Light to the Hills: A Novel (26)
Shirley Culpepper, the sharp-eyed, tidy wife of a miner known as Boll Weevil, reigned at the top of the pecking order. Under her stood any number of good Christian women anxious to do right with an earnestness that they hoped would sweep others along in their wake. Most often, Shirley kept company with two other ladies who, within their means, organized sewing projects and collections for those less fortunate. Amanda knew them—Tilda Johnson and Angeline Bates—but before she and Mooney had learned the art of dodging the group, they had several trying encounters with the trio. While the ladies had a working understanding of tact and grace, they’d not had much practice with either. On the last occasion when they’d met, Mooney had come away thoroughly exasperated with their doggedness.
“My land, they hang in there like a hair in a peanut butter sandwich. I’mma start calling them Goodness and Mercy.”
“That’s charitable of you,” Amanda had said, “considering the names I’m sure they’re calling us.”
Mooney’s mouth had curved into a wry smile. “It’s scriptural, don’cha know.”
One of Jack and Beady Wick’s foremost duties had been to make certain Amanda was well versed in the Bible. She could quote entire passages by the time she was five, but she wasn’t following her friend.
Mooney had feigned surprise. “Amanda Rye, I’m shocked. Why, anyone knows it says plain as day in the twenty-third psalm: Shirley, Goodness, and Mercy shall follow me all the days of my life.”
The two had busted out laughing right there in front of the post office, gasping and wiping their eyes, not minding one whit about the people casting glances in their direction.
This particular day, as she closed the door of the WPA behind her, Amanda saw the Peepers heading in her direction. She couldn’t go back inside the office or pretend she hadn’t seen them without being outright rude, so she adjusted the books in her saddlebags and steeled herself.
“Amanda Rye, a sight for sore eyes,” Shirley gushed. “Haven’t seen you in a month of Sundays.”
“Is that right? They keep me pretty busy with library deliveries.”
“I was just talking to your sweet mama and daddy last Sunday. I bet they’d enjoy a visit from you.” Goodness and Mercy stood side by side, nodding and mmm-hmming.
Amanda buckled the strap on her bag and faced Shirley. “It’s no secret where I’m staying, and the path runs both ways. You can tell them, if they’re wondering, that Miles is doing fine, smart as a whip.”
Amanda noticed, not for the first time, that Shirley had mighty expressive eyebrows.
“Shame about the accident at Buckley.”
Amanda thought it was Mercy who made the comment, though truthfully, she wasn’t sure which one was which. Her hand stopped stroking Junebug’s neck. “Yes. Six men lost and several more injured.”
“Two of ’em church members,” said one.
“I’m sure all the families involved are in a world of hurt right now,” Amanda said.
“Of course, but I mean to say there are some who are near and dear to our hearts. One of the families came all the way up the mountain asking for prayers—the MacInteers from way over near Gingko Holler.”
Amanda’s head jerked up. “That so? Are they still doing poorly?” She’d heard about the accident, of course, and had been out on her route only a day before she’d pieced together the news from different stops. As it happened, the family was on her route the next day—it had been two weeks—and she meant to bring them something special. She had hoped enough time had gone by that they had started to recover.
“Please give my parents my best if you see them,” Amanda said by way of dismissal. “I’ve got to get on my way.” She swung up on Junebug, her skirt flying out behind her, and trotted off toward home. She didn’t even bother checking in at the post office.
As the mule’s easy stride carried her outside the boundaries of town, the landscape changed from dried mud ruts crisscrossing between buildings to a soft footing of leaves and pine needles. Autumn’s slide into winter brought frequent rains, which kept the paths muddy and the creeks full. Amanda had quit cleaning her boots altogether and just let the clods of mud dry on them by the hearth. It was easier to knock off the dry mud each morning before she went out; it would only get caked on again the moment she stepped off the porch.
As she rode, Shirley’s words tossed and tumbled in Amanda’s head. She thought of the last time she’d seen her parents, the accusations and the way she’d clammed up, her heart so full of anger and sorrow that it overflowed with everything but words. As a child, she’d wanted for nothing. In addition to preaching, burials, and weddings, her father hired out his time as a smithy, working out of a stone forge he’d built behind their small house. Her mother, meanwhile, led a life of verbs—plant, mend, plow, sew, chop, carve, sharpen, weave, cook, knead, harvest, haul—in revolving seasons.
Despite their due diligence, her parents had only been granted one child, and consequently, Amanda had been both precious and pressured, bearing their expectations and affection in solid, stoic fashion. She learned the finer points of minding a house and garden and was required to know great sections of scripture by heart, being her father’s sole heir and most important disciple. Above all, her father was adamant Amanda knew who and whose she was, and that she act befittingly. Appearances meant everything for a minister’s daughter.