Page 114 of In These Hills

Josephine covered them with her own. She knew the steps for helping women leave men enslaved to drink—had taught them, recited them, believed them. But since she’d fled Atlanta, those steps no longer felt simple. She remembered standing outside saloons with her suffragist sisters, handing out pledge cards, chanting the vow printed in bold black type: I hereby solemnly promise, by God’s help, to abstain from all intoxicating liquors. Most men, defiant, had tossed the cards back in their faces.

The mere thought of handing Calla a pledge card seemed calloused and cruel. Calla wasn’t defiant. She was hurting miserably, desperate to be freed from her addiction. And Josephine wondered, uncomfortably . . . how many of those men in Atlanta had secretly been desperate and hurting, too?

“Oh Jesus, help me,” Calla whispered, bowing her head.

“Sit down for a minute.” Josephine urged her toward the kitchen table.

“I can’t. Gotta get breakfast going.”

“Just sit, and I’ll get the coffee started. Maybe that will help.”

Calla didn’t argue, just stared, hollow-eyed.

Minutes later, Josephine handed her a steaming mug. “Drink this and I’ll get you something to eat.”

“I ain’t hungry, but thank you.” She sipped the hot coffee, hands wrapped around the warmth. “I don’t know how I ended up here.” Her shoulders sagged. “And I for sure don’t know how to climb back out of this pit.”

“I don’t either. But we’ll figure it out. Together.”

Calla pulled an envelope from her apron pocket. “Got this from Nannie yesterday. She writes how proud she is of me.” She shook her head. “But she got no idea who I really am.”

“Listen to me . . .” Josephine moved to where Calla couldn’t look away. “You are so much more than the problem you’re having with drinking.” She gripped her hands. “You are a kind, caring, wonderful person who, yes, is struggling. You’re grieving unimaginable loss, Calla. The death of your husband. Your son.” Her eyes filled. “I can hardly fathom that. But you will get through this. Impossible as that feels.”

Calla didn’t respond.

After a minute, she looked up. “I heard about your shooting adventure Sunday. Is it true? Bethie would’ve been gored if not for you?”

Josephine shook her head. “If not for Dodge shooting the boar, is the real story.”

“Way I heard it, she fell from the tree and you jumped down and got her back up just in time.” Calla’s eyes shone. “I love that girl. Ain’t nothing like a child to bring light to the world.”

Josephine’s heart broke at the loss etched in Calla’s features.

The sound of the front door opening carried toward them, as did Miss Mary’s voice, and Calla’s eyes widened.

Josephine rose. “I’ll go talk to her for a few minutes. Give you time to collect yourself.”

Gripping her hands tight, Calla nodded.

Josephine poured two more mugs of coffee and met Miss Mary and her husband in the lobby. As they chatted, she hoped—no, she prayed—for Calla, hoping God would listen. Please Lord, listen . . . For her sake, even if not for mine.

When she followed Miss Mary back into the kitchen minutes later, Calla was already mixing biscuits, sausage frying on the stove, hands no longer shaking. Calla barely glanced at her before turning away, and Josephine knew. And her chest ached with the awful truth of it. Not so much that Calla had turned to whiskey again for comfort. But the awful truth that as whiskey comforted, it also enslaved.

A while later, her heart still heavy, Josephine approached the distillery office and could hear cursing even before she opened the door. When she did, she saw Mr. Daniel hobbling around on one foot, still cursing up a storm. “Mr. Daniel, are you all right?”

He turned, red-faced. “Do I look all right, Mrs. Dunham!” Groaning through clenched teeth, he leaned against the desk and glared at the floor safe. “Five times I tried the combination and that confounded thing still won’t open! So I hauled off and kicked the good-for-nothing piece of—”

A string of expletives followed that she didn’t fully catch and didn’t need to. His gaze darted back to her as though he dared her to show even an ounce of humor at his expense.

“Sit down, sir. Please!” Josephine set her purse on the desk and rolled his office chair toward him.

“That dang safe is going to be the death of me!” He tried to put weight on his left foot and winced as he eased into the chair. “I finally have that meeting with Mr. Prince this morning, so I got here early. I need to get the gauger’s ledger out of that dad blame—”

“I can help you get whatever you need. And not to worry, we have time. Mr. Prince was still at the boarding house when I left. He’s moving very slowly after having been sick for the past two days.”

He leaned forward, staring down at his left boot. “I heard he was feeling poorly. What’s been ailing him?”

“Between us? I think it’s too many buttermilk biscuits and slices of fudge pie. That gentleman loves Calla’s cooking and eats to excess, despite his determination not to.”