The Moonshiner's Daughter

by Donna Everhart

  Mr. Reardon got up again, and started pacing. “You say he’s Martin Murry, and he was involved in your mother’s death, and intending to maybe kill you too.”

  “Like I said, he’s got some sort of grudge. He’d been planning on getting married back then. It didn’t work out, he says because of his scars and all.”

  He paced some more, and while I’d been sure I’d feel better after telling everything, there was a heaviness instead, a weightiness that grew with each tick of the clock on his wall. He reached for the phone on his desk while looking at his wristwatch.

  “Miss Sasser, my apologies, but I need to make a phone call.”

  I was being dismissed, and I rose from the chair. He didn’t believe me.

  I said, “Ask him. Ask him what happened to Lydia Sasser back in 1948. See what he says. Ask him who Martin Murry is.”

  Mr. Reardon began dialing, and said, “Yeah, I’ll do that.”

  I said, “I’m scared. My little brother’s scared. We can’t even stay at our house. You go inside, and you’ll see for yourself. They’ve painted words in some of the rooms. We painted over the ones outside, but you can still tell.”

  He stretched the phone cord across the desk in order to open the door for me. I hesitated before I walked out.

  He said, “Phil Walker, please.”

  My voice pleading, I said, “Mr. Reardon, I got more proof.”

  He put a hand over the mouthpiece, gave me an impatient look.

  I spoke fast as I could. “There’s an Oldsmobile Rocket Eighty-Eight on the side of Little River Road. If it ain’t burned up totally, it’ll be close to it. That was my Daddy’s car, what I was driving when he stopped me. And on Shine Mountain Road, in the curve just after Little Pine Creek, is our house. There’s another car parked in the backyard. It’s his. It’s a 1940 Ford coupe. I took it when I got away from him. He’ll come for it.”

  “Is that all, Miss Sasser?”

  “We’re staying with Mrs. Louise Brewer in Wilkesboro.”

  He said nothing, but he hadn’t shut the door on me either. He appeared deep in thought until the person he wanted came onto the line.

  He spoke, “Phil! Thank you for taking my call.”

  He shut the door then, and I rushed down the hall. Outside I pulled my sweater tight around me and walked to where I’d parked the truck.

  Merritt was waiting, and before I’d even shut the door he said, “It must not have gone too good. You got that pasty look again.”

  I said, “I don’t know if he believes me. He shooed me out the door so he could make a phone call after I told him his supposed revenuer isn’t who he thinks he is.”

  Merritt said, “You have to wonder, where’s Martin Murry been all these years? Why ain’t nobody ever said nothing about him?”

  I said, “I don’t know.”

  Another mystery.

  I headed for Piney Tops and got there as hallways filled with students along with the usual laughter and talking and locker doors slamming. Aubrey was finally beginning to realize Willie had slipped from her hold, but she wouldn’t give up. She stationed herself strategically only to have to watch him make a commotion over Cora. She glared into a compact, her back to them while reapplying lipstick she didn’t need. Meanwhile Zeb, and some new friend, a boy who didn’t act much different than him, competed for Willie’s attention. The new boy was Dylan Todd and I could hear him above all else. Loud, obnoxious, he’d turn and poke Zeb seeking approval for when he did something.

  Cora and Stacy mostly ignored the three-ring circus going on about them. Cora had evidently set some rules about Willie fraternizing with her at school, and he obeyed, hovering though, in case she noticed him. Aubrey had formed a new alliance with a girl named Marissa Blaylock. Aubrey chattered near Marissa’s ear while the other girl bobbed her head nonstop. That was all Aubrey needed. Somebody to listen to her and agree. Maybe our friendship had been destined to end anyway. I felt different this year, changed because of what I knew about Mama and what I’d decided to do, while Aubrey still acted the same.

  There was something else above and beyond all this. It was how after Willie made a commotion the first day in the parking lot, I’d become invisible, even when I passed right by him in the hallways. After how he’d acted last year, and what took place over the summer, it stood out. I was sure it had been him and his buddies at the house, shooting, scaring us, and it had to have been him who came back and spray-painted those threats. For one, Willie had never been able to spell worth a lick, and second, someone like Royce, or Leland Murry, would’ve been more apt to do something like what had been done to Oral, or like burning down Uncle Virgil’s house. For as bad as it had scared us, what Willie and his cohorts had done wasn’t at the level of the elder Murrys. It had been more like fun for them. Cutting up. Being stupid.

  The reason for his change of behavior was Cora, and what I saw as an unexpected opportunity. When the bell rang to let us out at the end of classes for the day, I found him standing just outside the front entrance.

  I marched up and said, “You reckon Cora McCaskill would give you the time of day if she knew the real William Murry?”

  I saw a nervous twitch, a minuscule jumping of his upper lip, but it was the worry that flickered briefly across his face and told me I’d said something that mattered. He tried to act cool, bluff his way out like he didn’t care.

  He said, “Shit. What do you know about anything?”

  I said, “Plenty. Like how your family ain’t nothing but sorry, and ain’t never been nothing but that. Especially that murdering brother of yours, Martin Murry.”

  The worry turned to alarm.

  “What do you know about him?”

  I shifted my books, and said, “What does it matter, but boy, could I share lots with her. About how you and your family really are, what you like to do during your summer vacation.”

  A hint of the old Willie Murry I was most familiar with peeked through, delivering a bottomless, cold stare. Threatening a Murry was like praying to the devil. On his feet were new Wearmasters. He wore stiff new jeans too, meant to impress a certain girl, I was sure. He didn’t like standing there with me, and his gaze roamed about the schoolyard to see who might notice.

  He looked down at me, and spit out a question. “What do you want?”

  “What belongs to my family.”

  He leaned in, and said, “What the hell you talking about?”

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about. What you took right out of our house. I reckon I could add ‘thief’ to what I could tell Cora.”

  The timing couldn’t have been better, because she came out the entrance with Stacy, heading toward the bus I used to ride. Like a special radar frequency suddenly switched on, he spotted her, and his manner became urgent as he walked away.

  Over his shoulder, he said, “Hell no. I ain’t doing that.”

  I decided to call his bluff.

  I said, “Oh. Okay.”

  I too made a beeline for Cora, and he reached out and grabbed me. The commotion behind her caught Cora’s attention and she turned around, and saw the death grip he had on my upper arm. She had a thing for Willie, not as bad as Aubrey, but it was there in the way she frowned at him, the way she noticed his hand holding on to me. She stormed off, and Stacy had to run to keep up. It was true, he wasn’t bad-looking, but he certainly was bad. Willie’s fingers dug deeper into my arm.

  I flinched at the pressure, and managed to say, “Your true colors are showing. I’m going to tell her all about you Murrys. This won’t stop me.”

  “All right! Fine!” he said, and he pushed me away.

  I wanted to rub the spot, but I wouldn’t allow him to see me do that.

  I said, “It better not be ruined, neither.”

  He said something I couldn’t make out as he raced away. When he reached Cora’s side, she shook her head, denying him for what she’d seen between us. Cora had laid down the law, and it surely wasn’t something he was use
d to. A sick longing pulled his mouth down. At least one thing had gone in my favor for the day. I spotted Merritt walking across the lawn alone, his shoulders rounded like he’d had a rough day too, and I hurried to catch up. I decided not to tell him about my encounter with Willie and what I’d said. I wanted to see if Willie would keep his word. We walked together to the school’s parking lot where the truck was parked.

  I said, “What’s Curt or Abel up to?”

  He snorted, and didn’t respond.

  “Have they talked to you?”

  “Curt said hey, but that was about it. Abel ain’t said a word. All they can do is stare at this thing.”

  He held up his prosthesis.

  Damn them.

  At Mrs. Brewer’s house, I switched off the truck and said, “Why do you reckon Daddy never reported what happened to Mama?”

  Merritt stared out the front windshield, digesting the question, turning his hook round and round.

  He said, “We ain’t never wanted the law interfering with family matters.”

  “I know, but he never did anything against the Murrys neither.”

  “You don’t know that. Maybe he did. Daddy never talked much about that time.”

  With a hint of sarcasm, I said, “Yeah, tell me about it.”

  We walked across the yard and I loved how the colder air carried the smell of whatever she was cooking. We were safer here, hidden away, protected. Up on the porch Popeye snaked his body in between our legs, his way of telling us he wanted to be petted. I bent down to rub his back and he let out a throaty, Rowr.

  Merritt went inside, and Mrs. Brewer called from the kitchen, “How’d it go?”

  I followed him in, while Popeye hopped on the porch rail to watch a bird, tail switching back and forth. I liked Mrs. Brewer’s house, and although it was small, she had three bedrooms. I was in the one she called “the green room,” because it had the green throw rugs on the wood floor. The rugs matched the leaves in the flowery wallpaper. The bed had a white bedspread and green pillows. The lamp had a green shade. Merritt was in “the blue room,” decorated similarly, only with blue throw rugs and shade. Mrs. Brewer’s room was pink. I stopped by my room and dropped my books on the bed.

  Back in the kitchen Merritt was telling Mrs. Brewer he didn’t think the revenuer believed me. She had a pot of rice bubbling, and stirred a skillet of milk gravy. My stomach tightened and my mouth watered. She had a tendency to cook exactly what we would eat that night, and no more. I wondered if that was habit, or if she only did it because of me. Maybe wanting to prevent me from doing what she knew I might do. She studied me as I came in.

  She said, “You okay?”

  I nodded, and sank onto a kitchen chair, my cheek propped in the palm of my hand, watching as she went back to cooking. The day had been tiring and worrisome, from seeing Nash Reardon to contending with Willie. She poured the gravy into a bowl and set it on the table while my stomach 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 under 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.”

  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.”

  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 coming 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. 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 ajar 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.

  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 fina
lly 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 for the kitchen. I had to do it. I wouldn’t ever get it off my mind unless I did. I went in, shut the door, turned the faucets 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 midsection. 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 the 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 sausage.

  He said, “Get past what?”