Child of the Mountains (12 page)

We slipped and slided like that mud was ice. When we slid close to the edge of the hill a couple of times, I wondered iffen me and Uncle William and Aunt Ethel Mae would be joining BJ and Gran in Heaven. I looked out the window and saw the bottom of the hill far, far away. Uncle William stopped the car at one point that leveled off some and said, “You and Lydia get out and ride with Doc Smythson and Pastor John in the jeep.”

“Ain’t no way you’re making me a widow,” Aunt Ethel Mae said. “I’m staying in the car with you. Iffen you go, I do, too.” I figured that meant I was also going with them, whether I wanted to or not. Uncle William rolled his eyes and started the car again. I clenched the door handle, with my heart pounding. Iffen we went over the hill, I was going to try to jump out.

We finally got to the top. Aunt Ethel Mae and me shared a umbrella. I had to stand a lot closer to her than I wanted to. Uncle William didn’t use no umbrella. He told Aunt Ethel Mae they was sissified. The rain puddled on the brim of his hat and then dripped onto his shoulders. Doc Smythson and Pastor John both used umbrellas. I guess they decided they would rather be sissified than wet. Reverend Sanders had them people at the cemetery put up a little shelter that was just big enough for him to stand under.

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” Reverend Sanders said.
At Gran’s funeral, Pastor John threw some dirt on the casket when he said them words. Reverend Sanders didn’t throw nothing. I figured he didn’t want to get his hands muddy.

I thought about them words—
ashes to ashes, dust to dust
. They made my brother sound like nothing. Like he was and then he wasn’t. But I figured them words was just talking about his body. My brother—what was real and important about him—was alive. I knowed that to be true without a shadow of a doubt.

Mama was in jail. BJ, Gran, and Daddy was all in Heaven. I don’t know why, on the rainiest day of my life, I felt them all there with me. For one little bit of time standing on that hill in the pouring-down rain, I did not feel solitary.

M
ONDAY
, D
ECEMBER 14, 1953

Today, right in front of the whole entire class, Mr. Hinkle read a story I wrote about Christmas at the make-do house in Paradise. I could feel my face burning, and I wanted to crawl underneath my desk. When he finished, Mr. Hinkle said, “Lydia, your use of imagery makes me feel as if I’m sitting at the table with you and your family. Well done.”

I couldn’t help but smile a little when he said that, but I kept my eyes fixed on the ink hole in my desk. My cheeks felt hot when all them kids turned around to stare at me.

Cora Lee, Maggie, and Penny was a-waiting for me when I stepped out the door for recess. “Child killer’s daughter is the teacher’s pet,” Maggie said as she bumped against me.

“Imagery wasn’t the only thing you used in your story,” Penny told me. She grinned her rotten-tooth smile. “I counted four
ain’t
s.”

Cora Lee tapped me on the shoulder. When I turned to look at her, she folded her arms. “I have some news for you, stupid,” she said. “
Ain’t
ain’t a word ’cause
ain’t
ain’t in the dictionary.”

She had lit a firecracker inside of me and I shoved her so hard that she fell on her backside.

“How would you know?” I shouted. “You don’t even know how to spell
dictionary
, let alone use one.”

Cora Lee tried to get up and I pushed her down again. “Mr. Hinkle, Mr. Hinkle,” she started to wail. I looked hard at them other two girls, and they stepped back away from me when Mr. Hinkle runned toward us.

“What’s going on here?” he asked.

“Lydia shoved me for no reason, Mr. Hinkle,” Cora Lee whimpered, sniffing to make him think she was a-crying. He took her hand and pulled her to her feet.

“Is this true, Lydia?”

I didn’t say nothing. I just kept on staring with a stone face at Cora Lee.

“Come with me, Lydia,” Mr. Hinkle said. “Let’s go inside and talk. I’ll deal with you three young ladies later.”

“But we didn’t do nothing, Mr. Hinkle,” Cora Lee said, all big-eyed and innocent-like. You could of poured her words on flapjacks, they sounded so sweet.

Mr. Hinkle gived them girls one of his see-right-through-you looks. They just walked away. I knowed I
had landed myself in big trouble, but a grin still tried to sneak onto my face when I got to thinking about them girls being put in their place.

When we got inside, me and Mr. Hinkle sat down at the round table in the back of the classroom. “Lydia, your aunt told me your situation before you came here. I’ve seen those girls teasing you, and I’m sure Cora Lee asked for what she got. I know you must have felt angry when Cora Lee tried to give you those dresses. You must know, too, that I can’t condone fighting. Can we figure out a better way for you to handle their teasing in the future?”

I bit my lip and didn’t say nothing. I looked down at the floor so I didn’t have to see his face.

Mr. Hinkle sighed. “Lydia, I care about you. I know you’ve had a hard time, but you’re very bright. I hope you’ll graduate from high school and maybe even go to college someday.”

I looked up at him. “Like Anne of Green Gables?” I said.

He smiled. “Why, yes, just like Anne Shirley.”

I looked down at the floor again. “Them girls made fun of my story on account of I used
ain’t
. I can’t figure that out. Maggie and Penny use
ain’t
all the time, too.”

Mr. Hinkle sighed and shook his head. “Knowing correct grammar and using it are two different things, Lydia,” he said. “Those girls were just looking for an excuse to give you a hard time. Almost all of your classmates and the people around here talk the way you do.”

He explained to me, “Most people don’t understand that mountain dialect is an earlier form of English, dating back hundreds of years. When your ancestors came to America from England, Scotland, and Ireland, the way they spoke English didn’t change much from generation to generation as speech did in other areas of the country. The mountains kept West Virginians from having contact with others from different states, where speech patterns were changing.”

Mr. Hinkle stopped looking at me and stared out the window. “I love the colorful, well-seasoned dialect of the Appalachian Mountains,” he told me. “That’s one of the reasons I decided to teach in West Virginia—that, and a very personal reason. I learned as much as I could about West Virginia before I came here.”

I wondered about the very personal reason, but I figured he wouldn’t want me to ask.

“Lydia, the way you use words echoes Chaucer and Shakespeare,” he said. “Did you know Shakespeare loved to write double and even triple negatives? He used multiple negatives to emphasize a point, just as mountain people continue to do today. A poet named Thomas Gray lived in the seventeen hundreds. He wrote a famous poem titled ‘Elegy Wrote in a Country Church-yard.’ Over the years, somebody decided the title needed fixing and changed
wrote
to
written
.”

Mr. Hinkle smiled. “I’m probably making you feel as though you’re getting a lecture. I promise I won’t give you a test.” That made me giggle. “I’m sorry to go on like
this,” he said. “It’s just that it frustrates me to see my students feeling ashamed of their heritage.”

“I don’t care none, Mr. Hinkle.”

“You just gave a good example, Lydia. If you lived in Ohio and said ‘I don’t care’ to a teacher, the teacher would think you meant that you weren’t interested in what he had to say.”

I could feel my eyes get wide. “I’d like you to tell me more,” I said. “I be glad to know them famous people talked like I do.”

“I know, Lydia,” Mr. Hinkle said. “The way you use ‘I don’t care’ means it doesn’t upset you or even that you would be glad to do something. Those were meanings of ‘I don’t care’ in the days of the first Queen Elizabeth. Mountain people are not ignorant. Some of the wisest folks I’ve ever met are mountaineers. They’re merely using a way of speaking that other English-speaking cultures have forgotten.”

“You mean it ain’t bad to talk like this?” I asked, looking him in the eyes. Me and him both grinned when I said
ain’t
. I felt mighty thankful he didn’t call us West Virginians hillbillies. We sure ain’t, I mean aren’t, billy goats.

“No, Lydia. It ain’t bad.” He winked at me. “It’s just different. But you need to learn Standard English, too. Standard English will help you go to college and get you a job anywhere in this country. Will you keep working on that? You can use your beautiful mountain language at home and with friends. At school, I want you to practice Standard English.”

I told him I would. We made us a plan. He would scratch his ear when I used mountain dialect in class. That would remember me—remind me—to try again.

I hoped Mr. Hinkle would forget about what happened with them girls after all that talk. But he didn’t. He told me I would have to stay after school ever day for four days on account of pushing Cora Lee. He had a appointment tomorrow, so I would have to stay after for the first time on Wednesday. He told me he would of made me stay for a full week, but the last day of school afore Christmas break is Monday. I didn’t mind so much. It was worth it. I think Anne of Green Gables would of been right proud of me.

T
UESDAY
, D
ECEMBER 15, 1953

Uncle William and Aunt Ethel Mae was as mad as all get-out that I got myself in trouble and have to stay after school. I couldn’t make myself show Mr. Hinkle’s note to them yesterday. I thought iffen I gived it to Aunt Ethel Mae this evening while she was busy with her embroidery, she might not pay it too much mind. But she got all watery-eyed. “William, come look what this child has gone and done now,” she hollered.

Uncle William stormed in the back door, wearing his heavy coat, his hands all greasy from working on his car. “What are you jabbering on about now, woman?”

I could feel my hands getting all icy cold. I clenched
them behind my back and stared at my shoes. I wished I could drop clean through a hole in the floor.

She handed him the note, and I could see him getting greasy smudges on it as he read. Aunt Ethel Mae looked up at me from her chair, her eyes all glassed over with tears. “Lydia, I told you to ignore them girls. This will all go away in time if you pay them no heed.”

“But you …,” I started.

Uncle William grew to the size of a grizzly bear. His face got all red and blotchy. “Don’t you dare sass your aunt!” he yelled. He raised his hand up high.

I figured he would be like Daddy and whup me upside the head. I squinted my eyes real tight and turned my face away from him.

Nothing happened. I finally peered up. Uncle William was a-staring at me, all sad-like, his hand back down at his side. “Lydia, don’t disgrace this family,” he said, almost in a whisper. “Haven’t we had enough of that already?” He headed out the back door to work on his car again. Aunt Ethel Mae turned back to her embroidery, and it was like I wasn’t even there no more.

I almost wished Uncle William had hit me instead. I don’t think it would of hurt near as much as them words. I walked to my bedroom, laid myself down on my bed, and stared up at the ceiling. My bedroom’s so tiny that it can only fit a bed and a little table Uncle William brought from our house in Paradise. All of a sudden, them walls seemed to close in on me, tighter and tighter. I started up
panting like a hound in summer. My heart commenced to racing. After a time, I turned over on my stomach and cried so many tears that my pillow was sopped. After I was cried out, I got up to write in this here notebook.

I recollect what Mama used to do when me and BJ got in trouble. She didn’t yell. When the weather was pretty outside, sometimes she took us by the hand and said real soft, “Come with me.” She’d march us down to the little swinging bridge that stretched across the creek behind our cabin.

“Five times,” she might say. We knowed that meant we had to go back and forth across the bridge five times. The first time across was always the hardest. Me and BJ didn’t want to walk in step. We’d have to hold real tight to them rope handles. That bridge would slither back and forth like a snake.