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Chapter Seven

First Day Journal: April 29

I’ve spent most of my adult life trying to forget my past. Maybe I thought if I changed myself into someone else, the past would fade away with my Appalachian accent and one day a country girl named Lottie Lou Hale would cease to exist.

Now I know how much time I wasted. No matter how hard we try to lock memories away, they break free, sometimes taking on new life because we witness others with the same struggles, like the young woman sleeping in my guest room this morning. Just like Harmony Stoddard, I was once nearly homeless, with no one to help me and nothing to fall back on.

It’s not a memory I recall with fondness. But this morning, while I wait for my guest to wake up, I’ll take it out again and examine it here.

Almost exactly seven years after Hearty’s Sunday morning appearance at the Trust Independent Baptist Church, I am sitting beside him on a bench in front of the pulpit, and this time no one is trying to persuade him to leave.

In the past year someone has donated screens, and someone else convinced the county to run an electric line so that now floor fans blow channels of steamy air over the mourners lucky enough to be sitting close to them.

I’m not one of those. I’m sitting in the front row, close enough to my grandmother’s coffin to wish I could hop up and brush away the flies that entered the church with the mourners. I know better than to make a scene. I am seventeen, newly graduated from high school, and now I’m a woman. None of my grandmother’s friends gathered today would appreciate even a pause in Preacher Pittman’s words. Those attending came out of respect, but I know that no one wants to sit in the heat a moment longer than necessary. Fans or not, the temperature has to be close to ninety and climbing as the sun rises higher in the sky.

“Would anybody out there like to speak?” the preacher asks at last.

I turn to my father, who wears a clean shirt and pants and is, for once, freshly shaved. Even Hearty Hale realized he had to show up at his mother-in-law’s funeral or risk losing whatever shred of credibility is still attached to his name.

Do not get up, I mouth.

He narrows his eyes, as if trying to make sense of that. I realize saying something about Gran has never occurred to him.

From behind us a neighbor stands and begins to speak, detailing the kindness my grandmother showed his family, the food she brought when his wife was sick, little gifts for his children when Gran could hardly afford bacon and beans. Someone else remembers how hard she worked and the way she held her little family together after her husband died, even giving her son-in-law and granddaughter a place to live. The unspoken message, of course, is that anybody who put up with Hearty all those years is already sitting at the feet of the Lord.

I know my grandmother earned her neighbors’ respect one thoughtful act at a time. I also know that now that Gran has finally succumbed to the torment of her twisted body, respect for anyone at the old Sawyer farm will be buried right beside her. The locals will feel sorry for me, of course, sorry I’ve been left to cope with my alcoholic father and his debts and antics, but they’ll stay as far away as possible, lest they get sucked into the drama of my life when their own are already difficult enough.

I gather my courage and stand when it’s clear no one else intends to speak.

“My grandmother was the only mother I ever knew,” I say, my voice strong and clear, despite the lump in my throat. “She was a God-fearing Christian, and she practiced every principle anybody ever preached from that pulpit. I think she held on to life just long enough to see me graduate, but I’m glad she’s gone now, because she suffered. A whole lot.” I clear my throat. “I just want to say thank you for those of you who were kind to her and to me while she lay dying. She would have wanted me to say that.”

I sit down, and the preacher nods. A hymn is sung, a prayer is said and the service is over.

We all stand as four of the deacons come to the front to shoulder Gran’s pine coffin and carry it outside.

I follow, and in a moment my father stands to follow behind me. I hope he doesn’t stumble or worse. It will be a testimonial to my grandmother if Hearty can make it to the graveside without creating a scene.

Gran asked to be buried at our farm, in the family cemetery next to her husband and my mother. Outside, I glance at my father, who is leaning against a tree, his eyelids drifting closed. I wonder if he’s sober enough to remember where he parked his pickup to drive himself home.

The coffin is loaded into a hearse, and I sit beside the driver and wonder how many mourners will accompany us. I glance behind me and see a dozen cars, headlights bright, and I know what a tribute this is to my grandmother.

The trip takes just minutes. On our hillside cemetery the grave has already been dug, and the ceremony there is blessedly short. Mrs. Pittman, dressed in a black skirt and blouse, with her graying hair pulled back in a tight bun, comes to stand beside me. She puts her hand on my arm once I’ve thrown the first handful of dirt on the coffin that holds the only person who ever loved me.

“Why don’t you come home with us now, Lottie Lou?” she asks, turning me so I won’t have to stare at the coffin disappearing under clods of dirt thrown by the rest of the mourners. Men from the church will finish filling the grave once the others leave, but my grandmother’s friends are doing their parts with gusto.

“Preacher Pittman can drive you home after supper.” Mrs. Pittman bites her lip, as if the thought of my returning home without my grandmother to protect me is disturbing. Normally the neighbors would go up to the house after the funeral. Food would be served and memories exchanged, but no one is about to go to our house, knowing Hearty Hale will be the one waiting there.

A few other mourners are closing in to mouth their condolences, and I must speak quickly.

“You’re very kind, but I made other plans.” I hesitate, then lower my voice. “I’m going to Asheville. Bill Johnston’s taking me. He’s got flowerpots to deliver this afternoon, and I guess you could say he’s delivering me right along with them.”

“Asheville?” Mrs. Pittman sounds puzzled. “Do you have family there? Friends?”

“I have some money Gran saved for me. I’ll find a job. I just can’t live here no—anymore.”

Mrs. Pittman clears her throat. “Are you afraid to be alone with your father?”

I know what she’s worried about, but I shake my head. “Not like what you mean.”

“Then don’t you think you ought to wait until you have something lined up? Maybe we could help find you—”

“I can’t stay another minute,” I say. “I already packed, and my stuff is in Bill’s truck. He picked up my suitcase when he took me to the church. There’s nothing keeping me here. It’s time to move on with my life.”

“Your father—”

“Is a worthless no-good, even when he’s sober. And there’s nothing I can do to change him, but he’ll drag me down if I stay. Gran warned me he would, and she was right.”

Mrs. Pittman doesn’t argue, because what is there to say, even for a preacher’s wife? “What about the farm?”

“I guess he’s welcome to it.” The people waiting impatiently on the sidelines begin to move in.

“Does he know?”

“He’ll find out soon enough.”

Soon enough comes sooner than I expect. When just about everyone else has gone, after Preacher Pittman has silently pressed two twenty-dollar bills into my palm along with his phone number, I turn and see Bill Johnston pull his pickup around so he’s headed down our driveway. I know Bill hoped to get an earlier start into the city, and the time has come to leave—and quickly. But before I can get in the front, I see my father staring into the bed of Bill’s pickup, squinting at the small suitcase that once belonged to my mother, one he clearly recognizes.

“What’s that doing there?” Hearty claps a hand on my shoulder as I try to pass.

I had hoped to simply tell him that Bill Johnston was taking me to a friend’s, but I can’t think of any lie that involves the suitcase, too. I decide the time has come for the truth.

“Mr. Johnston’s taking me down to Asheville.” I shrug off Hearty’s hand. “I’m leaving.”

“Leaving?” He seems unable to comprehend the word.

“That’s right. I’m going to start a new life.”

“With what?”

I ponder that a moment. I’m leaving home, setting out for an uncertain future, and Hearty has only zeroed in on what for him is the crucial question. How have I gotten enough money to make this escape, and how can he get it away from me?

“I’ll miss you, too, Hearty,” I say, leaning close. “Thanks for the good times and good wishes.”

His eyes narrow. “Where’d you get the money to leave?”

“Gran left me just enough to get away from you. She did the best she could.”

“How much?”

I shake my head. “Don’t matter. You aren’t getting a cent of it.”

“Who’s going to take care of things?”

The switch is so sudden, it takes me a moment to catch up. “Things?”

“The farm? Get me dinner when I’m home? Take care of things!”

“I have no idea. Maybe you’ll figure that out.”

“You aren’t going anywhere.”

“Try and stop me.” I hear Bill’s door slam and his footsteps as he rounds the cab.

“It’s your job to stay and take care of…things!”

I see Bill come up behind my father. “Can we leave now?” I ask.

Bill is a substantial man, outweighing Hearty by fifty pounds and topping him by at least four inches. Right now I’m glad for all the years and pounds of his wife’s deep-fried country cooking.

“You can’t take her,” Hearty says.

“I don’t want a fight,” Bill responds. “But the girl’s going where she wants to.”

Hearty considers that. I can almost see him weighing his options. Winning a fight with the well-fed Bill isn’t one of them. He turns back to me.

“You leave now, I’ll give my share of this farm your grandma loved so much to one of my drinking buddies when I die. You won’t be able to get your hands on my piece of it.”

I shrug because I’m fairly sure that Hearty will destroy the farm before it comes to that, burn down the house, whatever it takes.

“Or that ridge land of mine, neither,” he says, when he sees I’m not impressed enough. “You won’t get a square inch of it.”

From his own family Hearty has inherited land too steep for anything but logging, something Hearty does when he absolutely has to earn money. The more valuable Hale land was left to his four sober sisters, who stayed away from Hearty and, by extension, me, as if what ailed their baby brother might be catching. The ridge land was a blessing, because when he was there hauling out trees, Hearty was gone for days.

“You’re welcome to everything,” I say. “I don’t want to lay eyes on you again. Not ever. You can drink yourself to death, or sober up and change your ways. Makes no difference to me.”

I glance at Bill and see that the last part of my speech dismayed him. I know I sounded heartless, so I sigh and add, “Of course, for your sake, Hearty, I hope you can change.”

“I want some of that money your grandmother gave you. Right now.” He holds out his trembling hand, palm up. “I deserve it.”

“The girl’s heading for a new life, and you want to steal her money?” Bill asks.

“If she’s got money, it came from this farm. I own part of the farm.”

Bill shakes his head, and this time he shoots me a sympathetic glance. “We’re going now.” Bill reaches around Hearty and takes my arm.

I skirt my father and step up to the running board. Bill’s wife, Zettie, moves over to the middle to make room for me, then she leans over and opens the door. “You get inside, Lottie Lou. And don’t you give that man one red cent.”

I slide inside, but Hearty holds on to the door. “You got nothing for your father?” he says.

“That’s what you gave me my whole life.” I have to force the words past a sudden lump in my throat. Hearty Hale is my father, and while I despise him, he is my blood and my past. Suddenly the future looks very frightening, more frightening than I had anticipated.

“That’s what you’ll get if you leave me,” Hearty says. “I’m warning you.”

Bill has already circled the truck, and now he slams his door shut and starts the engine. Without another word he starts forward. I grab the door handle, and when my father loses his grip on it, I slam the door shut.

A part of me knows I ought to turn my head for one more look at the man who sired me. I will not come back. These will be our final moments together. But I don’t turn. I hold tight to the door handle all the way down to Asheville.