[untitled]

 

Chapter One

 

October 9, 1953

 

My Daddy always said our problems started on the day I was born. Of course, Momma would pull me aside and tell me that it wasn’t true, that Daddy had been drinking and he didn’t know what he was talking about. But as I sat in the back of the car one chilly October night, I couldn’t help but wonder if he had had some merit to his words.

To be a Houser in Myers County meant that you were known all through the dirt roads and hills of the surrounding country side - even to the most remote fringes of our small little town, Foxford, which happened to be right smack in the middle of scenic nowhere. Some might talk of small southern towns in a favorable light. Most Northerners who pass through during the summer months smile as they drive by in their expensive cars and Macy’s tagged clothes. Talk about how “quaint and homey” the town seemed could always be heard from the perch on the front porch, even if the car windows were shut tight. I know two things for sure. When you’ve lived in Foxford as long as I have, children learn to read lips at a young age. And if you are at all wise, you learn to keep your mouth shut at an even younger age.

Despite what tourists claim, I’ve always detested small towns, my own in particular. Wherever you go, you never can escape the gaze of nosy neighbors or shop owners who seem to have nothing better to do than to stare out of their shop windows and snoop as you make your way down the sidewalk. Everyone’s business is someone else’s business, too. Absolutely no secrets are kept from the public, down from little white lies about who wore what to who had spent the night as each other’s place. If you were lucky, your skeletons stayed deep in the recesses of your closet where they belonged. Of course, my family – the Housers – had no such luck.

My family has always lived in Foxford, at least that’s what I’ve been told. Nobody was ever lucky enough to get the hell out. Granny and Grandpa Houser had owned a small tobacco farm on the outskirts of the town. It was a small little thing, and not much money came from the business but it was enough to get by on, and to support the growing family. My grandparents had five babies, all of whom grew up and went to lead lives in the same town. In fact, the majority of my aunts and uncles houses are only a few good hours’ walk from each other.

Granny and Grandpa had been respected through the town. My Mama always said to me, her voice ringing with pride, “Briar, you shore were lucky to have a Granny like the one you had. Sweetest woman this side of the Mississippi, I can guarantee it. And you are gonna grow up to be just like her.”

Aunt Francine would laugh, “Don’t be silly, Renee,” she would tell my Mama. “Briar takes after you and her Uncle Grant too much to ever be as sweet as Mama. You and I both know that.” Mama wouldn’t deny it and I couldn’t say I was exactly offended.  

My uncles were always talking about my Grandpa the same way, though their words were much more raunchy, especially when they sat together nursing beer bottles. “I tell ya’, Briar,” Uncle Grant would say. “You should’ve known your Gramps. Always was right good to folk around here, though you wouldn’t know it from lookin’. Poor man’s probably rollin’ over in his grave from the s**t folks say about him now.”

Uncle Murphy would nod after taking a long swig. “Ever since that rumor about the farm lot, everybody’s a thinkin’ he’s a thief. The man would give you the clothes off his goddam back and this is the thanks he gets for it.”

A silence would follow before my Uncle Dan, the youngest of the Houser men, would belch and agree, shaking his head. “Shore is a pity.”

It was then that I would follow his lead, nodding as well. “Shore is.”

My uncles would smile crookedly – most likely induced from the alcohol – before clapping me on the back. “Atta’ girl,” Uncle Grant would say. And if I was lucky enough, I might would even get a taste of his beer.

Though my grandparents were well known and favored among the Foxford residents (at least for the most part), the clean reputation didn’t stay long. My Mama, Aunt Francine, and uncles all had an uncanny habit of strolling down the path less traveled, which or course is a death sentence to any sort of status within a small town. Anything out of the norm (or the church, for that matter) was the juiciest bait for rumor among the town biddies.

All my uncles worked at dead-end jobs and were bachelors, often moving from one woman to the next. I typically heard Mama and Aunt Francine talking, wondering exactly how many children their brothers had produced across the county. All over town, people would talk about my uncles behind their backs, and I’m pretty sure they knew who said everything and exactly what was said. What I loved the most about them, though, was the fact that they couldn’t care less what the public thought of them. I wasn’t as fortunate, however.

Though I never would admit this aloud, Uncle Grant was my favorite uncle. I absolutely loved his disposition, which was unlike any other that I had ever encountered. He had the potential to charm a bird clear out of a tree, which I guess is why so many women love him. Something about his smile, I believe, is what was said among them. “A winning grin,” they called it.

When he wasn’t putting the charm on some unwitting girl, he was working hard at the factory not far from town. He was the only one in the family who really had a decent, somewhat dependable job and was often having to share among his siblings to get us from day to day. He stood up for both my Mama and Aunt Francine, especially when they were younger and courting, as my Granny never lived long enough to see her daughters marry off. He would say, “Frannie, you’re making the biggest mistake of your life by marrying that man.” And, several years later, “Renee, you need to think about getting a divorce. He’s no good for you and the girls, you and I both know that. Hell, the whole town knows it…” Not that they ever listened, of course.

Aunt Francine had never been too good at seeing through people’s fronts and farces. If she had, she probably wouldn’t have gone through everything she did. Her first marriage was a complete failure from what I was told. Raymond Turner, a town flirt not unlike my uncles, had won her heart and broken it all within the confines of a single year. It wasn’t but two months after they said their vows that Raymond started to beat up on her, which Aunt Francine had managed to cleverly keep from the family. How, I’ll never know. Between the beatings, there were rumors that he was sleeping around, too. Again, apparently it wasn’t too surprising. Eventually, Raymond had hit her hard enough to cause a couple broken ribs, which was when my mother eventually found out what was going on. After a visit to the hospital, Uncle Grant met up with Raymond, who had taken up residence with his current arm candy. Mama never told me the rest of the story, just that a divorce quickly followed and that Raymond left.

Aunt Francine married and divorced again a couple years later, though that particular marriage was much less violent than the one before. Howard Cox, a man who had been in town on business when he met my aunt, wanted to move around and work too much while all Aunt Francine wanted was to start a loving family. It didn’t work out in the end, though, so they split up, my aunt taking custody of their only daughter, Sarah Beth and once more taking up her maiden surname. Interestingly enough, Sarah Beth is quite close to my own age, just a couple months younger. As different as we are from each other, I at least have someone to converse with at family dinners during the summer and holidays.

Which brought me back to my own family and the reality that life just wasn’t seeming to get any better for the Housers, myself included.

“I swear, Briar, ain’t nothin’ bad ever happened to this family until you came out of your Mama’s belly…”

I had always thought of my nuclear family as rather strange. Really, it wasn’t just me who thought it, either. The majority of Foxford usually had an undercurrent of rumors spreading through about an argument or some other such thing going on at our address. Mama’s a local librarian, so she stays busy during the day and typically well into the afternoon when me and my younger sister, Molly, get home from school. Sometimes, though I have no idea why, she’s gone at nights, too. I suspect it’s to stay away from Daddy, as he has a tendency to yell at her at the drop of a hat. I always wondered why Mama had decided to take up the job of a librarian, as she had the potential to do just about anything, not to mention the determination. And, though I would never breathe a word about it, I wondered why – of all people – she married Daddy. She’s absolutely beautiful so she could have had any man she wanted. Both my mother and sister share short dark locks with grey, icy eyes and a long legs. Aunt Francine says Molly looks just like Mama when she was her age. And I guess it had to be true, as I had never seen a mother and daughter look so similar.

I, on the other hand, don’t share a single trait with my mother. I’m the only one in the family to have dull, blonde hair and the only one to be short for my age. I’m the only one to have green eyes and I’m the only one to have a freckled complexion. Not even my Daddy shares any traits with me, as he has light brown hair and dark brown eyes. I once asked Mama about it while she was brushing through my hair one hot, summer evening. She simply laughed and told me that I looked just like my grandmother. I’d never know for sure, but I’ve never known my Mama to be a liar either.

Both my sister and I had a special attachment to my mother. She was only eighteen years old when she had me, and Molly was only twelve months younger than I, so we were all fairly close in age. At least where mothers were concerned. Hell, Aunt Francine was a full twenty-five years older than Sarah Beth and flinched every time her daughter even mentioned the word “sex” or “love-making.” She came short of plugging her ears up with her index fingers and chanting, “La, la, la.”  

But Molly and I were luckier, though. Mama was always open to listen to our problems and troubles, though she didn’t tell us what to do half the time. “You’re gonna have to learn to stand on your own two feet,” she would tell me when I asked for advice. “I didn’t raise you to be fainthearted. Just give yourself a little time, and you’ll figure out what to do.” Though I nearly wanted to strangle my mother for not helping me with my problems, she sure did help me to develop good judgment, though I don’t know if that was what it would be called around the town. Some of the neighbors would call it “character” if they wanted to be nice. Others would simply call it pride or stupidity, but it didn’t matter. I was Briar Houser - Schroeder and that was who I would always be. Or at least I thought.

My Mama may have loved me for who I was, unconditionally, but that certainly wasn’t the case with my father. I gather that he had always hated my presence, even from the day I was born – after all, that’s when things started to supposedly go downhill for our family. Daddy had wanted a boy, naturally, but hadn’t been too discouraged by having a little girl. It wasn’t until I started to grow up some and my features became more dominate that he started to sneer at me. He’d call me a b*****d just about everyday, as if I were going to forget that fact. Strange thing is, when I looked up the official definition for “b*****d” it meant a child produced between two unmarried individuals. My parents were several months into their marriage when I came along, so I didn’t quite understand what he was getting at.

I didn’t question it, of course. I’d learned to keep my mouth shut…the hard way. I’ve only been beaten a few good times in my life, but every episode was from my Daddy, often because of something I had said. “My insolence,” as he called it. I guess when I think about it, I really did get off easy, especially for the things I said to him. I’ve never been belted, unlike the majority of my friends. I was switched only once before and the rest of the time I’d been dealt several hard whacks on my backside. Now that I think back, though, I wonder if I would have preferred being belted as opposed to the constant verbal abuse. I would have much rather taken the leather hide on my bare skin than listen to him call me profane names and curse the day I was born. Of course, after thirteen years of listening to it, I’ve grown rather numb to his words and have learned to take it all with a grain of salt. Besides, he’s usually too drunk off his a*s to even be taken seriously.

A shadow from outside the car stirred me from my current reverie. It was only for a split second that I was startled, because, as the figure came closer, the thin frame and full, thick hair became more than familiar. My mother opened the front door of our Chevy and, with a small grunt, threw three suitcases into the passenger side. I assumed they held a few days’ worth of clothes and necessities, not to mention a good portion of the “emergency” money we had stored away – if there was any left. She quickly slid into the driver’s seat and closed the door. A silence passed as she gazed back at out little house, probably thinking about the many previous times she had gone through the same ritual. With a sigh, she leaned her forehead against the steering wheel. Any lesser women would have wept.

I knew better than to speak, especially after what my mother had gone through just an hour or so prior. After a rather heated argument with my father, she had told my sister and I to go out to the car and wait. We had followed her words without any question. Molly had long since drifted off, as I had been too caught up in my own thoughts to be much of a conversationalist. It probably would have been wise to try to sleep as well.

My mother finally straightened up and reached over toward the suitcases, where she had packed a folded blanket. While on her knees, she turned to the back of the car and bent to cover my sister and me up. I had already laid back and was feigning sleep, even before she had closed the door of the car. After laying the quilt across our shoulders and laps, she paused.

“Briar?” she whispered.

Damn. I should have known I wouldn’t be able to fool her. “Yeah, Mama?” My voice wasn’t any louder than hers.

“I thought you were awake. Did I wake you, Honey?”

I shook my head. “Naw.”

My Mama nodded slightly and folded her arms against the back of the front seat, then rested her head. She glanced over at Molly for a moment before turned her gaze back to me. “Are you alright, Honey?”

I wondered why in the world she was asking me that when clearly she was the one who was struggling with the tumultuous emotions roaring within her heart. But that was my Mama. Molly and I were always her first priority. “I’m fine.” The brisk wind outside blew the clouds away from the nearly full moon, and the resulting light gave me a clearer view of my mother’s pained expression. “What about you?”

She sighed once more but gave me a forced smile. “Everything will work out,” she replied, avoiding the topic of her own feelings. “It always does.”

“Where are we going?” I asked after a moment, deciding that it was better not to press her to reveal her thoughts prematurely.

“To your Aunt Francine’s,” Mama replied. “I called her a few minutes ago, and she’s gonna get a few pallets ready for us. It’ll be a tight fit, but we’ve all slept under the same roof before.”

Again, I nod. I knew we would be heading to either Aunt Francine’s or one of my uncles house, but I secretly was relieved that we would be staying with the former. Aunt Francine’s place was a lot cleaner than my uncles and she made for much better company. When we stayed at Uncle Grant’s one time for the same reason, he wouldn’t stop carrying on about how Mama should leave Daddy for good – either that or that he would head over to our house himself and shoot Daddy while he slept. Aunt Francine knew what Mama was going through, though, so she was much more understanding. She never lectured and was always there to listen when Mama needed to talk – which was what she needed most at times like these.

Mama turned back around and shoved the keys into the ignition. The engine roared to life and within minutes we had pulled away from our house and was heading toward the south side of town. Mama was quiet as she drove and so was I. I pulled the covers more tightly around me, trying to keep the chill in the car at bay. Molly groaned slightly when we made a sharp turn and moved in her sleep, her head resting on my shoulder. I didn’t mind. In fact, it was somewhat comforting.

I rested me head against the door and watched as our small town, enveloped in the darkness of night, flew past the window. We were passing our neighbors houses, and though the majority of the houses were dark at the late hour, there were still the occasional living room or bedroom lights on. In the distance, I caught some movement from behind a curtain in a living room. I knew what would by morning from experience. Without a doubt, the news of my Mama leaving my Daddy would have spread across the town before the Sunday sermon began.        

 

Author's Note

Be gentle, but helpful, please! :)

Reviews

[Casper Cross]

I must admit I am a little disappointed in this story. It is so well written and the characters almost jump off the page. That's the hardest part of writing a story. The problem is the story doesn't go any where. I keep expecting Briar's mother light up her father like the fourth of July but doesn't happen. The story misses a strong plot line. It needs conflict. You protagonist is Briar. What does she want out of life and who or what is standing in her way. This story just needs some good conflict and it will keep a reader riveted for hours.
You write very, very well...great description. You brought the setting to life.