A Parchment of Leaves

by Silas House

  That baby was three days old before Aidia ever considered naming her. Even though she had had that easy labor, she took a long while to heal. On the third day, I was still having to change the towels between her legs. Aidia bled so much that I didn’t see how she could lift her head, but Serena said it was a steady flow and not to worry.

  “Raise your rump up so I can change these rags,” I told Aidia.

  When I slid a new one under her, Aidia said, “Won’t you name the baby, Vine? You’re a good hand with names.”

  “No, I couldn’t do that,” I said.

  “Please,” Aidia said. “You’ve been so good to me.”

  Aaron stood in the door. “You ought to, Vine.”

  I took the baby and held her up, her little rump in one hand and her head in the other. Her soft spot pumped a steady pulse, so quick that it moved the thin hairs on the top of her head. I held her close to my face and breathed in her clean scent. She was a quiet baby and only cried when hungry, but she rooted around, trying to suck her thumb all the time. Her brow was always in a furrow, so wrinkled that I thought I might be able to lay my finger within the creases. The baby was dark enough to be my own, with a ring of thick, black curls in a horseshoe shape around her head, like an old man who has lost all of his hair on top.

  “You ought to crack the Bible for a name,” Esme called from the kitchen. “It’ll have a happier life.”

  None of us said a word to acknowledge Esme. I hadn’t consulted the Scripture for Birdie’s name and saw no reason for Aaron and Aidia to do so, either.

  I looked at her for a long time, thinking a name would come to me. But it is near impossible to name a child that is not your own. When it is your own, you just know if a name is right or not. Once it comes to you, it just clicks. “I don’t know, Aidia,” I said. “You name her.”

  “No,” Aidia said. Her eyes were very big and she smiled as if teasing me.

  “I always thought Matracia was pretty,” I said finally. My greataunt Matracia had died long before I was born, but I had growed up hearing her name and had always liked it. “I wish I had tacked that on for Birdie’s middle name.”

  “Matracia,” Aidia said slowly, pronouncing each syllable in a breathless way. “I like it. I surely do.”

  “Matracia Star,” Aaron said, taking a step into the room.

  At this, Aidia spread her arms wide and he sunk down on his knees beside the bed. He buried his face in her hair and held her for so long that I wondered if he was crying.

  Aidia had tears in her eyes but did not shed them. When she spoke, they quivered on her eyelashes. “The Star Theater is where me and him met,” she said, and I hurried from the room, afraid I might lash out at her for being such a fool.

  AT LAST AARON began to build a house for his family. He chose a shelf on the mountainside above Esme’s house instead of the good, flat land down by the creek. He said he wanted to be able to look out on everything instead of only looking up at the mountains towering above him. The mountain was steep and draped in kudzu that Aaron chopped away, even though Esme told him that it would come back twice as thick.

  There was a whole crew of men from the mill that come to help him, the Wooten brothers, and Duke Brown. Whistle-Dick’s brother, Dalton, was there, and a crew of other boys, most of them friends of Saul’s who come just because Aaron was his brother. None of us women set a foot up there, though. Aaron was short tempered, and no one wanted to be around him. Often while he was working on the house he would get aggravated and hurl a hammer across the yard. I heard tell that he almost fell while packing an armload of lumber, and when he had righted himself, he heaved the load over his head and throwed the planks into the frame of the house, knocking down a wall the men had just set up. One of the planks landed on Duke Brown’s foot, causing him to draw his fist back on Aaron. There were harsh words between them, and Duke stomped off down the mountain. Most of the men didn’t come back after that, and I can’t say I blame them. But the house was eventually raised. It was a shotgun house, small and—to my eye—off-kilter. It seemed to me a good rain might wash it right off the mountainside.

  Despite all this, Aidia was tickled to have her own home. I knowed how she felt, for I remembered how miserable it was to live in Esme’s house. At least Esme had liked me; Aidia had not even had that luxury. When I went into town, clerks leaned over the counter to tell me how Aidia had run up a debt by purchasing furniture and fabric. There was not room for much in the house, but what she did buy was the very best.

  I have to admit that it was pretty up there on the mountainside. In the mornings you could set on the porch and watch the roofs below seem to rise up out of the mist that burned away by noon. Still, the kudzu would grow back thickly come spring, and they would be able to see nothing more than a drapery of bluish green. But Aidia said she wouldn’t mind being hidden from the rest of the world. The birds gathered there and chattered all the time, but it was snaky, too. The ground was solid rock, too solid to be broken for a pump. Aidia had to walk all the way down to Esme’s for water. She didn’t seem to mind, though, and kept the house very clean, as if she expected important company.

  When Aaron and Aidia had finally settled in, it was time for the slaughters. We all helped take care of the animals and then sold the meat in town. Esme offered to split the money three ways, but I told her that Saul sent me plenty to get by on. Besides, my garden had bore heavily in summer and I had all I needed to eat. I made Esme keep the third part for herself. I knowed that Esme gave this extra money to Aaron, but I didn’t care. I hoped they would use it to pay off their debts. I guess I was hoping things would work out for them.

  I had come to like Aidia. Her laughter was catching and she had that strange way of speaking politely all the time. There was something about her that was elegant. She was always touching me; sometimes when we went for walks, she would hook her arm through mine and say, “We’re sisters now.” It wasn’t hard for me to see how Aidia and Aaron had been attracted to each other: they were both so full of dreams that it was a wonder they could think straight at all. Aidia spoke of seeing the ocean or going to Knoxville to buy a dress, trips that would have taken days, even by train. She curled her body around books she borrowed from Serena, sometimes closing her eyes as if picturing herself in some faraway tale. Aidia was a predictable person, and I liked that about her, too. She had only two moods: laughing or crying. Her good spells lasted the longest, but when a depression settled over her, it was heavy. She would go days without washing her hair and would set rocking the baby for hours, singing the same lullaby over and over. “Be-oh-by-oh, little baby. Hush-a-bye and good night-o.”

  Aidia spoke of her family and her home in East Tennessee as if it was all a great kingdom she had been stolen away from by marrying Aaron, even though I knowed full and well that her own daddy had been mean to her and that they had been poor. But their little house seemed to lift Aidia’s spirits.

  I wish I could say the house had a good effect on Aaron. He started to roam even more than before and sometimes stayed gone for two or three nights in a row. He would come home dirty and ripe with the scent of whiskey and woodsmoke, his pockets empty. The day after he would return, I always went to check on Aidia. Sometimes I seen blue handprints on Aidia’s arms, and once a cut lip, but Aidia said Aaron had not hurt her since that night Saul had been home.

  “You’d tell me, wouldn’t you?” I said.

  “I would, but it wouldn’t change nothing,” Aidia said, not wanting to look me in the eye.

  AND THEN ONE NIGHT, me and Serena were at Esme’s house, working on a quilt. Birdie and Luke were underneath the quilting frame, laying back and pretending the quilt was the night sky spread out above them. We could hear shouts coming down from the mountainside, but Esme talked that much louder, as if she didn’t want any of us to listen to the fighting. She kept her eyes on the needle and did not so much as flinch. I looked at Serena, but I shook my head, willing her not to say anything. It wouldn’t do for S
erena to go into a rant about Aaron in front of his mother.

  Then the blast of a shotgun cracked the night air, and all three of us jumped up at once. The children scrambled out from beneath the quilting frame and clutched at my legs.

  “He’s killed her this time,” Serena said, and stomped out of the house, pulling Luke along with her. Esme stood looking down at the quilt, as if in defeat. She let her shoulders slump and sat back down at the frame, but did not bend to reach for the thimble that had tumbled from her finger and rolled to the center of the quilt. I went after Serena.

  We met Aaron on the path. He shoved his hands roughly into his pockets and raised his head only to stare into my eyes, daring me to say a word.

  “What have you done, Aaron?” Serena hollered.

  Aaron got into his truck and drove slowly out of the holler. We run up the path and found Aidia standing on the porch. She was still holding the gun out in front of her but eased it down when we drew near. Curls hung down in her face and were caught in the corners of her mouth, trembling each time she blinked. The baby set on the porch floor beside her, bawling.

  “Aidia? What in the world?” I said.

  Aidia turned her eyes to me without moving her head. “I never aimed for him,” she said.

  “You ought to have,” Serena said, and put her hand on Aidia’s face. Her cheek was wet—a single damp line where one tear had fallen.

  “I just wanted to scare him, that’s all,” Aidia said, looking past us.

  “You sure enough did, I reckon,” Serena said. She wrapped her fingers about the barrel of the gun real slow, keeping her eyes on

  Aidia’s face. She eased it away, and Aidia let her arms fall limp at the sides of her body.

  I bent down and picked up the baby. Matracia nuzzled into my neck, little shudders running through her body. That little baby just clung to me, holding on to me with all its might.

  “He tried to smother me again. I won’t live like this,” Aidia said. “I’ll leave him.” Her eyes were big, and when she blinked, tears fell quickly down her cheeks. She didn’t wipe them away. “But I never tried to kill him. I just wanted him to leave me alone.”

  “We know that,” I said, patting Matracia’s back. I thought Aidia might be out of her mind. “But something’s got to stop up here. This baby is terrified. Look at her trembling.”

  Serena put her arms around Aidia’s shoulders and steered her into the house. It was neatly kept and smelled of lemon juice and talcum. Everything was in order except for an overturned chair and a photograph laying face down. Jagged pieces of glass lay strewn about the edges of the picture frame.

  “He put his fist into our wedding picture,” Aidia said. “I don’t even know why he got so mad. He said he was going to gamble and I went and set on his lap, trying to be good to him. I kissed him on the lips and asked him not to leave me up here by myself tonight. I said, ‘Look at this lonely old night,’ but he pushed me off onto the floor and started hollering. Busted our picture, and when I started hollering over it being broke, he jerked me up. And he capped his big hand over my mouth. I thought I would smother to death. I seen stars, I needed air so bad.”

  “Ain’t no use in taking such as that,” Serena said. She bent and turned the picture over, then laid the broken pieces of glass atop it.

  “He finally set me down, just as gentle as anything, and I fell to the floor dying for a breath. I made myself get up. When he turned to go on, I run in there and got the gun and shot it over his head”—Aidia set down and covered her face—“just to let him know I wasn’t about to take it no more. Just to scare him.”

  “Hush now,” Serena said. “Calm yourself.”

  “What will he do when he comes back?” Aidia said, her eyes pleading to me.

  I put my knuckle into the baby’s mouth to pacify her. Matracia gnawed at my finger, and Birdie tugged at my skirts. I did not answer Aidia, but I thought, He’ll kill you stone-hammer dead. He’ll catch you asleep and kill you.

  Sixteen

  Aaron had been gone three days when he opened my door and come right in without even knocking.

  I had just got Birdie to sleep and she still laid across my lap. I had spent the last hour rocking her in front of the fire, running my hand down her face. She was getting to that age where the only time I could really love on her was when she was asleep. It had rained all day—one of them straight-down rains of true autumn—and the night held the chill of cold water.

  I looked up from Birdie’s face when I heard something on the porch. Before I could even rise, Aaron was inside the house, the cold air coming in behind him. He didn’t say a word. The cold steamed off him. He was drunk and his eyes were heavy lidded, dark, as if he had seen something so horrible that he couldn’t bear it. He stood at the door with his arms hanging down at his sides, like he was waiting to be asked to step farther in.

  “What are you doing, Aaron?” I said, so quietly that I thought he might ask me to speak up. “I don’t like you just walking in here like that.”

  “I don’t want to go home.” He didn’t move.

  I rose. I tried to act like I wasn’t afraid of him, but I was. When his eyes turned this way, I knowed the things he could do. I remembered the way he looked that day in the creek, the way his eyes had burned out of his face the night he had strangled Aidia. I laid Birdie on a little pallet I had fixed on the floor close to the fire.

  “You go on home, now,” I said, just like it wasn’t a bit strange for him to walk into the house unasked. “Aidia’s worried to death over you.”

  “Bull,” he said, and his mouth seemed full of spit or dirt. “I ain’t going up there.”

  “You can’t stay here, Aaron. You know that.” I took up the poker and tapped at the logs in the grate. The sparks flew up and popped like rocks hitting tin, and a cloud of ash drifted out.

  “Go on to your wife and little baby, Aaron,” I said, just as cool as a cucumber. “Straighten up and start doing right.”

  “Don’t talk to me like I’m a child,” he said, still standing there like his feet were nailed to the floor, his brow thick and heavy. He kept his eyes on me.

  “Don’t act like one, then,” I said, and dusted ash off of my skirt.

  I went to set back down and he took a big step forward, like he was stepping over a ditch. He grabbed hold of my arm, twisting it around until I had to fall against his chest. His hand was so cold, like there was no blood in him. He stunk. He smelled of dirt and sourness and liquor and smoke. His scent covered my clothes, flew into my mouth. He held my wrist up level with his chin and breathed onto my face. He held me like that for a long minute, it seemed like—just looking down into my eyes. I didn’t even feel the pain in my wrist, seeing the way he was looking at me. It felt like I had been attached to him and would never be cut loose. I thought of screaming out, but there was no use in it. Nobody would hear me, and I didn’t want to wake up Birdie.

  “Aaron, let go of me,” I whispered. All at once I was out of breath. I heard the tremble in my own voice.

  At that he clamped his mouth over mine. He held the back of my head with his other hand and pushed himself against me. I tried to pull away but couldn’t. His tongue darted into my mouth, his lips seeming to cover half my face. He bit my lip, and his teeth scraped against mine. I sunk my fingernails into his wrist as far as they would go. I dragged them down the side of his hand, and I could feel meat in my nails. He drawed back quick and slapped me with a hand that felt like a paw, so heavy that it didn’t so much slap me as knock my face to the side. I could see blood on his shirt cuff where I had scratched him. He put two fingers to the streaks, looking at the redness there.

  I moved backward across the room, my hands feeling my way behind me. I was trying to get to the kitchen. I didn’t know what I was going to do once I got there. But he caught me by the arm and shoved me down on the floor. He got down on top of me and held both my arms above my head with one hand. He was stronger than normal, fueled by some kind of wild r
age.

  I could feel him wrestling my skirt up and ripping the waistband out of my shift. I looked around myself, trying to find some way of getting him off of me. But I couldn’t see anything clearly. It was as if a quick hand was throwing pictures down on a table that I was expected to take note of. There was a knife on the supper table. There was the shotgun, leaned in the corner of my bedroom. There was a pair of scissors in my sewing basket, catching the glint of firelight on their silver handles. There was the poker, hanging by the fireplace. I should have never hung it back up, should have held on to it, chased him out of the house with it. All of these things were out of my reach.

  He ripped my blouse open, and the scent of his greasy hair slipped into my mouth. I twisted my shoulders side to side, trying to buck him off, and when he didn’t budge, I said, “Don’t.” It was the only word I could cough up.

  He rocked his hips against me hard, and then there was a sharpness that stung like fire. His breath come out in great, ragged sighs from his mouth. If I just laid there, lifeless as a dishrag, it would be over in a minute.

  I thought of Redbud, when I was a child. I thought of putting my fingers out to make touch-me-not flowers pop open. I remembered the smell of the earth there, the clatter of the creek running into the river. My braid touching the surface of water when I leaned forward to fish out a shining rock. I recalled sitting there by the creek while the men cleaned squirrels upstream. I saw intestines rolling over on the rushing water, and tufts of fur floating above the creek, as if drawn by water, like feathery bits of dried dandelion.

  Then he was still except for his breathing. Laying on top of me like a pile of lumber. I could feel his heart against mine, pumping his blood. I was amazed that he was a living thing, just like me. He was breathing. Soon he would be hungry, his mouth would thirst. He was a person, and this did not seem possible.