Chapter 5
After I left Mrs. Stout, I walked fast to make up time, only stopping long enough to eat a couple crackers. I worked the lid off, and inside was flat, uneven wafers, and I had the notion I ought to eat sparingly, and conserve. They was the kind you bought in them big barrels, like at Dewey’s store, thin, still crispy and near bought as good as anything I’d ever had. I thought about how Momma would sometimes purchase a wedge of wax hoop cheese and a pound of rag bologna to go with crackers like this for Papa’s lunch. The thought made my stomach growl. I opened the jar of water, swallowed more to feel fuller, then capped it and kept going.
I followed a soggy, litter-filled Highway 107, and as time went on, a smell I’d noticed got worse as the heat of the day took hold. It was hard to breathe when the fusty, rank odor of rotting weeds, souring wood, and distended, bloated animals filled your nose. I maneuvered around the mounds of uprooted trees, the roots exposed like huge, twisted snakes. I prodded at chickens and pigs, more than I could count, and what all else I couldn’t tell you. I finally did see a few other folks along the way, their look of disbelief matching my own perfectly. I stopped and asked each and every one of them, Had they seen a man with a beard and blue eyes toting a small boy? Had they seen a woman with brown hair, brown eyes? Maybe with a girl who had red hair?
No.
No.
No.
This one man stood alone with his coonhound by his side. The dog’s big old sad eyes stared at me as I come closer. Then he ignored me and looked to his master as if to ask, Now what? The man never acknowledged me at all, and so I went on by. He was too distraught by the site of his broken little cabin what looked like the least of winds could send it toppling. The dog paced, tail curved under his belly, sensing his owner’s distress.
By the way the sun looked, I suspected a couple hours had gone by since I’d talked to Edna Stout. I come to a remote area with only the sound of a few birds here and there. I climbed and climbed, and then I’d stop and rest. After a particularly strenuous effort, I stopped, not to rest but because I heard the swishing of weeds. I looked behind me, and nothing was there. It had to have been my imagination, or my mind playing tricks on me. I started walking, using Mrs. Stout’s stick to knock things out of my way. There. There it was again. I was certain I’d heard the distinct sound of someone following me.
I picked up my pace, moving along with a purposeful stride. After a ways, I made it look like I was searching for something on the ground. I poked at nothing with the walking stick and then sudden like, I turned and sure enough. A man stood only about twenty feet away. He had on nasty-looking coveralls, with no shirt. On his head sat a sweaty, leathery hat, and from the knees down, his legs was covered in mud like he’d been slogging through the same muck for some time. His hands was in his pockets. One eye tended to wander off.
I narrowed mine, and pointed at him with the stick. “You following me?”
He give me the same look I’d given him, squinting his eyes tight in suspicion and working what looked like a small twig to the corner of his mouth. He grinned suddenly, revealing a set of black, rotten teeth. His appearance was ragged, but that won’t saying much considering how I must look to him. He didn’t answer my question.
He ignored it and said, “I seen you come out of the tree back a ways. Wondered when you would come on down. I beat you by a day.”
Maybe the noises I’d heard, the curious breathing I’d taken to be something wild, the huffing sound, had been him nearby. The thought run goose bumps down my spine.
I waved the stick at him again. “Stop following me.”
He inched closer.
“I’m only trying to be friendly. From the looks of it, you might need you some help. I’m thinking we ought to pair up. Help each other out.”
I moved away, and said, “Thank you kindly. I don’t need help.”
“How old is you?”
“Ain’t none a your business.”
“You look like you about, what . . . sixteen?”
I didn’t answer. He inched his way closer while I moved backwards.
He made a cooing sound, like a dove. “You got you a boyfriend? Hey, whyn’t you let me see what all you got. Ain’t nobody around, jes me and you. Come on, sugar britches, let’s see what all you got under yer dress. You look like you got some titties. Hooey! I bet you ain’t even sullied. You let me see, and I’ll give you somethin’ that’s real good. Deal?”
The urge to look behind me, to see where I was going, was strong, only I was nervous about taking my eyes off of him. My stomach tightened as this went on another few seconds, him advancing, me retreating, clutching my water jar and Edna Stout’s walking stick like it was a sword. Eventually, I had to give a quick glance over my shoulder. There was only the woods. I felt a stab of fear when I faced forward again to see he’d moved even closer, stepping light as a bird, silent as a snake. I jabbed the stick at him and he stepped back. He scowled and got bold, regaining the step.
He spit off to the side, and said, “Hey, girly. Look’ee here. Look’ee what I got fer ya. All yours if ’n you want it. Jest a little peek is all I’m a wantin’.”
He’d dropped his hands down in front of his coveralls. I kept my eyes on his face, troubled by what he might have in his hands. I knowed what male parts looked like, and though I’d never seen a growed man’s, I preferred to choose when I would. He made sucking noises like he was calling a cat.
I yelled, “Stop! You stay right there or you’ll wish you had!”
My arm was strong cause I’d cut many a cord of wood, and I sliced the air in front of him with the walking stick, and the movement made my dress ride up my legs. His eyes widened like he was imagining things he ought to not be thinking about. The whistling noise of the stick give him cause to draw back. His lips pursed like he was about to set off whistling. He hesitated, and muttered something under his breath while I watched him carefully. He opened his hands and the motion pulled my eyes down, and I caught my breath.
He held two chicken eggs.
My mouth dropped open. I’d been so scared, him talking nasty like he was, and he only held eggs? This was surely the most puzzling encounter I’d ever had in my entire life.
Unexpectedly, a new voice called out, “Hey? Hey you, miss! You all right?”
I turned to see a younger man, hand shading his eyes, and the other holding a shovel over his shoulder. This was getting a might complicated. Two men and me. What now? Was they in cahoots? The younger man didn’t move, waiting on me to answer.
Holding his gaze, I gestured and said, “This man here was . . .”
I looked over my shoulder meaning to confront the stranger again, only he was gone, vanished as if he’d never been. I stared right and left. The young man made his way down the hill to stand by my side, and I was sure my face conveyed my confusion.
I spoke, doubt in my voice. “He was right here. I seen him. He acted odd, said things. He had a couple eggs. I reckon he was going to give them to me.”
The younger man said, “Yeah, you don’t want to mess with him or his eggs.”
“You know him?”
He said, “That was Leland Tew. He ain’t right, a little tetched in the head. You could blame it on him being drunk most of the time off a moonshine, except most anyone knows him knows he gets these crazy spells. Good days. Bad days. He lives in an old hunting shack over that a way.”
I shivered and looked over my shoulder again.
While I continued to survey the woods, expecting Leland Tew to pop out again, the new acquaintance said, “My name’s Joe Calhoun.”
I quit looking for Tew and replied, “Nice to meet you. I’m Wallis Ann Stamper.”
There was an awkward few seconds of quiet, and in that short bit of time I picked up an air of misery, his shoulders rounded under the weight of a sorrow so tangible, I thought if I touched him I would feel his pain shooting into me, merging his grief with my own.
He said, “Pleased to meet you. Like I said, I heard yelling and come to see what was going on. If it’s all right, I got to get on back to my place,” and he pointed at a hill. “It’s that a way, not too far.”
I was certain that was the source of his unhappiness because his hand shook when he pointed. He lowered it quick, as if it had embarrassed him.
He said, “You’re welcome to follow me and refill your water jar. I got cleaner water than that.”
He gestured at the half-empty jar I held. I hesitated. I was a bit uneasy after what just took place, but the idea of fresh water was tempting. He didn’t wait for me to make up my mind, heading off in the direction he’d pointed out, and after a few seconds I followed. We took a crooked trail and there won’t any more talking. A log cabin come into view within a few minutes, and like many others I’d seen, it was damaged badly. In this case, a huge pine tree lay over one end, and a mule, with a length of chain hitched to the animal’s harness, stood waiting. Nearby squatted a small boy by the pine tree lying partially on the cabin. He stood when he seen us, dropping the other end of the chain he’d held, his face red from crying. They’d been working on moving the tree, and considering the pile of limbs and logs they’d cut off it and gathered, they’d been at it steady.
Joe Calhoun wiped sweat from his brow while the boy pushed his straw hat up on his head, staring at me like he couldn’t put together where I’d come from. I set the walking stick and jar down. The boy looked as if he was thinking about running to hide. He was barefoot too, wearing only a ragged pair of coveralls that looked like they was about to fall off him. Streaks of wet cleared two rows down his dirt-covered cheeks.
Joe Calhoun hesitated, then said, “Where’s your family?”
“I’m from over to Stampers Creek. We got separated during the flood. My papa is William Stamper, and Momma is Ann Wallis Stamper.”
Joe Calhoun watched me as I took the end of the chain the boy had been holding in my hands and started towards the broken end of the pine.
“What’re you doing?”
“Helping out.”
“It ain’t necessary.”
“I aim to work for that water you’re gonna give me.”
Joe cocked his head and looked surprised, then said, “Suit yourself. Think I heard a y’all. You’re part of that singing family what goes around the county, The Stampers, ain’t you?”
“Yes. That’s my family. I’m looking for’em.”
He scratched at his arm, and said, “I’m sorry.”
Anything else I might have offered sat in my throat heavy as the biggest stones in the river, and thankfully he motioned towards the section of cabin under the tree and stated the obvious.
“When the storm come, that old tree come down.”
He looked like he didn’t know exactly what had happened or how things got the way they was now.
I said, “Is it only you and your boy?”
He shrugged uncomfortably, his words choked off like mine. I looked at what appeared to be a jumbled pile of cut and scraped logs under the tree, just a heap of rubble really. Some fluttery kind of material like curtains, maybe a tablecloth rippled and danced between the mangled wood. I was about to turn to him when I noted something what didn’t belong. When it clicked what I was looking at, it felt like somebody had all of the sudden dropped me from a great height. My stomach bottomed out as I stared at the foot, turned all blue and purplish, like a beet. The fluttering material was a dress. I stumbled backwards, my mouth opening and closing only no words coming out. They was crammed so far down into my throat, I couldn’t bring them up. I stared at Joe Calhoun, disbelief and alarm apparent on my face. He wore a rather stoic look while I processed what I seen while the boy made a noise, gulping in sobs. Joe Calhoun pulled a handkerchief from a pocket and give it to the boy.
He motioned towards the foot, his words tumbled one over the other in a hushed tone. “We tried to git her out all day yesterday. Her and the little one she’d held. That’s my wife, Sally, and our little Josie, who won’t but two years old.”
I found my voice, and I said, “How horrible. I’m so sorry.”
He moved closer to the distorted, swollen foot and stared at the flapping material. I was half nervous he was going to touch it. Flies landed all around and on it too. He flapped his hand to shoo them off.
He said in a voice flat, broken sounding with disbelief, “Course, it come on us so quick. And when it was all said and done, I realized she was gone. I tried with my bare hands, at first, and of course, nothing won’t budge. I finally found our mule upstream just today, and I was hoping maybe with him we can get her out.” He looked my way and said, “No need for you to stay and see this. Let me get your water, and you can be on your way.”
“No. I mean, I’d like some water, but what do you need me to do?”
Joe Calhoun stared at my hands, and I clenched them to hide the blisters. He seemed to assess the potential strength of my arms.
I guess I didn’t look as puny as I felt, because he said, “If you don’t mind, go and give young Lyle a hand there.”
I walked over to the boy, a miniature of his papa. He refused to meet my gaze.
He was too young to be wearing the look he had, and I whispered, “I’m real, real sorry.”
He didn’t respond. He only wiped at his eyes quick, and then he and I worked together to wrap the chain around and around the end, while he hooked his end to the mule’s harness. Soon, it was all set, and he took the reins in his hands and stood directly behind the mule like he was going to plow.
He said, “Heeya!” and slapped them. The mule leaned into his harness willingly. I didn’t want to see what might be happening behind me, so I focused on him and so did Lyle. Joe Calhoun guided the mule to the right, then to the left, and with some momentum, the mule got his feet under him good and after a few more seconds of steady pulling, we heard a heavy thump.
He yelled, “Whoa!”
I still didn’t turn around. He patted the mule on the shoulder, and from that vantage point he slowly glanced where the section of the tree had rested. When he crumpled to his knees, I didn’t know what all to do. I was scared of this kind of a death. I didn’t want to look. I’d never seen such awful things, and won’t sure I wanted to now. Compared to this, Coy Skinner’s story was like listening to a radio. Same thing with the awful tragedies Papa talked about at his job. Trees not going where the workers intended; equipment malfunctions; people losing digits, limbs, or lives. Seeing it right in front of you is different altogether. Joe Calhoun motioned to Lyle to come to him. I stared intently at my dirty, mosquito-bitten arms and the scratches on my legs. The boy thundered past me into his papa’s arms. I looked away as the two of them hugged, the boy starting to sob again. I give the sky my attention, and wondered why such hardships was delivered to such good people. Momma always said, The Lord works in mysterious ways.
I didn’t want to think about if they’d suffered something long and enduring. I dropped my gaze from the sky to stare at the undamaged side of the cabin, and then slowly let my eyes slide towards the crushed end, skimming over Mrs. Calhoun’s foot, then, going a little higher still. She had her hands clasped together and held off to her side and around a clump of different material altogether. It weighed heavy on my heart when I seen them tiny arms and legs, and I had to blink, and then I leaned forward. I thought I’d seen movement. I squinted. Lordy, them little legs was moving. I drew in a sharp breath and started running towards Mrs. Calhoun and the little girl named Josie.
Joe Calhoun shouted, “Ain’t no use! They’s gone!”
I kept running, seeing how the small, curly blond head turned this way and that, while her small arms pushed until suddenly she was sitting up, moving away from the protection of her momma’s side. The little girl, her hair a wild array of spun gold, started to wail. Footsteps thudded behind me. Mrs. Calhoun was surely gone, the nasty blow to her head visible, yet her face remained beautiful, and so was the child’s cry. I clambered over crushed wood to reach her, and lifted her out and away from the ruin. She clung to my dress, shaking, covered in dirt, leaves, and dried blood. She stunk to high heaven, having soiled herself time and again.
Holding her carefully, I stepped over the twisted pile of logs, slipping a little from the mud on them. Joe Calhoun reached for her, and Josie for him. Lyle, hypnotized by the sight of his little sister, stood several feet from us, his red-rimmed eyes wide and blinking. Recovering after a few seconds, he approached and stared at his baby sister, a dusty hand rubbing her bruised leg. It was startling how the child had survived, protected by her momma’s body, tucked in a little divot, out of the way of the weight that could have crushed her. Such a miraculous thing, yet sad at the same time.
“I can’t hardly believe it,” I said.
Joe Calhoun buried his face in the tangle of his daughter’s hair. She was quiet now, her head lying on his shoulder.
He spoke with a shaky voice. “A blessed miracle.”
My thoughts only moments before retrieved a similar word. “It sure is.”
I felt a great need, a tremendous wanting for an outcome like this for my own self and my family.
I said, “I’m happy I stayed, but I best be on my way now.” I gestured at the mangled wreckage of his home, the distressing view of his wife’s body, “I’m real sorry about Mrs. Calhoun, and your home.”
Joe Calhoun asked me, “What will you do?”
Staring back the way I’d come, I replied, “I’ll keep looking,” my hand gesturing in the direction I’d walked. “They may be waiting on me at our place, that is, if it’s still there. Either way, I’ll wait for’em if they ain’t.”
Joe Calhoun said, “You happen to know the Powells, who live just beyond Stampers Creek?”
His question startled me, but I said, “Yes, that’s them folks over to the next holler.”
Joe Calhoun said, “You see’em, tell’em, all’s well except for Sally. And if anybody comes by here lookin’, I’ll be sure to tell’em I seen you, and where you was headed.”
“Thank you kindly.”
I waved at them and began to retrace my earlier steps, looking over my shoulder only once before I got out of sight. Joe Calhoun watched with little Josie’s head on his shoulder and Lyle beside him. The last I seen of them, they was going towards Mrs. Calhoun. I faced forward and trudged on. It took me only a short while to get where I’d stopped to address the problem of Leland Tew, and as I walked along, I ruminated on Joe Calhoun. I couldn’t quit thinking about what happened, and what a stunning turn of events it had been to find his little girl alive. The idea he was familiar with the Powells won’t all that surprising, but I couldn’t help but wonder how come we’d never met before.
Within the hour, I was wishing I’d remembered to get the water he’d offered. Passing the grossly swollen Mill Creek, I come to the stretch that would take me home to Stampers Creek, and knowing I was so close set me to singing to cut through the quiet, and to keep myself company. The afternoon sun sat plump and full, and I was glad I’d get there before dark. I stopped to rest, preparing for the final push. I sat down on part of an uprooted oak tree and finished what was left of the water, yet still felt parched. I pulled the tin from my dress and ate two more crackers, hoping to stave off the light-headed dizziness I kept having, like I’d been spinning in circles. I shook the can lightly, peered into it and counted only six more crackers.
Sliding the lid in place, I stared at the broken, littered trail ahead and noticed how the ruts made from years of use was gone, smoothed over from the passing current and filled in with sediment and mud. To the west, in the hazy, bluish distance, Cullowhee Mountain met Cherry Gap as they had for maybe millions of years. The distant hills opposite cut a familiar jagged line across the blue sky, offering a view of deep valleys and crests that shifted from rich greens to black shadows, an ever-changing display created by the sun as the peaks punctured the clouds. I never tired of the view. I breathed in and out slowly, taking it in, and bracing myself for the rest of the walk home, and what I might find. I didn’t sing no more the rest of the way.