When the Spirits Testify

 

          Part 1- The Calf and the Crossroads

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            The door to Rita’s Place swung open, the familiar chime above it cutting through the hum of the ceiling fan. Behind the counter, MaryAnn looked up from her worn paperback, the corners of its cover curled from too many afternoons like this. Old Tom stepped inside, boots scuffing the tile.

       

          “Howdy, Tom,” she called, her voice carrying that easy mountain warmth.

 

           “Hey, darlin’. How are you doin’ today?” His words stretched slow, like they’d been sunbaked on a front porch.

 

              Tom was a lean old man, the years of farm work carved into the lines around his eyes. He stood tall, in his faded blue work shirt. His grey hair curling out from under his cowboy hat. He also carried a smile that made his bright blue eyes shine.

 

               “I’m doin’ alright.” MaryAnn smiled. Fresh out of high school, she still had that open, hopeful look. Dark brown hair framed her face, her wide glasses giving her the same soft, sturdy appearance most farm girls in the county owned.

The chime rang again and in walked Cooper Hammond. MaryAnn’s smile slipped. Cooper was the kind who lingered around Rita’s too often, bumming cigarettes from strangers and watching the world with a restless twitch. He had never said anything out of place, but he carried a shadow with him that made her uneasy.

 

                 “How are ya today, Cooper?” Tom asked.

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                 “I’m alright, Mister Tom. Hey, I was wonderin’… you don’t have any work today I could do, do ya? I need to make a couple dollars.”

 

                “Well, I reckon you could come do some mowin’ for me. I’ve got to get back home, got a cow birthin’, but I’ll pay you to mow around the house. Save me some time.”

 

                “Alright, I’ll be there.” Cooper scratched at his arm, his eyes too hungry for the small thing he was asking.

Once, he might have been handsome. Before the drugs, his eyes had been bright, his jaw strong, and the world ahead of him wide and open. Now his hair was thinning, his skin was pocked, and his gaze had the faraway look of someone always calculating where the next high would come from.

 

                MaryAnn rang up Tom’s usual: a pack of Marlboro Reds and a sweet tea. Today, he added a Coke. When she handed him his change, he passed the soda to Cooper without a word and started for the door.

 

              Mrs. Betty Lewis was coming in as Tom stepped out, Cooper trailing behind him. Betty was still beautiful, though time had left its mark. She smiled as Tom tipped his hat, watching him cross to his old blue Chevy. The engine rattled to life, and Cooper swung himself into the bed of the truck.

 

             Betty turned back to MaryAnn, plucking three scratch-offs from the display before grabbing a bottle of wine.

“I’ll never understand that Old Tom. Why he gives that boy the time of day, I’ll never know,” she said.

 

            MaryAnn kept her tone neutral. “At least he’s willing to work to make a little cash, instead of robbin’ everyone like the rest of the junkies around here.”

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            “I reckon. But I still don’t trust him. Ain’t no reason that boy can’t get off that dope and get a job like the rest of us.”

 

            MaryAnn didn’t point out that Betty hadn’t worked a day in her life. Andy Lewis’s death in the mines had left her with a settlement that had kept her in lottery tickets and wine for years. But grief settles in folks different ways, and MaryAnn figured it wasn’t hers to judge.

​

            Down the road, Tom’s old truck groaned along the back road. He took a pull from his sweet tea, lit a cigarette, and passed another out the window. Cooper reached for it, fingers curling around the gift without thanks.

 

            Tom had known the boy since he was small. He still remembered Cooper running barefoot through the tobacco patch while his daddy worked alongside Tom in the summer heat.

 

             Randal and Etta Hammond had been good people. Simple. Randy couldn’t read a word, but he worked like an ox and never complained. Etta had the voice of an angel, and she sang every Sunday at church.

 

            That voice had been silenced on a rain-slicked night, coming home from revival. A tree fell across the road, crushing their car. Cooper, thirteen then, woke in the backseat to the sound of his mother moaning. His father never made a sound. Etta’s voice faded to nothing minutes before the rescue crew arrived, and those minutes stretched into a lifetime in the boy’s mind.

 

          Even now, he dreamed of that night. The dope dulled it some, but never enough.

 

          They pulled up to Tom’s little farmhouse. It was painted white, gone chalky with age, the wrap-around porch sagging just enough to show the years it had weathered. Two rockers sat side by side in the shade, their seats hollowed to fit the shape of the same folks who’d used them for decades. The screen door clattered open, and Mrs. Rosie stepped out, wiping her hands on her apron as it slapped shut behind her.

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        “Well, hello there, Cooper honey. How you holdin’ up?” she asked, voice soft, worry shone in her eyes.

 

        “I’m alright, ma’am. How’s your momma?” Cooper asked, already knowing Rosie had been sitting vigil at her elderly mother’s bedside. Folks knew Mrs. Tanner wasn’t long for this world, and Rosie had hardly stepped outside her door except to tend the animals or fetch a bit of air.

 

          “Still the same. She’s just in here resting. Are you hungry or thirsty, dear?”

 

            Cooper lifted his soda in reply. “Not right now, ma’am. Mr. Tom bought me one. I guess I’d better get to mowing. It’s not gonna get any cooler.” He offered a slow, lopsided grin, but it was a hollow thing. His eyes held no light, just the deep shadows of a boy carrying too much sorrow too young.

 

            Rosie McAllister’s heart ached as she watched him walk off toward the mower. He pulled the cord until it coughed to life, the sound rattling across the yard. She tilted her head back toward the haint-blue porch ceiling and whispered up into the stillness.

 

            “Lord, help him. Ease his pain, and take away the burdens he’s carryin’.”

 

             Tom’s boots scuffed across the boards behind her. He rested a warm, work-worn hand on her shoulder and kissed her cheek. “I’m headed out to the barn to check on ol’ Bess. She’s having a hard go at this one. Sure hope I don’t have to pull it.”

 

            “Well, if you do, I’m sure Cooper can help,” Rosie said, nodding toward the young man.

 

             Tom glanced at him, then back at her. They stood a moment longer, silent witnesses to the bent figure pushing a rusty mower through knee-high weeds. The summer air hung heavy with heat and grief. They both wished there was a way to pull him free from the drugs, but even if they could, the wound in his heart from that day was far beyond their mending.

 

             Rosie was the one to break the stillness. “You take care of Bess. I’m gonna make up some food for Cooper to take with him when he’s done.” The screen door groaned and slapped shut behind her. As Tom stepped off the porch, he heard her humming How Great Thou Art, the sound carrying through the open windows like a balm that eased a corner of his worry.

 

             By the time he reached the barn, Bess was nearly through her labor. A few minutes later, the calf slid into the straw, spindly legs trembling as it fought to stand. Bess turned, her rough tongue working over the newborn with the patience of a mother who’d done this before.

 

             Tom leaned on the stall door, keeping watch. He never got used to it, the waiting, the wondering if something might go wrong. No matter how many calves were born on this farm, each one tied a knot of worry in his gut. Bess was his best Jersey, the one he’d bragged on for years, but she was getting up in age. This calf would likely be her last. He planned to keep the little one, already nosing hungrily at its mother.

 

            He studied the pair, making sure the bleeding was light. Once the baby had eaten, he’d spray the cord with iodine and let them rest.

 

          The calf was a mirror of her mama with big, dark eyes in a fawn-colored face. Bess lifted her head to meet his gaze, and in her look there was something almost human, a quiet knowing.

 

          “Good job, momma,” Tom murmured, rubbing between her ears. “I’ll bring you a treat later.” Apples, always apples.

 

           Behind him, the mower had gone silent. A moment later, Cooper stepped into the barn’s dim light, the dust swirling between them like tiny ghosts.

 

           The two men stood in silence, watching the little calf drink greedily from her momma. She was steady on her legs now, knowing by instinct what to do.

 

           “She sure is a pretty thing,” Cooper said, a real smile tugging at his mouth for the first time that day.

 

           “That she is,” Tom agreed. “Never ceases to amaze me. It’s the simple things like that, son ,  little miracles, that make life worth living. There’s plenty of bad in the world, Cooper. Lord knows we can’t turn a corner without seein’ it. But if you slow down, just a minute, and look right in front of you, there’s a lot of beauty too. It’s in things like this calf takin’ her first drink… or the sound of Mrs. Rosie’s voice in the kitchen… or sittin’ on the porch while the sun drops behind the ridge. You hold onto those moments, they’ll carry you further than you think.”

 

          Cooper nodded, but deep inside, he knew he didn’t have a map for finding moments like that. Even when they did come, he didn’t know how to keep them, how to stop the darkness from swallowing them whole. He didn’t want to be this way. The thought of the meth he’d buy with the money Tom would give him made his skin crawl. Shame burned hot in his chest, making him feel small and dirty.

 

           “You know me and Rosie are here for you, Cooper,” Tom said quietly, almost a plea. “Let us help you. I can find you a place to go, get clean. I’ll take you there myself. I’ll pay for it if you’ll let me.”

 

           Cooper stood there a moment longer, tears stinging his eyes. Old Tom and Rosie were the only folks left who still looked at him like he was worth something, more than just another strung-out kid. He wanted the help. God, he wanted it. But he couldn’t make his mouth form the words.

 

          “What do you think we oughta call her?” Tom asked, easing the tension, not wanting to push the boy too far.

 

          “How about Etta?” Cooper said.

 

           “Perfect. Mighty fine name,” Tom answered with a small smile. He clapped Cooper on the back as they headed out of the barn.

 

           Tom pulled forty dollars from his pocket and handed it over. Cooper tucked it into his jeans as they walked toward the house. The porch steps creaked under their weight. Rosie came through the screen door, balancing a tray of sweet tea and sandwiches.

 

           “Here you fellas go,” she said with a smile, setting the tray on the little table between the rockers.

 

          Cooper eased into one of the chairs and took a glass of tea. He sipped it slow, savoring the taste. Homemade sweet tea wasn’t something he got often, and Rosie’s was perfect with just enough sugar, a slice of lemon floating on top. He picked up a sandwich and ate it fast, only realizing then how hungry he was. These days, he had to force himself to eat; the dope had stolen his appetite. He missed loving food, missed the smell of a good pan of cornbread, green beans, and potatoes from his pa’s garden, his momma’s Saturday-night chocolate cake. She’d always hand him the bowl to scrape clean when she was done.

 

             Those memories used to be sweet. Now they tasted bitter, same as everything else in his life.

 

             When they were finished, Rosie disappeared inside and came back with a brown paper sack. “Biscuits and a few boiled eggs,” she said, pressing it into his hands. “You take this with you. I don’t want you going hungry, Cooper honey. And you know you can always come here and eat.”

 

             “Yes, ma’am, I know. Thank you,” he said, his voice tight.

 

              She reached out, her bony hand closing around his wrist. He turned toward her. “We’re praying for you, Cooper. You know it’s never too late to get help. The Lord is always there. Lean on Him, and He will show you the way. We love you.”

 

              Tears burned in his eyes. “I love y’all too,” he said, glancing at Rosie, then at Tom, who stood there wishing he could shoulder the boy’s grief himself.

 

              They climbed into Tom’s truck and headed back out of the holler.

 

             “Where you want me to take you?” Tom asked.

 

             “Just back to Rita’s Place is fine. The place I’m stayin’ ain’t far from there. Plus, I’m gonna get me a drink.”

 

              Tom only nodded, the air between them heavy with unsaid hopes and fears. Cooper’s mind wandered to Rosie’s words, to Tom’s offer. He thought of the calf, Etta, full of hope, destined to grow into a fine milk cow like her momma. He thought of his own momma, and how she wouldn’t want this life for him. He wanted her to be proud. Wanted his folks to look down and see something good in him, not just the dope.

 

              The crunch of gravel under the tires pulled him back to the present. Cooper grabbed the paper sack and thanked Tom again. He reached for the door handle, but paused.

             

              “I’ve got to settle some things… get my stuff together. But if you meant it, I think I’d like that help you were talkin’ about. I don’t want to keep livin’ this way.”

 

               Tom smiled. “Of course I meant it. You come by tomorrow, or meet me here at Rita’s, and I’ll pick you up. Just give me a call. We’ll figure it out together.”

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                “Thanks,” Cooper said, climbing out. He waved once before turning toward the store, a fragile spark of hope flickering in his chest.

 

                  Cooper went inside and grabbed some off-brand pain meds, a soda, and a bag of chips for later. On his way back out, he nearly collided with Danny Johnson.

 

                 Danny was in his late thirties but looked closer to fifty. The dope hadn’t been kind to him either. He’d worked at the lumber yard until a log crushed his foot. The company laid him off, and the doctor put him on painkillers after the surgeries. But when the pills ran out, meth was easy to find.

 

                 This little town, these hollers, were flooded with it. Danny’s story was the same sad song playing on repeat: doctors got ’em hooked, dealers reeled ’em in.

 

                  His wife had stuck around at first, working doubles while he healed. But he couldn’t work, started drinking, then using. The fights got worse. She begged him to get help, but he stayed mad all the time, without knowing exactly why. She finally reached her breaking point, took their little girl, and left.

 

                 After that, Danny said he had nothing to get sober for. He scraped by on a monthly check, just enough to survive. At first, he kept up rent on his run-down trailer, but eventually it came down to paying rent or buying dope. Dope won.

 

                Now, it was people like Danny and Cooper who stayed in condemned houses or abandoned trailers, sleeping on piles of blankets with their few possessions close by. Tucked away from the rest of the world.

 

               “Hey, man. What’s going on?” Danny asked.

 

              “Not much. Headed back to the house,” Cooper said, keeping his eyes down. If he was serious about taking Tom up on his offer, he didn’t need to linger with Danny.

 

               “Oh, alright. I’ll see ya later then.” Danny’s voice trailed off as Cooper was already halfway to the road.

 

                The little house Cooper stayed in wasn’t far from Rita’s, just down a back road. It had been abandoned nearly forty years. Parts of the roof had caved in, but in the rooms still intact, it kept the rain off.

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                 He ducked through the doorway, the floorboards sagging and groaning under his weight. The air was thick with the smell of kerosene and meth, undercut by damp wood and rot. He kept his things in what must have once been a nursery, a broken crib from the ’50s slumped in the corner, green-striped wallpaper peeling away in curling sheets. The room was too small for anyone else to bother with, and that was just how he liked it. A worn comforter hung over the doorway, marking it as his space.

 

               It was sad. He knew it.

 

              He thought of his childhood bedroom, how his parents didn’t have much, but there’d always been warm meals and hot water. Look at me now, he thought bitterly.

 

              The blanket at the door lifted, and Danny’s head poked in. “Hey, man, I scored early from one of the boys. You wanna hit?”

 

             “Nah, man, I’m good,” Cooper said, though it took every ounce of strength not to give in. His whole body was crawling, aching, itching. “I’m gonna try to get some sleep.” It had been days since he’d rested.

 

            “Alright. I’m gonna go play some cards with Janie.”

 

             Cooper lay back on his blankets, eyes tracking a spider spinning a web in the corner. He thought of the calf, Etta, and tried to hold onto that image like Tom had told him—the sweet tea, the creek bank where he’d played as a boy, Mrs. Rosie humming in the kitchen earlier. That, in turn, made him think of his momma singing, and the ache began to settle in deep.

 

              He tried to fight it with happier memories, his first kiss, Beth Milton in fourth grade. He wondered where she was now.

 

              As the night stretched on, he stayed locked in battle with his own mind. Exhaustion finally pulled at him, but with it came the old nightmare. His mother’s moaning, the crushing weight in the dark, the roof of the car inches from his face. The silence. The sirens.

 

               He jerked upright, chest heaving, sweat beading on his forehead. The moonlight through the window was the only light in the room. He started shoving his few things into his bag, thinking he might walk back to Tom’s. Maybe then his mind would quiet.

 

               Danny peeked in again. “You alright, man?”

 

              “Yeah. Just can’t sleep,” Cooper lied.

 

               “Janie’s got something might help,” Danny said, calling for her.

 

               A small girl appeared, brown hair unbrushed, long gray T-shirt hanging to her knees. In the moonlight, Cooper could see the bones in her legs.

 

               “Cooper can’t sleep,” Danny told her. “Hook him up.”

 

                She nodded and pulled a little bag from her pocket, filled with something brown. Cooper figured it was heroin. He’d never tried it. It hadn’t been common around here until lately, but he’d been hearing about it more and more.

She gave him a small amount and told him how to smoke it, then left with Danny to go back to the kitchen table where they’d been playing cards.

 

                Cooper set it down. He didn’t want to do it. He wanted to be done with this life. But his thoughts kept spinning, clawing. Finally, he picked up the lighter, took a hit.

 

                The world slowed. The voices stopped.

 

                He lay back, letting the silence pull him under. He thought of his momma singing at church, his daddy taking

him fishing, Old Tom teaching him to top tobacco, Mrs. Rosie’s sweet tea, and the calf, Etta’s big soft nose.

 

               He smiled.

 

               And then his heart slowed. His breathing stopped. Cooper Hammond was no longer full of woe. No longer full of pain and grief. No longer.

 

              The clock struck three.

 

              Tom bolted upright in bed, heart pounding. Something was wrong. He slid on his boots.

 

               Rosie stirred. “What is it, Tom?”

 

              “I don’t know. Something ain't right. I’m going to check on Bess and Etta.”

 

                The barn was quiet when he opened the door. Mother and calf lay nestled in the hay, Etta’s nose tucked against Bess’s neck, both breathing slow and easy.

 

               Tom’s pulse eased. He turned back toward the house. Rosie was standing at the screen door, robe drawn tight around her.

 

               “She okay?” she called.

 

                “Right as rain,” he answered. “Must’ve been a bad dream.”

 

                She nodded and went inside.

 

                Tom stepped up onto the porch, and out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw someone standing by the rocking chair. He turned, but the chair was empty.

 

                He rubbed a hand over his face and shook his head. There’d be no more sleep tonight.

 

               “Put on some coffee, old girl,” he called.

 

               The screen door closed behind him. Outside, the rocker began to move on its own, creaking slow as a lullaby.