SPREZZATURA

The Creek

I’ve got the cancer. And I’ve got the degenerative eye disease. And I ain’t got much time left.

I’m eighty-eight years old, and I’ve got a great granddaughter writing this stuff down for me, since my hands don’t work so good no more. Her name is Scarlet, and she is beautiful. It’s for her English class. She’s a junior at Squalor Hollow High. I, myself, only made it to the eighth grade.

I’ve got good memories, had a good life beholding to the Almighty; but I got me some regrets, too. My name is Clementine. Clementine Judith McLintock. You can call me Clemmy.

It’s been seventy-three years since Robert drowned. That’s seventy-three years that I’ve lived with this regret. Seventy-three years of fearing torment and damnation because I should’ve been holding on to his hand; which I did, for as long as I could, but I wasn’t strong enough. And Momma knew it and Daddy knew it, that I wasn’t strong enough, but they had their hands full: trying to make sure all seven of us kids made it to the high ground in time.

Daddy had to carry Jimmy—Jimbo, we called him—because he was born with water on the brain and couldn’t fend for hisself. He was the oldest of us. And, Daddy, with his other hand, he had to pull Momma up that big hill. Momma was a healthy, stout old gal; you had to be, back then. Daddy was skinny as a reed; so you can imagine the struggle he had. Momma carried Annie, the baby, on her other arm. Randy held on to Momma’s dress with one hand, and pulled me using his other. I pulled Marybeth and she pulled Robert. Robert pulled Ben. Don’t ask me to recollect their precise ages. I can barely remember in what order everyone was born.

The rain didn’t stop falling that spring. We lived in a single-story shack at the foot of Buncombe Mountain. Daddy was a logger—the best there ever was, folks used to say. And he was handsome too, despite being so skinny. He worked for his dad, until a tree fell on him, sending him to the Promised Land. Daddy found the body; had to dig half of it out, just to turn around and bury him all over again. Daddy became the big man at McLintock Logging then, running the show really well, despite being just twenty years of age or so. He made and repaired crosscut saws for other logging operations, too.

Momma’s maiden name was Draymond. Draymond Logging was Daddy’s biggest competitor. But I reckon that didn’t stop them from falling in love. Or, more precisely, getting knocked up, I guess you could say. They loved music and to dance. When they were within arms’ length of one another, you couldn’t keep Hollis McLintock off of Janey Draymond, they used to say. Or vice versa, if you don’t mind me being so uncultivated. Anyway, my Granddad Draymond helped Daddy build that shack before Jimbo was born.

Momma used to say that God gave mountain people like us special feet. She said our feet were different, allowing us to hike to the top of the steepest hill and run back down the other side of it quick as a cat. But I reckon God hisself couldn’t have expected that much rain—the amount we got back in spring of forty-five. It came up on us one night, calm as a Hindu cow, and it stayed calm. Day after day after day, it stayed calm. No thunder, no big wind…just weeks of slow, steady rain.

We watched it fill the creek bed; we watched it sneak up to the front porch like an unwelcome Jee-hovah’s Witness. We watched it start rolling in under the front door before Daddy even said we might have a problem on our hands. But he didn’t do nothing about it. Mommy made us all pray that it wouldn’t get no higher.

It got higher, alright.

We didn’t have nice furniture; but what we did have, Momma stacked up so the water wouldn’t ruin it. That only bought us some time. Then we got word that our old teacher at the one-room schoolhouse, mean old Miss Burkett, had called off classes until further notice. So there Momma was: one on the tit, one chair-bound, and five more crazy and hungry kids getting in trouble and playing in cold water slowly taking over her house; all while Daddy spent sun-up to sundown in the woods.

Our house sat on a lot of land, some ninety acres, give or take, so we didn’t have neighbors close by; but we knew they were all leaving ahead of us because they all stopped and asked if we needed help packing up. Momma always told them no. Daddy was in the woods, so he couldn’t say nothing. So we prayed, several times a day, that the rain would stop and the water would stop coming in. We didn’t wear shoes in the house—hardly ever, actually—so that cold water rising inch-by-inch was bound to make us sick. Us kids had to share beds, which weren’t really beds at all—more like bare mattresses; and these mattresses were on the floor and in every room. Early-on during the rain we, me and Randy, I mean, put the mattresses on tables or anything we could find to keep us out of the water that was rising slowly day after day. And we had to keep wheeling poor Jimbo about because the roof leaked constantly; and everywhere we put him, raindrops would find him. I guess that’s irony: considering his condition and all. I hope that doesn’t make me sound mean. Lord forgive me, if it does.

Well, one night I guess Daddy finally had enough of Momma’s complaining, so he said the next morning, which was a Sunday, we would all head to high ground. ’Bout damn time, too; the water was so high in the house that it was up to Jimbo’s chest whilst sitting in his chair. The lowlands in the county were completely flooded and the more we prayed the worse it got. We were the only family stupid enough to still be down there.

The night before we left, a Saturday night it was, a couple men on horseback came to the house. Completely soaked, Daddy asked them in; even though we couldn’t offer any coffee or warm blankets that weren’t already in use by us kids. They declined; said they were with the Squalor Hollow Rescue Squad. They wanted to take the youngest ones of us into the town, set them up with old Doc McInnis’ family until the rest of us could join them. They said they would make as many trips as it took to get us all out, if we accepted their graciousness. They were kind—I remember it like it was yesterday. But Momma said her babies would stay beside her every night until the day they had families of their own. Daddy tried, if you want to call it that, to change her mind. He said the next day’s climb to the top of Buncombe Mountain would be easier if Annie, Ben, and Robert went on ahead of us with those men. And he was right; but there was no changing Momma’s mind. In her benevolence, she allowed one of the men to pack Jimbo’s wheelchair back with them.

Something inside me said it was a mistake—that these men were sent like angels to help us. But Momma, for all her praying, didn’t see it that way. And even after little Robert drowned, and all the way up to her own death, she never admitted to God or anybody that she was wrong. But all those damn Draymonds were that way.

Morning came and Momma stood in water waist-high, nursing Annie and giving us our Sunday School lesson while Daddy filled empty potato sacks with whatever food he could find that wasn’t completely ruined by moisture. He had a wad of paper money that he split with Momma, in case the rain ruined what he stashed inside the zippered-pocket of his overalls. He gave each of us kids a silver dollar apiece; the ones he was saving for our birthdays. Even though I’m a February baby—the twelfth; same as Honest Abe Lincoln and that science man that said we came from monkeys—and he already gave me mine a couple months before, he gave me another one anyway. Daddy wasn’t the brightest, as he would say, but he always tried to be fair.

I was sitting cross-legged Indian-style on a big oak table, Jimbo propped up against me, back-to-back when Momma finished her lesson and Daddy said it was time. I still had a bad feeling; and I could tell Daddy did too. I could just tell. The rain was still falling calmly when he snatched up Jimbo and threw him over his right shoulder. Normally before leaving the house Momma would ask us all if we needed to visit the outhouse; but, as nasty as it sounds, there was no point in it by then: we were all wading in our own filth. We all knew it, but none of us spoke about it.

The rain wasn’t cold. Or maybe it was; we were just so used to it that it didn’t bother us no more. We had our assignments, knowing who to hold on to when we started the climb up Buncombe, the tallest mountain in Squalor Hollow; which could have meant it was the tallest in the world, for all we knew. All I know is that when we were behind the house, and I looked up at it, this same mountain I’d seen all my life, mind you, it seemed to reach Heaven.

I was always tall for my age, and that water was up to my ribs and rising. Daddy went first with Jimbo on one shoulder and the potato sack thrown across the other. Out front porch was high, and we stayed there with Momma until Daddy had time to sit Jimbo high enough on the hill that he would be safe for a while. After he had done that, he came and got us; snatching little Annie right off the tit so Momma could care for Robert, who was crying and throwing a hellacious fit. She picked up Robert to carry him; I did the same for Marybeth and Ben: carrying one on each hip.

The distance from the porch to the back of the house, and then on to the foot of the hill, was maybe a couple hundred feet—not too bad. But when you’re trying to hold on to two scared kids and you’re walking through cold, deep water…well, two hundred feet seemed like two miles. Ben had his little fingernails dug in me so deep it left bruises. Marybeth hid her face in my neck; I could feel her sobbing. We trudged on; one family, cold and scared out of our wits.

Daddy sat Jimbo propped up against a big beech tree about thirty or forty feet up from the brown rushing creek. In that same tree Daddy had carved with his pocket knife a big heart with “HM + JDM” many years before, on or around their wedding day. I always loved that big beech. Momma did too; when we made it there and collected Jimbo, she took a minute to close her eyes and rested her forehead on it; like the way she used to rest her head on Daddy’s chest when she thought nobody was looking. Daddy was preoccupied trying to calm Jimbo, who although was barely audible, was heaving and convulsing to beat the band. Poor little feller probably thought we had left him there alone to die. But once he had calmed down Daddy picked him up again and we started up that mountain.

Everyone knew who to hang on to, and who to pull. Daddy left his footprints long and deep in the mud and dirt, so we all knew exactly where to step. And we were glad of it, because all that rain had washed down the loose dirt and tree tops from the higher elevations. Whereas normally we could have scaled Buncombe straight up, this time we had to zigzag to and fro. Momma led us all in singing her favorite church hymns to keep our minds occupied and to keep us feeling sorry for ourselves. But we were all sad; none of us knew when we’d see our old house again. And I regretted not trying to convince Daddy to carry more stuff; like Momma’s guitar, or his reproduction of the Jesse and Frank James tintype he bought at the five-and-dime in Russellville. He loved that old picture.

Halfway up the mountain Marybeth got fussy with me. She said I was pulling too rough and hurting her. I tried telling her that I was being as gentle as I could be; that I was at the mercy of Randy’s pulling; and he of Momma’s pulling; but she paid me no attention. To keep her from crying I told Robert to switch with her; which they did, so I ended up pulling him instead. But that left the problem of Ben: if Marybeth couldn’t handle holding on to me and to Robert, then I knew she couldn’t hold on to Ben, the littlest. He was a “wiggler,” as Momma used to say. Whereas Robert could be counted on to stay put in one place like a sack of taters, Ben moved and wiggled all the time. So I told everybody to hold on for a minute while I switched with Marybeth, so Randy could pull her. I took my chances and carried Ben in my right arm and pulled Robert with my left. So then we were basically two separate groups zigzagging up the steep, slick mountain. I felt like Sisyphus. I still do.

Now before I get to the part of the story where I talk about what happened to Robert, I’ll need to rest. I’m old and I’m tired and even seventy-three years after he went to Heaven telling this tale takes a lot out of me, as you can imagine. Especially the part about when the Rescue Squad and Daddy finally found my little brother—several days after the rain stopped and the water went down—and saw that the turtles and other varmints found him first; his little body with his clothes torn away and the bite marks on the fleshy parts, like his legs and bottom and face. And about the closed-casket funeral inside Doc McInnis’ house because our house was still a mess from the flood. And about how Momma didn’t allow me to go to the funeral because she blamed me for killing her baby. I’ll get to all of that; but you’ll have to bear with me—I can’t talk about that stuff without bawling. Just know that God didn’t give all us mountain folk special feet after all.

But before I talk about all that—and before I have you and everyone else reading your story hating me too—I want to talk about my life after the spring of forty-five. I want you to know I tried to be the best person I could be.

Needless to say Momma and Daddy didn’t have a lot to do with me after what happened. That Christmas I didn’t get no presents. I had to eat my suppers away from the table, away from the rest of my family. And I prayed every night that the Lord would take me too. And not in my sleep; no, I wanted to hurt. I wanted to be doused in gasoline and set on fire—to prepare myself for Hell, which I knew awaited me.

The following February I turned sixteen and knew it was time to leave. I met a boy and I didn’t love him, but he loved me. He was nineteen, so I guess he wasn’t a boy, really. He was a bank teller in town; not a looker, exactly—but tall and built and seemed to have a good head on his shoulders. I didn’t wait for him to ask for my hand in marriage; I just started talking about it one day and didn’t stop until he bought me a little ring and took me to the Justice of the Peace. I didn’t go back to the old house for my clothes or nothing. He—Virgil was his name—said he had a little saved so he bought me a few dresses and some shoes and we rented a place a town, so he could walk to work.

By the end of summer, I was pregnant; and by that time Virgil had accepted a loan officer job in Marrowbone. We moved there and bought a little house. I took up sewing and alterations to make a little extra money. We bought a house and two acres just before our twins James and Robert were born in June 1947. While I was recuperating after the long labor, Virgil borrowed his father’s beat up old truck and went to Mommy and Daddy’s house, asking them to come by and see the babies any time they wanted. Momma slammed the door in his face. Daddy went around back and caught up with Virgil before he started the pickup and asked how I was doing. He told him I was doing fine; and he said that made Daddy smile.

I became the Sunday School teacher for the little kids at Marrowbone Christian Church. I loved that so very much. I missed my family back home in Squalor Hollow, but was hurt that no one came to see me. So I made a promise to myself that I would never hurt a child, no matter what. And I am proud to say I kept that promise until 1997or ’98, when my grandson Scott—your father, Scarlet—came home one day wearing a Creed hoodie. It was a kneejerk reaction, one I’m sure no one could fault me for, and I slapped him. Twice. And I felt bad afterwards, but only for a little while. Where I’m from, we respect music.

That Christmas I bought him two Beastie Boys shirts and a Foo Fighters beanie. He apologized for being a pussy. I told him all was forgiven, but to watch his language. He should have used the term “beta.”

Well, back to my story.

By the time the twins could use the toilet Virgil had been promoted to bank manager. And with that job came a secretary. A pretty blonde one. I was the last one to find out what was going on, and by then it was too late—he had gotten her pregnant. He agreed to pay the mortgage on our little place until it was paid off, and the court ordered a monthly payment to me and the boys that he agreed was fair. So that was that: no more Virgil…and I didn’t mind one bit.

When the boys started school I took a job at the general store and kept sewing an altering clothes for folks. I bought a used car, an old Plymouth, and one Sunday after church I took the boys to see Grandma and Grandpa McLintock. Daddy was happy to see us, and even Momma warmed up to the twins after a while. Daddy told them stories about Frank and Jesse James and the boys hung on his every word. Ben and Marybeth were overjoyed to meet their cousins. Randy was in Korea. He never made it home.

Years passed and the kids grew up and the older folks died. Momma was already an old woman when she got bit by that copperhead. Normally that wouldn’t have killed an adult, but by the time Daddy got in from the woods to take her to the hospital, the poison had already worked itself all the way through her body. She suffered a week in Dreckly County General before she passed. Daddy made it to that winter before he just gave up. He took a rope to that big beech tree and then hung hisself from the lowest branch. I wish he coulda stuck around longer to see my boys grow up.

My boys were brilliant students, but that’s the only thing they had in common. James graduated at the top of Marrowbone High in sixty-five. Robert was second. Robert went on to enlist in the Marines and James went off to school to study theater. Robert served two tours in Vietnam and met a girl there. They got married and had a boy: Scott. Robert earned a purple heart and returned home a war hero. He’s got a big spread in Fayette County now, just down the road from the house Johnny Depp bought for his momma. James, after he graduated, moved to New York and got the AIDS. He moved back home in eighty-six. I took care of him as long as I could, but hospice said he’d be better off in a hospital. He died February 12, 1987 at Good Samaritan in Lexington. That was the second hardest day of my life.

Now before I finish my story, sweet girl, I need to rest. Talking takes a lot out of me. So let Granny rest for a couple hours, then I promise to tell you the rest. I’ll tell you about losing my footing, dropping Ben and letting Robert’s hand slip out of mine, and having to make the most difficult split-second decision anyone has ever made. I’ll tell you everything. I promise.

{Editor’s note: Clementine McLintock did not awake from her nap. She passed away peacefully from this Earth December 9, 2018 in her home. At the time of her death she was surrounded by loved ones: her grandson Scott McLintock and his wife Sarah; and their daughter Scarlet. Clemmy, as she liked to be called, was eighty-nine years of age}