Light to the Hills: A Novel (78)
“Our daughter’s come up the mountain, and she has a tale you need to hear ’bout as much as a body needs the Gospel. I’ve done sat here for five years waiting and hoping, and I declare this ain’t going on one minute more.” Beady pointed, and Jack sank into a chair at the table. “Just hold your tongue now. It’s her turn.”
Amanda again unwound the spool of telling. Knotted in the thread of it was foolishness, no doubt, mistakes made and regrets that she’d revisited time and again like a tongue searching the empty place where a tooth used to stand. But there was no more sin than for anyone who walked the earth. Amanda testified like it was a Sunday service, plain and true, a mix of ugly and grace all in one. She left out Sass’s bit—Beady thought because that wasn’t hers to share. She told how Frank’s death hadn’t been by accident, but the rest of Gripp’s long list of transgressions could wait. By the end of her telling, tears fell unchecked from Jack’s eyes, and he unexpectedly knelt before her on the hard plank floor, her hands in his.
“I ask your forgiveness, surely and truly,” he croaked. “The prodigal wasn’t who I imagined. I’m ashamed, for certain, of my temper and pride, for casting you aside in favor of folks’ false words. I had no cause and only stirred up more trouble for you.” He glanced up at Beady. “For all of us. I’ve had a rod of iron rammed down my spine over this, and it’s time to melt it in fire.”
Amanda, her face streaked with tears, leaned down and hugged her daddy ’round the neck. Beady’s heart swelled when she watched Amanda breathe deep and close her eyes against the prickle of Jack’s gray whiskers.
“When you get back from your trip,” said Amanda, “I know a little boy who’d be over the moon to see you.”
Beady clapped her hands together once and breathed deep. “That’s done,” she announced. No sense lingering over sentiment when there was work to get on with. “Now then, Amanda, call Rai back in here or supper’s gonna get cold.”
Chapter 23
Gripp was already three sheets to the wind as he stumbled up the slope to the lean-to that served as his home for now. No thanks to Finn, who’d been scarce as hen’s teeth for the past couple of days, he’d spent two days hustling in the adjoining county, off-loading his latest batch of corn likker. His usual patsies, Pete and Repete, were nowhere to be found, so he’d had to grind it and do it all himself. If any of them three lazy parasites thought they’d see a share of this haul, they could think again. In fact, he might just have to teach them a lesson in dependability next time he ran across their sorry asses. He’d been helping himself to generous sips of the last of his jars all the way back up the mountain. Every now and then he belted stray bits of songs: “Mosquito he fly high. Mosquito he fly low. If old man ’skeeta light on me, he ain’t gonna fly no mo’.”
One of the roosters set up crowing as Gripp tripped over himself. He needed to get Finn out here to clear some of these brambles. A feller couldn’t hardly walk two steps without getting tangled. He guessed he’d have to feed and water the birds on top of everything else. Gripp made it to the top of the slope and spied his lean-to, nestled under the overhang of an ancient rocky outcropping. It wasn’t fancy, but it did the job. He cooked over an open fire and did his business in the woods. It was fine for warm weather. Come winter, he’d need to find something snugger. He threw his pack down toward the back of the shack, careful to set down his jars on the stump he used for a table, and headed out to feed the cocks.
He cast corn around their separate barrels and carried a bucket of water from the creek. They drank eagerly. Some of their pans had dried out, and without Finn around to tend to them, they’d gone without. Like as not, he was somewhere taking up with that book woman he was sweet on. If he couldn’t rouse that boy, he’d have to rustle up some other help. He needed the birds in good shape if they meant to win their fights. He pulled one or two shelters to fresh ground before he gave up and decided he would get to it tomorrow.
“That’ll have to do you for now, chickadees,” he slurred. Gripp rubbed a hand across his eyes. He must have had a bit more ’shine than he reckoned because his vision didn’t normally wobble like that. He wouldn’t puke; if a ’shiner couldn’t hold his likker, he might as well hang it up as a crying shame. All the same, Gripp shuffled inside his shack and lowered himself to his pallet in the corner. He heaved a heavy sigh, took another bracing sip from his jar, and dug into his satchel. It was full of rolled-up bills, which he intended to stuff in an empty lard can and bury near the wall of stacked rocks he’d run across nearby, something he could come back for in case he needed to sail out quick. For now, though, he reckoned it wouldn’t hurt to lie down for a spell, just until the ground stopped tipping.
Gripp pulled off his boots with a grunt and fell back onto the ticking. He’d have to get to work firing up the still come morning. He had to admit, he made some of the best moonshine east of the Mississippi. He’d lay his against any man in Kentucky, and maybe throw in Tennessee for good measure. “A fine, fine libation,” he mumbled to himself.
While he waited for the room to stop spinning, Gripp remembered the woman he’d seen coming out of the WPA office in town. She would make a nice handful, he thought, if he could get the young’un out of the way. Gripp rubbed his eyes, trying to ease the blur. That boy, now, he brought to mind something, stirred up from his befuddled memory. The way he walked and swung those arms, the way he cocked his head almost called to mind—oh, come now, what was that feller’s name, blast it.