“Sorry, Brother,” he said. “Guess our pa never did a good job teaching us to share.”
That’s when I noticed the gun in Laurent’s hand, aimed straight at Hiram’s chest.
“You’re not going to kill me,” Hiram said. “You’re not a killer. Not even before you became this holy man.”
Laurent held the gun steady, but took his eyes off his brother long enough to look at me. “You all right?”
I nodded. I was alive, anyway. I pulled my skirts back down around my legs and sat up, knees tight to my chest, wrapping my own arms around me.
“Then get on back to the house.”
I didn’t want to leave him, but I stood up slowly, fighting against the protest of my body, and began to back away.
“Give me the gun, little brother.” Hiram took a step closer to Laurent.
“Belinda! You get on back to the house.” Laurent never took his eyes off Hiram.
I backed away a few more steps, afraid to turn my back.
“Unless you’re willing to shoot me now, in cold blood, give me that gun,” Hiram said.
He took the final step that brought him within an arm’s length of Laurent, the barrel of the gun just inches from his chest. In a gesture so quiet, so peaceful, there was a crossing of sleeves, and Laurent’s hand was hanging empty at his side.
“Now then,” Hiram said, “this feels a lot more natural, doesn’t it.”
Laurent turned to me, his eyes filled with a pain I knew had nothing to do with the blood on his face.
“I’m sorry.” His voice broke into a sob, and he stood there, so much smaller than his brother, his shoulders slumped and heaving as he cried. “I wasn’t there. I couldn’t get—”
For the first time, I looked at Laurent with a heart full of love, and I ran to him and threw myself into his arms.
“It’s all right,” I said, my own tears hot against my skin. I pressed my swollen face into his shirt and felt his arms hold me tightly to him. “I love you.”
“See? Now this is nice,” Hiram said, and I felt his filthy hand touch the top of my head. “I don’t see any reason the three of us can’t just play nice—”
I was on the ground again, this time thrown there by Laurent, who pushed me out of the way before lunging at his brother. The two of them struggled for footing. They became one body, a thrashing of arms and legs, heads butted together, then thrown back. They might have stayed that way forever, neither willing to disengage.
Until the gun fired.
The sound was muffled but unmistakable. Both men stepped away from each other, each with a look of shock and surprise. Then Laurent looked down and put his hand to his gut. When he brought it back again, it was covered in blood. He studied it, then he looked at me.
“I’m sorry,” he said again.
Hiram dropped the gun in the snow and looked at his own hand. “I didn’t mean to do that, Brother.” He grabbed the lapels of Laurent’s coat. “Do you believe me?”
“I believe you.” Laurent’s voice was little more than air. “I believe you.” He took a step back, tears showing in his eyes.
Hiram was crying too, and he clutched at Laurent’s coat as if clinging to the life waning within. Step after step they took in tandem, Laurent backing farther and farther away from me. I caught my breath when I realized they were steps away from the crevasse.
“Look out!” I screamed.
Hiram’s face was buried in his brother’s coat. He was begging now, begging Laurent to forgive him. Laurent stopped and lifted his brother’s face to look him square in the eye.
“I forgive you, Brother,” he said, before looking straight at me and smiling. He brought his hands up, clutched Hiram’s coat, and took the final step back.
Then they were gone.
I heard nothing except my own screams. I fell to my knees and crawled to the point where their tracks ended, but I couldn’t bring myself to look over the edge. My first instinct was to fall down there with them. Faced with being left here, utterly alone, it seemed the most comforting thing to do. But then there, on my knees, I realized I wasn’t alone.
Father God, take me away from here. I don’t have the strength, and I don’t know where to go. But You do, Father. Somewhere deep in my soul I remembered the prayer of the virgin. Look at me! Regard me in this low place. Raise me up, O God, and take me wherever You will. For You are mighty, O Lord.
I don’t know how long I stayed there on my knees in the snow. But at some point I got up and started to walk. Giving no thought to my direction—no thought to anything, really, except the continued pace of one step after another—I walked right past our little cabin and headed down the mountain.
I walked and it was daylight. I walked and it was dark. The idea of stopping brought with it the fear of never getting up again, so I continued on. Past the point where I could feel my feet. Past the point where I was moving under my own power.
I walked and it was daylight again. I walked and it was dark again.
There was nothing but silence both in and all around me, and soon I realized even the sound of my boots crunching in the snow had ceased. As if snapped like a thread, I fell, and the thought of immobility brought me great peace. I closed my eyes, perfecting the darkness, and felt the cold envelop me like a finely stitched quilt. Each beat of my heart sounded like the step of a loved one walking away, and my body went limp with relief.
Off in the distance I could hear a voice calling, and I smiled. I knew then, without a doubt, that when I opened my eyes again, I would be Home.
That, when our life of faith is done,
In realms of clearer light
We may behold Thee as Thou art,
With full and endless sight.
22
Softness billowed all around me, and my body felt a sensation so foreign I could hardly give it a name. Warmth. I kept my eyes closed long after I knew myself to be awake, certain I had died and that the constant rustle around me was the friction of angels’ wings. It seemed the heavenly host spoke in the guise of the whispering women constantly at my side, sometimes alone, sometimes gathered together. But then, as much as I delighted in this welcome rest, I became aware of a sharp, stinging pain in my hands and feet, and I realized I was still in a world full of suffering. I waited until the surrounding silence assured me that I was alone before opening my eyes.
The room was dark, with heavy curtains drawn against the sunlight. My head was nestled so deep into a soft feather pillow that I had to raise it to look around the room. Against the far wall stood a tall bureau with three dresses hanging on hooks beside it. A pitcher and bowl sat on a washstand, and a pair of glass-domed sconces with snuffed-out candle stubs flanked the mirror above it. The door was open slightly, and I could see a dim hallway. Somewhere—it sounded as if coming from below—I heard the voices that had haunted the last of my dreams. Conversation. Laughter.
One voice seemed to break away from the others, followed by the sound of feet climbing a set of stairs. As the steps came closer and closer, part of me wanted to close my eyes and hide away just a little longer. I let my head fall back on the pillow and waited.
She was, without a doubt, the fattest woman I had ever seen.
“Well, just look who decided to come to the party.”
If it weren’t for the red-stained lips mouthing the words and the bosom threatening to spill over the top of her dress, I might have thought that old Whip had come back to life in the body of this enormous woman. Her voice had the same ragged depth as his.
“Hey, Sadie!” she called over her shoulder. “Get on up here and tend to this little squirrel you dragged in!”
Within seconds I heard another set of footsteps on the stairs, and I faced what was possibly the tallest woman I’d ever seen. She whispered something in a language I didn’t understand and crossed to the bed, settling beside me and stroking my hair.
“Thank God you are all right, my little one,” she said.
Her clipped syllables
pierced something deep within me. Not memories exactly, but the undeniable sense that this woman had carried me. Had lain down beside me. Had taken the wet clothes from my body. Before, she’d whispered to me in a different language—German, I guessed, having heard our butcher back home speak it to his family. Even though I couldn’t understand any of her words, I sensed from her that we shared something deeper than any conversation could touch.
This is Sadie. And she knows.
Yet another set of footsteps, and a third woman was in the room. She had a sweet round face surrounded by unruly tufts of brown curls, and a smile that looked like a pretty pink bow. As soon as she walked in, she let forth a delighted little squeal.
“You’re awake! You’re awake!” she said, accompanied by the softest clapping of her little hands. “Are you hungry? Are you thirsty? Can I get you some tea? Or porridge?”
My tiny knot of a stomach tightened, jumping to life at the mention of food. I attempted to open my mouth and tell this woman, “Yes, please, food,” but my lips were dry and sealed, threatening to split and bleed at the slightest parting. Behind them, my tongue and throat felt swollen. I tried to raise my hand to signal my need in spite of the stinging pain—rivaled only by that in my feet—but no effort would bring it more than an inch off the mattress. So I searched the face of the cheerful woman and was immediately rewarded when she clapped again and hustled out of the room.
From that moment I learned that my reluctance to speak would have no impact on whether my needs would be met. Every time I opened my eyes, one of the three was at my bedside with a tray. Most often it was the sweet, plump woman named Mae who spooned broth and porridge into my mouth. The day I parted my teeth to take a nibble of toast, she praised me to the rafters. I almost smiled. And when she brought me a bowl of steaming beans, cooked in a thick broth seasoned with onion and black pepper, I actually did.
For nearly a week I remained confined to the bed, dozing throughout the day and night, silently reveling in the warmth of the room. The pain in my hands and feet was excruciating, especially as the skin blistered and cracked, but the one called Sadie checked them every day, holding them gently aloft, bringing them close to her face as if to smell some sign of danger.
I learned by listening that the large woman was named Jewell, and she was the uncontested leader in the household. She was not a mother, nor were Sadie and Mae sisters, and the nature of their relationship and how they came to live here together remained a mystery for a time. All that mattered to me was that they seemed willing to take me in, unquestioningly.
Compared to the other women, Jewell seemed the least concerned with tracking my progress. She visited often enough—several times a day, in fact. She would sit on a chair by the window, and when she asked questions, she seemed more than happy to be refused an answer.
“Girl,” she’d say, “what in devil’s name happened to you?” Then, without even the pretense of wanting a reply, “Aw. It don’t matter. There’s not too many of us out here that haven’t been through it. So don’t you go lettin’ yourself feel no shame. I can see you’re a good girl. I can always tell a real good girl.”
Her voice sounded like the way my throat felt when I had a sip of Laurent’s whiskey. She spoke low, as if afraid that Sadie or Mae might intrude on our one-sided conversations. I figured she must have thought I was a true mute, somebody safe with her secrets, because when one of the other women did come into the room, Jewell was immediately loud and brusque, peppering her speech with mild profanity and bawdy jokes in contrast to the soft, dreamy tone she had when we were alone.
“I used to have me a little house,” she told me, “and a boy who was just about your age when I left.” Only when she mentioned her son did Jewell give any hint of her pain. Judging by her reaction when Sadie and Mae entered the room, I’d be surprised if either of these women knew he existed.
Once my feet and hands had healed, I was allowed to take a bath. Sadie hauled a small tub up to my room, and she and Mae took turns bringing water to fill it. They tsked at the sight of my body, and I crossed my arms in front of me.
Jewell came in to add a few drops of scented oil to the water, making it feel like silk as I slipped in. Then Mae poured a bucket of warm water over my head and lathered my hair with a soap that smelled of mint and honey. I didn’t think I’d ever want to get out, but soon enough the water began to turn cold, and Sadie held out a new, clean gown. Mae had tailored it, sewing a new hem so I could walk without tripping, and fashioned the excess fabric into a ruffled nightcap to keep my head warm during these final weeks of frigid nights.
My bath complete, Sadie and Jewell each took a handle of the tub and struggled to carry it, sloshing, out of the room while Mae brushed my hair. The feel of the bristles against my scalp frightened me at first. I remembered combing my fingers through Phoebe’s pale strands, such a silent, futile task in comparison to the rhythmic stroking I heard now, occasionally interrupted by the sound of bristles in battle with snarls that had been left, untouched, since before Christmas.
“Oh, I’m sorry, little one. Did I hurt you?” Mae said, mistaking the pain behind my tears. I shook my head.
She plaited my hair into two braids that she draped over my shoulders, and placed the new cap on top.
“Would you like to see, honey?” Without waiting for an answer, Mae sprang over to the bureau, picked up a mirror, and brought it back to the bed. “See how pretty you are?”
I didn’t lift a hand to hold the mirror myself, so there was a sense of disembodiment as my reflection floated in front of me. Much as that night when I’d stared into a shard of glass as I descended our cellar steps, I felt myself searching for my soul. I remember wondering if what all my cousins had experienced was real, and now for just a moment I wondered if the girl in this mirror had really lived through everything she thought she had.
“You’ve just plumped up so much.” Mae pinched my cheek with her free hand. “Why, when you first got here you were nothing but skin and bones. People say that all the time, but in your case it’s the gospel truth.”
I worked up a weak smile, because doing so always pleased Mae.
“Oh, look at you.” She gave my cheek one more pinch before taking the mirror back to the bureau. “I think you’re well enough for a cookie. Does that sound good? I have just enough sugar left for one batch.”
I smiled a little broader and nodded. A cookie. Just like I would have had at home on any Saturday night.
As soon as she left the room, I wept.
My first foray out of the room took me into a hall where the rough wood grated against my sensitive feet. I walked with one hand gliding along the wall, terrified to trust my legs after such long disuse. When I came to the threshold of the stairs, I stopped and turned around, saving that journey for another day.
In the end it was Sadie who coaxed me down the steps one morning—holding my arm as I descended—and into the first floor parlor. I don’t know why I was so surprised at the luxurious furnishings; somehow I thought I’d never see brocade sofas or paintings or carpets again. But there they were—nothing like our home back in Belleville, but more plush than anything I expected.
“Now,” Sadie said, “you can come downstairs any time you like. Sometimes, in the evening, there might be some men down here, but do not let them frighten you. They are actually quite kind, but you do not need to stay near them if you are uncomfortable.”
She continued to lead me through the house, allowing me to poke my head into the kitchen, where Mae stood at the stove frying cornmeal cakes that she would later serve drizzled with syrup. Chester would have loved those. Sadie helped me back up the stairs, pointing to each door, telling me whose room was whose, and when I started to enter the room where I’d been staying, she gently took my elbow and led me down one more door.
“Of course you may stay in my room as long as you like, but we have been working on this room for you.”
Like the other upstairs rooms, the walls were whi
tewashed, but this room had a light airiness that Sadie’s lacked. White muslin curtains hung at the window where the sun appeared as a mere slit slicing through the corner of the room. The bed in here was smaller than the one I’d grown accustomed to—as though it had been crafted just for me—and was covered with a quilt sporting a sage green ruffle. A little scrap-braid rug shared the colors of the quilt and would give me a soft place to stand when I used the pretty white pitcher and bowl to wash up in the mornings. There was no dresser, but there was a little trunk at the foot of the bed, and my dress, newly washed and mended, was hanging on a hook next to the washstand. A candle stood upright in a delicate saucer on a three-legged table covered with a white lace doily. A chair by the window would allow me a lovely view.
“Do you think it is pretty?” Sadie asked.
I nodded.
“I had a room very much like it when I was just about your age.”
When she told me this, her face took on an expression like Jewell’s had when she spoke of her son, making me wonder how many ghosts haunted this place and if there was room for a few more.
“Well then,” she said, “you should wash your face, put on your dress, and join the rest of us downstairs for breakfast. How does that sound?”
I nodded again, then wrapped my arms around Sadie’s waist and laid my head against her spare bosom. She went rigid, and though she was right within my arms, I felt she was miles—and years—away. I held her tighter, waiting for her to soften against me, but she didn’t. After a while she gave me an awkward little pat on the top of my head and disengaged herself, telling me that breakfast would be on the table any minute.
The women had grown to accept my silence, and somehow my lack of speech added to the sense of peace I felt in this new home. Perhaps this is why the Bible urges us to be slow to speak. Before, I was constantly engaged in some verbal sparring—with my parents, my brother, with Phoebe, even Laurent when I had the strength. But here, there was no cause to argue. They anticipated my needs, and I accepted what they gave me. I smiled when they laughed and listened when they spoke. For all they knew I’d never uttered a word in my life, and if any of them ever heard the cries and mutterings that I sometimes woke myself with in the middle of the night, they never mentioned it. I felt blessed to have found shelter with souls as wounded as mine. I didn’t have to spell out my pain; they knew it all too well. And I could talk to God without opening my mouth.
With Endless Sight Page 20
