The Moonshiner's Daughter

by Donna Everhart

  I said, “Merritt?”

  His breath deepened, and he did move away then, as if to escape my hand. I let it drop.

  Although he was still mumbling, and slurring his words, I was able to make out the same thing he’d said before, “It ain’t ever gonna be the same.”

  Mrs. Brewer leaned on a large, knobby stick she’d been using to help steady herself around the still site, and she said, “Ain’t no harm in him letting go of them bad feelings, best as he can. Come on, son, get up.”

  Merritt said, “Leave me here.”

  I said, “Don’t be dumb.”

  He said, “I wanna sleep. Tired.”

  I said, “You can sleep in the truck. Get up.”

  He rolled over onto his belly, and pushed himself up on his knees. He looked up at me, and Mrs. Brewer, as he wobbled to and fro. He frowned at the realization he’d only made it halfway.

  He looked behind himself and said, “Oops. My feet are back there.”

  I almost laughed, but instead, I went to one side, tucked an arm under his, and Mrs. Brewer leaned down to grip his other, and between the two of us we helped him the rest of the way up. We staggered to the truck, and it was tough going. It took a lot longer, and once we were there, I was about give out, and poor Mrs. Brewer’s hair was hanging out of her usual bun, and she was panting. Merritt tilted his head to the sky, exclaiming how pretty it was. He tried to focus on Mrs. Brewer. He asked her for confirmation of his observation of the world around him, his gestures broad and inclusive.

  “Ain’t it pretty?”

  Mrs. Brewer said, “Very. Get in ’fore I collapse myself, right here on this ground.”

  I said, “I’ll see y’all back at the house in a little while.”

  She gave me a keen look and said, “Be careful.”

  Once the sound of the truck faded, it got real quiet, and I worried about how noisy we might have been with Merritt acting like he had. Maybe it was only because of that the woods seemed so eerily still. It was my first run on my own, and not having Merritt riding shotgun was strange. I missed Daddy too, more than I’d have ever thought. I wondered how the revenuers had known about Big Warrior. None of our stills had ever been found to my knowledge, and while we believed the Murrys could’ve known about them, no one had bothered us until Boomer was destroyed. It always came down to someone talking, like I’d done that day in Mr. Reardon’s office. I had to believe the Murrys had done the same.

  I lowered myself onto the front seat of Sally Sue feeling like I belonged there. I reached for the key in my pocket and started the car up, a calm contentment settling in as the vibration of the engine met my hands on the steering wheel. I put the car in gear and rolled down the path, carefully avoiding the deepest ruts, and as I pulled out onto the road, I marveled at the way it all felt right.

  Everything went wrong less than a minute later.

  Chapter 30

  It was a private road, a route identified in the stolen journal, a new path I wasn’t used to yet, but remembered because there’d been a note saying it was a shortcut around Shine Mountain and just off Lore Mountain Road. As I drove, I wasn’t worried, but I should’ve been. The way it happened reminded me of when Daddy fell in behind me. In much the same way, the car came from out of nowhere. I’d learned a little more about driving during my time with him, but, as it came closer, and the front end tapped Sally Sue’s back bumper, my stomach plummeted, and I began to doubt my abilities. I pressed on the gas and Sally Sue responded to the additional fuel. I came to a curve and there was another tap to the back end.

  I sucked in my breath and expelled it with a forceful, “No!”

  Acid rose in back of my throat, bitter, like when I made myself get sick. My gaze shifted from the rearview to the side view to the path ahead as the car swerved out and back behind me again. Suddenly, it passed me. I immediately let off the gas, and hoped they’d keep going. In the twilight, I could tell it was a car like Sally Sue, felt certain it had to be a Murry, maybe more than one. They’d obviously been reading the journal and learning our routes. Daddy’s warning rang in my ears.

  They’d have got you, one way or another.

  I began repeating the same thing over and over.

  “Dear Lord, please don’t let them get me.”

  Their taillights shone bright red like I’d imagined the devil’s eyes might. The car stopped and sat dead center of the road. The driver’s door swung open, and I swerved, attempting to get around whoever this was. I had to slam on my brakes to avoid hitting him as he put himself in my path. Stunned, I sat with the engine idling, staring at the man I knew as Smith. I figured it was best to stay put and put the car in Park. Maybe he’d let me go.

  He strolled over to my window, and said, “Well, if it ain’t Miss Sasser.”

  I said, “What’s wrong?”

  He leaned back, looked down the length of Sally Sue, and said, “You hauling?”

  I said, “Do I look like I’d be doing that?”

  “Could be. Family thing is what I reckon.”

  I said, “I guess you revenuers are getting smarter, or luckier.”

  He sucked at his teeth, and said, “Well, now. I ain’t working in that capacity at the moment. I’m here for another cause. Righting wrongs, I reckon you could say.”

  The eye that wasn’t covered with a patch was the palest of greens, rimmed in black. Familiar.

  He yanked my door open and said, “Get out.”

  “If you ain’t here working for Mr. Reardon, you ain’t got no call to have stopped me.”

  He waved a hand and said, “Who ever said the law always plays by the rules? Get out.”

  He had the advantage. I got out, thinking about the jars and jugs under the back seat. He opened the back door and my mouth went dry. I twisted my hands as he pulled the seat forward, exposing the wooden box built beneath it.

  He said, “Open it.”

  I didn’t move.

  He said, “I already know what’s in here. Been watching your brother since last night. Watched y’all load it up.”

  “If you know what’s in there, you open it.”

  “Nothing but sass. Reckon you suit your name.”

  He yanked the lid up exposing what was inside. The jars twinkled and shone like crystals, catching what was left of the daylight.

  He said, “Now, ain’t that a pretty sight? Let’s see how it tastes.”

  He opened ajar and sipped, and emitted a thoughtful, “Hm.”

  He set it back in the crate, then lifted it out, and handed it to me. He waved his hand indicating I needed to follow him. He went to his car, and opened the back door. The vehicle was different from ours but a bootleg car nonetheless, I was sure of it. It was a Ford coupe, the more typical model for a running car. Maybe they’d started using it to keep up, or as an undercover car, because I sure couldn’t figure out why a revenuer would have one.

  He said, “Stick it in there.”

  “Are you gonna let me go?”

  He was noncommittal, and said, “We’ll see what happens.”

  I wasn’t going to argue. If we were going to lose this haul of liquor, if this was what I had to do in order for him to let me off, fine.

  By the sixth case, I was uneasy about how it would end. I thought about unscrewing a lid off a jar myself, guzzling the contents, hoping I’d pass out and when I woke up he’d be gone, but that didn’t seem smart. While I loaded his car, he went to pouring shine out of the jugs around one side of Sally Sue. The fake gas tank was full too, and I considered he might damage it if he started rapping on it. He whistled through his teeth while he released our carefully crafted liquor, turning the dirt from light brown to dark. Finally, I had carried the last crate and put it in his car.

  I said, “Stealing liquor? Ain’t it odd for a revenuer?”

  My comment gained no reaction.

  He said, “Stand back.”

  “What for?”

  “Girl, you don’t seem to realize you ain’t in a pos
ition to ask questions.”

  I asked another one anyway. “You arresting me?”

  He snorted. “Like I said, I ain’t working in that capacity at the moment.”

  He was taking matters into his own hands like he had his own rules.

  “Mr. Reardon wouldn’t approve.”

  “He ain’t the boss man tonight.”

  He reached into his pocket, pulled out a book of matches, flicked the end of his thumbnail over the head of one.

  Alarmed, I said, “Don’t,” but he tossed it and it landed on the liquor-soaked ground.

  The shine he’d poured from the jugs was as good as gasoline. A fiery line snaked halfway around the vehicle, and when I started for the car he grabbed hold of my arm.

  Frantic, I pointed, and said, “Mama! I got to get Mama!”

  He said, “Girl, you done lost your mind. Your mama ain’t in there.”

  He didn’t understand. It was the picture I had of her tucked into the dashboard. It would be like she’d been burned all over again. I bucked against the hold he had on my arm. I jerked, hit, and kicked, frantic to get to the open window of the driver’s side. The fire was only getting started. I had time.

  I screamed at him, “Let me go! Let me go, please! I got to get her picture!”

  His hand slipped from the hold he had on me and I stumbled backward. He snatched for me again, but missed. I ran to the other side where there were no flames. I yanked the passenger door open, grabbed Mama’s picture off the dash, and hesitated, staring at him through the open windows. Curiosity and another expression altered his scarred face, something akin to satisfaction, as if he was about to witness what most people would turn away from. He didn’t move. He waited to see what would happen, what the fire would do. He licked his lips.

  Like fingers wriggling and twisting, the orange and red flames reached past the window on the other side and he appeared consumed by the blaze. His eyes glistened in a way I didn’t think came from drinking the shine. I was sure he was . . . crazy. There was a sloping hill behind me, and it dropped into a deep holler. I considered taking that first step, wondering if I would make it down, if I could escape, but I was too late. While I was trying to figure how to take the first step, he ran around the car and grabbed my arm again. I felt dumb, believing I could have gotten away. He jerked me along, his fingers tight around my wrist, pulling me away from Sally Sue, and toward his car. I stumbled after him, clutching Mama’s picture.

  He shoved me down into the passenger seat, and said, “Try anything stupid again, see what happens.”

  He got in on the driver’s side, turned the key, and as soon as the car started, he accelerated, and whipped it around to go back the way we’d come. In the side view mirror, I noticed the flames growing higher on the one side of Sally Sue. I couldn’t watch, and I shrank against the passenger door.

  He said, “You looking ’bout like death warmed over.”

  I didn’t respond and he went to whistling as he drove. After a few minutes, I was sure we were heading back to Big Warrior. We came to one particular area where I’d normally turn if I was going the way I was used to, a two-tire rutted path that appeared to go nowhere. He went by that, and around a curve to turn onto a narrow dirt road. We began to climb, the car rocking back and forth, the jars rattling, and he stopped when we came to a crest.

  He said, “Get out.”

  “Where is this?”

  He didn’t answer. He got out and opened the back door to retrieve a shotgun, a hatchet, and one of our jars of shine. I wondered if he was going to shoot me like a dog gone sick and needed putting down. Maybe he intended to chop me up afterward. I got out, and considered I ought to run. He sort of smiled, like he could read my thoughts, and aimed the gun at me.

  He stuck the hatchet into his back pocket, and said, “Walk,” and nodded toward the woods.

  I wasn’t as strong as I could be, my arms felt feeble, and my legs shook. I was weak-kneed from working at the still with Merritt and Mrs. Brewer, and then from stacking crates in Sally Sue, and again into his car. I did as he said and entered into the shadows, where the air was cooler, the woods silent. As I walked, the area grew more dense, and what little bit of sunlight left penetrated through and littered the ground with fragments of bright gold here and there.

  On occasion, he said, “Go left,” or, “Go right.”

  This went on for several minutes until I figured out we were coming up the back side of Big Warrior, and the way I knew this was by recognizing the mound of rocks that encircled Mama’s pool of water. We’d come in from another direction.

  I stopped and said, “What’re we doing here?”

  He said, “You sure do ask a lot of questions.”

  He reached into his back pocket, and handed me the hatchet. “Get to work.”

  Incredulous, I stared at him, then the still we’d only put back together again.

  “Go on, take it down. Now that your old man’s where he belongs, and that chickenshit uncle of yours took off, time to put a final end to the Sasser operation. Cleaning up, that’s what we’re doing.”

  I was too slow.

  His demeanor changed over my stalling, and he waved the shotgun and yelled, “Hurry it up! Get on with it!”

  I hefted the hatchet in my right hand, stepped over to the still, hit one side, and the blade stuck in the wood. I wrenched it out and hit it again. It made a hollow sound, empty, the way I felt at the moment. I thought about Merritt and how we’d worked together earlier in this very spot along with Mrs. Brewer. The image of Sally Sue with the fire beginning to touch the driver’s door came next, and I was filled with sadness. My different attitude was still surprising in ways, yet I understood it. It had been a reckoning a long time coming, my sorting out my anger at Daddy, along with the satisfaction of finally learning some things about Mama. My middle turned into a solid knot, while a hurt I’d not recollected before, a deep melancholy, caused tears, and blurry vision.

  Not that Smith noticed. He sat down, his back against the trunk of a tree, and got to sipping on that jar of liquor like it was water. It wasn’t all that odd for a revenuer to taste what he’d been responsible for discovering, yet something about him was beginning to make me question who he really was, and while I whacked and beat on the still, my thoughts circled back to him bringing up Mama. He worked his mouth as if he was trying to figure out how we’d made it. I used the back side of the hatchet to pound the sides of wood we’d only just put together. I tried not to think about my dry mouth, how exhausted I was, or what might happen once I was done.

  After a few minutes, I broke my silence with a question.

  I said, “How do you know so much about us, about my mama?”

  Moving with care, he set the jar down beside him. He reached for a pack of cigarettes in his shirt pocket, shook one out, and stuck it in his mouth. He struck a match and lit the end of the cigarette, and blew out a plume of smoke. He was stalling, or maybe just taking his time. Maybe he wasn’t going to answer me at all.

  Then he said, “See this?”

  He pointed at the eye patch. Some thought must’ve flitted through his mind, because he suddenly laughed, then stopped, and gave me a dark look. The scarring over his cheekbone and down his neck didn’t help his countenance as it was, but whatever thought he’d had altered him such that a hint of fear crept into my gut. He removed the patch to reveal a puckered, pink empty eye socket. The hatchet suddenly felt like it weighed too much. I wanted to sit down, yet I wanted to take off running at the same time.

  He said, “You ain’t wanting to look at me. I’m used to it by now. This here’s ’cause of your mama. If it hadn’t been for her, I wouldn’t have lost this eye, got these scars. What she done messed me up but good.”

  He pulled the patch back down.

  Startled by his admission, I said, “What do you mean, she was responsible?”

  “Had me a gal, and was gonna get married, have a family.”

  Confused, I said, “I don�
�t know how any of that’s got to do with my mama.”

  He drank some more and didn’t speak.

  I wasn’t sure he would offer anything else, and I was about to turn away when he said, “It didn’t go like it should’ve. I’d caught them at a still, your folks. You were there. You remember any of it?”

  I shook my head, still trying to follow where this was going, wanting to understand what it meant.

  He said, “The day your mama died.”

  I wasn’t completely sure what he meant. I offered the only thing I’d known all my life.

  I said, “I saw her burn. Daddy tried to help her, but it was too late. That’s all I know.”

  He said, “Yeah. Well. I reckon you could say I was there in a different capacity. Sort of like now.”

  He wasn’t making sense, and I must’ve looked confounded.

  He said, “As a Murry.”

  Chapter 31

  His lips spread in a creepy smile before he sipped from the jar again. All the while he watched me, his single eye like a brilliant green marble, and now I understood why the color had been familiar. Willie Murry’s eyes were that very same shade of green.

  “Surprise,” he said.

  Daddy’s warning all those weeks ago came to mind, about getting caught alone with any of them. I began to believe I might not make it out of this. He was somehow involved in what happened years ago and surely he wouldn’t let me walk away knowing that. He could shoot me, and there were plenty of places to toss my body. Lots of critters could come along, drag me away, and my bones would then be picked over by buzzards. It would be as if I’d never been.