A Life for a Life by Lynda McDaniel (best selling autobiographies .txt) 📖

My troubles started about four months earlier when a girl came skipping over the mountainside where I was tending the cows. She’d put some violets in her long blond hair, and they matched the flowers on her gauzy dress. Truth be told, I thought I was seeing something from the spirit world. I blinked a time or two, not believing my eyes, but she was still there.

I was at the Hickson School of American Studies in a work/study program, something they offered folks like me who had a “learning disability”—a couple of words they drilled into us instead of stupid or retard. The school was part of the university in Boone and named after someone who’d given it a bunch of money. Too bad about his name. The way things like that went, the school’s long name kept getting shortened until it was known as simply The Hicks.

For one of my jobs, I tended the cows that were in season at the school dairy. They liked to graze on a grassy slope that faced west toward Beech Mountain, and every Tuesday and Thursday afternoons I kept check on them. I wasn’t sure what was the prettiest—the view of the mountains or them Jersey cows with their dreamy brown eyes and long lashes. Mama had a cow for a while, but it was a Holstein, and while they’re a fine-looking breed, they aren’t gorgeous like these girls. I’d sit among them, not shepherding or anything like that, just keeping an eye out to make sure they were safe. I’d found a good place to sit, where the rocks formed a natural backrest, and I’d lose myself in the gentle lowing from the herd.

So that day, a particularly warm spring day, I was in a kind of daze when that girl appeared. She settled down next to me like an apple blossom fluttering to the ground.

“Hello! I’m Clarice. Who are you?”

“Uh, hi.” I felt all tongue-tied, but pretty girls did that to me. I hadn’t really had a girlfriend yet—no one back home would give me the time of day, and at The Hicks, there weren’t that many girls. Besides, I couldn’t imagine anyone would say yes if I asked her out, and I just wasn’t up for more rejection.

“I said, who are you?” 

I nearabout said Abit, but caught myself. “V.J.”

I got that nickname Abit because Daddy told everyone, “He’s a bit slow.” That made him feel better, letting the world know that he knew he had a retard (his word). Turns out I’m not the sharpest saw in the tool chest, but not the dullest, neither. My teachers have showed me lots of things and helped me appreciate other qualities I have. I just needed someone—make that several someones—to believe in me.

Thing was, that school was everything I’d hoped it would be. I hadn’t done so well in public school back in Laurel Falls, so again, to make himself feel better, Daddy took me out of school when I was twelve. But after that summer of 1985, Alex Covington (Della’s ex-husband and later her boyfriend) and Della’s best friend Cleva Hall pulled some strings and got me in The Hicks. Alex had even written a book about the place—more like one of them coffee table books with lots of pictures and some stories. (Thank heavens it ended up not featuring me, the way he’d threatened.)

“V.J. what?” she asked, snuggling kinda close-like.

“Do you mean what does V.J. stand for or what’s my last name?”

“The latter.” 

That was a relief because I didn’t have to tell her V.J. stood for Vester Junior. I hated Daddy’s name, and I didn’t even want to say it out loud. “Bradshaw. V.J. Bradshaw. What’s yours?”

She frowned at me. “Clarice, as I said earlier.” I guessed she was just so, well, different lookin’, I’d been studying her rather than paying attention to what she’d said. “Ledbetter. Clarice Ledbetter,” she added. 

We started in talking and oncet we got warmed up, we carried on like old friends. I couldn’t believe how much we had in common. When I told her I liked her blond hair, she said she liked my red hair. When she shared how much she loved dogs, I raved about them, too. But when I asked if she’d come for the Dance Week starting tomorrow—I could already see her dancing in that beautiful dress—her pretty face changed in a flash.

No, she said, her chin quivering, she was here because her mother was dying and the school had been nice enough to rent them the Gate House for the duration. Seemed her mama grew up round the school and wanted to die nearby. Clarice told me all about what medical things were happening to her mama (in more detail, to be honest, than I cared to hear). It was one of the saddest stories I’d heard in some time. No longer killing time out front of Della’s store meant I didn’t hear all the tales of woe from my fellow bench-sitters.

I wrestled with the fact that Clarice was living with so much sorrow, while I was feeling so happy that such a pretty girl was paying attention to me (even though I figured she just needed someone to talk to). And I liked the idea that she wouldn’t be leaving after Dance Week (not unless her mama took a quick turn for the worse).

Too often people I enjoyed left after only a week or two; they came for just a short time to learn some of the art and music of the mountains. Way back, the school had started as a settlement school to teach mountain people the ways of the world. Then about thirty year ago, it turned into a place for city folks to come learn our ways. 

Before long, the sun had slipped behind a mountain. Sunset came early there, the mountains stealing a good couple of hours from our days. Even the swallows were fooled, swooping and soaring as though it were time for their bedtime snack. As much as I wanted to stay (and not because of that sunset), I had to get down to the school kitchen to help the cooks, Lurline and Eva. “Do you take any of your meals with us at the school?” I asked. “I also work in the kitchen, and I could get you some extra helpings.” I felt silly as soon as those words were out of my mouth. Even I knew I was groveling. But she smiled and seemed to take it in the right way.

“Thanks, but we can’t afford the school’s meal plan. I do most of our cooking now.”

“Gosh, I’m sorry. I bet I could wrap up some leftovers for you, from time to time. We usually have a lot extra. Lurline and Eva always cook too much, just in case more people show than they expected. And it’s a shame for it to just go to the pigs.”

“That’s real sweet of you, but I wouldn’t want to deprive the pigs!” I was about to explain myself when she smiled and kissed me on the cheek. Just then one of them Jerseys let out a big fart, and we both started laughing. I don’t know when I’ve appreciated a fart more, because otherwise, I’d have been sitting there like a fool, dumbstruck by her kiss. 

We both stood up, and she brushed some leaves and stuff off her skirt—and my behind! She sure looked good standing there, the breeze catching her hair and rippling that gauzy skirt. “I knew what you meant, V.J., but you don’t have to do us any favors. I wouldn’t want to get you in trouble.”

“Oh, you couldn’t get me in trouble,” I said. “Besides, I’m sure everyone wants to help you out. We take care of our own.”

“But we’re outsiders.”

“Yeah, but you said your mama was from the area. So that’s good enough for me.” She smiled again, and I paused for a moment before adding, “I gotta get going. You comin’?”

“No, that dark old cottage depresses me. I believe I’ll sit here a while longer and drink all this in,” she said, sweeping her hand in the most graceful way.

I loped off, wishing I didn’t have to leave. But it would be too obvious to suddenly say Oh, I don’t need to go, after all.

I met a fair number of people who struck me that way—folks I’d like to know better—but most times they didn’t want to know me. Like when I’d call