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.
“You’ra 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.
Zachary Peters 