In the Georgia Pines

Off Route 76, near the border of Georgia and Tennessee, tucked in the Appalachian trail is a tiny town of four hundred and thirty one residents. Cross Creek, Georgia is hard to find on any map. Those who live there have existed in the same homes for generations. The ill-paved streets and dirt roads with tire tracks from old pickup trucks lead you to where you have to go. Small houses with cracked sidings and wooden porches with broken steps give the Cross Creek residents their solitude. Dirty white picket fences line yards. Tall grass. Dogs barking. Folks watch from their stoop, cigarettes hanging from their lips. Clothing lines hang in their yards, garments swaying in the gentle, summer winds. The humid air sticks worn clothes to skin. The sounds of folk music playing from table-top radios. Banjos. Ballads. Tia Blake’s voice lilts “Plastic Jesus.” Crucifixes hang next to door frames, marking the inhabitants as saved. 

The chapel that governs the lives of the locals stands tall and proud against the trees surrounding the town. Signs outside read “He sees all.” “Hell is Real.” A mighty cross, the symbol of the savior, looms like God Himself. The wood has rundown from years of cosmetic neglect leading to cracks in the structure. But, the sanctuary is alive every Sunday with “Amens!” Southern Baptists are what they call themselves. Preacher Swelter leads his congregation's souls to salvation with his sermons. His strong, strict voice goes beyond the walls of the church. He plays judge, jury, and executioner in the lives of his assembly. Preacher Swelter liked the power his flock’s attention gave him. 

An auburn haired girl, eighteen years of age, sits in the first row of the chapel. She listens intently to what the pastor preaches. She nods her head at the right moments. She calls out “Amen!” when it’s warranted. But Lydia’s mind is just a few rows behind her. Priscilla Abernathy. The unlucky object of Lydia Swelters father’s “affections.” Priscilla was a year older than Lydia, having graduated from the local high school in 1998. The younger girl despised her father for having his eyes on Priscilla. Lydia knew better than anyone the lies of the charismatic man. She often laughed to herself about the idea of a crooked preacher. What a hypocrite! How dare he damn others to hell, while he is far from sacred? Lydia presses her nails into the tops of her thighs through her Sunday dress. She knows that little crescents will be imprinted on the skin beneath the fabric. Permanent indents rest in her palms from the intrusion of the sharp stakes. Anything to get her thoughts off the other girl. Her soul feels dirty for the yearning she holds towards the older girl. How could she not? It’s a sin. Daddy says so, and he is always right. At least that is what she had been taught all her life- not that she believes it much anymore.

Lydia trails her hand along the white picket fences, feeling the splinter of wood entering her fingertips. The tall grass tickles her legs. Her Sunday dress does little to conceal her lower limbs from the elements, while keeping her upper body overheating. The light yellow lace is mended together to create a modest garment which now lines the girl's body. Her mary janes hit the dirt with each step she takes towards her destination. She sings softly to herself, almost humming. “You can run on for a long time. Run on for a long time. Run on for a long time. Sooner or later God'll cut you down. Sooner or later God'll cut you down.” She had heard her daddy playing the song on his old radio as a child, and it never left her head. She knew why her father liked it. He liked to judge. Judge the townspeople. Judge Lydia. He never judged himself though. She supposed others were supposed to do that for him. Yet they would never do so; they adored the man too much. So why did she judge herself so harshly? Lydia Swelter had enough of the shit her father spewed. 

The pat of Lydia’s shoes mark her appearance at the Walter household. Meredith Walter’s eighth grade year had been a disaster. Her parents enlisted Lydia to help their daughter’s freshman year at the high school fair better. Lydia knew if the Walter parents were aware of her affections for Priscilla, she would not be welcome in the home. That’s how things worked in Cross Creek. If you were different, you were not welcome. Not in the stores. Not in the schools. Definitely not in the church- though everyone pretended the last one was not true. 

The plastic table in the Walter's living room was covered with textbooks and notes. Lydia always excelled in her studies, perhaps that is why the Walters sought her out after services one Sunday in the beginning of the summer. Maybe they just wanted to get in the good graces of the girl’s father. Nonetheless, Lydia tutored the girl every Sunday. She did not want the girl feeling disgusted with herself like she did. The thirteen year old was bright, but had trouble applying herself. The older girl taught her with compassion, like a sister would. She felt the need to protect little Meredith Walter from her father’s words. She felt the need to protect all the girls of the town from the hypocrite. She decided at that moment, sitting in the wood paneled kitchen that she would. The deer head on the wall seemed to observe her, as she observed it. A small smile graced her previously sullen face. She would make her father face his own penance.

The Swelter house was nothing special. A small one story, cookie cutter that held little charm in Lydia’s opinion. The crucifixes on the walls. The radio constantly playing some hymnal station from Tennessee. It always felt too much like her daddy, something she longed to get away from. Her room was her safe haven. The simple box television a family on the main road was selling sat on her chester drawers. Her jewelry box, that she swiftly placed her dainty cross necklace in. The twin bed with light pink sheets. A quilt from her mama. It felt like Lydia Swelter. As she lies on her bed staring at the ceiling, she can hear her father cooking, something he rarely did. He was going to have his “little lamb” over. She felt disgust rise in her gut. She wanted to puke. Priscilla, her Priscilla, was falling into the hands of that bastard. She knew it was not the older girl's fault. She knew the power men can have over young women, and it made her sick. She wanted to take that power away from them, and give it back to those they hurt. 

Her daddy had begun setting her up with Abel Lythe, a man a few years older than her. He was an officer in the local department, and Lydia felt nothing for him. He was nice, sure, but she had practically been promised to him. The young man had even given her a promise ring not too far back. She wore it only for appearances. Anything to keep suspicions off of her. She liked to pretend Priscilla had given her the ring, and that the ring Priscilla wore on her finger matched the small band on her left hand. 

For weeks, Lydia watched as Priscilla had come and gone from the Swelter residence. Nearly everyone is Cross Creek was talking about a potential engagement between the preacher and the girl. She wanted to warn the Abernathy girl to run as fast as she could. Her father only liked the power he held over her. Lydia loved her heart and soul. She mused that her father was not even capable of feeling such things. He preached “tough love” but he was just tough in his own household. And when her father finally proposed to Priscilla, Lydia began forming a plan. She would get back at him. She would fuck up his plan for her. God’s plan for her. She wanted to play God for once, and let him feel her wrath. 

Contacting Abel on the landline was easy enough. He always picked up, unless he was working. Even then, his mama would take a message for him. As Lydia listened to the dial tone ringing for what seemed like hours, she said a little prayer that it was him picking up the phone. Seconds later the voice of the young man sounded in her ears. She explained that she wanted to show him something on Monday night- two days from then. She said she knew of a place in the trees that allowed for peaceful worship. Smitten as he was with the girl, he readily agreed. Anything to spend some time with her, right? The man’s naivety, given the isolation of the town, was anything but a hindrance. She explained this place was just for the two of them; well that it was her place, really. So, he agreed not to tell anyone. He was a grown man who could make his own decisions, and he reveled in that. 

Two sets of shoes hit the dirt trail as they traveled into the woods. Abel Lythe followed Lydia as she led him to a clearing near the river. She sang softly as they ambled among the trees. “The prettiest girl that I ever did see lived down in the Georgia Pines. And the only girl that I ever did love, I knew she’d never be mine…From the mine in the pines, where the sun never shines.” Her scratchy voice lilted among the pleasant winds, rising and falling with each breath she took. A hand with crooked nails reached out to touch the branches and weeds along the trail; the girl it belonged to faintly smiling. 

The clearing in the greenery was surrounded by the faint sound of the rushing river. Lydia picked up a fallen branch, swiftly sticking it into the dirt. With the ribbon from her hair, she tied another branch vertically across it. A handmade cross now stood proud. Her knees hit the ground, and her white dress was stained with the mud of the Earth. She pulled a rosary from her pocket, an item she was never allowed to own. Why worship a woman? This one was made in secret. She wrapped the chain around the top of the cross, where it rested like a necklace. Green, concerned eyes observed her. The man that she had almost forgotten was here, standing awkwardly behind her. He was unsure about this display, about the girl’s intentions. Her head swiveled around to look up at him. Her dirt covered hand reached out, looking for his. A larger hand met the smudged one, and he kneeled next to the girl. Lydia quickly dropped Abel’s hand, not wanting to hold it any longer than necessary. She wiped the sweat off of her brow as she looked up at the moon. A streak of brown coated her forehead. Placing her hand back into her pocket, she pulled out her desired item. A small pistol from her daddy’s safe. She spoke tenderly to the man, “Pray.” 

As she stood behind the man with his head bowed, she felt hesitancy. She’d probably be found out. The trembling finger on the trigger of the small gun applied just enough pressure. A deafening “Bang!” sounded. Lydia almost lost her footing, the recoil pushing her back. Birds flew from the trees with terrified cries. Deer ran from the scene in fright. She pulled the trigger again, and again. The man now lay on the ground in front of the makeshift cross. His eyes pleaded with her, begging for an answer. She pictured her daddy’s face looking up at her, vulnerable and scared. This man before her was all but an extension of the preacher, a tool used to control his sinful child. Her lips quirked up.

She knelt next to the bleeding man, resting a hand on his wounds. Her face was splattered with crimson, and her dress was not in better shape. Her hands were now drenched in the same sticky, warm substance. In an act of grace, she took her thumb and drew a cross upon the dying man’s forehead. Her own way of guaranteeing him salvation. As Abel took his last breath, she tenderly closed his eyelids. The act was done. She had defied her father, and she had never felt happier. Her little act of rebellion was a part of history now, an undeniable fact.

The river’s water was cool as she washed herself clean from the deed she had committed. Her soul was cleansed. She felt as if she was doing the man a favor. She saved him from a marriage with a girl who would never love him. The cathartic act of cleansing herself came to an end as she lay eyes on the body. What was she to do with it? The river let out into a lake far away from the town. So, with great hassle, she placed Abel Lythe in the healing waters, where all his sins would be washed away. He was now with God in heaven- thanks to her.

Posters began popping up around the town on lampposts. Pictures of Abel Lythe with “Have you seen me?” were displayed in windows. She paid them no mind. She received constant condolences from people. Flowers. Pies. Whatever they wanted to give her to make themselves feel better. No one had heard the shots ringing through the woods that night. If someone did, hunting was not uncommon in the area. She was safe for now. Lord knows she would not be in this town much longer. Her father was pissed upon learning about the disappearance of the young man. He covered it with grief. His sermon that week was of realizing that God can take you at any moment. Straying from God, as he suggested Abel did, led to nothing but pain. But for Lydia, it led to her own personal salvation.

It was the Wednesday after she had committed the “crime.” As she knelt next to her bed, like she knelt in front of the cross that night, she prayed for her soul. She prayed God would take her act of defiance as an offering. The faded pink wallpaper judged her. She could feel the eyes peering out from it, like she could feel the eyes of the deer in the woods. She knew better than anyone the ways of her God. She had security in herself, and what she had done.