When we left Greenville, it was snowing.  Normally that would have scared me to death, but this day I didn‘t really give a flip.  My life was too messed up for snow to bother me.  Anyhow, Wesley learned how to drive on the Blue Ridge so he could handle a car in the snow and on mountains. 

            The first time I saw snow deep enough to play in was when we’d dated long enough to talk about a future and Wesley took me home to meet his mother, Gladys.  This trip wasn’t the same.  Wipers scratched and clawed at the windshield instead of licking it, the sun wasn’t burning my leg through the window; we weren’t singing songs about coming around mountains, or huddling close, fearlessly careening around curves.  Instead, we sat as far apart as the width of the Honda seat would let us while the somersaulting snow flailed at us like an angry lover.

            Wesley set his jaw, in defiance of the weather and of me; I stared ahead so the tears that waited just behind my eyeballs wouldn’t scramble out and flood us both.  He hated tears.  They made him quieter than normal.  We rode in awkward silence, the kind where everybody knows something’s wrong but nobody knows what to do.  He maneuvered left, right, left, cautiously rounding curves that once flung us together, but now sent me scrambling for the leather strap above the door so our shoulders wouldn’t touch.  I held on because it hurt too much to have him lean away from me.

            Gladys’ house squatted like a pudgy leprechaun on the side of a mountain about ten miles outside the city.  Wesley’s dad built it from hardwood he’d hauled down the mountain in a truck.  I never knew the man.  He took his own life about a year before we married and Wesley wouldn’t discuss him.  I guess love and hate were running a race inside him and he couldn’t bear to think about it.  I didn’t really know.  He never said; I never asked. 

            Cold mountain water ran into Gladys’ house through a rusty pipe; one end protruded through the kitchen wall, the other rammed the haunch of the mountain.  A steady stream of ice-cold water trickled into a bucket in a makeshift sink and Gladys heated it on a wood stove in the kitchen for cleaning supper dishes and for baths.

            It amazed me to open the back door of a house and touch a mountain with my finger.  I often wondered what would happen if the mountain came to life and touched me back.  Would I live, or would its rough finger crush me? 

            Wesley’s world was one I never knew existed, not even in storybooks.  It staggered me.  Shame and love grew like twins inside of him, but because he shared his mountain and emotions with me, I knew that he loved me.  No matter how he felt about it, though, when he stepped out of that world, something hung onto him.  Like an estranged lover who couldn’t get over the loss, the mountains seemed to be waiting for him whenever we would visit.  Maybe that’s what made the difference in the way I felt about the drafty house and black iron stove stuffed with wood for cooking and heating water.  It was part of the man I loved, part of his strength, like the mountain’s unmoving power.  Something raw and wild waited underneath the calm.  I could feel it in my soul:  a raw wildness that made me know I could not shove him far.

            “This gloomy weather fools me into thinking it’s night.”  I couldn’t think of anything else to say, but the quiet was so oppressive one of us had to say something.  He stared ahead, ignoring me, intent on watching the road through the windshield.  I glanced at him, admired all over again the dark drift of hair that fondled his eyebrows when he frowned.  I loved Wesley but his reserve had always made me question how he felt about me, as well as about our life together.  Maybe it was that wordless isolation that pushed me in the wrong direction; I don’t know.  Excuses are always safer than truth. 

            “I don’t know why we had to come.” 

            I heard tears in my voice.  He did, too, and turned toward me.  At first, his face seemed to soften, but it hardened again like a battle raged inside him with neither side able to win.

            “It would hurt her if we didn’t show up for Thanksgiving.  Besides, it’s not her fault, you know.  Seems to me that you’d at least want to explain it to her in person.”

            I watched his hands tighten on the steering wheel, noticed the line where his ring had been, and knew to be quiet.  I wanted to howl—I love you, need you to love me back—just throw my head back and howl like a dog.  Instead, I sat quietly hurting like a kitten that’d lost its mother.

            “. . . ain’t got a barrel of money . . . what if . . . clouds should fall . . .”

            I sang aloud what had been our song privately praying . . . as long as we’re together. . . and his eyes landed on the side of my face like a kiss.  I wanted him to stop the car and hold me but, instead, he glared ahead in silence.  Why had I destroyed the only worthwhile thing I’d ever known?

            “I wish I were dead.” 

            Silence. 

            I squeezed my eyes shut.  I knew he wouldn’t care.  I’ve killed every feeling he ever had for me and nobody’s to blame but me.  My body felt as if it had turned itself inside out and drained me into some kind of hateful hollow that couldn’t even echo.

            “That’s a coward’s way and you’re no coward.  I don’t want you dead.”

            For a second the sun came out; the snow stopped falling; the angry years disappeared. 

            “You don’t hate me?”

            He shook his head. 

            “No . . . I pity you.” 

            The kitten meowed.

            I gazed out the window, watched the trees slouch from heavy burdens of snow and ice—a reminder of the way I felt myself.  The craggy slope of the mountain crawled by as the car climbed, engine wheezing from the drag. 

            Suddenly, the rear of the car took on a mind of its own and slid, seemingly  in slow motion, toward the downward side of the mountain.  I felt, rather than saw, Wesley’s struggle, knew he’d lost control.  I stared in horror through the window at the pit, brambled with broken limbs and vines.  It loomed at me through oppressive fog that climbed the mountain, threatening to pull me down with it.  I froze.  It seemed as if the devil himself had come to snatch me off the earth, and I believed that we would plunge off the side of the mountain and no one would find us.

            I turned toward my husband.  He looked at me and the most powerful love imaginable swelled between us, knifed through our minds, our hearts, and our souls, like a two-edged sword.  The ache in me was so strong I thought I’d break into for love of him.  For one brief moment I thought that absolution might be real, that once again he loved me.  It seemed he told me so with his eyes, and I believed his eyes.

            I reached to touch his face and as I did, the car lurched left, shot across the ice-covered road, nose dived into the flank of the mountain, away from the canyon that waited to swallow us.  I slammed into the windshield headfirst.  Time stopped.  Silence surfaced everywhere over us like murky, dirty water.  But we were alive.  Some time later, the child in me began to snivel.

            In the dark and with fear in his voice, he whispered.  “Are you all right?”

            I nodded.  The car moved when he shifted his weight, reached across me to open the door.  The clean, soap fragrance he always carried with him washed over me.  I closed my eyes, inhaled his warmth, ached for the days before deceit and pain.  He lifted his body, hovered a moment over me and, without warning, his kiss, as weightless as a butterfly, grazed my lips.  It was both soft and burning, and tears that had lingered so long beneath the surface gushed from my eyes, ran like a river down my face.  It had been so long.  He opened the door, skimmed over me, knelt and brushed the hair from my face to examine the lump on my head.  His hand trembled when he touched me.  I wanted to grab it, hold it to my face, show how much I needed it.  I wanted him to know that I adored him.

I did nothing.

            “It’ll be all right, hon.  . . . It’s all right . . . It’s all right.”

            His voice was guttural, shaky, so I knew he thought he’d almost lost me to his mountains.  We huddled in the cold, pretended pain had never come to live with us, until a car emerged from the opposite direction and we were not alone.  Wesley inspected the headlights.  He looked at me, slipped his eyes quietly into mine to let them live inside me one more time.  And then I watched as agony returned and shoved the look away.  I knew he‘d left me. 

            He sighed, turned toward the stranger, and as he did, my fingers lost their grip on his jacket.  I watched his shoulders slump; my body ached.  While they talked, and I waited in the cold, a low rumble leisurely swelled into a deafening roar.  It climbed into my mind until, I swear to you, that mountain came to life in front of me.  I know it did because I felt its finger.  And it was rough.

 … previously published

copyright JoyH.Thomas

            “I ain’t never been in no Bible-quoting contest.  You?”  Roy slung his spit-colored bangs and stared at Bruce. 

            “Yeah, man!” piped Bruce.  “It’s fun; you stand in front of the church with one hand on the bottom of a Bible and one on top, somebody calls out a verse and you see who finds it first.  Winner gets a star or something.”

            “Trudy Jenkins says she knows all the scriptures that matter.  I guess she’ll win the contest.”  Roy hung his head.

            “Trudy thinks she’s more’n she is ‘cause she’s got all that sweet-smelling red hair.  Don’t worry none about her.  All she knows is the red parts.  You know the whole thing, man; least you’re always spouting off like you do.” 

            Bruce acted as if the contest meant nothing, but Roy was about to panic over it.  He figured the others might pay attention to him when he talked to them about their sins if he could win that Bible-quoting contest.  He needed to win it.  Such a bunch!  Sinful as Satan.  It disgusted him to live around such people but he liked them at the same time.  Every one of them needed to hear about the scarlet cord the preacher said ran all the way through the Bible.  He decided the Lord was training him for the mission field, so he stopped complaining and set about learning all he could to save as many as he could where he was.  That way, he’d be ready when the call came.

            “Hey, Roy.  What you doing?” 

            Trudy always sounded breathless.  Roy knew she was a serious sinner, but he loved her to pieces and couldn’t do a thing about it.  In a way, he didn’t want to do anything except ask the Lord to change her so she would go to church for the right reason and not just to charm Josh Morgan into dating her. 

            Josh was the most popular boy in school and his daddy owned about the whole town of Morganville, so all the girls chased him.  Since Trudy liked quarterbacks and loved money, it made sense she’d prefer Josh to any boy in town.  She was always pestering Roy to find out if Josh thought she was pretty, or if Josh had looked at her, or said anything about her.  Roy loved her too much to tell her Josh had a girlfriend so he told her whatever she wanted to hear.  He could not take the chance she might stop talking to him and she would, too, if she needed nothing from him.  Besides, he still had not told her about the scarlet cord.  His mouth flared its off center grin, flaunting an ample gap between his teeth. 

            “Hey, Trudy.  I’m practicing for the Bible-quoting contest on Sunday.”

            “Roy, silly.  Don’t you ever think of anything but the Bible?”

            “Yeah, I think of things . . . lots of things.” 

            He fumbled with his Bible, blushing and kicking dirt.  One of these days, she would regret her words.  Roy knew the Lord would see to it because he prayed about it every night.

            “Have you seen Josh, Roy sugar?”

            Roy ached when her blue eyes tilted up at him.  He wanted to move closer, to smell her hair so he could remember how she smelled when he couldn’t sleep for thinking about her.  Her hair was as red as the scripture that he knew, and smelled like the roses that grew against Mrs. Johnson’s brick house. 

            “Yeah.  I saw Josh a minute ago over at Cone’s Drug Store.”

            Trudy slithered toward him, hips first, until he feared he might keel over if she moved closer. 

            She smiled.  “Did he mention me?”

            “Come to think of it, I believe he did.” 

            Roy rubbed his chin, pretending not to remember.  “Now, what was it he said?” 

            Trudy moved close enough to rest her hand on his arm; it felt like a butterfly.  He smelled roses.  He wanted to drop the enormous Bible and take her in his arms, but that would be sin.  He had to learn extra verses tonight just for having such a thought.  It seemed that he was always learning verses because of sinful thoughts about Trudy.

            “You better recollect what Josh said about me, or you’ll be sorry.” 

She allowed the last word to stroll out of her mouth as if someone stood pulling it out, enticing him with its slowness.  Smiles, smells, fluttering lashes . . . Roy’s heart pounded so hard he knew she might hear it and know how she affected him.

            “Hey, Roy,” Jake called from the Drug Store.  “Your ma called; said to come on home for supper.” 

            Roy tried to smile at Trudy the way Josh smiled at girls, but knew the space lacked the blistering desire of Josh’s bright, white beam.  Besides, no matter how he tried to keep them calm, his lips quivered when he was around her. 

            “I got to go, Trudy.  See you later.  Maybe I’ll have remembered what he said next time I see you.”

            “You better, you bad boy.”  She held the arm of his shirt a bit too long, twisting it between her fingers. 

            For one brief moment, Roy wondered if Trudy might like him instead of Josh, then decided she did not.  He knew he could never measure up to Josh in Trudy’s eyes, and he didn’t blame her.  It was not her fault that Josh was handsome, rich, and popular.  It was Josh’s fault.

            Roy took his Bible to his room after supper to memorize verses.  The night loomed long and tomorrow would be Saturday.  One more day after that, and everybody would learn how much he knew.  This was the greatest thing that could ever happen, except Trudy choosing him over Josh.  That would beat anything in the world.  Even the thought of it caused him pain, though, because he had no idea how he could choose anything over Trudy.  He knew he’d have to walk away from her or give up everything he’d believed in all his life.  Maybe she would be worth it, though.  Maybe she would.  He slept with his head buried in the colossal book, dreaming of the girl he adored.

            Sunday morning was glorious.  Birds warbled and flapped their wings outside the open window.  Their harmonies surrounded Roy even before he opened the door.  He bathed, shaved, and then patted cologne, in case Trudy came near enough to smell him, all the while yearning that she would. 

            Roy was sure he knew more scriptures than anyone did.  He was quick at finding them, too, like a speeding bullet, his mother always said, Superman of Bible knowing.

            The Bible contest was legendary in Morganville, so every pew at First Baptist filled early.  Josh was there, Bible in hand, which shocked Roy.  He was not aware that Josh read the Word of God, much less memorized it.  “Well,” Roy thought, “he can’t know much; the only reason he comes to church is to smile at girls.”  Josh Morgan certainly had a smile to envy.  Roy prayed about that a lot, too, because envy was a sin, and he had a problem when it came to Josh.

            Trudy strolled in and Roy’s whole body hurt.  She wore a red dress matching the finger curls that spilled over her shoulders, down her back, and caressing her tiny waist.  There was so much hair it almost hid her wild blue eyes.  At first, Roy thought she might be floating toward him but, at the last minute, she veered and stopped next to Josh.

            “Scoot over, handsome,” she exhaled.

            Josh slid over and she poured like wine beside him.  They gazed into each other’s eyes as if neither could get loose.  Roy’s heart felt like a drowning kitten when Trudy settled a delicate hand on top of Josh’s brawny, tanned one, and sighed. 

            “Last night was magnificent, Josh.  You were incredible.”  Josh cocked one heavy eyebrow, dark eyes glinting.  They smiled, moved closer, bodies touching.

            Roy knew he’d lost Trudy.  She had concluded her quest; there would be no more talking to him.  For the first time since he kicked that dog that peed on his tricycle, he felt anger.

            The Preacher summoned.  Roy, Josh, Trudy, Bruce, Meredith, and Mary Robson (those twins that people pitied) joined him.  Fury burned inside Roy’s ears, so it was hard to hear the preacher.  His heart slammed against the front of his chest, making his body jerk like a puppet, his underarms were hot and sweaty.  Trudy stepped between Roy and Josh and Roy smelled roses.  It hit him like lightning.  Josh buried his nose in those red curls last night.  He’d not only taken Trudy; he’d taken her smell as well.  Worse yet, Trudy had met her doom.  It was too late to teach her about the scarlet cord.

            Roy heard two scriptures called but could locate neither.  Pain crouched behind his throat and eyes.  He struggled to hold it there so he would not cry and shame himself. 

            Josh won the contest.  Roy did not come close. 

            Trudy hurled her red hair so that it slapped Roy when she threw her arms around Josh.  He heard her breathy congratulations.  Everyone applauded, beamed, and nodded, for Josh.  Nobody noticed when Roy left the church.

            They were watching the preacher yell and pound the pulpit when Roy came back.  No one paid attention to him.  Josh and Trudy were sitting quietly, her hand resting on his knee, his arm around her pale shoulders.  Trudy took her hand away and tried to smile when she saw Roy standing next to her.  Her pretty lips trembled. 

            Josh yelled Roy’s name and lunged for the gun, but he was too late. 

            Trudy shuddered, relaxed, then slumped in the pew.  Her blood was as red as the scriptures that she knew.

#

Roy heard keys clanging long before the guard shuffled to a stop at his cell.  He sat, slouched on the narrow cot, knees together; his eyes examining the filthy floor, ignoring the pudgy man’s labored breathing.  The guard ran his keys against the bars and startled him.  He jumped, but kept his eyes on the floor. 

            “Roy Higgins!  They say you know all about the Bible; that true?”

            Roy pressed his palms against his ears in hopes of drowning out the prison mayhem and disgusting guard.

            The guard rattled the bars.  “Hey, I ain’t kidding.  You know it or not?”

            “Used to.  Ain’t seen a Bible in years.”  He watched a roach grooming itself at his feet.

            “You ever in a Bible-quoting contest?”

            Roy grinned, flaunting a toothless gateway where one small gap once lived.  “Yeah, in one, long time ago.  Don’t know as I recall how one goes,” he mumbled.

            “Well, new chaplain’s having a Bible-quoting contest in the visitor’s room tomorrow, eleven o’clock.  Wants you to come.  Says there’s a lesson for you to learn.”

            Roy rubbed his wrinkled face.  “Didn’t know we had a new chaplain.”

            “Yep.  Old chaplain died couple of weeks ago.  New man the warden brought in looks to be a right steady fellow.  Chaplain Morgan’s his name.  Josh Morgan.  You coming or not?”

            “Morgan, huh?  Guess not.  All I remember is the red parts.”

Mother bustled about, clanging pots and pans in the kitchen the way she often did when things had gone well with her and Dad the night before.  So unnoticed by her, I headed to the Hickory tree in the backyard.  There was a different species of bird in that tree and I planned to find it.  That horrible sounding feathered creature had been trying to sing every night for a couple of months and, I tell you, such abuse of musical notes was extremely annoying to hear.  It had to be a rare bird, something interesting for show and tell at school. 

            “Faye, I’ve told you a thousand times not to climb that tree.  You’ll fall and hurt yourself and it’ll be your own fault; you hear me?  Get away from that tree.  Now!”

            I’d been caught.  She was standing at the kitchen window gawking at me.  Mother doggedly “recommended” not climbing trees.  Girls should never climb trees, could I not comprehend that climbing trees made girls appear as unrefined as boys?  Usually disregarding her carping admonitions and having no doubt that anything on earth (or on my way to Heaven) was possible minus broken bones and evolving into boyhood, I climbed.  In my opinion, Mother was too old (and too wearisome) to decipher a daughter like me, anyhow.

            Pretending to be taking a leisurely walk, away from the direction of the Hickory tree, I thought on my feet.  “I ain’t climbing, Mama.  Just messing around.”  Lying again.

            Dad had already left for work, whistling and drumming on his lunch box, so there was no concern that he would discover my scheme.  Who knows where Uncle Clyde was?  Presumably out somewhere carousing.  In any event, he could not care less that anyone climbed the tree.  One could not persuade me that he even knew I inhabited his brother’s house.

            Ordinarily Uncle Clyde was a likable fellow, but occasionally he was not.  Eccentric little fellow with stunted, stocky legs and dimpled thighs, he had a rotund face and small, twinkly black eyes that hinted he might have a notion just a bit heinous on his mind.  He had called upon us in the dead of night three months earlier and still had not left.  Dad could not summon the courage to toss him out of the house, either.  It was common knowledge that Uncle Clyde had a problem with “the drink,” forfeiting a wife and six children because of it.  He never held a job for any length of time and invariably dropped by instead of calling first.  We all assumed he knew he would best just appear instead of calling first or, no place for him to sleep that night.  Dad held his mouth set taut and thin around Uncle Clyde and rarely communicated with him, but he never once ridiculed his baby brother.  He did sigh a lot, though.

            The day was brisk and cool with just sufficient breeze to create a sensational climb–perfectly suitable.  Planning to spend the morning meditating, roosting on each limb and (since the roof needed checking for balls) using my roosting time to attend to that task, I scooted to the house and pressed my nose against the screen door.  It was imperative to see if Mother was still in the kitchen.

            “Ma?  You in there?”  No sound.  She must have gone to the bedroom to dress.  Now was the time!

            Things went beautifully for a while:  climbing, roosting, surveying, meditating, and climbing.  That is, until an unrecognizable sound reverberated through the leaves.  A bird!  Yes, that must be it; a bird is what I heard.  Then, no, identifying the feathered friend who made such a ringing cacophony was impossible for me.  It did not sound like the off-key bird that had been making so much noise but, then, it could have been.  Perhaps he had been practicing. 

            Courage was not my predictable way.  As a rule, high and then no higher was it for me.  This day, however, even though my nerves began to unravel, I was determined to see that bird.

            At supper the night before, Dad had told us, “I been hearing some kind of bird in the Hickory lately that I ain’t never heard before.  What you reckon it is?”

            He had looked at Mother who was slowly chewing on the venison he had paid the butcher to cut up for her so she would not feel so bad about the deer.  She did not even look up–just kept chewing.  It was tough.  Dad did not seem to notice.

            “I ain’t seen that creature yet but he’ll show up pretty soon, I guess.  Could be a northern bird vacationing with his southern cousin.”  He guffawed at himself.

            Jokester, my Dad.  It would please him if I could discover what warbled in the Hickory.  He liked brave kids and I habitually failed him in that area.  It was my plan to discover it, entrap it, and detain it so that it could chirp for us in the house.  Our family appreciated birds, especially singing ones.

            “Oh, Lordy.  This is real hard.”  My heart pounded.

            My breathing was horribly labored by now and my hands sweating profusely from so much tension.  Pausing on each limb, to grow acquainted with the altitude so not to be too desperate when looking down, I scrambled higher.  My legs trembled violently as they crept continually upward.  By the time I’d scaled as high as the limbs would allow, they were quivering like Jell-O and my breathing sounded like someone with asthma, which I’d never had before, so how was I to know? 

            Discovering a nesting place exactly suiting my small form I perched, peering through the leafy limbs, anticipating a glimpse of the songbird.  Though its brazen display seemed nearer and imagination had it breathing on my neck, detecting it was still impossible.

            “Hey, birdie!  Here, birdie, birdie!  Where are you?  Come on out, now.  Let me see you, precious little thing.  I won’t hurt you, no I won’t.”

            I mustered the sweetest smile possible, with my mouth quivering the way it was, as if that would do the trick.

            All of a sudden, my eyes focused and the singing bird appeared from out of nowhere.  I about keeled over–dead on that tree limb! 

            “Holy cow!  Great day in the morning!  Good gracious alive!  Heavens to mergatroid, even!”

            A chick did not create the chirrups.  It was Uncle Clyde.  He perched on a colossal limb chirping boisterously as you please, and naked as a newborn.

            Flabbergasted, my whole body started to wobble.  My hand slipped.  I lost my balance and could no longer remain in the tree.  Somersaulting, ricocheting from one limb to the next, my body insulted by every scrap of bark that could slap and stick it, hickory nuts smacking every inch of me, I shot a prayer to make it down it alive.

            “Jesus, help me.  Please, please help me.  Do not let Ma see me doing this.  She’ll wring my neck like a chicken.”

            Toppling finally low enough to hop out of the tree, I fell, landing on my back, squealing Uncle Clyde didn’t have any feathers and was not a pretty sight.  Shrieking and waving her arms, Mother ran to me. 

            “I ought to beat the daylights out of you, Faye Marie Johnson.  I can’t believe you done gone and been so asinine.  How many times have I told you to stay out of that tree?  How many times?  How many?”

            She had me on my tiptoes, dragging me by my dress behind her, so I was too scared and out of breath to answer.  When she did hear my “tall tale,” she rejected it outright.  Hurling me through the kitchen, still screaming how I never listened to her and she’d told me and told me–at least a million times–to stay out of that dangerous tree, she informed me that if I ever had the gall to climb it again, she’d beat the devil out of me.  That really upset me.  I had no idea he was even in me.  What a horrible time to learn such a thing!

            At supper, Dad admonished, “Faye Marie, your Ma done told you not to climb the Hickory.  Now, you go and do it again and I’m chopping it down.  You hear?”

            “Yes Sir.”

            He nodded.  “Enough said.”

            Concerned about what Uncle Clyde would do if Dad cut his singing tree down, I said nothing else about him being up there naked.  They did not intend to heed my counsel about him, anyhow.  He did not act as if he remembered it himself–just flashed his ordinary mindless grin, chomped his food and slurped his tea.

            Mother always said that Clyde could do unimaginable things when he was “under the influence.”  I wondered what she would think about him if she gave credence to me–that he did indeed perch sans clothing in the Hickory, warbling like a bird.  In addition, would he keep on doing it if he had any idea what he looked like without any clothes on, straddling a limb and chirping like an idiot?  With that picture in mind, I broke into uncontrollable giggles, which persuaded Dad to take me to my room and discipline me with my own hairbrush, teaching me at the same time how to show respect to my elders.

            I never scaled another tree.  Number one, Mother evidently was right about it not being proper for girls.  Number two, hairbrush spankings by my own Dad (who was very, very strong) were not nice at all.  In addition, number three, the possibility of discovering an undressed bird again was entirely too ghastly a thought to attempt it ever again.

Previously Published SCWW