Free Not Without My Father: One Woman's 444-Mile Walk of the Natchez Trace by Andra Watkins Page A

Looks like a dump to me.”
    I pulled in front and dropped him. “Oh, come on, Dad. You’ve lived in the South all your life. You ought to know better than anyone that dumps are the best places.”
    He grunted his way outside. “I’ll check it out, Andra, but I ain’t expecting much.”
    “Don’t eat everything before I get in there!” I shouted into the crashing door.
    Stardust highlighted an arm of the Milky Way as I climbed squeaky steps. Country music seeped through swinging front doors. When I opened one, I laughed at the tarnished brass I shoot ammunition. Do you? push plate. Shelves sagged around the periphery of a deep room, while plastic tables lined the middle.
    Dad took up residence adjacent to a couple sipping red wine. “She put us right here. This ’un.”
    Before I assumed a seated position, I stared at Dad’s broad back. “Hi. I’m Roy Watkins. From South Carolina,” he crowed to the married couple who were probably enjoying a romantic date night, but Roy needed to meet strangers and share stories. I was determined to preempt him. “Dad! What are you having to eat?”
    Dad’s hands hovered over their food. “This is my daughter. Andra. She’s walking the whole Natchez Trace, because she wrote this book. I got a card here, see? Book about Meriwether Lewis.”
    “Walking the Trace?” The woman smiled at me. “Nobody does that.”
    “Well, she is,” Dad announced before I could respond. “She’s walked all the way from Natchez. Got through Jackson today.”
    The lady dabbed her lips with a paper napkin. “All to launch a book? I hope the book’s good enough to warrant the abuse.”
    “Don’t know. Hadn’t read it. Did I tell you it’s about Meriwether Lewis?”
    “Dad—”
    “We got some paperbacks in the car.”
    “Dad—”
    “If you buy one, she can sign it for you.”
    I yanked his sleeve and wedged myself between them, almost upending their wine. “I’m so sorry.” I grabbed the bottle’s neck before it crashed. “Dad gets carried away sometimes. Old age.”
    “I ain’t too old to sell books. Used to spend my summers selling Bibles in—”
    “Dad, the server’s ready to take our order.” I crumpled in my chair.
    The woman moved closer and adjusted the angle of her chair. An unobstructed view of the Roy Show. I expected her to settle in for the next act, but instead she hoisted her purse into her lap and rummaged through it.
    Maybe she was looking for a concealed weapon to shoot the vociferous old man who was ruining her date.
    She pulled out a stuffed leather wallet. “I’d like to buy one of your books.”
    “You would?” Dad and I barked in unison.
    “Of course.” She unsnapped the clasp and fingered through bills. “If you were from around these parts, you’d know that John Grisham story.”
    Her husband chimed in. “Oh yeah. The one about the barn.”
    Dad punched my arm. “Go get her a book, Andra. And sign it.”
    “Wait a minute. I want to hear this story.” I pulled my chair closer to her table.
    “Well, when John Grisham wrote his first book—”
    “Who’s this John Grisham character?”
    “Dad! He’s a writer. Will you let her talk?” I thrust a plastic glass of unsweetened tea into his hands and hoped it would keep him occupied. “You’re talking about A Time to Kill. ”
    “ A Time to Kill , yes.”
    “Ain’t ever no time to kill.”
    “Dad!!!”
    “All right. I’ll be quiet.”
    I turned back to the woman. “Please. Go on.”
    “The book only came out in paperback, ’cause it was practically self-published. John bought a bunch and stored them in a friend’s barn, where they sat. And sat. And sat. Until the roof leaked.”
    “Destroyed most of them,” her husband interjected.
    “Happened right before the movie The Firm came out. His books became real popular after that.” She winked at me. “So I always buy paperbacks from undiscovered authors. Those Grisham paperbacks are worth tons. I’ve got several.”
    I