In the Midst of Innocence Read online

  Mama did not like what Daddy said one little bit. She sat up very straight and said in a stern voice, “Richard, you will not use such language in front of my children!”

  I was very surprised to see her stand up to him like that. Every time he gets drunk, he cusses us all out and Mama never says a word, but she got her dander up when Daddy said that. I know coonass is not a nice word, either, but is cajun a bad thing? I wish I could ask Mama, but I do not want to make her mad at me, and of course I cannot ask Miss Weston. I do not want her to know that I know bad words.

  At first, Daddy looked cowed after Mama blessed him out, and then he got a little pouty. After a while he slipped out, and I knew he was going out to the woodshed. It is a good thing the jug is getting close to empty, or he would for sure be sliding off the wagon over this. I have been hitting it hard of late. Last night I took out about a quarter cup to give to Jake Hatton just to keep him from tattling on me to Daddy. I charged him a dime for it, which I made him pay up front. I hope Daddy does not remember how much he had left the last time he was in the woodshed.

  Although I am not happy at the thought of running into Billy Ray, I cannot wait to meet Mrs. Carlton and her child. I cannot imagine how someone can be a black person and at the same time be white, and I am curious about what a coonass cajun looks like.

  Warm, waning days, cooling nights.

  There is rancor in the hearts of some of my children,

  Elusive distress that has not yet been formed into thought.

  Rancor and sorrow, hate forming.

  None of my children understand, although they feel it.

  The upright father succumbs to bitterness and oblivion.

  I weep for them as The Spirit grieves.

  September 16, 1931. I wish we could go over to Billy Ray Carlton’s house and meet his new wife and daughter. Mama says maybe we can tomorrow, if it rains and it is too wet to get in the field.

  Daddy left before daylight to go get jar lids. We are about out because he used them up for his whiskey jars, and I hate to admit, I might have taken a few myself. He did not get home until nearly suppertime. He was not drunk, which we count as a blessing, but he was stinking of whiskey, which made us all mad. Here we were, working hard trying to get in enough food to last us the winter, and he trots off to town on the excuse of picking up a few jar lids, leaving us to do all the work by ourselves. We need him in the field this week, and it should not take him the whole livelong day to go buy lids.

  When Daddy is sober and in a good mood, he can be a good worker, but it is hard to keep him home. Unless Mama can talk him into promising to stay, he will leave of the morning and not come home until suppertime. Sometimes he goes over to Harvey Madison’s garage to tinker on his old automobile, which he gets to running on occasion. Sometimes he takes Jasper with him because Jasper can put right just about anything he sets to. He will sit back on his heels and study it for a long time, then he will just reach in to fiddle with it for a few minutes, and the next thing you know, it is working again. When Jasper goes to Harvey Madison’s garage with Daddy, they usually get the automobile started, then they bring it home and take us for a ride in it. Most of the time it breaks down again before we get too far, and we have to hitch up Charley, our mule, to drag it home. Now it generally just sits, getting rusty at Harvey Madison’s garage.

  Daddy also spends a great deal of time fox hunting or just running his hounds. He sometimes brings in some fish or a squirrel or two for supper, but we do not count on it. I wish he would bring home a deer. They are good eating, and one would feed all of us for a good, long time, but he says it is too much trouble to field dress and drag home a deer. That just goes to show you what a trifling sort he is.

  I have just spent this whole evening writing about what a sorry daddy I have, so I will not be able to turn any of this in for my assignment. Miss Weston will think we are trash. I reckon I will just make up another special entry that looks good. That is easier because I am in the right frame of mind after hearing Miss Weston preach.

  September 17, 1931. It did not rain today, but I got to meet Billy Ray Carlton’s new wife and daughter anyway. Mama had gone over there last evening and invited them to come for coffee this morning, and they got here just as we were clearing away the breakfast things.

  They are very different from us and they talk funny, but I like them. Mrs. Carlton is beautiful in a way I have never seen before. She has skin the color of honey, beautiful red lips and lots of white teeth. She has big bosoms, too, and the most beautiful, shining, dark brown curly hair that comes all the way down to her waist. She was wearing a red dress that looked beautiful on her even though it was pretty clear that it was a hand-me-down. It was faded and a little ragged, with a big patch on the skirt. You could tell she had let the hem out all the way, because there was a crease down there where the hem used to be. Even then, it did not quite cover her knees, because her legs are very long. I noticed this because my legs are long, also, and I could not help but feel bad for her. I am always self-conscious when I grow so fast my dress gets too short and my knees stick out. My legs are skinny and not half as pretty as Mrs. Carlton’s, so maybe she is not as scundered about it as I am.

  Daddy was not here, but Uncle Woodrow was, and he and my brothers stared at Mrs. Carlton when she came in. Mama sent the boys on out to the field, but Uncle Woodrow stayed and just sat there the whole time Mrs. Carlton was here, kind of sunk back in the corner, pretending to read the newspaper, but he kept glancing up and looking at her out the side.

  Darlene is a puzzle. Daddy had said she was a white negro, and I was curious to know what that meant. I have never seen one before. Also, do you use a capital N for Negro? I have not figured out yet what any of this means.

  I just looked it up. You do spell Negro with a capital letter. It is a proper noun.

  I do not know why Daddy said that about Darlene. Everybody knows that Negroes are black, and they are very mean. Walt Bittertree used to have dealings with them before he moved here, and he says they are bad to sneak around at night and rob innocent people who might be out just minding their own business. I reckoned Darlene would be very big and fierce and maybe dark skinned. However, Darlene is not at all mean or scary. She is very, very sweet, with a smile that is kind of shy in a way, but at the same time you get the feeling she might be up for some fun kind of mischief.

  She also is very white, even whiter than me. Her hair is as white as mine, but it is wild and curly, like cotton has exploded all over her head. One time at the fair, we saw a magician who had us touch a metal ball and it made our hair stand on end. That is what Darlene’s hair is like, except where ours went straight out, hers is kinky. She also has blue eyes that are very pretty, but she wears dark glasses when she is outside so that you cannot see how nice they are. Her nose and lips are kind of fat. At first, I thought she was a little on the ugly side, but the more I looked at her, the more I liked the way she looks, especially the blue eyes. I wish she did not wear those dark spectacles, though. She looks a little spooky with them on.

  They did not stay very long because Mrs. Carlton was nervous about Billy Ray coming home and catching them gone, but I am looking forward to seeing them again. I really like Darlene.

  September 18, 1931

  Dearest Cecilia,

  This has been a heartbreaking week. Most of the children have not come to school at all, because they are required at home to help bring in the crops. A few have come for only a day or two, leaving me to feel helpless and worthless for most of the week. I went to see several of them in the hopes of giving them some assignments, but I quickly discovered that was a mistake. It is obvious they do not want me to see them in their native environment, working to exhaustion. I have never seen children so tired, so ragged, and so dirty, and they clearly are embarrassed to be seen in such difficult circumstances. The mothers hurry the children to the well to wash their faces and hands when they see me coming, and then they feel obliged to offer me a meal, which,
of course, is a hardship to them. I brought one family a picnic hamper filled with sandwiches, and the mother politely, but firmly, told me that they had already eaten, which I know was not true, because the younger child gasped and looked at her with consternation. His elder brother quickly reached over and pinched him to shush him, while all the others looked hungrily at my hamper. I knew they had not eaten much at all that day. I tried to think of a way to leave it with them, but the mother was firm, dismissing me as soon as she could without being rude. It distresses me that there is nothing I can do to ease their suffering. I believe they would rather die than accept aid from me. Your heart would break to see them.

  Please pray for these people in their desperation, and especially for the children.

  Love,

  Emily

  September 19, 1931. It has started to rain, so we get to take the evening off from working in the fields, praise the Lord! I wish it had started raining earlier, because then we could have gone over to see Darlene and her mother, but it is too late now.

  Daddy was sober all day today, and he worked hard, but he was not in a good mood. He kept criticizing us, and when we got to acting silly, he said we act like unenlightened peasants who do not know how to behave in a good family.

  It burns me up when Daddy puts on airs. He gets especially highfalutin when he gets to talking about his ancestors. He says we are from a heroic line, as great as Lancelot, Arthur, and other knights of old. Every year when we go to the Highland Games over in Maryville, Daddy wears his kilt to let everyone know he is a Wallace. Although none of the rest of us has a kilt, we all wear a scrap of the Wallace tartan so everyone will know who we are. It is nice to be a part of such an important clan, but I wish Daddy would not make over it so much in front of ordinary people.

  After supper when we were washing up, I got Mama to myself and I asked her why Daddy called Darlene a white Negro, and she said it is because Darlene might have had a Negro father but she is an albino, which means that all the color has been leached right out of her skin. I said that Negroes are black and whites are white, so why call her a Negro at all? She got a little flustered at that and said it was hard to explain, then went to her bedroom without saying any more. I had to finish up the dishes by myself.

  Warm, waning days.

  The vast blue has turned to grey;

  My body swells with freshness.

  The torrents bring again a taste of earth that should not be.

  The greenleaves are being slain.

  My children will mourn—

  The silver, the creeping, and the upright ones—

  But for now, they still sing with laughter,

  Unaware of what descends from above and ascends from below.

  September 20, 1931

  Dear Jonathan,

  Thank you for your kind words. It makes my heart sing to know that you understand that I feel that I must be where the Lord has placed me, at least for now. I cannot tell you how excited I am that classes have begun, and how I look forward to the blessing of teaching these precious children who have been entrusted to my hands. Surely, God has placed us all here together to give me the opportunity to enlighten these vulnerable, young souls. I know I will bring new understanding to them, and I hope, in the process, I will find ways to ease their burdens and to bring them closer to God’s own heart.

  Blessings to you, my dear friend! I pray for you unceasingly and beg that you do the same for me. I do so desire to bring Light to these special people!

  Your sister in Christ,

  Emily

  September 20, 1931. Today is Sunday, which is very nice because we get a day of rest. It is still raining, so everything is slushy and muddy, and my hands are raw from picking and shelling beans. We were all a sight by the time we got to church this morning.

  Miss Weston preached again because Preacher Miller is still sick from a heart attack. Daddy and Uncle Woodrow joined us for church and for dinner at Pap-pa’s afterward, and guess who also came? Miss Weston! We had a wonderful time. Miss Janey Jo really outdid herself with dinner. She had a roasted goose, buttermilk biscuits, green beans, beets, squash, and butterbeans. I ate so much I about popped!

  I am happy Miss Weston came. She is very sweet, smart, and beautiful! Every Sunday, she wears even more beautiful dresses than she wears during the week, and she wears hats, too. Mama has one hat that she wears to church, but Miss Weston has so many I cannot count them. She has long hair that she wears in braids that she wraps around her head like a crown. The hats sit on top, nestled in the crown, like a crown of glory.

  Daddy did not like going to church with Miss Weston preaching because he says that women are not allowed to preach according to St. Paul, but Mama says it is all right because Miss Weston is not a preacher. She is a missionary, and missionaries are allowed to preach as long as it is not in a real church. St. Paul plainly says that women are supposed to keep silent in churches, and Miss Weston preaches at the schoolhouse, so Mama won that argument.

  I do not know why she has come here to be a missionary, when everyone knows that missionaries go to heathen places like Africa or India, where people are starving and ignorant and really need to hear the Gospel. We all are civilized around here, and we know the Gospel. We have all been saved ever since we were little. I was only three years old when I asked Jesus to come into my heart. When I told Mama, she cried and hugged me and told me I was the smartest child she had, and the best. When I think about that, I feel bad about selling Jake Hatton that whiskey, but Daddy would never in a million years buy me new shoes for Easter, so I had to do something.

  Sometimes I think I want to be a missionary, and now that I know you can be one anywhere, even in the U.S.A., I like the idea even more. When I was little, I used to ask God to send me a sign if He wanted me to go to Africa to spread the Gospel, and every time I prayed for that, I always had a nightmare about being cooked in a big pot, with cannibals stirring me up with canoe paddles. It always ascared me half to death, and it left me fuddled because I could not figure out if God was telling me I had to go and sacrifice myself or if He was warning me not to go because I would never survive those cannibals. I still have not figured it out, but am waiting for another sign from Him. I reckon there is time, because I have at least another five years or so before Mama would let me go to Africa or maybe Mississippi where people really are poor and ignorant, but while I am waiting, I need to do something to keep the wolf from the door.

  September 20, 1931

  Dearest Cecilia,

  I have had the most wonderful day! Do you remember the family I told you about—the one with the beautiful eyes? This is the Wallace family. They invited me to dinner after church today (by the way, I got to preach again! More on that later), and I met some of the nicest people. First, there is Mrs. Wallace’s father, Donald Aiken, and her stepmother, who hosted the dinner. Mrs. Aiken is surprisingly young—I would say in her mid-30s, and I believe she and I are going to be the best of friends. She is quite civilized, as is the whole family. I was astonished when they began discussing the works of Edna St. Vincent Millay! Mr. Wallace quoted all of “Love is Not All.” Do you know the poem? It begins, “Love is not all. It is not meat nor drink, nor slumber nor a roof against the rain,” and continues with a meditation on if love is more important than peace or a comfortable life or even survival.

  He recited the entire poem, quite beautifully in his deep, melodious voice, and then there followed a lively debate about it. Even the children chimed in, expressing their opinions of what might be more important than love. I must say, I was entranced by the whole family, how they seem to revere poetry and philosophy. I believe there is something romantic in the hearts and minds of these people. Perhaps it is because they are surrounded by so much beauty in these hills.

  Mr. Wallace’s younger brother, Woodrow, also sat at the table. A more intriguing soul I do not think I have ever met. He is very like his brother, tall and beautifully formed, with those astonishing eyes of both vi
vid blue and green, and there plays about them an air of both tragedy and mirth. Between him and the elder Mr. Wallace, the conversation was alternately so deep, then so lively and fun that I found myself breathless with laughter, and then quite somber with contemplating deep questions. I do not know when I have spent such an enjoyable afternoon.

  I wish you could have been here to enjoy it with me. Perhaps you can plan a visit so you can meet some of these wonderful people.

  All my love,

  Emily

  P.S. The Reverend Miller is still quite ill, and although he is past the most treacherous part, it may be that he does not return to the pulpit any time soon. It is quite exhilarating to be up there in front of the congregation, teaching the Word of God to adults, much different than teaching grammar and arithmetic to boys and girls. Fortunately, most of the congregation presently consists mainly of women and children since the men are still busy in the fields. The men who were there were taken aback at first to see me preaching a real sermon, but they were well outnumbered, and now I think they have begun to accept me at the behest of their wives. I am an oddity, but I am THEIR oddity, and I get the feeling that they are secretly proud of me!

  September 21, 1931

  My School Journal, grade 7, Miss Weston’s class

  By Pearl Wallace

  Miss Weston is the nicest teacher anybody could have. She also is a missionary. That is something we have in common. I want to be a missionary when I grow up, also. I plan to go to Moody Bible Institute and learn everything there is to know about the Bible, and then I will go to India or to Africa where the people do not know the Lord Jesus, and I will tell them all about Him so they will be saved and go to heaven when they die.

  It will be hard to go away because I love my home very much. I live in the mountains of East Tennessee, right on the bank of the Little Tennessee River with my family of two brothers, two sisters, my mother, and father in a cozy little house. My father was with the Railroad until the Depression hit and he was laid off along with everyone else. However, we are much better off than most folks around here because we own land, which we put to good use. We keep a garden, catch fish from the river, and we pick berries all summer and fall. It is like heaven, except I expect that we will not ever be cold or hungry in heaven.