Papa Ain’t Come Home Much
by Gary Clifton
“Law comin’ ’roun’ back, Sallymae,” Hiram rasped through the tiny door crack. Tow-headed and nine, little brother Hiram’s weary blue eyes reflected the hopeless resignation common among residents along Fiddler’s Gap in the 1937 Blue Ridge Range. “Me ‘n Rosie hungry, Sallymae.”
The wan face of sister Rosie, seven and missing two front teeth pushed partly out the small opening. “Yeh, Sallymae, we hungry.”
Sallymae Brogan tossed her axe onto the pile of firewood she’d accumulated before daybreak that cold morning. Fourteen, going on thirty, she shared a shanty with her two younger siblings and their emotionally disturbed mother, Clarina. Her daddy, Frank, hadn’t been around lately. Sallymae was locked in a hopeless struggle to keep her family structure intact.
Puberty had awarded Sallymae the figure of a woman ten years older. Men from Fiddler’s Gap frequently stopped by and offered to “help out,” which meant ponying up meager offerings of food in return for Sallymae’s cooperating out behind the woodshed. She had declined, often belligerently.
“Couple pieces of bread in that tin above the table, Hiram. Soon’s I get some fire goin’, you can heat it on the stovetop.”
“Mama ate that bread, Sallymae.”
She patted her coat pocket. “Got some nice taters here, Hiram. Soon’s we get some fire goin’, y’all can eat.”
Footsteps crunched on hardpacked snow, and Birdsal County Deputy Constable Bader Easley bear-hugged her, his hands seeking her ample chest.
“Dammit, Bader, stop that!” She struggled free.
“Aw, c’mon, Sallymae, a little touchin’ don’t make no never mind.”
“Bader, get the hell outa here.” She reached for her axe.
“A-goin’, Sallymae. Jes’ wanted to remind you they gonna foreclose on this property in three more days. Firstbank be sendin’ men to put y’all out in the cold.”
“Dammit, Bader, we ain’t got no money,” she struggled against tears, the icy wind cutting into her young features. “This land inherited from Papa’s mama.”
If the bank seized the property, they’d put Mama, Clarina, who suffered from melancholies, into a state home, then Sallymae’s two siblings into foster care.
“Well, yer papa mortgaged it. He’s up the Gap with the Widder Bouchee. Might be his place to help.”
Bader, despite his pistol and bravado, was terrified of Frank Brogan and his reputation as the baddest ass in the valley.
“Get gone from here, Bader. Touch me again, and I swear I’ll take this axe to ya.”
“The high sheriff also says to tell you iffen’ you don’t get them two youngin’s back in school, he gonna see ’bout takin’ ’em away,” Bader called over his shoulder.
Sallymae spent a few minutes calming her mama while the stove heated enough to half-bake two potatoes. “They’s some lard and salt there, kids.” She dallied mostly to keep Clarinda from taking the food for herself, then started the mile walk to town.
* * *
A grossly fat, balding man in a brown suit appeared from behind the Firstbank counter. Eyes fixed on Sallymae’s chest, he said, “Edgewood Shoat, young lady... And I believe you’re the oldest Brogan child.”
Sallymae had no way of knowing that Shoat was one of many lecherous males who’d slowed when passing the Brogan shanty hoping to snatch a glance at her.
In five minutes, Shoat had run the entire spectrum of reasons why the bank had to take her house. After she declined several offers of a “lift” home, he showed her the door.
Sallymae spent the rest of the day declining more male offers of a ride home and knocking on doors of her numerous relatives along the Gap. Although Papa’s aunt gave her four potatoes, each relation claimed, usually for lack of living space, they had no room for her or her family. The denials also invariably included some references to “poor Clarina.”
* * *
The next morning, after calming Mama and sharing a meal of two larded potatoes, she made the long trek up to the “Widder” Bouchee’s place, declining three male offers of a “ride” on the way. She was surprised to see a brand-new Ford parked in the weeds to the rear. Papa didn’t own a car. She banged on the front door. Instead of Papa charging out drunk, she caught sight of a naked fat man running across the back to the Ford.
As the car roared past her in the yard, Edgewood Shoat was fully recognizable. She pounded on the door for some time, then surrendered to the cold and made the long walk home.
The next day, she labored for a way to tell Mama and the kids while splitting the last two potatoes. Near dusk, Bader Easley whipped the county car into the yard.
“Bader, we still got a day left.”
“Hush, Sallymae. Your papa been shot dead. Widder Bouchee been shot but ain’t dead... yet.”
“Shot... dead? Where... when?”
“Prolly yisterday. Papa stumbled onto another customer, maybe? Her son dropped by and found them this mornin’.”
“Bader, I’ll take that ride you been offerin’.”
* * *
She barged through Edgewood Shote’s closed door. The fat man sprang to his feet. “You little welp... I’ll—”
“Whut, shoot me? Deputy Easley is sittin’ out front, jes’ wonderin’ why the hell I’m talkin’ to you. I seen you run off from murdering my papa and shootin’ Widder Bouchee.”
Stunned, he stammered, “Yer word against mine.”
“Wanna take that chance, sir? You don’t get the chair, but word get ’roun’ and you outa bidness.”
“Could we work something out?” He slumped in his chair.
Her hard mountain eyes softened as she unbuttoned the top button on her shirt. “Times are hard, sir.”
His look was absolute terror. He picked up a folded document. “I’ll tear up this mortgage?”
“How nice, Mr. Shoat. I’m thinkin’ ’bout twenty a month cash would help, too. Could you put that in writin’ and give me the first twenty now, please?”
Copyright © 2023 by Gary Clifton
