Emily: Army Mail Order Bride

by Mercy Levy

  “I got jumped on my way home from the movies on Sunday, by Duffy’s troll-friends. If Mike, my foster-dad, hadn’t found me and scared them off, I would’ve been in much worse shape today.” He said, shifting uncomfortably as Joy stared at him. He shrugged. “Mike owns a really small boxing gym across town.” Caleb continued. “He’s the one who’s been teaching me how to defend myself.” The young man chuckled. “When he found out that I put Duffy in the hospital for trying to force himself on that little girl, he bought me an Xbox to pass the time while I was suspended.”

  Joy repented of the awful things she’d assumed about Caleb’s foster parents. She sighed and rubbed her temples with her eyes closed. Would Billie call her and tell her if he was okay? Would anyone tell her if he wasn’t? She opened her eyes and Caleb was watching her intently.

  “I’m sorry, Caleb, I was thinking, I’m not trying to ignore you.” She apologized with a wan smile. “I have a friend in trouble. I’m just really glad you’re back at school. What class should you be in right now?” She asked him.

  “Lunch.” He replied. “Are you okay Miss Joy?” He queried, a worried look on his face.

  “I’m worried about my friend, but I’m okay.” She answered him. “You go get some lunch. I have to go, but I’ll you come see me tomorrow, okay?” Caleb nodded his assent, and Joy headed for the parking lot, dialing a cab as she strode quickly through the near empty halls.

  In less than thirty minutes, the cab was pulling up to her destination. Joy paid her fare and climbed out of the car shakily. Her nerves jangled and her heart was in her throat as she opened the door and slowly walked in to the harsh florescent lighting of the gym. She heard a familiar thud and a grunt of pain from the other side of the room, where she saw a group of men standing in a circle around the sparring mats. The men crowded each other like hungry vultures trying to get close to a carcass. The image in her head made Joy choke back a wail. Billie was in the middle of those men, she knew it and she was terrified of what she would see.

  She forced her way through the crush of men and stared as Billie lashed out with a foot sweep to knock one opponent down as the other came at him from behind. Appalled, she took a step forward, only to be yanked back by the arm. She turned and slapped the man holding her. It was Marcus, Billie’s trainer. She bit off what she wanted to scream at him and turned back to the fight as she heard the loud snap of breaking bone and a high pitched scream of pain.

  Billie stood in the center of the mats, looking down at the man writhing in pain at his feet. Across from him was his second assailant, glaring at him and circling around his wounded companion. The men watching the fight backed away to give the men room to move, and when they had circled far enough away, a couple of the medical staff stepped in to take the other man away, still cradling his arm while lying on the stretcher.

  Billie leaped at the heavily muscled man facing him. He jabbed hard and fast, grunting each time he connected with his broken hand. The other man ducked and weaved, desperately trying to stay ahead of the lightning fast punches being thrown. Joy watched the spectators and realized they weren’t just watching the fight. They were each waiting for their turn to join in. Distraught, she looked for some way to help Billie. Then, as he landed a solid left to his opponent’s solar plexus, someone moved up from behind him aiming a sucker punch toward the back of Billie’s head. Another spectator swiftly moved in, blocking the blow and sending the new attacker flying backward, then stepping back into his place at the edge of the circle.

  Billie fought like Joy had never seen before. Not limited by ringside judges, he switched up his fighting style and kicked out hard and fast, catching his opponent in the back of the knee and driving him to the mat. The man struggled to get up and managed a fist to Billie’s groin, causing Billie to gasp and double over. The other man took advantage and attacked hard, aiming for Billie’s face over and over. Billie struggled, barely blocking the blows to his face, and backed upright to the edge of the circle of men to escape the barrage. The men behind him held him steady, and he pushed off from their supporting hands for one final offensive.

  He pulled his arms in and tucked his elbows in tight, then struck out, fast and efficient, not wasting a single millimeter on unnecessary movement. He split the bigger man’s eye open when he connected with his right, the metal splint tearing the guy open, even as Billie stifled a howl of pain from his broken hand connecting with sold bone. His struck out repeatedly with his left, driving the man into the circle of bodies hemming them in, then kicked out with his foot in a judo sweep and knocked the man flat on his back.

  Wordlessly, the gathered men declared the fight over and surrounded each of the fighters, blocking them from one another. Joy pushed her way to Billie past the men and sank to her knees, throwing her arms around his neck as he sat on the floor, half-dazed.

  “Hey,” he finally croaked through his split and bleeding lips, “I told you not to come down here.” He tried to stroke her hair as she sobbed into his shoulder.

  “I couldn’t leave you here alone. I thought you might be killed.” She stammered through her tears. Billie let her hold him while he recovered some energy.

  “You know how fighting is.” He finally responded. “It’s like a gang. If you want to get out, or disobey orders, you gotta get jumped out, just like you were jumped in.” He looked down into her tear-filled eyes. “I came clean to the guys. Slade didn’t like it. He told them to beat me like a dog, and a couple of them tried.” She pulled away enough to see his face. His left eye was swollen shut and blood oozed down the side of his face, mingling with sweat and trailing down his neck to his chest. His bottom lip was split and bleeding, and his nose looked broken and bent at a bad angle. She sniffed back new tears as she looked at down at his right hand, the bandages that she’d painstakingly applied hours before were now dirty and blood-soaked.

  “What will you do now?” she asked, as the men around them went back to their own workouts, ignoring the injured fighter and young woman sitting on the floor. Billie tried to stand, and as Joy moved to assist him, a second set of hands slid under him and propped him up. Marcus slid Billie’s arm over his shoulder and nodded to Joy.

  “He can’t stay here now.” Marcus looked sad, but proud. “He’s going to need a place to hole-up for a while, and recover. Then we have to find him a new gym, if that right hand ain’t busted for good.” Joy bit her lip in concern.

  “He’s staying with me.” She declared, as Marcus stooped to grab Billie’s bag on the way past it. She watched the other fighters ignore them, as thought they were being shunned. “Why aren’t they helping him?” She asked Marcus.

  “They help him, they’re out too.” He replied. “Not everyone is brave enough to go against the establishment.” He muttered. “Damn near thought Billie was going to sell his soul to the devil.” He glanced at the woman supporting his protégé physically, (and he suspected emotionally as well).

  “He’s staying with me.” Joy said to no one in particular. She remembered the day she’d asked her father to watch out for him. It had always been Billie that she cared about, more concerned for his well-being than anyone else in her life. Marcus helped Joy get Billie into the cab and waved as they drove off. He took Billie’s duffle bag and put it in the trunk of his beat up Buick. He figured Billie could get it later, there was nothing in there he’d need while he recovered from the broken bones and bruises.

  Billie woke up with sunlight streaming in on his face. Disoriented, he looked around the sterile white décor of a hospital room. There, curled up in a chair not made to sit in comfortably, let alone sleep in, was Joy, wrapped in her sweater and resting. He looked at her face, lit softly by the sunlight filtered through the gauze curtains. It had always been her, he realized. Always been the idea of her that had driven him to protect, to be a hero for. He gingerly pushed himself up to a sitting position in the mechanical hospital bed. The squeaking made Joy start, and she blinked owlishly and looked at him, smiling.


  Billie could feel every injury, every bruise on his body, from broken ribs to the cuts on his face. As he looked at the woman of his dreams, who had once been the girl next door, he felt the weight of the world lift off him. Even lying in a hospital bed, bruised and broken, he felt like he was finally alive. In the weight of her gaze was all the promise he needed. He motioned for her to come closer and she slipped up onto the bed, curling up gently beside him. As her body gently warmed him, he held her close and knew. He was home.

  THE END

  Stephen’s Thanksgiving Bride

  1.

  Emmaline looked out of the carriage window as the driver called out to the horses and they whinnied to a stop. The big plantation house was as beautiful as she remembered, set against a backdrop of weeping cherry trees, large green lawns, and the small lake she’d paddled all over in a canoe as a child. The green was a startling contrast to the bare autumn trees she had left behind, and it was strange to think that in a few short days, a Thanksgiving festival would begin.

  It was a far cry from the cold grey and black blur of the funeral, where scores of people she did not know, and more she did not care for, shuffled by in a seemingly endless procession to offer their condolences for the loss of her mother. The only color to break up the sea of black, had been the red rose her father placed on the casket.

  Her father had been scant of conversation before he relinquished her to the custody of the train conductor for the long ride south. Emmaline desperately wanted to be happy about the change of scenery and the chance to finally get out from under the disappointed glare of her neglectful father. But, the loss of her mother, her best and most ardent champion and friend, made her heart ache and kept her awake at night. She couldn’t imagine ever getting to sleep properly ever again.

  Aunt Rebecca ran out from the front door and bolted down the steps, skidding to a stop as she reached Emmaline. She wrapped her arms around the thin girl and squeezed her tight. Emma knew that the autumn social season was important to her aunt, and had loved it when she was a little girl and she and her mother had visited. Now, though, the perpetual springtime of her aunt’s plantation gave little respite to the bleak November weather in New York.

  “So glad you made it safely, my girl.” Rebecca sighed gustily. “The Towers’ plantation had an escape, and none of us have been able to find hide nor hair of them two, so the roads are being shut down in segments for searches, and men keep going to the marsh land. They’re going to bring in a tracker to find them, he’ll be in town in a couple of days. It’s very upsetting so close to the Thanksgiving Festival”

  Emmaline hugged herself. Her mother had never been comfortable with people owning other people, and despite his reassurances that “those were not people”, she’d always refused to let her husband bring slaves home. She also missed Sukie, her maid and best friend, but her father had refused to let her come. Only now did she realize that he had not been trying to add to her punishment of exile, but to protect her friend as well. Sick to her stomach, the young girl pulled her shawl tight around her and followed her aunt up the blossom lined path to the plantation house.

  Rebecca had her sit on the veranda and a dark-skinned woman with gentle eyes brought her a mint julep to sip while she watched the men come in from the fields, headed toward the slave quarters. Emmaline remembered the grey wood buildings, hardly taller than a man, listing and bowed from years of neglect.

  It was a little village of sorrow and pain, and just thinking of it made Emmaline’s stomach turn to sludge. She hoped the couple that had escaped were too far away to ever be caught. She already hated the foul, loathsome excuse of a man who her uncle and his neighbors were bringing in. Aunt Rebecca sat next to her on the wide porch swing and sipped on a tall, cool glass of sweet tea. She pushed off with one foot and got the swing moving gently, as Emmaline’s feet dangled a little above the wooden plans of the veranda.

  “I’m glad you’re here, Emma.” The tiny woman reached over and patted Emmaline’s knee. “I know how much you miss your mother, and how hard it was for you to leave your home amid all the turmoil, but your father wants only the best for you.” Emmaline stared down at her drink and didn’t answer. “We are glad you are here, young lady, and I hope that we can help you through this trying time.” Emmaline’s aunt set her drink down on the small carved table next to the swing and stood to leave her niece alone for a little while, only to be nearly thrown off balance by the giant hug Emmaline gave her from behind, pressed against her hoopskirt and making them both unsteady on their feet.

  “Thank you, Aunt Becca.” Emmaline whispered through her tears. “I miss mama so much, and Father does not speak to me or even look at me. I have been so alone.” Rebecca turned and held the girl as she sobbed herself dry of tears, silently cursing her fool of a brother for the way he’d hurt his child.

  “Your father loved your mother very, very much. He does not know how to deal with the loss. We are not so old that we feel we should be thinking of death yet, Emma.” Rebecca stroked her hair and gently placed a kiss on her temple. “He will get better, and so will you. But, for now, would you like to rest upstairs? Isabella can help you undress and I will bring up some tea and fresh baked bread. Would you like that?” Emmaline nodded and rubbed her nose with her handkerchief. Her aunt thanked her lucky stars that at least her niece had been graced with a ladylike mother to teach her how to be appropriate. If it had been up to her brother, the poor girl would run around barefoot and wild, like the children of her slaves.

  Rebecca knew Emmaline thought they were savages, owning slaves the way that they did. If only she understood how much better life was for the people at their plantation, Shamballa, than it was for hundreds of other slaves all over the colonies. Emmaline didn’t know how the world worked, and Rebecca was concerned that she make her pretty niece the right connections before her Yankee ideals put her on the outside of the best social circles.

  Emmaline had heard her father talking to his steward. She knew she was sent here to be taught how to be marriageable to the right man, one who would only strengthen her family’s standing among those who questioned his choice to marry the blunt and outspoken heiress from the North. Since he couldn’t have the son he wanted, he wanted her to procure for him the connections that would finally erase his ignominious departure to the north from the memories of the social circles he wished to belong to once more.

  “Am I to be schooled here?” Emmaline queried her aunt. “I had to leave college to come down here, and I wished to continue my education, and mother would have wanted me to finish....” Rebecca sighed, a wispy sound of pleasure that startled Emmaline despite the softness of it.

  “Oh love, I have a surprise for you. It may not be the ladies’ college you attended, but I too wanted to ensure your education. I have a young professor of our boys’ school that will be tutoring you himself to prepare you for your examinations.” Rebecca paused before continuing in a careful voice. “You needn’t tell your father of this or report to him of your progress. This is simply my gift to you.”

  Emmaline felt the sting of tears again. Oh, how long would it be before she finally cried her eyes dry once and for all? She sniffled and delicately blew her nose into the plain linen in her hand. Rebecca noted with increasing satisfaction that the young woman was much more ready to be presented to high society than she feared. Offering silent thanks to the sister-in-law who had been a great, though imposing, lady herself, Rebecca herded her niece up to her new apartment to be bathed and dressed by the new house-girl, Isabella.

  2.

  Upstairs, Emmaline watched the lovely girl quietly and efficiently moving about the room, laying out fresh underthings and a housedress for her to lounge in bed in. She absently swatted at the thick layer of bubbles that floated atop the cooling bath water. Isabella turned at the splash and stiffened at the cross look on her new mistress’s face.

  “Miss? Are you all right, now?” She murmured, dropping her eyes and bowing at the hip.
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br />   “I was fine until you started that. Straighten up for God’s sake.” Emmaline cursed, angry with her own bad humor, and her aunt and the entire south for the fact that this girl was afraid of her.“I’m not happy that you are here. Do you want to be here?” She asked the question bluntly. “Oh for the love of all… Look at me. I’m certain you’ve seen more than bubbles and a set of shoulders before.” Isabella met her eyes with a startled face.

  “Miss. I ain’t supposed to look at your naked body, miss…” Her voice trailed off.

  “Well, I certainly don’t believe that it’s anyone’s business what you look at. You don’t belong to me. I am not going to treat you like you do. I can’t help that you belong to someone, but that someone will never be me. Have I spoken plainly enough for you?” Isabella nodded, her eyes wide so that Emmaline saw the fear written plainly in them.

  Frustrated, she stood and climbed awkwardly out of the large copper tub, banging her knee hard as she missed the plaited rug and hit the edge. Isabella rushed to her side with a thick cotton sheet to wrap herself in. She strode over to the clothes that were laid out in a neat stack.

  “Miss, please let me. Miss, please, please.” Isabella begged, sobbing. “Please God don’t make them send me back to Mister Towers.” The woman sank into a trembling pile at Emmaline’s feet, as she shrank back in shock and embarrassment.

  “Oh love. You don’t have to go anywhere you don’t want to, okay?” Isabella nodded and Emmaline clutched her dark, rough skinned hands in her own pale smooth ones. The sensation of the work and strength in those efficient, gentle hands made Emmaline ashamed of her softness, her selfishness. “Isabella, I want us to be friends, like we would’ve been back home. You work for my uncle, and I don’t know how to make things better for you, but I will, I promise.”

  “If we’re friends, then I can tell you anything?” Isabella asked, and Emmaline nodded vigorously. “The women you called ‘friends’ back home, weren’t your friends. They were little more than slaves themselves, and wouldn’t tell you the truth if it might get them beaten for it.” Isabella clenched her jaw and Emmaline stepped back from her.