The Moonshiner's Daughter

by Donna Everhart

  I said to Merritt, “Perfect, come on,” and without waiting to see if he followed, I began closing the distance to Willie and Cora.

  Merritt mumbled, “What’re you doing?”

  I didn’t answer and fell in behind them doing my best to listen to what Willie had to say to Cora while watching Aubrey’s reaction to the hand-holding. She was fit to be tied, eyebrows cinched together, mouth turned down. She had on red lipstick, a brilliant crimson slash like a bleeding cut against pale skin. She must’ve snuck a tube to school and put it on after she’d gotten here.

  Willie was saying, “Cora, you sure are looking right pretty this morning.”

  Cora had her head down, and Willie sniffed at her neck. She giggled.

  He said, “Boy, you sure smell good too.”

  She said, “Stop it now. You know I don’t like it when you do that, least not in public, William.”

  William was stumbling over his own two feet as he fawned over her. He continued to adjust, to adapt and conform to her sense of social decorum, doing as she wanted, a different person entirely. Aubrey never stood a chance of having that kind of hold. Willie held the door open as Cora sashayed through; then he grabbed her hand again. She extricated herself from his grip to go into a classroom. Once she was gone, he rolled his head on his neck like he was loosening up tense muscles. She’d made him nervous. I couldn’t imagine anything or anyone making him that way, but evidently Cora McCaskill did. He had a weak spot, and it was her.

  Merritt said, “Danged if he ain’t gone head over heels.”

  We parted ways, and he maneuvered the hallways sticking close to the walls like I would, the hook held tight against his body, shielded with his left arm. He avoided the lines of students moving like cars on a road, half going one direction and others going the opposite. I saw Curt Miller and Abel Massey, the way they whispered to one another, their eyes on him. I was getting the idea it was going to be a tough year for him. Behind me came a voice I recognized as easy as my own.

  “Hey, Jessie,” Aubrey said.

  She chomped on a piece of gum, eyes darting about.

  I said, “Hey.”

  She said, “You look different.”

  Merritt had said the same thing, but I had no comment for her since I didn’t know what she meant, a compliment or not.

  She said, “How was your summer?”

  The entire town knew what happened to Daddy, yet here was Aubrey asking as if nothing had happened.

  “That’s kind of a dumb question.”

  “Oh. I guess you’re still mad.”

  I wasn’t really mad; it was more about knowing I couldn’t be friends with her, not when she couldn’t see how she’d been a part of what happened. I no longer trusted her, felt like she’d used me to try and win points with Willie. Like now, using me as her excuse to keep Willie within her sights. He leaned against the lockers near Cora’s classroom, talking to another boy I didn’t know.

  She said, “Are those new clothes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nice,” she said, and when she noticed Willie about to move on to his class she rushed away with a, “See ya,” over her shoulder.

  Next came a desperate wail out of her. “Will-ie! Waaaaitttt uuuup!”

  He didn’t stop, already long gone so to speak, yet she refused to accept it. She snatched hold of his hand and he pulled it out of her grip.

  I went to my first class, where Darlene Wilson sat a couple of seats away. She stared in my direction, sometimes nodding her head like she knew a secret. She truly was strange, so I reckoned I wasn’t leading the way in that category. My other classmates poured into the room, some a bit taller, some with new haircuts, and new clothes, yet something was different this year. It wasn’t them; it was me. I was no longer concerned about the hubbub that came with being a part of something, like the Fall Festival already being discussed. The chatter about who should join various clubs, and activities. The talk of a great football season, and who might be Homecoming Queen. I was focused on how to keep the Murrys from causing us more trouble, and keeping the one still going. We had to get more liquor made, and down to Mr. Denton and Mr. Lewis.

  I gave a sly peep around the room, wondering what they would think if they knew I hauled moonshine, knew how to do a bootleg U-turn, could tell by the bead what was good liquor and bad.

  * * *

  Word got around quick Sasser shine was still available. Most folks thought after Daddy went to the penitentiary that was it, there would be no more till he got out. When it was discovered that wasn’t so, Merritt, and I were busier than ever. Mr. Denton called, and said Mr. Lewis wanted more and so did he. Before we knew it, Daddy’s customers were leaving notes and messages at various watering holes along 10th Street, and then the phone started ringing. I tried to keep up with who wanted what, while Mrs. Brewer said she could help with the supply. She went home for a few days, fired up her own still, increased the amount she usually made, and came back to the house, her old car creaking up the drive, so loaded down with shine the back end scraped the gravel at one point. She used corn like we did, and added her fruit so we had all kinds of bitters.

  We’d been doing as Daddy had done, hiding the money, but not in the backyard. That made me nervous, and although we’d not seen or heard from Uncle Virgil and Aunt Juanita, I wouldn’t have put it past them to sneak over here, from wherever they’d disappeared, just to dig some more. Instead, we’d found places in the house. The freezer, for instance, where we’d wrapped some in newspaper, and marked it as “Steak,” something we rarely ate. We’d shoved some in the back of a drawer in the kitchen that held dish towels. Stuffed some into the back side of the TV set, rolled up with rubber bands.

  I said to Merritt, “I sure hope we don’t forget where all we’ve put it.”

  He said, “Me neither.”

  We got word Daddy was to be sent to Atlanta, and Merritt was beside himself about getting to the penitentiary to see him.

  He said, “I ain’t been since that first time, and I been wanting to tell him how good things is going along. We ought to let him know, ease his mind so it won’t be so hard on him being away for a year. Ain’t you wanting to tell him?”

  I said, “Sure.”

  I didn’t see how it would make any difference to Daddy what I did or didn’t do. I was sure he’d made up his mind I was no better than a Murry; he’d made it pretty clear, I thought. Mrs. Brewer stayed at the house the Sunday afternoon we went.

  She said, “I’ll cook us a chicken for supper and it’ll be ready when y’all get back.”

  I was nervous about this visit, but Merritt didn’t notice my silence. He talked with excitement, holding on to a little notepad he’d taken to writing in, not quite like the journal, but a way to keep up with what we’d made, what we’d sold, who was buying, where, and how much. We couldn’t learn the secret trails, so those customers were doing without. I wondered if the Murrys had tried to use them, or did the customers remain loyal to Daddy? It might spark trouble for them, but there was no way to know if it had or hadn’t.

  I parked the truck and we got out, the afternoon sun warm and pleasant, a façade compared to the emotional tornado ripping around inside me. I let Merritt take the lead and followed behind him, fighting the internal chaos and a bad case of the nerves.

  After we’d signed in and were shown to the visitors’ room by the same guard I’d seen the last time, I said, “I think I might go wait in the truck.”

  Merritt sounded incredulous. “What?”

  A door clanked and footsteps came down the hall.

  I said, “Yeah. I’m gonna go sit in the truck.”

  I got up as he said, “But why?” while the guard said, “What’s going on here?”

  “Nothing. I’m just gonna wait outside.”

  Merritt said, “But Jessie, don’t you want to see him before—”

  The guard said, “You have to sign out. You can’t come back in. Can’t have but one visit per week.”
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br />   I turned to Merritt, and said, “It’ll sound better coming from you. He wouldn’t believe me anyway.”

  The guard called up to the front, and another one came to lead me back down the hall to check out. I heard Daddy coming, the shuffling and clanking of his chains, but I didn’t stop. I kept going, staring at the set of doors that led me away. I figured I’d made the right decision when he didn’t call out. He was probably glad to see me leaving. It would be a year. Maybe he’d be ready then. Maybe I would be too.

  Chapter 29

  After the visit, Merritt didn’t tell me what was said between them, and I didn’t ask. Every now and then I’d catch him looking at me like he had a question, but it never came out. I could picture the conversation for myself, could imagine Daddy’s skepticism over my newfound willingness and loyalty. Maybe he needed evidence I wasn’t playing a game, and the only thing I could offer as proof was persistence. Keep doing it, and maybe once he was out, he’d come to realize I was dedicated and as invested as any Sasser before me, and certainly as much as Mama had been. If I had to admit it, I was actually dumbfounded by my change of heart, and I’d had many a conversation with myself already.

  Just what was it that had changed within me? It had been seeing Daddy in that place, seeing his hopelessness, and knowing if anybody belonged in a cell, it ought to be a Murry, not him. It had been finding out about Mama, her talent for hauling, the respect she’d had, her pride in what she did, her resilience. Those things motivated me, made me want to fix what I’d had a hand in causing. I’d realized I’d acted like I’d been born to some other name, some other family, with no allegiance. I didn’t want to admit Willie Murry might have been right about what he’d called me. It had started to sink in I was acting like a traitor, going against what my own mama believed in, participated in. I had a strong feeling if she’d been around, I’d have had a different opinion from the start.

  On a Saturday morning, in early October, I was preparing to go to Big Warrior where Merritt had been tending the still overnight, watching a boiler that was at capacity, our biggest run yet. He’d been excited by the idea of spending the night out in the woods like Daddy and Uncle Virgil had done many times before, watching over our commodity, shotgun by his side just in case.

  We’d thought about whether it was smart or not, thought about a Murry showing up, and Merritt said, “Anyone comes along, Murry or whoever, I’m shooting, no questions asked. Besides, for this to work, we’re gonna have to do stuff separate sometimes.”

  It was true, so he took the truck and had been gone since last evening while I’d already been to Wilkesboro this morning to scrounge up enough Ideal Ball jars without causing suspicion. Who would have ever thought buying sugar in bulk or purchasing too many jars at once would alert revenuers? They kept track of purchases from stores, and store owners were uneasy about selling too many to one person, scared they’d come under scrutiny. That meant I’d had to buy a case or two at one store, then go to another and purchase a case or two, and so on. Everyone talked about canning when I bought the jars.

  “Got you lots of ’maters and beans to put up, I reckon.”

  “Sure do.”

  At home, I opened the trunk to get out the jars, and felt the hair go up on the back of my neck. I turned and saw the revenuer, Smith, through the early morning fog standing by the road like he’d come up out of the holler. It brought to mind the image of Mama, little gray tendrils of smoke curling and disappearing in the air around her, and the silence after she’d collapsed. A memory I didn’t want to have, and I shut my eyes. When I opened them, he was gone. Shivering, I studied the spot where he’d been, questioned if I’d actually seen him. He and Nash Reardon could easily track what we were doing if they had a mind to. Maybe they already knew and maybe they were getting ready to shut us down, send us off Shine Mountain. Merritt would be sent to some reform school, and I’d be forced into a girls’ home. I set the crate down, rushed inside, the door slamming behind me. Mrs. Brewer was at the sink wiping the insides of the jars she’d brought. Popeye slept on one of the kitchen chairs and my hand shook as I reached out to pet him. He’d had a calming effect on me usually, but not today.

  She said, “Child, what is it? You look like something done walked over your grave.”

  I straightened up, and Popeye gave a low growl in protest that I’d stopped.

  I said, “I saw . . . someone.”

  “Who?”

  “I thought I saw one of them men who arrested Daddy. The one with a patch on his eye.”

  Mrs. Brewer wiped her hands and said, “What? Where?”

  “Out by the road.”

  We went outside and down the drive. I walked over and stared at an area where the early morning dew was disturbed, revealed by the long, darker green stripes through the grass as if someone had walked through it.

  I said, “I wonder if that’s the first time he’s been here.”

  “Ain’t no telling. Could be they’ve decided to circle back around to check on family doings. I’ll ride with you. Ain’t no better deterrent than a crotchety old woman.”

  We loaded up the rest of the jars she’d been washing, tucking them safely away under the special back seat. As we went down the drive, the spot where I’d seen him no longer fogged in, the mist rising, and the sun coming out, it seemed more like a dream now than something real. The idea this revenuer might be watching the house, watching our comings and goings, was troubling. I remembered something after we got going down the mountain.

  I said, “He knew Daddy.”

  “Did he?”

  I nodded. “The day Daddy got caught, he said to him, ‘Remember this?’ and pulled his eye patch off. The other revenuer, Mr. Reardon, had asked, ‘Easton Sasser?’, and that other revenuer had said, ‘I recognize him. It’s him.’”

  “Your daddy must’ve had some sort of run-in with him before. Sounds like he’s got a grudge.”

  I hadn’t thought about it in the horror of seeing him get caught, but she was right. What Smith said was curious now, like he blamed Daddy for his injury.

  We made it to Big Warrior without any incidents. I carried one case of jars and Mrs. Brewer carried another one. Merritt was pacing back and forth, agitated, and he’d put an old bucket under the spout to catch what was already coming out.

  “What took so long? It’s been ready to go!”

  I set the jars down, and said, “There was a revenuer close to the house.”

  Merritt grabbed ajar, moved the bucket out of the way, and positioned it under the spout.

  “Who was it?”

  “That man with the eye patch who was there when Daddy got caught. Smith, I think, is his first name.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “He didn’t say nothing. I saw him; then he was gone.”

  “You didn’t say nothing? You didn’t ask him what he wanted?”

  “I didn’t have time, Merritt.”

  Merritt huffed like I couldn’t do anything right. If I’d said he’d made me think of Mama, the way the fog was wrapped around him, he’d think I was, again, being peculiar.

  Mrs. Brewer said, “Land sakes, you two got to quit that bickering. It ain’t serving no purpose, atall.”

  “Jar’s full,” I said.

  We began the process, working like a silent machine. Merritt put the jars under the spout, filled them, and handed them off to me. I placed the lids on, and handed them to Mrs. Brewer, who wiped them down and set them in the crate. We’d figured out we could make liquor faster by adding a couple more burners, allowing us to distill 700 gallons of mash into around 115 gallons in about six hours. At one point when we took a break, Merritt went over, selected ajar, sipped some from it, and handed it to Mrs. Brewer.

  She took a little drink, smacked her lips, and said, “Shoot. It just gets better’n better.”

  She held it out to me, but I shook my head. Merritt grinned, and motioned at her he’d take it. He took another sip, then set it by his foot, and while
Mrs. Brewer didn’t seem to think anything about it, I did. I remembered how him and Oral thought it high times and fun to get drunk. He went back to moving jars under the spout, taking a sip now and then. I don’t know why it aggravated me, but it likely had to do with how Uncle Virgil acted when he got drunk, and Oral too. It didn’t take long before he got to singing, the jar now half-gone. I couldn’t make out the words, but the song had something to do with mountain girls and love. It was highly entertaining, and irritating at the same time. As the flow of shine slowed down, I carried the crates to the car.

  When I came back and picked up the final one, Mrs. Brewer said, “Appears I’ll be driving us home.”

  I said, “If you take the truck and him, I can go on and make them two deliveries nearby. Tomorrow, when Merritt’s got his head on right, I’ll go down to Gastonia and Kings Mountain to them other customers we picked up a week or so ago.”

  Merritt stopped singing and said, “Hey, hey, I’m goooood, doing fiiiiine.”

  He sounded like he was talking around a mouthful of mashed potatoes.

  I said, “Yeah, we can see how you are.”

  Mrs. Brewer said, “Give me that jar.”

  He went to grab it with his right hand, forgetting the hook, and knocked it over. What he’d not drank drained out and onto the ground. Merritt glared at the hook and a fury took over him, unexpected and sudden. He began beating the prosthesis on the ground, hammering it up and down, and clods of dirt and debris flew. We watched in shock as he lost control. He grunted, sounding like a wild animal, while his movements were harsh and volatile. He was going to ruin it, or at the least, it would be damaged in some way. He quit banging it on the ground, and went to beating on it with his left hand, snorting with an unspent rage, saying something I couldn’t make out.

  I started toward him, and Mrs. Brewer grabbed my arm, and shook her head. “He’s fine. He’ll remember how he acted. He’s done got soused, but he ain’t so far gone he won’t remember.”

  Merritt finally gave out, and collapsed on the ground and didn’t move. His chest rose up and down, heaving with the energy he’d spent. After a minute or so, he sat up, legs straight out, his forehead almost to his knees. He made a pitiful sound, like a wounded animal. I went over to him and knelt by his side. I put my hand on his back, and he didn’t do what I thought he’d do, jerk away, or spit out an insult. He seemed broken, and I got a lump in my throat when I thought about how much he’d loved playing baseball, and how he’d probably felt at school, and how he’d not been acknowledged by his two best friends.