The Moonshiner's Daughter

by Donna Everhart

Genres: Coming of Age; Family Life; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

Generations of Sassers have made moonshine in the Brushy Mountains of Wilkes County, North Carolina. Their history is recorded in a leather-bound journal that belongs to Jessie Sasser's daddy, but Jessie wants no part of it. As far as she's concerned, moonshine caused her mother's death a dozen years ago.

Her father refuses to speak about her mama, or about the day she died. But Jessie has a gnawing hunger for the truth — one that compels her to seek comfort in food. Yet all her self-destructive behavior seems to do is feed what her school's gruff but compassionate nurse describes as the "monster" inside Jessie.

Resenting her father's insistence that moonshining runs in her veins, Jessie makes a plan to destroy the stills, using their neighbors as scapegoats. Instead, her scheme escalates an old rivalry and reveals long-held grudges. As she endeavors to right wrongs old and new, Jessie's loyalties will bring her to unexpected revelations about her family, her strengths — and a legacy that may provide her with the answers she has been longing for.

Release date: December 31, 2019

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 253

Sample

The only memory I have of Mama, she was on fire.

I’d been watching my baby brother, Merritt, digging in the dirt, when I heard a subtle pop, then a loud explosion, and the big pot Daddy and Mama were always tending suddenly burst into flames, and so did Mama. The sight made me grip hold of Merritt’s hand hard enough to make him squeal.

Daddy would sometimes have to burn tent caterpillars. He’d hold a flaming end to the white cottony fuzz woven around the branches of the apple trees, and as the nests blazed, the black wormy bodies fell and hit the ground like the soft patter of raindrops. Fire always saved the fruit, but it’s what took Mama from us.

Mama took off running, going this way and that.

Daddy yelled, “Lydia!” and then, “Stay there, Jessie!” to me.

Merritt had already gone back to stabbing a stick in the mud over and over, making baby noises, completely unaware. Mama beat her hands against her head; then they caught fire too. She ran in a zigzag pattern, as if performing a strange and chaotic dance.

Daddy tried to catch her, yelling over and over, “Stop running!”

Somehow she evaded him, his efforts to help. He stumbled, twisted his ankle, and then he couldn’t run near as fast, staggering after her, limping badly.

She didn’t make any noise until the last seconds before she fell, when she shrieked his name, “Easton!”

The cry came long, and high-pitched, like a siren. She faltered, collapsed, everything from her head down to the tops of her legs consumed. Daddy threw himself over her, smacking his hands along her body. His movements frantic, he jerked his T-shirt over her head and pulled it down as far as it would go. If the flames singed him while he held her, he didn’t act like he noticed. Puffs of smoke curled and drifted around them like tiny gray clouds while an odd stench penetrated my nose, a distinct smell that held me rooted in place. The imprint of her face came through his shirt.

I quit crying and waited for them to get up, for her to start laughing and say, Did I scare you?

The fabric over her face where her mouth pushed against the cloth was a perfect oval. The only movement a slow sucking in and out of the now smutty material. That spot mesmerized me. In. out. After a few seconds, the area no longer moved. Daddy struggled to sit upright, still cradling her upper half. Her arms lay limp at her sides, hands blackened. He tilted his head like he didn’t understand what happened any more than I did.

He bent close, whispered in the area of her ear, “Lydia?”

Mama didn’t answer, didn’t move. I remained fixated, waiting. He pulled his shirt up and away. Where she’d been creamy-skinned, she was raw, charred, peeling. Her hair was mostly gone, and only a few wispy clumps still clung to her skull, while her blouse was near about scorched off. It didn’t matter though, because everything, her face, the lack of movement, was wrong, all wrong. It was as if she’d melted away, and my world turned as lopsided as the crooked bend of her torso in his arms.

Merritt had lost interest in his dirt digging and started toward them, steps unsteady as he made his way over the roots and leaves, dragging the stick along the ground.

He whispered, “Mama-mama-mama,” but this was overtaken by Daddy’s gasping.

He appeared to be trying to breathe for the both of them. He made noises such as I’d never heard before.

I mimicked Merritt, whispering, “Mama?”

This is what I remember. The three of us making our distress known while Mama lay forever silent.

I was four years old when she died, according to the date on her gravestone, July 10, 1948. It was twelve years ago, and although I’ve tried to remember her before that terrible day, I can’t. Her features before the accident are blurry, like a picture that’s had water dropped on it, smearing everything so it’s like looking through a frosty window. I also can’t say what happened right after, what we did, where we went, who came to help us. I can’t call to mind no service, or the burial. Obviously there was one because of that gravestone, which holds all I know, her name, Lydia Marsh Sasser, and the date of her death, both engraved within a heart.

New routines filled the empty gaps her passing left in our small world. Somehow, we made do. There’d be times when I’d purposefully recall what little I knew, and each image would flip by in my head, like the slide projectors teachers use in school. Sometimes there’d be moments when something from deep within would break through all on its own. Once was when I was around eleven, and Merritt and I’d gone to one of the stills tucked back in the woods where we were making sour mash. There’s an odor to it, and I came to realize I’d smelled that very same thing just before Mama caught fire. A puzzle piece fell into place. Merritt, who was nine, happened to bring her up as I was having this moment of clarity.

He said, “Jessie, you reckon our mama ever did this?”

My hands had gone sweaty as that one single thought dared to peek through a thick veil, surfacing through foamy memory, boldly rising up and out of my head, like the bubbles in the sour mash I stirred.

I mumbled, “I don’t know, but I think it’s what killed her.”

Merritt stopped poking at the wood he was stacking under the boiler, my comment so out of the blue neither of us moved for several seconds. I quit stirring, and kicked at the collected logs nearby.

I pointed at the boiler, “The day she died, it smelled like that, but there was another odor too.”

Merritt grew wide-eyed. “What was it?”

I shook my head, wouldn’t allow that uglier fragment to emerge.

“I don’t want to remember that part.”

“Was I there?”

“Yes.”

“What was I doing?”

“Playing in the dirt.”

“And then what?”

“I don’t know.”

The tops of the trees overhead created lacy, waving patterns of green against a blanket of solid gray, thick, and heavy. Above the clouds existed a deep blue heaven, and a sun that shone hot and brilliant, but it was as if that world didn’t exist at this moment. Trying to remember her as she’d been was like that. If I could wipe away the clouds in my head, I was sure I’d be able to bring her to mind. He’d gone back to stacking wood, and I’d gone back to stirring the mash.

Daddy refusing to talk about Mama was like trying to solve a math problem with only part of the equation. This is impossible because you’ve got to have all the necessary steps, and without his help I was stuck. Back then, I’d ask him about it every now and then.

“When Mama died, there was a popping sound, and then a bigger noise; what happened?”

He’d say, “Jessie, it was so long ago.”

“But Daddy, she was burning, I remember it. How did it happen?”

“I wished you’d not ask them questions. Think about something else.”

“Well. Why ain’t we got no pictures of her?”

“I got to get to work. Don’t forget to lock up when y’all leave for the bus.”

There came the time when he started to get mad about it and he’d yell at me, “Jessie! I mean it! One more word about that, and you’ll regret it!”

I crept away and the pan of peach cobbler I’d made the night before became my temporary solace. I pulled it from the oven, grabbed a spoon, and stuck one in Merritt’s hand too.

He quit after a few bites. “I can’t eat no more.”

I stopped but only for a second. I could eat more, and I did. I ate and ate, miserably spooning in sweet, slick peaches, soft buttery cake, while scraping the sugary golden syrup off the bottom of the pan. It was half-gone before I realized it, and then I was so sick I wanted to throw up. Had to. I went down the hall and into the bathroom holding my tight stomach. I stared at the toilet and thought how it felt when I had a stomach bug, the misery of getting sick, and the relief that followed. I got on my knees. I tried gagging. It didn’t work. I remembered how when I brushed my teeth, I’d sometimes get the toothbrush too far back and it would almost make me throw up, so I tried sticking my finger down my throat. I did it again, a little farther, and retched. Again, again. Finally, the cobbler came up and a good, clean feeling followed. I felt better.

Relieved, I sat on the floor. It made no sense how Daddy acted. I was simply asking about Mama, how she died. His aggravation and refusal to talk about her fueled my strange hunger, and after I would always feel the need to rid myself of all I could, as if by doing so I could expel my own anger.

It worked for a while.

Time came and went with little change. When I was thirteen, I asked Uncle Virgil about her. He rubbed at his neck where the skin was sunburned, and it flushed even deeper after he dropped his hand.

His voice cranky, like I’d asked about the birds and the bees, he said, “Don’t be asking me them questions; ask your daddy.”

I said, “He don’t never tell me nothing.”

Aunt Juanita, who’d married Uncle Virgil a couple years after Mama died, didn’t know a thing about her. I complained to her once and she waved her cigarette so dramatically, the end point flared orange and ash hit the floor.

She said, “Well, it’s a doggone shame she ain’t here to raise you and your brother,” then narrowed her eyes at the bowl of ice cream and chocolate syrup I cradled in my lap. “Honey, listen, I can’t be your mama, can’t expect to take her place, but take it from me, ain’t no man ever gonna want to marry no tub of lard.”

She took my bowl, yet half-full, and put it in the sink, smiling a little to herself like she’d done right by me and her way of thinking. I became self-conscious about my belly, my thighs, and my breasts—because that’s where she looked next. They kept growing faster than anything else. The next day she came to the house with two new bras stuffed into a bag.

“You got to start wearing these or all manner of hound dogs are gonna be showing up here at this door.”

You could say Aunt Juanita was a blend of sympathy and meanness, neither all that helpful. I wore the bras, and didn’t ever bring Mama up to her after that. That had left Mama’s mama, Granny Marsh, who couldn’t talk or do much for herself after a massive stroke. We would stop at the rest home to see her, only she didn’t know we were there most times. I’d look for any resemblance, believing Mama had to have had her features.

When she died, I was relieved because I could quit waiting for her to share something, could stop hoping she’d see me and say, By the Lord sweet Jesus, if it ain’t my own Lydia.

By the time I was fourteen, my patchy memories eventually led me to my own answers. First, Mama died while Daddy was making moonshine. Second, something went wrong, and it had been his fault; otherwise he’d talk about her. Guilt was what kept him silent. My arrival at this conclusion sent me plundering the kitchen cabinets and the refrigerator more than ever, eating till I couldn’t move, followed by remorse at being such a pig, and the need to get it out. From that point on, we hardly ever had leftovers. There’s only so much you can do to show frustration when you’re not but a teenager. It wasn’t long before I understood all the eating and vomiting did me no good. I still knew nothing about Mama, only now I’d come to a point where I couldn’t stop. My resentment toward Daddy continued to bloom. I finally thought of something I could take from him, not quite like what he was taking from me and Merritt, but a way to show him how I felt.

We were sitting at the supper table, plates filled with chicken, rice, and gravy, corn bread. Daddy liked lots of pepper, and the shaker sat near Merritt’s elbow.

Daddy always spoke soft, so his, “Pass the pepper, Son,” wasn’t heard by Merritt as he scraped his fork across his plate, mixing rice into the gravy.

I raised my voice and said, “Easton said to pass the pepper!”

It got pretty quiet. I slid a big forkful of rice in my mouth, and didn’t need to look at the head of the table where he sat.

Daddy said, “What’d you say?”

The food turned gummy, thick, and I focused on swallowing. It could’ve been the dim light of the bulb overhead, or it could’ve been the fact I unexpectedly had tears, but I believe it was sadness I recognized and what drew his mouth down.

I was determined, though, and poked Merritt. “Easton said . . .”

Daddy set his fork down. “What’s this about?”

Resolute, I said, “You know.”

“I know? What do I know?”

“You know.”

The double meaning was lost. Daddy sat back on his chair with a look of consternation and a hint of impatience. I crammed in more rice and gravy, bit into the chicken, and ended up with a mouthful so big I wasn’t sure I’d manage it without choking. I chewed, swallowed, and the clump sat, midway in my throat. I drank water to wash it down.

Merritt said, “Gee whiz, Jessie.”

His voice held a tinge of awe.

Daddy said, “Don’t you go being disrespectful now.”

“It’s your name, ain’t it?”

“Don’t you be sassy neither. There’s that woodshed out back.”

He’d never whipped us much, so I called his bluff, “I ain’t scared.”

Merritt gasped, and said, “Doggone, Jessie.”

Daddy said, “I don’t know what this little game of yourn is, but you go right on, if’n it makes you feel better.”

“It does.”

He leaned forward and I jerked back. I didn’t fear him, but that abrupt movement wasn’t like him. For the most part, he didn’t get riled about much; it wasn’t in his nature. Usually.

He pointed his fork at me and said, “Get this out of your system, whatever it is, but by tomorrow, I expect you to call me proper.”

“It’s in my system because you don’t talk about it, won’t talk about it.”

Merritt slid the pepper over, and Daddy sprinkled it over his food till everything was the same color, mounds speckled black. He went back to eating like I’d never opened my mouth.

“See?” I said to Merritt and the room.

The next day Daddy backed up our steep drive, and in the back of his truck sat a big box.

“Look a here,” he said, pointing at it as he got out. “Got us a TV. We’re the first ones around here to have one. What’cha think, Jessie? Merritt?”

Merritt hopped about, his exuberance making up for the lack of mine. Daddy pulled the tailgate down, and Merritt climbed into the back and pushed the box toward him. Between the two of them, they lifted it out, grunting, and straining under the weight of it, and brought it up the couple of steps to the door that I at least held open.

They pushed and shoved it into the corner of the living room, and after it was unboxed, Daddy said, “Plug it in, Son. Turn it on.”

Merritt obliged; then they stood side by side staring at the glass tucked into a wood cabinet. As the TV warmed up, it made a low whistling noise that went higher and higher until the white dot in the middle of the gray screen became black-and-white slanted lines. Daddy slapped a hand on his head, and went back outside. He came in with a smaller box, and out of it he took what he called “rabbit ears.” He set them on top of the TV, wiggled them back and forth, and fiddled with one of the knobs on the front. A grainy picture finally emerged of a man talking behind a desk with the letters NBC above him. Meanwhile, I tried to consider how a TV was supposed to make up for what I really wanted. Little did I know I would soon become enamored with a show called The Untouchables, and wishing for my own Eliot Ness.

The first time Uncle Virgil heard me call Daddy by his given name, he said, “Now that don’t sound proper like.”

By then Daddy had gotten used to me calling him that, and waved a hand like “don’t bother.”

Aunt Juanita pursed bright pink lips, pinched her cigarette out, and said nothing. Cousin Oral and Merritt acted as if they couldn’t decide whether they should be in awe or not. I quit asking him about Mama, even stopped speaking his name unless it was absolutely necessary. Meanwhile, I remained on the lookout for possible hints of her presence. I’d noticed how when Daddy sat at the kitchen table, always on this one chair, he’d get to rubbing a finger over a couple of brown spots where a cigarette had blistered the Formica top. I began to dwell obsessively on that scorched area, wondering who left the mark. Did she smoke? Maybe it was from her very cigarette from when they’d sat at the table together, smoking and enjoying a first morning’s cup of coffee.

Over time I’d noted a couple of other small places about the house and my imagination ran wild. Like the circular stain on the night table in their bedroom, the one opposite the side where he slept. The small fingerprints left in the paint on the wall in the hallway, a happenstance discovery when the sun hit there a particular way, and only at a certain time of year. The day I detected them five little ovals, I placed my own fingers in each one, easily recognizing they were slightly bigger, yet too small for Daddy. I became certain the prints had to be hers, yet these were empty and unsatisfactory findings, especially when Mama’s ghostlike presence was only as tangible as the wisps of smoke from the blaze that took her all them years ago.

I stared at my new driver’s license reflecting on how any picture could be worse than my school photo. It was early, about an hour before school, and we were in the kitchen where Daddy counted money from the haul he’d made the night before. The radio was on, and the broadcaster sounded as bored as I was as he delivered the news of the day. He droned on about the Ku Klux Klan and the cross burnings along major roads in South Carolina and Alabama over sit-ins at lunch counters. I expected to hear more about such an event, but he moved on to a race car driver who’d died at the beginning of a twelve-hour endurance race in Florida. I got up and fiddled with the knob, looking for a station with music. Uncle Virgil and Aunt Juanita had dropped by, supposedly on their way to town for corn needed at one of the stills. Sometimes this was the inconvenience of them living only two miles away.

Uncle Virgil couldn’t take his eyes off the small piles of cash, and this was the real reason he was here. He had a hard time keeping a job, having worked at the feed store, and then at the factory where they made mirrors, and now he worked at a poultry farm. He had a bit of a drinking problem and Daddy said if it weren’t for him needing to keep Aunt Juanita happy, it would be all he’d do. They were an unlikely pair as I’d ever seen. She came from Lenoir, and you could call that a big city compared to anything out here. The Brushy Mountains where we live are part of a spur off the Blue Ridge. She joked about how they really weren’t mountains at all, more like bumps.

She sipped her coffee, leaving a pink half circle of lipstick on the cup’s rim. Her nail polish matched. She wore another new dress, and kept brushing her hand across the fabric as if she liked the feel of it. Aunt Juanita was slim, and had her hair and nails done once a week at the beauty parlor. She knew better than to make any suggestions about my appearance. We’d had that reckoning a while back.

She’d said, “Jessie, I think it’s high time you start taking better care of yourself.”

“High time to who?”

“I’m trying to help you.”

“I don’t need any help.”

She said, “Don’t you think you ought to do something about yourself? You could start with your clothes, fix your hair.”

“I don’t know why it matters to you.”

She said, “Suit yourself,” and that was that.

My abrupt ways had always gotten under her skin.

I listened in while Daddy told Uncle Virgil about a close call he’d had with a revenuer last night. Uncle Virgil’s head was in his hands. He was unshaven, hair going in all directions, as if the shock of what he’d ingested had it standing at attention. He was younger than Daddy, but looked older. When Merritt and Oral came in from outside, letting the screen door slam, he gave them both a dirty look, but neither one noticed. They were all agog at the sight of the cash stacked on the table. They sat, Oral taking the chair farthest from his daddy.

Merritt said, “Whoa. Looks like a good night!”

Oral pointed, then whined, “How come we ain’t never got that kind of money?”

Uncle Virgil reached all the way across the table to backhand him, but Oral ducked, then shot a hateful look his way. Merritt propped his chin on his hand, watching with apparent adoration the man at the head of the table.

Daddy winked at him and continued on. “I believe it were Bob Stoley. I kind a played him along just to see what all he’d do. ’Course, he didn’t stand a chance against old Sally Sue.”

He chuckled with affection for his car, an Oldsmobile Rocket 88 modified to carry liquor in a fake gas tank, and jars of it under the back seat. He joked he could hear the goods sloshing when he took a curve too hard. Uncle Virgil laughed too, but it didn’t sound natural, more like he was only doing it to go along. He kept his eye on the money the same way Oral did, licking his lips every now and then, wanting to say something. I’d seen this before, him working up his nerve to ask Daddy for a handout. I got up and poured myself some coffee, waiting to see if he would. It didn’t take long.

Uncle Virgil said, “I might need me a little cut.”

Daddy thumbed the bills and Aunt Juanita got to studying on her cuticles, her cheeks gone deeper pink.

Daddy said, “Yeah?”

Uncle Virgil sat up straighter. “Yeah.”

“Well now.”

Daddy turned to look at Aunt Juanita, who found something not to her liking on her pinkie. She was almost cross-eyed trying to see whatever it was.

Uncle Virgil said, “Yeah. I mean, it ain’t like you got nothing to worry about. I got rent, and we need’n a few things.”

Daddy said, “What happened to the money from that last run?”

Uncle Virgil raised his shoulders. “Like I said, there’s things we need.”

Aunt Juanita dropped her hand into her lap, and with exasperation said, “For heaven’s sake, Virgil. Just tell him you owe people because you can’t play cards worth a lick and lost it over that foolishness.”

Daddy said, “Who do you owe?”

Uncle Virgil rubbed his hands together, the sound raspy and dry, like papers rustling.

“That’s my business. Mama gave you this place here, while I got nothing but a damn plow and combine I ain’t never gonna use. I reckon I don’t quite see that as fair. Seems like maybe you ought to pay my rent now and then, and it’s just how I feel about it.”

It was an age-old argument Uncle Virgil liked to use to make Daddy feel accountable for his self-made struggles. It worked about half the time and today was one of them. Without hesitation, Daddy took one of the stacks and pushed it toward Uncle Virgil, who snatched it up like it was a ham biscuit. He shoved it in his front pocket, and grinned at Aunt Juanita. She rolled her eyes and sipped her coffee. He simmered down now he had what he wanted.

Uncle Virgil said, “Hell, it ain’t nothing but money, ain’t it what you say?”

Daddy nodded. “Sure, sure. It’s what I say.”

Uncle Virgil stood and so did Aunt Juanita. “All good?”

Daddy said, “All good.”

Uncle Virgil went to the back door with Aunt Juanita on his heels. She motioned to Oral, who ignored her, and then Daddy got to laughing softly again. Uncle Virgil was about to step outside and he stopped.

He said, “What’s funny?”

Daddy went back to thumbing the rest of the stack of bills.

He said, “That run last night?”

Uncle Virgil said, “Yeah?”

“I’ll be damned, if it were Bob Stoley, he fired off a shot at me.”

Uncle Virgil said, “Woowee! When’s the last time that happened?”

“Never.”

“I suppose he was mighty ticked off he couldn’t catch you.”

“He can’t stand being beat, for sure.”

“Maybe it was a Murry.”

Daddy grinned as if he enjoyed reflecting on the danger and excitement of being chased and shot at.

His manner irritated me, and I said, “I honestly don’t get the way y’all act.”

Uncle Virgil said, “The way we act?”

I said, “I reckon it shouldn’t bother nobody getting shot at, or thrown in jail, noooo, it’s just a game is all.”

Merritt mumbled his favorite response, “Oh brother, here we go again.”

Five pairs of eyes turned to me, like I was a stranger among them.

I stood my ground. “Ain’t it right? Nobody here thinks it matters.”

Uncle Virgil put his hands on his hips and poked his rear end out. He waggled a finger at Daddy like he was scolding him, and at that, the men and boys laughed. Aunt Juanita faced the screen door again, ready to leave now they had what they needed. I fumed. This was typical of how it went when I got, as Daddy would say, up on my high horse. Their laughter followed me down the hall as I escaped. I went into the small bathroom and splashed water on my hot face. I brushed my hair, and put a headband on to hold it back. I bent forward toward the mirror and rubbed at the two frown lines in the middle of my eyebrows. Uncle Virgil’s truck started, making the small bathroom window vibrate. The sound faded, and I was glad they were gone.

I went back into the kitchen in time to see Daddy going out the back door. He would hide the money, maybe in the shed, or in the old outhouse. He didn’t trust banks. His mama, Granny Sasser, had been the same way, keeping jars filled with coins and bills buried in various spots only she knew. One day he found her out in the backyard, keeled over under the clothesline, still holding on to ajar filled with cash. She’d had a heart attack and the story goes him and Uncle Virgil used that money to bury her, then searched, trying to locate where she’d hid the rest. They found some, and split it, but both contended there was a good chance more was out there, somewhere. Merritt was all the time digging in the yard, like a pirate hunting buried treasure, whereas I’d come to look at liquor profits as dirty money. I wanted none of it, yet it was as if I was surrounded by its very existence, even down to the very ground I walked on.

Daddy came back in a few minutes later, held out his hand, and said, “Here.”

In it was a ten-dollar bill. I made no move to take it, but Merritt did and Daddy gave him a look.

Merritt said, “Why can’t I have it if she don’t want it?”

He ignored that and held it out again. “Jessie. I ain’t having people think I don’t provide for you when you’re about to bust out of what you got on.”

It hadn’t helped one of my teachers sent a note home saying I needed to come to school in proper-fitting clothes. If Aunt Juanita knew about that she’d have felt vindicated for her comment.

I said, “I ain’t got no use for bootleg money.”

“Jessie.”

“What?”

“How do you know where this came from?”

“You just carried a bunch of it out the door.”

“For all you know, this very bill was took out of my wallet from my other job.”

“It ain’t from your other job.”

“Well, I suggest you stop eating then. I’m the one putting food on the table and evidently it don’t matter where it really comes from.” Daddy kept on. “Them pork chops last night? I noticed you enjoyed them. I bought them with bootleg money. Yeah, you ate the hell out of’em.”

I was suddenly very conscientious of my physical form, fleshy thighs, hefty middle, and overly large breasts. I stared at a corner of the kitchen ceiling and noticed a cobweb.

He went on. “You want for things to be harder maybe. Not have that kind of food to eat. And here I go again, trying to give you money for nice clothes, but you won’t take it. Instead, you want to go around without a decent thing to wear, going about looking like a hobo. You’re ma. . .