by T. R. Graves
Based on the conversations I heard between the elders and Owen last night after they thought I was asleep, this year might be the worst year ever. That suggestion makes me cringe. Last year, the entire commune walked on eggshells—some women were beaten black and blue everyday—because the stress was so bad. That went on until well after the holidays.
I'm not sure what we'll do if it's worse this year.
"All the more reason to take advantage of my worry-free days," I remind myself aloud.
I'm free to swim, free to stay out late, free to speak out loud. I let out an exuberant yell as proof that I can do just that without fear of punishment. In The Community, women are to be seen and not heard. I'm not allowed to speak my mind or give my opinion. It's the reason I talk to myself nonstop when no one is around. I take full advantage of using my voice by discussing my opinions (with myself) and debating the pros and cons of everything. If I'm completely honest with myself, I dream of a time and place where I always have these rights.
"Owen may be able to control my tongue and who I'll belong to, but he can't control my thoughts or what I say when he's not around," I say smugly, emboldened by isolation.
I roll over and stare up at the sky before deciding there may be just enough sunny rays to tan the area beneath my shirt. My friends and I bravely put on swimsuits and pretended we would go into the water with them on. When we got to the lake, none of us was daring enough to strip our shirt or shorts off. Instead, we swung out over the lake and dropped in one-by-one with our clothes on, all the while wishing we were defiant enough bare our skin.
We were all willing to take a few lashes if we got caught swimming, but none of us were willing to take the whipping that would have come if Owen found out we went to the lake in swimsuits and without men escorting us.
I roll my eyes. If I live a hundred years, I'll never understand the rationale behind most of The Community's rules. You can swim in a suit if you have men from the commune with you. If men aren't with you, you better have permission and you better not have on a swimsuit.
Taking a moral stand, I defiantly slip off my halter-top. Then, I slide my cut-offs down my hips and over my knees, kicking them away with my foot. They fly at least ten feet from me. Almost wishing they'd landed in the water with the book, I laugh. Deciding my top needs to be as far from me as my shorts, I pick it up and throw it in the same direction and watch it drop right next to them.
My moment of rebellion is beyond liberating. I've never disobeyed Owen or the elders or my brothers for that matter. I've been raised as the only daughter of the leader. This has meant I've had to lead the other women by example. I wait on my men morning, noon, and night. I'm up at dawn every day, preparing a breakfast of eggs, biscuits, and bacon, setting the table, and creating a buffet that is so functional that all the men have to do is sit at the table and eat. Periodically, they order me to get them more milk or coffee, and I comply.
As soon as they leave the house for the morning (without lifting one finger to help me), I clear the table, wash the dishes, make the beds, clean the disgusting bathrooms, and begin preparing a hot lunch. This meal varies, but always includes fruits and vegetables from my garden. My favorites to prepare are okra and tomatoes, butter beans, coleslaw—because it includes the cabbage, carrots, and onions from my garden—and creamed potatoes.
After eating lunch, the men lounge around the house for another hour or so. Without a doubt, this is my least favorite time of day because I can't get anything done. If one of them wants a drink or coffee or anything else, I'm expected to jump up and wait on them. This is the reason I resent my three brothers. It's beyond my comprehension why perfectly healthy men, ones who can lift small cars if necessary, can't get up off their asses and get their own drinks.
Once they finally finish lazing around the house and ordering me around, they go back to the shop to work on cars and motorcycles, leaving me to scrub the lunchtime dishes, pick up the clutter they leave all over the house, and believe it or not, begin supper. It's always the heartiest meal and consists of potatoes or rice, smothered meats, more vegetables, yeast rolls, and occasionally a cobbler using the berries I pick from the fence near the graveyard. While the evening meal cooks and if it's not my teaching day, I spend time in my garden, tending, pruning, and picking.
At night when the men make it home, I have the meal all set out for them. Owen and the boys tear through the house, devour their food like we've not eaten all day, and rush back out the front door, heading toward the union hall, drinks, sports, and news calling them.
I'm fortunate they have an evening hangout that's someplace other than the farmhouse. My hands are full cleaning up after four men. I can't imagine cleaning up after the boys and the elders and the elder's boys. I'm also lucky that the housekeeping chores of the union hall fall onto the entire commune of women.
On the days I have daycare or teaching duty, I'm expected to go in before I begin breakfast so I can clean ashtrays, which are always overflowing with cigarettes, and mason jars that still hold small amounts of the distilled whiskey made by The Community's bartenders. Appalling to me is the fact that no one else thinks using the daycare and school as a bar at night is a problem.
I blush with my next thought. Actually, it's not just a bar. There are bedrooms in the back of the union hall. The older girls are expected to go through those rooms, strip every bed, wash the covers, and have each room clean, neat, and organized by the end of the day.
I frequently encounter women like Viv, women who've been labeled as union hall whores. Naked and whipping scars visible, they are usually sprawled out in the beds that I'm tasked with making.
Most of the commune's women are intimidated by the whores. They hate them so much they refuse to speak to them. Tess, on the other hand, isn't even remotely unsettled by them or their nakedness. In fact, she seems to be the one in charge of them. If they don't get up and start helping with the cleaning and cooking right away, Tess tears through the rooms and throws them off the beds, yelling for them to get their lazy asses up, dressed, and in the kitchen.
Every young girl in the commune is brainwashed into being afraid of the whores and their lifestyle, and it's worked. For me, there's nothing worse than becoming one of the whores. They are certainly bolder than the other women in the commune. They drink and smoke alongside the men of The Community and something about that makes them less submissive—more intimidating—than most of the women I know.
I may live a protected life, but I'm not naive. I realize these women participate in activities that can only be considered scandalous by sleeping with the men of The Community. The married women hate every one of them because they suspect (and can't question) their husbands are bedding the whores. Knowing the men of the commune, I'm sure they're right.
No one outside of the men and the whores know what's truly going on at the union hall at nighttime. What we do know is that everything that happens there stays there. Those secrets are as guarded as anything else within the commune. Owen doesn't tolerate gossiping or the telling of men's business. In some ways, I'm thankful for his rules because it would be impossible for me to pretend I don't know those kinds of indiscretions... if in fact I did know them.
When I think about the union hall at night and compare it to what I've done today, bowed out of work and went swimming, I realize that my offenses are not nearly as severe. Regardless of their benign nature, Owen won't turn a blind eye to my unruliness if he finds out. I roll my eyes at The Community's asinine double standards.
Peck. Peck. Peck. My attention is instantly redirected when I hear a cross between a chirp and a suck. It's followed by more pecking.
I scan the edge of the lake in search of the bird making the high-pitched noise. That's when I see a momma duck watching over her ducklings as more hatch. Several other newborns are wet and wobbling around while the one pecking—half in and half out of her egg—twists and turns and uses her egg tooth to fight her way free of the shell and its membrane. I feel
as sorry for the anxious momma duck as I feel for the hatchling making her entrance into the world. When the baby duck is finally free, she lies exhausted on the lake's muddy bank, breathing fast and looking like she's just been suffocating.
I notice the duckling has a yellow webbed foot and a dark brown one. There's no mistaking her for any of the other hatchlings.
Like me, the duckling is born into a world where she doesn't perfectly belong. Feeling a special connection with the newborn, I'm grateful for her differences. Because of them, I'll always be able to pick her out from the rest of the ducks. I quickly name the tiny duckling Mandi because she's a mandarin duck. While that species is rarely seen anywhere near the Louisiana lakes and swamps, I know this is what she is because of a lesson plan I'd created for my class a few months ago.
Distracting me from Mandi, two squirrels run between my blanket and the lake, dash up a tall pine tree, and bark playfully at each other. I lie back on my elbows and watch both the new-to-the-world duck wobbling around and the energetic squirrels chase each other until all are out of my sight.
Without the ducks’ newborn chirps or the squirrels chipper commotion, I’m left studying the lake's vast beauty and letting its serenity engulf me. Again, I contemplate the endurance that will be necessary in order for me to swim from one side of the lake to the other.
I study my legs and note they are nearly the same length as Becca's. The difference is Becca's are curvy where mine are lean. I flex them and appreciate every tightly bound muscle that pops up. I nod with approval and know my body will be able to do anything I ask of it. I've always been stronger than most people. Soon, I'll have to prove it to myself by swimming across the lake and escaping the commune.
With my final scan of the surrounding area, I glimpse the string from my swimsuit lying on my thigh. My chest aches a little when I remember Tess made the suit for me after she picked out yarn colors that would look good with the dark tones of my skin and hair. Even though I'm disappointed with Tess, I can't help but admire the tightly woven patterns adorning my olive-green crocheted bikini. Tess spent hours knitting, weaving, binding, and braiding in order to create the most spectacular swimsuit I've ever seen.
In my imaginary world, I dream of coming to the lake (wearing my beautiful swimsuit... of course) every single day this summer so I can become as golden as the goddess in the book I just threw into the lake. With its ending, the beautiful goddess got everything she ever wanted—empire, man, and family. I wish desperately for that which the goddess acquired just because she was gorgeous. Then, I laugh at my fantastical musings.
“Ah-hum.”
As soon as I hear someone clear their throat, I—completely shaken—jump up and cowardly run behind the nearest and fattest tree I can find. It's the same one the squirrels scaled in seconds. I'd give anything right now to be able to do the same.
Dammit! This is what I get for not listening to Becca, Kira, and Patti. Owen will hear about this for sure. Dammit! Dammit! Dammit!
Biting my lip, I contemplate my escape. I've pushed my luck too far. I've been conditioned to equate beatings with disobedience, so it's no surprise that images of Viv's back pop into my mind. The scars will be so terrible I'll never be able to wear a swimsuit again, and something about that thought is as troubling as anything else.
Owen and the boys won't think twice about making me an example, exactly like Viv.
"I'm sorry, ma'am. I don't mean to frighten you," the person who cleared his throat says to me.
It's definitely a man's voice, but I don't respond. Instead, I squeeze tighter against the back of the tree, praying I'll become one with it. With my eyes closed and my forehead touching the trunk, I think, Maybe he'll go away if I don't speak to him.
When I feel something touch my arm, I jerk away. Then, I realize the man is passing me the clothes I'd kicked off earlier. I snatch them, beyond grateful for the cut-offs and halter that definitely cover more than my string bikini.
Dressed and still terrified that Owen will somehow find out I'm outside of the commune's fence, I slowly step from behind the tree. My only goals are to get away from this man as soon as possible, sneak back through the fence, and never come out without permission again. I've definitely learned my lesson.
"I-I'm sorry, sir. I'm not allowed to speak to strangers," I say, staring down at my feet and making sure I don't look directly into the man's face. It's amazing even to me how quickly I revert from a rebellious teenager back to my father's obedient daughter.
I'm a woman who knows my place in the world and always will be. Lorenzo knows me better than I know myself.
"I won't hurt you, and I'm really sorry for disturbing you. It seems like you were enjoying yourself until I rudely interrupted. It's just that I'm lost and was wondering if you can give me directions back to the main road. My cousin and I were hiking, and I lost track of him and... apparently, my sense of direction...," he says, chuckling in a self-deprecating way that's instantly endearing to me.
The men I know always think way too highly of themselves. If they ever get lost, it's somehow someone else's fault. If there's a way to blame it on one of the women within the commune, that's exactly what they do.
Because they're so unexpected, the man's words replay in my mind, and I realize his voice is melodic. I've seen voices described in my books as musical, but I've never in my life heard anyone's words echo through the air like wind chimes being blown by a light breeze. This man's does just that, and the effects fascinate me.
I can't keep myself from glancing up. I have to see the person behind this voice. From my glimpse, I note several important things. First, he's very close to my age. Second, his shoulder-length hair is sandy blond and unruly. Third, his eyes are ice blue and piercing. Finally, he's more handsome than any man I've ever laid eyes on. Even Lorenzo.
When he flashes me a heart-stopping grin, I blush and quickly look away. He's caught me staring (mouth-open staring)... something I know not to do. Owen insists it isn't appropriate for women to gaze upon men. Fortunately, there are no men within the commune I want to study. Not like this man. He's way too beautiful for me to look away from. If given the chance, I'd spend all afternoon doing just that.
"I think I've forgotten my manners, ma'am. Forgive me. My name’s Levi," he says, reaching his hand into my field of vision, which is now intently focused on my feet.
Nobody—no man—has ever formally introduced himself to me, a woman. I'm so shocked that I look up once again and stare openly at this magnificent man. Seconds later, I feel Levi's grip as he shakes my hand.
"I-I'm Emily," I whisper, trying to pull my hand back, but he holds it tight and takes a step closer to me.
"Emily. The perfect name for a woman as pretty as you. I'm actually thanking my lucky stars I got lost today. If I hadn't, I never would've met you," he says. His words feel and sound honest and genuine.
I study Levi and squeeze his hand as tightly as he's holding mine. With the exception of Lorenzo's bizarrely lustful and possessive attention, no man has ever really acted as if he thought I was attractive.
With Levi's nearness, an emotion—a longing I've never expected or experienced—bubbles to the surface. I want to be more to this man than a servant or a housekeeper. As if magical, Levi's stunning smile and tender handshake instigate a sense of belonging within me that warms me all over and makes me want to follow him to the ends of the earth. The fact that he's an outsider makes him all the more intriguing.
Instantly, I shut down my train of thought. I know absolutely nothing about Levi. With a sag of my shoulders, I realize my desperation to be away from the commune and Lorenzo is driving me in a very dark and dangerous direction, one where I'm willing to run away with the first man I meet in the middle of forest.
"Do you mind if I sit with you? It may be better for Tope, my cousin, if I stay put and wait for him," Levi says, motioning toward my quilt.
No longer caring if I get caught, I look around and say, "Absolutely. Please fee
l free to use the blanket while you wait."
Levi laughs. "I was hoping you and I could sit... together... and wait for Tope to find me. Unless you have some place to be. I shouldn't assume you don't have dates to go on or boyfriends to answer to."
"I don't have anywhere to go or a boyfriend," I say with a demureness that almost makes me cringe because it's as foreign to me as my instantaneous attraction to Levi.
Levi's sparkling eyes and giant grin makes him look like I just gave him an unexpected present instead of the other way around.
"I find that hard to believe, but it just means this really is my lucky day," he says, winking good naturedly and further taking my breath away.
Levi
Jesus, this girl's beautiful. She's the kind of beautiful that would make a talent scout approach her and offer her an instant modeling contract.
I've spent the last twenty minutes watching her from afar and thinking I need to leave and get back to my search for Tope, but every time I try to go, I convince myself to stay and watch her just a little longer. I'm completely mesmerized about her every action and can't help but think about how cute she was when she was talking to herself. Before I knew what I was doing, I was walking toward her and clearing my throat.
The last thing on the planet I intended to do was scare her, but that's exactly what my approach did. I curse myself for making her shake and cower like a trapped animal.
With her, I'll have to be slow, gentle, and patient.
When I finally see her eyes—those rich-chocolate eyes—I know I can never get enough of them. Of her. Something deep inside me is awakened. Whatever feelings I'm having go beyond a physical attraction, but that's there, too. I'm so drawn to her, if I were a lesser man, I'd have her pinned between me and the tree, kissing her breathless. This woman makes me want to write poetry worshiping her, build monuments in her name, and dare other men to look upon her.
Realizing she's terrified, I introduce myself, making sure to put my hand out very slowly when I reach over to shake hers. I don't want her to run away because I might have to chase her down. There's absolutely no way I can live the rest of my life without knowing who she is.
