Virgie tolerated her husband's loutish behavior and drinking because that was what a good wife did. She made excuses for Cleve's laziness. She ignored his insults. There were only two loves in Cleve's life: himself and booze.
Cleve made love to his beer bottles every night, drinking himself into a stupor before going off to snore the night away. His slim waistline abandoned Cleve like a mariner deserting a sinking ship.
He'd been a right smart handsome fellah when Virgie first saw him down at Cotton's Mercantile so many years ago. Young and tall with a thick head of shiny, black hair, Cleve turned more than a few heads then. Virgie wasn't so bad herself back then either. She had all her teeth and a luscious mane of auburn hair that cascaded over her shoulders.
Both Cleve and Virgie were from hard-scrabble, poor mountain stock. They married and set up housekeeping.
Cleve had several jobs, but his main occupations, even then, was drinking moonshine or beer. Cleve came from a long line of hard drinkers. He grew up thinking no man was worth his salt if he couldn't hold his liquor.
Cleve was all man when judged by this measure.
Virgie tried hard to do her duty. She became pregnant three times but miscarried. On the fourth try, she carried the fetus to full term, delivering a lovely little girl that Cleve named Claire.
Virgie was secretly hoping that Cleve would allow her to name the baby because he had told her the baby's name would be Hortense Nelly, after his mother.
After the baby was born, and the midwife said it was a girl, Cleve came into the bedroom.
"I declare if she ain't about the purtiest thang I ever laid eyes on."
From that moment on, she was Claire.
Claire was a beautiful name, and Virgie decided she'd bring the couple luck. She was a happy child.
Virgie had two more stillborn babies after Claire.
All those little ones, she often brooded, looking out at the little rocks marking each grave in her backyard, and one living.
A dark cloud would come over Virgie as she wondered when she would be looking out her window at the rock that marked Claire's plot of ground.
But unlike so many children from the backwoods, Claire made it through those first few years. Virgie did not have much education, but she knew enough to know that fevers and maladies stalked the smallest and weakest.
She made sure Claire was kept warm, and she fed her the best of whatever scarce food was in the house. Cleve's erratic work habits meant that he was often fired.
Even in the hardest times, Virgie made sure the milk cow was fed and kept in the ragged shed Cleve called a barn. Claire needed milk. Virgie's had dried up shortly after Claire was born.
And now, Virgie's beloved daughter was 15. Hard to believe so much living had been compressed in such a short time. It seemed like only yesterday that her little girl was knee-high to a grasshopper.
She remembered that graceful tyke scampering about the yard chasing lightning bugs or making flower petal necklaces. Virgie had spent many an hour as her cracked, calloused hands fashioned corn husks into dolls for her beautiful baby girl.
Virgie secretly savored the sound of her little baby's sparkling laugh that brightened her otherwise dull, work-filled days.
Not only was her girl pretty, she was smart, too. Claire was doing well in school. There was talk of a scholarship. Maybe even a year or two at college. Her daughter's future looked bright.
Virgie was so proud.
Then, Cleve got it in his head that the best birthday present of all would be a family day at that amusement park. Virgie thought the idea was ridiculous.
But Cleve insisted Claire's birthday would be spent riding rides and eating cotton candy. Claire would rather have stayed home. She had no interest in Ferris wheels. She was afraid of heights. She didn't want to ride the swings.
Going round and round in circles would probably make her sick. And the thought of rocketing up and down on that roller coaster, being slung first one direction and then the other, filled her with dread.
Virgie had bought three yards of material and sewn Claire a new dress. Claire wanted to wear that dress to the Bluegrass Festival the following week, but Cleve insisted she wear it to the amusement park.
As Cleve sucked on his beer, Claire wanted to tell her father that she'd rather do anything than accompany a half-drunk redneck to an amusement park, but like her mother, Claire decided to go along with her father's plans and not cause a fuss.
It was her birthday, after all, and it would be wonderful if she could just get through the day without hearing arguments and having a bottle thrown across the room in anger. Maybe her mother and father could manage to get along this one special day.
***
Cleve was working at the coal mine then. It meant a 40 mile drive one way, and the work was dangerous and dirty, but he was making more money than he'd ever made in his life, and he was proud of that fact.
Virgie held her breath that the call-in sick day would not prove to be the straw that broke the camel's back, as far as Cleve's job was concerned. She kept telling her husband that if he kept lying out of work at the drop of a hat, all he'd end up with his empty hat stuck out for folks to throw a pauper's penny into.
Begging would be the only option Cleve had left. He'd worked in every mill around. He had a reputation as a hot head, and what his temper didn't do to get him into hot water with his superiors, shooting off his mouth did.
Cleve was always in trouble one way or the other.
But he turned a deaf ear to Virgie's protests. His little girl was fast growing up.
Cleve felt the hands of Time running out. Soon, Claire would marry and leave the nest. It was now or never, he determined. And he made up his mind that Claire's birthday would be spent making memories at the amusement park.
Virgie would forever regret going along with Cleve's harebrained idea of going to that amusement park to celebrate Claire's birthday. She had kept silent, just to keep peace. But after what had happened, she decided peace wasn't worth the high price they had all paid.
* * *
Hardison Branwell hawked and spit. He was about as disgusted as a man could get. Candy was going out with that no good clod of mountain gulley dirt called Kyle Winthrop.
Again.
It was the third time this week. Sixteen, going on thirty, Hardy noted. He hoped she didn't turn up pregnant. That would be just his luck.
The same thing had happened to Hardy Branwell when he'd met Candy's mother, Willie Mae. Hardy had done the honorable thing and married the woman he had gotten pregnant.
Some men just fathered children and left the mother to raise them on her own. Nowadays, folks didn't bat an eye at such. But Hardy detested the thought of his flesh and blood being branded illegitimate.
Claire Winthrop had gotten pregnant and bore her son, Kyle. She didn't marry his father. He bore the surname Winthrop, like his mother, Claire, and his grandparents, Cleve and Virgie.
Kyle had no idea who his father was, just like about everyone else in Hope Rock County.
But Hardy had married Willie Mae just to give Candy his name and a decent home. Not that he regretted having his little girl, one bit.
But it was a bitter pill to swallow when you were a father at seventeen. He was still a kid, but he had buckled down, done the right thing, and tried to be the best father he could be.
Willie Mae had never taken to the responsibilities of motherhood and family. When Candy was eight, Willie Mae skipped town with a truck driver she had met at the truck stop at the county line.
Hardy never heard from Willie Mae again. That meant Hardy was a single parent with a young daughter when single fathers were not all that common.
Good thing Hardy's mama lived so close by. She'd been a godsend, helping raise Candy while Hardy made a living. Hardy had kept his nose to the grindstone, paid for their trailer, and managed to save a little for a rainy day.
Then, overnight, puberty struck.
Candy changed in an instant, and all Hardy's plans and dreams went swirling down the drain. The boys liked his little Candy. And Candy returned their favors.
Hardy was mortified.
The more he tried to keep his daughter on a short leash, the harder Candy pulled away. Hardy had that sick, sinking feeling that he was in the middle of a no-win situation.
It was bad enough when Candy was dating the whole football team. Then she met Kyle Winthrop.
What a plug nickel that boy was.
Illegitimate. Not worth the cost of the bullet to put him out of his misery.
Hardy knew Claire, Kyle's mother, from way back. Claire was pretty enough before the accident, but afterwards, she was lost to depression and prescription pain medicine.
The pills kept her high, so Claire was fun to be with at parties. The drugs tore down any inhibitions Claire had about anything, so she was a blast in the sack, and popular despite her handicap.
Everyone looked liked a movie star when the lights were off.
And Claire had a real nice voice. Her laugh was silky and fluid like mercury.
She had the cutest little mole just below her left breast, and a ladybug tattoo on her right buttocks. She could have made some guy a nice, sweet wife – if drugs hadn't messed her up so badly.
Such a waste.
Then Claire had turned up pregnant.
She delivered a baby boy and decided she was going to keep him and raise him on her own.
Claire let Kyle run loose.
It was easy when you were lost in the haze of synthetic opioids. Kyle ran with the wrong crowd early on. He'd gotten into trouble at an early age and just seemed to stay there, like a cow mired stomach deep in mud.
Not that Hardy didn't feel sorry for Claire. She had really been dealt a bad hand. But this was Candy that Kyle had his eye on. Hardy's little girl!
When Candy told Hardy she feared she was pregnant, Hardy lost his head.
"He's gone over to Claire's to beat Kyle up," Hardy's mama told Candy.
Candy got in her car and spun gravels.
The two were in the yard going at each other like two tom cats.
"You nearly killed my son," Claire screamed.
"He deserves it. My little girl's got a bun in the oven!" Hardy yelled.
Candy had driven up about that time. She'd followed Hardy, but her car had run out of gas. She flagged down a friend in an old pickup truck who loaned her a couple of gallons of gas.
Hardy had gotten in a few good licks before Candy drove up and screamed for Hardy to leave Kyle alone.
That she took up for the little pip-squeak over her own father had broken Hardy's heart.
He knew by the look in Candy's eyes that her loyalty lay with Kyle. Once Claire saw that Hardy's anger was spent, she slinked back into her trailer.
Must be time for another pill, thought Hardy, getting into his truck and driving away.
"She's yours now, Kyle," Hardy had yelled. "You better treat her right. If you don't, you have me to answer to."
It was a vague threat, but Hardy's anger was so white, he couldn't think of a better one.
And bless Pat, if Candy didn't move in with that no-good slug within a week.
She got a job at a burger joint 10 miles away. She refused to have anything to do with Hardy, who, after he'd calmed down, offered to help Candy any way he could.
"Keep your money," Candy had told him. "Kyle and I are fine. We're renting a trailer. It's just him and me and our baby," as she patted her flat belly. "That's the way I want it, Daddy. Leave us alone. Kyle wants nothing to do with you. Neither do I."
***
Candy had Kyle's kid seven months later and another followed soon after.
A girl and a boy.
From what Hardy heard, the kids were wild as bucks. How could they be anything but? Candy worked all the time, and that worthless Kyle laid around doing dope. Hardy spit on the ground in disgust.
Hardy was a grandfather, but you'd never know by how often he'd seen his grandkids. And Kyle didn't seem to care that Candy was working herself ragged trying to support them all. All that Kyle did was find more trouble and do more drugs.
Hardy didn't know who he hated more: Kyle or Candy. Kyle had stolen the only person besides Hardy's mama that Hardy had ever loved. And Candy had turned her back on the only man who had ever treated her decently.
"Ain't like you didn't raise her like a princess," Hardy's mama said. "A lotta thanks you got fer all yer trouble, son."
Mama is right, Hardy thought.
No thanks and only heartaches. If he lived to be a hundred, Hardy decided, he would never understand women.
But, on the other hand, if he lived to be a hundred, he'd see to it that that dope head who ruined his little girl's life would pay. If it was the last thing he ever did.
Yes, sir. Hardy swore an oath that he wouldn't rest until he made Kyle pay.
An eye for an eye.
It was biblical justice.