Chapter 2 #2
I leaned in to this surface pain and not the deeper one.
I needed my wits to focus and concentrate on what came next.
Later, I would return to this moment and be amazed at the stillness and calm I exhibited.
Later, I would come to know that I should have been scared.
But that level of fear wasn’t where I could reach it.
I had lived through too many storms to be bothered by the rain.
I gathered what I could use from the shoreline wreckage: an old Coke can, a bus seat, a used McDonald’s cup, and a flat piece of metal.
On a patch of grass between the rocky bank and the river, I dropped my findings before venturing into the woods.
I collected an armful of kindling, handfuls of leaves of Byzantine copper and gold—grateful that the trees had shed their offerings—several sheets of paper and bits of litter, and three larger pieces of wood.
The ability to start a fire can save your life, Daddy had often reminded us.
My sister and I never questioned the gravity of his teachings.
He was always a mystery to us. A restless soul, forever in motion, never standing straight or still for too long.
He talked too fast and too much. He always had something to say, like he needed to speak, as if held words burned his tongue.
Lessons were hidden in everything, imparted in a quick and intense way.
Yet, in our innocence, we found no fault in him.
We adored him, captivated by his knowledge and the thrill of the adventures he whisked us away on.
Starting a fire with sticks is no easy feat; it’s a skill mastered through practice.
And practice, we did, not returning home until we could gather the right materials for our fire without his help.
“Success or failure will come from the materials you collect,” he said, dismissing with a slap back to the ground anything that did not meet his standards.
That first time, we rubbed our hands raw until the first billow of smoke rose.
He’d doused it with water and made us start again.
I collected dried grass, strings of paper, and strips of bark, crafting a tinder nest with a thumb’s impression at its heart.
A dry log, split and ready, served as my hearth board.
With a sharp rock fished out of the river, I carved a groove about half the length of the log and blunted the end of a stick for the fire drill.
My right hand guided the plow back and forth, and my left hand supplied downward pressure.
My hands did these things, what was necessary.
There was no thought to the action, just movement as routine as a breath.
The ache in my hands, the pain in my wrist melded seamlessly with the other pains within me.
Soon, black ember dust formed at the bottom of the trough.
I blew on it gently, coaxing the spark to life, then tipped the log to slide the fiery dust to my tinder nest.
Briefly, I marveled at my creation, the heat warming my face, the crackling of kindling filling my ears, and the sight of my orange prison shirt burning.
It had been many years since I had started a fire, and I reveled in my accomplishment.
But a chill remained. I suspected that it would never warm, no matter how much heat I had.
Adding twigs and larger pieces of wood, I stoked the flames before a branch snapped in the distance.
Small footsteps crunching, one at a time.
Above, two black figures circled. I could name the birds by listening: vultures.
It wasn’t me they were after. Unless that thing now lurking in the woods found me before it found something else.
I reached for a large rock and held it close, listening, waiting, breathing.
My heart banged in my chest, warmth spreading along the back of my neck.
The rock trembled slightly in my hands. I held my breath as if that could keep whatever lurked from advancing, until the sound moved away, danger averted. For now.
Another sound rose, this time within me—a low growl from my stomach, hunger gnawing at my insides. It had been twenty-four hours since I had eaten. Another task presented itself.
Survival is simpler than you think; it’s one task at a time, each one supporting the next one, a conveyor belt of tasks that equal a life.
Even with a rod, fishing demanded more than technique—it commanded patience and alertness, Daddy said.
Along the riverbank, a faint tang of damp earth hung in the air and birds hushed in contemplation.
Overhead, a line of clouds drifted lazily across the sky, casting gray shadows on the water.
In the absence of proper gear, necessity birthed innovation.
Another lesson learned. We often lacked the proper equipment for fishing.
“You use what you have,” Daddy told us. So I did.
I fashioned a hook from the Coke-can top, and the hem torn from my prison shirt became my fishing line.
Several fat worms unearthed from beneath rocks served as my bait.
Scanning the river slowly, after a few minutes, a glint of movement near the river’s bend revealed a solitary fish, its sleek form slicing through the current.
I decided to trap it; it was easier. With deliberate care, I moved closer, boxing it into a corner.
The fish darted, its tail moving, but I created a barrier, stretching my arms and legs wide.
The fish struggled briefly as I scooped it up in my shirt, slapping its tail against me until it settled.
It was a bluegill, olive in color with a streak of orange along its belly.
Grateful, I acknowledged the sacrifice that far outweighed its few ounces, just before smashing its head with a large stone.
Such acts of necessity tempered my conscience.
I thought of this as I scaled the fish with a shard of a sharp rock, its flesh yielding to the blade.
I slit open the belly, releasing a briny scent, and removed the entrails with my thumb, a task worn into my remembrance.
As the flames licked the sides of the old can, ready to cook the day’s catch, the clawed, dark hand of my childhood gripped me, reminding me of the last time I trapped a fish.
We were hungry. Lila and I were eight. Daddy had been gone a month without word.
He would do this, leave us for long stretches of time.
He said it was the ancestors, the voices in his head leading him, guiding him.
But we soon knew better. The cabinets yawned, revealing their gaping insides.
We had been without electricity for a week, and while the long summer days provided extra light, they also created too much heat.
Summer fishing is best in the early-morning coolness, the act not just leisure but a lifeline.
But the hotter the sun, the tougher the fishing.
There were days that wild blueberries and sassafras were the only things we swallowed.
But Daddy’s rules were ironclad: We were forbidden from venturing into town, his voice a cautionary echo in our ears.
It meant scrutiny, questions, a risk we couldn’t afford.
Like our adventures, it was a game for us, and we played along.
He didn’t know we had been in town. During his long absences, Mama often took us.
She never told us to keep that secret. Like so many things, we all understood, without a word passing between us, that he could never know.
Of course, going to town was only a reasonable thing to do if we had something—money, or something else to trade.
Mama was born beautiful; there was no other word for it.
The kind of beauty that defied compassion, possessed a radiance that turned heads and invited admiration.
Her skin glowed a metallic shade of brown, and her features—button nose, wide eyes, and full lips—were perfectly aligned.
She wasn’t beautiful for nothing, she often said, a truth she carried like a second skin.
It had to serve a purpose. Once, she dreamed of modeling, inspired by the beautiful women gracing the JCPenney catalogs.
Until she met Daddy. He courted her with a pocketful of money (won, she later learned, through gambling) and the gift of gab—a lethal combination.
She was bitten by love, or attention, and its venom proved to be more powerful than ambition.
Years later, she realized another purpose her beauty needed to serve: feeding her daughters.
One day, after several days of bad fishing, a gray Pontiac pulled into the dusty driveway, its arrival stirring a mix of curiosity and apprehension.
The door opened, and a man emerged in pieces: feet first, then a round belly, and finally a salt-and-pepper head.
But his cologne, all musk and woods, stepped out before he did.
We knew him as Mr. Ridley—or Deacon Ridley, we would later discover.
He had a starved look, wolfish and dirty, and flirted with Mama on the occasions she took us to the grocery store.
He smiled too wide, laughed too loud, perspired too much, his hunger palpable yet masked by an excess of charm.
Toward us, he always extended two pieces of butterscotch candy from his pocket.
Lila would quickly grab hers and plop it into her mouth, but I tucked mine into my pocket.
It didn’t feel right to take it, a betrayal and a bribe, an agreement to a game where the stakes were never clear.
He strolled up the driveway, the butterscotch dangling from his plump thumb and forefinger, but I again refused to take it from his hand. His smile, with its gap-toothed charm, carried a deceptive undercurrent.
“You don’t like candy?” he asked, one eyebrow arching. “All cute little girls like candy.”