Light to the Hills: A Novel (74)
“No, but I reckon if God had called Abraham to sacrifice his grandbaby instead of his stubborn half-grown son, it might’a been a whole ’nother story.”
“We’ll see how it goes this once first,” Amanda said.
Rai and Amanda set off at the first pink shades of morning. They threw an old saddle blanket over Junebug’s back and doubled up behind his withers, Amanda in front. Amanda wore the brown trousers she usually wore when she rode her circuit, and Rai bunched up her skirt and let her legs hang bare from her knees to the tops of her shoes. Each wore a straw hat to shade their eyes from the rising sun. They packed a satchel of apples and bread, and for the first time since she’d left with Frank, Amanda pointed her mule’s nose in the direction of her parents’ home.
Strangely, she wasn’t thinking of Gripp Jessup or the gossip her father had swallowed. Or even what would happen when she rode up to her parents’ home as if it were as ordinary a thing as a sunrise. Instead, she pictured Sass gathering sang in the woods as she’d met her that first rainy afternoon. Sass’s face as she’d stood there in the path with her hands on her hips, full of spunk, her secret delight and pride when she’d read without stumbling straight through the book Amanda had brought. She marveled at Sass’s bravery, her instinct to protect her little sister and the whole rest of her family, even if holding that secret made her drop down dead. Of course, Amanda drifted back to what had happened with Gripp the night Miles was born, and as Sass held out in her palm the slivers of her broken heart, the piercing splinters in Amanda’s heart worked back and forth, her old scars opening once more. Anger boiled up in her, remembering Sass’s story about the rooster man. Her father used to preach against anger from his pulpit, lauding self-control, having witnessed one too many men fond of moonshine taking out their frustrations on their wives. There was another kind of anger, though, one born to right wrongs. Amanda could spit from the injustice of it all, takers who lived just for the grabbing, casually ruining those who trusted. Beneath her, she felt Junebug quicken his stride as her emotions raced. Even the mule sensed a change in the woman atop his back.
The day broke warm and fine, the loveliest of spring mornings before the mosquitoes grew thick and a hot, wet heat cloaked the mountain valley. The sky was the kind of cloudless blue that made it seem deep as a well or a clear, cold lake, and the tree branches held the eager birdcalls of nuthatches, woodpeckers, and all manner of finches and wrens, busy courting, nesting, and foraging before the day grew too hot. Amanda and Rai laughed at a pair of jays, actually in a tug-of-war over a fresh-plucked earthworm. Each attempted to fly away with the prize but found they were tethered to each other by their meal, until at last the poor worm stretched too far and the surprised jays broke apart. Amanda wondered which had won the lucky end of that wishbone.
Junebug’s easy gait and the sweet spring air filled with the scent of honeysuckle and the hum of fat, lazy bumblebees were balms to jangled nerves. Rai pointed out plants along the path. She couldn’t help telling Amanda what this or that one was good for and when and how best to use each one. They talked about children, of course, as mothers do, the heartache of seeing them come to trouble and the pride that blossomed when they proved themselves.
“You’re a good mama,” Rai said. “I can see that clear as a drop of rain when you’re with Miles. I’m sure it’s been a time raisin’ him alone.”
Amanda shrugged. “Sometimes, for certain. Mooney’s been a godsend.” She paused. “I think she might have her eye on a feller in town. I notice he’s been havin’ an unusual hard time keeping his shirts mended for a few months now. She won’t say it out loud, but she’s sweet on him, sure as sugar.”
“Well, that can happen. She’s young yet. You both are.” They let that settle.
After traveling a ways in silence, Amanda said, “Can’t say what to expect when we get up home. You don’t know of any leaves to crush into a mending tea for harsh words, do you?”
“Reckon folk’d be beating down my door for the likes of that.” Rai laughed. “Onliest way to the other side of that is straight through.” She patted Amanda’s shoulder. “We’ll get there when we get there.”
Rai asked Amanda to tell her what it was like growing up a preacher’s daughter, so Amanda jawed about their place always being busy, folks in and out, coming to ask for advice or blessings or forgiveness. An only child, she never wanted for attention. Jack Wick was a born teacher and saw to it that Amanda learned more than just letters. He’d gotten through school but no further than that, no fancy universities or degrees—who could afford it? And he had a gift in that voice that drew folks to hear him despite—or maybe even because of—not having extra schooling. Amanda recalled that even Jack’s lullabies and bedtime stories seemed enchanted, the way he told them. Her mama had been strict but kind. You’d think in the middle of all that busy, all the people, she’d have had scores of friends, but she had been sort of set apart by girls her age. Amanda admitted that she’d been lonely after a while, even though she had learned long ago to keep her own company, and maybe that’s what had made it easier for her to fall for Frank and the buckets of attention he paid her.
They laughed over Amanda’s tales of having a pet duck and carrying it around by its neck everywhere. Amanda recalled fishing in the stream, catching crawdads, and learning to ride horses, piece a quilt, and fix a meal, all the regular things a girl from the mountains would do. It was a fine growing up, she allowed. Having Miles had shown her that young’uns weren’t always a Sunday picnic. It wasn’t her parents’ fault she had itched to look beyond the next holler and imagined something extraordinary for her life. Like her Miles, she had a will of her own and was determined to use it.