The Girl Called Ella Dessa: Will she ever be cherished for the inner beauty beneath her scars?

by Karen Campbell Prough

  The younger girls went back to talking.

  Ella ignored the hot tin plate balanced on her knees and observed Fern. The white-faced teen finished the hurried stitches and smoothed the fabric with shaky fingers—as if erasing an invisible imprint. Her deep brown eyes swept sideways to meet Ella’s.

  Ella tried to smile. “My name’s Ella Dessa. My mama, she’s the one …”

  “I know. I’m sorry.” Fern’s eyes dropped to the material in her hands.

  Even though her heart ached for the older girl, Ella couldn’t let Fern know she witnessed the incident.

  She nibbled at the piece of bread, but her stomach rebelled at eating the gravy-swamped vegetables. She tried not to act curious as Fern stood, furtively searched the crowded room, and slipped into the shadows by the bed.

  With hunched shoulders, the girl drew off the shawl. Her white chemise and pale arms gleamed in the fire’s light, and Ella spied muted, lavender marks heralding the darkening of cruel bruises. Fern pulled on the repaired blouse, buttoned it, and hurried back to the bench.

  Velma walked to the fireplace, her hands full of a variety of bowls. “Fern can you helps Katy and her mama carry vittles to the men?”

  “I thought I’d stay inside.” Fern’s fingers twisted the fabric of her skirt.

  “Humm.” Velma ladled more gravy and chunky vegetables into a large wooden bowl balanced in her left hand. “Had to dig this bowl out of my wagon. I keep it for feeding baby chicks when I haves some. I washed it. Naomi also had a couple more bowls.” She held the full bowl out to Fern. “Here.”

  “I—I didn’t bring a heavy shawl. Please, let me stay in.” Her voice was pleasant but strained. “Here comes Katy, now.” She pointed over her shoulder.

  Velma acted puzzled by the teen’s refusal but handed the red-haired girl the bowl. “Take this, Katy.”

  Fern rose from the bench. “I’ll help fill bowls. Surely, there’s something else you need to do.” She grabbed Velma’s big wooden spoon, tucked her gray skirt under her legs and hips, and squatted by the fire.

  The woman straightened and rubbed at her lower spine. Her hand traveled forward to pat her stomach. A grimace distorted her narrow face. “Just sets that bowl on the table so Katy can see it. Spoons are on a towel. When the men finish eating, I want you and Ella to collects the dirty stuff. You can borrow my shawl. It’s double-layered.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.” Fern’s shoulders sagged. She filled the bowl, taking more time than necessary.

  Only Ella could guess the reason for her reluctance to go outside.

  “Fern,” she whispered. “I can do it. I don’t mind fetchin’ the dishes and bowls. You wait inside.”

  The girl’s eyes glistened, but she shook her head. “Thanks. But you shouldn’t have to do it.”

  Curiosity plagued Ella. She wanted to go outside and study each man and boy gathered near the fire. The person who attacked Fern might be with them. She also needed to get out from under the sympathetic looks of the well-meaning women. The log walls had become barriers surrounding her.

  “Well, then I want to help. I haven’t touched this food. Think we could slip it outside to my pa?”

  Fern stood with two steaming bowls in her hands and nodded. “Let me get my shawl off the bed. Pick up a spoon at the table.”

  “Give me one bowl to hold. My shawl’s on the peg beside the bed. Could you fetch it and drape it over one of my shoulders?”

  They made it out the door unnoticed and stood in the dark with their backs to the cabin’s front wall. By the fire, four of the men sopped gravy with folded pieces of bread, and wiped their lips on shirtsleeves. Others appeared to wait for food.

  A chilly breeze swept the darkened hill and rustled the unseen trees. The warm tin plate and bowl felt comforting in Ella’s hands. Before she thought better, she said, “Do you see him?”

  “Who? Your father? He’s to the left of the fire.”

  She bit her lip. She had accidently referred to Fern’s attacker. “Yes, that’s Pa. I’ll take this to him.” She hurried into the yellow circle of firelight and lifted the plate.

  “I done ate.” The reflection of the fire lit a section of his bearded face. Pa scowled. “Pass it on, gurl.”

  “I’ll take.” A skinny man reached for it. His accent gave away his German heritage. His hands quavered. The gravy slopped out of the tin plate and covered one of his hands. “Ach, I cannot hold und eat, too.”

  “Manfred, sit on the wagon bed behind ya. Why not try drinkin’ that watery gravy, ‘fore eatin’ the solids?” Pa waved his hand at her. “Git back inside.”

  She whirled and retreated to where Fern cowered in the dark. “My pa didn’t want it.”

  “You gave it to my father.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know who he was.”

  “He’s got things wrong with his arms.” Fern raised the wooden bowl. “Who do I give this to?”

  “I’ll take it. I still have this one.” Ella skirted the fire’s light to the opposite side from her pa. The first teenager she offered a bowl to grabbed it with filthy fingers and shoved a spoonful in his mouth. An elderly man, leaning against a wagon, reached for the second bowl. Someone yelled for her pa to come look at a sore on the withers of a horse. It gave her a chance to run to Fern.

  “Thank you.” Fern folded her arms and shivered.

  Ella decided to let the girl know she had a confidant. “He’s not out there. Is he.” It was a statement.

  “He?” Fern squeaked out the word.

  “I hid in the springhouse. Earlier.”

  With a sharp intake of breath, the girl said, “What? I don’t understand.”

  “I needed to be alone. I heard when you came down the hill.” She tugged at her shawl and placed it up on her head. She hoped her confession wouldn’t make Fern angry.

  “Don’t tell.” Fern’s hands fumbled in the dark and reached. “Please.” She squeezed Ella’s hand. “I can’t let it be known.”

  “I ain’t tellin’.”

  A heavy-set man tossed a log on the fire. Sparks mushroomed sideways. The sharp scent of pinesap filled the air. The fire’s glow illuminated Fern’s walnut brown eyes—eyes full of anxiety—and lit the distorted, shadowy view of the empty coffin not four feet from them.

  “If he knew, my father would send me away. He’d think I was bad. He’s from the old country. He sent my sister away, because Marcy liked an older boy down in Lick Log. He made her go live with his elderly sister in the South somewhere. I haven’t seen her for two years. Ma cries at night.” Tears glinted on her cheeks. “She’ll notice my ripped blouse, even though I repaired it. I was so stupid to go walking with him.”

  “I won’t tell—ever.”

  Fern took a full-size breath and peered toward the campfire. “I don’t see him. He must’ve left, thinking I’d tell my father.”

  “Who is the boy?” Ella couldn’t hold back the question.

  “I’d rather not say.”

  She wisely changed the subject. “Your father, why can’t he hold his plate still?”

  “Granny doesn’t know. But it’s worse. Ma cuts food for him. He’s sixty-six. He married my ma after my real father died.”

  “Hmm.” She thought about the jerking of her own pa’s arm. “Does the shaking make him yell at you?”

  “No, why should it?”

  “Just wondered.”

  “He’ll get angry if he hears I was with a boy.” She folded her arms tight to her chest.

  “Are you all right after what happened?”

  “Yes, I’m just ashamed. He didn’t—he just tore my blouse. I kept hitting him. He grabbed my arms. He kissed me and touched my …” Her voice trailed off.

  “I wanted to help, but I was skeered.”

  Fern rested her cheek on the top of Ella’s head. “Don’t fret. You did the best thing by letting me know you saw it. I can talk to you.”

  “Wish it were warmer.” She hugged Fern’s small waist. The cold temperature caused
her legs to shake. Her bare toes felt frozen to the ground, and she wiggled them.

  The cabin door swung outward. Granny stuck her head out. “Oh, there ye are. Thought the wolves got you.” She handed them steaming bowls and pointed. “Take these out an’ ask fer empties.”

  They delivered the last of the hot food, scooted by the circle of men, and collected the used utensils. They slipped unseen to the darkened outhouse and took turns going in it, before entering the stuffy cabin. Both of them sat on the edge of the bed and drew the ragged curtain sideways, so they felt hidden.

  A mixture of odors filled the cabin—cooked food, coffee, urine-soaked diapers draped to dry, and human sweat. Behind them, on the bed, the babies and toddlers still slept.

  Fern spoke in whispers and asked Ella how she handled her mother’s death. Her questions were gentle.

  “I hurt. There’s a hole inside my heart.” She tried to explain the emptiness.

  “It’s hard to express actual feelings.”

  “I disremember ever hurtin’ like this. It’s not my mama on the cooling board. My mama would be helping fix food. She’d be happy ‘cause of all the company.”

  Fern nodded. She eased back the curtain’s edge. Her dark-lashed eyes swept the over-filled room. Ella followed her perusal of the activity. One tired-looking woman, with salt and pepper hair, dipped plates and bowls into a bucket of hot water and rinsed them before she handed them off to be dried. Her motions were automatic. She didn’t chat with the others.

  “That’s my ma,” Fern said. “She’s the one in the black skirt. Her name’s Nettie. She keeps to herself, because my father hates gossip.”

  The splash and chink of the plates blended with the subdued voices of the elderly women near the table. Portions of conversation trickled to Ella. She caught her own name.

  Fern dropped the curtain and linked her arm with Ella’s elbow. “Women take more comfort in this than men. Men need the wide outdoors, the thick woods, and things they can manhandle. I guess God understands that difference.”

  “Why does he make men lackin’ in feelings?”

  The girl expelled a quick breath. “Are you asking because of what happened by the spring?”

  “Well ….”

  “I don’t know the answer. I guess, I’m to blame. That’s what I’d be told by my father, were he to find out. I caused it by slipping away and going for a forbidden walk.”

  Ella scowled. “But you was nice, even when you told him to stop.”

  “I guess niceness don’t count, when you cause a fellow to think he can kiss and maul you.” Fern’s voice quavered. She patted the repaired blouse and bowed her head.

  “I really wasn’t talking ‘bout you and him. I spoke of how the men stand outside, laugh, and tell stories, while—”

  “While your mama’s waiting to be buried?”

  She nodded. In her head, she also tried to make sense of the way adults ignored death and prepared food for the living. She knew, in a short time, all of them would gather near her mama’s body. They’d sit on whatever was available, including the clay floor. The evening and the protracted wakeful night would pass with murmured words, uplifted hands, intense prayers, eating, and an occasional song.

  A dark-haired toddler cried out and sat up on the bumpy bed. He caught sight of them, wrinkled his face, and burst into tears. His cries summoned his mother.

  Rebecca unbuttoned her dress top and lifted the little one into her arms. “Shh, shh! Quiet, now. Zeb, you’ve got to stop this comfort nursing.” The squirming child took the offered nipple, and his dark eyes shut. A chubby fist curled against his mother’s white breast.

  One of the older women near the table chuckled. “He’ll hav’ta share come late spring.”

  “I’ve no milk left. He just wants it in his mouth.”

  “Ah, proves he’s male,” Laura muttered, and a twitter of discomfited laughter ran through the group of women.

  Rebecca retraced her steps to a place near the table. Her youthful, supple body swayed with the ancient, maternal rhythm of the ages, but the slightly rounded front on her skirt told why her milk had slacked. She expected a second child. Her strong arms rocked her live child not four feet from where a dead infant lay clasped in cold arms.

  Ella tore her gaze away from the poignant scene and shuddered. The pitiable cries of her premature brother crowded her mind. Her head ached. She pressed her fingertips against her temple and tried to deaden the dull pain.

  I want Mama.

  Fern tucked her close under one arm, as if offering physical protection.

  “I ain’t got my mama, no more.” She yielded to Fern’s embrace as tears stung her eyelids. “Pa don’t like me. He only wanted a boy. Mama said he had a boy by his first woman, but they both died in a fire. I heard Granny tried to save the boy. Then Mama never born him a son. Just me.”

  “Not your fault.” Fern tapped her shoulder and emphasized each word. “God wanted you to be who you are. Don’t forget that.”

  “He—Pa says he wish the painter had kilt me.”

  “Panther, you mean? Your neck. That’s what made those red bumpy marks? A mountain lion? I thought maybe a fire.”

  “No, not a fire.”

  She covered the left side of her neck with her right hand, closed her eyes, and felt her heart race. A trembling sensation traveled along her spine. In her mind, she heard the scream of the wild cat as it knocked her sideways into the creek. The juvenile panther had briefly entered the shallow water and snarled in her face. She had felt its hot breath fan over her nose and cheeks, and she expected the pain of a torturous death. But the animal’s inexperience and hesitation gave Pa enough time to aim and shoot it through the heart.

  With a gasping intake of breath, she said, “Its claws got my shoulder and neck. It jumped off a boulder by the creek. Pa shot it.”

  “He saved your life.”

  “Yes. Why’d he do that, when he hates me so much?”

  “He can’t hate you. You’re his daughter, not like my father is to me.”

  “But he says awful things.”

  “He can’t mean them.”

  “I think he does.”

  Ella stared at the log wall—two feet in front of their knees. Her mama’s sun-faded blue bonnet hung from a hand-carved peg. It was a heartrending reminder of Mama’s short life. Its twirled and wrinkled ties dangled against the chinked log wall and resembled limp arms with no life left in them.

  Tenderly, the teen drew Ella’s right hand away from the scars. The amber glow of the fireplace flickered along the uneven wall and lit Fern’s kind face.

  “I don’t mind the scars. I think you’re pretty. I love your freckles. They remind me of specks of dripped honey, and they make you look so sweet. I’m glad you didn’t die. I hope we can be friends forever. I know I’m older, but you seem like you’re my age.”

  “I reckon I feel older.” She smiled.

  “You’re not old.” The girl giggled and whispered, “What’s your age?’

  “Twelve.”

  “I’m sixteen.”

  “I know.”

  “Yes, I guess you heard.” Fern’s long eyelashes fluttered and hid her eyes.

  “I did.”

  Rebecca reappeared at the end of the bed. She laid her sleeping child in the midst of other toddlers and infants. He curled on his side, stuck two fingers in his mouth, and sucked. His mother smoothed his fuzzy brown curls and smiled at Ella.

  “Child, you look like you’re done in.”

  “My head hurts.”

  “You need to rest.” The woman pointed over their heads at the loft. “Can you show Katy, Abigail, and Faith where they can sleep? The twins, Torrin and Brody, will sleep on the bear hide. Naomi wants the boys where she can keep an eye on them.”

  Ella slipped off the bed. “Katy? Rebecca says I need to show you my pallet. It’s not wide, but we can fold a blanket for more sleeping spots.”

  “Ella?” Fern followed her. “Why don’t you g
o with them? I’ll sit up with the women.”

  She hesitated for only a second before nodding in agreement. The burden of the seemingly endless day weighed on her. Her head throbbed, and her stomach growled with forgotten hunger. With her lips pressed together, she led the three girls past the table. She kept her eyes averted from her mama’s body and reached for the rungs on the loft ladder.

  “Watch your heads.”

  The scent of dried corn stalks greeted them. Beside her pallet, someone had dumped a pile of shucks on the flimsy sapling floor. A borrowed horse blanket covered the crunchy leaves. Nearby, a crazy-patterned quilt waited in a discarded heap.

  “We can stand straight up in our loft,” one of the girls muttered. She topped the edge and scrutinized the confined space and low headroom. Silky-smooth black braids complimented her dusky skin, but caused her narrow face to appear too long. She shuddered at the sight of the bedding. “Oh my.”

  “Abigail, don’t stop.” Katy clung to the ladder below her. “Move! Faith and I will fall.”

  Ella left her dress on, stretched out on her pallet, and stared at the roof—a mere four feet from her face. Katy crawled over and joined her. Leaves rustled and crunched under their moving bodies.

  “Eeek! I’m off the blanket. Faith, scoot.” The dark-haired girl shoved the other girl and snatched up the quilt.

  Faith, a chubby blond girl, tried patting the springy leaves into a more level pile. “This blanket’s none too thick. We will be miserable. Abigail, you’re hogging my spot and the quilt. Move sideways.”

  “Ella Dessa?” Katy rolled to her left side. Her lovely green eyes appeared darker in the muted light. “Are you going down later? I’ll go with you—if you want. Just wake me ‘cause I might fall asleep.”

  “I don’t know.” She studied her young friend’s face, inches from her own. Katy’s wide-eyed expression showed compassion. She swallowed and fought the surge of hopelessness choking her.

  “Well, let me know. You’re my friend.”