That Pinson Girl

Praise for That Pinson Girl

"That Pinson Girl is a beautiful novel about the destructive power of dark secrets. Gerry Wilson’s prose shines as she breathes life into her characters and into the north Mississippi landscape. Leona Pinson, the young woman at the heart of this tale, is exactly the sort of heroine I long for in great fiction. I will not soon forget her. This book is a gift."

— Tiffany Quay Tyson, award-winning author of The Past is Never and Three Rivers

"I did not know Gerry Wilson’s work before, but I loved That Pinson Girl. The book is both gripping and beautifully written, and the characters and setting quickly sprang to life. Though Wilson has her own voice, the novel calls to mind the work of one of my favorite writers, Elizabeth Spencer."

— Steve Yarbrough, author of Stay Gone Days, The Unmade World

In Gerry Wilson’s gripping debut novel, 1918 in North Mississippi becomes tangible again; here are the red hills, the suck of winter mud, the scrabble of subsistence living, and the intricately crossed lines of race and kin. Wilson’s suspenseful threading of tales has lasting historical resonance. In confronting the tragedy of a broken family, she explores the weight of motherhood, the rich and betraying Southern landscape, and the body’s intimate vulnerabilities. This story took me by the collar and shook me.

—Katy Simpson Smith, author of The Everlasting, Free Men, The Story of Land and Sea, and We Have Raised All of You: Motherhood in the South. 1750-1835

"Devastating and beautifully written, Gerry Wilson’s That Pinson Girl is at once a heart-rending tragedy and a testament to the indomitable human spirit. In her heroine, Leona, Wilson has drawn an unforgettable character buoyed by her determination to survive and to care for her child, even when confronted with violence, racial tensions, the horrors of a distant war, mounting losses from the influenza epidemic, and the lingering repercussions of murder. This historical tale about a hard-scrabble Southern farming family grabbed my attention and wouldn’t let go."

— Clifford Garstang, author of Oliver’s Travels and The Shaman of Turtle Valley

"The past of Gerry Wilson’s riveting That Pinson Girl is far from dead as two families—one Black, one white—struggle to wrest a future from the unforgiving Mississippi hill country of the early twentieth century. A spellbinding story of murder, grief, and guilt with deeply sympathetic characters and a plot that takes you by the collar and won’t let go. This is red-clay Faulkner country: the Klan rides, rivers overflow, crops fail—and yet its traumatized women and Black inhabitants find ways to salvage what’s been lost and build new lives out of the rubble. Leona Pinson and Luther Biggs are two of the most memorable characters I’ve met in a long time. I want a sequel!"

— Minrose Gwin, author of The Accidentals, Promise, and The Queen of Palmyra

"In a richly textured and fearless first novel, Gerry Wilson creates a world that is lyrical at times and always unflinching. That Pinson Girl portrays the tension of biracial friendships and loyalties in the rural South, a reality that has rarely been depicted with such precision. A remarkable debut."

— Gale Massey, author of The Girl from Blind River

Sixteen-year-old Leona Pinson grows up fast in this powerfully evocative story of resilience, triumph, and renewal. It’s 1918. Every day, there’s some scrap of news about the war in Europe, but where is Isaiah’s father? And who murdered Leona’s father out there in the woods? Transporting us to a rural American South not long past, Gerry Wilson delivers a timely debut novel, proving the importance of guiding principles, internal morals, and maintaining your own spirit light.

— Margaret McMullan, author of Where the Angels Lived

"There are scintillating glints that sparkle on every page of this novel. They are bright insights into the human condition which are expressed in the clear, uncluttered prose of Gerry Wilson’s intrinsic art and craft of storytelling. Reading the conclusion of That Pinson Girl makes one want to begin again to delve even more profoundly into what informs and motivates the spirits of the characters who inhabit these pages."

— Nina Romano, author of The Secret Language of Women and The Girl Who Loved Cayo Bradley

That Pinson Girl

Gerry Wilson

Regal House Publishing

Copyright © 2024 Gerry Wilson. All rights reserved.

Published by

Regal House Publishing, LLC

Raleigh, NC 27605

All rights reserved

ISBN -13 (paperback): 9781646034185

ISBN -13 (epub): 9781646034192

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023934861

All efforts were made to determine the copyright holders and obtain their permissions in any circumstance where copyrighted material was used. The publisher apologizes if any errors were made during this process, or if any omissions occurred. If noted, please contact the publisher and all efforts will be made to incorporate permissions in future editions.

Cover images and design by © C. B. Royal

Regal House Publishing, LLC

https://regalhousepublishing.com

The following is a work of fiction created by the author. All names, individuals, characters, places, items, brands, events, etc. were either the product of the author or were used fictitiously. Any name, place, event, person, brand, or item, current or past, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of Regal House Publishing.

Printed in the United States of America

Dedication

In memory of my maternal grandmother, Lois Ellis Wood (1897–1994), whose life and stories continue to impact my own.

Quote

Who is wandering near the porch again

And calling us by name?

Who is pressed against the icy windowpane,

Waving with a branch-like hand?. .

And in answer a sunbeam dances from the mirror

To the cobweb in the corner.

—March Elegy The Complete Poems

Anna Akhmatova, trans. Judith Hemschemeyer

Where is the dwelling place of light?

—Job 38:19

1

In the early, dark hours of the morning, Leona Pinson’s aunt perched like a doll in the straight chair near Leona’s bed, her short legs dangling. Sometime yesterday, Aunt Sally Pinson had put the sharpest knife they owned under Leona’s bedstead.

To cut the pain, Sally had said. An ax blade would do better.

That knife wasn’t helping Leona much.

When she cried out, her aunt slid down and went to the bureau where the basin was. She used a milking stool as a step, wrung out a cloth with her stubby fingers, came back to the bed, hoisted herself up. She tried to bathe Leona’s face, but Leona covered her eyes with her hands. She didn’t want to see Sally’s large head and jutting chin, her bulging eyes, her stunted arms and legs. What if her own baby was born like that as a punishment?

Sally climbed down. Halting steps, the scrape of the stool, the clatter of the basin, the sloshing water, the creak of the chair. Then silence. After a while Leona opened her eyes. Sally slumped, dozing, her heavy chin resting on her bosom. Herbert Pinson’s only sister, she had come after he died nearly two years ago, carrying all she owned in one satchel and a paper bag. She had never left.

The pain came and Leona’s belly rose taut. She twisted the sheet and gritted her teeth against the sound that rose in her throat, against calling out the name she had vowed never to reveal. She drew her knees up and tried to take deep breaths that wouldn’t come. After what seemed like a long time, the pain subsided. She could breathe again.

Leona had never seen a woman give birth, but she had helped her father birth calves. The first time, she was ten, maybe eleven. He said she could help, but when he saw the heifer was in trouble, he told her to get on back to the house. She begged him to let her stay.

He looked at her as though he were sizing up her mettle. All right, then.

Leona almost turned sick when he plunged one arm to the elbow inside the heifer. He worked for more than an hour to turn that calf and pull it out into the world. It was the heifer’s first, but you wouldn’t have known she was giving birth except for her panting and the spasms of her belly. She had made no sound.

Leona wanted to be as strong as that dumb animal. She wanted to endure. But the pain possessed her. Was there a demon that possessed a woman giving birth? Was there a magic to make it go away?

Luther Biggs would know about such things. If only somebody would go for him, but sleet pattered on the tin roof and the wind moaned and shivered the house. Sally slept, and Leona’s mother must have been sleeping, too, in her room. Her father would go, but he was dead. Her brother, Raymond, if he were at home, would scoff. But if Luther were there, he wouldn’t sleep. He would take care of her and her baby. In her mind she called his name. She willed him to come.

***

Luther Biggs came wide awake, all in a sweat, Leona Pinson’s voice calling him out of a sound sleep. That girl, or the ghost or dream of her, had stood at the foot of his bed, her belly full to bursting, her eyes alight with tears and fear, and called his name, told him to get up and get going, to brave the icy road and come to her.

Wind rattled the shotgun house. Cold seeped through the chinks in the walls, between the floor planks. Luther’s teeth chattered. He lit the kerosene lantern and set it on the floor beside his bed. Too cold to go to the outhouse; he would have to use the jar. He waited a full minute for his stream to come. He was fifty-two years old, not yet a very old man, but he felt like one. His life was too much waiting, remembering, regretting.

He shoved the jar under the bed. No time to empty it. He put on his only woolen shirt over the union suit he had slept in, then his overalls, two pairs of socks and his brogans, the broken shoelaces knotted back together. The mile walk to the Pinson house would not be easy. He took the lantern and went to the lean-to where his son, Jesse, slept.

Luther parted the curtain. Jesse curled on his side on a narrow straw mattress too small for him, face turned toward the curtain as though in expectation even in his sleep, hands clasped beneath his chin, knees drawn up like a baby. At fifteen, Jesse was tall, already a man. His skin was lighter than Luther’s, whose own skin color had been the subject of talk all his life. Jesse had taken to going off on his own lately. All the colored and white folks close around knew him, but still Luther worried about leaving him by himself. If Jesse went out in this weather, he could freeze to death.

Luther said, Jesse. A second time.

Jesse sat up, sleepy-eyed. Pa?

I got to go down to the Pinson place. There’s biscuits and buttermilk and coffee. You’ll be fine for a while.

Jesse pushed back the quilts. I’m going with you.

Not this time. There’s a thing happening over there you got no business with. I’ll be home soon as I can.

You’ll be home, Jesse repeated, the way he did when he was trying to keep things straight in his head.

That’s right. You got plenty of wood. Keep the stove and the fire going. Don’t let them die. And don’t you go out. You go out, you get a whipping when I get home. You hear me?

Jesse lay back down. Yes, sir.

Luther would never whip Jesse, even if he still could, but he hoped the threat would do its work. He pulled the covers up, his hand lingering on Jesse’s shoulder. How could he leave him alone to go tend that girl? But Leona Pinson was not just any white girl. She was Herbert and Rose Pinson’s daughter.

Luther went to the kitchen, stoked the stove, and put on coffee. He took a basket down from the top of the pie safe. His wife, Varna, had carried that basket with her whenever she tended the sick or birthed babies. He opened the cloth bags of herbs and smelled them, stuffing a few bags in his coat pockets. Varna had taught him which ones to use for a fever, congestion in the chest, gout, or infection. One to calm the heart, another to calm the mind. One to ease pain, another to stanch bleeding. She taught him how to make a tea to help a woman along in her labor and a poultice to put between a woman’s legs after birth. Varna, he had said, turning away, but he had learned, and now he was glad. Luther took out the crude figure of a woman he had carved for Varna from hickory, touched it to his lips, and slipped it in his pocket too.

Still black dark. He drank the scalding coffee. He needed the warmth.

When he went out the door, the cold struck him like a blow. In winter Pinson Road turned to sucking mud, pocked with craters dangerous for any man, and now it was iced over, the sleet still falling. Luther had brought a walking stick, but it didn’t do much good. He had been on the road only a few minutes when his lantern went out. He made his way in the dark over the deep, slippery ruts to the side of the road and crouched against the red clay bank, pulling his coat close around him as best he could. Rose Pinson had given him that coat. It was too small, and threadbare.

He waited a precious half hour. With the coming of light, the world still seemed predawn dark, shrouded in gray, land and sky the same. Cold to the bone, he moved on. His chest hurt with each intake of sharp air. From time to time, he gripped his stick under one arm and rubbed his hands together and blew on them. His breath came in a freezing cloud. Death skulked in these woods and might step out from behind a tree, might put his finger against Luther’s aching chest and say, It’s time, but Luther had faced Death before. He wasn’t afraid.

The Pinson place sat low in the hollow against a line of bare trees, the house weathered gray as the landscape: on three sides cotton fields gone to black stubble, and beyond the house, the barn and the sheds, once whitewashed, now gone to gray too since Herbert was killed, and beyond that, forests of virgin pine, oak, walnut, hickory, and tupelo trees, older than Luther, maybe old as the land itself.

A crow swooped low, and Luther stumbled. The bird made another pass and perched on the fence only feet away. It ruffled, stretched its wings, and turned its black eyes on Luther. Go on! he shouted, waving his stick. Go on now! The bird flapped its wings in a fury and lifted into the mist.

By the time Luther reached the yard, the sleet had picked up and mixed with snow. Setting in. By night there wouldn’t be any moving around. Jesse would be alone all day, all night. Would he remember to bank the fire? Would he remember to eat?

Luther crossed the yard and cut around the side of the house. He looked for some sign—a light, a sound—but saw and heard nothing until he reached the back where the land sloped steeply down and the brick pillars on which the house stood were almost as tall as he. From the kitchen windows, a flicker of light reflected on the frosty ground. He heard footsteps inside, the scrape of a stove grate. Who was up and about? Luther reached the steep back steps and tested the first. A skim of ice. He grasped the rail and climbed. He set his lantern on the porch and tapped on the kitchen door. He waited a minute, then knocked louder. The door creaked open.

Sally Pinson stood in the doorway, half Luther’s height, owl-like circles under her eyes, her wiry gray hair undone. Her flour sack apron, tied above her breasts, dragged the floor. Lord God, she said. What’re you doing here?

Luther took off his hat. I thought I might be of some help.

With the wind whipping through the open door, Sally seemed to consider it. You knew.

Luther rubbed his stiff hands together. Let me in. Yes, ma’am. I did.

Well. You’re here. You may as well stay. She turned away, muttering. He heard the word fool. He didn’t need to hear the rest.

He leaned his stick against the outside wall and stamped his feet to knock loose the crusted ice and mud. He stepped inside and shut the door. A flush of warmth, the smells of fried pork and coffee. The floorboards worn down to a smooth sheen, the same floor where he had slept all those years ago.

How long you think it’s gon’ be?

Sally shook her head. Can’t say. Been a day and a night already. Better be soon. She nodded toward the parlor. Go in yonder by the fire, warm yourself up.

When he hesitated, Sally said, Go on now. I got to tend to Leona. She tottered down the hall to the girl’s bedroom, where Luther would go if he were allowed.

Luther knew every detail of the parlor. The entwined vine pattern of the faded wallpaper peeled away in places to bare wood, the horsehair settee, the worn hooked rugs, the ticking clock on the mantel. The straight chair where Herbert Pinson had sat and whittled on winter nights and tossed the shavings into the fire. The portrait of William Pinson staring down from above the fireplace, Herbert’s father and Luther’s, too, although Mr. William had never said the words out loud to Luther. The room had hardly changed since Mr. William brought Luther into this house when Luther was five years old. Luther had been inside the place only a few times since William Pinson died, so many years ago. The last time was when he had helped to carry Herbert’s body into this very room and had sat the night beside the coffin with Leona.

The room was chilly, the fire diminished to embers. A kerosene lamp flickered on the table. Rose Pinson sat in her rocking chair, fully dressed at this early hour, her Bible open on her lap, her face halved into light and dark. The rest of the room was cast in shadows.

Leona cried out, and Rose flinched.

Morning, Rose, Luther said. How are you?

Rose adjusted her spectacles, held the Bible to the light, and read aloud. Then they shall bring out the damsel to the door of her father’s house, and the men of her city shall stone her with stones that she die: because she hath wrought folly in Israel, to play the whore in her father’s house, so shalt thou put evil away from among you. Rose closed the book but kept a finger at her place. There’s a bastard child being born in this house, Luther. How do you think I am? She got up and left the room.

Luther crouched at the hearth and extended his hands, careful not to get too close. Once, long ago, he had held his nearly frozen fingers too near an open fire. He hadn’t felt the blistering until he smelled scorched flesh.

Sally brought him coffee in a cracked cup. I expect you could use this.

Yes, ma’am, I could. Thank you.

I told Leona you’re here. She says she knew you would come. She says, ‘Tell him to go walk the fence for me.’ I said you aren’t walking any fence. It’s bad enough to send you to the barn.

Tears sprang to Luther’s eyes. I used to do that when she was a little thing. Mr. Herbert, he’d go off to cut timber. He asked me would I stay nights, look after Miss Rose and the children, so I did. He had slept on the kitchen floor, left his own, like now, only Varna was alive then. Miss Leona, she’d be scared of the dark. Sometimes she would cry and cry until I’d take my light and walk all round the place, come back and tell her she’s safe, there ain’t no haints about. If they were, I’d tell her, I’d run them off! He chuckled.

Sally said, Seems like foolishness. That girl’s full of foolishness, you ask me.

Luther said nothing. In that house, Leona had had much to overcome. No wonder she’d tried to find love somewhere else.

She had been seven or eight years old when Luther gave her the little lamp William Pinson had given him. Luther thought the light would give the child some comfort, but it was about more than her fear of the dark. Luther had seen how the girl drifted about the place, tormented by her brother, neglected by her mother who took to her bed for days, even weeks at a time. When Herbert was around, Leona clung to him, but he wasn’t around much. He worked long days in the fields, and even in the winter, he was out tending to stock or repairing fences or turning over old soil or off working at the timber camp. He went to bed early and rose early too—the bone-tired life of a red dirt farmer. So Luther brought the lamp to work one summer morning, wrapped and cushioned in an old shirt. When Leona showed up at the barn, as she often did, he gave it to her, along with a tin of mineral spirits and some matches. He had not asked Rose or Herbert if it was all right. He doubted they would notice.

Your granddaddy give the lamp to me, he told her, when I was smaller than you. It’s called a spirit lamp. You can keep it by your bed like I used to do, or you can carry it with you in the dark, light the way so you won’t be afraid.

She picked it up, her eyes wide. It’s got spirits in it? Like ghosts?

No, ma’am. No ghosts. He tried to think how to explain it. He showed her the tin. These is mineral spirits. It’s what burns to make the light.

He taught her how to fill the lamp, trim the wick, and light it. It flickered and smoked at first, and then the flame steadied. Leona threw her arms around Luther and hugged him tight. She carried the lamp to the house on her tiptoes, like she carried something precious.

When Luther told Varna what he had done, she huffed and raised her eyebrows. Seem to me your own daughter ought to have that lamp, she said.

Alma don’t need it. Alma had gone off to Memphis by then.

The night that Luther and the other men had built a coffin for Herbert and carried it into the house, Leona had sat alone on the porch with her lamp beside her, a frail light in all that darkness.

A wail drifted from the back of the house.

Lord help us. Sally glanced over her shoulder. She wiped her face with her apron. There’s chores to be done, Luther. Raymond took off a week ago. God knows when he’ll be back. The cow needs milking. We need firewood. And kill me a chicken while you’re at it.

Who was that freak white woman to give him orders? But whatever he needed to do to stay close to Leona, he would do. He took the bags out of his pockets. I got herbs. Sassafras, strawberry leaves, shepherd’s purse. He chose a pouch. You might brew some tea with this one. Tell her I say drink it. It’ll help her along.

Sally stared at the pouch in Luther’s hand. We don’t need none of your magic, she said. She left him standing there.

Luther put the bags back in his pockets. He wanted to brew that tea himself. He wanted to see Leona. It could get him killed if anybody suspected what he imagined, what he longed for: cradling that girl in his arms like she was his own, telling her she