“Helps the heart, too. Sounds like a panacea for whatever ails you, doesn’t it? Whatever the case, the root of that little plant pays big money to people around here willing to hunt for it in late summer and early fall. They guard where their patches of ginseng are like they guard their moonshine stills. They set traps. Carry guns and don’t hesitate to use them. They’d shoot first, then ask questions later. You understand why I tell you to be cautious? Please don’t explore on your own.”
Kate’s face tightens in a good way. “Yes. I understand.”
“It’ll help when you meet your close neighbors and they meet you. Some of them will come to church, and those who don’t, we will visit. Does that sound like a plan?”
“I’ll be here next Sunday,” she says, and shakes my hand once more.
She’s walking away when I remember to call out, “If you don’t mind, I’d like to drop by sometime.” I feel like a schoolboy with hope in his voice. “I’m partial to good conversation.”
She says, “I’d like that, Preacher Perkins. My door’s always open—especially since it doesn’t have a lock,” she adds easily, and makes me smile.
“Eli. Please call me Eli,” I say as she turns and waves in the air. I say a little louder, “And we can remedy that lock on your door.”
“We’ll talk about it—Eli.” She laughs that young-girl laugh and walks on.
I feel a quick shot of pride abide in hearing my simple name spoken with a cultured tone. She thrusts her hands in her coat pockets, and her loping strides take her into the woods and out of sight. I’m surprised to hear Kate Shaw whistle as she walks, a secure woman who at first glance appears to be sufficiently suited for mountain life.
Still, she has secrets. And a flaw of faith. Education to sell. Prejudices to overcome.
? ? ?
On Mondays I check in on the sick and lapsed Christians who could use a bit of attention and a friendly voice. After breakfast I get my Bible, walking stick, and a rucksack of supplies and walk well-worn paths and rugged hollows to the souls in my flock that live on Bentwood Mountain and in neighboring hollers.
Mentally, I’ve mapped out my route to pass the school last because I’m curious and want to check on Miss Shaw’s first day of teaching. Yesterday, at the close of service, I reminded families about the importance of education and the gifts Miss Shaw brings us. With the recent run of teachers we’ve had, they need proof before they believe. I hope someone shows up at school for curiosity’s sake.
Roosevelt Lowe is my first stop. Beanie and Weenie smell me before they see me and start their hound-dog warbles. The old man’s home is a lean-to on the north side of the mountain. Moss grows up the sides, and there’s a hole in the roof for woodsmoke to escape.
Roosevelt sits cockeyed in a saggy aluminum chair next to the doorway. An army blanket is tacked to the frame to keep out the chill. He wears his trademark grin and rubs the stump of his right leg with his arthritic fingers. The peg leg he wears to get around lies next to his chair. He lost that limb in a hunting accident a dozen years back. However, by all accounts, he didn’t lose his good disposition. Didn’t even get mad at his buddy for his carelessness. I envy Roosevelt because he appears to never harbor trouble. He is a soul at peace.
“Preacher, I sit here this morning and study on them two crows over there.”
He points and I look.
“Only seed the two of em. You know a bunch of crows is called a murder, don’t you?”
I nod. I first heard about a murder of crows at seminary. I came upon many poetic and odd phrases found in literature and mentally filed them away: an ostentation of peacocks, a parliament of owls, a knot of frogs, and a skulk of foxes. My favorite is the crows.
Roosevelt delivers the punch line: “I think them two fellas on their own is attempted murder—get it? Attempted murder…”
Roosevelt cracks himself up and that cracks me up, too.
“That’s a good one. Might have to borrow it.”
“It’s yours if you want it.”
“I got some good news/bad news of my own for you.”
“Knew you wouldn’t call with no new material.”
“Well, you might have heard yesterday the good news that I baptized five people in the river. The bad news is that we lost two of them in the swift current.”
Quick as a wink, Roosevelt says, “I know which two I hope you lost.”
We chuckle again like cohorts.
“How can I lift your spirit today, my friend?”
“Preacher, you done it when you come. Got a extra squirrel skinned and ready to cook. Tattler Swann brought two. Don’t need two. What you got in your bag to give me instead?”
“Cornmeal, dried beans, molasses…”
“I’ll take beans, if you don’t mind. Just run out. That’s the meal that comes with its own music, don’t you know.”
After more uplifting chatter, I leave with a smile and Roosevelt’s skinned squirrel that ends up in Miz Marley’s cook pot, and she gives me sassafras root that I give Susie Ward.
When I near Roy Tupkin and Sadie’s trailer, I sense the twisted heaviness that lives there when Roy is home, and my stomach tightens. Ugly talk follows Roy like fleas on a mangy dog. He’s a spiteful, small-minded man who drinks hard and plays for keeps. Sadie Blue did herself no favor taking up with Roy Tupkin.
There are women in these hills whose men beat them because they misconstrue Ephesians 5:22–23 as saying they can. They twist God’s holy words: “Wives, submit yourselves to your own husbands, as unto the Lord. For the husband is the head of the wife.” They stop short of the truth that continues, “Even as Christ is the head of the church: and he is the savior of the body.” They conveniently ignore the fact that neither God nor the law gives husbands unqualified dominion over their wives. Men like Roy Tupkin don’t hide behind the Bible when they beat their wives. They beat them because they can and no one stops them. I’ve talked often to Sheriff Loyal Sykes about this kind of crime, and every time he says, “The law’s pretty helpless in private matters like this. Nobody talks or presses charges, and our hands get tied.”
So the beaten women stay. Sadie stays. That staying makes it harder to change things.
I look for Roy’s truck. It’s gone so my stomach knot loosens. I see Sadie’s face in the kitchen window and wave. She waves back and turns to come outside.
I’ve known this sweet girl all her life. Her daddy, Otis Blue, was good-hearted and generous like his daughter and loved a good joke. When he was up in years, past the time men usually go courting, Otis fell in love with pretty Carly Hicks, an antsy girl with wanderlust that ran through her veins like her daddy Walter’s white lightning. She looked for a step up and a way out, and for some reason, she picked Otis to help change things.
With stars in his eyes, he married Carly Hicks and turned her into Carly Blue for a while. He acted like he’d won the jackpot. When Sadie was born seven months later, Carly up and left the two of them for a traveling salesman who likely promised more than he delivered.