Chapter 7
The change in the air brushed my skin like polished, cool metal against exposed arms and legs. I wished for the old ragged coat of mine once again. My need for the fire escalated. Shivering, I stared down at my feet, noting my toes had a bluish tinge. I wrapped my arms around my waist real tight and considered I ought to move about in order to get my blood stirring, except it was hard to rouse any gumption for doing much when my mouth felt like the inside of an old rag and my belly was so empty it was gnawing at my backbone.
One way or the other, it was morning, and today I’d resolved to do two things. First take care of a fire. Second, work my way over to the Powells and check on them. I walked into the woods, using Mrs. Stout’s walking stick to knock against felled trees. It won’t long when the unique hollow sound rang out as I poked hard at the sides of a mountain gum. A section collapsed, and come apart, and inside was exactly what I needed. I broke the chalky pieces off, and then searched a bit of rocky area, happy when I come across some moss too. It was another good burning material. I collected as much as I could and then I went and dumped my fire-building material into a pile near a little stack of kindling wood. Next, I gathered pinecones for their resin.
What took me the longest was my search for rocks with quartz. Stampers Creek was still too high, and the rock beds was mostly hidden. I dug around close as I could get near the edges and finally give up, deciding instead to get two plain rocks and try them. I studied what I’d gathered, and strangely, I felt nervous, like I was about to stand in front of my class and read out loud. I was parched, and all I could think was, if I could do this, I’d be able to boil water. And if I could boil water, I could drink and drink and drink without fear of getting sick. And I’d be able to cook—if I could catch or kill something. I fixed the punk wood into a tiny pile. I got the kindling, and built a small teepee of the sticks, laying them this way and that. I had some dead pine needles too, and I fashioned a little bird-nest-looking bundle and added the moss. Finally, I lifted the two stones, and took a breath.
Papa’s voice come to me, “Don’t smother it. Start small.”
I crouched down close to the punk wood and smacked the rocks together at an angle against one another, click, clack, click! I kept going in the same direction like Laci strumming the dulcimer. After a minute of knocking them stones together, a tiny spark hit the crumbly wood, and a fragile tendril of smoke curled like a tiny gray worm into the air. Excited, I carefully cupped one hand around the tiny glow and waved my other hand to encourage it along. When the miniature pile went to smoking a bit more, I carefully scooped the tiny smoldering bit and ever so carefully set it into my pine needle and moss nest. I leaned over and nursed the smidgen of a flame by pursing my lips and by blowing delicate puffs of air over it.
I was fearful any minute I’d blow too hard on the itty-bitty flare I had going and snuff it out before it had a chance to take hold. Small as it was, I persisted, and soon most of the pine bundle was ablaze, and I hurried to set it into the small opening of kindling I’d collected. My tiny blaze caught onto the littlest of branches, and sputtered. I froze, willing it to life, like a struggling newborn kitten. I felt the first bit of warmth coming off it soon after, and reached for the bigger sticks, slowly building it until I was certain the blaze won’t going out. My little flame expanded to the size of a melon.
I’d done it. I had a fire.
I stared at it with pride, my sense of triumph immense. I hurried to get Momma’s kettle, and pulled it close. I added even more wood, and soon it went from reasonable size to a roaring blaze. I thought, It can’t get too big and I can’t get close enough, but I still got more to do. I got the water bucket I’d found and I headed straight towards Stampers Creek. I was careful to steer clear of any nearby standing water, and only filled it from areas where it flowed swiftly. I come back and dumped the water into the kettle. After it boiled and cooled, I was going to fill that jar to the rim, and I was going to drink it down, and fill it again. I felt right proud of myself and I believe I might have even smiled a little bit right then. I patiently waited, and when I was sure it had boiled long enough, I poured some into the jar and set it aside to cool. I stacked more wood onto the fire and watched it burn a little longer.
Gazing towards the sky, I decided if I was going over to the Powells, I ought to do it now. It wouldn’t take long to get there and the water needed to cool anyway. I set off at a good pace, following the trail. I’d only been there a time or two, but after several minutes, I come to the wood fence that separated our cow pastures. I took a second to admire the fall colors tipping the uppermost part of Cullowhee and then I went over the fence and down into the holler. There I had to climb over fallen trees until I come to another field of flattened fodder. There won’t no livestock to come eat it, or signs of anyone who would bundle it for use later. I was on the Powell property now, and I kept on, looking over my shoulder now and then to be sure Cullowhee Mountain and Cherry Gap was behind me, which meant I was going in the right direction.
After a few minutes I come to another clearing for their place where I found the circular rocks for their well, some strewed planks of wood, maybe from the cabin’s porch, and a tall post, with a bell hanging crooked. That was all.
“Helloooo?”
I walked over to the well, searching the ground for a rock or something to drop into it. I found a small stone and tossed it in. It clattered down and I heard a splash within seconds. I poked my head in and jerked it out, gagging. Something had got in there and died. The Powells had experienced the same fate as us. Their home was gone, their well contaminated, and there was no way to know how they’d fared. I needed some way to signal them to come to our place. I grabbed another rock. I went over to the wood post holding the dinner bell, and I scratched my initials, W.A.S., and the date, September 8, 1940. It was all I could do. I headed back, sad about what I’d seen and discovered.
When I got home, I rushed over to check on the fire and the water. The blaze was still going strong, and the water in the jar had cooled. I grabbed the hem of my dress to wrap around the handle and dragged the kettle from the flame. Pete come moseying along from where he’d been feeding on some nearby timothy grass and red fescue. I was glad he could forage for his self, and I eyeballed him, filled with a new confidence about what all I could potentially do. I started planning a few things to keep myself busy, so I wouldn’t think so hard on being alone. I lifted the jar and drank the water I’d boiled, filled with the sense I was going to be okay.
* * *
On my fourth morning I woke to overcast skies. Each day I’d began with a sense of anticipation. I was always convinced for the first few hours something good would happen, but, as morning passed into afternoon, and afternoon into nighttime, those expectations evaporated along with my hope. It helped to stick to a routine. Stoke the fire, add wood, boil water, plan the day. Today I was going to hunt through the barn. I’d waited for fear it would fall on me, but now I was tired of waiting. I entered it and familiar smells hit me right away, like the leather from harnesses, and the saddle we used to ride Liberty. The dry, sweet odor of hay, sawdust, and damp wood. After searching in the corners and behind a stall, I located Pete’s work harness crumpled up into a corner, with a bit of mildew already growing on it. I picked it up and began to pull and stretch the damp leather. I walked outside where he was nipping daintily with his hairy mule lips at bits of timothy grass. Old Pete could be tricky, and I wondered if I ought to hide the harness from his sight. He lifted his head and his ears twitched at my approach, only it won’t me or the harness he seemed interested in. He was looking towards the path, and then I heard what he did, a distant, soft singing.
I went still, my hand hanging midair, the straps of leather dangling. The wind what had whistled through the tops of the trees this morning had calmed, and it was so quiet, I wondered if my ears was doing that funny thing again, filling my head with noises that won’t there. I tilted it to hear better. Maybe I was getting feverish. Could be hunger was causing my ears to ring. There it come again, louder this time, a recognizable song, and a singular voice, combined with the deeper one, as familiar as the ground beneath my feet. Us Baptist got this way of singing with a definitive expression of our words, like an insistence we be heard. We sing and chop our hands up and down and really get our insides into feeling the music. This was the singing I’d heard all my life. Momma’s clear soprano, peppered with Papa’s striking alto, their voices soaring as they drew closer.
I dropped the harness and sprinted towards the sound, paying no heed to the rocks jabbing my bruised, sore feet. I don’t reckon I really know who seen who first. It was like we all seen each other at the same time, yet my mind wouldn’t let me believe what was in front of my very eyes. I stopped, my hand over my mouth, and everything went blurry. There was Momma. I couldn’t move towards her, though I wanted to, and behind her was Papa. And behind him was Laci, arms hanging by her side, wide-eyed and silent. Momma and Papa, they come running towards me and I still couldn’t budge. I couldn’t trust my legs.
Momma hollered, “Wallis Ann! Wallis Ann!” and Papa, his eyes steady on me like if he looked away, I’d be gone. I didn’t see what Laci done after that, cause my view of her was covered by Momma and Papa’s bodies as they squished me into the middle of them like a piece a meat between two slices of bread. I felt their hands pressing down on me, from my shoulders to my head and to my shoulders as if they couldn’t believe I was for real. I was gripping hard onto them, breathing deep the scent of their clothes, like rainwater and dirt, like trees and wood smoke, like all the love and comfort I’d ever known, and none of it, not none of it seemed real in them first few seconds.
Momma went from hollering to simply whispering my name with a question in it like she was finding it hard to believe I was standing there in the flesh. “Wallis Ann? Wallis Ann? Thank God, oh, sweet Jesus, praise the Lord.” And then an astounded, “You’re alive?”
I couldn’t say nothing, I was too choked up. I couldn’t do a thing except stand there stupefied, my head on Momma’s shoulder first, and then leaning into Papa’s chest. Papa had hold a both me and Momma, cinching us so tight with his muscular arms I thought my ribs might crack. After a minute or so, we let go of each other and took a step back to look at dirty faces, scratched, tired and most of all happy. I felt a familiar, soft touch, my sister’s hand burrowing into my tender palm like a small mouse come home to nest. I closed my fingers around the familiar, dainty bones, noting how her hand was clenched in a tight little fist. It was almost more than my heart could bear, this happiness, this relief to know they was here, and they won’t dead, and we was all together again.
Except, where was Seph?
I hardly dared look, or ask for the one small person not present. I was fearful to speak his name, to ask the question I had in my head. Please. Not our little feller. A vision of his face come to mine as I searched Momma’s for answers. The whites of hers was red and wet with tears, but untroubled. She and Papa had bluish circles underneath, like they hadn’t slept in days, otherwise, what worry had been in them had been cleared away, like clouds burned off by the sun. Momma’s expression was clear, giving me courage to ask about my little brother.
“And Seph?”
Her eyes spilled over, and she smiled slightly and shook her head no, like she wanted to rid herself of a painful memory. Her differing reactions provided me no answer.
My heart fluttered with fear, as fragile as a butterfly in late summer. “Momma?”
She heard the alarm in my voice.
She said, “Oh, honey, he’s fine, he’s with Mrs. Barnes over to Sugar Creek Holler.” The rest of her words come out fast, all tangled together like a patch of briars.
“Your papa said after they fell out, he never let go of Seph. And poor Seph. He probably thought Papa was trying to drown him. He went under time and again, and Papa told me how he had to fight the river and Seph. He kept their heads clear for the most part, though Seph didn’t make it easy. Papa said he screamed, and fought him like a little wildcat. Don’t that sound like him? Your papa said he was fearless.”
I wanted to know everyone’s story, what they had done, and how they’d found one another.
“What about you and Laci?”
“It took some doing to get out of the water. I still can’t explain how we both landed on a section of the embankment only about a hundred yards apart. That had to be God’s hand. We walked about a half a day, and we found your Papa coming along with Seph riding high on his shoulders like he likes to do. I tell you it was a sight I never thought I’d see. Mrs. Barnes was on her front porch, and she offered to keep him while we searched for you. Finding you here, it’s the answer to our final prayers.”
Momma squeezed me again and rubbed my arms with her hands like she’d do when we was chilled to the bone. She shivered like me, and I noted their clothes was torn. Momma at least had her shoes, as did Papa. Laci’s, like mine, was gone. The condition of her feet looked bad as my own. Red-toed, scratched, and bruised. And nobody had coats anymore. Papa waited for me and Momma to finish.
His eyes watching me carefully, he asked, “Wally Girl, how did you fare on your own?”
I didn’t want to think about it, or have to live it all over again. I spoke quickly.
“The water carried me a ways too. I don’t know how far. I was getting beat up and I figured I had to get out of the river. I somehow managed to snag hold of a branch and climb into a tree.”
Papa give me a hard look, and he asked, “You climbed a tree?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How long did you stay there?”
“Going on three days.”
“Three days.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I bet you thought of old Coy Skinner too, didn’t you?”
“I sure did, that’s why I didn’t stay in it any longer.”
Papa laughed, though not with his usual easy-sounding chuckle, more like relieved.
He said, “And once you was able to come down, you made your way here by yourself.”
“Yes, sir, once I figured out where I was.”
Momma said, “See? I told you she was strong.”
Papa said, “Did you see anyone you recognized?”
“You mean alive?”
He frowned and said, “You seen some not?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you know who it was?”
“I can’t be sure . . . I couldn’t tell since I couldn’t see his face. He went by me in the river. Facedown.”
Momma said, “Oh, dear God.”
I kept on because now I’d started, I wanted to tell them and be done. I told them about Edna Stout, and about the Calhouns, how I helped them, and how Mrs. Calhoun hadn’t made it.
Papa’s eyes squinted. “Calhoun?”
He frowned at me again, like the name Calhoun bothered him somehow, but all he said was, “Why, that’s got to be at least twenty miles away.”
I’d already figured it was pretty far since I’d walked it and it took me over a day, and it felt like it had been a good ways. I told them I’d gone to the Powells and things over there looked no better than here. No sign of anyone been home.
“I scratched my initials on the dinner bell post and dated it.”
“You done good, Wally Girl. Real good. Look a here. You got a fire. Got boiling water. I’m proud of you.”
Papa spun on his heels and looked at Momma, who was toasting her backside.
He said, “How about it, Ann? Our girl here’d, she’d put any man to shame, wouldn’t she?”
Momma said, “Of course. She’s a Wallis, after all.”
It did me good to hear their old banter. Even better, it was good to hear Papa say the things he said. There won’t ever any praise for what was expected, only when you done something startling. I decided to say nothing about Leland Tew. What would be the point? I had to tell them about Pete scaring me bad as he did, so I launched into that story. Right about then, here come Pete to check things out.
Papa was pleased, and he patted Pete from one end to the other while saying over and over, “This is good. We got ole Pete.”
Papa got to walking around the property with Momma. I went along too, with Laci trailing behind me. Papa shot questions at me about what else I’d found, and I showed him and Momma both the stove and pie safe. I said nothing about the cake and nobody asked. I pointed to the skillet, and of course the water bucket back at the camp. They’d already seen the kettle with the water boiling, and the coffeepot. I explained I’d been about to harness Pete to start cleaning up some of the heavier stuff from the storm. Papa commended me again, and I felt a bright glowing heat warming my insides. Papa peeked into my little old lean-to, and he didn’t say nothing, but his chest kind of expanded and it won’t hard to tell he was proud of me all over again about how I’d done for myself and all. Momma give the property a once-over.
She said, “Everything we’ve worked so hard for.”
Papa said, “We’ll put things right, don’t worry none.”
I watched as she considered what was left, her face transforming from relief and happiness to an odd, flat expression, as if to hide her doubt.
She straightened, and said, “I reckon we’ll have to start over from the beginning.”
Papa walked back to the path, picked up a sackcloth I’d not seen, and handed it to Momma. He searched the edge of the woods and selected a flat piece of wood and set it on the foundation. Momma took items out of the sack and set them on the wood. There was a poke of grits, and a small container of coffee, a wedge of hoop cheese, some cornmeal, and last, she pulled out a box of matches. I smiled. No reason to knock stones together again, not for a while anyway.
Papa said, “Wallis Ann, I take it you didn’t find nothing in the cellar?”
Without taking my eyes off what Momma had laid out, I replied, “No, sir. It’s filled with mud and water. There’s no way to tell what’s in there, if it’s busted, or what.”
He looked across the way, towards the garden, and said, “I can see from here the garden is gone.”
My eyes still on the food, I answered, “Yes, sir.”
I pointed to the kettle, and said, “I’m pretty sure the well water’s tainted. It looks like the water went high enough to go right over it.”
Papa frowned, and said, “Damn. I’s afraid of that.”
Momma scolded. “William.”
Papa give her a flabbergasted look.
With a raised eyebrow, and a sweep of his arm to include where our home once stood, he said, “Could say a lot worse, considering, Ann.”
Momma said nothing further and only held out her hand, palm up. Papa handed her his pocket knife. He’d always kept it in an inside coverall pocket, so it too had survived the flood. In my eyes, having these few things meant a difference in how we’d survive. I watched every move Momma made, my mouth watering.
She said, “We’ll have to be careful, not eat too much. We need to conserve best as we can, cause this is what it’ll be till it runs out, unless we find some things around here.”
I asked Papa, “Will you be able to go back to work?”
He shook his head and looked away. I wish I could have said something else, something to make him smile instead of scowl.
He said, “Lumberyard’s gone. The outbuildings got carried off bout like everything else, and that means there won’t be no job, no money ’cept what I got left in my pockets, no way to buy things for some time. We’ll have to do the best we can. For now, we’ll be thankful we found one another. It could a been a lot worse than this.”
Papa said all this in a matter-of-fact way, and after all I’d seen and been through, I agreed, it could a been a lot worse. There’d certainly be no expectations from me. Momma stood near the foundation, staring at what she’d laid out. We had some food, we had each other, and when Seph come home, I’d have him to hold on to as well. I felt grateful. After our separation, and going so long unaware of how things had stood for days, I couldn’t imagine things could be any more unpleasant than they’d been. Yes. I was certain we’d seen the worst.