One Mountain Away. Emilie Richards

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      I haven’t seen my father in two days, but I’m not about to report that. “Your daddy tell you where he’s going every minute?” I ask with a toss of my head. “Seems like he’d be awful busy for that, but maybe he’s got all the time in the world to account to you.”

      Sally just repeats the sly smile that matches her eyes. “He don’t, on account of how hard he works. But even if he only worked an hour a week, that would be more than your daddy works in a month.”

      I can hardly argue. I wait for the next blow. Church is no different than school, where I’m an outcast because I come from one of the poorest families in a poor county. I’ve learned to fight back a little, but I’ve also learned it doesn’t help. There’s nothing I can say or do that will change anybody’s opinion. I am Lottie Lou Hale, daughter of Hearty Hale, whose reputation is as troubled as nearby Spring Creek in a winter storm.

      “You oughta come over to our house sometime,” Sally says. “Get that daddy of your’n to drive you, if you can find him.” She smirks and turns away, lifting her hand in a careless wave. Anybody watching will think we’re friends.

      I go to find my grandmother, who’s up front talking to the real preacher’s wife. Mrs. Pittman is as tall as any man in the place, with skin that’s seen too much sun and eyes that have seen too much sorrow. Years ago the Pittmans lost their two children in a house fire. She claims her faith got her through it, but to look at her grim mouth and tired eyes, I’m not sure it’s done the trick.

      “Mrs. Pittman says she’ll take us home today,” Gran tells me. She waits for me to add my thank-yous.

      “That’s mighty nice of you,” I say dutifully. “It’s a long walk for Gran, with her arthritis and all.”

      Gran’s arthritis, which cripples her once-sturdy legs and twists her arms, is, in my view, worse than having a drunk for a father and a mother who died rather than face her unfortunate choices. Gran’s had enough problems trying to make do with nothing, trying to raise her granddaughter and keep her husband’s family farm from being taken for taxes or sold off by her greedy son-in-law.

      Unfortunately, my grandpa never made a will. He died suddenly, so the farm was divided by the state, one half to Gran, and one half to my mother, their only child. When Thalia died without a will, her half was divided again, half to Hearty and half to me. This means Hearty only owns one-quarter of the property, but he wields it like a hatchet. Any time he’s unhappy, he threatens to sell his portion along with mine and leave Madison County forever.

      So it isn’t as if Gran hasn’t had plenty of trouble. But she holds her head as high as her aching neck will let her and just keeps going. She’s old, though, and the arthritis wears her down. She is increasingly grateful for any help and says pride is a luxury a woman like her just can’t afford.

      “We’ll go in a few minutes,” Mrs. Pittman says. “Preacher Pittman asked me to check on two people before I leave. You know which car is ours. You can go ahead and get in if you like. I’ll be quick as I can.”

      I wonder if Mrs. Pittman calls her husband “Preacher Pittman” when they’re alone together, eating dinner or plowing their garden.

      “Right nice of her to offer,” Gran says, after Mrs. Pittman strides off to find the objects of Preacher Pittman’s concern. “I weren’t sure I wanted to walk home after all that sitting.”

      “Sally Klaver said she saw Hearty by the creek down yonder.” I point in the direction of the back of the church.

      “None of them Klavers knows a truth from a lie. That’s how come they came into so much land. Her grandpa cheated a brother out of his inheritance, just like Esau and Jacob, and took it for himself. Me, I take anything any one of them says with a grain of salt.”

      I feel a little better that I’m not the only one in the church with no-good relatives. “He could be back there, sleeping by the creek,” I warn. “It’s the kinda thing he’d do.”

      “If he is, he’ll wake himself up when he’s good and ready. You don’t need to worry about Hearty.”

      I’m still standing in church, so I know better than to risk the Lord’s wrath by admitting how little I worry about my father. I lower my voice. “I was worrying he might wake up and come wandering up here.”

      “We’ll be gone soon enough.”

      But we aren’t, not nearly, because when we walk through the door to get into the preacher’s car, Hearty is staggering up the road, his shirt wrinkled and unbuttoned, his belt unbuckled and his pants sagging down around his hips. I see he is dirty and unshaven, and his hair, which hasn’t been cut in months, looks like a tangle of fishing line.

      More than half the worshipers are still standing in the shade of dogwoods heavy with creamy blossoms to chat with friends. As if they are one body, they turn to watch Hearty’s approach.

      “You go down and see if you can head him off,” Gran says softly. “I ain’t got the strength to do it myself, and I’m not fast enough.”

      “What’ll I say?”

      “I don’t rightly know. Maybe something about his truck. Maybe somebody told you he’s got himself a flat tire. Tell him you’ll go with him to see.”

      Hearty does love his old truck. When he’s sober, which isn’t often, he spends hours under the hood, and even though he’s too lazy to pick fights for no good reason, he can flare into a rage if the truck gets scratched or dented. The sheriff has slapped him in jail a time or two for truck-related attacks.

      I head quickly toward my father, my cheeks blazing with embarrassment. I keep my head high, although what I want most is to look at the ground and not at the faces turning toward me. I hear somebody snickering, and see Sally Klaver with a small group of kids around her age, watching and pointing.

      “Didn’t I tell you I saw him down by the creek?” Sally calls. “Ought to have gone and looked for that ol’ drunk before he came callin’.”

      I just lift my head a little higher and move my feet faster.

      I reach Hearty before he gets to the parking lot.

      “Hearty!” I call. “Where you going?”

      He squints at me as if he’s trying to recall where he’s seen me. Once he was handsome enough to steal my mother’s heart, despite all warning from my grandmother. Now his belly hangs over the top of his pants, like a woman in her final months of pregnancy, and his skin is slack and sallow. I haven’t inherited anything obvious from my father except his auburn hair, but today Hearty’s is the color of Georgia mud.

      “Came to get money…” He stops, as if trying to remember what he was just saying. “That grandmother of your’n,” he finishes, after a long moment during which he sways from side to side, as if considering which way to fall.

      “Gran doesn’t have any money, Hearty. Her check comes next week, and there’s nothing left of the last one.” I remember what my grandmother has told me and change the subject. “Listen, while you’re here, one of those girls up there said she saw your truck, and you got a flat tire in the front. I’ll go back with you. Maybe we can wrestle it off together.”

      “You…come СКАЧАТЬ