How Things Were

Some stories refuse to stay buried. How Things Were is a serialized work of historical fiction — a generational saga that follows one family from the turn of the twentieth century into the shadow of the 1940s. It is a story of ordinary people caught in extraordinary hardship: loss, survival, violence, love, and the kind of quiet endurance that rarely makes the history books.

Loosely inspired by true events, How Things Were does not flinch from the harshness of that era. These were not easy decades to live through, and this story does not pretend otherwise.

New installments are posted here as the story unfolds. Start from the beginning and follow along.

Latest Installment

Part Seven: Flat, Pregnant Feet

Part One: Dust on the Road

Due to the seething hate for Herbert’s father, his mother had, as quickly as possible, changed her name back to her maiden name after the divorce. At least, that is what Memaw said. His mom came from money in Knoxville, TN, and the family was amenable to having her back in the fold. The prodigal child returned home, as it were. Her family did not care that their prodigal child had a 7-year-old boy of her own.

A few weeks later, the judge denied her request for full custody, so she left Herbert there on the steps of the one-room shack that was their home. She gave him a kiss and a paper with some letters and numbers on it. He knew now that it was a mailing address. He remembered she said, “You can write me here.”

Then her ex-mother-in-law said, “Go on and be gone with ya. Unless you’re going to come to your senses, be off and don’t make this boy suffer anymore.” She was off and gone, Herbert’s young heart shattered. He cried for a week until, one day, it all stopped. The wound had scabbed over, and it would scar.

The memories were faded, but they were still there in Herbert’s 13-year-old mind. He was sitting on the same crumbling brick steps as when his mother had driven away for the last time. He knew that was the reason he was thinking of his mom. The memories were tangled together with everything around him. The shack behind him was the same, except his father had managed to build on another room for himself.

His father would be in there for days until the moonshine ran out, and he would stumble out in search of money for more shine. He would look at Herbert, nod, and walk out the door. Sometimes, he would come back a few hours later or, more likely, a few days later.

Herbert would sleep on a makeshift bed in the corner of the ‘big room,’ as it was called. There was a small stove with the chimney roughly cut through the wall next to the small bed. During winter, Herbert would try to keep a small fire going. The little stove made it just bearable in the cold, so he could sleep an hour or two at a time during the night before he had to add more wood. During the summer, the stove was only on to cook food.

He looked up and saw dust rising above the trees about half a mile away. A car was coming down the dirt road towards his house. His was the lone house on the road for miles and miles, as far as he knew, and it sat at the top of a gentle rise from the town. The rise leveled off just a few hundred feet before his house, but positioned as it was, he could see all the way to the town after the leaves fell from the trees in the fall.

It was spring now, and the only things he saw were trees and the dust from the road. There was a wave of anxiety that rolled down from his chest to his stomach. Who was it? It was a toss-up on whether it was good news or bad news. Could it just be someone on their way towards Calhoun? Sometimes people avoided the new highway that cut through town to head south. All the old-timers complained about the new road.

He wondered if it was the sheriff telling him bad news again. His dad was in the jailhouse for a few days, or in the hospital? Maybe his dad was dead, and he was alone for good? Worse, somehow, maybe the sheriff was there to take him away to live in an orphanage or something.

Maybe it was the pastor and his wife. He liked them. They brought food and clothes to him and his dad every once in a while. They even took him to church sometimes. His dad never went, but did not care if those “Bible thumpers” took Herbert. “They will teach ya better than I can,” he would mumble.

Herbert liked church. He enjoyed the singing and the old piano, and he really liked the clean, white walls and hardwood floors. It was peaceful, and the people were friendly. Some of the other people in town did not like this church, but Herbert could not understand why.

The dust was getting closer. It might be a school official trying to get him to attend classes more often. He was really behind, and they were always saying, “He was a smart boy and wanted him to learn a little more.” None of that would be so bad, but it put him in an awkward position to explain to them why it was so hard for him to get anywhere. Of course, the teacher already knew his story. They knew his dad. The whole town did.

The teacher would nod and look sad, then leave for the next shack or tent, where the next poor child was waiting. That child might have both parents, or they might live with aunts and uncles. They might have ten brothers and sisters. He wondered if having a brother or sister would make him feel less alone. More likely, he figured it would be worse to be alone with others right next to you.

The wind had picked up. The trees were bending and swaying. They creaked and cracked. The dust that had been lingering over the road for at least a mile blew away.

He made a final guess; it could be his Memaw. She tried to come several times a week to bring food and to clean the best she could with her weak back. He did not know her name. She was just ‘Memaw.’

He could hear the car now, clack-put-clack-put, getting louder and louder. He heard the wheels rolling on the loose dirt, and then he could see the car through the low shrubs and trees that bordered the road near his house. It was his Memaw. Most of his anxiety fell away.

Herbert walked to the car. It took a few minutes to help his Memaw get out and get her things: a basket of food and a wooden box with some cleaning supplies. This was done in silence until she was completely out and settled next to the car.

“Well, little Herbert, I suppose your dad ain’t home?” She asked, every word longer than the creator of the English language had intended.

“No ma’am, he left two days ago, but I think he is at the mill. At least, that’s where he was last time,” Herbert answered. His voice was changing, but it was still small and sweet.

“Your-a probably right. I think the Riddleys have been giving him some work down there.” She looked concerned, “Those boys are trouble, wish your paw would get work somewhere else. I reckon he forgot to bring any food home last time he was here?” She asked.

Herbert shook his head slowly. His Memaw pursed her lips and shook her head in disappointment. She took a sad, deep breath. Herbert could just see the sadness in her heavily lidded eyes, and then she smiled, “Well, I have something for ya. Come on now, let’s get inside.”

Inside, she had Herbert open all the windows and doors as she cleaned up the table they used for the kitchen, dining, and work. It was nothing more than a few scrap pieces of wood, with the table top consisting of some old barn siding. She then had Herbert set the food and cleaning supplies on the table.

The first thing she did was pull out a parcel wrapped in some cloth. She laid it out and said, “Come on, eat this while it’s fresh.”

Herbert timidly picked up the parcel and began unwrapping it. Even before he had laid aside the cloth wrapping, the smell had revealed the contents, sausage biscuits. He smiled, “Thank ya, Memaw.”

“Oh, it’s no problem, but don’t forget to save me one. This place is a mess, and I’m sure to work up an appetite getting it all cleaned,” she said, while taking out some old-looking rags and a bottle of clear yellow liquid. “How you boys make such a mess is beyond me, but it shouldn’t be a wonder, I guess. Your grandpa, God rest him, would have wasted away in filth if it weren’t for me, I guess. Just runs in the family.”

Herbert was only half-listening. Memaw could talk like a stream running down a mountain. She would babble on until the end of time. He had heard the story about his grandfather before.

Herbert was fixated on the biscuit. The last thing he had eaten was a tough squirrel he had managed to kill yesterday morning. He shot it with an old 22 rifle. After he had skinned it, he had burnt the little things to a crisp over the fire. He had found that was the only way he could stomach the animal’s tough meat.

The biscuit, even though it was just barely warm, was soft and moist. It wanted to crumble apart, but it held together tenderly. He tried to slow down to enjoy every bite, but he was so hungry. The first biscuit was gone in just a few minutes. The second one lasted a little longer.

When he finished, he put away the other food items in the lone cupboard next to the wash bucket. It was on the opposite side of the room from his bed. If dad was not around or was in one of his shine-fueled stupors, then the food would last about a week. He was excited about getting some food once a day for a whole week.

When he was hungry, it was hard to focus on anything else. He had heard some kids say in class that if you don’t eat for several days, the hunger pains go away. Herbert was not interested in finding out.

Of course, if his dad had been working, he might have come home hungry. The food would be gone in a day or two, but it would be better than nothing or squirrel. He put the empty basket back on the table.

“…and I tell you something, funny. Your grandpa would take off his work clothes every day in the same spot, and I would tell him, ‘Herschel, don’t leave ’em there. Set them over here, and I will wash them.’ He would grunt, like your daddy does, and say, ‘No need to wash ’em yet,’ and he would pick them back up the next morning on his way to work,” Memaw was saying as she was wiping down the windows.

“What was grandpa like?” Herbert asked. He asked the question often.

“Well, he was like what I was just saying and all, but you know, he was very much like you boys. Your daddy would be just like ’em, but Herschel was not much for the drink.” She stopped and looked at Herbert, her hands on her hips. “That drink is poison, boy. Don’t you ever touch it.” She turned back around to the window and got back to working and talking.

“Your daddy would be just like his daddy if it weren’t for that train that took him. I guess your daddy was your age when Herschel was killed,” she said, standing on the tips of her toes to reach the very top of the window.

Herbert had walked to the stove and started cleaning out the ashes. He had heard the story a thousand times. It was the only derailment ever to happen in Dalton, and his grandpa happened to be right there. Well, his grandpa and some kids who should not have been there. His dad did not like to talk about it, but his Memaw must have told the story every time he saw her. He did not mind it.

It was almost like Memaw was reciting scripture when she told the story, and she seemed to do it without tears or pain. It was just a thing that had happened, and now it was just a thing to be told. Maybe it made her feel better about the way her son, his dad, had turned out.

Memaw was telling the story again, but Herbert was focused on getting the ash out and into the little bucket without making a big mess. When the stove was empty, he took the bucket and tossed the ashes out the back door.

The house was small, and it really only took about an hour to clean it up. Memaw sat on the lone chair in the house and ate half of the last biscuit. She set it down and did not touch it again.

“Oh well, I was sure hope’n to see your daddy, but I guess he is down at the mill with those Riddleys.” She shook her head, “No good. No good.” She stood up, and Herbert helped her to her car. She gave him a loving pat on his head. He saw the sad eyes again, but then she was gone. The dust was rising again, but this time heading away from him and the little house.

He sat on the front steps again, eating the half biscuit that his Memaw had purposely left. The wind blew hard, and he heard the plop of hickory nuts falling from a tree nearby. He guessed he would collect some and have them for dinner, but right now, he just wanted to finish the biscuit.

Part Two: Just Life

Herschel, with a small smile, watched Jean move around the kitchen, preparing dinner. It looked like she was floating from the stove to the sink to the pantry. Her porcelain-skinned hands, moving this pot, pouring that cup, and sliding that dish, looked elegant and out of place in the old country kitchen. He had not the slightest idea what she was making, but there was the warm smell of bacon, cheese, and fresh bread.

The floorboards creaked with every one of her busy steps. Need a few more nails, he thought. The sun’s rays streamed in from the big single-pane window he and his neighbor Bob had installed just one summer earlier. Jean liked the window with the curtains drawn wide open. She hated a dark room. She would not stop bothering him about the electricity that was supposed to be coming to town in the next year or so. Herschel did not know about all that.

Something knocked into his legs under the kitchen table. He leaned over, peering beneath the tabletop. His little boy was playing with a metal cavalry horse, and the boy had fallen over onto Herschel’s feet. The boy looked up, his sharp blue eyes bright in the shadows. “Sorry, Pa,” he said.

“That’s okay. You like that horse?”

“Yes, sir, I wish I had about five more!” he exclaimed with eager seriousness.

Herschel’s smile, which had never left his face, grew, stretching from ear to ear. The dimple in his cheek expanded from a suggestion of a shadow into a crevice running from his cheekbone down to his jawline.

“What are you smilin’ at over there?” Jean asked, with no small amount of sarcasm.

“Oh, just life,” he answered. He rubbed his son’s hair before leaning back up to look at Jean. She was a small woman. Not so small as to be abnormal, but small enough that from a distance she might be mistaken for a young girl. Her face was soft and round with a smattering of freckles on her nose. Her brown hair fell in curls around her face. She was pleasant to look at, like a green hill beside a mountain. One might prefer the mountain, but he loved the rolling green hills bunched at the foot of the mountain.

He had loved her from the first moment he had seen her walking by the station house in Blue Ridge, Georgia. He had jumped off the still-slowing train to catch her before he lost track of her in the departing crowd from Nashville.

“I’d smile too if someone was cooking me something this good,” she said, smiling.

He stood up and took two big steps toward her. “What else would make you smile?”

She giggled like a child. “Stop that.”

He kissed her, and she kissed him back.

“Let me go, I’m gonna burn the food.”

“Fine.” He loved the way she spoke — that sweet, drawn-out Southern accent. It drew him into every one of her words. “I am going to work on the shed. Give me a yell when you are ready.”

“Okay, honey,” she said, engrossed in cooking again. He walked out the side door of the kitchen.

Part 3: Certainty

Certainty, she thought, who could be certain of anything? She certainly appreciated her mother-in-law, but certainly knew her mother-in-law viewed her with conflicted affection. Marguerite, or Margaret as her mother-in-law called her, watched the Model T pull out of the yard and onto the dirt road in front of the little shack called home. She wanted her mother-in-law to leave, but certainly wanted her to stay.

Being alone was difficult for Marguerite. Her mother-in-law had made it known that she thought “Margaret” may have been too sensitive. “Not used to having to deal with the unpleasantness of life, having come from rich people in the big city of Knoxville, Tennessee.” Yet Marguerite knew that while she had never starved, she had lived through pain, fear, and uncertainty. She had been alone too many times.

Her father was Scottish, and her mother was Italian. Her father had made some money for himself as a book editor and publisher. Her mother sang and played the piano, and though Marguerite had been very young, she remembered getting dressed up for some type of concert or recital to see her mother perform. The memory of her mother on stage, young and beautiful, and her father, sitting next to Marguerite, looking on with love, was ingrained in her mind. It certainly was a happy time.

Then the war brought home the influenza, and her parents caught it and died. Her father’s grandparents brought Marguerite home with them to Chattanooga, Tennessee. Then they succumbed to the flu themselves just a few months later.

From Chattanooga, she went up to Knoxville with her mother’s parents. They had a large estate. Her widowed aunt raised her on the estate with her cousins. Everyone was kind and loving. While she certainly did not always get along with everyone, she looked back on that time with affection. The busy town, the farms, the river, and the mountains were always in the distance from the balcony of the big house; it was a wonderful childhood.

Even right now, standing on the front steps of the little shack she now called home, watching the dust blow away as the car disappeared down the road beyond the trees, she regretted her stubborn nature. It had brought her from that lovely home to the ramshackle habitat that she was forced to live in now. When she had left, and everyone was asking questions, she had said it was all for love. As of late, she thought it was more for selfish stubbornness. Was it still love, she thought? There were days when the answer would be yes, but now those days were few and far between.

She had met Junior at a music shop. Unlike the many fuzzy memories of her parents, she remembered everything about that little shop. Just as she remembered everything about the day Junior had walked in looking for a guitar. He had looked young and sharp, curly brown hair, slicked down and to the side, posture straight as an arrow. Then there were his eyes. The eyes had drawn her in just as much as anything else. They were clear and blue, and as her cousin had said, “she was smitten on the spot.” At first, her cousin had said this in a romantic sense, but by the end of the month, the infatuation had become tragic for most of her family.

Oh, how she resented them for their attitudes, their negativity, and even their open hostility toward Junior. Junior had been polite and cordial, but any chance of Junior staying around the family was lost. If only her aunt had not been so mean.

Junior was smart, but without resources. Hopeful, but without a plan. It did not matter to her. Whoever really had a plan? Against her family’s wishes, they wed and moved down to his hometown, Dalton, Georgia. The first year was wonderful. He found some work and toyed with the idea of starting a shop. In the second year, it became clear to her that, while he was smart, that did not mean he was wise. His hopes did not produce. She did not hold it against him; they were still young, and there was still time. Yet somehow he must have sensed something — disappointment, regret — from her. He started to drink.

She certainly hated the drink. He had started to disappear for a day or two at a time every couple of months. Her mother-in-law knew this, which is why she started making periodic checks on Marguerite. Marguerite understood and appreciated the gesture, but could not help but feel slightly annoyed. Annoyed at what, she thought? Annoyed that her shame was known. Her husband was a drunk.

Did she love him? Certainly, sometimes.

Her mother-in-law had walked in, smiling, with a small basket of food. Marguerite must have looked unwell; she felt unwell because her mother-in-law immediately asked, “Are you feeling all right? Now I don’t need to be gettin’ sick now.”

“Oh no, I am just a little tired,” she had said.

Her mother-in-law looked closely at Marguerite. She asked, “When was your last time of the month?” She said it delicately, almost a whisper, her eyebrows raised.

Marguerite said she was a little late, but felt like it had to be soon.

Her mother-in-law had simply put the basket down and said, “Well, I certainly think you’re pregnant.” She had looked pleased with herself.

The pronouncement struck Marguerite like a warm gust of wind. The wind that blows before the storm. It is warm and moist. It feels better than the heat of the day. It is refreshing, but you know the storm is coming.

Certainty, she thought, what is certain? She certainly wanted Junior to be home, and she certainly wanted to love him. She watched the last of the dust on the road blow away, and she went back into the house and lay down.

Part 4: Cold Love

“It’s good,” he said, the fork clinking on the plate. The sun, through the window, warmed the little table they sat at. Junior had it home finally. She had looked at him for a long time as she warmed up his dinner.

“Good.” She shivered.

“Ya make it better every time,” he said with his mouth half full of the chicken and dumplings.

“I watched your momma make it a few weeks ago.”

He took another bite. She tried to take a bite, but all she wanted to do was run outside and throw up. She did not know if it was her nerves or the baby growing inside her that was producing the feeling. Both.

“When was that?” He sounded confused. “Last time I saw her was bout a month ago.”

“You were—out.”

Silence. He stopped chewing, and his eyes flickered up at her, but then fell back down at his plate. He could not look at her for long these past few months. “Right, well, it’s good.”

“Good.”

She had to tell him. She loved him, and this might make him into who she wanted to love. It would have to, or it might not. She wanted her mom. Well, at least she wanted the warmth she remembered of her mother. She was surrounded by cold right now. Inescapable cold from the man she loved. It was a darn shame the man’s pride had been hurt, and now he was drawn away and shy. Get back out here, Junior.

“She came out this way today,” she said.

“Who?”

“Your mom.”

“Why?”

“I don’t rightly know.”

“Is she bother’n ya?”

“No, no. Not at all.”

“Alright, well, I guess that’s good.”

“She thinks I’m pregnant.”

He took another bite, fork clinking on the plate again. He chewed. He did not pause for a second. She could just see his icy blue eyes. They were looking down at the plate. Not moving or blinking.

“Darling,” she put on a smile, “did you hear me?”

He finally looked up at her. She looked for signs on his face that might tell her something. There was a flicker of worry there. Who wouldn’t be worried, she thought?

“Was she certain?”

“Yes.”

“Are you?”

“Yes.”

A small smile spread across his face, but it only lasted a second or two. “Good. That’s good,” he nodded as he took the last bite. “I have to go get some things done.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve.

“Oh, but can’t you stay? I miss you.”

“Now don’t be lyin’, honey,” he said with a small chuckle.

“I ain’t lyin’. You know I don’t lie.”

“Well, you shouldn’t miss me.”

“I do, though.”

He stood up. “I’m sorry, but I have to go get some stuff done.”

“Please, Junior, please just stay. I just told you great news. Let’s celebrate it.”

“I have to get some stuff done. I promise ya I’m happy, but I have to get some stuff done before the baby gets here… Lord, I didn’t know how to be a dad.” He grabbed his coat and walked out the door. She stood up and followed him to the door, but she knew better than to try to stop him.

The idiot just got home, and the idiot is running off again. Drunk. She hated that she loved him. How could he do this?

Was it raining? The drops were warm. The tears ran down her face, leaving small stains on her dress just below the collar.

“Don’t nobody know how to be a dad!” She yelled. He had to have heard her, but he did not respond. She watched him disappear behind the trees, heading towards town.

Part 5: Troubled Specter

The cold air pleasantly stung his face as Herschel took his first steps outside. Taking a deep breath, he let the air fill every corner of his lungs. He let it all hiss out in a rush of steam through his smiling mouth. Any cold day reminded him of the countless frigidfrigid days of his youth up north in the woods outside of Cleveland, OH, where he had grown up and worked until his parents had decided to settle in Cincinnati. He had left as a 17-year-old soon after their move and then traveled across the country and back again, working on the railroads.

He walked to the new shed he had just finished framing. The smell of sawdust was strong even in the cold, and some of the sawdust had frozen in small piles around the sawhorses next to the fledgling building. He uncovered the wood planks he was using for the siding, and in no rush, dragged them over one at a time to the framing of the shed. Hoisting one of the planks up, Herschel hammered one nail in place through the plank into the framing, and then used that one nail as a pivot point as he worked more nails along the span of the board.

After he had leisurely placed and secured four boards on the framing, he heard someone yell, “Don’t ya know some people are trying to nap around here?”

He looked towards the source of the voice and then laughed when he saw his neighbor clambering down his front steps. “Where?” he asked, looking around dramatically. “Surely not someone as busy as yourself, Bob.”

Bob walked over and shook Herschel’s hand. He looked around at the shed and the tools everywhere. “You can’t stay still, can ya, Herschel?”

“No, if the sun is up, there’s got to be something to do,” Herschel said. Nothing worse than downtime, he thought.

“Well, I like my free time, but let me give ya a hand there, Herschel,” Bob said, leaning over to grab one end of another board.

“You don’t have to, Bob,” he said, hoping Bob was serious.

“No, I insist,” Bob said as he lifted the board up and, with Herschel’s help, put it in place on the framing. “No work at the rail yard?”

Herschel, his big hand curled around the hammer, slammed two nails into the end of the board, then tossed the hammer to Bob. “Not until after three. Bad weather up north. Everything is delayed.”

“That’s right, the postman said something about that. Snow in March, how about that?” Bob said, with two nails precariously hanging from his mouth. He took one out of his mouth and hammered it home, and then the other.

“What about you? The Mayor have you running around doing anything interesting?” Herschel asked.

“As a matter of fact, yeah,” he said and offered a curious glance at Herschel. “You read about the old mill that was burnt down?”

“Yeah, a few weeks back. Didn’t read it, but heard about it at church.”

“Well, just so happens the Riddley family opened a mill a week ago.”

“Is that right? That’s good timing,” Herschel said with a wink.

“Everyone at the office thought so too, and now you either have to go all the way up to Pratter’s Mill, or the new Riddley Mill, which is half the distance.” Bob set the hammer down and looked worriedly at Herschel. “That family has been trouble since they got here, but they always manage to know the right person or the right lawyer.”

Herschel pulled a few nails out of his back pocket and mindlessly fidgeted with them in his big hand. “I haven’t had any run-ins with them, but my father-in-law says, ‘Stay away.”

“Good man, and smart. I’d listen to him. No disrespect, but there is a certain specter of ill omen on them.”

“What is that, Shakespeare?” Herschel chuckled.

“What? No, just something about that family is all.”

“What are you going to do about the mill?” Herschel asked, putting the nails back in his pocket.

“Ehh, don’t know yet, but I have my eye on them now,” he said and nodded slowly, with a thin-lipped smile.

They both leaned over to pick up a board, then heard Jean yell from the window, “Lunch is ready!”

Herschel put the board down and called back, “Be there in a minute.” He turned back to Bob and asked, “You want to come in?”

“Oh, no, I got food waiting for me inside. Come knock on my door when you need some help with this thing.”

“Will do, Bob, thanks,” Herschel said, and they shook hands, and both went on their way.

The sun rose to its zenith and then began to falter toward the horizon. Herschel did not know the actual temperature, but he was sure it was much colder than it had been earlier in the day. It did not bother him, but he hoped Jean could keep the house warm enough. Of course she can, he thought. Now focus on what is going on.

He had begun to familiarize himself with the ever-changing schedule of trains that were coming through, some stopping and some passing through. Everything had been delayed. There was a train on the tracks now, with snow and ice clinging to it. He had ordered some of the part-time section hands to bang the ice away. Above the hiss and steam of the engine, he heard the tap-cling of hammers on metal as they worked up and down the train and the carriages.

The changes to the schedule were drastic. He looked up from the schedule that had been wired in over the past two hours at the Telegraph operator. “You should have sent someone for me earlier.”

The small, balding, and bespectacled middle-aged man frowned and then shrugged. “The changes weren’t so drastic just an hour ago. By that time, I knew you would be here soon.”

Herschel grunted and picked his hat off the table. “Fair enough,” Herschel said as he walked out the door. The muffled noises of the station sharpened in the open air. He walked across the station to a small shed. Inside were two dirty men playing cards. When they saw him, they stopped and turned their heads. They know the drill. I could walk away now; they would know exactly what I wanted them to do. It was rare to find men like that.

“We have to move the coal train over, and let’s see if that cotton carriage is out of the way. I have to call in some help,” he said.

“Yes, sir, I might be able to get my brother down here. He has been a-lookin’ for some work,” the black man they called Jeb said.

“That will be fine. Send word for him.”

Twenty minutes later, trains were moving, and carriages were being pushed around. In a little over forty-five minutes, the central tracks were clear, and while it was hard to be certain, Herschel thought he heard the late noon train sound the whistle in the distance. The sky, ever darkening towards night, was overcast. It was impossible to see the smoke from the train. He figured it would be another twenty minutes, and after that, it would not stop until the next morning, when he would hand off control to someone else.

What that really meant was that he had twenty minutes to go grab some coffee and a bite to eat. He glanced over the yard one more time and then hustled back into the main office.

“Jim, this ain’t a good idea,” the little boy, no more than eight years old, said. He was looking at his older cousin.

“Oh shut it, I want to see what the train will do to this,” Jim Riddley responded, not taking his eyes off the large chains he had pulled over the tracks.

“I don’t want to be here!”

“Shut it! I am almost done, and we can watch from the top of that old house over there.” Jim nodded to the house about fifty feet away from the tracks. He knew it was abandoned. “Can you imagine what the chain is going to look like? You remember the penny?”

“I remember gettin’ beat for wastin’ that money.”

“Shut up,” Jim said and rolled his eyes.

A train whistle cut through the late-afternoon cold air. Jim smiled. He made one more adjustment to the chains. “That ought to do it,” he mumbled. He had been lying on his stomach on the rail, using one eye to line the chains up perfectly with the rails. He tried to push himself off the rail, but his pants or maybe his belt, he thought, were snagged on something. He tried again. What in the world? The train whistled again. Closer this time, and he felt the faint vibration of the approaching train through the rail he was lying on.

He cussed and felt tears forming in his eyes. “Bobby, go get help. The station is right there!”

“What is wrong? Get up!” Bobby said.

“Dummy, I am stuck! Run!”

Bobby froze for a second before running off toward the station. Jim heard another whistle, closer still. The sound of it covered up another muffled curse.

“Help! Help!” Herschel heard from the front porch of the main office. He looked around, and in the lingering grey light of early evening, he saw a little boy running down the tracks. He set the coffee down and ran to the boy. Several other workers were there. “He’s stuck! A train is comin’, and he is stuck!” the boy screamed, face pale but flushed red by the cold air. Herschel did not wait; he started running down the tracks, with others in pursuit.

Eyes wet from the cold stinging air, and lungs on fire, he saw a lump on the tracks. Someone, the lump, was crying for help. “Help! Help!” Herschel could see the glow of the train light. There was a loud whistle. My Lord, My Lord, My Lord. The train would be slowing down, but would it be too late? Where were they?

Herschel, even while running, could feel the train through the ground, but he was there. He pulled the boy once, but he did not move. He pulled harder, and he moved a little. He slid a small knife out of a sheath and cut the belt and the pants of the little boy. Someone slid beside him. “Pull,” he screamed. The train was there. He felt the power; there was a noise like thunder rolling, and then the whistle. The light was on them. They pulled. The boy came free. Herschel threw him away from the train. Herschel stumbled away from the train’s path.

He sat on his butt, looking at the train. It was about to pass by the spot where the boy was stuck. In an imperceptible amount of time, Herschel saw the large chains on the tracks. Then he saw the sparks. There was a horrible noise and then searing pain. He saw no more, but he heard plenty.

The yelling of men. The shuffling of feet. He tried to say something. Nothing happened. He tried again, “The boy.”

“What? Shut up! Is he saying something? What is it, Herschel?”

“The boy, who is the boy?” It was the hardest sentence he had ever spoken.

“It is one of the Riddley boys. Listen, you are going to be okay. Doc is on the wa—”

Part 6: Spoiled Plans

What was that noise? She sat up. It was dark, but a pale light was just touching the deep blue of late night. There were a few hours until sunrise, but it would be here soon. Outside the little shack, there was a rhythmic sound of thick fabric scraping on thick fabric, followed by a heavy thud. She got out of bed and looked through the window.

She could just make out Junior carrying a bag on his shoulder in the darkness. She slipped her shoes on and went outside. “Junior? Junior?” She asked as she walked down the brick steps. For the first time, she noticed the flatbed truck in their yard. The back was stacked with something.

Junior came around the corner, “Sorry, honey, didn’t want to wake ya.”

“Junior, what is this?” She asked, seeing the stack of full sacks next to the house.

“Seeds, the mill had some extra this year. The Riddleys couldn’t use them, so I got them at half price. Corn and Currell.”

They did not have much money. “How? Why?” She asked, trying to remain calm.

“Got to take care of that baby. I am going to plant it, grow it, and sell it,” he said as he heaved another bag of seeds onto his shoulder from the truck. He grunted, letting the air hiss through clenched teeth.

“Where the truck come from?” She asked. None of it made sense to her.

“Mr. Carey let me borrow it. He is gonna bring over some farm equipment that I need later. You go on and get back to sleep, now. We’ll speak bout it in the morn’.” He looked at the horizon. “Got another two hours of good darkness.”

“Well, can I help you?” She asked. She knew sleeping would be out of the question at this point.

“No, you need to just go back inside. I am almost done. Not all the seed is mine. I got just enough for the field out front. Now go back inside.”

She did, but she did not fall back asleep. She watched him carry another ten bags out of the truck, then crank and drive it away. She cleaned and made breakfast for him, expecting him back soon. It was not soon, though. He didn’t show back up until lunch, and he ran into the house in a hurry.

“Where you been?” She asked.

“Had to get the truck back and the mill. They paid me for helping unload the rest of those seeds. You got some food ready?”

“It’s cold, but here it is.”

“Cold is fine. Mr. Carey will be here soon. He is going to help get the seeds in the ground.”

“Can you please tell me what has gotten into you?” She asked, any sweetness left in her long gone.

He gave her a look. “Ain’t hard to figure out,” he said pointing at her belly. “Got to take care of the baby. A few cents here and there just don’t seem good enough. Got to get some bigger things going.”

He was having some sort of fit, she thought. He had never been like this, not even when they first got married, but Marguerite did not want to stop it. She liked the new energy and purpose. She was afraid, but she was hopeful. Yes, the baby was making him into the man she wanted to love. She watched him shovel the food in his mouth.

No sooner had he finished his food than did Mr. Carey show up on some sort of tractor pulling some machine she had never seen before. “There he is. Can you get some clean water to offer?”

“Of course,” she said and busied herself with the water as Junior walked out of the house. She heard them greet each other, but then she had the water ready and walked outside herself.

“Well hello there Madame,” Mr. Carey said. He was small withered man, skin scorched by years in the fields. His white hair contrasted intensely against the tan face.

“Mr. Carey, nice to see you.”

He nodded his head her direction.

“Would you like something to drink?” She asked.

“Oh no, I am fine. Got some stuff with me.”

“Thank you for helping Junior out.”

“Not one problem. You know, I am sure his mamma has told ya, but Herschel and I were great friends. I’d do anything for Junior here.”

She looked at Junior. He looked down, embarrassed.

“Well, thank you anyway. Now, if you excuse me, I am going to step back into the house.”

She sat next to the window. Listening to them talk.

“The field is only four acres, but the dirt seems good. Never get too muddy either,” she heard Junior say.

“Looks like a fine good field to me. I will make the first few passes and then I will let you take over. You ought to do well this first year. Where did you get the seeds again? I know you told me, but it is all in one ear and out the other these days.”

“Oh, the Riddleys at the mill gave me a good deal on it. It must have been the Lord, perfect timing with me findin’ out bout the kid on the way and all.”

There was a moment of silence.

Mr. Carey let out a sound like an old door opening, “Well… hmmm… Let’s get a look at the seed.”

There was something about the tone of Mr. Carey’s reply that put a pit in her stomach. Junior did not say anything about it.

“Sure, it’s right ‘round here,” was all Junior said, matter-of-factly.

She listened to the footsteps next to the house. Then she heard the shuffling of heavy bags. Junior said, “Yeah, here it is—half corn, half wheat.”

Mr. Carey let out a low whistle and then said, “Good. Good.” She heard more rustling as one of the men must have moved several of the bags around.

“Well, eh, um, well—Junior, I think we… we might have a bit of a problem here.”

“What is it, Mr. Carey?” She leaned in close to the wall.

“Look here—you see that? I’ll be willing to bet that half the seeds in these bags have already started to sprout. They won’t fit down the machine anymore, and the seeds that aren’t growin’ might be ruined anyway. You say, you got these from the Riddleys?”

There was a long pause. She could only imagine the look of confusion and anger washing across Junior’s face. The pit in her stomach had evolved into a full stomachache. A cold sweat beaded on her forehead. If she had moved, she would have thrown up.

“Are you sure, Mr. Carey?” her husband asked. She could hear the worry and surprise. Someone moved a few more bags. One must have fallen to the ground; there was a larger thud.

“Yes, sir, Junior. I’m sorry. You need to talk to those Riddleys. I wish you had talked to me first before buying the seeds from them.”

“Yes, sir,” was all Junior said.

There was silence for a moment. Then Mr. Carey said, “Well now, listen, Junior—I’ll tell you what. I’ll give you some money for the ruined seeds here. I can still find a way to use them. Feed the cows and pigs with em’. But you really need to have a conversation with those Riddleys now. I don’t want to speak bad bout nobody, but they got a history.”

“Mr. Carey, I can’t let you buy this trash.”

“Well, ain’t worth much, but at least it’s worth something for feeding my animals—so just let me buy it from you. Let’s walk out to the tractor. I’ll give you something for it there.”

“Alright, Mr. Carey.”

She heard them walk away again, not talking. At the tractor, the talking was low and hushed, and she could hardly hear what they were saying. Finally, she heard Mr. Carey say, “Well, sorry about this, Junior, but I’m sure it’ll all work out. I’ll be back to get the seeds later. It will all get sorted, the Lord will work it out as they say.”

“Yes, sir, thank you, Mr. Carey.”

The tractor cranked and drove away. Marguerite dared not move. The sound of the tractor disappeared down the road until the only noise left was the wind in the trees.

She moved to the window and looked out. Junior—knees bent, squatting low to the ground—had his head in his hands. His shoulders were heaving.

Marguerite rushed out the door, down the steps, and to the side of her husband. She knew what was wrong, but she asked anyway. “Oh, Junior, what’s wrong? Please, Junior—tell me what’s wrong.”

Junior stood up quickly and wiped his face. He cursed low and soft under his breath and then looked at Marguerite. “Those Riddleys. Those Riddleys! I don’t care that they own the only mill near here—they’re crooks. They’re crooks, Marguerite.”

She whispered, “What happened?”

“They sold me bad seeds,” he said, running his hand through his hair. “I don’t know when, but I’m gonna get one of those Riddleys. I bet you that Jim Riddley is behind all this, selling bad seed around town. Yeah, that Jim is a snake, no doubt about it. There’s no telling where he got it, how he got it, how long he’s had it.” He looked at Marguerite. He looked like a boy whose toy had been stolen. “I ain’t the only one he sold those bad seeds to either.”

Once again, he couldn’t hold her gaze very long. Junior turned away from her and walked away, muttering curses under his breath, heading back to the house.

“Honey, what are you gonna do?” She asked.

“Something,” he said.

“Just go tell the police,” she said.

“No, that won’t do no good.”

She followed him inside. She was tired. Tired as she had never been before, and she felt so alone. He went to a small chest in the corner of a room. He opened it up and rummaged through for a second before pulling out a small revolver. Without looking at her, he tucked it into the waist of his pants and headed for the door.

She screamed, “Junior! What are you doing with that? Don’t do something dumb! It’s gonna be okay! Let others handle it if they sold bad seed to others, like you say.”

He did not turn around. He opened the front door and walked out. She followed him, frantic. “Junior, please stop it! Please!”

He turned briefly and pointed at her. “I’m going to take care of this, Marguerite. I’m not letting them ruin my child’s life before it even gets started. They stole money from our child.”

“Honey, I know you care, but please listen to me. Don’t do nothin’ silly. It’s gonna be okay.” She pleaded before she started getting choked up. “We can always get a loan from my family. Mr. Carey said that he would help you. We could get together enough money to get something in the ground this year. Please—help me help you.”

He ignored her. She saw his crisp blue eyes, wet with tears. His jaw was clenched; his chin set forward. “Take some food to momma’s house.” Then he started jogging.

“Wait! Wait! God, why is this happenin’? Why God?”

She could not run after him in her condition. She would have made it twenty feet before throwing up and collapsing. The baby. Lord, this baby. She saw him disappear down the road behind the trees, and she went back inside.

She sat for about ten minutes, sipping some water, before she could not stand it anymore. She threw some salted pork into a sack and slipped on her walking shoes. That man, that man! What have I done to deserve this? A part of her realized this was all because he cared about the baby, but if he did something dumb, what was the use?

She walked out of the house, dreading the walk into town.

Part 7: Flat, Pregnant Feet Feet

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?