But she turned farther and farther inward. She wandered around by herself a lot, and she quit talking much to anyone except Momma. As Winnter got older she and Momma started to fight more and more, and that was the toughest thing to watch because I couldn’t interfere and if I got between them, they’d both turn on me.
They were too much alike, that’s what everybody said. Two cats in a wet sack, the pair of them.
And then, Winnter left.
***
It didn’t surprise me as much as it should have, but usually when she talked she was just talking, and she didn’t mean anything. She made threats and promises like little prayers, and eventually no one listened—not even me. I shouldn’t say I didn’t care anymore, because I did care. But I do have to say that I’d quit listening.
She said, “It’s calling me again,” and I gave her the same warning I always gave. She probably knew it by heart.
I said, “Nothing’s calling you, Winnter. Nothing’s waiting for you out there in that cave.”
She didn’t look at me, because she didn’t need to. She had her answer handy. “Why, because it’s not far enough away?”
It was no secret, how I wanted to leave. It was no secret either, how far I meant to go. So I told her, “If you just give me another year, I’ll take you out of here with me. We can start someplace else. You can marry someone you’ve never seen before, since you don’t like the look of anyone you know.”
“And you can do the same?” I’m telling you, she wasn’t dumb.
“Sure, I’d like to do the same,” I admitted. “There’s nothing here I want, and nothing here that’s good. It’s just a place to stay ignorant and work hard and starve. And I’m sick of it.”
“You don’t know where you’ll go, do you?”
“Haven’t made up my mind.”
Winnter turned to me then, and stared at me hard—in that way where I swear, she saw right past me and was watching something else. “That’s ’cause whatever’s calling you, it’s so far away you can hardly hear it. This isn’t like that, not for me. I hear it clear, because it’s close. I’m going to leave this place as sure as you will, but I’m not going with you, and I’m not going far.”
Then she turned and walked off, back into the crackerbox house with the floors that creaked if you breathed on them.
Two days later, she hiked out to Heaster Junior’s back acres and vanished inside the old cave we all called the Witch’s Pit. Best as anyone knows, she died there. But no one ever found her. No one ever went very far to look for her though. And that’s not an accusation. I’m not blaming anybody.
I didn’t go in there either. As far as we knew, she was the only one who ever did.
***
Anyway, once she was gone it was just me and Momma. That arrangement lasted all of a week before I ran off too.
I didn’t have any money, but I didn’t have anything else holding me there in that miserable place, that poor, furious place where everyone’s angry at everyone else, and no one feels like anyone can get away. Maybe that’s why they’re all so mad—Mander, Coy, and everyone else. Everybody just feels trapped.
It’s no excuse, I don’t think. You don’t shoot each other and swear at each other and steal each other’s property for a reason like that. If you’re all that unhappy, buck up and leave. I did it, and I was hardly more than a boy. It wasn’t easy, and I’m not saying it was; but it was easier than living that way—stuck and surrounded in a blighted valley filled with enemies.
***
I packed up what little I owned and I hiked up north to Louisville. I hopped a train, at first hiding like a stowaway, and later working my way along the lines by shoveling coal and unloading freight.
So it was north, first. For awhile I worked in Chicago. And then I went west, and I finally ran out of steam in Iowa. There, I worked on another man’s farm for a couple of years…and in time, I scraped up enough money for a home of my own and a wife of my own.
I married Sarah and we made a place together. We made four children together too, in just six years—and there was a fifth to come that day when I opened my front door, there in Ames, Iowa, on property that belonged to me and no other man. We were three months short of another peaceful Coy being born into a land of hard work and reward, not angry relatives who killed one another over scraps.
We were only weeks away from another welcome addition, not another unplanned burden, when I found Titus Mander standing on my stoop with his hat in his hands.
We just looked at each other for a few seconds. It took me that long to recognize him.
By then, it’d been ten years since I’d seen him and he was grown up like I was. Two men, not two boys who’d once tried to strangle each other over an apple. He stood quiet-like and patient on my porch. I had a field behind him, and it was almost ready for harvesting so the corn was high and bright, beautiful green. The pale, butter-white tops of silk swayed in the wind, and Titus held himself real still and let me look at him.
He looked different. His hair was darker. He wasn’t all skin and bones like last time I’d seen him, and he was wearing clothes that were plain, but clean. He’d gotten taller, but he still wasn’t as tall as me.
“Titus.” I said, and it wasn’t a question—except for how I wondered what he was doing there. I knew who he was.
“Meshack.” He knew who I was, too. Of course he did. He’d come looking for me, or that’s what I had to figure.
“What are you doing here, Titus?” I used his name again because it made me feel more like I was in control, which was silly. We were on my property, on my own land that I worked with my own two hands. This was my house, my front stair—and behind me I had my wife, and my children. I don’t know why the very sight of him made me so nervous. He wasn’t armed that I could see, and he didn’t look like he was angry about anything.
He twisted the brim of a hat in his hands. “Meshack, I’m not here for trouble,” he said, like he knew he needed to assure me. It must be true what they say about old habits and how hard they are to lay aside. But I appreciated how hard he was trying, so I was willing to try too.
“If you don’t bring any, there won’t be any,” I told him, and I meant it.
He exhaled. “That’s fair,” he said. “And that’s part of why I’m here. Things might be changing.”
“How’s that?”
“Well, it took him almost a whole century to do it, but Heaster Wharton Junior’s finally died. If he split all that property up right, then everything might settle down, but there’s something funny with the will.”
I scratched at the side of my head and wrestled with whether or not I should invite him inside. “I don’t understand. Why would news like that bring you all the way out here, to me?”
“Because your momma’s named in the papers, but since she’s gone, that means some of Heaster’s leavings might go to you. At least, you need to be there while we sort it all out.”
“She’s gone?” I hadn’t known.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and the words made him uncomfortable. He shifted on his feet and pinched harder at his hat. “I didn’t mean to break it to you. I figured you’d heard.”
“I hadn’t,” I said. “How’d she go?”
“Don’t know. I heard they just found her in that old house you used to live in, and she’d been gone awhile. Maybe she’d been sick. But it was a couple of years ago. And they didn’t call you home for it?”
“Nobody sent for me.” I wasn’t sure what to say, because I wasn’t sure how I felt. I was trying to sort it out while I was standing there talking to him. Was I sad about it? Angry that no one’d told me? None of that sounded right.
“I’m sorry,” he said again.
“It’s no fault of yours.”
He loosened his grip on his hat and said, “I appreciate you saying so. Listen, there’s a train leaving in the morning. I’m going to be on it, and I’m here inviting you to come with me. Things are different now, for so
me of us. After you left, some of the rest of us took off too. I was one of them. I got out. And now I’ve got to go home, and I think you’ve got to go home too.”
I leaned against the doorframe, still trying to tell myself I didn’t really feel relieved to know my mother had been called home to Jesus, or to whoever else would have her. But I couldn’t convince myself, and I was leaving a man standing on my porch, wondering if I was going to punch him or invite him in for supper.
“Well then,” I said, standing back a foot or two and giving him room. “I guess you’d better come on inside.”
III
Lily Dale, NY–1899
It was an anniversary of sorts. Twenty years ago we founded this great experiment, and my, how it had grown. Our community blossomed so beautifully. Our ranks had swollen. Our town increased in wisdom and stature, and our reputation for education and spiritual assistance reached around the world, and back.
As I strolled down those prettily trimmed streets with their electrically lit walkways, I was proud—very proud—to have been part of its making. We built up lovely, warm, and comfortable homes for ourselves and our visitors. We advertised the means in which we wished to help; every street pointed to a medium, to an advisor, to a specialist in the cards or healing.
I tapped my cane along the white railed fences as I walked. I waved and smiled at my neighbors, and I looked forward to the summer camp meetings. We could expect guests by the thousands.
I could not help but smile, and I thought, “Truly this is a great land, where the old ways of superstition and religious intolerance can be shunted aside, and room can be made for the evolution of belief. Truly the way we pray is a science, too, and it ought to be investigated as such. For there is a heaven above us, and it is bustling with life, although we here below might not know it while we wear these mortal shells.”
My mood was light and the day was fine when I returned to my own cottage and I found the mail had been delivered. I looked n the box from habit more than expectation. But on that day, I had a letter.
The postmark nearly stopped my heart.
I jerked the envelope up to my face and examined it closely, distracting myself—delaying myself from opening it. I investigated it like a policeman. Did I know this handwriting? What kind of paper was it? Who could have written it?
There was no name on the left, but in the middle my name was composed in precise, tight letters—so it wasn’t written by any near relation of mine. Bless them, even the ones who can read a little can scarcely print at all.
John Coy
Cassadega Way
Lily Dale, NY
And it had come from Lexington. Not Leitchfield, I told myself, but it was a small and false comfort. Lexington was the next nearest town of any size, and if any official business needed attending, it would surely take place there.
I was still standing beside the box, outside my door.
I let myself in and set my cane on a side table. I clutched the letter and still, I refused to open it. I turned it over and over between my fingers, hunting for clues that might tell me the contents would not break my heart, or horrify me, or terrify me, or—worst of all—summon me home.
In the corner beside the fireplace, I had placed a large rocker chair. I dropped myself down into it and ran my fingers over the letter. Of course it would summon me home. No lesser mission would require such correspondence. No other task would require any communication, not after so many years.
And how many years? I considered the question and had to think. I had to calculate it, how many years had I been gone before I came to help make Lily Dale? Only a few, I believed. For the sake of settling my own nerves and letting the query drop, I concluded that it must have been five or more, and twenty-five years in total was a solid amount. The realization hit me hard. It pressed against my chest so heavily that I closed my eyes. I let the envelope fall into my lap, where it rested on top of my legs.
***
It had been a quarter of a century since I’d left Leitchfield, Kentucky.
***
By the time I received that letter, I had lived longer outside of the valley than I’d lived within it, though that margin was slim.
When I’d escaped, yes—that’s what it was.
It was an escape, and for years I thought of myself as a refugee. When I escaped I was a young man but a grown man, and a suspect man because I hadn’t yet married. It didn’t matter what they thought of me; at least, it didn’t matter once I became tall enough and tough enough to deter the criticisms and assaults of my brothers.
They hated me because I liked to read, and they could not even sign their own names, except for an x-shaped mark. They worried for the family’s status when I didn’t want any of the scraggly, illiterate women they pushed upon me. They attacked me for wanting more, and they burned the books I scraped to steal or buy.
What an accusation it is, too, that a boy could “live above his raisin’,” as if anyone should aspire to less.
They meant it as an insult but I refused to hear it that way. I heard their threats as a horse hears the lash of a crop. Let them swing, and let them shout. I don’t know if they meant to push me as hard or as far as they did, but their efforts did more to send me away than any mere encouragement might have.
***
I went to Boonesborough, and I stole what I needed or I begged for it. And I got lucky, after a few months. There was a teacher who traveled from town to town, showing children how to count or spell. He said that if I’d carry his things and work for him, he’d feed me and put me up. And he did, as far as Louisville. I left him there because I couldn’t stand him, the filthy drunk, and by then I could read and write well enough to find a better position with a shipping company.
At that firm, I watched the figures and marked down shipments in the great leather ledger we restocked with sheets of paper as big as pillowcases. I wasn’t very good at the numbers, but I was better than the man who owned the operation and besides, if I’d been any more professional they would’ve had to pay me more.
***
Sometimes I wrote out letters for other people, letters that would be carried on the riverboats that steamed back and forth along the Ohio. I made extra change that way, listening to men and women who’d never learned or never took to learning.
I thought, “This is what it must be like to be a priest.”
They told you everything, those people did. Who was alive, who was dying, and who got married because they had to. I heard it all, and I took my task seriously. They trusted me to transcribe and forget. I did my best to fulfill that obligation with integrity.
And then, one day, I took a letter that would change my life.
There was a woman, small and plain, quiet and intelligent looking.
When she spoke, her voice was lower than I’d expected. She explained that she needed to send a message down to Atlanta, to her parents there. She warned me that it might take a long time to write, because she had much to say—but she’d brought her own paper and she was prepared to pay whatever fees I required.
And the story she told…the tale she laid out for her family back in Georgia…
It was a tale of two sisters, and of hope beyond the grave. It was her testimonial of faith, and it was her declaration of independence. She spoke up and I wrote down. I tried not to interrupt her with questions but it was difficult. This woman, her name was Patricia, she had a wonderful way of telling stories. I remember that we sat together near the river, in the shadow of the bridge behind us. I remember how the sun was working its way through my shirt and underneath the rim of my hat, and I was growing so warm that I feared I might faint.
But she kept talking, and I kept writing.
I won’t say that Patricia converted me. She transformed me. She opened my eyes to things I’d never before imagined. Listening to that tiny, lovely woman speak I could almost believe that everything in my life—every miserable moment when I was brought up slowly, and in darknes
s—it all was leading to a reasonable, joyful meeting with this petite saint with her ash-gold hair and her lavender dress.
In her final paragraph she declared that she was going north, and that she would not be returning south of the Ohio River, not at any point and not for any reason.
I finally interrupted her then. I was unable to prevent myself. I told her, “You are the bravest woman I’ve ever met.” And she smiled, and she invited me to come with her.
“We’ve begun to fashion our own communities,” she said. “There’s talk of a town—can you believe that? A whole town made of devout, brilliant people who commune with the spirits. There are more like me. And we’ll need more men like you, educated men with eager spirits and curious minds, not to mention strong backs for building. Have you ever done any carpentry?”
“Sure,” I said, because it was just one of those things you learned in the hills. Even if you didn’t do it well, you could saw a board in two or nail two boards into one.
“If you’re serious, you can follow me up. I’m traveling with two other girls, and we could use a man alongside us. Sometimes it’s hard for women to go alone. Sometimes people want to stop us, or change our minds and send us home to our fathers or husbands.”
I glanced down at her hand and saw no ring. If she noticed that I’d looked, she didn’t say anything.
“It’s wrong, for the world to work like that, but I know the way things are,” she said. “I believe—I really do believe—that if everyone knew what was waiting for us on the other side…if everyone understood how this life, it’s only the beginning, then things would change. I think men and women might treat each other differently, or better. And this wonderful new church could be the key. So many of the mediums who speak so clearly to the other side—so many of them are women.”
“Are you a medium?” I asked, because it interested me greatly.
“No,” she said. “But my sister has a great gift. I’ve seen what she can do, and I have something stronger than faith. I have certainty in a soul that lasts longer than our short span of mortal years. I have pure and perfect knowledge that life continues. It surpasses the grave. It lingers, and we linger. The dead who left before us linger, and if we are prepared to listen, they are prepared to speak. So will you, John? Will you come up with us?”