Up Gander Road

CHAPTER 1

May 6, 1935

Black hair plastered to his head underneath his raggedy straw hat, Billy George Prater, could hardly wait until he got to the cool water. With rows of sweat striping his sun-baked cheeks and neck, he slogged across the acreage toward the stand of oaks to get the jug.

He and his twin brothers, Edward and Lucas, had started weeding and fertilizing the slope behind the house before daylight in preparation for over-seeding the rows, and they’d already worked up a big thirst.

A thick paper bag of tobacco seeds lay at the gnarly base of the ancient trunks. He glanced among the bulging roots and realized he’d left the empty jug at the house. The sun hung high, and they’d soon be stopping for lunch.

Damn. What’s the matter with me. Can’t work in this heat without water. I must be day-dreamin’ too much ‘bout leavin’ the farm.

Forming a megaphone with his hands, he hollered at Edward and Lucas, Forgot the water jug. Be right back.

Thinking how cool the water would feel sliding down his throat, he carefully stepped over the rows of four-inch high tobacco plants as he made his way down the hill to the house. He’d farmed this land with his mother and brothers since he was six years old and just big enough to get a good grip on a hoe.

He never liked farming—not any part of it. Hated being tied to a place in the middle of nothing. But he kept at it to help the family survive. Nobody had to tell him it was his responsibility.

Being five miles away from Winston couldn’t disguise the sweet and hearty smell of tobacco always hanging in the air. Winston-Salem already had ten tobacco sales warehouses, and over sixty-two buildings. The R. J. Reynolds Company hired workers by the dozens every week. Billy occasionally thought about getting a job there, but knew he was needed at the farm too much to take another job.

Just smelling the pungent odor, slightly reminiscent of molasses, was enough to make a lot of folks want to partake. Daddy was against its use—Mama wasn’t. Their sons all smoked, as did Florence—when the mood struck her, and outside William’s presence.

As he reached the house and came through the back door, he called out, Just me, Mama. Come to get some water. Florence had come home earlier that day from a short trip to help her niece with a sick baby. It felt good to him to know she was back—like the family wasn’t whole without her. He reached behind the kitchen door and pulled out the empty ten-gallon bottle, trying to keep the trail from his dirty boots short.

He was already outside and headed toward the well when he heard his mama call out, Billy George, come back in here. They’s somebody comin’.

The Prater family lived in a two-room house situated on a narrow dirt road. The closest town was Caldwell, population 526. Gander Road began north from the one traffic light on the main street of Caldwell, and four miles later dead-ended at their fields. Nobody came up Gander Road except for a good reason. Nothing was delivered but mail. Even traveling salesmen didn’t bother with it.

Never-painted gray boards of the Prater house and the roof shingles hanging higgledy-piggledy announced their history. Necessities counted; appearances didn’t. Only in the last few years had the family had money to buy what they couldn’t produce on the farm. Before that they did without or walked into town and counted out pennies to buy what they needed. If the roof leaked, they closed the hole. A rotted board was replaced by a piece of scrap lumber. Not much changed.

When Billy heard his mama call, he set down the empty jug, unlaced his heavy boots and pulled off his socks before coming through the back door again. Floyd Thurman was sitting at the kitchen table eating a bowl of corn-meal mush thinned down with milk for his breakfast.

At six years of age, Floyd idolized his older brothers and wanted to be everywhere they were, do whatever they did. He wished he looked like them too, but his great sorrow was that his own hair was blond, while the four older boys’ hair leaned toward black.

Hey, Billy. Sit down here with me and you can have some of my breakfast, he coaxed, smiling with a dark hole showing where two upper baby teeth were missing.

You eat all of it little brother, then you’ll grow tall like me. Billy ruffled Floyd’s flax-colored curls and moved to where his mama was standing by a side window holding Carolyn Sue.

Son, I thought I heard somebody ridin’ up our road. No place for ‘em to stop but here. As she spoke, he looked through the window and saw dust foaming from a horse’s hooves. It must be somebody lost or on official business. Except for the two of them, plus Floyd and little Carolyn Sue—eighteen months old—there was nobody else near the house.

Florence muttered under her breath, Now what in hell would somebody be comin’ clear up here for? Florence was a sturdy woman, lean and muscular from a lifetime of hard work, yet still feminine in her gestures. The sun had never managed to wrinkle her tanned skin. Her eyes were a deep shade of brown, alert and intelligent. She could laugh like a child or put out a ferocious glare when the occasion called for it.

Floyd laid his spoon in his bowl and pushed his stool back from the table. He quietly walked to where his mother stood and half-hid himself in a fold of her skirt. He’d heard tension in her lowered voice. His slender eyebrows tilted with concern that something was wrong.

As the rider got close, Billy stepped back so he could watch him through a narrow crevice in the weathered door. He wanted to hear every word the stranger said, but also needed to be there for protection if his mama needed him.

The man wore a tan-colored uniform and shiny star-shaped badge. His black felt hat had the outline of Forsyth County stitched on the front. He also had a pistol mounted on his wide leather belt and slung to the right side. There was no doubt he was a deputy sheriff, and had come on official business.

After dismounting his chestnut mare, the deputy looped the reins around a crooked porch post, gave his horse a gentle pat on the rump, then took a couple steps toward the door.

Mama was already standing a few inches inside the latched screen with Carolyn Sue slung on her hip. The baby’s diaper was so wet it was starting to drip down the side of her mama’s dress.

Florence wore her long, stained apron, like always, and her straight hair was pulled back behind her ears with graying straggles sneaking out toward her face. Carolyn wasn’t helping the hair stay put much because she was sucking her fingers, then grabbing chunks of it.

The screen door—with four patches stitched onto the mesh to cover the holes and keep out the flies—seemed like a fence of protection hanging between Florence and the deputy.

He took off his hat and stood there at the door looking blankly at her for a minute, fiddling with the brim and shuffling his feet. He lifted each dusty boot and wiped the toe on the opposite leg of his brown pants.

His hair clung unevenly to the back of his shirt collar and was stuck flat to his head in a sweaty mass where the crown of his hat had been. He cleared his throat loudly. Are you Florence Prater, ma’am?

Yes, I’m her.

Well Mrs. Prater, I’m sorry to say that I’m bringin’ bad news.

Florence’s dark eyes bore into him, then she sighed. Well, whut is it?

Uh . . . I rode over here fast when the sheriff told me to.

Sir, if you got news for me, I wish you’d just get on with the tellin’.

He looked down at the cracks between the porch boards under his feet, like he might discover some escape there. Finding none, he took a deep breath and blurted it out.

It’s about Brother William Prater, ma’am. Seems he was holdin’ a week-long gospel meetin’ over in Greensboro, ‘bout twenty miles south of Winston. The Glory to God Baptist Church was real proud to have him preachin’ there. One of the elders and his wife, Mr. and Mrs. Hodges, told him they’d be honored if he’d take meals with them and sleep at their house all the nights he’d be speakin’ at the meeting.

Yep, I knew where he was. He told me ‘fore he left that he’d be stayin’ with the Hodges.

The deputy gulped twice. A blush began at his neck and raced across his pimpled face. Uh, he became mighty close to that elder’s wife. He paused again, as if he was going to stop right there.

Peeking with one eye at the stranger, Floyd stayed barely behind his mama, twisting her apron sash. Hardly anybody came to the Prater’s door, and he wasn’t sure it was safe to have this man on their front porch, especially since he was acting so odd.

Florence braced her shoulders, her body stiff, as if she knew whatever was coming was going to hurt. Did he do somethin’ wrong?

Well, ma’am, I guess you could say he got too close to the family, because it looked like Mr. Hodges came home in the middle of the day and found Brother Prater in bed with his wife. Hodges kept a double-barreled shotgun at the ready and . . . and . . . he shot both of them dead right where they laid, he gushed out.

Billy George slumped against the wall, feeling shock and anger surge through his body. Blown away by a shotgun in another man’s bed. He closed his eyes, and salty tears sneaked through to wet his lashes. His daddy’s being killed while with another man’s wife seemed like a fitting end for the man who had been cheating on his mama for a lot of years. Billy was fifteen, and knew the shame his mama had suffered. He also knew she deserved better than this last public humiliation.

He could recall many times when she loudly accused his daddy of philandering and Daddy laughed, taunting her that she was powerless against anything he wanted to do. The longer he stood there and stewed, the more intense his anger became. He wanted to holler and pound and tear something apart.

While he was soaking in the meaning of what had happened, Billy realized Floyd was still behind his mama and listening to every word. Floyd glanced over at him with scared eyes and a wrinkle of questioning across his forehead. Billy crooked his finger, motioning Floyd to come closer. He reached out his arm for the small boy and held Floyd firmly to his side.

He laid one broad hand over Floyd’s ear and could feel his brother’s shoulders and head trembling against his leg. Floyd had understood the part about the gun and somebody being dead—enough to create a big fear in a child who’d always felt safe.

But Billy quit listening—his mind occupied by his pure disgust toward his daddy. Brother Prater, the almighty Christian, finally got caught fornicating with someone else’s wife.

About a year ago his mother had talked to him openly about his daddy’s behavior. Billy George, you’re my child that always seems to understand the ways of life. Yer daddy has not kept his marriage vows towards me. His head’s turned many times to other women. When he goes on preachin’ trips, his behavior ain’t always been honorable.

Especially lately she’d talked to Billy of her disappointment. A family needs a leader, a daddy who protects his family from hardships, a man who works hard and does everything he can to take care of his brood.

Kids grew up fast in the Prater family, taking on jobs which sometimes exceeded their body strength, and taking responsibility for getting things done that the man of the house should have provided. It had been plain to Billy for a long time that his father was more like a child than his own children were.

So far, the conversation between the deputy and his mama had taken only a few minutes, but Billy felt like he’d been standing in that spot behind the door for days. And the man wasn’t nearly through.

"Mr. Hodges left town and the sheriff had a hard time findin’ him. But he caught up with him late yesterday afternoon. Hodges denied doin’ the killin’—said he was somewhere else all day. But two people had seen him on the road close to his house about the time we figure it happened. He’s sittin’ in jail now, waitin’ until the judge comes through for a trial. Sheriff thinks he’ll probly plead that he just went crazy when he saw his wife in bed with Brother Prater.

I went out there with the sheriff, and it looked like a massacre had took place in that bedroom. One of the neighbors heard the shots, and rode into town to tell the sheriff.

William was ridin’ a horse, a dappled gray mare. Did you find her?

No ma’am. There weren’t no horse there ‘cept one in the barn that Hodges used for farm work. They’s no way to surely know what all took place out there, and Mr. Hodges seemed like he was in a stupor or somethin’ when he was brought to the jail.

When the deputy finished saying his piece, he was breathing hard and his face looked like he’d been hit dead-on with something nasty. Mrs. Prater, are you all right?

Florence didn’t answer his question. She didn’t even move much. Just hitched her hip a bit to get Carolyn Sue into a better hold. Is that all you got to tell? she bluntly asked the deputy.

Yes ma’am, I guess it is, except to let you know that the folks at that church loved Brother Prater so good they wanted to get him home to his family so you-ins could bury him with his own. Two of the men from the church are bringing him in a wagon. Should be here late this afternoon.

With Florence still staring silently into his eyes, he was so uncomfortable that he lowered his head and mumbled, So, like I said, his body’s comin’, and you-ins will need to get a casket ready and plan for the burial.

Thank you for comin’. Florence turned her back to the deputy and walked past Billy and Floyd like they weren’t there. She stopped at Carolyn Sue’s bed so she could change her diaper. Billy could hear her mumbling to herself.

What did you say, Mama?

Just talkin’ to my own self, son. Remindin’ myself what a sorry lot I married into. Never should’a done it. Went from one miserable life to another that was worse. Only good thing came from marryin’ yer daddy was eight fine children. She dropped the sopping diaper on the floor with a plop and set Carolyn Sue on the floor. The toddler headed toward her basket of toys.

Floyd had taken his mother’s position at the door and watched the deputy mount his horse. With his nose mashed to the screen, he kept a close eye on their departure. Behind him he could hear Billy and his mama talking kind of low, and he turned to them.

Mama, did Daddy die? he whispered.

Floyd Thurman, I thought you was eatin’ your breakfast.

I was, Mama. But I’m done. I want to know what that man said.

Billy squatted down to Floyd’s height and put a hand on each of his shoulders. Look at me, Floyd. He waited a moment until the blue eyes locked in on his green ones. The man said there was an accident where Daddy was preachin’, and Daddy got shot. He died right there, little brother, and then he went straight to Heaven.

Tears filled Floyd’s lower eyelids. You mean we won’t never see him again?

No, we won’t. He’s already on his way to Heaven to be with God, just like the Bible teaches. You remember what you heard in church about Heaven?

But Floyd had quit listening. He opened his mouth wide and began a loud squall. He jerked his arms out of Billy’s hold and looked at his mother, who was taking the wet diaper to the sink. His cry trailed him as he ran out the back door and into the shady apple orchard that grew along the south side of the house. Billy let him go, figuring he needed to be by himself awhile.

Billy felt no grief for his daddy, but he couldn’t quite hold onto the reality of his being gone—forever. Never again coming home riding Millie, sometimes wagging a bag of food for the family. No more taking his seat at the head of the table and saying a stern prayer for obedience and abstinence.

Guess I better dig yer daddy’s other suit out of the box under the bed and get ready to clean him up and put it on him. The casket’s another thang. With my feelin’s ‘bout yer daddy like they are, I sure ain’t wantin’ to spend no money on a funeral.

She kept talking with little pause, like she was shoving whatever she was feeling deeper, forcing her thinking to rise and take charge.

Billy, you go down to the funeral parlor in Caldwell and tell Mr. Fallow they’re bringin’ in yer daddy. See what he says about the cheapest way we can get yer daddy’s cheatin’ hide buried. Stretch it to him if’n you need to about our pitiful condition. Maybe he’ll let us pay it out or somethin’. She looked around the house, totally her own now, and knew there wouldn’t be any real change with William’s absence from their lives.

Wish ol’ Millie was still with us. She’d be of a lot more use to us than your daddy was, anyway, she added. And Billy, wait until you get back to tell the boys in the field. I’ll tell the others this evenin’ when we’re all together.

Billy knew his mother had cried enough during her life with his daddy to fill a pond. The only difference William Prater’s death made in the family was that a thin myth was torn apart like a split stage curtain—showing all the naked props. The children and their mother hadn’t starved, but it wasn’t because of any help from William.

Mama’s earnings in the last few years of hard and diligent tobacco farming were mostly saved for the children’s future, and not even considered spendable. The mother and eight children had been poor so long that they couldn’t break the habit of frugality. They still tried to live off what came from their garden, their cows, and their chickens.

Billy had heard talk of the depression that was sweeping through the United States, and even the world. But he could see that their being used to living on what they could produce for themselves left them better off than people who had jobs in the city, rented their land, and depended on others to buy their products from.

Although it was rarely intentionally mentioned to any of the Praters by outsiders, the gossip of William’s being an excessive womanizer had kept tongues flapping like a bird flying in a storm. And as rumors tend to inflate, the tales of his escapades broadened with each telling.

As the news of William’s death and the circumstances of how it happened sank in, Florence knew that tongues were wagging. The wide-open shame that was now unavoidable seemed to roll off Florence’s weathered skin like rain off oiled leather—maybe because she’d had so much practice. She kept up her daily chores and paid attention to her children just like she hadn’t gotten any shocking news. But the rest of the day seemed very long to her.

Billy George felt the dishonor like he was suffocating under a dark, itchy blanket that couldn’t be shed. And his anger—the rage was the most powerful, brutish emotion he’d ever known. He wished the woman’s husband had kept shooting until there was nothing left of Daddy but little pieces of skin and bone and blood stuck to the walls.

He went outside and paced. Wish I’d been the one to shoot daddy—the one who made him pay. Damn him! Being gone on trips supposedly for the good of bringing others to God—then come home and make Mama pregnant with children he ignored.

The longer he thought about how his daddy strutted on that horse, and demanded shined shoes, and socks with no holes, and the finest meat on the table, Billy steamed. He leaned over and vomited into the grass until he had nothing left in the hole of his stomach but the hate. He stomped over to the well and pulled up a bucket of