Zachary Peters

The only thing she was thankful for in the moment was the fact that the road was dry. If it had been storming, there would have been no use in even trying to walk to her mother-in-law’s. She was perfectly aware that she would curse this day for the rest of her life. Her feet were swollen in her shoes. Every step seemed to release a sharp burning from the balls of her feet to the backs of her heels. The pain was so severe, she could not tell if the moisture around her eyes came from the pain or the fear of what Junior was going to do.

Eventually, she walked through the wooded section of the road to town. She walked down Main Street, past the churches and the school, and finally reached Junior’s mother’s house.

She knocked on the door and heard footsteps moving through the house. The door opened with a creak.

“Well, Marguerite, now what are you doing here?” Her mother-in-law’s face was a mix of surprise and confusion.

“Junior is gonna get himself in trouble and told me to come here.”

“What do you mean?” She asked quickly. Her face slipped into a mask of fear over the confusion.

“Junior’s in trouble.”

“Come in, come in,” she waved her hands frantically.

Marguerite’s words tumbled out as she walked into the old house. “I told him I was pregnant, then he disappeared yesterday. Came back early this morning with a truckload of seed. Then Mr. Carey came—he was gonna help him get it in the ground—and… the seed turns out to be bad or something. I don’t know. Junior got that seed from those Riddleys. And he stormed off with a gun in his waistband, saying he’s going to take care of it.”

“Oh, my Lord, help us!” his mama said. She did not say anything else for the next thirty seconds, except for an unending string of prayers to God.

Marguerite asked, “What are we supposed to do?”

“Oh, I guess we gotta go down to the mill. That’s where those Riddleys, those dern Riddleys, are most times during this part of the day.”

Marguerite sighed, and she shook her head. “I can’t walk.” She looked down at her ankles. Junior’s mother looked down at her ankles as well. They were swollen and red. They looked unworldly on Marguerite’s petite legs.

“Oh, gracious, Marguerite. Come sit down, come sit down right now.”

Marguerite shuffled over to a chair and sat down. Junior’s mother took her feet and propped them on a stool. Then she gently took Marguerite’s shoes off. She walked to the kitchen, rummaged around for a minute, and came back out with two cool, damp rags. She put them on Marguerite’s feet. There was immediate relief.

“You just sit right there. I’m gonna yell over to the neighbor and see if he can’t run into town to get the sheriff.”

Marguerite wondered if that was a good idea. Junior might do something stupid. Would it be better for a sheriff to show up, or for nobody to show up to see it happen?

She asked, “Is that the only thing we can do?”

“Oh, honey, I don’t know,” Junior’s mother replied. “Days like this I wish Herschel was still here. All of this could have been avoided if Herschel were still here. Everything would be different if Herschel were still here.”

She walked out the front door, and Marguerite could hear her yelling, “Bob! Bob! Bob, can you get over here?” Marguerite heard an elderly man answer from a distance. “One second, Miss Jean! Just one second—I’ll be over there in one second!”

Jean walked back in and waited at the front door. After a minute, there were rushed footsteps that climbed the front steps and crossed the porch. “Is everything okay?” the older man said out of breath, still out of sight from where Marguerite was sitting in the living room.

“Well, I think Junior might be in trouble with those Riddleys somewhere. I desperately need to find him before anything bad happens.”

“Oh, no,” said Bob. Some of the floorboards creaked as Jean shifted her weight around. “I’ll get a car, and I’ll drive down to the mill and try to help.”

Marguerite spoke up. “Wait. If we’re driving, I can go with you.”

Bob popped his head in. “Oh, hello there, dear. Well, I don’t see a problem with that. I’ll pull the car up front.”

Ten minutes later, they were heading down the road. It was dry and dusty, but they were going fast enough that the dirt and dust swirled behind them, leaving their vision clear. This was the same road, Marguerite reflected, that could take her back to Knoxville. Why did she ever leave? Love.

The mill was down near the Conasauga River, just outside of town. The mountains were green and blue in the distance. Thankfully, the road was well-maintained by the farmers who used it year-round. Most of the fields were all plowed, and the trees were full of new leaves. It would have been a very nice drive in other circumstances. It was warm but not hot, and the wind in her face cut through the humidity.

Marguerite’s thoughts were flooded with fear and anxiety. The mental image of the gun—and Junior’s hand wrapped around it—was unbearably horrible. What would that gun do? What would happen? She asked herself repeatedly. What could she do? What would she say? There was no certainty to anything—no certain solution, no certain outcome—that she could imagine.

Bob interrupted her thoughts. “Mill’s up here. I don’t see any cars.” He pulled up to the mill. There was an old man and a young child out front next to a donkey. That was it. No one else. Bob asked the old man, raising his voice over the engine, “You seen anybody around besides you two?”

The old man replied, “No! Been slow today! You know, it’s Friday! And I suspect I know where everybody is!” The old man gave a nod and a wink.

Bob grunted, annoyed. “Yeah, I suppose you do,” he said at normal volume.

“What was that?” The old man asked.

“Nothin’, see ya around.” He turned the car back around toward the main road.

Marguerite asked, “What do you think? Where is he?”

Bob glanced at her. “Well, Marguerite, nowhere good, I’m afraid. Those Riddleys…” He sucked on his teeth before finishing, “They run a little place down in the woods, near another bend of the river.”

“What kind of place?” she said.

“Ehh, a place I really don’t want to take ya. They sell hooch out of a shack in the woods somewhere. I owe it to your mother-in-law and to Herschel to try to help the boy. Good boy, you know. Wish old Herschel were here doing this instead of me, though.”

Marguerite started crying. This poor man was dragged into this because of her. No, because Junior had lost his mind. Bob reached over and patted her on the knee. “Oh, I’m so sorry, darling. I don’t mean to overwhelmn’ ya. This is just not a good situation, and ain’t no use saying otherwise.”

It took 30 minutes to reach the edge of the woods, where the place was supposed to be. Marguerite asked Bob, “Have you ever been here before?”

“No, ma’am,” he said. “Don’t do no drinkin’ myself. Seen enough of that from my pa, God rest his soul.” He pointed to a noticeable cutout in the thick hedge of the edge of the woods. “That’s it. Used to be a logging road.” He stopped.

“What is wrong?” She asked. Worried that she was going to have to walk. Her feet were throbbing.

“Well, nothing any more wrong than an hour ago. I need to get something.” He turned and reached behind him with a grunt. He came back around with a shotgun. “I don’t think we will need this, but with the drinkin’ you just can’t be too careful.” He let his foot off the brake, and they pulled into the woods. Marguerite put her head in her hands. Lord, if you are there, help me?