A Southern Place

Advance Praise for
A Southern Place
:

“In her debut novel,
A Southern Place
, Elaine Drennon Little beautifully captures the triumphs and tragedies of coming of age in the segregated south. With eloquent descriptions and pitch-perfect dialect, Little brings to life the people she knows, people who could be any neighbor in south Georgia. Fix a glass of sweet tea, get comfortable on the front porch and enjoy this new voice of the South.”

—Michael Morris, author,
Man in the Blue Moon

“The characters in
A Southern Place
touch our hearts with problems that people avoid talking about. Love and violence, grief, poverty, abuse. Even those in trouble keep silent. But there are those who dare to hope, and those who seek redemption. This is how wounded souls transform into people who leave the old ways behind and strive to do what is right. Little has written a book that takes us to the South and beyond.”

—Vickie Weaver, author,
Billie
Girl

“In Elaine Drennon Little’s
A Southern Place
the author explores the sometimes short and often hard lives of the Mullinax family of Dumas County, Georgia. With a sure eye and a steady hand, Ms. Little examines the ironic opposites of small town life: kindness and cruelty, love and hate, rich and poor. This is a book about societal boundaries, those invisible walls that only strong hearts and fierce wills can climb. Elaine Drennon Little is the real deal.”

—Raymond L. Atkins, award-winning author of Southern fiction;
The Front Porch Prophet, Sorrow Wood, Camp Redemption

“Elaine Drennon Little doesn’t just write a rollicking story of loss, loyalty, and the binds of family, she also transports us to the real south. This novel is like the South that Little knows so well: gritty, lovely, lush and complex. I loved these characters and their place in the world.”

—Silas House, author of 5 novels;
awarded the Appalachian Writer of the Year
and a two-time winner of the Kentucky Novel of the Year

“In the great tradition of Southern storytellers, Little spins a tale both specific and universal, one that speaks authentically to both the tragedies of the past and the triumphs of the future.”

—Rachel Harper, author,
Brass Ankle Blues

“In a house on stilts in a hamlet in Dumas (“doom us”) County Georgia, a world unfolds of love, loss, falling apart and coming together, in Elaine Little’s captivating debut novel.”

—Roy Hoffman, author,
Almost Family
and
Chicken Dreaming Corn

WiDō Publishing
Salt Lake City, Utah
www.widopublishing.com

Copyright © 2013 by Elaine Drennon Little

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written consent of the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, organizations and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used ficticiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or organizations is entirely coincidental.

Cover Design by Steven Novak
Book design by Marny K. Parkin

ISBN: 978-1-937178-39-0
Library of Congress Control Number: 2013941334

To my parents,
who told me I could do anything
if I only believed . . .

Chapter 1: 1989

The ICU of Phoebe Putney Hospital was the largest in South Georgia, contained within the ultra-modern complex and attached to the near-century old institution.

It was not a first visit for Wally Purvis, sheriff of nearby Dumas County, yet few of his experiences here had yielded positive outcomes. The strange buzzing and pinging of complicated machines and the smell of disinfectants and rubbing alcohol made his sinuses ache and his stomach churn, yet his concern for the lady in Bed 07-A outweighed his clamoring urge to leave. He reached into his pocket for another stick of Doublemint, wondering for the umpteenth time if giving up his two-pack-a-day Camel habit was worth it.

Purvis had been camped out in the ICU waiting area for hours. Shift change brought a little more life to the place with one set of white coats and dresses leaving, a new set coming in. He watched the goings on with half-interest, the diversion at least helped keep him awake. Just as the breakfast cart meandered through the hallway, a tall, thin male stepped out from a closed door into the waiting area.

“Sheriff Purvis?” he asked. Both men stood.

“Wally Purvis,” the sheriff answered in a raspy drawl, offering his hand.

“Ian Finch, Internal Medicine Specialist.” The doctor extended his own hand. “Mrs. Hatcher is conscious. Her condition is very serious but no longer considered critical. They’ve moved her to a private room just off the ICU ward.”

“That’s good,” Purvis mumbled, nodding.

“Did you know Mrs. Hatcher—before this unfortunate incident?” the doctor asked.

“Her whole life. Knew her mama, her grandparents, too, family’s been in Dumas County for generations.”

“I know you need to talk with her, but it’s my job to take care of her the best I can. This poor woman has been through a lot. Let me check with the nurses to see if her relocation is complete,” the doctor said.

Checking in at the nurse’s station, the doctor came back with the news that they could proceed in ten to fifteen minutes.

“Thanks for being patient, Sheriff,” he said. “Can we talk a minute first?” Dr. Finch sat down on the leather-like loveseat beside Purvis and spoke.

“Mary Jane Hatcher is a fighter. After a concussion, a detached retina, a broken jaw, a broken nose, multiple contusions and internal bruising, several earlier unattended breaks and a seriously damaged esophagus, she is now off the critical list and slowly recovering. None of these injuries, however, are the most astounding; almost three months pregnant, Ms. Hatcher must have given up every other part of her body to protect her abdomen. The fetus is intact and still relatively healthy.”

“Praise God.” Purvis slowly shook his head. “Poor child. No daddy, but better off without the one he had.”

“The question I wonder about is how Ms. Hatcher will feel about that,” the doctor said. “She hasn’t been told—”

“You mean she don’t know about—?” Purvis asked.

“She doesn’t know about the death of her husband or Mr. Foster. She doesn’t remember how she got here or much of anything about why she’s in the shape she’s in; or at least she hasn’t said anything to hospital workers.” Dr. Finch took off his wire-rimmed glasses, holding them against his leg. “She did ask if her husband had been here, and the nurse said she seemed to be a little relieved when they told her no. I was hoping there’d be family here, to help with catching her up on what’s happened. We don’t know how she’ll react, and trust me, a big emotional blow could really set her back.”

“Little Mojo—Mary Jane—don’t have no more family. Her only uncle died before she finished high school, and then her mama a few months later,” said Purvis.

“There’s no one we can call?” Dr. Finch wrinkled his brow, replacing his glasses. “No aunts, uncles, cousins, girl friends? What about her father?”

“I’ve known the Mullinax family my whole life, and Mojo is the last of ’em. S’far as I know, she ain’t never known of her daddy. The Treadways, that run the grocery store, Mojo’s worked for them since she was fourteen or fifteen. I guess they might be close to her. She worked as a waitress in the bars for a few years, that’s how she met that lowlife she married. But she’s pretty much a loner. Her mama was, too. Quiet-like, but good folks, you know?”

Dr. Finch eased to the edge of his chair. “Sheriff Purvis, if you’ve known her so long, and it’s obvious you care about her, maybe you should tell her. Could you?”

The sheriff stood, shuffling to the window that overlooked a parking lot. He shook his head, finally saying, “I reckon it’s my job, but I sure don’t want to. I speak plain; thirty-eight years in law enforcement and you call a spade a spade. I’d hate to hurt the little girl any worse than she’s already been hurt.”

Dr. Finch rose, walking toward the sheriff. “I guess I’m the one trained in bedside manner,” he said. “You’ll be the one she’s known the longest. We’ll get through it together.” He gestured to Purvis.

Entering the room and seeing the victim made the sheriff’s current reality even worse.

Her hair was drawn back or perhaps even cut off, due to her injuries. The very front, near her temples, still showed spots of dried blood, as were also evident on her arms, hands, and around her lips. One eye was blackened and swollen shut, the other half open and reddened, both a greenish eggplant underneath. Her nose was covered in adhesive tape, a strip of aluminum showing through in the center and her nostrils stuffed with hardened, bloody gauze. One cheek and its corresponding lip were three times the size of the other, while errant bloody stitches held the balloon-like face together in a Frankensteinian fashion. Her skin was transparently thin, every vein exposed and ready to split apart. The most frightening feature was her neck; pencil-thin, it seemed impossible for holding her swollen, lopsided head, yet a perfect impression of ten fingers shined purple against the translucent corpse-white of her throat.

When she opened her mouth to speak, a cracked and fragile soprano resonated against the sterile silence. “Sheriff Purvis?” she asked.

“Yes ma’am, Miss Mary Jane,” the sheriff said, walking to her side. “You’ve had a rough go of it, but you’ve stood strong and it’s all gonna be all right now.”

“Mrs. Hatcher,” Dr. Finch said, “the sheriff needs to talk with you about all that has happened, but I’m only allowing him to stay as long as you feel up to it. Do you think you can talk a little?”

She nodded, the pain of such a simple task showing in her half-opened eye.

“Honey,” said the sheriff, “what’s the last thing you remember before coming here?”

She closed her eyes for a moment, then stared back at Purvis.

“Did Mr. Foster bring me here?” she asked.

“Yes, I believe he did. Do you know how you got hurt?”

She closed her eyes, longer this time, a single tear trailing her cheek.

The men sat quietly, looking to each other for cues on what to do or say next. Before either ventured to speak, the patient grimaced and seemed to choke, both eyes opening wildly and then rolling backwards in her head. She violently shook as alarms, beepers, and flashing lights joined in the chaos.

“Code blue,” cried a voice through the intercom system. In a matter of seconds, the room filled with medical personnel, ushering out the sheriff.

Wally Purvis returned to his previous seat in the waiting area. He leaned forward, closing his tired eyes and letting his head fall and rest in his hands. To passersby, he might look to be a relative—a husband, father, brother, or uncle waiting for news on a loved one.

In a sense, perhaps he was, offering prayers for a lost soul with no one left to care.