It wasn’t too long after the sheriff’s boy died while working with Jimmy Hall that he dropped off into nothing and left Ben all alone. It was probably the best thing that could have happened to Ben. He tried to be a different man than his daddy, and I can tell you that’s good enough for some of these boys up here, but it wasn’t for Ben. He wanted to be a good man, a good Christian man. I just think his blood was set against him.

Maybe Ben thought he could run from it, and maybe that’s why he took his family off that mountain not long after Christopher was born. Maybe he gave up Gunter for the valleys closer to the French Broad to escape a past that had already marked him with his daddy’s closed fist and a strong taste for whiskey.

A few years after Christopher was born and before they had Jess, Ben and Julie moved into a little house with an outdoor privy that had been built down in the holler by a man named Tupelo Gant. Mr. Gant was a childless man who’d built that little place for him and his young wife just a few years after they’d gotten married, and he lived in that house and on that land for years and years and ran him a good little farm. But before he even knew it’d happened, he woke up one morning and saw that he was too old and stubborn to work that burley against the state, and he up and sold that house and the land and took his wife to live in one of them ugly old trailers that were popping up like toadstools all over this county.

When he found that land for sale, Ben moved his wife and his new baby boy off that mountain and out of his childhood home and down closer to the river. Maybe he took leaving his home once and for all as a sign that he was moving back to a time when it was custom to wear a heavy coat and carry you a light to the outhouse in the snow, when it was just a normal thing to be able to walk to work because work was across the yard and in the barn and down in the field. It was expected that men’s hands would be good and calloused by reins and shovels and the hands of other men whose lives they knew by the tough skin of their handshakes. Looking back on all that myself, I don’t see anything romantic about none of it. I like my inside privy and my washing machine, but some of these young folks are different, and they want times to be hard so they can prove something. Who they want to prove it to I just can’t say, but I reckon Ben was one of these young folks, and he believed that he and his family could find themselves a simpler life. Or maybe he was forced off that mountain to this bottomland by his family’s history and a fear of its reckoning. It could have been just about anything that made him do it, and I can’t say for sure just what it was.

THE ROAD UP GUNTER MOUNTAIN IS A PAVED BLACKTOP, BUT IT didn’t used to be nothing but mud and a little bit of gravel. It was all paved at that time and it still is as far as I know. But Lord if that boy’s truck didn’t struggle with his tires sliding around in the snow like we were driving on glass, and me sitting there worrying about him carrying that thing clear off the mountain.

“I don’t know if it’s going to make it up, Ronnie,” I kept saying, but it was like he couldn’t hear me. He was hunched down over that wheel and talking to that truck under his breath like he could make it believe otherwise.

“We ain’t going to make it, Ronnie,” I finally said. “You’re just going to have to stop and let me out. I reckon I’ll have to walk it.”

He just sat there and stared out at them big old snowflakes filling up his headlights.

“My ma will kill me if I let you walk up the mountain in this,” he said. “I bet that snow’s more than a foot deep up here.”

“I don’t know if there’s anything else to do,” I said. “No,” I told him, “I think I’m going to have to walk it. You head on home and go back to bed, and I’ll call over to the house when it’s done. I’ll just meet you right here.”

“My ma’s going to kill me,” he said.

“Well, that’s between y’all,” I said and opened the door. “There ain’t nothing else for me to do but walk if I’m getting up there tonight. You drive safe getting home. I’ll give you a call in a little while.”

I closed his door and set off up the mountain in all that blinding snow.

I was trudging up that road when I remembered Gerty telling me that Ben had tried to call Doc Winthrop to come up here and see about Julie and the baby, and I almost had to laugh out loud when I pictured it. That old coot was probably ten years older than me, and I reckon he’d been drunk just about his whole life. Even though I was raised by my great-aunt, a woman who was a healer if there ever was one, I never had no plans for myself to fall into doctoring folks whenever they took ill or got hurt, but it’s a good thing I started when I did because old Winthrop sure wasn’t any kind of help a person could set store in. There weren’t any ambulances or nothing out here until the hospital came, and what they call a country doctor was about all folks had. Even after all that new stuff came, folks were just as likely to call me or Winthrop or somebody else to help them deliver a baby, set a broken arm, or put a stitch or two in a bad cut.

Just like when Collie Avery took that fall from the top beam of his daddy’s barn when they were hanging burley. It must’ve been a good forty feet straight down. Folks there figured he’d probably broken his back, and I reckon they were right scared to even move him. His daddy called up Doc Winthrop and asked him to come out. He said, “We ain’t going to move him until you get here. Hurry, though, he’s in some awfully bad pain.”

Winthrop said he’d be right out, but if those folks didn’t wait just about all day with that boy laying there on the floor of that barn going in and out of consciousness from all that pain he was in. His daddy finally got ahold of me, and I went out there to see about him.

“I don’t know where that old bastard Winthrop is,” that boy’s daddy said when I got there.

That boy of his hadn’t broken his back, I knew that for sure. But that fall did crack his pelvis in two, and he spent a good month at a hospital in Asheville trying to heal it up, and I’ll declare he still walks with a limp that’ll make you grit your teeth. I don’t know if I ever seen nobody in the kind of pain that boy was in after that fall.

And don’t you know I found out what had happened to Doc Winthrop when one of that boy’s brothers was driving me home that evening. We were going across the bridge over Laurel Creek out there in Summey, and if I didn’t look down off the bank and see that old buzzard’s truck drove clean off the road into the water.

“Go ahead and pull over up here,” I said to that boy.

He parked on the side of the road, and me and him shimmied down that bank and waded a piece out into the water. We looked in there and seen Winthrop sitting behind that steering wheel just a-snoring like he was at home in bed. You could smell that shine on him or whatever it was he’d took to drinking that day.

“Wake up, Winthrop!” I hollered at him. “You done drove your dang truck off the bridge.” He opened his eyes real slow, and then he blinked a couple of times and sat up straight and looked around.

“Well, I reckon I did,” he said.

He left it there too. It’s a new bridge there now, but if you drive down through Summey and cross over the Laurel and look down over the side you’ll see that truck. There’s branches hanging over it now and it’s almost covered in moss, but I can tell you it’s there. He’s been dead for years, but his truck’s still just sitting there. And I can tell you if you drive down that way and cross that bridge and look over the side you’ll see it.

BEN WAS AS WHITE AS A SHEET WHEN HE OPENED THE DOOR, AND HE looked to be just about scared out of his mind. “Who drove you up?” he asked.