Helton, Kentucky – Year 1968
Sometimes you don’t see a thing for what it is til later.
There’s a group assembled, waiting for me to begin the tour. Deep breath in. I look at the faces assembled. He’s standing at the back, leaning ‘gainst a hickory, long and lean. Eyes shaded. My heart thunders in my chest as an electric tingle shoots up the back of my legs.
Tamp down my nerves and jolt off the jitters. It’s show time.
“Anyone know this shrub?” I point to the soft, heart-shaped leafy plant. The group of men follow my finger, shaking their heads, frowning.
“Black Snakeroot.” Heads turn, eyebrows rise.
“You might know it as Canada Wild Ginger.” Smiles and nods. They’re none too spirited, but they’re into plants. Me too.
“Good for gas.” I rub my belly. More smiles.
I show them Barberry (Dragon Grape). “Another plant for treating diarrhea and the janders.” They think I’m a healer. I’m not. I know plants – learnt from my momma, but never doctored no one.
“Son? Umm, Mr. Corbett?” A man in thick glasses raises a hand.
“Name’s Enos, please.” Not used to being called Mr. Corbett, even now. My neck hair tickles. Needs cutting again. Least these boots fit proper now.
“What’s that large, white flowering tree yonder?”
“Graybeard. Boil down the bark to make a salve for skin troubles.” Makes me scratch my own self-inflicted rash, running up my arms and neck.
–
Three Months Earlier: Gilley, Kentucky
I run down the hillside, bare feet slapping in the mud. Hard to keep my balance, slipping and sliding but I make it to the old, blue truck. Soaked head to toe, my cotton dress sticks to me like wet newspaper.
Can’t go to Grammy’s or Sadie’s – he’ll look for me there. Wasn’t always like this. Used to be sweet and liked to hold me. Felt safe then. Meanness has a way of sneaking in, like a cottonmouth looking for warmth.
I check my face in the steamy, cracked rearview. There’ll be a nice shiner tomorrow. Everything hurts. Not sure what set him off this time. Griped his supper was cold after coming home, late again. Something had him spun up. Maybe the liquor… maybe long days in the dark, breathing poison.
I doctored his flask with sleeping herbs. Midwife gave ‘em to me after losing my last one. Worked good but only slowed him down some. Now he’s snoring to high heaven, pesterin’ God with that racket.
I drive away, hoping the wheezing muffler won’t wake him. Been drinking a tonic of Queen Anne’s lace to keep another from takin’. Won’t raise a child in this place. In the back seat I see his work boots and sack of clothes he keeps for visiting Anabel. Bet he was with her last night. Don’t think he knocks her around. She can have him.
I drive up North Folk behind the grocery – a rutted, single lane. Old Blue can do it. She has to. Cabin’s a good hike aways.
These backroads are the embroidered threads of my childhood, twisting and quilted with wildflowers. One summer I stumbled on an empty miner’s shack some miles past the feed store. Showed my lil’ sister and we spent long days there – heads on fire with tales of specters and haints. Closed in by crying willows and elderberry bushes, it was our secret hideout. Hope it’s still standing.
It takes hours to hike there. Lightness in childhood expands time and space. Or maybe my broken body just don’t move so easy.
Sloped and drooping but upright, it needs a good cleaning. I sweep out a family of mice. I’ve brung a bit of food but it won’t last long. Least the elderberries are in fruit. I’ve snuck cuttings from our vegetable garden with me. Gotta watch for whistle pigs as they destroyed our crop two years ago. Luther gave it to me good that time.
I recall Mrs. Hinton talking the other day. Luther brung me to the Cutshin General for chicken feed. I wished for a stick of horehound. ‘Stead I listened to old Mrs. Hinton yammerin’ on about some War on Poverty and the president’s promise to make more jobs, especially for poor folk. My ears pricked at that. I got skills. Momma was a healer and midwife. I learned plants from her. I’d go on housecalls and help out here and there. I know black snakeroot’s good for bellyaches and blue cohosh helps bring a baby on.
But Luther’s paranoia don’t let me mess with plants much. He says I cast witchy spells when I make something for his hangovers or bumpy skin. Never thanks me when he feels better. Mrs. Hinton talked and talked. Woulda liked to have stayed, but Luther grabbed my arm and steered me outta there. Told me not to get any big ideas.
–
Days after finding the cabin, with a grumblin’ belly, I wander down the hillside ‘bout a mile. There’s a blinding white clapboard church. Paint still looks wet with a sign, Creech Community Church of Christ. I knowed some Creeches a ways back. I’ll visit Sunday and hope a kindly minister – better yet, his wife, might take pity on me. Just pray they know nothing ‘bout Luther Hoskins of Gilley missing a wife.
I wash in the creek the following day and chop my long, tangled hair, hiding my head under Luther’s tweed cap. Bruises are fading and I move better. I cinch Luther’s pants with a piece of rope and roll up the legs. I catch my reflection in the pond. I look like a scraggly teenage boy. I rub nettles into my skin – what’s a little burning if it deters unwanted attention? Don’t pay to be a pretty girl in these parts.
I set off for the church, blisters rubbing into my heels from Luther’s boots. Bet he’s mad as a yellowjacket for losing ‘em. The little church’s busting – people everywhere, dressed in their finest. I watch from the woods before going in. I settle on a hard bench against a back wall.
I stare at the back of blonde heads trying to understand the preacher’s words. He’s leading a prayer for a sick member of his flock. I imagine sick sheep rolling in the mud, baahing in pain. Makes me snicker. Preacher’s eagle eyes find mine. Wish I could melt into the wall, like wet paint. I nod and utter Amens. After prayers and songs and more prayers, the service ends and everyone trudges out. I keep my eyes down, feeling stares and questions. Maybe it’s cuz I’m wearing Luther’s cap in God’s house.
I startle when a hand lands on my shoulder. Preacher’s taller than expected, slick as a butterbean in his tan suit, smelling like tobacco and sweat.
“Don’t believe we’ve met son. Welcome. I’m Preacher Powell. Glad you could attend this fine morning.”
He talks fancy. It takes a moment to understand what he’s saying. I stand, shaking his hand and mumble a thank you, my whole hand lost in his grip.
“It’s good to see a new face here. Join us out back for refreshments.”
I follow as he leads me to a massive table shaded in the trees, buckling under enormous platters of food. I nearly faint at the sight of so much, after living on scraps and raw plants the last few days. There’s ham, fried chicken, rainbow-colored jellos, casseroles, and pies. I tear my eyes from the food and look around. They all must be kin. Same blue-gray eyes; same high cheekbones; same downy, blonde hair and pale skin, though the kids are more sun-soaked than their elders.
“Welcome to the Fitch Family Church of Christ of Creech,” he says, without a stutter. “Where you from, young man? You part of the Fitch clan over in Leslie County?” I’m tempted to lie but I don’t look a thing like these Fitches. Luther claims I’m part squaw.
“Just a traveler, passing through. I’m Enos – Enos Corbett… from Pike,” I say, keeping my voice low.
“Enos of Pike, it’s nice to meet you. You in the area on business?” I nearly laugh. Business? My business is finding a job. Better say things I can keep straight.
“I’m looking for work. Heard the government’s hiring for their War on Poverty.” My cheeks burn. I stare at his shiny black shoes in the red clay dirt.
“That so? What kind of work you do?”
“Herbs and plants – healing,” I stumble. I know there’s another word but can’t remember. “I learned from my momma before she died.”
“That’s an honorable endeavor, Enos. We need healers ‘round here. Lots of sufferin’ in these hills. I wish you well.”
“Thank you, sir.” I pause. “I’ve hit some bad luck. Lost everything when the creek washed it away… nearly swept me away too.” Can’t believe I’m lying to a man of God. Shouldn’t be this easy. But here I am – making up tall tales.
“Powell, there you are.” Goldilocks in a bright yellow dress covered in sunflowers joins us. Flushed cheeks like cherries and long blond hair, braided into a flaxen plait down her back. Feel like I’m staring into the sun.
“Mary, dear, come meet our guest, Mr. Corbett – Enos. Family name?” I try not to stare at her bulging belly.
“Yes sir, named for my daddy. He died in the mines.” It’s out before I can stop it. Need to remember all these lies I’m telling. I look skyward, waiting on God’s thunderbolt.
“Bless your heart,” she says. “Powell, offer him something to eat. Looks like he might float away on the breeze.” The sunny missus grabs a plate and hands it to me. I take slices of ham and orange jelly sauce and two biscuits, trying not to be greedy. She eyes my meager takin’s and adds to the plate.
“You need more than that. One mustn’t leave a Fitch Family Reunion hungry.” I’ve meddled a family reunion? Hellfire. Thankful Luther ain’t a churchgoer. Only place he finds salvation is at Smokey’s Truckstop, lapping too much from the communal cup … or Anabel’s bed. Hope this incident don’t get back to him. Instead of worrying, I dive into the food: mashed potatoes, gravy, shucky beans, biscuits, and peach pie. I eat way too much, way too fast. Pray I don’t make a splatterment in the bright green grass. Mary leads me to a chair as I struggle to squash a rumbling belch.
Mary and Preacher Powell pull up chairs, none bothered. They introduce members of their family. I can’t keep anyone straight as things go hazy from all the food. Don’t think I’ve eaten that much ever. Powell’s summoned away by a harried member of his flock. Mary smiles, as he walks off. She asks where I’m staying.
“I’m making my way to Hazard, ma’am. How much farther?” Her bright blue eyes get big.
“That’s a long ways, Enos. You walking there?”
“Yes, ma’am. That’s where they’s hiring. I need a job since losin’ everything to the creek.” My shoulders slump, tear falling. These aren’t fake.
“Oh honey…” She hands me a flowered napkin. “They’re not just hiring in Hazard. President Johnson sent delegates all over. They’re looking for people in Helton too. We might could drive you over tomorrow.” I want to hug her. Can’t do that. Luther’s extra large clothes can hide certain things, but if I hug Mary Sunshine, she’ll realize I’m not who I say I am.
“Thank you, ma’am – that’d be awfully kind.”
“Tis no trouble. Helping our brethren’s our life’s calling. Stay with us tonight. Thunderstorms threatening later. We have a guest room – soon to be a nursery.” She pats her belly with a contented smile.
“Congratulations,” I add quickly. “Didn’t wanna presume.” She laughs at my expression and pats my hand.
“Enos, you’re a funny one. We don’t get many handsome young men with ambition such as you. I’d set you up with my cousin’s girl, Clara, if you were staying. You’re ‘bout her age.”
I choke on my lemonade. “I’m sure she’s very nice but without a job, I’m not worth much.” Mary’s eyes wander the whole of me. I wonder if she’s figured me out. She says nothing.
I help her clean the dishes and stow folding tables in the basement of the church. She leads me up to their home – a large, rustic lodge surrounded by smaller cottages.
“Powell’s sisters and parents live in those. He likes his family close. His brothers live ‘round the bend.”
“Must be nice to have so much family nearby,” I say, checking out the tidy cabins, each with a vegetable garden. These folks don’t have dark secrets needin’ to hide. Maybe husbands here don’t beat their wives for coal dirt in their clothes.
Mary brings me into the spacious, open living room. Framed photos of look-alike Fitch family members cover the walls. Luther and I don’t even have a wedding picture in our trailer. Not one. I stare at the faces. I want to see their happiness…their contentment. Is it real?
Mary hands me a tube of ointment. “For that rash, hon.”
The next day I’m driven into Helton where I meet Mr. Clyde Asher of the Government Works Program. I’m offered a job as a guide to visiting plant researchers on tour of East Kentucky’s medicine plants. Mr. Asher introduces me as Helton’s Bo-tan-i-cal expert. Not sure what that means. Just relieved to be finding my own way in the world – plant doctor, witch doctor – don’t matter. Snakeroot and Cohosh… these I know.
–
These last couple months have emboldened me. I live in a boarding house with others looking to make an honest living. Mrs. Hayes looks after me. Think she’s aware of my predicament. When a room with a private bath opens, she gives it to me. And she’s brung me clothes her eldest son’s grown out of, lending me the house sewing machine, so I can make my clothes fit proper-like.
I’s so nervous that first day. I slipped up and told her my name’s Eva. It’s not easy pretending to be something you ain’t. She took a hard look at me, then turned away to tend to the beans cookin’ on the stovetop. I’s sure she’d kick me out or worse, make me move to the women’s boarding house down the road.
“E,” she calls me now. “We get all kinds here. All’s welcome as long as they follow the rules.” She likes me cuz I don’t drink or swear and keep to myself. I pay each week when board’s due and I give her some of my homespun remedies. When the rowdier fellas come in at night, I make a quick exit. It’s been a peaceable arrangement.
–
The tour group’s assembled, waiting for me to begin the tour. Deep breath in. I look out at the faces assembled.
That’s when I see him, standing in the back, leaning on a hickory. Eyes shaded.
My heart thunders in my chest a moment. He’s got a new cap, pulled low, over the eyes that once captivated me. I’d know that body anywhere – slouching, hint of a smile and old Blue sagging on the street, behind him.
Took him three months to find me. There was news of a stranger in town a couple weeks ago. New faces in Helton get noticed. I was once that new face. Thankfully I’ve had time to blend in. Need to think.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a patch of dogbane. I recognize its large elliptical leaves on short stalks with whitish-green flowers.
I’m tired of running. Tired of having no control. Why’d he have to follow me?
Hemp dogbane here? It’s a trash plant – grows in ditches and thickets by roadsides. Makes sense. It grows in Gilley too. I tear my eyes from the plant, daring a glance at Luther.
He watches me, head cocked and a smirk, and takes off his cap. His hair’s longer. He looks thinner too, but relaxed, aside from the vein pulsing over his right eye. He’s wearing a new shirt – bright blue logo’s familiar.
Dogbane’s good for dropsy in tiny quantities. Luther needed it once after bingeing too many nights. Swollen feet and legs from too much corn liquor. Didn’t thank me then neither.
Bledsoe Works – that’s the blue logo. That’s only a few miles from here.
Heart hammers harder in my chest. Bet he can hear it.
Tired of being so damn afeared.
His lips press into a smile that never reaches his ice-blue eyes. I know that smile… and what comes after. The back of my legs tingle, recalling the bite of his belt.
With the right dosage, dogbane’s good for dropping other things too, like a sack of rocks.
I lift my head, narrow my eyes at him, holding his gaze ’til he looks away. I turn back to the visiting researchers and continue the tour.
–
Cathy Schieffelin is an avid reader and writer. Years of adventure and travel contribute to her daily writing life. This piece is inspired by the year she spent living in eastern Kentucky as a literacy tutor for the Frontier Nursing Service. She lives in New Orleans, LA with her husband, three children and pack of mongrels.
© 2023, Cathy Schieffelin
Halfway Down the Stairs 