Dear Maw,
It was wonderful to hear from you. We are settling into Chicago and getting used to the bustle and noise. Clive is happy with his job as a meat packer and wants to stay put. I miss the peace and quiet of the mountains, and the people, but I think he is right about cities and opportunities. He says to tell others who want to stop working in the timber. He says he will help find them work, so long as they can cipher numbers and write their own name.
Maw, I have some good news. My Eliza and her Bobby are going to have a baby come summer. How many great-grandchildren will that make for you?
Please ask Miss Cora to write again for you soon.
Fondly, Jane
Lucy put the letter down and took a fresh piece of stationery out of the large envelope. “Shall I take dictation for you?”
Mollie’s sparse eyebrows shot up. “Y’ take the drink?” She pointed to a mason jar on the hearth. She smiled then, eyes twinkling, a lovely smile except for her missing teeth. “Go on. Holp y’self.”
Confused, Lucy tried again. “Shall I write down what you’d like to say to your daughter?”
“Oh shore, like Cora does.” She settled back in her rocking chair and folded her arms against her and closed her eyes. “Dear Jane. It was a real treat to git yor letter and hear another baby is a’ coming. I do believe this will make eight great-grans for me, but each one is mighty special soz I don’t like thinking about them as if they was jest numbers . . .”
Lucy wrote as fast as she could, not wanting to interrupt Mollie’s stream of consciousness. One page was filled, then another, then another. Lucy’s hand started aching at the sheer volume of Mollie’s soliloquy. Finally, the old woman slowed down to a drizzle. “One more thing, dear Jane. Do not neglect yor Bible reading each and every day. The mighty Word of God has a way of working its way into yor soul. Love, your Maw.”
Lucy paused, pondering that last phrase. She’d never considered the Word of God to be much more than a list of dos and don’ts.
“Read it back to me, soz I know you done right.”
Lucy cleared her throat and read Mollie’s letter just as she’d dictated it. She thought the old woman nodded off during page 2, as her chin dropped to her chest. Then she realized that tears were trickling down the old woman’s parchment-like cheeks. “Mollie, what’s wrong?”
“If only I could read and write m’ own words.”
“But . . . I took care to write down just what you said.” In the exact way she’d spoken. Lucy didn’t even try to correct her shocking grammar.
“You done jest fine. But it ain’t the same.”
Considering Mollie McGlothin had spent most of her life without reading and writing, it seemed a little silly to fuss over it now.
“Mebbe you can teach me.” The old woman leaned forward in her rocking chair. “Cora’s too busy, but you gots time. What else ya gots to do?”
The eagerness in her voice caught Lucy by surprise. “Oh my goodness . . . I’m no teacher. I’m here to help Cora with her work as superintendent of the county schools. And I’m sure that will keep me quite busy.” Lucy wasn’t really sure what work that might be, but she hoped it would be significant. For a moment, she forgot she wanted to leave Rowan County as soon as possible.
Clearly disappointed in Lucy, Miss Mollie leaned back in her rocker. “I’m feeling a little tarred.”
“Tarred?”
“Tarred,” Miss Mollie repeated with a yawn. She turned away from her to stare into the coals, and it wasn’t long before Lucy heard a whiffling snore.
Lucy folded Jane’s letter and tucked it in an envelope to mail from the Morehead post office. Quietly, she tiptoed to the open door, longing for fresh air. Mollie’s snoring deepened and Lucy suddenly realized what “tarred” meant. Tired! Outside, she took several gulps of cold, clean air, eager to get the smelly stink of chickens out of her nose. She felt as if she had stepped off the train this morning into another country, separated from the world she had known.
Fin was tossing wood up on the porch and had taken his shirt off, sweating from the labor. Lucy was startled to see the boy was bone thin, ribs sticking out. But then Mollie McGlothin’s living condition shocked her too. It shamed Lucy to realize she’d had no idea this kind of poverty existed, just sixty-five miles from Lexington. She cringed as she thought of how she must have sounded in Cora’s office earlier today, wondering where her next meal might come from. Lucy had never gone hungry a day in her life. Watching Fin work so hard for a meal and a few bits, she wondered how many meals he’d gone without.
She set down Cora’s large envelope and got to work to help Fin finish the stacking. She noticed that under the porch were rows of mason jars, like the one on the hearth that Mollie had offered to her. She bent down and took one out, unscrewed it, and got a whiff of strong liquor. “Pew!”
Fin stopped stacking wood and put his hands on his hips, eyes dancing with amusement. “Why, Miss Lucy, ya didn’t strike me as a gal with a taste for moonshine.”
Moonshine? “I’m not! Truly, I’m not. There were so many jars lined up and I wondered what was in them.”
“Don’t ya worry none. I won’t tell nobody. It’ll be our little secret.”
As she started to sputter away, defending herself, he doubled over in laughter, and she realized he was teasing her again, and she found she didn’t mind so much. They smiled at each other then. Their first moment of affinity.
When all the wood was leaning against the wall, Fin shielded his eyes to see how low the sun was dropping. “We’d best be off.”
They stopped beside the creek to rest. Fin broke his corn bread in half and shared it with her. Sunlight dappled through the trees; a gentle breeze rustled the leaves. It was peaceful here with the creek gurgling and the birds chirping in the treetops and the soft sound of the horses’ tails as they swished. Every now and then the birds would grow quiet, and she had never experienced such stillness.
Such a deep, deep quiet.
Without realizing it, she let out a soft sigh.
He grinned. “It’s even nicer when the weather warms some and the leaves finish comin’ out. But I think fall’s my favorite time. All them colors in the leaves, and the way they rustle under the horse’s feet . . . it’s real nice.”
Lucy tilted her head. So this boy had a bit of poetry in him. “Do others live like Mollie?”
“How’s that?”
The dirt, the poverty. Mason jars full of home-brewed alcohol under the porch. “Chickens wandering in and out of the house.”
He bit off a piece of corn bread and took a moment to chew. “Them chickens, they be good company for Mollie. She don’t have no family around no more.”
“Why didn’t she move to Chicago with her daughter and son-in-law? Or her other children? Why doesn’t she go live with them?”
“This holler is her home. She don’t know nothin’ different.”
Lucy cringed at his grammar but took care not to show it. Oh, it was awful! It hurt her ears to hear him butcher the English language so. “It must be lonely for her.”
He shrugged. “Folks look out for each other. They’s good to each other.”