Freshman
fiction by Melanie Haws
Her father was adamant that Helen stay home until she married, preferably to a neighbor boy. He was a hard man—always had been. Helen couldn't remember much kindness from him, but she did remember many spankings, a few switchings. “For your own good," he said. He discouraged any kind of fun, pleasure, ambition. Book reading was time wasted. Schooling past any of the minimal skills to figure adequately and write a serviceable letter was unnecessary. Friendships took one away from the hard work that waited on the farm. Harman Hancock had never traveled more than a few miles from home and had only disdain for the world beyond his one hundred eighty-seven acres. One by one his children left the farm for Knoxville or other cities. A few of the boys left in the dead of night, leaving only a note and promising to send money. The eldest son, Raymond, had left for military service and now his bones lay in a faraway grave. The eldest daughter, Mary Lee, left home to get married, and her elopement was quickly followed by a secretive and disgraceful divorce.
In her senior year of high school Helen had been spending time with a boy her father grudgingly approved of: Richard Jennings, who would inherit hundreds of acres of black-soiled river bottom land that was the envy of Jefferson County. They courted in the evenings at her father’s house, guarded by her four younger brothers, Harman listening to the radio in the next room and shouting back to the commentators every time President Truman’s name was mentioned. Richard wore his best, but Helen noted the dirt often left under his fingernails, the mud his shoes left on the door mat. They had vaguely known of each other since childhood, and whatever was kindled between them felt more like companionship than romance to Helen.
On Sundays Richard drove her for lunch in his sputtering old truck to his parents’ house, the only day of the week that Helen looked forward to. The Jennings family, considerably smaller than Helen’s, laughed and talked about books they’d read and places they’d been and radio programs and even movies. The sight of Richard’s mother Ruth standing over the stove or showing off yet another of the pies she’d baked or the preserves she’d put up never failed to make Helen’s heart ache for her own mother, Thelma, dead for a year now, and she felt almost a resistance to befriending the woman who might be her in-law, as if it were a betrayal. Richard’s two younger sisters came to the Sunday table wearing perfume or paint on their fingernails, something Harman would never have allowed. But at the end of the meal, the talk died and there was still work to be done before bedtime, for both the Jennings and Helen back at her father’s house, eggs to gather, children to corral into bed, sometimes planting by moonlight. The farm toil was never-ending and Helen thought, sometimes killing, as it had done her mother.
She wanted something different for her own life, though she couldn’t name what she wanted or how to get it. She decided mostly that she didn’t want to marry a farmer. The city was a place of danger and shadows, but it also could be a place of tidy houses in a row, where work ended at five o’clock and then there were evenings of movies, ice cream parlors, and bowling matches. This was the life Mary Lee led; she rented a house in Knoxville with another divorcee. But Helen did not possess her older sister’s audacity in eloping, and a girl who simply ran away, as her brothers did, might find herself in all kinds of trouble.
Nita talked on. Her voice rose a bit. ”It’s a reputable school, Harman.
A university. A housemother to watch over the girls. Helen is a good girl.
A nice girl. She will make us all proud.”
It was her grandmother Nita, her mother's mother, who had herself once taught school and married at the old age of thirty-two, who had traveled as far west as Hot Springs, Arkansas, who gave Helen the idea to go to college. “You’d be our first to go, Helen,” Nita said. She saw that Helen was a natural shepherd of children, dependable, punctual, even-keeled, and pliant. Nita tried to reason with her son-in-law. She knew to approach teachers’ school as a practical matter. "Helen will make good money as a school teacher. She could help you, Harm, with a few things.”
Nita talked on. Her voice rose a bit. ”It’s a reputable school, Harman. A university. A housemother to watch over the girls. Helen is a good girl. A nice girl. She will make us all proud.”
“She don’t need to go to a school,” he’d reply. “She’s a country girl. Best not to get ideas in her head, too.” He left unsaid that Thelma’s family always felt that he was beneath them and that he stole her away and then worked her to an early death.
But Nita gave Helen encouragement, and with trembling fingers she plucked out of the postmaster’s hand the envelope that came from the University of Tennessee, precisely thirty-three miles away in Knoxville, and saw that they would indeed welcome her into the freshman class in the fall of 1947. She circled the September date on a calendar that she kept under her pillow. Her father disparaged every time she brought it up, but the days flew by, the cool spring, the hot summer. Finally it could be denied no longer. Nita told Reverend Eubanks at her church in Nance’s Grove and then Reverend Eubanks told Reverend Wilhoit at the Hancocks’ church at Pleasant Hill, and the secret was out. Harman denied it right up to the morning Helen came downstairs with her canvas bag, waiting on a neighbor who’d promised she could ride to town with them.
Her father sat on the porch in his chair, smoking a cigarette, right down to the nub. He gave no response at her footfall, and Helen feared that he might say nothing all. She rooted around her pocket and found the roll of twenty dollar bills Nita had slipped to her at the going-away party that had sprung up unexpectedly the night before. Two hundred dollars, more money than she’d ever seen, enough for her first semester’s fees and books. Reverend Wilhoit had stopped by with his wife to give her a crocheted bookmark in the shape of a cross, which they gave to everyone traveling. The Jennings family came, with Ruth Jennings bringing her a pie and Richard telling her to write to him, though Helen knew she never would. Other neighbors came and wished her luck and told her to mind her grades, but Harman had said almost nothing to anyone.
Now he looked as if he hadn’t slept, and he sat looking toward the empty road. The early day was gray and cool, thick rain clouds hugging the ridge tops to the east, not the stuff of promising new beginnings. Her brothers had already left for school, and the only sound were the milk cows lowing.
His voice was low when it came, and it startled her. “So you’re really going to do this, and me telling you not to leave this house?” he said.
“Daddy, I—”
“You’re going to go, without your father’s permission?”
Helen said nothing, stood unblinking, not sure what to say. At that moment Mr. and Mrs. Ballenger’s old truck, loaded up for the Market House in Knoxville, wheezed around the bend and started up the long drive. Helen picked up her bag and waved at the Ballengers. She’d say good-bye to her father, to that house, from the bottom of the steps. But then she saw a strange expression cross Mrs. Ballenger’s face, and the truck stopped short. Her father’s hand struck her squarely on her left cheek. Helen was too stunned to cry. She couldn’t remember the last time he’d struck her, because she had always tried to avoid his whippings. She wondered if he’d left a mark.
“Harm?” Mrs. Ballenger said. She was now standing outside the truck, beckoning to Helen. Mrs. Ballenger’s skin was as white and smooth as the swans she raised. “Helen’s leaving you today, Harm.”
“After all I done for her,” he shouted into the air. Helen climbed into the truck and Mr. Ballenger pulled it into gear. “Look at them,” he said, gesturing to the fat cattle in the field. “Your daddy has a herd like few other.”
Helen vowed not to look back at the fields or the house, but she did, anyway. For a minute she had the urge to jump out of the truck, run back inside, make amends, but her father’s chair was empty. Mrs. Ballenger reached over and took her hand, not so much to comfort but reading her thoughts. “There, there now.”
They arrived in Knoxville two hours later.
“She don’t need to go to a school,” he’d reply. “She’s a country girl. Best not to get ideas in her head, too.” He left unsaid that Thelma’s family always felt that he was beneath them and that he stole her away and then worked her to an early death.
But Nita gave Helen encouragement, and with trembling fingers she plucked out of the postmaster’s hand the envelope that came from the University of Tennessee, precisely thirty-three miles away in Knoxville, and saw that they would indeed welcome her into the freshman class in the fall of 1947. She circled the September date on a calendar that she kept under her pillow. Her father disparaged every time she brought it up, but the days flew by, the cool spring, the hot summer. Finally it could be denied no longer. Nita told Reverend Eubanks at her church in Nance’s Grove and then Reverend Eubanks told Reverend Wilhoit at the Hancocks’ church at Pleasant Hill, and the secret was out. Harman denied it right up to the morning Helen came downstairs with her canvas bag, waiting on a neighbor who’d promised she could ride to town with them.
Her father sat on the porch in his chair, smoking a cigarette, right down to the nub. He gave no response at her footfall, and Helen feared that he might say nothing all. She rooted around her pocket and found the roll of twenty dollar bills Nita had slipped to her at the going-away party that had sprung up unexpectedly the night before. Two hundred dollars, more money than she’d ever seen, enough for her first semester’s fees and books. Reverend Wilhoit had stopped by with his wife to give her a crocheted bookmark in the shape of a cross, which they gave to everyone traveling. The Jennings family came, with Ruth Jennings bringing her a pie and Richard telling her to write to him, though Helen knew she never would. Other neighbors came and wished her luck and told her to mind her grades, but Harman had said almost nothing to anyone.
Now he looked as if he hadn’t slept, and he sat looking toward the empty road. The early day was gray and cool, thick rain clouds hugging the ridge tops to the east, not the stuff of promising new beginnings. Her brothers had already left for school, and the only sound were the milk cows lowing.
His voice was low when it came, and it startled her. “So you’re really going to do this, and me telling you not to leave this house?” he said.
“Daddy, I—”
“You’re going to go, without your father’s permission?”
Helen said nothing, stood unblinking, not sure what to say. At that moment Mr. and Mrs. Ballenger’s old truck, loaded up for the Market House in Knoxville, wheezed around the bend and started up the long drive. Helen picked up her bag and waved at the Ballengers. She’d say good-bye to her father, to that house, from the bottom of the steps. But then she saw a strange expression cross Mrs. Ballenger’s face, and the truck stopped short. Her father’s hand struck her squarely on her left cheek. Helen was too stunned to cry. She couldn’t remember the last time he’d struck her, because she had always tried to avoid his whippings. She wondered if he’d left a mark.
“Harm?” Mrs. Ballenger said. She was now standing outside the truck, beckoning to Helen. Mrs. Ballenger’s skin was as white and smooth as the swans she raised. “Helen’s leaving you today, Harm.”
“After all I done for her,” he shouted into the air. Helen climbed into the truck and Mr. Ballenger pulled it into gear. “Look at them,” he said, gesturing to the fat cattle in the field. “Your daddy has a herd like few other.”
Helen vowed not to look back at the fields or the house, but she did, anyway. For a minute she had the urge to jump out of the truck, run back inside, make amends, but her father’s chair was empty. Mrs. Ballenger reached over and took her hand, not so much to comfort but reading her thoughts. “There, there now.”
They arrived in Knoxville two hours later.
Melanie Haws is a native of Knoxville, Tennessee. She is a graduate of the University of Tennessee and the Naslund-Mann Graduate School of Writing at Spalding University. Her writing has appeared in The Louisville Review and the anthology Unbroken Circle: Stories of Cultural Diversity in the South.