by Deeanne Gist
At first it had been marvelous. Yet as things had progressed, she’d found some of the intimacies not to her liking. And some downright painful. But she’d not wanted to disappoint Adam. So she’d allowed him free rein. But in truth, she’d felt more like a martyr than a partner.
Perhaps that’s why the marriage act was referred to as a duty. She sighed. What a shame, for it had started out so wonderfully.
She touched her flat stomach through her nightdress. Could it be . . . might she really be with child? Would the intimacy they’d shared result in the miracle of a baby? Part her? Part him?
She wondered what their child would look like. She pictured the three of them going to church together.
Drifting off to sleep, she realized she’d never asked Adam what denomination he was. She’d need to do that first thing.
————
Essie could not believe she’d slept so late. Trying to decide what to wear the day the town would find out about her betrothal—while simultaneously knowing it was also the day after her parents had caught her with her lover—was extremely difficult.
She wanted to choose something light and carefree and flattering. But she didn’t dare. So she chose a taupe cashmere house gown perfectly suitable for home wear, yet also very becoming. It had a small, snug-fitting yoke of black velvet at the waist and a modest high collar of the same velvet. The sleeves were tight-fitting with pointed cuffs at the wrist.
All was quiet except for subdued voices coming from the partially open door of Papa’s study. Taking a deep breath, she walked past it without looking in, making a beeline for the kitchen.
‘‘Essie?’’ Papa called.
She stopped, turned around, and pushed open his door. Mother and the sheriff sat opposite Papa’s large desk. Mother’s eyes were red and when she looked at Essie, a fountain of tears tumbled from her eyes. Pressing a hanky to them, she jumped up and hurried from the room.
Uncle Melvin slowly stood. ‘‘Mornin’.’’
A spurt of anger she didn’t even realize she’d been harboring for him jumped to the surface. She did not answer his greeting.
He glanced at Papa. ‘‘I’ll see you later,’’ he said, then hesitated in front of her. ‘‘Essie, I . . .’’
She lifted her chin but focused her eyes on some distant spot over his shoulder.
‘‘I had to do what I did,’’ he said. ‘‘Surely you see that.’’
What she saw, though, was the image of her beloved uncle breaking Adam’s nose. ‘‘Shall I walk you to the door?’’ she asked, her tone perfectly modulated.
Sighing, he placed his hat on his head. ‘‘No, thank you. I’ll see myself out.’’
She stepped out of his way, then met her father’s gaze.
He looked as if he’d aged ten years in one night. She noted for the first time that he had almost as many white hairs as gray. His jowls were loose. His eyes dull.
‘‘Come in, please,’’ he said. ‘‘And shut the door behind you.’’
Her stomach did a somersault. She closed the door.
‘‘Have a seat.’’
So formal. She smoothed her skirt beneath her and sat in the upholstered chair across from him.
‘‘I’ll cut right to the chase.’’ He took a deep breath. ‘‘Currington has skipped town.’’
She frowned. ‘‘What?’’
‘‘He’s gone, Essie. Pulled up his stakes. Flew the coop. Squirreled off.’’
She shook her head. ‘‘You’re mistaken.’’
‘‘I’m afraid not.’’
She thought of the smile and wink Adam had bestowed upon her last night. ‘‘I don’t believe you.’’
‘‘Jeremy came by this morning when he didn’t show up for work. So I had Melvin go to the boardinghouse. Mrs. Williams said Currington packed up late last night, paid up the rest of the month’s board, and left. We’ve scoured the town for him. He’s gone.’’
‘‘There’s some other explanation. I’m sure of it.’’ But all of a sudden, she wasn’t sure of anything.
Papa leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers, and waited. Waited for her to accept the truth.
But she couldn’t. Adam loved her. She knew he did. She raced through her memory, trying to recall when he’d told her that very thing. And her stomach began to feel queasy. For though she had expressed her love for him, he had never actually said those words to her. Had only implied it. By his actions.
She took a fortifying breath. ‘‘He said he’d come see me today and he meant it. I’ve no doubt he’ll be here any moment.’’
‘‘The word of a man who takes advantage of women is worthless.’’
She shot to her feet. ‘‘You’ve done something,’’ she cried. ‘‘After I went to bed last night. You threatened him, didn’t you? Or offered him a bribe. Tell me.’’
Papa’s face cleared of all expression. ‘‘Upon my honor, I did nothing of the kind. Nor did your mother. Nor did your uncle. That scallywag tucked his tail and ran. Leaving you at the altar without caring for one moment whether or not you are carrying his child.’’
She wrapped her arms about her stomach, wondering who had moaned. Then she realized it had been her.
Papa remained seated, not a shred of sympathy or compassion on his face. ‘‘You are relieved of your duties with Sullivan Oil.’’
Falling back into the chair, she shook her head. ‘‘What?’’
‘‘Your mother was right. It’s my fault all this has happened. I’ve given you entirely too much freedom and have encouraged you to disregard the dictates of society. That stops now.’’
‘‘No, Papa.’’
He leaned forward, resting his arms on the desk. ‘‘I am handing you over to your mother. Your actions will be dictated by her. And I will endorse and support every decision she makes.’’
Essie grabbed the arms of the chair. ‘‘Please, Papa, please. Don’t do this. I . . . I know I’ve hurt you. I know I’ve shamed you. But please. Mother will squash me. She’ll stomp out every bit of pleasure I have in life.’’
His mouth tightened. ‘‘I’d say you’ve had more than enough pleasure lately to last you a lifetime.’’
She sucked in her breath. Had he slapped her across the face, she couldn’t have been more hurt. But instead of the tears that she expected, an all-encompassing anger swept through her.
‘‘How dare you,’’ she said.
He slowly rose, squaring his shoulders and letting her see the formidability that she’d always known was there. Never before, though, had it been directed toward her.
‘‘No,’’ he said. ‘‘How dare you.’’
————
She waited all day, but Adam never came.
Skipping breakfast the following morning, she rummaged through her father’s box of tools, little caring for the recklessness with which she handled his things. Finding a hammer, she grasped it, retrieved a tiny block of wood from the woodpile, and stormed into the house.
She slammed the door. Kicked over a chair in her path. Stomped up to the top stair and began to remove the nails in the banister.
She could hardly see what she was doing, so blurred were her eyes by desperate, angry tears. But no matter what, those nails were coming out. Today. Now. This very minute.
One by one she jerked them free, sending them flying. Disappointed at the puny tinkle they made when landing.
Mother came rushing from the back of the house and stopped short.
Essie paused and seared her mother with a look that caused the matronly woman to take a step back.
‘‘Let me make myself perfectly clear, Mother,’’ Essie said, not even trying to staunch the flow of her tears. ‘‘If I want to slide down the banister, then I will slide down the banister. If I want to teach a parrot to curse, then I will teach a parrot to curse. If I want to give myself to every man in the county, then I will give myself to every man in the county. And I dare you—no, I beg you to come up here and try to stop
me.’’
Sorrow and tenderness consumed Mother’s features. Papa jerked open his study door, his face livid.
‘‘No,’’ Mother said to him.
He stopped short, his chest pumping like the cable tool on Adam’s rig. ‘‘I will not—’’
Mother narrowed her eyes, bringing Papa’s words to a sudden stop. He whirled around and slammed his door shut behind him. Mother left the way she had come. Essie returned to her task, albeit with a little less oomph.
Moments later Mother came back and strode directly to the bottom stair. With a hammer and wedge of wood, she began to remove the nails on the lower part of the banister.
Essie swallowed, then proceeded with her task. Each nail brought them closer and closer to completion and closer to each other. It was Mother who removed the last one.
They stood face-to-face on the middle steps. The white, smooth skin that her mother took such pride in was splotchy and swollen.
She offered the nail in her hand, palm up. Essie took it and defiantly flung it across the entry hall. It ricocheted from wall to wall to floor, finally rolling to a stop.
‘‘Oh, Essie,’’ Mother said. ‘‘I’m so, so sorry, baby.’’
For what? Essie wondered. For the nails? The restrictions? The critical things she’d said to Essie over the years? Or was she sorry that her daughter’s dreams and future hopes had been shattered by a man who had used her and left her for greener and younger pastures?
‘‘For what?’’ Essie choked.
‘‘For everything,’’ Mother said. And then she opened her arms.
Essie hesitated only a moment before falling into them, sobbing, wailing, expending the anguish that consumed her.
Mother held her. Rocked her. Patted her head.
She heard Papa’s door open. And she knew that the two of them were staring at each other over her shoulder, grieving simply because their daughter was.
chapter EIGHTEEN
ESSIE’S LEGS BEGAN TO fall asleep. Still, she stayed on her knees. Bargaining, for the most part.
If you bring Adam back, I promise to spend more time in your Word.
I’ll read it more, memorize it more, dwell on it more.
She racked her brain for the sorts of things that would please God.
I’ll do more service for the church. I’ll clean the sanctuary, bring plants for its beautification, teach Sunday school. If only you’ll bring Adam back.
She rested her forehead on the edge of the bed.
I’ll spend several days a week at the State Orphan’s Home. I’ll care for the children, teach them some skills, shower them with affection. Please, Lord. Bring Adam back.
She wondered if she was carrying his babe. On the one hand, she wanted a baby so badly she could hardly credit it. And at the moment, she couldn’t care less what the townsfolk thought of her bearing one out of wedlock. But she knew she would care one day.
She didn’t want the child to grow up with the stigma of being a bastard. She’d never known one personally, but she’d heard they were treated like outcasts. She couldn’t imagine her friends and neighbors doing so. Or maybe she could.
Yet she could not bring herself to pray that there was no babe.
Instead, she continued to implore God to bring Adam back.
She considered confessing her sin of fornication, but she wasn’t sure she was truly sorry for it. She knew she should be. But she wasn’t, entirely.
Oh, she was sorry for the pain it caused her parents. She’d be sorry for the pain it might cause her unborn child—if there was one—and the shame it would bring to her parents. But she couldn’t be completely sorry she’d learned what happened between a man and a woman.
She’d always wondered and now she knew.
‘‘I’m sorry that I’m not sorry,’’ she whispered. ‘‘But please, please, won’t you still bring Adam back to me?’’
Her bargaining turned into begging.
A knock sounded on her bedroom door. ‘‘Essie?’’
Essie stayed where she was. The door squeaked open.
Her mother entered and sat on the edge of her mattress. ‘‘Come sit by me for a moment.’’
Icy prickles of pain bombarded her legs and feet when she joined her mother on the bed. A penance, perhaps.
‘‘You need to come downstairs and eat.’’
‘‘I’m not hungry.’’
‘‘Just the same, you’ve not eaten all day.’’
Essie wondered if she’d be bound to her mother’s schedule for the rest of her life. If she would be living in this house, this room, until her parents’ deaths and then her own.
It wasn’t a bad place, but she didn’t want to live in her father’s house. She wanted to be like other women. She wanted to ‘‘leave and cleave.’’ But there was only one way to achieve that. And her ticket to freedom had abandoned her.
Please, God. Please.
‘‘The ladies at church are going to sell some baked goods at the Harvest Festival,’’ Mother said. ‘‘They need someone to work the table for them. I told them you would help.’’
Yesterday Essie would have agreed without a moment’s hesitation. Today she resented her mother making arrangements on her behalf.
‘‘I’m not sure I’m attending the Harvest Festival.’’
‘‘Of course you are.’’
‘‘In the future, I do not want you offering my services to anyone without my permission.’’
Mother sighed. ‘‘If you mope about on the heels of Mr. Currington’s sudden departure, people will put two and two together. You must pretend nothing has happened.’’
‘‘I cannot.’’
‘‘You must.’’
‘‘I will not.’’
Mother rose. ‘‘Yes, you will, Esther. Yes, you will.’’
————
Essie refused to eat.
‘‘I’m fasting,’’ she told her mother, then she wedged a chair underneath her doorknob and read her Bible.
She read Ecclesiastes.
‘‘‘Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.’ . . . Whatever my eyes desired I did not keep from them. I did not withhold my heart from any pleasure. . . . I said of laughter—‘Madness!’; and of mirth, ‘What does it accomplish?’’’
She memorized verses, then chapters. She ignored her mother’s pleas to come out. Her father’s commands to unbar the door.
Hours turned into a day, then into two days. Still she read. Memorized. Fasted. Christ had gone without food for forty days. Surely she could share in His sacrifice.
She wasn’t worried about her baby—if there even was one. She had complete faith that God would take care of it. She was, after all, fasting. An endeavor that God would honor by protecting any babe He’d created.
Papa kicked the door open, his face red. Whether from anger or exertion, she wasn’t sure. She stared at him, unmoved and unrepentant. Mother led her to the kitchen and fed her.
The food did not settle well and left her stomach shortly after reaching it. She had no energy. No interest in bicycling. No will to do anything other than sleep and read her Bible.
For the first time, she realized what a burden she must be to her parents. All she’d ever done was make mistakes, and that was probably all she’d ever do. She should have long ago left the nest. Yet here she was, still in their home. Eating their food. Encroaching on their privacy. Spending their money on fine clothes.
In the weeks that followed, she restricted herself to the simplest of attire. Dark skirts, white shirtwaists, no hats. She tried not to eat too much, so as not to be a burden. She worked harder than ever before around the house and garden.
She gathered all her hats and put them in burlap bags.
‘‘What are you doing?’’ her mother asked.
‘‘I’m going to give my hats to the poor,’’ she said, descending the stairs with three bulky sacks.
Mother pointed to a corner of the hall. ‘‘Set them there. I have some things to give
away, as well. I’ll put yours with mine.’’
The next day the bags were gone. Essie wondered what it would be like to see someone else in town wearing one of her hats. She wondered if she’d care.
She took a basket of bedding out to the clothesline. Her mother joined her.
‘‘There is no babe,’’ Essie said, pinning one corner of a sheet onto the taut wire before securing its other corner.
Mother paused, a pillow slip in her hand. She offered no response, good or otherwise.
————
Essie chose another pecan from the bucket, cracked it open, then began to pick out its fruit. The sun had risen more than an hour ago, and she had been on the porch shelling pecans long before the first glimmer of light had touched the sky.
In an effort to ward off the cool breeze, she adjusted a blanket thrown about her shoulders.
Her mother pushed open the screen door and stepped out onto the back porch. ‘‘The Harvest Festival is today.’’
The day Essie was supposed to have married Adam. She placed a shelled nut into a bowl at her side.
‘‘Have you decided what you are going to wear?’’ Mother asked.
‘‘I’m not going.’’ She cracked another nut.
‘‘You’ll miss the tightrope walker.’’
‘‘I’m no longer interested in such frivolities.’’
Mother eased into a rocking chair. ‘‘Essie, dear. I think it is time we had a talk.’’
Essie raised a brow. ‘‘I believe it’s a little late to be discussing the birds and the bees, don’t you?’’
Mother blushed but remained steady. ‘‘Actually, I would venture to guess there is quite a bit you don’t yet know, but that is not what I wanted to talk about.’’
The sun touched a corner of the porch but offered no relief from the chill in the air. Essie’s fingers ached from the cold. She ignored it and harvested another pecan.
Mother moistened her lips. ‘‘Young women are taught that losing their virtue is synonymous with losing their right to marry.’’ She paused. ‘‘I want you to know, your father and I do not agree with that line of thinking.’’
The pecan Essie was picking splintered. She popped the ruined fruit into her mouth, its dry texture rough and hard to swallow.
