The Moonshiner's Daughter

by Donna Everhart

  Mrs. Brewer said, “Women things.”

  Like Daddy, it was enough for him. “Oh.”

  She said, “You reckon we ought to check on your house 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 angrier 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.”

  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 noticed it had taken an effort for her to ask, because the pages in her hand shook, and I was going to feel terrible for her if he 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 until 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 behind 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 squealing 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, 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 answer. I tucked the journal in between 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.”

  “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. Brewer’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 government 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.”

  Chapter 34

  Mr. Reardon appeared more like he had when I first met him, calmer, tie knotted in place, but still looked like he’d not had any sleep.

  He said, “I found the two cars.”

  I set my books down, and sank onto a kitchen chair while Merritt inspected him much like I’d seen him study his baseball cards.

  I said, “Did he come for his?”

  “Eventually. We staked out the area, and the man you identified as Martin Murry came out of the woods from behind your house.”

  I said, “That’s who he is.”

  Mr. Reardon nodded, and said, “I know.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “I hoped he’d do something to give us reason to arrest him. We didn’t have to wait long. He went to the vehicle, pulled up the back seat, took out ajar, and started drinking. He was hauling a load when he encountered you.”

  Mr. Reardon waited for me to respond. I could’ve laughed at the idea of Martin Murry drinking our shine right in front of Mr. Reardon, and I had to control my expression.

  I said, “He drank the entire time I was with him.”

  Merritt fidgeted and Mrs. Brewer gave him the fisheye.

  Mr. Reardon said, “Well, he sure didn’t act like the man I knew. He started ranting about how he’d lost everything because of your family. How your family was finished. When he got in the car, intending to drive off, that’s when we got him. He tried to tell us he was confiscating the vehicle as evidence, but I’d heard enough out of him to question him. I took him into Wilkesboro, and we got the full story there.”

  I began to have hope this was all going to be over, and I said, “Did you ask him about Mama, what happened that day?”

  “I did. He seemed surprised I knew her name. I didn’t tell him how I came by it. He said he was only doing his job, that he’d told her to move away from the still, and she’d not listened, had the nerve to laugh. In his words, she said, ‘The day I ever listen to the likes of a Murry is the day I’ll die.’ He pulled the trigger, and well. You were there.”

  I nodded. “But we’ve never heard about him.”

  “Martin Murry’s grudge also has to do with an arrangement his own daddy had with your father. After your mother died, your father went to Leland Murry, said he wasn’t a killing man, but that there needed to be reparation for what happened. Your daddy gave him the chance to take care of it. Leland Murry arranged for Martin Murry to get another name, then sent him packing with nothing but that, told him Wilkes County and surrounding counties were off-limits. With a new name, he could make up his own history, and he became a revenuer down in Alabama. I think it was on purpose, with the intent to eventually get back at your family. He’s simmered over this for years. Through the ATU he heard about the Murry still being found not too long ago. It must’ve rekindled hard feelings. He somehow finagled it so he was assigned here.”

  This must’ve been what Daddy had talked about when he said Leland Murry had shown Mama some respect right after she died. Martin Murry had been disowned on account of her. I couldn’t think of a thing to say.

  He finished with, “From the way he makes it sound, none of his family liked the idea of somebody taking what they thought was theirs, and theirs alone.”

  I said, “We’ve heard about it all our lives. Right, Merritt?”

  Merritt raised his prosthesis. “This is on account of them.”

  Mr. Reardon sounded surprised. “How’d that happen?”

  Merritt said, “They run us off the road one night. My arm got broke, then infected. Had to be taken off.”

  I said, “They got ahold of our cousin, branded him. Put an M on his chest. They also burned our uncle’s house down.”

  Mr. Reardon said, “That house that caught fire a few months back, just down from your place?”

  We nodded.

  He said, “I’m wondering now if most of this was all of his doing.”

  I said, “Ain’t a one of’em ever not cause some sort of grief around here.”

  Mr. Reardon said, “That will hopefully improve. Especially now.”

  I said, “I guess he’s the reason Daddy got caught too.”

  Mr. Reardon shook his head and said, “No. That wasn’t him.”

  Merritt’s chair scraped the floor, maybe an attempt to kick me under the table, his way of saying, See? It was you all along. I went still, my hands knotted in my lap, head down, and I waited for Mr. Reardon to say so.

  He said, “That would’ve been because of your uncle.”

  I exhaled.

  Merritt, his voice sounding doubtful, said, “Uncle Virgil?”

  “Yep. He showed up at our office one afternoon, yelling about the Murrys, pounding on my desk. He was so lit we could smell it coming off him. After he left, we kept an eye on him, thinking he’d lead us to something. Sure enough, he went to that still site not too long after he’d been in. We were about to nab him, but he got spooked. He took off through the woods, and although we waited for him to come back, he never did. But now we had the location, so we hung around, knowing someone would return. It ended up being your father.”

  I remembered how I’d felt watching them take him away while I hid. Uncle Virgil had bragged how he’d taken care of it. He sure had, knowing it had to have been his fault Daddy was caught. But all he’d worried about was if Aunt Juanita could tolerate him if he went to jail. I felt somewhat vindicated, finally.

  I said, “What’s gonna happen to Martin Murry now?”

  “He’ll go to jail for a long time. He’s been straddling the fence as a revenuer under a fake name. Plus, running liquor. That’s serious.”

  Martin Murry had said to me, You can’t run in both directions, and he’d been doing that very thing himself.

  Mr. Reardon said, “I ought to let you know, I spoke to your father about what’s been going on here. I asked him to tell me about Martin Murry, and he gave me the same account of what took place with your mother and what he and Leland Murry agreed on. He also said you never did act the same after you saw your mama die. Said he’d tried to understand you, and probably didn’t do such a good job.”

  I had to blink fast. Aside from Mrs. Brewer, I’d never imagined anyone else trying to understand me, much less Daddy.

  I said, “I ain’t ever forgot it”; then I said, “Wait here.”

  I got up and went into the green bedroom and got her picture. I returned to the kitchen and held it out.

  Mr. Reardon stared at it for several seconds. He said, “You favor her. She was quite the legend around here; so I heard from your father.”

  “Yes.”

  And I meant it for both parts of his comment.

  He said, “Well, that’s about all I know. Do any of you have any questions?”

  Merritt and I looked at one another. It was so much to take in, but I did have a question.

  “What happened to our daddy’s car?”

  “It was taken as evidence.”

  He retrieved his hat off the table, stuck it on his head, and stood. We got up and followed him to the front door.

  Before he went out, he said, “We’ll keep doing what we can to clean up the county here. Keep an eye out for me, will you?”

  I said, “I sure will,” only I didn’t intend it in the way he meant.

  After he was gone, I said, “Wow.”

  Merritt said, “No wonder we didn’t know Martin Murry.”

  Mrs. Brewer said, “Shoot. I wished I didn’t know not one soul in that family nohow.”

  * * *

  We stayed with Mrs. Brewer another week, and then went back home. In time, I allowed what the Murrys had written inside our house, whether Willie, Royce, or maybe Martin
Murry himself, to be painted over. We went back to making the Sasser shine, using Mrs. Brewer’s still at first, and hauling it in her car like she’d suggested. Sometimes we used the truck, but we had to be careful because the back end sinking too low might create suspicion. Merritt said Daddy had told him once that Troy Dalton could fix the suspension on just about any vehicle that would hold it level even when loaded down.

  I said, “But he’d have to have it a few days, and then we wouldn’t have nothing to drive.”

  He said, “Maybe we could get us a new car.”

  “Maybe.”

  School went on as usual, and the saga that was Cora and Willie became the talk among students, especially after Cora got Homecoming Queen, and Willie, of all things, Homecoming King. It was bizarre how he was changed by Cora’s influence. Even his clothes were different, penny loafers now instead of the Wearmasters, sweaters tied around his neck. He didn’t spare me a glance, and it was like he was afraid I might notice him.

  Every now and then I’d see Nash Reardon in town and I’d always throw a hand out the window, wave, and give him a thumbs-up as if I approved of what he was doing. I also went in to see him for no other reason than to keep him from coming out to check on us and maybe catch something going on. Times were changing. There was talk that one day brown liquor would be sold legally in Wilkesboro and North Wilkesboro, managed by the government. Wilkes County citizens weren’t quite ready for that though, and kept voting to delay the permit of what was called a regulated Alcohol Beverage Control store. This was good news for us, and we continued to build on orders, while keeping Mr. Lewis, Mr. Denton, and others supplied.

  After a while my fear of being caught at the Big Warrior subsided and we went back to using it, the dings and dents in the side a reminder of my time in the woods with Martin Murry. Being at the old still site brought back the past. Sometimes I’d get to thinking so hard about working with Daddy out there, I would swear his voice echoed through the trees. Then there were times I was sure someone lurked nearby. It was always the idea of it being a Murry that haunted me, and I’d get scared enough to abandon the site, no matter what point we were at. This irked Merritt to no end because we had to start with new mash all over again.