Passing Through

by Leon V. Driskell

Genres: Literary Fiction

Synopsis

Special Algonquin 10th Anniversary Edition. Set in the farmland of Owen County, Kentucky, PASSING THROUGH achieves that remarkable intimacy all fiction strives for. We watch the family of Pearl Thirwell White--"Mama Pearl"--move from comedy through tragedy, from bickering and broken hearts through generosity and love, until we are no longer guests in Pearl's kitchen or at her table. Soon we are family ourselves. "PASSING THROUGH is hilarious, but it's also poignant and deeply moving in the strangest ways."--Bobbie Ann Mason, author of FEATHER CROWNS.

Release date: January 10, 1993

Publisher: Algonquin Books

Print pages: 299

Sample

Passing Through is Algonquin’s first book. To be more precise, we should say that this latest of our Front Porch Paperbacks, a novel by Kentucky writer Leon Driskell, was the very first book to carry the imprint of Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill. We have been particularly fond of Mr. Driskell’s book ever since it came off the presses for our Fall 1983 list—the first Algonquin list—a decade ago. It seemed especially appropriate that the first publication of the new paperback edition coincide with the occasion of Algonquin’s tenth anniversary.

Passing Through is a first novel. In this, and in many other ways, it represents the kind of book Algonquin has always believed in. Mr. Driskell’s story of a Kentucky family is quiet and straightforward and centered on strong characters. It begins in the long tradition of broadly comic Southern fiction, then gradually blossoms into a complex and moving story of love and sacrifice.

We were proud to lead off our first list with Passing Through, and we were determined to bring it to public attention—even though few people knew of Mr. Driskell’s work, and even fewer knew of Algonquin Books, and even though our first hardcover printing was just 1,500 copies, simply because we couldn’t afford to print more. When the printer was late in delivering those 1,500 books to the warehouse, our fledgling staff rallied for an emergency shipment of books to Louisville, Kentucky, so that copies would be in the stores by the time the book’s first review ran in the Louisville Courier-Journal. Louis Rubin, Algonquin’s founder, described that frenzied day in a letter to Passing Through’s editor:

I will not take the time to go into a long story about what happened with the Driskell and Royster book shipments, and how we got the Courier-Journal circulation area orders off overnight UPS two days before Sallie Bingham reviewed the book in the paper (today) … two weeks ahead of time, despite my, Driskell, and the local Louisville book dealer begging her to delay the book review. Suffice it to say that at one point I was, at the age of 58, literally crawling atop stacks of boxes of books, not pressed close together but loose and wobbling, to find the Driskell in order to lug them home where Diana and I stuffed and mailed or rather UPSed the orders.… Well, if I don’t go either nuts or to the cardiac intensive care ward in a month’s time, we will be Launched.

Even coming from an unknown author and a publishing company no one had ever heard of, Passing Through received strong reviews and substantial notice. That first small printing sold out, and we printed more. And in spite of its breathless beginning, the book has remained in print, and in our catalogue, ever since it first arrived late from the printer and was stacked in wobbling piles in a North Carolina warehouse. Meanwhile, in the ten years since those first heady days, Algonquin itself has been Launched. We have published close to 200 books and sent them forth in search of readers. We would still publish Passing Through if it came over the transom today. With this tenth-anniversary paperback edition, we’re pleased to bring this novel to the larger audience it deserves—one we could not give it ten years ago, when it was our first.

Algonquin Books
1993

“Blackberries,” read Augie. The sign was on his side of the road. Augie was almost nine but was just beginning to learn to read, for his mother Lurline had kept him out of school. She said he was delicate and had a heart condition, but now she was at the Women’s Detention Center in Louisville for forging checks and Augie was learning to read. He wanted to write her a letter but was afraid she would figure out from that that he was going to school. Augie felt maybe he had let Lurline down.

“Blackberries,” he repeated. “$2.50 a gal.”

“Gallon, stupid,” said Audrey. “Not gal, gallon.” She said the words slow and distinct as if speaking to a deaf person.

“That’s a lot,” said uncle Rosco waking up from a catnap. “$2.50 a gallon’s a lot. We used to pick all day for fifty cents when I was a kid.”

Audrey groaned. She did not want to hear again how hard uncle Rosco had it when he was a kid. He made it sound like everybody born after 1965 had it made. Audrey wanted to be a movie star, or at least a TV personality, and she thought her family was likely to hold her back. She was careful of her speech and looked up words in the dictionary so she would know to tell the others when they said anything wrong. They did not even appreciate it.

“Shit,” said uncle Lester. “I wouldn’t give you a shit for all the blackberries in Owen County.” Uncle Lester was not born in Owen County and he generally disparaged everybody and everything that was.

“Now, Lester,” said Mama Pearl for maybe the twentieth time since they had left home.

“We’re not IN Owen County,” shrilled Audrey.

“We’re in HENry County,” said Augie, who had read that fact aloud along with all the advertisements and most of the names on mailboxes.

“Well,” said uncle Lester, “I won’t even tell you what I wouldn’t give you for all the blackberries in Henry County.”

“Now, Lester,” warned Mama Pearl.

“What does it start with, uncle Lester?” pestered Andrey. She knew it must be something really bad if it was worse than what uncle Lester had already said. Augie whispered something to her.

“It doesn’t either start with a f, does it uncle Lester?”

Uncle Lester who was fourteen but looked younger spread his lips and made a repulsive sound.

“Pffff-aaaht,” he said. “Pfffff-aaaaaaht.”

“Now, Lester,” said Mama Pearl again.

Uncle Lester did not even smile, while Augie and Audrey howled. He pretended to be concentrating on the highway. He was driving as usual, though he shouldn’t have been especially now that they were two counties away from home where nobody, not even the law, would say anything about his being too young to drive. Whenever anybody else drove,

uncle Lester acted so ugly that nobody else could enjoy the trip. Besides, Mama Pearl said she felt safer when Lester drove, for, as she said, his legs were shorter than Rosco’s and he could not bear down so hard on the gas pedal. It did no good for uncle Rosco to point out that he could not reach the brake pedal as well either.

Uncle Lester seemed eager to get out of Henry County, for he was driving considerably faster than his accustomed sixty miles an hour. He rarely drove slower than sixty, which was almost as fast as the car would go, and he got it up to sixty as quick as he could. Now, however, he seemed determined to make the car go seventy.

“Children, children,” Mama Pearl said complacently; Audrey and Augie had stopped giggling and were trying to reproduce the sound uncle Lester had made.

“We’re getting close to Shelbyville,” said uncle Rosco, shifting himself so he could get a peek at the speedometer. “Mighty close,” he added when he saw the needle inching up toward seventy. What he said was his way of letting uncle Lester know it was time for him to pull off the road and let uncle Rosco drive the rest of the way to aunt Muddie’s house. Uncle Lester said nothing, and uncle Rosco knew this meant Lester had forgotten his promise to let Rosco take over driving outside of Shelbyville.

Uncle Rosco determined to come nearer to the point.

“There’s lots of po-lice here,” he said. “Always has been lots of them in Shelbyville, and they don’t know you from Adam’s off-ox.”

Uncle Lester speeded up a little as if to show Rosco that no police would be likely to catch him. He and Audrey saw the unmarked patrol car at about the same time. Everyone could tell the police car had stopped clocking them and was now chasing them.

“Now, Lester,” said Mama Pearl, “don’t slow down now.”

“Yes’m,” uncle Lester said. He scooted up in the driver’s seat a little so he could watch Mama Pearl in the rear-view mirror. She slid over toward the window and yanked Augie into her lap. The surprised boy tried to get away. “You be still,” she said, and pushed his head down on her shoulder.

With her free hand, Mama Pearl dabbed at her eyes. The patrol car began flashing its light and pulled into the left lane next to uncle Lester. The two cars moved along, side by side, and the policeman signalled that Lester had better pull off the road quick. By now, Mama Pearl was crying to beat the band, and though Augie was giggling, it looked like he was crying too.

Audrey was interested. She could not tell if Mama Pearl was pretending Augie was hurt and they were rushing him to the hospital, or if maybe she was pretending they were all on their way to a funeral. She decided not to ask just then, for questions might spoil the effect. She began crying herself and wringing her hands as she had learned to do to express anxiety. After all, she was supposed to be the family actress, though she did admit Mama Pearl looked pretty convincing. Her face was all wattled up, and she was dressed just exactly as if she was on her way to a funeral. The policeman would not know that Mama Pearl always dressed that way.

The policeman could not seem to figure out what was going on. He alternated between glaring at uncle Lester and nodding sympathetically at Mama Pearl. He drove alongside the car until he saw a semi barreling down the road toward him. All this time, nobody in the car looked at the policeman. Audrey kept watch of him out of the corner of her eye.

Just in time, the police car got back into line. The truck driver was trying to look unconcerned and to slow down without appearing to do so. He had the look of a man who has had a great shock and will never be the same again. Seeing him, the policeman decided what to do and began to turn his car around. The family cheered when they realized the police car was going to chase the truck now. Uncle Lester’s eyes glittered as if he had proved something important to everybody.

Audrey was sorry it was all over. She had been getting her story ready to tell the policeman. She was sure the rest of the family would let her talk for them. She was the only one named for an actress, though her name had been a mistake. Her mother Erline (Lurline’s sister) had meant to name her Autry for Gene Autry, but the woman taking the information at the hospital had got it all wrong. “Audrey?” she said. “You’re naming her for Audrey Hepburn.” Erline had repeated as clear as anything, “Autry, like the movie star,” and the woman said, “How lovely, I think she’s wonderful too.” And before Erline could tell her that Gene Autry was a he, not a she, the woman had written down Audrey.

It was a mistake, but later, Audrey didn’t mind because her older sister Dale Evans Waters took sick and died. Mama Pearl said the Autrys were as bad luck as the Rogers—just look what happened to Trigger.

After the police car had stopped bothering him, uncle Lester slowed down some, but he still wasn’t thinking about giving up the driver’s seat until he had to. He didn’t blink an eye when Mama Pearl said “Now Lester” for the twenty-third time. You could not tell what he was thinking, and, half the time, you could not tell if he was even thinking.

Uncle Rosco was fidgeting and Augie was half-strangled and trying to whisper to Audrey that Mama Pearl had smushed him right down between her ba-zooms—he could feel them plain as anything. Audrey told him to grow up, for she was thinking how she would have had the policeman lead them right to the Shelby County Hospital and how she would get out of the car and thank him for his help. She was also trying to figure out what she could have done to save the day when they got to the hospital and the policeman saw that Augie wasn’t dead, or sick, or anything.

“Aunt Muddie’s got blackberries,” challenged Augie. He was remembering the sign he had read out loud and how uncle Rosco seemed to think $2.50 a gal. was a lot. He expected to be contradicted; he wouldn’t have been surprised if somebody had told him there wasn’t a blackberry in Shelby County, though he knew different. He remembered eating them at aunt Muddie’s last time.

To Augie’s surprise, nobody disagreed. Everybody but uncle Lester, who rarely even smiled, laughed. What he had said was so successful that he tried it again, and this time even uncle Lester smiled.

“Maybe we could pick some. Sell them,” volunteered Augie. “For $2.50 a gal.”

“Gallon, stupid,” said Audrey.

“You two can work for me,” said uncle Lester. “I’ll make the sign while you pick.”

Audrey and Augie began to argue about which of them would pick more berries and how they would divide the money. Uncle Lester resumed thinking about Lurline and how it would maybe be better to leave her where she was, in the Women’s Detention Center, instead of breaking her out as he and Augie had planned.

But how would he tell Augie he had changed his mind? They were supposed to get started with their plan the next week, right after they got home from aunt Muddie’s. He had the letter to Lurline in his pocket. He and Augie had written it together to tell her when to expect them and to be ready to run for it. Uncle Lester had written it down with his left hand and had not signed it, but they thought Lurline would be able to read it and would figure out who it was from. He meant to mail it from Shelbyville, which he thought would throw the cops off the track in case they intercepted it.

Uncle Lester and Augie had agreed on every point but one about the rescue. Augie thought they might as well let all the prisoners out while they were getting Lurline, but uncle Lester thought the others should have to pay to get out.

“I’m not going to all this trouble for a bunch of common criminals,” he told Augie, and Augie got mad and told him not to call his mother a common anything. And then, Mama Pearl made them stop whispering and turn out the light Later, in the dark, uncle Lester tried to explain. He whispered that he did not mean to include Lurline among the criminals, for he knew as well as anybody that Lurline had paid the supreme sacrifice.

Audrey, who was not asleep as they thought, spoke up then to say that nobody alive had paid the supreme sacrifice; all Lurline had done was forge checks to raise money for the pacemaker she thought Augie needed.

“Dying,” Audrey said. “That’s what the supreme sacrifice means.”

Uncle Lester told her he thought he ought to know a thing or two about the supreme sacrifice, for he was a teetotal orphan as a result of his own parents’ supreme sacrifices. And they were dead, weren’t they? What more did Audrey want?

Neither Audrey nor Augie knew what to say to that, for the circumstances of uncle Lester’s parents’ deaths were hazy in their minds, chiefly as a result of uncle Lester’s changing the circumstances to suit himself. Sometimes he would worsen his plight as a teetotal orphan by claiming that his parents’ bodies had never been reclaimed from the Kentucky River. Other times he boasted that he had seen both his parents laid out before he was even as old as Augie.

Uncle Lester wanted to be unique, and he would not agree that Audrey was even a partial orphan just because her parents were divorced. He did soften and consent that Augie was almost an orphan after Lurline went to prison, but normally he could not stand for anybody to say the word—except in books. He liked to read books about orphans, real and imaginary, so he could compare his lot with theirs. He like to never have forgiven Mama Pearl for admitting that both her parents were dead.

“You mean you’re a teetotal orphan?” he asked. “How old were you when it happened?” He felt better when he learned she was at least fifty.

Nobody knew very much about Mama Pearl except that she was not really anybody’s mama. Erline and Lurline said she was no kin to the Waters family and that Somebody better make sure that none of the family property fell into her hands, for half the dead in Cedar Creek Baptist Cemetery would get up and walk if that ever happened. The children did not much care how Mama Pearl was related to them; they were used to her. But they secretly hoped she would get the property.

Mama Pearl did not let Erline and Lurline’s talk bother her much; she kept living with the Waters family and acting like kin because she said she didn’t hardly remember anything else. She had been in Owen County that long. And, as she said, Erline and Lurline were no worse than most real daughters. Actually Mama Pearl was the second wife of an automobile mechanic who had come to Owen County back when practically nobody had an automobile. He had married LeMartine Waters for lack of anything else to do and continued to hang around even after LeMartine died in the ‘flu epidemic. No one ever figured out why he stayed on unless it was for love. By the time he married Mama Pearl, everybody had a car, but he was sixty-five then, and retired. Mama Pearl was thirty. He used to say the world had passed him by, and Mama Pearl would say, “Well, Omer, I am still here.”

Mama Pearl stayed with Omer in what they continued to call LeMartine’s room, and finally he died just before his ninety-first birthday. She stayed after his funeral because, by then, everyone in the family was used to her, or dead. After Erline and Lurline and Lester’s mama and daddy were killed, she took on the job of nursing Lester. Soon afterwards, uncle Rosco had come to live with them, and people who didn’t know thought uncle Lester was Mama Pearl’s and uncle Rosco’s son. That was why Mama Pearl let Lester get by with so much.

Erline and Lurline had been glad enough for Mama Pearl to raise Lester, for they were busy spending up the insurance money they got after their parents drove off the side of the Gratz Bridge and into the Kentucky River. They divided the money even, three ways, and later did the same with the State money they got when the lawyer Mama Pearl had hired proved that the bridge was unsafe. They said Mama Pearl had hired a lawyer before the bodies were cold, but, at the time, the bodies were still in the river and it was January, so as Mama Pearl said, they had exaggerated as usual, which they denied. The lawyer proved his point by loading an A&P cart with bricks and rolling it into the side of the bridge. It went straight through. Erline and Lurline said they could have made a killing by taking their case to the highest courts.

“Shelbyville: 1 mi.,” Augie read.

Audrey sighed. It did no good to correct Augie, and she thought she would just quit trying. Uncle Lester hunched forward and tightened his hand on the steering wheel. He couldn’t decide whether to stop and mail his letter to Lurline or go straight on to aunt Muddie’s. He wanted her to see him driving, and the more he thought about things, the more certain he was that springin. . .