Rooted: A Historical Fiction Novel set in Rural Tennessee and 1970s New York Punk Rock Scene

By Idabel Allen

It all comes from the root… and Grover McQuiston was the root of it all.

Working his lifetime to bury a shameful past, Grover McQuiston rules the rural town of Moonsock, Tennessee and his family with an iron fist. Or he did, until his granddaughter scandalizes the small town with her “queer” behavior. Be

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lowbrow Literary Press
• Release date: May 2, 2017
• ISBN: 9781946718006

Idabel Allen

Idabel Allen serves up the best in new home cooked Southern Literature in the tradition of Eudora Welty, Charles Portis, Willam Faulkner and Flannery O'Conner. First and foremost a storyteller, Idabel's books are all grounded in the same character-driven reality that holds the reader's attention long after the story is finished. Idabel brings over fifteen years of experience as a professional writer and editor to the literary table. She attended the Iowa Writer's Workshop Fiction program and is the author of Headshots, available on Amazon.

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ROOTED

Idabel Allen

Lowbrow Literary

Copyright © 2017 by Idabel Allen

www.idabelallen.net

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

Lowbrow Literary Press

5050 Oakdale Rd

Westmoreland, TN/37186

Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

Book Layout © 2016 BookDesignTemplates.com

Cover Design by Kimberly Fahey

Rooted/ Idabel Allen. -- 1st ed.

ISBN 978-1-946718-01-3

ISBN 978-1-946718-00-6 (e book)

For Zachary, may you grow to be a good and kind root.

CONTENTS

The Root

A Ruined Girl

The Roaming Mortician

A Weak Heart

Something Ugly

An Unexpected Thing

A Good Crop

Death’s Caretaker

The Living

A Mother’s Daughter

Whiskey Bent

A Young Man In Love

A Dangerous Thing

An Overdue Truth

Washed In The Blood

End Of The Road

Preview: CURSED! MY DEVASTATINGLY BRILLIANT CAMPAIGN TO SAVE THE CHIGG

ROOTED

CHAPTER ONE

The Root

It all comes from the root. And Grover McQuiston was the root of it all.

Watkins.

Grover’s steely voice cut through the bank like a guillotine. He didn’t raise his voice, he didn’t have to. The one word stopped Sheriff Watkins in his tracks, and then sent him straight to the bank president’s office.

Yes, sir. Slump-shouldered and head down, Watkins gripped his sheriff’s hat tightly in both hands, his sandy blonde hair disheveled on his hatless head. What’s going on out there? Grover demanded. I saw you and Sue, that teller girl, chit-chatting about something. Saw you sneaking looks my way. Don’t deny it, you aren’t the only ones. Been going on all morning, and I’ve had enough of it.

He’d been at his aged mahogany desk, reconciling Moonsock Trust’s third-quarter financials, when he’d become aware of the whispers and furtive glances sent his direction, and not just from Watkins and Sue but it seemed from anyone who stepped foot in the bank that morning. The discreet commotion had acted as a powerful magnet, drawing Grover’s attention away from his reports and into that world of triviality he so detested.

When the sheriff did not respond, Grover said evenly, I won’t ask you again. His arms lay on both sides of the financial report on the desk. His straight shoulders and hard, white walnut head were pressed forward slightly, giving him an unnecessarily aggressive air. Let’s have it. Now.

Watkins’ eyes traveled quickly to the office’s wide windows and fixed momentarily on Moonsock’s red brick courthouse and the statue of the confederate soldier, his sword drawn and pointed defiantly toward Glory. Then, with a low groan, he admitted, I don’t want to be the one to tell you.

What you don’t want to be is the person who doesn’t tell me, Grover countered. He glanced past Watkins and saw a teller looking into his office. He motioned with his hand and said, Shut the door and sit down.

Watkins closed the heavy wood door and then settled uneasily in the worn burgundy leather chair. It’s about Sarah Jane.

What about her?

There’s been talk, Watkins said cautiously. Seems she’s spending time with Faye Holt.

So she’s finally made a friend. It’s about time. Grover’s attention shifted to the figures before him. Things had been dismal ever since that peanut farmer Jimmy Carter got elected into the White House. Grover had to do something about getting more jobs in town. Deposits were down, just about everything was down. It was the same all over northwest Tennessee, and he supposed elsewhere. But he wasn’t concerned about elsewhere. Elsewhere could take care of itself. Moonsock was his concern. Always had been.

No, you don’t understand. We’re talking about Faye Holt. You know… Watkins leaned forward and whispered dramatically, Gay Faye.

Grover frowned and then recognition filled his face. You don’t mean…

The one who left her husband and kids for that woman all the way down in Memphis. Just up and run off and not a word for almost two years. Then next thing you know she’s back in Moonsock. Only no one would have her, not her husband or kids. The church ladies about barricaded the door when she showed up for service. She’s been staying out in one of her grandfather’s old sharecropper shacks.

Grover felt his blood pressure drop. The numbers before him were forgotten; he was suddenly very alert to the ticking of the wall clock and the way the midmorning light filtered through the windows to the floor. Outside, a battered old car raced around the square, jumped the curb onto the courthouse lawn before speeding off down the road. But he couldn’t be bothered with that at the moment.

Grover turned to Watkins and demanded in a low voice, What do you mean spending time? How?

First, Mr. McQuiston, let me say how everyone knows Sarah Jane is, well, she’s just different is all. Like how when someone talks to her, she just stands there with her eyes on the ground, like she doesn’t see or hear no one. Almost like she’s holding her breath until they go away. Shoot, I’ve hardly ever seen her talk to anyone other than that mechanic over at Patterson’s garage. And it ain’t natural, her not dating or having a boyfriend, not at her age. She don’t work a job or go to school. And she just looks a mess anytime she comes to town, always looking like she just rolled out of bed, or ain’t even been to bed in days. She’s a pretty girl, but ain’t none of us ever seen her in a dress, not even to church. Just wears those cut-off shorts and all.

I know all about Sarah Jane, Watkins. I don’t need you telling me about my blood. Grover might have said granddaughter, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. And he hated using the word blood to describe Sarah Jane, when it had never been proven to him that even a drop of McQuiston blood flowed in her veins.

What you don’t know is just two days ago she was seen walking down the square with Faye Holt, Watkins blurted, his fear quickly vanishing.

Mick Alvin had just pulled up in front of Paulson’s grocery. He said hello to Sarah Jane, they graduated together, you know. But like always, she never said a word back to him. Just turned away like she was too good to say hello, and him being Judge Alvin’s grandson and all. When she turned, Faye came out of the market and sort of bumped into Sarah Jane. Then the next thing you know they walked on down to Sarah Jane’s truck holding hands.

Grover’s face grew still, hard. Holding hands?

Yes sir. And, well, and as they were walking, Mick said the Holt woman was talking into Sarah Jane’s ear. Like whispering with her head real close to Sarah Jane’s head. It didn’t look right, he said. Said it was kind of intimate.

So that’s what’s been going on. All these whispers and looks. Makes me sick. Grover gave his desk a solid pound with his fist. All because some silly girl was seen walking down the street with this Holt woman.

Not only that.

What then? Grover growled.

They say Faye Holt and Sarah Jane have been meeting each other down at the river, at that fishing shack. You know the one?

I do, Grover answered coldly. He knew Sarah Jane spent time at the shack, a lot of time. He’d heard she was writing or some nonsense out there, but he didn’t really know and didn’t really care. All he knew was she was out of sight and out of trouble, which is all he’d ever expected from her.

Now Watkins was telling him she was out there making a complete fool of him. Out there with that Holt woman, not caring what it meant for the family that had taken her in when no one else would have her. If Sarah Jane thought he was going to turn a blind eye to this as he had to everything else, she had another thing coming.

They say this has been going on for a while, Watkins added apologetically.

Who is this ‘they’?

Just people. Everyone’s talking about the scandal.

Grover stood. First off, it’s not a scandal. There’s been some misunderstanding is all. So they can stop talking about it right now. I expect you to see to that. I don’t want to hear another word about this from you or anyone else.

After slipping on his gray suit jacket, Grover opened the door for Watkins, who mumbled, Yes sir, and hurried out of the office.

Grover followed Watkins to the bank lobby and just stood, appraising his employees and customers with a cold eye. No one dared look at him. But the minute Grover exited the bank, all eyes were on him and he knew it.

Even the two Co-op retirees, Verdie Payne and Arliss Williams, sitting on the bench outside the courthouse stopped their daily debate of news and weather.

Arliss rose and pointed to the ruts in the courthouse lawn. You seen this, Boss? Some wild boy with head full of blue hair come ‘round the corner like a bat out of hell. Hollering filth like you ain’t never heard.

Verdie pointed and said, Busted that there soldier statue right upside the head with a Wild Turkey bottle. He was wanting directions to McQuiston Lane, Boss.

Grover paused on the sidewalk and thundered, Well, what’d he want that for?

Verdie and Arliss looked at each other helplessly, then back at Grover and shrugged.

Grover waved the men off with an irritable hand gesture as he headed for his truck. He didn’t have time for any more nonsense.

Pulling away from his parking spot, Grover looked through the bank’s main window and saw the tellers and customers motionless, studying his every move.

He felt those eyes on him the entire trip home, just as he’d felt them on him all those years ago when he had scratched and fought to regain all that his father had squandered through drink or cards or just plain negligence.

People he had known all his life couldn’t get past the fact that the boy they had once picked cotton alongside of was now one of the largest landholders in the county and primary stockholder of the bank.

Grover knew it was more than his success that was unforgettable and unforgivable. It was even more than his father’s sin of letting the family home and farm be auctioned off for taxes. It was the burning of the crop of ripe cotton that could not be forgotten or forgiven: the waste, the loss.

Grover’s father set fire not only to a year’s worth of backbreaking work and worry and sweat and hope, but also a sharecropper’s shack and an elderly colored man.

He was fourteen when the starless black sky turned red with fire and old Stanley was pulled screaming from the shack, his nightshirt engulfed in flames. The old man’s death signified more loss to Grover, who had grown up watching Stanley trudging patiently behind his bandy-legged mule, plowing the straightest rows in the county.

It was the greatest scandal Moonsock had ever known. And now there was a new McQuiston scandal, not as deadly or devastating perhaps, but potentially just as destructive. Sarah Jane’s actions could undo everything he had worked to build. But he wasn’t going to allow that to happen.

As he entered his long, gravel drive, Grover saw the three women immediately. They sat on the porch of the massive two-story farmhouse, shelling peas, shaded from the mid-day sun, talking, always talking these women and never anything of value to say. They sat on Moonsock Manor’s porch as if they were born to it. But none of them were, only he.

His wife of nearly fifty years, Eleanor, gently pushed purple hull peas from the long, narrow shell into the white metal bowl on her lap. She was in her favorite seat, the sage green metal chair, the one his mother had favored. The bangs of her gray hair fell across her eyes as she reached into the paper sack at her feet to remove another handful of peas. Her movements were unhurried and graceful, the rhythm of her life so ingrained that her every action was one of assured familiarity.

As he approached, he saw her thoughtful face, which was slow to judge but quick to laugh, and a hard, mean feeling seized him. It shouldn’t have come to this, he thought. They should have taken care of it, these women, these useless, silly women. Instead, they had encouraged Sarah Jane, nurtured the problem when they should have done everything in their power to suppress it. But they had not.

And now it had come to him, revealed through half-concealed whispers and sly remarks. Everyone had known about it but him. And why should he know? Wasn’t he working as a man should? Wasn’t he running a bank and a large farm? Wasn’t he on the city council making sure Moonsock remained a decent place to raise a family? While he was doing all this, these women sat quietly on his porch and undermined his every action.

But mostly it was Eleanor’s doing.

And there she was, unconcerned with what was being said about her family. Unconcerned that the town wanted nothing better than to watch him fall flat on his face. They had waited all these years for a chance to put him back in his place, and now they had it.

But he wasn’t going to let them have their way, no sir. He would show them once again what McQuistons were made of. He would give them nothing.

Grover felt the women’s eyes on him as he exited the truck, but he didn’t go to them. Instead, he crossed the front yard to Lucy, the red heifer grazing in the cool shade of the cedar tree he’d planted as a small boy with his grandfather.

He removed his suit jacket and slung it over his arm before placing his hand on Lucy’s head. She looked up at him with her big brown cow eyes, pausing in mid-chew as he rubbed behind her ear, saying, There’s my girl.

Looking out across the cotton fields surrounding the house, Grover noted with satisfaction the fullness of the bolls. It was already the middle of October, cotton-picking time. It was all he needed to let everything else go. He was home, on his earth, the land his grandfather had toiled upon, the land he himself had tended. There had never been any place else for him and he was glad of it.

Go on, ask her out. You know you want to. The voice called to him from the porch, thin and creaky with age and too much use. It was his aunt, Althea.

All of the tension he had released beneath the tree returned full force. His neck and shoulders stiffened. Grover started for the porch with his cold, blue eyes set on her. Bleached white from her curly head to her orthopedic shoes, Aunt Althea loved to stir the pot. It was all she’d ever done, all she’d ever been good for. That’s why she had never married, Grover thought grimly, that’s why she’s in my house.

What’s the matter, Grover? another voice, rich and full of life, asked as he mounted the porch. ’Fraid she’ll turn you down?

It was Miss Josie, Eleanor’s long-time friend, constant visitor, and all around aggravation to Grover. She and Eleanor had worked together for years at the primary school before retiring. Nowadays, she camped out on his porch, giving her opinion on everything under the sun and debating everyone else’s whether they wanted to or not.

Josie, please, Eleanor laughed nervously as she rose to meet her husband. Don’t kid Grover. You know how he feels about Lucy.

Oh, we know how he feels about Lucy, Miss Josie said seriously, leaning her head toward Aunt Althea. Question is, how does Lucy feel about him?

Miss Josie and Aunt Althea fell into each other laughing.

You two, really, that’s enough. Eleanor stifled a guilty grin as she hurried between her husband and her companions.

Grover, dear, I wasn’t expecting you. You want lunch? I can heat up some biscuits and chicken from last night. Take a seat and I’ll bring your tea out. Eleanor’s long, elegant hands fluttered as she directed Grover toward a chair.

But he resisted her. Where’s that girl? Why isn’t she helping with the peas?

She’s…she… Eleanor stumbled for words. What do you want with Sarah Jane?

That’s my concern, not yours, not anymore. Grover looked past Eleanor into the darkened hallway beyond the screen door. She inside?

Eleanor and Miss Josie would not look at him. Aunt Althea slid her finger down a bean pod, emptied the peas into her bowl, and then lifted her eyes to the ceiling.

Grover stormed into the yard and looked up to the open window above the porch with the pale yellow curtain hanging lifeless inside the screen.

Sarah Jane! You up there, girl? He paused a moment, but there was no response. Grover turned to the women on the porch. She best not be in bed at the noon hour.

Grover! Eleanor said sharply. That’s quite enough. If all you’re here to do is cause a commotion you can just go back to town.

Cause a commotion? Grover looked evenly at Eleanor. I’m here to take care of a problem. One you created.

What are you talking about? What’s this got to do with Sarah Jane?

He thinks your girl up there is a vagitarian, Althea answered.

Miss Josie exclaimed, A what?

"You know, Josie, a vaaagitaaarian…"

After a pause, Miss Josie said, Ahhhh, and then promptly frowned.

That’s what Carlene and Hester are saying at the beauty parlor, Althea said knowingly. ’Course those two don’t have any sense at all. They’ve bleached their heads so much it’s seeped clear through to what little brains they had to begin with.

Grover looked at Althea sharply. How did his elderly aunt already know what he had only just learned?

I don’t care what everyone says, Eleanor said with a shaky voice, it’s not true.

You best start caring, Grover countered. "I’m not about to stand for that kind of talk about my own family. If she even is my family, which no one has ever bothered to convince me."

She’s our only son’s daughter, all we have left of him after the Army. Eleanor added quietly, Are you telling me after her living here almost ten years, you’d deny Jacob his own daughter? That we should have let the state have her, just pretend she wasn’t our own flesh and blood?

Just because some woman claimed Jacob was the girl’s father don’t make it true, Grover cautioned. If the girl was Jacob’s, why were we just hearing about her when the girl was half grown and her mama couldn’t handle her anymore?

It was never that her mother couldn’t handle Sarah Jane, Eleanor said. "It was a question of neglect, Grover. Sarah Jane was hurt. Do you understand what I’m saying? She needed our help. She still does."

Grover wasn’t arguing the point. He took a step back, cupped his hands to his mouth, and called, I know you hear me, girl. Get your rear-end down here. Now!

Grover, you leave that child alone, Eleanor commanded.

Grover wiped the sweat from his forehead with his handkerchief. The stiffness in his neck and shoulders was not going away. I’ve had enough of her and you. Here on out keep your mouth shut and let me take care of this.

What are you going to do, old man? Miss Josie demanded.

It’s not what I’m going to do, he explained. "It’s what she’s going to do."

Grover looked back up at the open window and shouted, Hear that, Missy? You’re getting married, and I don’t care to who. But there’s not going to be any more talk of you being… I mean, being… Grover sputtered, unable say the distasteful words.

Being what, Grover? Eleanor demanded, placing her hands on her hips, piercing Grover with her defiant blue eyes.

They’re saying Sarah Jane’s been running around with that Holt woman, Grover said. You know the one they call...I mean, the homosexual.

Althea cackled, Gay Faye.

That’s a bunch of nonsense. Faye ain’t gay, Miss Josie said. Only reason she left her husband was she was tired of being beat.

Nonsense huh? Grover growled. Half of Moonsock saw that Holt woman and Sarah Jane walking together so close you’d think they were joined at the hips. And that’s not the worst of it. They’re saying Sarah Jane’s been meeting that Holt woman down at the fishing shack on the river. Been doing things I can’t even bring myself to say aloud.

Eleanor said, But-

But nothing! There’s not going to be any more talk about that girl, understand? She’s getting married, Eleanor. That’s all there is to it.

Grover, you’re a real horse’s ass, know that? Althea noted. The girl ain’t ready to get married. Althea shot Eleanor and Miss Josie a knowing look. Might never be ready, after all she’s been through. But that’s all right. I never married and did just fine.

That’s right, Grover, Miss Josie added. Leave the girl be.

Grover ignored Althea and Josie, telling Eleanor, From here on out there’s not to be any runnin’ round on the river all night. The girl acts like an absolute heathen. I want her in a dress and out of those ragged shorts. Have her put on some makeup, and get the girl a real haircut.

Sarah Jane is not running around all night, she’s working, writing. And she’s fine how she is, she just needs time to build her confidence, Eleanor offered emphatically. Sarah Jane doesn’t know it, but I sent an application in for her for the University of Mississippi.

You did not, Miss Josie declared.

That’s the whole problem, right there, Grover said, turning to his wife with controlled rage. Filling that girl’s head with a bunch of nonsense. What’s the use of sending her off to college when you could barely get her through high school? The girl missed more days than not. And I guess I’m supposed to pay for the whole thing, never minding how much of an absolute waste it is. Face it. She’s not good for much other than eating, sleeping, and causing me grief. The girl’s well past twenty and can’t even be bothered to get a job and support herself.

Eleanor said, She has a job.

A job? If you mean helping out here, I haven’t seen her lift one finger since your heart attack last year.

That silenced Eleanor.

But you had a job, Grover continued, to raise that girl up proper and not be a disgrace to God and everyone else. Since you couldn’t do it, I will. You tell her I’ll be bringing someone by to see her later this afternoon. I expect she’ll be cleaned up and presentable. And I expect her to be sociable, none of that deaf-mute business she’s always pulling when she doesn’t want to act right.

Grover, you can’t be serious, Eleanor pleaded softly.

I expect her to do right, hear me? Grover slipped on his suit jacket. The girl’s ruined. What else could she be, coming from that piece of common trash mother? Only you just never could see it. Best we can do for her is get her matched up with someone who’ll have her and take care of her, if we can even find someone. There’s nothing else anyone can do for her.

Grover, you got no call to treat Sarah Jane that way, Miss Josie said firmly. This’ll come back on you, wait and see.

Only thing I’m waiting for is you to mind your business and leave me to mine.

Miss Josie opened her mouth to say something else, but Grover turned his attention to his wife. Do as I say, woman. You get that girl ready.

Without another word he walked to the truck. Eleanor wanted him to take it all back, to ignore the girl and her behavior. She wanted him to accept that Sarah Jane was his flesh and blood. She wanted him to accept that his only son had fathered a child out of wedlock with some cheap, desperate woman. Wanted him to accept that a bastard girl was all he had left of his only son. This he could not accept, just as he could not accept Sarah Jane living under his roof, bringing shame to his family.

He started the truck and then glanced at the window with the lifeless yellow curtain. The girl had been in bed, he’d sensed it. He could have gone up there, roused her lazy rear-end and made her listen. But he didn’t need to. Eleanor would have the girl ready for her visitor. She would do as she was told, this he knew.

CHAPTER TWO

A Ruined Girl

Sarah Jane sat beneath the window in the same shorts and shirt she’d worn the day before and had slept in. She pushed a tangled mass of dirty-blonde hair from her face absently, hardly breathing. They were all talking about her, not just her family but the entire town. That others could see her, when she seemed so unreal to herself, still shocked her.

She listened to the soft crunching sound of gravel beneath tires, the low rumble of Grover’s Ford slowly growing fainter. When all evidence of his departure was gone still she listened.

And still she sat, with her eyes closed, her chest rising and falling almost imperceptibly. The women’s voices on the porch, more dear to her than any she’d ever known, were low, muffled. She could not hear their words, not any longer.

But she’d heard them clear enough when Grover was with them. Heard every word and understood in no uncertain terms what was expected of her. A man was coming for her. A man was coming for her and she was to be ready for him. A man was coming for her and she was to submit to him all that she was.

Only she couldn’t submit to him or anyone else, not now and not ever. Didn’t Grover know that?

She opened her eyes and exhaled carefully.

Oh boy.

Her hand strayed to the book on the floor next to the bed, the one she’d been reading the night before, Light in August. She fingered the rough edges of the cover, thinking she should just walk away like the girl Lena in the book. Just set off on foot, not wait for Grover’s return but head out with nothing more than the clothes on her back.

But how could she do that when all she wanted was to remain on the farm, hidden and protected, invisible?

Was that such a bad thing? To want to be left alone, unnoticed and unmolested. To require nothing of others and expect the same in return?

Apparently so.

This she learned days before when she stepped outside Paulson’s grocery and saw Mick Alvin leaning against his black Trans Am, alone as he’d never been in high school. Upon seeing him, she turned quickly toward her truck without making eye contact, thinking don’t talk to me, don’t talk to me, don’t talk to me…feeling that sick fear rising in her chest, that panicky feeling that was always with her when she was away from the farm and among strangers.

But