Prodigals: A Sister’s Memoir of Appalachia and Loss

Prodigals

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Wendy S. Walters

Elissa Washuta

Prodigals

A Sister’s Memoir of Appalachia and Loss

SARAH BETH CHILDERS

THE UNIVERSITY OF GEORGIA PRESS

ATHENS

Published by the University of Georgia Press

Athens, Georgia 30602

www.ugapress.org

© 2023 by Sarah Beth Childers

All rights reserved

Designed by Mary McKeon

Printed and bound by Sheridan Books

The paper in this book meets the guidelines for permanence and durability of the Committee on Production Guidelines for Book Longevity of the Council on Library Resources.

Most University of Georgia Press titles are available from popular e-book vendors.

Printed in the United States of America

27 26 25 24 23 P 5 4 3 2 1

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023940465

ISBN 9780820364636 (paperback)

ISBN 9780820364643 (ebook: epub)

ISBN 9780820364650 (ebook: pdf)

For my Smoo

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Smoo: An Oxford English Dictionary Definition

PART 1. THE PRODIGAL AT HOME

(prodigals)

PaPa’s Bed

Herbie

Beagle in the Road

A Mountain Dry and Good

Curious

A Hobo Like Me

Candy Crane

(prodigals)

PART 2. DEPARTURE

(prodigals)

The First Time

Lost Photographs

Returning Cats

(prodigals)

PART 3. RIOTOUS LIVING

(prodigals)

Moonstruck

Lost Photographs

The Man Who Lived among the Tombs

Dream Cities

Beaver Pond

(prodigals)

PART 4. STARVING WITH SWINE

(prodigals)

Somewhere on Earth

Lost Photographs

On Joshua’s Last Christmas

Rhododendrons

(prodigals)

PART 5. RETURN

(prodigals)

How to Plan a Funeral for Your Twenty-Two-Year-Old Brother

Things Sad People Shouldn’t Have

Chariot’s Comin’

(prodigals)

PART 6. FEAST

(prodigals)

What Happens When You Drown

Missing: Orange Longhaired Cat

Party Clothes

Lost Photographs

(prodigals)

PART 7. THE ELDER SIBLING OUTSIDE

(prodigals)

Found

Low

An Infestation

Mansions

Smoo Cave

(prodigals)

Notes

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thank you to the Jentel Artist Residency, the Wildacres Residency, and the Hargis Fellowship through Oklahoma State University’s Doel Reed Center for the Arts. I am grateful for the time, space, and financial support you gave me to write this book. Thank you also to Colgate University for the Olive B. O’Connor Fellowship and a travel grant for my first trip to Brontë Country. Thank you to Oklahoma State University’s College of Arts and Sciences and Department of English for the grants and leave I needed to go back to the UK and to finish writing.

Thank you to my sister Rebecca, who reads everything, again and again, with a kind and critical eye. I’m not sure what writing would look like without you. Thank you also to the rest of my family—especially my parents, my sister Jennifer, and my grandpa for your love and support. Grandpa, when you said you didn’t agree with everything I wrote, but you knew why I wrote it for the feeling it gave me, I knew you understood.

Thank you to Kevin Oderman and Sara Pritchard for years of friendship and support for my writing and teaching, and for being what feels like writing family.

Thank you to Jennifer Brice, who has influenced both of my essay collections with her astute comments and titling advice.

Thank you to the editors and reviewers at Crux for believing in this project and pushing me to tighten. Thank you to Ann Marlowe for allowing me to see this project through your fresh, meticulous eyes. This project wouldn’t have been the same book without any of you, and I’m grateful.

Thank you to my writer friends, including Tyler Mills, who read, listened, and talked me through a horrible writing patch, and Hannah Saltmarsh, Christina Turner, Janine Joseph, Ann Claycomb, Lori D’Angelo, Charity Gingerich, and Jessie Van Eerden.

Thank you to my students and colleagues at osu, especially the creative writing program, Kate Hallemeier, and Lindsey Smith.

Thank you to Kashion Livsey for your mom friendship and love of words.

Thank you to Robert for reading, for coparenting so well that I could continue writing seriously after becoming a mama, for supporting me when I need to leave you for a while to write. Thank you to the rest of the Denyer-Hadaway-Copens family for letting me write at the Pawnee farm. Thank you to Ann for Lydia help and food.

Thank you to my daughter Lydia, my little girl with golden hair. Your fervent joy in riding in wagons, petting goats, and eating green ice cream reminds me of why I write. Thank you to my baby Miriam. In our three months together, you’ve brightened my life with your smiles, your agoo, and the way you wrap your arm around my back when I hold you. The news that you were coming gave me the writing push I needed.

Thank you most of all to my brother Joshua, for your generous gift to Rebecca and me, telling us that we could write about you as long as you never had to see it. I love you even more than when I lost you, and I am looking forward to seeing you again.

The following essays previously appeared in literary journals or anthologies: "Smoo: An Oxford English Dictionary Definition" in Blue Earth Review, Beagle in the Road in Superstition Review, A Hobo Like Me in Quiddity, Candy Crane in Sweet: A Literary Confection, Beaver Pond in the collection Mountains Piled Upon Mountains: Appalachian Nature Writing in the Anthropocene edited by Jessica Cory (West Virginia University Press, 2019), Things Sad People Shouldn’t Have in PANK, Chariot’s Comin’ in Gravel, What Happens When You Drown in Brevity, and An Infestation in Colorado Review. The Lost Photographs section in part 6 appeared in a slightly different form as Portraits Within Portraits in Guernica Daily. A substantial portion of the piece titled Returning Cats, and various tiny fragments throughout the book, appeared in my essay A Haunting in Shenandoah.

Prodigals

Smoo: An Oxford English Dictionary Definition

Smoo, n.

Pronunciation: /smu/

Etymology: English SMALL, adj, via Germanic. Of limited size; of comparatively restricted dimensions; not large in comparison with other things. Origin when Joshua David Childers (1990–2012) weighed nine pounds, nine ounces, and his parents boasted about his size on the hospital phone. Eight-year-old Sarah Beth Childers worried on the ride to the hospital that her brother would be monstrous compared with Jennifer and Rebecca, her previous baby siblings, but she found an ordinary newborn who fit in her lap and arms. To correct her parents’ idiocy, she called him SMALL. Change in form from SMALL to SMOO when Joshua David Childers lost the toddler’s wobble in his walk and his hair transformed from blond curls to brown waves.

U.S. Regional (Huntington, West Virginia).

Smoo, n.

Pronunciation: /smu /

Etymology: Old Norse SMUGA, n., a hiding place; a narrow cleft to creep through; a hole.

Sea and freshwater cave in northwest Scotland, site of 18th-century murders. Ancient Norse entrance to the underworld.

smoo, v.

Pronunciation: /smu/

Etymology: English SMOO, n, sense 3.

intransitive. To make an insinuated, guilt-inducing request resembling such requests made by Joshua David Childers.

PART 1

THE PRODIGAL AT HOME

There’s a photograph of me at three years old, hugging Scruffy, a twenty-pound mutt with fur that matched his name. One of my parents took the photo during the odd, brief time I was an only child: one month before the first of my two sisters was born, five years before the beginning of the twenty-two years, two months, and two weeks I’d have a brother named Joshua. The yard slopes up behind Scruffy and me, dead grass patched with snow, and my faux fur coat mixes with dog fur. Scruffy’s tethered to a stainless steel stakeout, next to a blue plastic doghouse.

I only had Scruffy for a few months. I mention him now because I thought of him eighteen years later, during the spring and summer when my thirteen-year-old brother often disappeared from the house, from the neighborhood, walking for miles along the garbage-strewn roads outside of Huntington, West Virginia, up and down the Appalachian foothills. I thought of Scruffy again when my brother died.

In the Gospel of Luke, Jesus tells the parable of the Prodigal Son, the guy who asks his wealthy father to give him his inheritance now. His father hands it over. The Prodigal journeys to a far country, blows everything on riotous living, takes a job feeding pigs, nearly starves. The Prodigal comes to himself, remembers his father’s hired servants have plenty to eat. The Prodigal crawls home, ready to beg for a job, finds out his father has been watching the road. His father hugs him, slaughters the fatted calf. The Prodigal’s older brother whines. He’s never left home, never wasted a cent, and no one has ever given him a party. Now they’re celebrating this loser who devoured his father’s life savings with harlots. The father shames the whiny older son: Thy brother was dead, and is alive again.

The quoted phrases in my parable retelling come from the King James Version of the Bible, completed in 1611. I adore its vocabulary and rhythms. But really I’m using that version because I grew up in a fundamentalist Christian home, attending at least three services a week at fundamentalist churches. I read to tatters a giant-print KJV, its blue leather cover etched with my name.

Joshua shouted, Boy, we’re poor! at our parents from the time he was five, stamping our child-matted shag carpet, disappointed our parents couldn’t hit the mall that evening for a new computer, a DVD player, new video games. Still, when Joshua was a child, he was happy to live in our house, with our family. There is a photograph of Joshua at six years old, standing with his three older sisters in our snowy backyard. Eight windburned cheeks, four running noses, the blue four-child sled our dad crafted from an iodine barrel he’d brought home from the pharmaceutical plant. The same material he used for Scruffy’s doghouse.

My current dog, Peggotty, sleeps under my bedsheets, stretched next to my leg, but when I look at Scruffy’s picture, I don’t pity him. In all my memories of Scruffy, he’s slipped his collar or broken his chain.

Like Scruffy, Joshua left us and left us, until he left us for good.

But let’s start at the beginning, when the Prodigal lives in his father’s house, twitchy and restless. His father has the money to travel the world, but he stays home, watching calves drop damp from their mothers, watching hired servants magic sheep’s milk into cheese. The Prodigal stands to inherit part of that growing horde, but his joints will ache, his neck will hang loose under a gray beard by the time that healthy old man dies. The Prodigal wants to meet women, to use his young body. He wants to have city friends and glug wine like a king.

PaPa’s Bed

When I was eight years old, PaPa, my mom’s father, bought a new bed. Queen-size, with a control attached to a cord. One button raised the top half when his children and grandchildren came to visit, and another button lifted the bottom when he felt an ache in his phantom limb.

Eleven years before, PaPa had lost his left leg to a botched congestive heart failure procedure, and the surgeons had sent him home to die. But he hadn’t died. He’d strapped on a prosthesis and walked his daughter down the aisle. He’d picked me up from kindergarten with a bucket of spaghetti and a package of Oreos. He’d bought a vhs camcorder the first day they were available and videotaped his granddaughters in the backyard.

Play hide and seek with us! I wheedle to PaPa on the tape.

Oh, darlin’, he says from behind the camera, I can’t run anymore. He throws tears into his West Virginia accent for drama, but it’s obvious he’s happy. The camera follows me as I cavort across the lawn in my pink shorts, three-year-old Jennifer as she hugs the beagle.

Two years after that video, PaPa put away his camcorder, unstrapped his prosthesis, and settled into his new electric bed. His final grandchild was on the way, a boy at long last. He felt strong enough to live until that baby was born, and then he’d be ready to go.

Those months of waiting for my baby brother were hard on eight-year-old me. My mom grew larger, and more tired, than in her pregnancies with Jennifer and Rebecca, and PaPa grew smaller every day. During my short life, PaPa had never resembled the fried-chicken-loving father in my mom’s childhood albums, but now his body seemed to be journeying to heaven a pound at a time, leaving his spirit on earth.

Once, on a PaPa visit, I bounced ahead up the stairs. We’re here to see you, PaPa! I announced as I burst into his bedroom. I figured I’d have him to myself for a minute.

I didn’t. Anita, PaPa’s sister who nursed him, was in there already, and I’d interrupted PaPa’s bath. He sat on his bed, white T-shirt off, his white briefs loose around his hairless stump, arms lifted so Anita could scrub him with a rag. Anita had told my mother, Ralph’s armpits look like caverns, and now I saw them for myself. I was afraid I’d peer into a hollow armpit and see PaPa’s congested heart. I cried alone in the hall until my mom and sisters made it up the stairs.

When PaPa had his shirt on and a bedspread over his stump, Anita called us into the room. I sat next to my grandfather, on top of his rumpled bedspread, and leaned against the bed’s raised head.

I love you, PaPa, I told him.

"I love you, doll," he said, gripping my hand.

"I love you, PaPa."

My love was the only medicine I had.

Joshua was born on Father’s Day, and my mother called her father on the birthing room phone the first moment she was able. It’s a boy, she breathed, stroking her baby’s bald scalp. During the phone call, my dad napped in a nearby chair. I sat on the edge of the bed with my sisters, inches from newborn skin. Nine pounds, nine ounces, my mom said. My Joshua David.

PaPa chuckled into his phone, an impossible seven-minute drive away. Nine-nine, he gloated. What do you know about that? The last time my mom had given birth, just two and a half years earlier, PaPa had shown up with his camcorder, and he’d lined up a date with a new grandmother in the windowed hallway outside the neonatal ward. Now PaPa’s sister helped him crawl to his potty chair, but his grandson was born, and PaPa was still alive.

Joshua David, huh? he continued. "That’s a prissy name. You’ll call that boy J.D." PaPa had taken the sex and weight and conjured up a whole life for this grandson he’d only see as a baby. Peewee football helmets, high school football helmets. A sexy prom date, a powerful job, a pregnant wife.

J.D. my foot, my mom said, smiling. She took Joshua to visit PaPa two days later.

As we tromped up the stairs with our baby, I heard Anita through PaPa’s open door. Ralph, we’ve got to sit you up, honey. Somebody new is here to see you. I heard the buzz of the electric bed.

Because of the bathing incident, I knocked on the doorframe and waited for Anita’s Come on in, sweetie. But that didn’t stop PaPa from vomiting into a plastic cup as I crept into the room.

It’s just clear fluid, PaPa soothed me when I cringed. My mom plopped Joshua next to her father and stood by the bed, asking Aunt Anita worried questions about the vomiting. I sat on the bed by PaPa and played with my brother’s toes.

Well, hello, PaPa cooed, wrapping an emaciated arm around his grandson. He straightened Joshua’s embroidered yellow shirt, then he unpinned the cloth diaper and peered inside. I was mystified, but my mom knew what her father was doing. He needed to know if Joshua had been circumcised. PaPa’s masculinity had gotten chipped away by overseas combat, two divorces, and heart failure. His grandson needed to start off his life with every centimeter of manhood he could get.

Joshua’s tiny foreskin was still where God put it, and PaPa sighed with pride and relief. That’s my J.D., he said.

I stood up and balled my fists. I yelled, J.D. my foot!

PaPa buzzed the head of his bed higher and grinned.

Three months later, Anita called my mother in the morning. Marcy? I just went up to check on Ralph, and I think he’s dead.

"You think he’s dead?" My mom wasn’t buying it. I huddled closer to her shoulder in the kitchen.

Oh, Marcy, he’s dead.

PaPa had woken in the night, pulled his white T-shirt halfway off, and ridden that bed into the sky.

My grandfather’s body went under a veteran’s headstone at Ridgelawn Memorial Park, and his bed found a new home in the room I shared with Jennifer. Previously the two of us had slept together in a decades-old full-size that spouted orange spores when we jumped. I felt ecstatic when my dad and uncle dragged that old mattress and frame out of the house, on their way to the dump.

After the new bed was in the old bed’s place, bare of sheets, empty of PaPa, my sisters and I stared at it reverently for a few minutes. Then I remembered the bed had an electrical cord. I plugged it in next to my reading lamp, and the three of us rode either end up and down, put both ends up and squished ourselves together in the middle, turned on the vibrate function and belted hymns. Eventually our mother appeared with sheets and shooed us into the hallway.

Sleeping in that bed, I sometimes dreamed of PaPa. The doorbell rang, and PaPa stood on the porch. He wore a hat with a red and brown feather, and he’d concealed his prosthesis with loafers and tweed. I’m back, doll, PaPa said. After those dreams I woke up sobbing, crying harder than I had when he died. My mom had me sit in the blue recliner, another inheritance from PaPa’s bedroom, and handed me baby Joshua. I stared at my brother and kissed his cheeks until my grief pains melted away.

A year after PaPa died, my best friend spent the night at our house. Carrie was a skinny girl with a poodle perm, marbles with names, a plan for her wedding, and a home life I couldn’t understand. Jennifer joined Rebecca in her twin bed down the hall, so Carrie could sleep next to me.

Carrie and I read a chapter or two of our chapter books, then I rolled toward her and raised my eyebrows. I’ve got a secret, I whispered, and she put down her book and tucked the sheets under her chin.

Okay, you’ve got to tell me. From the look on her face, I could tell Carrie was expecting a story about her crush, or perhaps the boy I’d hurled a pencil at in daycare.

I lowered my voice still further. My PaPa died in this bed.

Carrie jumped out of the bed like she’d seen a rattlesnake, gripping the top sheet in her hands. She looked frantically around the room, like she expected an appearance from a one-legged, elderly ghost. I laughed and laughed, flopping around in the empty space Carrie had left behind.

With a nine-year-old’s egotism, I felt I knew something Carrie didn’t: joy and heartbreak can strike together. A new baby brother and a dying PaPa. A dead PaPa and a nearly new queen-size bed. A creepy joke I could tell at sleepovers and visits from PaPa in my dreams.

Herbie

THE LOVE BUG

At two, Joshua watched and rewatched a vhs of The Love Bug, the 1968 Disney comedy about a sentient Volkswagen Beetle. Herbie wins the hearts of his drivers and a race by bouncing across ponds and zooming down mountain roads.

The movie created a loneliness in Joshua, a need for a friend who honked and flapped his wipers when he got angry, who squirted oil on a bad guy’s boot. And the movie gave him an urge to cruise on winding asphalt. He’d seen a shelf of Herbies in Kmart: Little Tikes Cozy Coupes with rounded Beetle-like tops and plastic headlights that looked like they could wink at him.

Early one summer morning, when my sisters and I were still asleep, my mom looked away from Joshua for a moment, and he disappeared. My mom ran first to the stove—once before, she’d found him with his diaper on a burner, playing with the knobs—then she checked the bathroom, since parenting books advised that out-of-sight children were likely face down in the toilet. She checked the closets, the cabinets, under the beds; she shooed Kassie out of her