Unto These Hills

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

The Story Plant
The Aronica-Miller Publishing Project, LLC
P.O. Box 4331
Stamford, CT 06907

Copyright © 2011 by Emily Sue Harvey
Cover design by Barbara Aronica-Buck

Print ISBN-13: 978-1-61188-025-0
E-book ISBN: 978-1-61188-026-7

Visit our website at
www.thestoryplant.com

All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by US Copyright Law.
For information, address The Story Plant.

First Story Plant Printing: November 2011

Printed in The United States of America

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Acknowledgments

Unto These Hills
is fiction. However, the story is set on Tucapau Hill, the South Carolina mill hill where I grew up. In later years, to my sorrow, it was renamed Startex. Most of us still use Tucapau an
d
Startex interchangeably. The characters are purely imaginary but to mill hill folks, they will feel uncommonly familiar

During the story’s creation, through recall and research, I chronicled the decline of my snug, hilly fortress. The emotions here are pure and heartfelt and linger with me ’til this very day.

Muses for my story include Charlene Toney O’Blenis, whose input, transparency and generosity provided infinite dimension to Sunny’s character. Retired teachers, Laura Odom and Othello Ballenger afforded their impact on Sunny’s early, wise choices.

Other muses include Eleanor Payne Mitchem, Gail Bridges Gibson, Erlene Johnson Frady, Geneva Payne McGraw, Glenda Quinn Ward, Patsy Miller Roach, Marlene Blackwell Brown, Elaine Turner Leonard, Nancy Smith Oliver, Patsy Belcher Vaughn, and Betty Pruitt Walker, close mill hill days girlfriends, as well as others from adjoining textile mill villages of Lyman, Jackson and Fairmont. You all know who you are.

And special thanks to Lou Aronica and Peter Miller, my agent, publishers, mentors, and friends, who guide me over the rocky shoals of a very uncertain business. Thanks for your belief in me and all that I do. Words cannot express how much that means to me.

Prologue

From my upstairs window, the distant view of familiar hills and river swims before me.
Home. My safe place.
But today the vision fails to bolster me. Sweat gathers over my forehead in great beads. Nausea churns my insides and my icy fingers drop the simple four-line poem I’ve been reading, one I wrote — how long ago?

A lifetime. Was life ever that simple?

Panic spasms through me.

I’ve got to decide. Time’s running out. Which will it be?

He wants an answer today.
What about my dream?

What dream, Sunny? Face it. It’s gone.

But what if —

It won’t happen. Grab this lifeline, girl! Are you nuts?
Slowly, I pick up the paper from the floor and I wonder
where were you, God, when I needed you?

But then, you haven’t been doing me any favors lately.

Tears blur the words of my girlhood ode:

UNTO THESE HILLS
Red clay dirt heaped round and high
dips low then rises again to the sky…
Hills they’re called. To me they’re HOME
From them, my shelter, I will never roam.

By Sunny Acklin, age 14

And I remember another day — before innocence died.

Part One

“Who can find a virtuous wife? For her price is far above rubies.”

Proverbs 31:10

The late forties to the seventies

Chapter One

Four Years Earlier

That dawn remains, all these years later, etched in golden solar rays in my memory as
the happiest morning of my life
. It was in my fifteenth year. I arose early, dressed for the May Pole dance, and quietly stole from our two-story Maple Street dwelling planted amongst hundreds of Tucapau — South Carolina’s mill hill houses — all predominantly identical except for varying roof line pitches and story levels.

I spied Daniel across the street, tall, whipcord thin and magnificent as he slung the swing blade, shearing grass as easily as scattering dandelion tufts. A white cotton T-shirt rode his broad shoulders like a second skin. As always, the sight of his midnight dark head, bent to task, so intense, almost heated, stirred my senses.

He hadn’t yet seen me and, for once, I didn’t call out to him but slipped around the house to the alley and rushed on, zig-zagging a detour, intent on seeking out my
harbor
, my stronghold, so to speak: a knoll overlooking my domain.

I wanted to privately bask in pure joy.

Water lapped against land as I cut through Ash Street and neared the dam. I took a deep breath and pushed back the fearful awesomeness of the Middle Tyger River. I watched the sun break the horizon and happiness burst and splintered through me as I clasped my hands to my bosom in exultation.

Nothing of the splendid sunrise whispered of portent.

Forgotten in those precise daylight moments were Ruthie Bonds’ screams, that carried, two years earlier, over these waters that, nightly, transformed into murky black depths. Now, those same depths that nearly claimed her life rippled and reflected sun rays like tossed sequins, seductive…bewitching.

Forgotten today was that Ruthie bore a child within six short months, one called
bastard,
a beautiful little girl who, wagging tongues had it, was sired by Harly Kale, her rescuer on that fateful night. Harly was my friend Gladys’ sorry, no-good husband.

Forgotten for the moment was that, after that, Ruth’s stigmata and self-imposed exile terrorized me as much as those nighttime black waters.

Today, none of this rippled my peace. I D-
double-dog
dared it to as I forded the river by way of an ancient steel bridge, spanned a narrow road, then climbed precipitous concrete steps to the site that offered a panoramic view of my homeland.

Reverently, I ascended a steep hill where once the old schoolhouse perched. No longer. At its summit, my lids lowered and I inhaled the fecund vegetation-mud aroma that rode the breeze.

The wind was soft and gentle, ruffling my shorn hominy-white hair, the sun warm on my olive-complected skin, and my near-translucent blue eyes drank in the beloved sight.

Hope oozed through me like an endorphin overdose, one akin (I would much later discover) to orgasm. Today was a new beginning. I believed that as only a fifteen- year-old heart could.

I gazed out over the hills that birthed and nurtured me, to the river that winds lazily to the dam where, harnessed, water becomes the captured power of over a hundred horses. A furious sight when unleashed upon the rocky shoals below, a beautiful portrait when integrated into the womb of these hilly shores.

Today the orchestrated enchantment of bliss and water rushing over stony, undulating riverbed made music in my ears, music that set my feet to dancing and my heart a’soaring with the white clouds above me. The melody called out to me, lifted me above the fears that struggled to trickle through my euphoria.

Even as I danced, they were there, hovering like a daggum sulking thundercloud. I split in two: One smiling and dancing. The other hidden and vigilant.

Thoughts simmered, bloated, and then blasted out to the four winds.
Please God. Let
Mama and Daddy love each other
…
keep us together.

I flung the dark thoughts aside

My white dress flowed in the wind as I twirled and spun and leaped, lifting my face to the sky, excited about the
here and now,
the May Pole dance and for the sense of
family
that grappled for a secure place inside me.
Mama and Daddy will be there
.

So will Daniel, who just moved in across the street, and who makes me feel more alive than I’ve ever felt before.

And then, he was there with me in spirit, head thrown back in laughter, dancing with me in his loose, boneless way and I felt happier than I’d ever felt in my life, knowing he heard what I heard and felt what I felt. It didn’t matter that I couldn’t see him.

I felt him.

My feet skipped and twirled me back down the stone steps, across the old bridge, where foaming river rode the rocks below, kicking up the wind to cool my warmed cheeks.

The happy notes detoured me up the alley behind the hotel, away from the men who sat on her rock wall corner, opposite the mill, waiting for the seven-thirty a.m .whistle to signal shift change. My celebration was not for them to see.

From maple and walnut trees birds harmonized with the music flooding my soul.

Main Street was just coming alive on this early May morning hour when I meandered from the alley, across the lush hotel lawn, and my feet connected with the big concrete sidewalk. From the old hotel where Mama served as a maid in her cute little black uniform with its frilly white apron and cap, Daisy the cook, taking a moment’s break from the hot kitchen, waved to me from the long front porch with its endless rocking chairs.

“Mornin’ Sunny!” she called, caramel-complected face a’beamin’.
“You shore look purdy!”

I turned back and waved and, tamping down my crazy dancing feet, moved on past the village Doctor’s Office, which anybody and everybody on the hill frequented for anything from a hangnail to pneumonia. The visits had been more frequent hereabouts since Dr. Brock, the new, handsome young doctor had come to practice, taking up residence in the hotel. He looked a bit like Tim Holt or Alan Ladd.

“Hey, Sunny,” Mr. Mason called. He was proprietor of the Company Store, which insured that all villagers had food, even if on credit. I waved at Mr. Mason as he swept around the front doors.

And I exulted that all these entities were bonding forces, ones that declared each living, breathing resident thereabout as my
family.
On second thought, I will have to clarify here that almost all mill hill residents seemed like family.
Almost.
There were a rare
few I
didn’t claim. But I’ll get to them later.

The old movie house came into view, my favorite place of all, whose Saturday afternoon matinees turned the silver screen to magic with Roy Rogers and Dale Evans, Tim Holt, Lash LaRue, Humphrey Bogart and hosts of other actors.

“Sunny!” called a deep male voice. I twirled toward the sound, heart a thumpin’ like a bass drum as I realized he’d been following me from the riverbank.

He’d been watching me from afar — had seen me dancing. I grinned even wider.
I was glad he saw my joy!
Oh it was so
good
to be alive and
loved
and to have both my biological and village family rally for this morning’s celebration.

“Daniel! Hey.” I felt myself flush, warm with pleasure as he joined me on my trek, slowing my feet down even more, At sixteen, he neared six-foot tall. And because he walked beside me I felt luminous and beautiful. His male splendor smote me like an invisible explosion that left every atom reeling

His family moved in across the street from us a few short months back. It’s kinda complicated, the Stone family. The family carries three different surnames: Stone, Hicks, and Daniel’s last name is Collins. Doretha’s stepfather, Ol’ Tom Stone, a former policeman from up North, married Doretha’s mama after moving South. Walter Stone, an older son, lived with them.

Daniel Collins was a foster-child, came to live with them when he was nine, right after the Stones married. The entire family loved Daniel. Except Ol’ Tom. To him, Daniel simply represented free labor and he took pure evil advantage of a good boy. But that’s another story entirely.

In short months, this family became central to my life.

“Wait up!” called Doretha as she rushed to catch up with Daniel and me. Slightly winded, she joined us on our walk to the celebration and as we locked arms I was reminded of the trio dancing their way to the Land of Oz.

I would, later that day, ironically reflect upon that moment’s sheer magic, wishing fervently to recall it.

“Sunny,” came Doretha’s whispery little voice, “you look sooo pur-dy.”

And I smiled and leaned to give her a quick peck on her cheek.

Doretha Hicks, Daniel’s foster-sister, blew into our lives — mine and my buddy Emaline’s — like a fragrant spring breeze, bringing to us a new, perpetual state of delight. Doretha’s childlike charm and ancient insight fascinated Emaline and me. In her presence we were somehow
more.
She had the indefinable ability to augment us beyond what we thought we could ever be.

She was my sister Francine’s age, sixteen. There, likeness ceased. Doretha — pronounced
Dor-EE’
-
tha
— was as unsophisticated as Francine was worldly. She was as plain, upon initial encounter, as Francine was stunning. She was small and reed thin, with her desolate youth shining from her eyes.

I adored her.

Soon, the village park came into view. First family member I spotted was my animated older sister Francine, in saucy pimento shorts and white gypsy blouse tied at the waist. Late April sun had already deepened her naturally olive-toned skin to bronze. A new guy, Tack Turner, sniffed around her, keeping at bay the rest of the male pack.

I disliked him on sight.

Next, I saw my best friend, Emaline. Pecan brown hair slicked back from her heart-shaped face, nape-tied by a white ribbon, coordinating with her billowy white dress that matched my own, both home-sewn by Renie, her sweet mama who today was all a’glow with pride in both of ‘her girls’, as she referred to me and Emaline.

Shorter and rounder than me, Emaline was, then and now, beautiful from the inside out. Though shorter by two inches than me, and brunette, at a distance and in her full, fluid white dress she could almost be my twin and we laughed as we rushed to hug, grasping hands and stepping back to examine each other from head to toe. Eight other teen girls, identically attired as we, meandered about the May Pole, gingerly testing the elaborate long blue ribbons for tethering strength as they slowly orchestrated the upcoming choreography.

Emaline’s mama stood nearby. Usually pleasingly fluffy, Renie, recently suffering from mysterious headaches, had melted down till she scarcely resembled herself. But when she lifted her heart-shaped face and looked at me, her generous smile was pure Renie.

“
Hey, darlin’
,’ she crooned. It was her way of loving me. Her affection splashed over and soaked into me. Her validation was profound. Tears stung my eyes and nose. She always affected me that way.

How I
loved
my village family.

Then I saw them:
Mama and Daddy.
World War II had interrupted Mama and Daddy’s limping, bloodied marriage. This sunny May week reunited them when Daddy, looking more like Mama’s movie idol, Tyrone Power, than ever, reappeared on our mill hill scene, shining like a new silver dollar in his army uniform.

The war was over and his Peacetime Occupation stint in Japan had finally, five years later, ended. The fifties era had already surfaced. Dark wavy hair and eyes the color of our mahogany shift robe, flirted from beneath Daddy’s snappy cap and had Mama clinging to him like a morning glory vine.

A true miracle it was, this devotion-interval, given my mama’s lusty appetite for anything wearing jockey shorts. Or any other style, even butt-naked, truth be known.

I was so happy that they appeared so in love, I didn’t even mind that they’d immediately thrust us four siblings into Nana’s stringent care, then disappeared to the nearby Cotton Club to dance and drink the homecoming night away. I hoped that now Daddy was back, Mama would stop embarrassing me with her brazen ways.

Today, they looked as cozy as Bogart and Bergman in
Casablanca.

I smell lemon-drops!
The realization stretched my lips from ear to ear. I always whiffed them when happy. And right at that instant I could have reached up and touched the sky.

I waved to my parents. Blew them kisses, which they returned a’beamin’ all over themselves.

Please God. Let it last.

~~~~~

The Duncan High School Band, festive in navy blue, gold braided uniforms, struck up
Country Garden
and for the next five minutes we mill hill girls brushed up as close to
Camelot
as we ever again would
.
The performance ended with perfectly concerted pirouettes and we preened as the gathering of village-family, a goodly count of about fifty, applauded.

“Sunny, you were sooo good!” little sister, Sheila squealed as she and younger brother Timmy tackled me with bear hugs.

Then I felt his touch on my arm before I gazed up into those bottomless turquoise eyes that hid myriad emotions. But for me, they glimmered of deep caring. “Sunny, you looked like an angel out there. I love to watch you dance.” His voice rumbled smoothly — like no other timber I’d ever heard. Rich yet soft. Reminded me of Clark Gable’s. “And I love your smile,” he added.

He bent quickly, squeezed my upper arm and kissed the top of my head. I felt it all the way out my toes. He whispered, “gotta run. Ol’ Tom’ll miss me.” His grin was rakish, lop-sided, and decidedly
defiant
. “But it was worth it.”

I watched him rush off, strong legs eating up the sidewalk as he loped with stallion agility down Main Street.

Then other arms wrapped me. As laughter and warmth engulfed me, I inhaled two distinctive fragrances that, for my entire life span, would plop me right back to that particular time and place:
Old Spice After Shave
and
Blue Waltz perfume.