The Moonshiner's Daughter (ARC) Read online

  “No you can’t. We both got to lift that cap off, and unload

  the corn, and it needs to be done quick.”

  As we went down the back steps, he mumbled, “I don’t

  know why you got to think you’re so high-and-mighty all

  the time.”

  I ignored him. We got in the truck and I took the keys

  out from under the seat. I drove Route 18, then a remote

  dirt path with a lot of switchbacks. It ran along Blood Creek, thus the name we used for the still. We had two other loca-tions in Wilkes County, Big Warrior and Boomer, also named

  for the general areas they resided. We didn’t talk the entire fifteen-minute ride. I parked the truck out of sight under an old poplar. We each hefted a fifty-pound sack out of the back, balanced them on our shoulders, and began the walk in. We

  took a left on what could be called a trail until it dwindled away to nothing. From that point, the woods were dense,

  and we followed what had become familiar to us, but anyone

  else would swear they were lost. Certain trees appeared and

  we knew where to turn, then came the bend and wind of the

  creek, and we crossed it, carefully balancing the sacks. My

  leg muscles burned and went wobbly. I dreaded having to go

  back for the rest. It would take several trips and I was already exhausted.

  I broke the silence and said, “It ain’t that I’m high-and-

  mighty.”

  He was breathing hard, but had enough air to argue. “You

  act like what we do ain’t no good. I don’t see why you got to Ever_9781496717023_2p_all_r1.indd 25

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  keep pushing the way you think. Whether you want to admit it or not, it’s why we got what we got.”

  “You sound just like him.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “You should. It’s illegal.”

  I’d given up trying to talk to him about Mama, and instead

  wanted him to see what we did was wrong. He’d only been

  two and didn’t have any recollection of her. He didn’t have a feeling of loss, a sense of missing out on something important and special like I did. Merritt plowed ahead like he didn’t

  want to hear any more. The way it was with Daddy and him,

  I was like a lone daffodil in the early spring that dares to find a way to poke through the frozen ground. I pondered my

  future as we went, like I did a lot these days. I wanted to get away from the legacy of my ancestors that was attached to me like my own skin, our last name synonymous with moonshine and bootlegging.

  I didn’t want to be known as the moonshiner’s daughter.

  As we approached the Blood Creek still, the very smell

  was as dishonest as a local politician. We set the bags on the ground, then squatted behind a big rock. We had us a perfect view of the ugly wooden contraption that sat festering in a

  stand of trees, near to a small offshoot of the creek. We assessed the surroundings. Nothing was out of the ordinary, so I nudged him and we went a bit closer. We stopped again,

  listening, and watching. After another minute, we moved un-

  til we were finally standing near enough that Merritt could

  look for what he, Oral, and Uncle Virgil set up the day before.

  There was a way of leaving the area so as to know if someone had been there. The easiest way was to lay a couple sticks like an X near the front of the still, and hide it with leaves. Some people tied threads so they’d get broke. He bent down and

  carefully swept the leaves aside. The X was still there, noth-Ever_9781496717023_2p_all_r1.indd 26

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  ing appeared out of place, and the still was doing what it was supposed to, much to my disappointment.

  We got the corn and stored the bags under the lean-to

  Daddy fashioned. The sun had set its edge at the tops of the trees, and the air was becoming cool. I could’ve used a jacket, especially in this heavily shaded area of the woods. Frogs and crickets began a steady serenade joining in with the late day twittering and calls of various birds. There was solitude here, the only thing I liked about it.

  Merritt whispered, “Uncle Virgil’s supposed to bring more

  corn.”

  A real family affair, I thought with sarcasm. I hoped we’d miss him. He would often show up reeking of liquor and

  either get into telling dumb stories about how he and Daddy

  were living their glory days like they were legends in Wilkes County, or he’d be moody, itching for a fight like he’d been the other day. Merritt pointed at the big box contrived from old boards and lined with copper. Blood Creek was a different type of still called a submarine. Daddy liked it best since he could get several runs of liquor off one mash recipe, and what we were checking on had been started a couple days ago.

  When spring hit, liquor making was nonstop. It only took

  three to four days for the mash to ferment, whereas in colder weather it could take up to two weeks. We were practiced

  and used our hands and facial expressions for communicating.

  Come evening, we were always more cautious. Revenuers

  were known to spring from out of nowhere, sometimes lying

  in wait after dark.

  The boiler held the fermenting mash and Merritt made an-

  other sign indicating he was ready if I was. We lifted the

  lid covering a layer of bubbling foam. We swiped our hands

  through and studied it. It was close to the distilling stage, the head thinner. I held up a finger, estimating how many days it Ever_9781496717023_2p_all_r1.indd 27

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  would take before the froth would disappear. It would only be beer at that point and about 6 to 12 percent alcohol. The mash would be heated and stirred to the boiling point of alcohol, 173 degrees. Steam would pass through a thumper and into

  a flake stand and out what Daddy called the “moneymaker.”

  We’d been shown how to shake the jars it trickled into, to

  get a bead, meaning if bubbles formed and disappeared too

  quick, it wasn’t good for drinking yet. You want the bead to last longer. I was almost certain it was at some point during the heating process, when a fire is built underneath the boiler, that Mama had come to her end.

  We replaced the lid, and made sure the X made with the

  sticks was covered well before we began making our way back

  down the path. We’d no sooner gotten started when an un-

  expected noise made me grab Merritt’s arm. There’d been a

  distinct cracking sound, like someone stepped on a branch. It hadn’t come from the direction I would expect, and I placed

  a finger to my mouth. We ducked behind a cluster of black

  haw to scan the darkening woods. The fading light created

  the appearance of someone hiding behind an oak, an edge of

  clothing visible. I was about to jab Merritt until I saw it was only a thick vine. I waited to see if I could detect any kind of unusual movement while Merritt cupped a hand around his

  ear. The creek running nearby wasn’t helpful in separating

  noises caused by nature versus man. After another few sec-

  onds, and again, the crunch of a footstep came.

  I imagined what I’d heard about all my life; revenuers had

  finally caught us. They would sometimes get lucky and locate a still, then lie in wait for somebody to come back just so they could arrest them. They’d surround the area, prepared to tear apart what they found, and then put the responsible party in handcuffs, or in the case of their being underage, I wasn’t sure what would happen. Daddy wasn’t really a criminal, mor
e

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  like a tax evader, but I’d considered more than once he might end up behind bars and Merritt and I would be stuck living

  with Uncle Virgil and Aunt Juanita. There were times I was

  certain it would take something like that for him to quit and I’d even wished for it, until this moment. What would the

  agents do if they caught a couple of kids? Make us talk? We

  heard a hoot, like somebody signaling to another person. I

  was set to holler and run. Merritt’s eyes were like giant black marbles. I grabbed his arm and pointed. Something slid by the trees just to our right.

  “Run!” I hissed, and before we could get our feet under us

  good, a figure came running, bent at the waist like he had intentions of knocking us down the way a bowling ball smacks

  into pins. His hat was pulled low, and the dark pants and shirt made him look like a black ghost. We ducked to get out of the way, but I was grabbed, and squeezed so hard I squeaked. He

  let me go and I dropped to the ground with a thud, landing

  on my rear end. Merritt put his fists up like he was going to punch if he could get a swing in, only the man started coughing, and remained doubled over. Then he started laughing.

  We knew that idiotic hooting snicker. It was Uncle Virgil,

  stinking to high heaven, the faint odor of peaches coming off of him. He’d been into the peach brandy he favored.

  He puffed and wheezed, and in between his gasping, he

  said, “Law, I pitched that rock behind y’all and you both ’bout lit out of here like the boogeyman was after you.”

  I brushed my pants off and said, “You ain’t funny. Not

  one bit.”

  Uncle Virgil, still laughing, said, “Well, well, if it ain’t the old sourpuss.”

  Even Merritt was annoyed. “You scared the shit out of us.”

  Uncle Virgil said, “That there was an ambush test. Hate to

  say it, but the both of you failed. Gonna have to report it.”

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  Still picking twigs and burs off my clothes, I said, “Ha-ha.

  So much for being discreet; for all that noise, we might as well send out invitations to where we are.”

  Uncle Virgil said, “Well now, I think you done turned

  more sour since I seen you last. It ain’t possible.”

  The tang of his breath overtook the cool, fresh air, and I

  waved my hand in front of my face. His answer was to reach

  into the pocket of his coat, and bring out a jar. He offered it and I pushed his hand away.

  “You know I don’t touch that stuff.”

  He said, “This’ll straighten you out, make you more pleas-

  ant so you can see the world right.”

  “I doubt that.”

  He tipped his head back and said, “I agree.”

  Merritt said, “I’ll have some!”

  I said, “No you ain’t neither. Easton won’t stand for it.”

  Uncle Virgil took a swig and Merritt swallowed reflexively.

  I’d caught him and Oral sipping on a jar, the first off a run known as singlings. It’s nasty, bad stuff, not fit to drink, and they’d been halfway to being loaded. I told him I’d not say a word, long as he didn’t do it again. His head hurt so bad the next day, I think he’d learned his lesson.

  Merritt pointed at the still. “It ain’t got but a day.”

  Uncle Virgil said, “That’s real good. Them other two ain’t

  far behind. It’s gonna be one big steady stream out the pots and into pockets. Well, I reckon it ain’t nothing left to do here. Things set like they ought to be?”

  Merritt nodded while I started winding my way through

  the trees. They followed behind me and no one talked. I speculated on whose property we were using this time. I mean,

  if you thought about it, everything from start to finish stunk of wrongdoing. If it weren’t for what we’d just tended to, I might could’ve enjoyed being out here where the dusky sil-houettes of tall trees camouflaged human presence, where I

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  could come close to believing I’d not been hunkered down

  near the stinking box. Slipping through the woods soundless, leaving no trace, I could even imagine, I wasn’t ever here.

  We made our way back to the vehicles and left quickly. To

  my dismay, Uncle Virgil followed us to the house, and came

  right on in. He sat down on a kitchen chair with a thud, as if his legs give out. I caught that sharp odor again, and supposed he’d been at it all afternoon. His eyes were bloodshot, and his clothes disheveled. The knees of his coveralls were muddy,

  like he’d fallen down at some point, and a chicken feather was stuck to the back of his shirt. He was liable to pick an argument as he was wont to do when he’d had too much. If Daddy

  had been here, he’d tell him to go home and sleep it off.

  I said, “Want some iced tea?”

  In an overly polite, mocking tone, he said, “If’n it ain’t no trouble to you.”

  Merritt sat across from him and said, “What’s Oral doing?”

  “Your aunt Juanita’s got him tangled up with chores. He’s in a bit of trouble, you could say. Hell, we both stay in trouble.”

  Merritt’s attention sharpened, and he leaned across the ta-

  ble. “Yeah? What kind a trouble?”

  Uncle Virgil yawned, scratched at his belly, and said, “The

  kind he hates most.”

  I set a glass of sweet tea in front of him.

  I said, “You mean he’s been into the liquor again.”

  Merritt said, “I wished I could do that.”

  I smacked his shoulder and said, “No you don’t.”

  He frowned at me. “Do too.”

  “You know what Easton said.”

  Uncle Virgil picked up the glass and drained it while Mer-

  ritt leaned forward, eager to hear more, thinking he was missing out on what he viewed as fun. He waited for Uncle Virgil to elaborate.

  Uncle Virgil hiccupped, then put his head down on his

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  forearms. “You got anything for this popskull headache a

  mine?”

  I opened a cabinet beside the sink and got out a packet of

  BC Powders. He sat back, then hunched over again, like he

  couldn’t get comfortable, and you’d think Merritt would see

  this as a lesson to be learned. Instead, he only looked dis-

  appointed he wasn’t getting more details about his cousin.

  Merritt conveniently ignored my animated gestures behind

  Uncle Virgil’s back where I made like I was buttoning my lip, hoping a lack of conversation would make Uncle Virgil leave.

  Uncle Virgil sat up, shook the ice in his glass, a rude way of telling me to get him some more. I poured it full again, and set the pitcher beside him, a little harder than necessary. He winced, turned a bleary eye on me, but I ignored the look.

  He unfolded the little wax paper packet, tipped the contents in his mouth, and took a big swig of sweet tea. I started washing the cold, now greasy plates.

  After a while, he said, “Hey, sourpuss.”

  I kept washing and rinsing.

  “Hey.”

  I put the plate in the drain.

  “Hey, you know what? Hey.”

  “What, Uncle Virgil?”

  He sniggered, his laugh grating, and
making my own head

  hurt.

  He said, “You ever heard that saying ‘don’t bite the hand

  that feeds ya’? That’s something to think about.”

  He had no inkling I wasn’t eating, so it was kind of funny

  what he said.

  I stopped washing a plate, and said, “When I see what a

  fine example you set, maybe that’s got something to do with

  it, among other things.”

  Merritt made some noise.

  Uncle Virgil said, “Shoot. Lemme tell you what. Blame

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  your aunt Juanita for that boy of mine liking this fine product of ourn, not me.”

  “I can’t see how that’s true.”

  “Why sure. She’s the one got him started on it. Used it ever since he was a baby. Teething, here come a little whisky rubbed on his gums. Started to coughing, here come a little whisky, honey, and lemon. Couldn’t sleep, here come a little hot toddy.

  You ask me, that’s why he’s got the taste for it.”

  I waved a hand, dismissing what he said.

  I said, “You don’t see Easton drinking.”

  Uncle Virgil’s little buzz was wearing off and he said,

  “Nope. Not the Saint.”

  Uncle Virgil slumped on the chair, in no hurry. It was true, many around here used whisky the way he’d described, and

  Daddy had him a reputation for doling it out to the elderly

  who couldn’t afford a doctor. Maybe it was true, it might

  help some people, but it sure didn’t make up for all the other goings-on.

  Uncle Virgil burped, and said, “When did he go on his

  run?”

  “Couple hours ago.”

  He stood and said, “Reckon I’ll see him tomorrow some-

  time.”

  Relieved he was leaving, I held the back door open and he

  wobbled his way out. I waited till he got the truck cranked, then shut it. Merritt hurried to escape to his room before I could get started in on about Uncle Virgil’s downfalls. I tidied around the kitchen some more, and by then it was going on

  ten o’clock. I stared at the refrigerator, then opened the door.

  There was that one leftover steak floating in gravy. Why not?

  It would’ve been mine anyway. I reached for it, then remem-