grabbed hold of a board and yanked. He was still clumsy, but was getting into a bit of a rhythm, although this was demanding work even when you had both arms and hands.

  “If we stack the pieces in order, it’ll help.”

  “I don’t see how. It’ll move around in the truck. Maybe we ought to mark it in some way.”

  Mrs. Brewer was listening to us, and she went over to the base of the tree where she’d set her pocketbook and big paper bag. She got to digging around inside the pocketbook and brought out a small knife.

  She said, “I’ll make notches in the wood like so on these here pieces. Just stack the others by me,” and then she showed us what she intended by etching a round hole in one with a quick couple of twists. “That’ll be the bottom pieces. Then I’ll make two of’em fer the sides. Rest of it we can see what it is.”

  Merritt said, “I ain’t never known a woman to carry around a pocketknife.”

  She said, “That’s ’cause you ain’t knowed me good till now.”

  We went back to work, and by dinnertime when the sun was its highest, we had everything ready to move. It was going to take us all afternoon to get it down the path and into the truck, but Mrs. Brewer insisted we eat.

  “Can’t do the work if’n you’re hungry.”

  She pulled out three tomato sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, fried chicken legs, and three bananas from the paper bag. Merritt and I sat on the ground, while Mrs. Brewer sat on a stump Daddy used to use. We ate fast, and when we were done, we began carrying out the dismantled still. The walk was as tough as I remembered, and took as long as I’d suspected. Merritt grew more irritable as the afternoon wore on. He shifted his right shoulder around like the leather harness bothered him. The last was the copper from inside the still, what Daddy had said was expensive, but an investment.