Leigh H. Bailey

Chapter 1

A Distant Memory

As I run through the woods, I feel my clothing snag among the Scarlet Firethorn shrubs. My satchel weighs heavily on my shoulder and I sense thin trails of blood streaming down my arms and legs. The familiar orange berries shout out their warnings to stay away, yet I can’t seem to avoid them. My steps have taken on a life of their own. The familiar deafening ring of gunshots encircle my head. The taste of dirt and copper has burned its memory into my throat. All I can see are dark, dead eyes staring back at me. A powerful force pushes me forward. I have to keep running. I must warn her; maybe even save her life.

I glance back and see Mattie trying to keep up. Her occasional moans are disturbing, but at least I am not alone. My mind flashes back to the barn, and my steps falter. I tumble forward as if in slow motion, and a sharp pain rips through my shoulder. Yet, the throbbing instantly disappears as I scan the woods and realize I am now alone.

The lack of saliva forces my tongue to the roof of my mouth, and I struggle to catch my breath. My heart races faster and faster, threatening to burst through my chest. I feel the terror erupting from the depths of my soul and rushing into my throat. Suddenly, the silence of the forest is rattled by the echoes of my screams.

Chapter 2

Present

I’m awake. My breathing remains shallow and fast, and my heart continues to beat wildly within my chest. I stand up to fight off the dizziness and a chill hastens up my legs, pulling me back to my familiar surroundings. My mind begs for an excuse to be disconnected from the terrifying scene in the forest, and a brush of cold air forces me to address the dying embers with new logs and tinder; a welcome distraction. The flames blanket the room and the surrounding air with a fresh surge of warmth, and my quickened heartbeat and rapid breathing finally subside.

Nightmares from my childhood have become a constant occurrence since my brother fell ill. Finn’s diagnosis of terminal cancer and his subsequent move to my spare bedroom has been a disturbing turn of events. I struggle to accept the fact that my little brother will leave this world before me, and I will be left all alone.

As I move to Finn’s bedside, I am disheartened by the ashen shade of his skin and skeleton-like appearance. The chemotherapy and radiation have not only stripped him of his healthy physical appearance, but have stolen his memories as well. Even though we lost our grandmother when we were children, he screams for her while he sleeps. His pleas for her have grown more desperate, and he has taken to blaming me for her death.

Although our recollections of childhood remain somewhat different, I have always cherished Finn’s ability to fill in the blanks when my mind would wander. Now, because of his illness, he begs me for the tales he has lost from our past, and I am consumed with an unfamiliar sense of guilt. The memories of our childhood remain foggy and unclear in my mind. But, maybe I have chosen to forget; a child’s eye, refusing to see the reality of what happened and who was responsible.

Finn suddenly opens his eyes and speaks. I can barely hear the words he utters and I move my ear closer to his lips.

“Where is Grammie?” he whispers. “What did you do to her, Tilly?”

I sit up straight, yet continue to stare into my brother’s eyes with utter disbelief.

“What do you mean, Finn? Grammie is gone and has been for almost seventy years. Don’t you remember?”

“Why did you kill her, Tilly? Why?”

Finn closes his eyes and his head falls to the side. The powerful effect of the morphine temporarily silences his questions, yet I remain disturbed by his accusation.

I draw my attention to the shelf against the wall, which holds our photographic history. Before Finn’s arrival, I moved my collection of photos to the spare bedroom, hoping it would calm him to be in the presence of familiar faces. Yet, it seems to have upset him more. I pick up a photo of my brother and am reminded of his face as a child, so small and angelic, surrounded by wisps of long brown hair. Finn was four years younger and his never wavering confidence in me was overwhelming as a child, yet in some ways stabilizing. I was all that stood between him and the bullies we encountered throughout our school years, as well as the monsters invited directly into our home by the very people tasked with our safety.

I’m surprised we survived our childhood somewhat unscathed, as times were different when we grew up. Today, hovering parents and unfamiliar neighbors constrict the wanderings of children, cutting them off from the adventures and maturity a little independence can produce. Without our freedom, I doubt we would have survived our childhood or the unwanted circumstances forced upon us.

I study a photo of my best friend, Mattie, prominently displayed in the front row. It was 1935, and we were standing at the Columbiana train depot. Mattie had large brown eyes that sparkled whenever she smiled, and her personality reflected a strong-willed determination I hoped was contagious. She had long, brown hair always braided into loose pigtails, and topped off with a black cap she rarely removed. Mattie spent most of her days on a candy apple red Roadmaster Supreme bicycle, given to her on her ninth birthday by her father, Sheriff Westwood. She was the first person I met after we moved into Mrs. Deliford’s boarding house and remained my best friend throughout our lifetime. She was the inspiration behind the eventual awakening of my inner strength and the confidence I needed to sever all ties with those who caused me pain. I can never thank her enough for that.

My heart fills with affection as I look upon the photos of Grammie, reminding me of the warmth and depth of love she had for us all. I know, without her, we may never have survived our childhood or that fateful move that took us away from Columbiana and all we held dear. I still wonder if I inherited the strength of character she strived to uphold and always maintained, regardless of the circumstances. As a child, I prayed to be just like my grandmother, but I fear the Hanover traits were too strongly embedded in my genes to be subdued.

My eyes come to rest on a photo that transports me back to the first day we moved into Mrs. Deliford’s boarding house. I can smell the honeysuckle winding its way up the columns of the front porch, and see the untamed wisteria clinging to the arbor, shading the small seat hidden beneath their periwinkle blooms. I feel the sun on my face as the sounds of bees and katydids fill my ears.

Closing my eyes, I am swept unexpectedly into the hallway of Miss Deliford’s two-story boarding house, patiently waiting for Mrs. Paschal to appear. She would walk to the top of the steps, take a deep breath, and begin her daily descent. She carried a large bowl of her husband’s urine in one hand and clung to the rickety banister with the other. No small task, when you weighed over three hundred pounds and suffered from bad knees and arthritis. My amazement at her ability to achieve this feat was equal to my horror she would lose her balance and shower me with the night’s collection of Mr. Paschal’s pee. The act itself was so mesmerizing, yet perilous, I couldn’t imagine eating breakfast without first starting my day in dire fear for my and Mrs. Paschal’s lives. I lived in constant chaos as a child, and by the age of nine, I could barely begin my day without a healthy dose of angst. It had become a regular part of my daily life, and I not only became accustomed to the drama, but felt an insatiable need to become a part of it.

I carry the photo to Finn’s bedside and sit down, pressing it to my chest. I stare at my brother’s face, clenched in pain even as he sleeps, and I search my mind for the stories so easily discarded after we lost Grammie. Comforted by the presence of my little brother, yet disturbed by his comments, I am determined to remember the story of our lives. 

Chapter 3

Family Connections

My name is Tilly Mae Hanover, and I was born in Columbiana in 1928.

I can still see my father pulling up in front of our beautiful stone house on Forest Drive. His 1926 Chrysler Imperial E80 was candy apple red and the only one in our small town. He screeched to a stop and raced the engine while he threw back his head and laughed.

“Come on, Tilly, jump in,” he yelled. He looked up at me with his bright blue eyes and hypnotizing smile and stared right through me. He waved his hands wildly as he ushered me into the front seat and onto his lap. “Come on darling, let’s do our thing. Let’s fool all the neighbors into thinking you are driving by your lonesome,” he laughed.

I knew my father was special, and I assume he swept my mother off her feet, as they married within six months of their first meeting. I remember, like most young girls, I was sure I would grow up and marry my father, but then something happened. Soon after my brother was born, my father’s smile disappeared and his bright blue eyes darkened; and the dynamic of our family changed overnight. I struggled to understand why Daddy stopped loving me, and why the happy-go-lucky father I had always known was suddenly so miserable and hateful.

It’s a funny thing thinking back on my childhood. Although my brother Finn was usually by my side, there are many times when I can’t recall where he was when the drama would unfold. I was usually right in the middle of the chaos, so my thoughts surrounded my survival, but Finn was always in my peripheral vision despite the upheaval he caused at simply being born.

The conversations my brother and I had about our childhood were always thought-provoking. His experiences seldom lined up to mine, and it makes me wonder if he was by my side as much as my memory reflects. Perhaps the difference in our ages and perspectives was too far-reaching to match up to our accounts of what happened. Or maybe my brother’s presence was just wishful thinking as a child, always wanting someone there to bear witness to the nightmarish experiences forced upon us after my father changed. Needless to say, we grew up quickly. We had no choice.

Our home on Forest Drive was lined with gigantic oaks, dripping in Spanish moss, surrounded by influential people and perfectly manicured lawns. Despite the bright façade of our house, it was not a happy place after my father grew sullen and the drinking began.

Invitations to my parent’s parties on Forest Drive were certainly the most coveted events by the socially connected in Columbiana. Every weekend, our home was swarming with people and a seemingly unlimited supply of food, alcohol, and cigarette smoke. Yet, despite the respected family shields of the attendees, the drunken behavior of my parent’s guests rivaled, and indeed, surpassed the conduct of the everyday town folk at local pig pickings and cattle auctions. Family breeding, it seems, was no guarantee of common decency, courteous behavior, or manners. In fact, I felt safer among the working class of Columbiana than I did in my own home.

I distinctly remember being six years old and sitting with my brother, Finn, at the top of the stairs. Our legs dangled through the banister as we watched the people below. The ladies wore such alluring dresses, adorned with beautiful beads in all patterns and colors. Pearls and delicate jewels swung around their necks as they promenaded around the floor beneath us. The men had their hands everywhere on the women’s bodies, something I never remember them doing in public. I didn’t know what to do while they freely groped each other. I wanted to look away, but it was too hypnotizing not to stare. They would hold each other close, sliding across the floor, while carelessly spilling their drinks and dropping their cigarette ashes onto our beautiful wooden floor.

My father’s banker, a man with a large handlebar mustache, glimpsed Finn and me on the stairs above the makeshift dance floor. I recognized him as a frequent guest on weekends and watched with fascination as he spun his partner around with such expertise; she appeared to be dancing on air. He saw me watching him from the stairs above, and he hurriedly dipped the beautiful blonde. He then kissed her passionately, patted her on the rear, and sent her on her way.

“Thanks for the dance, sweetie, but I may have found a new partner,” he said. Glancing from her rear end to my eyes, he silently moved across the floor towards the stairs. Holding my gaze, the entire distance, he finally spoke. “Hey, Darlin, why don’t you come down and take a spin with me?” He winked and slowly caressed his crotch with one hand while beckoning me to join him with the other. “Well, are you coming?”

Feeling my face flush red, I pulled my legs in from between the banister and grabbed Finn’s hand. Dragging my brother down the hallway, I could hear the man’s footsteps following us up the stairs. I hurriedly pushed Finn into my room and locked my door.

“Come on Finn. I don’t want Daddy coming up and getting angry that we are still awake.” I pulled the blanket up to Finn’s chin and leaned over to kiss him on the cheek. “Try to get some sleep, little brother.” I quickly jumped next to him and slipped easily between the cool cotton sheets.

I reached over to turn off the light and watched the knob of our locked door turning back and forth. I could hear the desperation in the man’s pleas begging me to let him in. Surprisingly, his cries for my attention did not affect me in the slightest. I had grown accustomed to the behavior of the drunken men my father brought into our home. And I had rock-solid confidence in the new lock Grammie secured on my door.

Our parent’s parties would finally end with the depletion of alcohol or the light of day, whichever came first. Finn and I were happy to help our maid, Violet, wipe away all signs of our parent’s party from the night before. However, no matter how hard we scrubbed, cleaning cloths and soapy water could not wash away the visions of drunkenness and sexual exploits that had become a regular part of our lives on Forest Drive.

Despite the precarious situations my brother and I encountered because of my parents, I have very fond memories of my mother, Rebecca Martin Hanover. The scent of lavender always surrounded her and, as a result, served as a warning whenever she entered or exited a room.

Mother was a beautiful woman, with dark brown hair and large blue eyes. Her porcelain complexation was a total contrast to the rest of the Martin family. She always dressed in beautiful outfits with fur draped around her neck or large pearls dangling between her breasts. An array of feathers, fruit or lace were always adorning a matching hat. My mother was as passionate about our outfits as she was her own and was adamant about our exposure and introduction to the proper people. It was totally unacceptable if we ran into someone from a so-called, suitable family background, and we were dressed inappropriately. As a result, I spent a lot of time in my youth struggling to find just the right outfit for every occasion. I eventually inherited my mother’s natural affinity for clothes, and I spent most of my adult life investing in an array of ensembles. Yet, unlike my mother, I ignored the advances of the males they attracted.

Although my mother was a magnet for the worst type of men, she was loving and affectionate to my brother and me. To this day, I have never doubted her loyalty and devotion to us, and I know she would have literally sacrificed her own life for ours. However, Mother’s allegiance did not seem to influence her misguided decisions about the men she brought into our lives. She obviously believed one was mutually exclusive from the other. There was one lesson I learned from my mother’s mistakes: I had no interest in men, marriage or children, and as a result, spent my life alone.

Before Finn was born, I remember watching my parents dance in our living room. The laughter from my father made me feel safe and happy. My parents were so content and our life was so full of gaiety.

“Come on Tilly, jump on,” Daddy shouted. He would take my arms and pull me into the air, placing my feet on top of his and we would circle the living room, twirling to the music that blared from our phonograph.

“Be careful Raney, don’t drop her,” my mother shouted through fits of laughter.

“I would never drop my best girl,” Daddy responded. “Hold tight, Tilly, I’m going to dip you now,” I remember those days as the best of my childhood.

I recall experiencing a feeling of dread when Mother told me I would soon have a little brother or sister. Daddy was so excited when he heard the news, yet I couldn’t help but feel slightly jealous of his reaction. I cherished our time together, and I didn’t want another person to interfere in our happy family.

“Imagine, Tilly. We’re going to have another little Raney or Rebecca around the house,” he laughed. “Aren’t you excited about a new playmate?”

I nodded my head, never wanting to disagree with anything my father said, but my heart sank. However, it was shortly after Finn’s birth that my father grew sullen and quiet, and our small family changed. I always blamed my brother for Daddy’s altered personality, but I simultaneously felt sorry for Finn. He never got to experience the fun and loving side of our father.

Daddy quickly became completely detached from me and my brother, but I will never forget the cigarette that constantly hung from his mouth and the drink he habitually held in his hand. Looking back, I finally understand my desperation for his attention and the simultaneous repulsion I felt the few times he picked me up after the birth of my brother. His odor was a constant reminder of the drinking and the parties that disrupted our childhood and eventually led to my family’s demise. Even today, the smell of cigarette smoke can throw me back to a time and place I have hidden in the dark corners of my mind. Corners only illuminated when I am in the proper frame of mind to entertain or share the disruptive, yet sometimes humorous, events that shaped our childhood. When I look back today, I know I loved my mother dearly, and I feared my father, but I credit my Grammie for saving our lives.

My maternal grandmother was like no one I’ve ever met and, despite her slight frame, was one of the most tenacious and able-bodied women I’ve ever known. Her proper name was Nadie Tilliford Martin, but was always “Grammie” to my brother and me and just “Mother” to Mom and Aunt Julia. She was the one adult I knew would do anything to ensure our safety.

Grammie’s maternal grandmother was a full-blooded Cherokee who met and married her grandfather after the Creek war of 1813. When I look back today, I realize my Grammie inherited her love of the land and her talents in medicinal skills and gardening from her Cherokee grandmother. She also had her beautiful olive skin, black eyes, and dark hair. Even as she aged, my grandmother kept her beautiful dark hair streaked with surprisingly small wisps of gray. I hated looking in the mirror at my blonde hair and blue eyes, an inheritance from my father and the Hanover family. I promised God I would do anything if he would make my eyes and hair dark like Grammie’s and the rest of the Martin family.

One thing I will never forget was my desperate prayers for a new identity after Daddy’s plunge into drunkenness. I desperately wanted to distance myself from the branches of our family tree that had any connection to my father. Little did I know this was an impossible feat, as we are the sum of the family in which we are born; the good stuff, the bad stuff, and even the dark side we try so hard to deny.

Chapter 4

Raney Lee Hanover

When my father finally drank away his friends and the family oil business, my mother began locking him out of our house regularly. Daddy would stumble around on our front porch screaming my name and Mother’s repeatedly while attempting to break down the door.

“Tilly Mae Hanover, come open this door! Rebecca, you had better let me in right now. Tilly’s my child, dammit, and I shall have her. Rebecca, open up the door right now!”

I remember hiding behind my mother’s chair, my knuckles white from the grasp I had on its carved wooden legs. I prayed to God to strengthen my mother’s resolve so she wouldn’t eventually open the door and surrender me to Daddy’s demands. Strangely enough, I remember his screams never included my brother’s name. All I can hear in my mind’s eye is Tilly Mae and the long, drawn-out southern drawl in his scream for my mother, Rebecca.

When my father drank away all the money we had left, the parties stopped and the sheriff finally escorted him out of our house but, unfortunately, not our lives. It was an evening in October when Daddy missed supper once again, and my mother’s patience finally ran out. She was tucking Finn and me in for the night when he shuffled up outside our bedroom door. Daddy, as usual, was full of drink and acting just like the bullies at school.

“What the hell’s going on in here? Why aren’t you all downstairs at the table with my supper?” he yelled. His anger changed the comforting aura of our bedroom into a scary place, not unlike the scenes from my nightmares. “Get up, Rebecca, and fix me some food. You kids come down and sit at the table with me while I eat.”

Mama quickly stood up and spoke, “Raney, come on. I’ll go downstairs with you and warm up some leftovers. Let’s leave the kids so they can get some rest.”

“I don’t want any damn leftovers. I want some proper food. Tilly! Finn! Get up and come downstairs and sit at the table with me. When a man comes home, his family should be there waiting for him. He should have a decent meal on the table, not some damn leftovers.”

Mother calmly walked over to Daddy and tried to move him out into the hallway. “Come on, Raney, you missed supper again. Let the kids get some sleep; they have school tomorrow.”

Daddy quickly turned to Mother and shoved her against the wall. Her breathing erupted into quick gasps of air as she slid down the wood paneling. Daddy’s eyes were wild with anger, yet he laughed as Finn and I watched Mother slump onto the floor.

“Dammit, Rebecca, stop telling me what to do!” He quickly straightened his rumpled jacket and glared at our mother. He then looked at Finn and me as if, somehow, we understood and agreed that she was the cause of all our problems.

I quickly jumped out of my bed and ran to Finn. I knew we were both afraid and didn’t know what he would do next. Finn grabbed my hand, and I pulled him towards the hallway.

We hurried past our mother laying on the floor and tried not to look directly at her. I had become accustomed to our father’s drunken assaults on my mother and the random beatings he gave Finn. Over the years, I developed a talent for the art of distraction. It was a necessary evil to save Mother and Finn from escalating assaults and humiliation by our father. I knew if we went with him, he would leave my mother alone, at least for now.

“Come on Finn, let’s get something to eat with Daddy.” I said.

“But I’m tired, Tilly,” Finn cried. “I wanna go to sleep.”

“Shh,” I whispered. “Just come on.”

“Now, that’s more like it,” Daddy said. When he reached the top step, he looked over his shoulder and yelled at my mother. “Get downstairs and make my dinner and never talk to me like that in front of my daughter again.”

Finn and I sat at the table while Daddy poured himself another drink and pulled his cigarettes out of his front pocket. I could hear the clash of dishes in the kitchen as I watched Daddy’s face light up for a brief second as his cigarette caught fire. He inhaled deeply and blew out several rings of smoke, carelessly flicking his match and ashes onto our clean floor. He then turned back towards Finn and me and began his usual lecture.

“Kids, I want to tell you something important, and the sooner you learn it, the better off you’ll be. The Hanovers have breeding, stature, and respect in the community. Your mother’s just lucky she married into my family because it gives her the status her family never had, and never will. The Martins ain’t nothing but poor white trash.”

Daddy leaned back in his chair, and once again flung his cigarette ashes to the floor. “Now, Tilly, you’re just like my side of the family. That’s where you got your name. Did you know that? Tilly was my grandmother’s name. She was a wonderful woman. You have her beautiful blue eyes and the Hanover’s signature blonde hair.”

Daddy hesitated a moment before he looked from me to my brother. “Finn, you were named after your mother’s father. He was just a poor, old drunk who left your grandmother with three kids and ran off with some cheap tramp.” Daddy dropped his chair back onto four legs and leaned towards Finn, thrusting his finger towards my brother’s face. “You’re nothing like my family and you never will be. No matter what you do, you won’t ever amount to anything. You’re just like her.” He looked towards the kitchen and slammed his drink on the table. “Where the hell is my supper, Rebecca?”

I couldn’t stop staring at my daddy and thinking about my mother and my grandmother. I wasn’t like his family, and neither was Finn. We were just like my Grammie, and I still believed that my name, Tilly, came from Grammie’s surname, Tilliford. She was tough and smart and she did what she had to do to survive and to protect the ones she loved. I remember her telling us she purposefully followed my grandfather and his new girlfriend to another town. Even though people laughed at her and couldn’t understand why she would want to follow them, she didn’t hesitate to tell us he was the father of her kids and he was damn well going to support them. Her feelings didn’t matter, nor did the way people looked at her- only the welfare of her children.

Daddy screamed towards the kitchen again as he crushed his cigarette onto the floor with his shoe. “Rebecca, dammit, bring me my food.”

Following Daddy’s screams, we heard the front door open and heavy footsteps in the hallway. Deputy Wilson suddenly appeared at the dining-room door. My stomach turned slightly as I looked at him and wondered if he had a family and whether they were afraid when he came home at night. The deputy matched my father in height but carried more muscle, and his uniform, along with the frown he wore, made him appear much more menacing than my drunken father. I couldn’t take my eyes off of the gun he had strapped to his waist, and it took me back to the day Daddy found me in his closet holding his gun.

Finn and I had been playing hide and seek and as I crawled on the floor of Daddy’s closet, I felt the raised floorboard under my knees. Lifting the board, I found papers, a stack of bills and his handgun. Daddy suddenly appeared out of nowhere and knelt by my side. He laughed at me as I sat on the floor, completely mesmerized by the metal object I held in my hands. I watched carefully as he showed me how to pull the cylinder open and expose the bullets inside. His description of its unyielding power is still fresh in my mind. Yet, despite Daddy’s laughter, I visited his closet many times after that day. My deep attraction to the metal object remained confusing, yet somehow comforting.

My thoughts were quickly cut short by the strong voice of Deputy Wilson.

“Well now, Raney. What’s going on tonight? Are you causing your wife and kids some problems again?” Sheriff Wilson asked, placing his hand on the holster at his side.

“Did that bitch call you Wilson? You need to get the hell out of my house and my business.” He attempted to stand up, but drunk, lost his balance, falling back into his chair and spilling his drink on the table.

“Raney, you need to come with me down to the station until you sober up. No one wants to get into your business, but you can’t keep treating your family this way. Now, don’t make me cuff you,” Deputy Wilson said. He slowly walked towards my daddy.

Mother appeared at the dining-room door and beckoned us to come to her. I squeezed Finn’s hand and got up, pulling him with me towards the kitchen and my mother. Deputy Wilson reached for Daddy, who quickly threw up his fist, threatening to throw a punch. In response, the deputy grabbed his arm and bent it behind his back, slamming his face into our dining room table and his puddle of spilled bourbon. He expertly cuffed both his hands, pulling my daddy back to a standing position, then led him out of the dining room and into the hallway.

“Now, that was a stupid move, Raney,” he said. He pushed him towards the front door, then stopped momentarily and spoke to my father. “I believe trying to assault an officer of the law might buy you more than a few days in jail.” Deputy Wilson quickly turned to us and looked directly at my mother. “Miss Rebecca, you call me now if there is anything you need.”

“Rebecca,” my daddy shouted. “You can’t keep Tilly from me. She won’t end up with your trashy family. She’s a Hanover, and she belongs to me. I promise you, I’ll be back and I’ll take her away from you!”

When Daddy came back, we were gone. Because of our depleted bank account, we were forced to pack up everyone's belongings and move from our home on Forest Drive into a small apartment with Grammie and Aunt Julia. After we said goodbye to our beautiful stone house, I don’t remember seeing my father again for some time. However, his absence did not affect me quite like the eventual loss of my mother. Now solely responsible for two small children and Grammie, she left Columbiana in search of work. Mother ended up in Marietta, a small town two states away, at a local newspaper setting type. She promised she would return as soon as she saved enough money to afford a house where we could all be together. I lived a lifetime during the time she left and endured pain so deep I only survived her absence by convincing myself I had no mother at all. Although I was pretty good at convincing anyone of almost anything, I knew in my heart I had a mother and no matter what I told myself, or how many times I said it, the pain of her absence never subsided.

After my father left, our friends and neighbors threw his name around in schoolyard taunts or town regularly. The conversations always contained four-letter words and promises about “one of these days....”

A month after Finn and I moved in with Aunt Julia and Grammie, I remember walking home one day after school and hearing a roar of laughter from Nate’s Barber Shop. It was one of the few places my father had graced with his presence after being tossed out of the family business. I can still see the clouds of cigar smoke rolling like waves onto the sidewalk whenever the door opened and the stale odor that permeated the air inside the little shop. When Finn and I first stepped inside to investigate the commotion, all we could see were barber chairs lining the sides of the room. Each chair held a man wearing a white apron with his face covered in shaving cream or a lap full of sheared hair. The mirrors behind the men’s turned shoulders reflected visions of unfamiliar faces constricted with laughter, hope, and skepticism. Their voices bounced off the walls of the small space, spurring on the crowd to toss paper bills and coins into the pile of bets gathering on the floor.

“Aw, come on. If anyone can do it, Raney can,” a man shouted. He raised his fist, clutching several bills.

“Then why don’t you put your money where your mouth is and throw down that cash, Tom?”

“Don’t you worry about me or my money, Bill. I’ll place my bet when I feel it’s the right time. You worry about yourself now, you hear?” The man quickly shoved the bills back in his pocket as he watched the scene unfolding in the barbershop.

As we pushed our way through the crowd, we found our father. He was standing on his head in the corner, balancing a glass of whiskey in one hand and a cigarette in the other. We watched in fascination and embarrassment as he boasted about his ability to drink the whiskey upside down while blowing smoke out his nose simultaneously.

Our father slurred his words as he struggled to keep his balance. “Shut your mouth, Bill. Just quit your jawing and drop your cash.”

He shoved the cigarette between his teeth and caught his balance with his one free hand. He expertly picked the lit cigarette out of his mouth and regained his balance while moving his hands to the side, each holding tight to the glass and his smoke. I quickly caught sight of Mr. Murphy, our local milkman, on the other side of the shop. He laughed and turned to a man at his side and shook his head.

“Raney’s a damn fool and a worthless drunk. I’ve got to look his kids in the face, day after day, knowing full well their father’s drinking away every dollar he should use to feed his family and pay my damn bill.”

Despite his comments, he tossed a few coins into the pile of bets gathering on the floor. Mr. Murphy delivered our milk and eggs every week and seemed like a nice man. However, watching him now, I wondered how he could urge my father on while condemning his behavior at the same time. It was confusing to me.

Finn and I quickly left Nate’s Barber Shop after I heard the comments made by Mr. Murphy. It was bad enough living with Daddy’s reputation, and something else altogether to look people in the face every week while they eyed you with pity. We heard our neighbors’ opinions about our father’s drunken behavior daily, but the looks of pity we received made me feel dirty and exposed. It was as if Finn and I had some hand in the choice of a father or were to blame for his downfall into drunkenness. All I knew was I had no problem being poor or fatherless, but I didn’t want to be pitied. Even though we never stopped at Nate’s Barber Shop in the future, there were many days we heard that laughter and crossed the street, knowing full well Daddy was once again showing his ass in public.

The rumor mill confirmed my father was living in a broken-down building with no electricity or plumbing. I remember hearing Grammie and Aunt Julia talking one night after supper about the squalor in which my father lived. He no longer had money, a home, or a family because of his drunken behavior.

“Good Lord, Julia, he’s living in Jigg’s Hill?” Grammie asked. She quickly glanced over her shoulder at Finn and me. Leaning in closer, she whispered, “How do you know?”

“Martha, at the market, told me her brother gave a worker at the plant a ride to Bryer’s pub. Said he saw him at the bar.” Aunt Julia walked to the sink and filled her glass with water, then turned back towards Grammie. “He left the bar at the same time as Raney and watched him walk down the street and into the thrift shop. He said it had been closed down for over two years. A real mess of a place.”

“I can’t believe he’s fallen that far,” Grammie said. She leaned back in her chair and glanced over at Finn and me again.

“He’s a real mess,” Aunt Julia replied. “Frankly, I’m not surprised, considering he walks around in a fog of bourbon regularly. It just makes me sick that he doesn't seem to care about his own family.”

I remember wanting so desperately to see my daddy living in his new home in Jigg’s Hill. He called my family trash so often, I needed to see him amid the squalor, and dare him to call my family trash again. I wanted him to know I wasn’t like him anymore, and I didn’t want anything to do with the Hanover family ever again.