In Rebekah’s vivid memory, young brother Thomas sprawls on the wide, sanded boards of the front porch imitating her, and the Family gathers round, guffawing. He was such a funny kid. Rebekah begins to laugh—an abrupt hacking sound—startling the girl at her elbow and alarming the twins who hover nearby.
Rebekah says, “Who am I?”
The children back away.
“Should we get Mother Susan?” asks one.
“No, she’ll shout at us all.”
More whispers.
Reflecting back on her Fall from Grace, Rebekah is certain that period of her early life—the nearly fatal accident and its long, slow recovery—single-handedly prepared her for the then-unimaginable future as Father Ernst’s fifth wife.
Dear Sister,
The truth is sharp-toothed and ravenous. Love or no love, if I could survive on my own I’d have left already. I can cook but not hunt. Harvest but not plant. What I’m good for is to service a family, a man. I cannot defend myself here or topside. I can keep house but not build one. What a terrible, terrible oversight. Don’t you agree?
All my love, Rebekah
CHAPTER 11
Paul follows sage scent and sits at the base of the shrub to rest the Ruger beside him, legs stretched in front. He removes the gas mask to wipe his face. He can go without it now; the air smells fresh, and mosquitoes buzz in multitude. He lowers the zipper on his coveralls, slips his arms out. Unscrews the top of his canteen and drinks deeply. Water on lips and tongue, swishing in his mouth, water down the throat. Swallowing, swallowing and belching, deep like a pond frog. He licks his salty lips and drinks again, long and slow.
A clear night with lots of visible stars. Sand shimmers in the light of the gibbous moon. Like satin or silk, like the women’s lingerie he peeked at in Memaw’s mail-order catalogues. Fingertip-slick paper, dog-eared—brassieres and gartered stockings and corsets—that he secreted to the outhouse where he ogled squares and rectangles of women, parts of the whole. Taboo pleasure. Guilt souring it, after.
He unlaces the boots and kicks them off, dumps out sand that has collected, pulls his legs from the coveralls. Holds his feet in his hands, one at a time. Blisters have come up where the boots rub. A breeze cools his swollen feet, his aching body. It is hard to tell exactly how far he’s come, but he thinks he’s made good time. Still an hour before dawn. The hardest time to stay awake but most pivotal. He has encountered nothing so far, no predators or travellers. No rebel campfires in the distance. So much for the fabled resistance. He’ll need shelter if he wants to sleep and food to keep up his strength.
The Family would be sleeping now. Silas and Abel in their shared room, snoring, groaning like spectres in the night. Springs squeaking discreetly. Bunks, end to end, twin mattresses, storage trunks below. A map of the Farm on one wall, ominous portrait of Father Ernst above it. Those painted eyes follow the boys, penetrating the dark. Paul sees it as though he is still bunkered, lying awake on his cot. Fusty scent of unwashed boys: sweat and traces of urine. Stagnant air. Wafts of the latrine, next door. Listening for tell-tale creaks. The door. Rebekah, come to him again in the night. Leading him to the dark pantry, the empty hall, or down the cold tunnel.
The beds were meant to be full of children and toddlers. Instead, they each get a double bunk to themselves, plus extras. Their tribe is not flourishing, contrary to what Father Ernst preaches from the Doctrine. Despite his many wives, his endless opportunities to breed, their numbers dwindle. Now more than ever the boys pose a threat, and Father’s ambivalence is palpable. He bullies Silas, whom he neutered and whose job is to preserve the Doctrine. And Paul himself Father Ernst has always loathed. Paul knows this in his bones. If Father Ernst ever discovered him with Rebekah, he’d kill them both, starting with her. He’d make Paul suffer by watching.
Paul clenches his fists. Topside, things are clear. It’s not easy living, but there is possibility. Rebekah has wanted to escape ever since she’d been made a wife. “Please,” she whispered. “Let’s go.” She begged to join him during his last forage, to disappear together, forever. In the end, he could not go through with it, couldn’t leave his sister behind, and Ruth still needs convincing.
Paul can feel his dad’s hands gripping his ten-year-old boy arms, bruising them, the day they went to ground. “I leave Ruth in your care. You’re all she’s got. Promise me.”
Ruth and he believed their dad would be bunkering with them, but Father Ernst had other plans. Men surrounded and held him. He shouted for Paul to descend with the mothers and the children. Paul screamed and fought until he was hoisted over a broad shoulder and hauled away. He remembers struggling, crying, watching his dad get smaller as men—members of their congregation—dragged him in the opposite direction, chained him to the front door of the church, fitted him with the padded Martyr vest lined with explosives, Family emblem stitched front and back.
Forced to Martyr. Later, stripped of his name, shamed as a traitor anyway.
So Paul is sworn to protect Ruth, biding time. But the longer they wait, the weaker they become. Could he even carry her up the ladder, the way he himself was forced down it as a boy? Not likely. One last time he will bring food for the Family. Then they must leave. Time is running out.
Pitter-patter. A slithering—the detectable sound of movement alerts Paul. The Ruger is up, safety clicked off, wide eyes aiming through the night-vision scope. He steps away from his gear, pours his body forward, bare feet in the dirt, squatting to kneel, silent. Movement in the scrub grass several yards away, a furred thing up in the air, down. Jackrabbit, with those tall ears. Paul hesitates, then sets the Ruger down carefully. A gunshot would carry over the sands, alerting anyone to his whereabouts. He reaches for the stick instead. The hare leaps, bounds. Paul aims for the space ahead of it, waits. Leaves his body, rides the breeze closer, hovers. That other self, the shadow hunter, hurls the stick. Strikes the target. Paul jogs to the brush, knife ready. The hare hiccups and twitches, spent.
He should be proud, but what Paul feels is closer to shame. Perhaps it had a mate and offspring who now must make their way in the world alone. Must he always kill to survive? He says, “Father in Heaven, your bounty sustains us. Amen.”
He gathers dried grasses, dead branches, husks from desiccated plants for a fire and sweeps a hollow in the sand. Sets the grass fluff in the centre, props the bigger pieces above like a tepee. In his deep pocket is a tiny Mason jar of strike-anywhere matches, and he lights one against the lid, which is covered in sandpaper. He cups his hands. It catches on the dried tinder. Orange burst, golden light dancing on fingers. Flame eats the kindling, and he slips larger sticks over top. Fire will keep most predators away—wild dogs run miles for a fresh rabbit—but might attract humans. He keeps the Ruger and his stick within reach while he cleans and preps the hare. He slits the belly, squeezes shut and carefully cuts the bladder out, the intestines, the organs, the spine. He’ll leave this pile for a coyote, an offering. Cuts strips of flesh, skewers them on sharp sticks, and sets them up around the fire. While they cook, he works on the hare’s pelt. He will not waste anything; dried and stretched, this fur will keep one of the children warm. Rebekah could fashion it into something useful.
The spit sizzle of juice dripping on coals makes him ravenous. Paul waits as long as he can before tearing off a piece and filling his mouth. It’s not smart to eat meat when he’s dehydrated—breaking down dense food uses up even more of the body’s moisture. But the rich, wet chew, a watering in his mouth, awakens him. He’ll have one piece now and wrap the rest in yucca leaves for the Family.
Could he lure them out with this meat? Through the tunnel, up the ladder, out the heavy blast doors to the hot sands. The way he used to lead horses in weather—their ears flattened to thunder, nostrils flared, huge beasts jittery with fright. A handful of oats from the pail, a carrot or apple to urge them forward. The shuck-stamp of hooves in the field, bump and sway of gleaming haunches, giant eyes rolling, gateway to a soul unknown
. He had to get the horses before panic took root. That veneer of training—acquired habits and familiar routines, the order humans force upon them—falls away in the true face of terror. Once, Paul saw them stampede. The massive stallion and a glossy black mare churning pasture mud, racing against lightning, screaming into the storm. Part of him thrilled when they leapt the fence, never looking back. Still, he wept, knowing how likely they were to be carried in flash floods along the creek bed, or caught up in barbed-wire fencing that tracked most of the county. Painful deaths awaited—broken legs and slow drowning. The stallion survived, was never quite the same. The mare did not.
Was it worth the run, that brief eruption of chaos? At the time, Paul thought no. Now, he is not sure.
Provider. His contract is to serve the Family, absolutely. One role or nothing—Father Ernst has made that clear. In their stale cramped quarters it makes sense. There’s no room for confusion, for any challenge to his leadership. But here, topside, he is alone and not alone. Here he can live by wits and instinct and skill. His dad might as well be sitting across the fire from him now. His dad lives in the Ruger, in the sparking flames, and in those unremitting wild stirrings, deep inside.
CHAPTER 12
The broom and pan are propped in the kitchen alcove, but it’s obvious the floors have not been swept. There was a time when the mothers sang as they worked together—Memaw, Deborah, and Mary. Gone to God’s Garden, all three, taking joy with them. Susan has already wiped the table and benches, already hoisted them on top of the table to prepare the floors. On top of that, she cleaned the kitchen.
“I’m to do everything, am I? I’m the mule!”
Susan yanks the broomstick and begins to whisk it, raising dust that coats her lips and teeth, her dry tongue, choking her. She coughs. Her eyes water and she can’t see. She throws the broom down and hacks, hacks, spits. Fury consumes her, and she surprises herself with a brief but violent cry. She wipes her face with her dress sleeve and takes a deep breath.
The creaking wheels of the stationary bike startle her. It’s Silas, that goose. She didn’t notice him.
“Get to bed,” she says, and he slides off the seat.
“Are, are you all right?” he says.
“Get.”
The boy’s shoulders hunch with worry but he goes.
She straightens herself. Nonsense. This is Rebekah’s chore, and she shall do it. Laying abed, not a peep out of her and not one stick of work done—that’s not the Family way. Girls today are spoiled, that’s what. They don’t know how good they have it.
In the women’s quarters, the little girls flock around Rebekah’s cot. The twins scatter when Susan strides into the room, but Leah remains close, whispering. Rebekah lies very still.
“Rise, Mother Rebekah,” says Susan. “You got chores, so haul yourself.”
No answer from the bed.
“Mayhap you despise it, but I’ll not do it alone,” says Susan. “Dreaming is the Devil’s work, and you shall not service him under my nose.”
Susan grabs Rebekah’s cup and flings the last bit of water in her face. The girls jump. Rebekah remains silent, unblinking. Droplets run over her pale brow, pool in the concave ponds that house her staring eyes. Drops stand on her cheeks, her dry lips, and spackle the neck of her nightgown.
Leah burrows like a small animal, licking coveted drops from Rebekah’s face. “Get down,” says Susan, but Leah will not. “In your own bed, now.” Susan swats her rear end, and Leah scuttles out of reach.
“You got the rage come on?” says Susan. She shakes the small lump at the bottom of the bed—Rebekah’s foot.
Nothing.
She jams the loose sheet ends under the mattress, in case Rebekah begins to roll in Godly possession. Susan turns a grim face upon the little girls. “Pray for her.”
The twins clasp hands under their chins. Leah kneels on her own cot. They say the Fits prayer together. “God, watch over Mother Rebekah. Keep her safe from demons, guide her visions, and bring goodly tidings of our vindication, our glorious Ascension. Amen.”
“Now get in there,” Susan says, and snaps off the light. “There’ll be no stories tonight.” She unties her apron at the waist, lifts it over her head, and hangs it on the nail beside her cot. She reaches over her shoulder for the dress zipper and pulls it down an inch or two. She stretches up behind her back but cannot grasp the zipper. She tries and tries. She hates to ask for help, but her back is paining. Fiery streaks ramp up without relief.
“Helen,” she hisses. “Get my dress, will you?”
The child slips from her bed and creeps over, wide-eyed. She pulls the zipper down, over the dreaded hump, all the way past the waist into the flared skirt. “There,” she whispers.
“That’ll do,” says Susan.
Susan shimmies to lift the dress over her head. That goes to the nail as well. Then the thick stockings, the worn slip. She stoops for a nightshirt and tumbles it over her head, pulls it down into place.
“Goodnight, Mother,” says Helen.
The girl startles her, still at Susan’s elbow. She vanishes and Susan hears the small cot squeak as she settles in again. Susan grips the cotton gown tightly in her fist. Mother.
What a peculiar sensation inhabits her just now. Susan sits on her own cot and lifts her heavy legs. She slowly reclines. She must turn to one side; the nerves pinch and stab at her. There was an ointment made from turmeric and comfrey root that Memaw used to mercifully rub in after a hard day, also long gone.
Night creeps through the chamber, and soon the girls are sleeping. Their snorts and tiny nose whistles sing a midnight song. Rebekah hasn’t stirred once. Susan is bone-tired yet cannot sleep. Time wends, and eyes open or eyes closed, Susan’s mind trips and stutters. It’s all up to her. Father Ernst has nothing to do with the actual procuring of sustenance. He only speaks of it in grand terms. The oats. How many watery bowls can she wring from them yet? Never thought she’d starve, coming to live on a farm.
Cousin Paul will, God willing, return with roots. Greens. Something. But when? Water is low, and Father Ernst won’t answer her on that. The topside drought has taken its toll on the water table in recent months and the well is run dry. They’ve got a half tank left. If only they’d stored more when they had the chance.
Coughs rattle someone’s small lungs—Rachel, she thinks. The child shifts and spits without waking, so familiar is this affliction. Susan rolls to her back and over to her other side, and the cot squeaks her distress with each shift and turn. She sighs. Night is the dark angel’s realm, when sin strikes fierce.
Ruth is locked in Contemplation, and Hannah is still in Father Ernst’s chamber, been there hours. She is sometimes permitted to sleep in that large feather bed. Plenty enough room in his chamber, Susan knows. She has to clean it. If only Father Ernst would be more discreet with some of his belongings. Things she can never unsee. The magazine, for one. Men can’t help it. Still, he is a Christian leader. It’s terrible to think of him flipping those pages and stroking himself or the girl, allowing such barbaric images to curdle his lust.
Susan took time to look through it herself, pulled by horror and by some other twisting need that confused and shamed her thoroughly. The women in the magazine looked like none she’s seen on God’s earth. Breasts larger than their heads, surgical scars sometimes gaping from underneath the swells. Tiny waists, flat behinds, and no body hair anywhere other than the obscene strips between their dolly legs, like old time vertical moustaches, confounding her. The two women together—that was an electric horror. Susan thinks of them still: tongues touching as they spread their hindquarters for the camera. Skinny legs and knobby knees, like foals.
Susan presses her thighs together and heat builds. Under the silent blanket she moves, furtive. She pinches her nipples. Bites her lip. Takes hot, shallow breaths. Slow circles, she imagines a tongue reaching, a small lapping at private skin folds. She squeezes and releases her muscles below the waist and tries not to creak the bed.
An agony builds and her thighs grow slick. Susan gasps and breathes out her shaky mouth, cools herself, does it again. And again. Brings herself to the brink of destruction and holds to that nauseous tip. Her straining body shakes the bedframe.
Lightning flares in her back, pain rips her rounded shoulders. He strikes where sin festers—a punishment of eternal fire. Susan releases the held breath. The arch of her left foot cramps, and she cannot reach it, she cannot hold it in her hands and massage the knot away and there is no one to do it for her. She gnashes her teeth in pain. She could weep a black sorrow. God forgive my shame.
The heels of her hands press against her eye sockets. She mouths a silent prayer. Steadies her nerves and tries to flex her left toes and then point them, but the knot spasms. She stifles a cry. After God, it is the ghost of Memaw Ruth she beseeches. Memaw’s merciful hands, the kindest she’s ever known. What she’d give for a haunting.
CHAPTER 13
Ruth scrapes, scrapes the blade of her knife, whetstone in swollen hand. The movement, the sound, of sharpening soothes her nerves. The cousin board is hard and splintery. It is very cold in the chamber, cold and damp. She has no blanket, just her regular shirt, trousers, and a thinning sweater. The thick belt, woollen socks, worn slippers. She stands and paces for circulation. She sits to rest. A meanness brews in her belly and lower, in some invisible, tormented female part. Her bladder presses but Ruth resists, not wanting to drop her drawers in the chill.
Hours pass in the dark cell, and Susan does not come. Nor Cousin Silas to mock her with scripture readings and then to moon and blush wordlessly. Nor the children, little ratstickers. They must be in bed. Ruth slides her knife back into its sheath at her belt. She needs water and another morsel of food. She misses her cot—a night of exile and she will gladly overlook its creaking shortfalls: lumpy mattress, flat pillow.
After a time, she cannot lie on the cousin board for cold, and she cannot pace the cell for weakness. Her lower back thrums, and an unfamiliar beast claws at her loins. Cold or not, Ruth undoes her belt, unbuttons her trousers with numb fingers. She squats over the bucket but nothing comes, only a burning that makes her cry. Finally, the hot stream. When she bends to look, the dull light reveals Ruth’s smeared thighs and underwear pooling black. Ripe with metallic heat, like a dying thing. Poison! Rotting her insides?
Tarry This Night Page 6
