they did with him. I put the money back in the tin, feeling
good it was there.
Mrs. Brewer was in the living room with Merritt and they
were watching a movie we’d seen before called The Defiant Ones.
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I went in and sat in a chair, and after a minute, I said, “I’ve been thinking.”
Mrs. Brewer turned to me, curious, while Merritt remained
fixated on the movie, though I was pretty sure he’d seen it at least three times already.
Mrs. Brewer said, “About what?”
“I’ve been studying this journal,” and held it up.
Mrs. Brewer said, “What’s in it?”
“All kinds of stuff. Entries dating way back to when our
granddaddy started making the shine. Earliest one is 1899. He would’ve been thirteen. He took a hundred gallons over into
West Jefferson.”
That got Merritt’s attention.
He said, “What’re you studying that for? It don’t hold noth-
ing that interests you.”
I ignored him, my attention on Mrs. Brewer. “I’ve been
thinking I ought to try it, like Mama did.”
Mrs. Brewer sat up, and nodded like she approved.
She said, “Well, see now? That don’t surprise me none
atall.”
Merritt laughed like I just told the funniest joke, then
abruptly quit like somebody slapped their hand on his mouth.
He said, “It sure surprises the hell outta me.”
I ignored him, and said, “I’m gonna need help.”
He grunted. “You ain’t lying about that.”
Mrs. Brewer waved in irritation at him, and said, “Your sis-
ter’s having a revelation; she’s coming to grips with something real important.”
Merritt rolled his eyes in my direction and shook his head.
I already knew where it had to be. Big Warrior. The site
Mama had preferred with her clandestine little pool, and, of course, where Daddy had been caught. I planned to get what
we needed from the only still left, Blood Creek, no matter
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was certain the agents wouldn’t come back, because for them
they’d caught the owner, and sent him to jail. They could
move on, focusing elsewhere. I told Mrs. Brewer my ideas.
I ended by saying, “It’s in here. It ain’t ever been about being fast; it’s been about outsmarting them.”
She said, “Exactly right, child.”
It was apparent Mama had been proud of what she did,
and if she had been, how could I disrespect that? While I still wanted to find out what happened to her, maybe that wasn’t
the important thing right now. Maybe what mattered was for
me to feel like less of an outsider, more like I belonged, a part of something. The only way I’d ever know would be to try
and do what I’d fought against long as I could remember.
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Chapter 26
The next day both Merritt and Mrs. Brewer ended up help-
ing, and by midmorning I could see it was going to take us a good while. Merritt got to grumbling as he struggled to help tear the still down. Of all three we’d had, Blood Creek was
the biggest in size, the submarine boiler being the most challenging part of it.
He said, “We ain’t never gonna keep track of what’s what.”
He spun his hook around and grabbed hold of a board and
yanked. He was still clumsy, but was getting into a bit of a rhythm, although this was demanding work even when you
had both arms and hands.
“If we stack the pieces in order, it’ll help.”
“I don’t see how. It’ll move around in the truck. Maybe we
ought to mark it in some way.”
Mrs. Brewer was listening to us, and she went over to the
brought out a small knife.
She said, “I’ll make notches in the wood like so on these
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here pieces. Just stack the others by me,” and then she showed us what she intended by etching a round hole in one with a
quick couple of twists. “That’ll be the bottom pieces. Then
I’ll make two of’em fer the sides. Rest of it we can see what it is.”
Merritt said, “I ain’t never known a woman to carry around
a pocketknife.”
She said, “That’s ’cause you ain’t knowed me good till now.”
We went back to work, and by dinnertime when the sun
was its highest, we had everything ready to move. It was go-
ing to take us all afternoon to get it down the path and into the truck, but Mrs. Brewer insisted we eat.
“Can’t do the work if’n you’re hungry.”
She pulled out three tomato sandwiches wrapped in wax
paper, fried chicken legs, and three bananas from the paper
bag. Merritt and I sat on the ground, while Mrs. Brewer sat
on a stump Daddy used to use. We ate fast, and when we
were done, we began carrying out the dismantled still. The
walk was as tough as I remembered, and took as long as I’d
suspected. Merritt grew more irritable as the afternoon wore on. He shifted his right shoulder around like the leather harness bothered him. The last was the copper from inside the
still, what Daddy had said was expensive, but an investment.
Merritt said, “We ain’t got time to get all this to Big War-
rior tonight.”
The sun was setting, and Mrs. Brewer said, “Let’s go on to
the house and that’ll be the part we do tomorrow.”
I said, “I wanted to at least get it dropped off there today.”
Merritt said, “Boy, look who’s gung ho all of a sudden.”
Mrs. Brewer said, “It ain’t going nowhere.”
It was two against one, so I gave in. As I was sitting behind the steering wheel, tiredness took over, and my back ached.
We made it home, and even though Merritt had painted the
areas white where those words had been written, I could still Ever_9781496717023_2p_all_r1.indd 262
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see them in my head as we pulled into the drive. I parked the truck at the back of the house and we slid out, emitting a few moans and groans. Mrs. Brewer was moving pretty slow, and
I worried about her as she walked carefully down the hill,
having developed a slight limp. We followed her, discussing
what to have for supper.
Mrs. Brewer, in that motherly way I loved about her, said,
“I’ll fix us some more of that ham. If’n y’all got some rice, we can have that along with some red-eye gravy, and maybe
some biscuits?”
I nodded while at the same time digging my key out of
my pocket to open the back door. and noticed it was already
ajar. I froze, knew it had been closed when we left. I signaled them, my finger to my lips while motioning at the open door.
I gave it a push, and it creaked. I didn’t move for a few seconds, waiting to see if anything happened. The final rays of
sun stretched across the kitchen floor, and there was the scent of cigarette smoke in the air, a disturbing fact that turned the quiet of the house into something sinister. Mrs. Brewer and
Merritt followed me as I crept down the hall. On edge, I ap-
proached the door to my room first. When I nudged it open,
I immediately noticed the black painted words right above my bed. The shock that someone had been in here and had done
this made me stumble backward into both Mrs. Brewer and
Merritt.
“What is it?” she said.
I pointed at the wall where it said: “Your next.” There was
another sentence that made me shake with anger. It said: “You get what you diserve.” I pushed my way by Mrs. Brewer and
Merritt and went out into the yard. My heart flapped wildly
and I thought about what we might have to do—again. I
didn’t want to leave here and I didn’t want them thinking
they could make us. Mrs. Brewer came outside, and stood
by me.
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She said, “Chile, don’t you let them get into your head.
Don’t you let them get you so stirred up your thinking goes
askew. Remember, you can outsmart them. Don’t forget it.”
It was that word. “Outsmart.”
I said, “Oh no.”
As I ran back inside, Mrs. Brewer called after me, “Jessie?”
Merritt was in the kitchen about to say something, but I
shook my head, and went by him, tears already coming, cer-
tain of what I would find. In Daddy’s room I could tell somebody had been lying on top of the bed. It had been made
neatly when I left earlier and now the covers were all messy, muddy prints left at the foot of it and an indentation on the pillow. This was where they’d been, whichever one of them
it had been. Merritt and Mrs. Brewer came up behind me,
peering over my shoulders.
Daddy’s window was open, the curtain dragged to the
outside. They’d climbed out when they heard us. I went to
the dresser, already knowing the journal was gone. My head
started to pound. Somehow, what had been in my family for
all these years, this one thing I’d finally found an attachment to, a connection with, was gone, lost forever. They’d managed to get their hands on not only family history, and re-
cord keeping, but all the secret paths, trails, and back roads.
The customer lists with notes beside them. Mama’s very own
recipes.
Merritt said, “What is it?”
I couldn’t answer. He came into the room and I couldn’t
look at him.
He said, “They done got our journal?”
I nodded once, staring at the floor, at the scuff marks, and scratches. He was so mad he groaned like he was in pain, but it was anger coming out of him.
He said, “Shit, Jessie!”
Mrs. Brewer shuffled closer and said, “That book had im-
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portant family history and whatnot, but listen now, Jessie. It ain’t your fault they come busting in here and stole it.”
I was beside myself. “They’ll know how we did things. It’ll
only get worse. That’s how they are.”
Merritt said, “We might as well forget it. They done got
the best of us.”
Mrs. Brewer said, “Have mercy! Listen to the two of you.
Ain’t never suspected y’all for quitters.”
I didn’t say anything, but Merritt did.
He said, “What good’s it gonna do when the most impor-
tant thing we had is gone?”
She said, “What about all that work today? Shoot, no. We
ain’t wastin’ all that time doing all that we did by coming to pieces, and moping and gripin’. It ain’t allowed. Now, come
on, let’s go on into the kitchen, and the both of you sit while I fix us something to eat. We’ll talk about it.”
She left the room while Merritt paced, twisting his hook,
around and around. I was sure he’d blame me, point back to
how it was all my fault.
He said, “I can’t believe they took it.”
My voice glum, I said, “I can.”
I fought the urge to cry. In my mind I pictured Mama’s
handwriting, the slant of the words, the softer bend of her letters with her delicate loops, the absolute beauty of it. I’d lost that extra little piece of her I’d only just got.
He said, “I remember how to make it.”
“I do too. It ain’t the point. It’s the record keeping Daddy and Granddaddy did. Mama too. It near about makes me want
to throw up.”
“It ain’t ever helped you before. It ain’t gonna help now.”
I stared at him in surprise. I didn’t think he knew.
He said, “Yeah. I been hearing you do that for years now.”
It was embarrassing. I saw myself through his eyes, and
didn’t much like how it might appear to someone who didn’t
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understand. I imagined he thought of me as pathetic. I couldn’t even begin to explain it, and I didn’t try.
He said, “I’m going to the kitchen.”
I followed after him, drained and limp. Mrs. Brewer was
busy at the stove, frying, and she already had some rice and peas boiling too. I set the table and poured tea. After that, I propped myself at the counter and watched her slide the
ham around, and stir what was in the pots. It was like she’d been here, doing this, forever. I was glad to have her. Merritt waited at the table, fiddling with his hook, putting the fork in it. He brought it up to his mouth, practicing how to eat
right-handed again. I acted like I wasn’t paying him no mind because he might stop trying. Soon it was ready, and we sat
down. My mind wasn’t on food. It was on what Daddy would
think if he was here and what would the Murrys do now they
had that information? It was like going inside their house, sitting with them, and spilling all our secrets.
I rolled the peas around on my plate and said, “I ought to
go see Daddy, tell him what’s going on.”
Mrs. Brewer put her fork down and said, “It’s not a bad
idea.”
Merritt was working on balancing rice on his fork held by
the hook, and said, “I want to go too.”
I said, “I might ought to go alone.”
The rice fell off his fork, and he frowned in aggravation. It might have been because of what I’d said, or because he was
hungry and struggling to eat. Probably both. Mrs. Brewer,
who hardly ever smiled, gave me her version of one.
She said, “It couldn’t hurt.”
I remembered how he’d acted last time.
I said, “He might not want to talk to me.”
Nobody denied that. Merritt repositioned the fork and ate
a mouthful successfully while Mrs. Brewer cut a bite of ham.
There wasn’t much talk afterward.
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The next morning all of us were up early. We had the
leftover ham with a pan of biscuits. We drank strong coffee, but where I’d been feeling good before, the old ways were
wanting to creep back in. I hadn’t
had much sleep and was
unsettled, thrown off balance. I tried to make the prospect
of making and running shine a goal, a new focus. I got the
twelve dollars from the tin, knowing despite everything, we
had to somehow move forward.
I said, “We’ll get the still going, and I’ll go see Daddy after we do that.”
Silently, we went out to the truck and crammed into the
front seat. It took the morning to transfer what we’d piled
into the back and out to the Big Warrior site where we began the process of reassembling it. One of the first things we did was to get the flake stand up and water going through it, to be sure there were no leaks. By using Mrs. Brewer’s marks on the wood for certain pieces, and being familiar with the rest of it, by noon we had the boiler put back together and attached to the flake stand by the arm. We set the cap on, and all of us studied it. It was exactly the same as how it had been set up at Blood Creek, best as we could tell.
The corn I’d brought in with Daddy and had left behind
the day he got caught hadn’t survived the critters. The bags were chewed through, and most of it was scattered around,
eaten, or in the process of trying to grow.
I said, “I’ll have to go get more.”
Merritt said, “We’ll start to fill it with water and get it heating.”
They began taking the buckets we’d brought with us to
the creek, while I made my way back to the truck. The entire morning had been strange, the sky gone gray, and sullen. I
drove with the windows down, noticing the mountains had
the appearance of a season passing, the leaves no longer that fresh brilliant green of spring and early summer. They were
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turning dull, as if they were exhausted, too tired to show their color. It wouldn’t be long before we’d see yellows, oranges, and red coming into them at the higher peaks. I kept going
over possible ways to begin my conversation with Daddy, but
what it came down to is I didn’t know what I’d say to him
about the journal being gone. I dreaded the trip, and wanted it over with.
Just before Highway 18, I made a turn onto an old dirt road
called Summit Pass. I was going to where he’d always bought
corn and barley from a local farmer who had a small grain