Smoke on the Mountain, page 19
“I’ll go,” Bud said, hoisting his pants as he walked toward the fire. “You go back and stay with Grandma soon’s ye get dry.” A twinge of pain struck across Bud’s face as he leaned to tie his shoe. He shouted loud, “Damn this infernal luck o’ mine!”
“You’re so dern weak from eatin’ no grub, ye couldn’t get a mile on foot. I ain’t a-trustin’ ye a bit. I’ll go myself, but one thing you can do, Bud, and that’s haul some wood over to Granny’s while I’m gone.”
“You mean you ain’t got no wood in her house? What in tarnation ye mean lettin’ winter come and no firewood! I’m a good mind to whale hell outta you, Homer Simmons.”
Homer had had enough. Hadn’t he already wasted half an hour on this drunken old fool? Hell, he had worked every single day at Grandma’s. He rose, anger all over him. His fist shot out and Bud lay sprawled on the floor.
‘‘You look like tellin’ somebody what to do when need comes, makin’ promises to Grandma and keepin’ none of ’em! Hell and damnation! Ye can’t even look after yourself, much less anybody else. I wouldn’t depend on ye fer five minutes, Bud Latham.” Homer drew on his clothes and Bud raised himself from the floor.
“I’m goin’ now,” Homer said, making for the door. “If you don’t get that wood over to Grandma’s while I’m gone, Bud Latham, I’ll break your blasted neck, you damned old sot!”
“Wait a minute, Homer.” Bud ran to the door. “How am I goin’ to get wood over there? I ain’t got no mule or nothin’.”
“Oh, yes, ye have. He’s out in your barn now.” Bud stood watching until Homer disappeared around the turn in the road, then he reached for his heaviest clothes.
Chapter 20
Three hours later Homer reached the highway. The snow was still falling. He looked up and down the road, wishing he had a sled. He could skim down that mountain road and be there in no time with a sled. Standing there undecided, cold now beyond feeling, he found himself listening. There came through the air a chugging sound that was far away, faint and indistinct as it rose over the wind. Surely it wasn’t an automobile. Why, a car could never get over the road. But it was a car, or it resembled a car. It was approaching him now with a broad spray of flying snow blowing in all directions. He scrambled through the snow and made his way to the center of the road, waving and gesturing wildly. The contraption stopped and a head appeared through an open window.
“Well, well! If it ain’t Santa Claus. Hey fellows, look! It’s old Nick.”
Two boys from the CCC camp jumped to the ground and made their way to Homer’s side.
“What in hell is that?” Homer asked, pointing.
“That’s a snowplow, buddy. Where in the world are you going in such weather?”
“I was aimin’ to get to th’ camp and call Doc Mayberry on account of old Grandma Weller’s dyin’.”
“Hey!” A voice called out. “Let’s get going.”
“Come on,” the boys invited, “we’re on the way to camp now.”
Homer climbed into the truck.
“What’s this about a doctor, son?” Homer looked up into the face of a captain from the CCC camp. Then he glanced around at the six boys, all dressed alike and in warm woolen clothes. He explained about Grandma.
“And where does Dr. Mayberry live?” the officer asked.
"In the valley,” Homer answered.
The boys laughed and the captain shook his head. “Well, don’t worry, we’ll find him.”
Homer was so tired and so cold, he had no strength left to oppose any suggestions. When the truck came to a stop before a building in the camp, the boys piled out and ran in various directions.
Homer followed the captain into a warm room, where several men were sitting around a hot stove.
“Snow is letting up,” the captain announced, unwinding a scarf and divesting himself of outer garments. “Found this boy up the road in search of a Dr. Mayberry. He says there’s an old woman sick back in Weller cove. Any of you know Dr. Mayberry?”
“Sure,” one of the men answered. “All you need to do is call the Knoxville operator.”
The captain walked to the phone and Homer stood there feeling warmth creep into his chilled body, a bit embarrassed by the glances of the men.
“That you, Mayberry? This is Captain Wilburn, CCC camp, Oakmont. You know an old lady named Grandma Weller? You do? There’s a boy here named Homer Simmons. We found him on the highway, trying to reach you. Oh, you want to speak to him?” The captain reached out the receiver and Homer walked up, trembling so his hand shook.
“Yes, Doc, it’s me all right. You sound just like yourself, Doc. Oh, I reckon it’s pumony Grandma’s got. She can’t hardly breathe and she’s so weak I’m afraid she won’t last long unless you hurry. You’ll come, won’t ye, Doc? And listen, I reckon ye might as well bring a coffin ’cause I know she’s goin’ to die. She said she was goin’ to die and Grandma knows everything.”
Homer stood holding the receiver long after the line was disconnected. Captain Wilburn took his arm and led him down a corridor.
“First thing, Homer, you’ve to get some dry clothes. Then you get a hot dinner. After that, we’ll take the snow plow and open up that cove road so the doctor’s car can get through. What you think of that?”
Homer stood in the shower room in bewilderment. Something was wrong somewhere. Why, this was a wonderful bunch of fellers and, damn it all, they were Government fellers, too.
The door opened and several boys walked in. They peeled off their clothes and stood under running water, washing with soap, even to their heads. Good Gawd! And this is winter; it’s a wonder it didn’t kill ’em.
“Here you are, Homer. Captain Wilburn said as soon as you washed and changed clothes, he wants to talk to you.’’ Homer took the bundle of clothes and a heavy towel.
He looked down at the warm woolen coat and pants, the heavy pair of shoes hanging over his arm, new shoes like he’d never owned before. He wished he knew how to say he was thankful. The boys drifted out and Homer turned to the washbasin. He threw off his wet clothes and rubbed himself vigorously as he had seen the others do. When he stood fully dressed even to the high-top boots, he was never as proud in his life. If Jurie could only see him now.
Chapter 21
Jurie sat by the bed wrapped in an old quilt, watching Grandma with troubled eyes. She had never seen anyone die but something told her that Grandma’s breath was leaving her, slowly and painfully.
Grandma was somebody who had always been there, taken for granted like the Chimney Tops and the sunrise. When she was unable to dispense her healing as willingly and freely as before, people gathered to call down wrath and anger, imply unkind reasons to all Grandma said and did. They gave her no credit, gratitude for the years that had gone in unpaid obligations; forgetting that except for Grandma some of them wouldn’t even be here.
Even I might not be here, Jurie thought. She thought, too, in looking at this wrinkled face before her that surely this old woman could never have been a baby. Might as well think that Little River had once been a wide sea.
As far back as Jurie could remember, Grandma had always looked the same. But you didn’t notice changes in people when you lived close to them; you just took things for granted that were near and a part of you. Why, then, should people wear themselves out doing for folks, going on day after day in thankless services? What you did was in some folks’ mind no more than what you should do; was even expected of you. What sort of living was that, anyway? Working so hard you were hungry, so you ate three times a day to get strength to work some more. Then, when you were so tired you couldn’t work any longer, you went to bed and to sleep, to store up strength to start all over again. Day after day and year after year, and if you lived as long as Grandma had lived, you died finally, cold and alone. No one came to thank you while you lived. Perhaps no one would even come to stand over your wasted strength.
Jurie dropped the quilt and leaned over the bed. “I don’t want ye to die, Granny. I ain’t never had a chance to do nothin’ for ye. Seems this is the first time I even thought about it and it hurts me a lot.” Jurie reached for Grandma’s hand. “Let me do somethin’ for ye, Granny, somethin’ to make up for all th’ rest. I’ll do anything ye say, no matter what.”
Grandma smiled. “You ain’t all Biggers after all, Jurie. Don’t mind my sayin’ that. Just remember to keep your spirit always and be kind to them that’s weak. Don’t expect nothin’ of anybody, lessen ye do things fer them. Stand up fer what ye think is right, even if ye stand by yourself and even if it’s against your own folks. You understand what I mean?”
Jurie nodded, tears gathering fast. “Yes, Grandma, ye mean Homer.”
“Then ye love Homer, Jurie?”
“Oh, yes, Granny.”
“Honey, ye couldn’t find a better boy than Homer if ye looked th’ world over. He’ll work hisself to death to give ye the best that’s in him. He’s that kind, Jurie. Be grateful just fer that and never expect more than a man can give. When he’s weak, give him some of your own strength and don’t never judge him by anybody else.” Grandma closed her eyes, speaking low. “Th’ blood of th’ mountain will go on in you and Homer, in th’ children that live after ye. Can ye write, Jurie?”
“Sure, Granny. I been through the fifth grade.”
“Then lift that third board near th’ winder and bring me them papers.” Grandma’s breathing was difficult with this exertion. She must hold on a little longer, for there was something she had to do. Ever’ so often there was a haze in the room. It was like the smoke on th’ mountain.
Jurie walked back to the bed with the land deeds in one hand, a paper and pencil in the other. Grandma reached for the deeds, fondling them in her fingers.
“Write down what I say, Jurie. I take it my right and justice to pass on my land to anybody that suits me.” Grandma paused and Jurie wrote these strange words with painstaking efforts, stumbling over the spelling. She wondered what it was all about. Pore Granny, maybe her mind was wandering.
“And I call down th’ wrath of Gawd on them that goes against my dying wishes!”
“Grandma! That scares me.”
At this point, a noice was heard in the yard. Jurie jumped up and reached for Homer’s rifle. Grandma smiled. “That’s Aaron, Jurie. Lay down the gun, for ye won’t need it. Remember what I said about bein’ strong and lettin’ folks browbeat ye?”
The door opened with a clatter and Aaron barged in, bringing with him a gust of wind and snow. His face was dark and angry, his swollen eye almost closed. He didn’t glance toward the bed. He shook his hat, throwing melted snow onto the covers, advancing toward Jurie.
“Get yore things on, ye little bitch! I’ll teach ye a lesson ye won’t forget!” Jurie was stepping back as Aaron advanced upon her, trying to find that strength Grandma talked about; it shamed her to feel her heart beating fast with fear.
“Runnin’ off in th’ woods like a dog! Hidin’ around in th’ bushes and bein’ led on by an old woman who ain’t no better than what she ought to be!” he ranted.
Anger filled Jurie to impulsive action. Reaching for a chair, she swung it over her head with the lithe strength her hard work had given her. Aaron threw up his arm to protect himself, unable to do otherwise in his complete surprise. The chair struck and crashed to pieces in Jurie’s hands. Standing five feet six and weighing a hundred and twenty-five pounds, Jurie was no match for Aaron. She knew this even as she advanced toward him again, waving the chairback. When he stood, white-faced, his left arm hanging limp and useless, Grandma spoke.
“That’s enough, Jurie. Leave him to nurse that broken arm, ’cause there ain’t nobody now to give him healin’. Get th’ papers, I don’t think I’m goin’ ... to last long.”
“Look what ye made me do to her,” Jurie shouted to Aaron. “If she dies, you killed her, and if ye ever come close to me again, I’ll kill ye!”
“You ready to write, Jurie?”
“Yes, Granny.”
“To Homer Simmons, I leave my land and my home in his full right and possession, to hold and to keep as long as he lives and as long as his wife lives after him, it shall be her home. Any money comin’ from th’ Government is to go half to Homer Simmons and half to Tom Jenkins.” Grandma stopped for a breath. She must hurry.
“Aaron,” she called, “come here and witness this paper. I don’t hold anything against ye, Aaron. I just feel sorry for ye and th’ heart inside ye, that’s so hard and crusty.” Grandma raised up and scribbled her name, then directed Aaron to sign under it. She fell back on the pillows, calling, “See th’ clock on th’ wall, Jurie? Look, it’s goin’ to strike. Listen.”
Jurie followed Grandma’s eyes to the side wall, fear and bewilderment in her face. Was this death?
“Oh, Granny, please don’t die.” She fell to her knees beside the bed, buying her head in the covers. Back on the mantel the old clock was striking—one—two—three . . . twelve. Jurie counted to the end. Then she rose and stood there looking on Grandma’s stillness, the look of peace on her face.
Aaron stood at the foot of the bed for a minute, then he turned and closed the door softly behind him.
Jurie felt weak and spent with the emotional strain, the tension of the day. The tears she shed left her clean and dry inside and she stood shorn of all the fears and struggles of childhood: a woman grown and full of understanding. Grandma was dead and what was to be done now was only the custom of decency, for Grandma would not know. Jurie pulled up the blanket, then she turned to tidy up the cabin against the coming of Homer and Dr. Mayberry.
As night came on, the house grew colder. The fire was low on the hearth, for the wood had disappeared long since, even rails from the fence which Jurie pulled across the snow and into the house. Perhaps if she went to the barn, she might find a few stray pieces for the cook stove. Slipping on her coat and cap and reaching for the milk bucket, she pushed through the snow across the barn lot. Old Bess was lowing, and the chickens were clamorous, seeming to sense some ominous change in their surroundings. Jurie shelled corn to throw in the runway for the chickens and dropped four ears for the cow. She made short work of the milking. Holding the full pail in her hand, she looked around. Perhaps she could pull a few boards from the trough. She looked up startled when Bud appeared in the doorway.
“I got here soon’s I could, Jurie. I brought some firewood like I promised Homer. Is Grandma all right?”
Wood! It was a comforting word. Jurie stepped ahead of Bud and motioned for him to follow. Bud looked so old and bent, so white and sick, she didn’t have the heart to tell him. He would find out for himself. When they stepped into the lean-to, Bud saw the jug of whiskey on the table and his eyes lit up with pleasure. “Gawd, I’m sure glad to see that likker!”
Jurie stopped him with an arm. “Supposin’ ye go in and see Grandma, before you try such tricks, Bud.” Bud stared for a moment, took off his hat, and shuffled through the door.
Jurie strained the milk and looked around to plan for supper. Even with folks lying dead, those living must eat. After all she had been through, Jurie felt downright disloyal in the pangs of hunger she felt. She had eaten no dinner, what with looking after Grandma’s needs and all that followed. Though Grandma was dead, and she was still in her house unburied, those who came to do her final honor should find her table bountiful, an expression of the same generosity Grandma had shown while she lived. This Jurie could do for her and she would.
“Why didn’t ye tell me, Jurie. Pore old Grandma.” Bud walked over to the table, uncorked the whiskey jug, looking around for a cup. Perhaps he needed it, Jurie thought. He was drunk half the time, anyway. She handed him a cup and watched him pour it full, gulping it down like water.
“Go get some wood now, Bud,” she said. “I got supper to cook. You better build up the fire in the cabin, too, and lay by enough wood fer tonight.”
Chapter 22
When seven o’clock rolled around and no one had come, Jurie and Bud sat down to eat their supper. Bud had fortified himself with swig after swig from the jug and, as always before, the liquor touched his conscience, making him penitent and tearful. He cried into his plate while he swallowed cups of scalding coffee, ham and eggs, and a wedge of June’s apple pie.
“I reckon a feller just has to eat, no matter what,” he said, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his dirty shirt. “Things are goin’ to be different now.”
Things were always going to be different with Bud. Jurie felt sorry for him, no matter his filthy appearance.
“Bud, I’d be downright ashamed to go to Grandma’s funeral, nasty as you. Soon’s I clean these dishes, you come in here and take a wash.”
“Listen,” Bud cautioned. Over the wind could be heard
the chugging of a motor. Jurie ran through the cabin and opened the door to Homer, Dr. Mayberry, Tom and Callie, and the captain from the camp.
The morning dawned clear and bright, with the sunshine playing on the snow and sparkling on the giant icicles hanging from the trees.
“Grandma would like to be buried on such a pretty day, Callie,” Jurie said.
Callie, experiencing the first weeks of pregnancy, felt sick and apprehensive. She stood by the fire, shivering. She dreaded the gaping earth, the cold clods that would rattle on the coffin box.
“Poor old Granny,” she said. “It’s so hard to know she’s gone and it just about breaks my heart. Tom and me felt sure she would come down next summer on account of th’ baby. I don’t know how I’m goin’ to have that baby without her.”
At this point, Homer called from the porch and Callie and Jurie went out to join him. Homer took June’s hand and they walked over to face Dr. Mayberry.
“Doc,” he asked, “you mind us ridin’ with you as far as th’ store?”
“Why, no, Homer, but that’s a long way back. Can’t I get what you need, run the errand for you?”
“Me and Jurie is gettin’ married, Doc. Lem Aiken over to the store is a justice.”
