Chapter 15
We kept going south like dandelion pods, floating with the wind and with no sense of where we might land. After a while we come to a sign saying we was entering Oconee County, South Carolina. The land was full of rolling hills and as we rode along we didn’t see much, a house here or there, and after a while Papa pulled the truck off to the side of the road when he spotted a little white church and a couple men standing outside smoking.
Papa said, “Maybe we ought to try a little singing. Maybe these folks is feeling generous since they just got out of church.”
Momma shook her head. “William, for shame. Nobody has a blunt nickel to their name for that sort of thing, and even if they did, they’ve given it in church this morning.”
I was disturbed by the idea altogether.
I said, “We gonna ask for a handout?”
Papa grunted and we drove on past the church. It got on into the late afternoon, and we come to a small crossroads, in the center of a tiny town called Pearl Springs. A small cluster of folks stood outside of a country store, and Papa quickly jammed on the brakes.
He said, “Girls, get ready, this is it. I got a good feeling. Let’s entertain these good folks.”
Momma whispered, “Dear God, this is crazy.”
We was about to do what I’d feared, and here we had these strangers looking at us with suspicion as Papa parked the truck. Surely we looked something awful to these clean folks, what with our filthy, smoky clothes, our greasy, uncombed hair and thin faces. Momma looked gaunt and pale, and Laci the same. I put my grubby hands up and felt along my cheekbones. I closed my eyes, feeling nothing except shame, even though we couldn’t help ourselves. Still. What might these people think? We couldn’t get out and sing—no, beg. I sure couldn’t.
“Papa . . .”
He was already halfway out, waving his arms to get their attention. “Hey now, folks! Listen up! Me and my family here . . .” He turned around and motioned for us to get out of the truck. “Me and my family here, we’re known as The Stampers, a singing group the likes you’ve never heard.”
Papa seemed to think recognition of our name would have traveled all the way down here, like saying “The Stampers!” give us star quality, made us official, like the Monroe Brothers, or the Coon Creek Girls. I guess it did make us sound like we’d been somewhere, experienced worldly things. I slid out, dragging Laci with me. She was trying to tuck in behind me, which was like trying to hide a horse behind a goat. It was like we was on display, because everyone turned to stare. This one girl about my own age talked with another girl, pointing and laughing behind their hands. I dropped my head. I stared down at the now snagged and linty dress I wore, at my scratched-up, dusty legs and feet. My breath hitched in my chest as I fought wave after wave of embarrassment as Papa’s voice droned on building us up. I felt like my very soul was eat up with shame as people went quiet, a few of them looking like they felt sorry for us.
Papa set his hat down in front of his feet. If I thought I’d felt shame at his introduction, I was now absolutely mortified. He started singing “Black Jack Davey,” stomping his boots in a rhythmic clog, while waving at Momma and urging her to join in. Weakly, she began singing, though she didn’t dance with him like usual. I come in on the second stanza because I couldn’t let Momma carry it all on her own. Poor Laci had no fiddle, so all she could do was keep to herself, and the singing really lacked something without her fiddling to back us up. We done the best we could. Two ladies about Momma’s age clapped politely in time, until we finished the first song, but then Papa went on to “The Little Old Cabin in the Lane,” and as if he couldn’t stop, he started on “Short Life of Trouble,” which seemed right fitting at the moment. Folks started drifting off by then as if to spare us any more humiliation, and when there won’t but three left, our voices faded. The ones left was the two women who’d clapped and a man who smiled encouragement at each new song, and whistled a few times when Papa started stomping his boots and pounding out intricate footwork. Papa noticed folks leaving and finished with a flourish.
The man come forward and said, “Y’all sound good though it seems like you’ve run into a spell of hard luck.”
Papa spoke in a quiet voice. “That we have.”
“What all happened?”
“We lost our home, food crops, livestock, everything, in them storms what come through North Carolina just over a month ago. None of that don’t matter much as the fact we lost our little chap when he took sick after drinking some tainted water. What’s left of our lives is what you see.”
Momma kept her face turned away, and the two women who’d stayed back a little went over to her side.
One took her by the hand, and said, “They’s nothing worse than losin’ your own child. I knowed it for myself.”
Momma’s voice trembled when she spoke. “It happened so fast.”
The woman nodded. “Hard as it seems, if it had to happen, the Lord seen fit to take him. All what matters is where he is now.”
Momma remained passive, unable to break down and cry in front of strangers.
The man said, “Well, look a here. Y’all sure are some mighty fine singers, and I imagine even better under other circumstances. See now, I run this here store. I’d be proud for you to come on in and let me get you some things to help you on your way.”
Papa said, “We don’t want to put no one to no trouble.”
The man said, “No, no trouble at all. Name’s Ammon Johnson. This here’s my wife, Harriet, and her sister, Hazel Moore.”
The women nodded at Momma.
Papa shook Mr. Johnson’s hand and said, “I’m William Stamper, this is my wife Ann, and these are my daughters, Laci, and Wallis Ann.”
“We’re pleased to meet y’all.”
Mr. Johnson led us inside, where he pointed to a wood display with candy in it.
He said, “You girls get you a lollipop, and some a them Mary Janes, if ’n you want.”
I hadn’t had any candy since last Christmas, when I’d found a peppermint stick, caramels, and a pack of Wrigley’s gum in my stocking. I chose two lollipops and several pieces of Mary Janes. I handed half to Laci. It was real hard not to cram all of it into my mouth at once. I ate the Mary Janes slow as I could and watched what Mr. Johnson give Papa. He gathered up some loaf bread, cheese, coffee, a few cans of pork and beans, can peaches, a long link of hot dogs and some oranges.
He put the items in a box, and said, “What else?” as if Papa was shopping with money.
Papa shook his head, overcome by the generosity.
He said, “It’s a gracious plenty. I can’t pay. When I get on my feet, I promise you, I will come and pay you for all a this. Tally it up, and I’ll write you an I.O.U.”
Mr. Johnson made a gesture, and said, “It ain’t necessary. We’ve all had our share of hard times. We know what it’s like.”
Papa gathered up the box, and shook Mr. Johnson’s hand again. “I won’t forget this kindness.”
“It’s nothing.”
Mrs. Johnson and her sister come forward to hug Momma, then me. When they went to do the same to Laci, she backed away from them, hands gripped tight behind her, looking at the floor, her jaw bulging on one side with a Mary Jane.
I felt a tinge of embarrassment while Momma explained her odd behavior. “Our Laci’s not one to talk, or even sing, but she’s got musical abilities you didn’t get to see because she lost her fiddle in the flood. She’s not used to strange folks. Please accept our gratefulness on her behalf.”
Mrs. Johnson said, “She plays fiddle? Well, it just so happens we have two, don’t we, Sister?”
Hazel Moore said, “Sure do. Only I can’t play mine like I used to since I got the arthritis. Let me fetch it. She’s welcome to it. It’s only sitting up in my room, gathering dust.”
She opened a door and we could hear her slowly climbing the steps, a dull hollow sound. She eventually returned, fiddle and bow in her hands, wiping it off with a cloth. She approached Laci, who held her head down, arms folded looking like she wanted badly to disappear. She’d finished the Mary Janes, and likely wanted to unwrap the lollipop, but not while she thought she was being stared at. Hazel Moore went up to her, leaned down and put the instrument where Laci could see it, almost under her nose. Laci’s face flushed, the color rising under her skin like watching pink color deepen as the sun sets. She raised her head to stare at Hazel Moore, her mouth slightly parted, and then she looked at Momma.
Momma spoke, encouraging her. “Go on, Laci, take it.”
Laci handed me the lollipop, and took the fiddle the way you’d capture a butterfly, gentle and easy. As she was rejoined with the one thing on this earth what could show us her spirit, a change come over her instantly, like shoving open the door on an old room what had been closed a long, long time, or pulling open the drapes at a window and letting the sun shine in after days of rain. She didn’t need coaxing to play. She placed it under her chin, and drew the bow across the strings. She made a few adjustments, tuning it. How she knowed to do this, none of us could explain. She tilted her head and listened to the tone and then her fingers danced up and down the neck, nimble as soft, wiggly earthworms. She commenced on to playing “Amazing Grace,” and the sound filled the room, resonating with purity as fresh as new snow on the ground, or the first sweet scent of jonquils after a long, cold winter.
Laci shut her eyes tight and swayed, lost to everything but the song. When she finished, she left the fiddle under her chin for a few seconds, her throat moving as she swallowed over and over. She lowered it and cradled it in her arms like a baby, and she couldn’t stop staring down at it while the Johnsons and Hazel Moore couldn’t stop staring at her, their expressions a mixture of astonishment and wonder.
Finally Mr. Johnson said, “I think that’s the most beautiful rendition of ‘Amazing Grace’ I ever heard. She’s got a gift all right.”
Papa and Momma looked real proud, and happier than I’d seen them in a long time. They thanked the Johnsons, and Hazel Moore again.
Finally, Papa said, “We ought to be heading on.”
Mr. Johnson said, “Where y’all going?”
Papa said, “Further south, I suppose.”
“We wish you luck. Stop by if you come this way again. We’d be pleased to hear Miss Laci any time.”
Papa went to the truck with the box of food, and Laci scrambled in with what mattered most to her. As we turned around and left, waving through the back window at that nice group of folks, Papa considered this first attempt a grand success. He got fired up, talking about stopping whenever, wherever, saying our musical abilities would have everyone begging for more, while I thought his choice of words interesting. He talked with the self-assurance he used to have at Stampers Creek, and he made big promises to Momma.
“It’s going to get better now, and soon as we get some money saved, first thing we’ll do is buy them girls some shoes. We’ll take our money and go back to Stampers Creek, and build us a new place all over again.”
What could Momma say? She wanted to give us what we needed, only her heart won’t into this plan entirely. We felt alike, her and me. Looking a handout is what we’d be doing. Her heart and mind stayed behind with Seph, while I wanted us to not go on wishing on the stars, so to speak. Afterwards, each time we stopped and Papa announced we was going to perform, Momma’s voice, what used to sound so strong and wonderful, come out less and less powerful, a paler version of before, like her very soul was fading away like the food always did. We traveled up and down the same stretch of highway and Papa was always able, somehow, to come up with gas money from a song here and there. We went to places like Big Creek, Merry Mountain and Tucker’s Branch. Then Stoney Creek, Bonny’s Peak and Little Top.
Once we set up camp near to what like an abandoned tobacco barn, until this old man come out of it with a shotgun and yelled at us. “Git off ’n my property ya bunch a no-good bums!”
He fired a shot into the air, and we heard the pellets scatter, some hitting trees nearby. When Papa tried to talk to him, he fired another one, and we left quick. That was the night Momma cried herself to sleep. It seemed to me we was always barely hanging on, and I’d had the notion we’d never have enough to buy anything, not shoes, or decent clothes, much less food. I had paid attention. There was only this ongoing cycle of singing, earning a bit of money, and Papa turning right around and spending it on gas and a little for food. He maintained this was our best choice. He couldn’t seem to see how people wouldn’t look at us directly sometimes. He didn’t seem to notice how Momma had lost her spark, or how Laci had come to be clingy as ivy growing along the side of a tree, barely letting me go tend to my privy needs.
One day after we come to a crossroads we’d passed a few times, Papa took a turn and drove a ways before pulling off to the side of the road for the night. Without a word, I rolled out of the stuffy truck. It was cold, but it felt better outside, fresher, and easier to breathe. Papa got out and stretched while Momma stood looking around as if trying to figure out how to settle herself somewhere, only her look said, Where? Laci got out and sat on the footboard of the truck, and began playing, as if she was trying to make up for lost time. Papa had parked close to the woods, and I took off to go collect firewood and water. Too often it had occurred to me living like this won’t much different than being at Stampers Creek.
After I got the wood and water, I said to Momma, “Can I go explore a little?” I wanted some time alone, if I could get it.
“Don’t wander off too far. It’s getting on towards dark.”
It didn’t take long to lose sight of them, or the truck. I stayed close to the creek, as good a guide as anything. The deeper I went, the quieter it got, until a noise come, faint at first, then a bit louder as I continued. I kept stopping to listen, certain I was hearing a waterfall, and I began to wonder if I would find it before Momma would get to worrying about how long I’d been gone. I hurried, appreciating there was no snow, the ground a bed of fallen leaves, which made it softer to walk on. The noise got louder, turning into the familiar roaring I was used to back home. Soon, I made out the ridges of a rocky area through the trees.Within seconds I come to a clearing where a calm pool lay, and above it, a waterfall of about forty feet.
What I couldn’t quite comprehend was the person standing right at the edge of the rocky outcrop. He held his arms above his head, like he was stretching, only it was what he did next that took my breath straight out of my lungs. He dove off the edge, falling with the water, straight down. I screamed, and clapped my hands over my eyes, certain he’d set out to kill his self. He landed with a loud splash. I didn’t want to take my hands from my eyes, only he might need help. I dropped them and looked, expecting a body floating in the water. He popped up and shook the water from his head, before turning his head this way and that, like he was listening. Somehow, above the roar of the fall, he’d heard me. I scurried backwards, ducking behind a large boulder, my heart skipping along like I was jumping up and down. He crawled out of the pool, and stood, casting his eyes about. I didn’t dare move.
He called out, “Hey? Somebody there? Hey!”
I eased my head around the edge of the boulder and got a glimpse of him coming in my direction, wet and shivering. I shrank from view. The rustling sound of him searching got louder as he got closer. I had to see how close. I dared peek out again only to find him facing the rock, and I shriveled up tight against it. I quit breathing. I shut my eyes. I heard the crunch of sticks and dried leaves. Suddenly, there was a damp odor like creek water with a hint of fish.
I flushed hot when he said, “I’m looking right at you.”
I let out my breath and opened my eyes. He was smiling at me, hands on his hips, head cocked with curiosity. He was tall, lean, with sandy hair, long on top and short on the sides.
I gestured weakly at the falls. “I seen you jump. That fall’s got to be thirty, or forty feet! I thought you was trying to kill yourself.”
His head went back and he laughed. I felt like a fool.
My face went hot and I crossed my arms. “Well? What person in their right mind jumps off a waterfall when it’s near bout winter?”
He stopped laughing, yet didn’t lose his smile.
He swept one arm in front, bowed slightly, and said, “Clayton Jones, High Diving Act for Cooper’s Family Fun and Shows. Count this your lucky day! You got to see me perfecting my act for free! Actually, I use this waterfall whenever we’re in Oconee County to practice, see.”
“Cooper’s Family Fun and Shows? What’s that?”
“A traveling carnival. Ain’t you ever seen one?”
“ No. ”
“What’s your name?”
“I got to get back to my folks.”
“Sure, okay, but can’t you tell me your name?”
I hesitated, unsure. Momma would tell me to mind my manners. Papa would say I ought not be talking to strange boys. I decided he won’t a stranger, not anymore. He’d told me his name, and a bit about his self. And he looked friendly enough.
“Name’s Wallis Ann Stamper.”
“Wallis Ann? I sure do like that. It’s different.”
I didn’t know what to say, other than thank you. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.Where you from?”
“A place called Stampers Creek. North Carolina.”
“Stampers Creek? Never heard of it. I’m from here, well, not here exactly, but South Carolina. I caught on with Johnny Cooper and his crowd about four years ago when Mom died of the cancer, and Pops, he got to carrying on with someone he decided to bring home. Her name’s Doreen, and he tried to say she was only gonna keep house for him, but it was more than that, and I decided I had to go. I jumped a train and got off in Greenville. Seen the show there, and started working for them, doing odds and ends. They had this high dive act, and when the guy broke his leg falling off the ladder before he even got to the platform, I said I’d do it. I been doing it ever since. I’ve always been a bit of a daredevil, guess you could say. I like this way a living. It ain’t like real work. It’s fun.”
I listened, wishing I could think of something interesting to talk about. As he told me his story, I watched his face, the way he moved his hands in big gestures, how he shifted from foot to foot. Up close, he had eyes like that old hound back at Uncle Hardy’s, soft brown. Gentle. Next thing, I was comparing him to Joe Calhoun. Tall, blond-haired Joe. Clayton was a little bit taller, and whereas Joe was solid built, thick through his body and limbs like a sturdy tree, Clayton had a stealthy like movement what reminded me of an old barn cat we used to have. Clayton talked like he’d known me a long time, and Joe, although polite, was quiet, not talking near as much.
Clayton turned a smile on me, his expression quizzical.
I said, “It was nice talking to you. I really got to go. I told Momma I’d only be gone thirty minutes or so.”
“You ain’t told me nothing much about yourself.”
I could see him trying not to stare at my dirty clothes, and shoeless feet. I tucked my limp hair behind my ears, all too aware of my state.
I motioned slightly, a weak flip of my hand in the direction of our camp. “Not much to tell. I’m with my momma, papa, and my sister, Laci. We’re sort a traveling around, I guess you could say. We do some singing.”
“Singing? You mean like an act?”
“It’s not what we usually do, I mean yes, we sing, just not the traveling part. We had us a place and there was this bad storm and then come a flood. We lost everything. Papa decided this was what we needed to do for the time being.What we had to do really, with winter coming and all.”
“What do you all sing?”
“Folk music. Gospel. I really got to go. Nice to meet you, Clayton.”
I turned and started going along the path the way I’d come, hurrying away from him while trying not to appear too anxious to put distance between us. My entire body felt awkward and uncomfortable, aware he was likely staring after me, and maybe judging for himself the nature of our situation.
He called out, “Hey! Wait!”
I hesitated before I stopped and turned to look at him.
He come running and stood beside me, still wearing the same smile, and it suited him, and his ways. He seemed like a sunny kind, a lighthearted, fun-loving person, and it was nice to be around somebody who was happy. I found myself wanting to smile at him.
He said, “I practice here most every day. The show’s set up near Tucker’s Branch, and it’ll be there long as the money’s coming in. Come watch me here anytime, if you want. I don’t own the waterfall.”
His invitation eased my mind, and I grinned at him, and it seemed a long time since I’d done that. My face felt all tight and hot, and he kept staring at me, which was fine, although I couldn’t imagine what he was seeing, until he made another comment.
He said, “Shoot, Wallis Ann, them dimples a yours remind me of my old sweetheart, Janie Mae.”
Him saying such a thing so quick had me going all wobbly legged like a newborn foal.
He began walking the other way, jumping up to swat at a tree branch before yelling, “Say you’ll come back!”
I hesitated, and before I could think, “Okay, I will!” flew out of my mouth.
I run fast as my bare feet would allow, following the creek, noting the deep shadows cast before me, the sun having dropped below the ridgeline and making the horizon flare like a red-hot stove. Momma would be having herself a spell, and Papa was liable to make good on his threat once and for all, and actually switch me. I’d been gone at least an hour. Soon enough I seen smoke from the campfire, and heard the thin reedy tune of Laci playing a song. I swooped into camp and found Momma and Papa in a heated argument, not even worried about me and where I’d been after all. Laci put her fiddle down and scurried over, back to dogging my every footstep. Finding Momma and Papa in a spat made me want to slink back into the woods where it was quiet, and peaceful. Nothing had been cooked, and I tuned into what the argument was this time, not surprised when Momma repeated the usual.
“We have nothing over our heads, and little more to eat than before.”
Papa said, “We’ll be fine, Ann. We’ll go back to Hardy’s before I let you or the girls go hungry.”
“Huh. I’d rather go hungry than stay with him. My point is, we’re no better off.”
That’s where the argument ended. Quietly I began putting together a little bit of supper. Some beans. Some corn pone. That night around the campfire there was no prayers, no asking the Lord to bless us and keep us safe.