The Road to Bittersweet by Donna Everhart (6)

The dirt path to the cabin was blocked by a gigantic fallen oak. I recollected Papa telling me once it had been a sapling when my great-grandpa Stamper was a boy, and seeing it lying over on its side felt like part of our history had been taken. Momma had spoke of seeing coffins floating by in the flood of ’16, and after seeing this huge tree torn up from its roots, I thought about our family graveyards, and wondered if anything had happened to them. Momma and Papa’s people was buried only a short distance away, set apart in different areas as if the idea of burying Scottish and English together won’t a consideration, even though Momma was Scottish, and had married Papa, who was English.

During winter when trees was barren, I could see both graveyards. They was set in right pretty places, each having old wrought-iron fences circling them. All but two of Papa’s brothers was buried there. My uncle Seph, who little Seph was named for, and who died in WWI, was buried in Arlington National Cemetery, and Uncle Hardy, Papa’s oldest brother who lived in Pine Mountain, South Carolina. I seen Uncle Hardy all of twice in my lifetime, and Papa hardly ever talked about him. All of Momma’s family was buried about a half mile away from Papa’s family. There we set flowers on graves holding my grandparents, Momma’s little sister who died as a baby, and a great-aunt and uncle.

I went on by the tree and turned my ear to the alder flycatchers, sapsuckers, and various other birds crying out, chirping along the way as if telling me about their lives interrupted by the storm. I got to walking faster, my concern growing by the minute as I realized Stampers Creek had risen to the highest point ever. Seconds later I come to where our cabin should have been. I immediately dropped everything I carried on the ground. I stopped and stared at the stone foundation laid by Papa almost twenty years ago, the only thing left. My breath pumped in and out of me as I moved about the edges of the property. I thought of Momma and those last moments seeing her touching this and that as we was about to leave.

The barn still stood, although it won’t going to last long from the look of it. I’d hoped maybe the chickens might be roosting in some of the trees, but there won’t a squawk or the grunt of a hog to be heard. I whistled for Liberty and Pete. I got nothing from either of them, not a whicker or a bray. I went and sat on the foundation, realizing the day was near bout gone.With a wary eye towards the setting sun, my immediate need was on having something to eat. Maybe the garden would have a remnant of a vegetable, a tomato, some beans, or maybe a melon.

I walked to the backside of where our cabin had been, to where the rows of vegetables once thrived, and found not even a spare shucky bean.The garden existed of a few stripped stalks what had somehow withstood the surge of water. Melons, once abundant, with vines growing as long as fifteen feet, had only two of the fruit left behind, but they’d split open and the pale, carroty flesh had gone yellow with rot, while a swarm of fruit flies fizzed about happily. The root cellar had been exposed to the flood, and a nasty-looking slurry reached the top step. I had the feeling the jars of the vegetables we’d canned had been broken, or was buried under it.

I swore to myself I’d find something. It was better to think like this, optimistically is what Papa would say. I continued exploring, looking for some part of our lives what had existed only days ago. While hunting for food I also looked for other possessions, like the wooden benches used at our kitchen table Papa made. The worktable. Momma’s lovely bone china from Granny Wallis. It was eerie not finding even a fragment from our home intact, like it had all been imagined. It made me feel like I had when Leland Tew did his disappearing act, making it seem like he won’t real. Other than the rock foundation, and the barn, all other traces of our presence here was gone.

I was pretty thirsty after all the rummaging around. I went back to the foundation wall again, my hands hanging between my knees, throbbing in time with my head. I shut my eyes, not wanting to see any more. I sat that way for I don’t know how long, wondering should I leave. Only, there was something about being in this spot where I’d been born what made me want to stay, even though I had nothing to hold on to, nothing to gather and save. I thought of Joe Calhoun and his boy, and it come to me he’d likely rather have his wife alive than any of the possessions they’d salvaged. I straightened my back at that thought. Papa always said if you go round with your head down, it’s hard to be mindful of what you got, and you might overlook something important.

It was growing cooler as the sun dropped behind the ridges. It would be nighttime soon. I started looking around again, and having had a bit of time for things to sink in, I regarded the scenery with a degree of calm. I went to a different area I hadn’t searched and spotted something after a few minutes of poking around near the woods. There was some shapes what didn’t match the natural lay of the land. I hurried over, and found, of all things, Momma’s stove, covered in mud, setting on one end, and banged up, an unbelievable find. I yanked the door open and inside was the small kettle and skillet. Behind them was the familiar coffeepot what usually sat on a burner in the mornings. I retrieved these and took them over to the foundation. I was almost giddy with a happiness I couldn’t explain.

The other shape was an even more remarkable find. It was Granny Wallis’s pie safe, caught between two tree trunks, and still, somehow, held in an upright position. I nudged the small latch and opened it. Unbelievably, inside was what was left of the birthday cake Momma had baked the day of the storm. My stomach rumbled, and I took it out and inspected it. It was flattened and soggy, yet still it smelled all right. Hunger won out. I swiped a finger through the frosting and tasted it. It tasted off, but more like chocolate than anything. Using the tips of my dirty fingers to scoop mouthful after mouthful, I crammed the wet, pasty cake into my mouth. I closed my eyes and thought about nothing else except eating. I finally come to my senses and stopped, took a deep breath and let it out slow.

Already I felt better, more clearheaded and even had some energy. I set the remains of the cake back inside and nudged the little door closed again. The gnawing hole of hunger filled, I looked at the property with fresh eyes. I tried to feature what Momma would do since nothing hardly ever ruffled her. While sitting in the tree, I’d felt sort of protected, uncomfortable, but protected. Here, on the ground, and surrounded by woods, the unusual quiet filled me with apprehension. The shift from day to night would leave me exposed to whatever might ramble by, be it two-legged or four-legged. There could be bear, or bobcat, or wolf as desperate as me for food. The last thing I wanted to do was sit up all night, my back to a tree and vulnerable.

I was going to need some sort of shelter. There was enough branches, limbs, and other foliage on the ground I could use, some of it dry even. I grabbed the walking stick and began looking more carefully for what I could use. I spotted one particular clump set higher than others. I poked at it with the stick, and it made a hollow sound. I bent over and dug through all the wet leaves and branches and uncovered the bucket from our well, rope still attached. Encouraged, I kept on, all too aware the faster I went, the faster it seemed the sun went down.

As I continued gathering what I needed, I looked east, towards the Powell farm. Maybe once I’d done what I could around here, I’d go over there, check to see if anyone was about. I recollected there was a few pecan trees between here and there, and it was time for wild grapes to be in season too. I dragged armful after armful of loose limbs close to the foundation, then paused to catch my breath, noticing how heavy the air was around me. Sweating profusely, I wiped my forehead and pushed on. Back and forth I went, into the woods again and again, a little further each time. After a couple more trips, I was surprised to find what looked like a section of one of the inside walls to our cabin, the fragments of newspapers and magazines still tacked onto the wood, the way we’d kept heat or coolness in. All this gathering had led me to exactly what I needed. I grabbed one edge, and winced as pain shot through my hands, but after gripping it tight for a few seconds I was able to haul it into the yard. I placed one end against the foundation and peered underneath. This would do and saved time. I sifted through the pile I’d collected, feeling like I could be choosy selecting branches with the most pine needles, or leaves.

I proceeded to fashion myself a bed under the lean-to, piling it thick, and then I wished for a fire. Papa had told stories about living out in these woods when he was a boy, using what he had on hand. I was glad I’d paid attention. He gone into the woods one time for three days when he won’t but eleven, with only a slingshot, the clothes he wore, and nothing else. He’d made a fire out of the rotted inside of a tree from what is called punk wood. There was always downed trees in the woods, the ones what fell over from decay. And along Stampers Creek there might be some quartz rocks, what he’d said was best for creating a spark. I decided I would search for those things tomorrow.

I surveyed my makeshift camp, and felt as ready for the night as I could be. I brung everything I’d found, along with the tin of crackers, the walking stick, the jar and my one sorry shoe, setting it all nearby where I could keep an eye on things. I opened the tin and, with apologies to my family, I ate the last of the crackers.While I munched, I let my eyes get used to the gloomy surroundings. The dark don’t never seem as bad once you get acclimated. With my bones heavy as the waterlogged timber I’d moved, I finally crawled under my lean-to like a cur dog slinking under a porch. I swatted at the mosquitoes, and listened to a few frogs croak. They was likely the only ones happy.

I let the images of Momma’s and Papa’s faces come to mind, then I did the same for Laci and Seph, featuring them like pictures in a frame. I wondered what Joe Calhoun, Lyle, and Josie was doing.Was they sleeping under the stars too? I studied the night sky, watching the moon slink across it. Some buried fear within allowed me only a brief nod of dozing here and there, until I eventually gave up on sleep. I turned onto my belly and propped my chin on my arms while staring out into the still night, feet pressed against the stones, which somehow still felt warm from the sun.

I said, “Go to sleep, Wallis Ann.”

It sounded peculiar, the sound of my voice speaking my name and no one to hear. It was a little unnerving. I remained on my belly for a long time, half asleep, half awake. As was bound to happen, the urge to use the privy come on me. Since our outhouse was gone along with everything else, I was going to have to do my business like I’d been doing on my walk home. Out in the open. Even with the yard lit by the moon, and nothing around best as I could tell, I had the oddest sense of being watched. Crazy Leland Tew and his egg offering come to mind. That won’t helpful. What if he’d somehow followed me here? What if he was right there in them dusky woods, watching me?

The very idea made me stay put until I could no longer hold it. When it got to be a must, I crawled out carefully, and stood in the moonlight, still as a night owl. I moved away from the lean-to, but not so far I couldn’t see it. I dug myself a little hole in the dirt. I looked over my shoulder. My belly burned with urgency. Hesitant, I reached under my dress and pulled down my drawers. I waited again, then, with the notion it was now or never, I went on and got myself situated above my little dip in the ground.

I was in the middle of it all, and starting to feel some relief, when a huffing noise come from directly behind me. If I hadn’t already been doing what I was doing, it would have come on like I was a bitty baby with no control. I remained crouched as the huffing come closer, and closer yet. The odor of my pee rose, and I was petrified whatever animal stalked me would smell it and fear too. I had a stench about me, in general after being in the river, along with several days of sweating. Grime covered me from the top of my dirty, greasy head to my filthy feet. Maybe I stunk too badly for whatever it was. And whatever it was, was taking its sweet time. I closed my eyes and tried not to move, which was asking a lot.

My thigh muscles trembled and ached. My ears went to buzzing with the effort to hear and track the movements. I thought it drifted to my left. Or was it to my right? Worst of all, I felt sure no matter what direction it went, left or right, it was closer. Goose pimples speckled my arms and neck. A twig snapped right behind me, and I went to praying.

It didn’t seem possible after all this time and what I’d been through I was about to be mauled by some wild animal. Another noise, and then I smelled its raunchy breath, so close it brushed over the back of my neck. I wanted to vomit. As hard as I tried to be still, I quivered and shook, and a cold shiver of dread raced up and down my spine at will. I tensed, waiting for a horrific roar, anticipating the first painful bite on my shoulder, neck, or wherever it chose to chomp down on. All I could think was wildcat. Or wolves. They hunted at night. My whole body ached with the need to take a lungful of air, and my mouth opened, prepared to match the scream of whatever was about to attack me and rip my skin to shreds.

On the verge of blacking out from fear, and when I was about to shriek from sheer terror, the softest of touches whispered over my shoulder, and then a velvety nose snuffled my hair. Next come a hard bump against my hip, the stomp of a foot, and I dared look over my shoulder at the long, graying snout of our mule, Pete. Like the brush of a cool breeze on a hot summer’s day, relief flooded over me and I almost collapsed on the ground. Meanwhile, that old cantankerous mule moseyed on over to the barn, waiting for somebody to let him into his stall like it was any old ordinary day, even though he couldn’t fit through the door as it was leaning too much. If I hadn’t already been so exhausted, and recovering from being scared out of my wits, I might have laughed, except I won’t in a laughing mood. I stood, fixed my clothes, then I stumbled over to him on legs like jelly. I put my hand on his neck, rubbing down its length.

“Old Pete, you sorry old thing, you sure did give me a bad scare,” I said.

Leaning my forehead against him, I scratched his ears and took some deep breaths. I went back over to my lean-to, eased myself underneath and finally fell asleep.