by Amy Cross
“So my father's farm,” I reply, “but -”
“No!”
I know there's no point arguing with him. I look at the stubble on his chin for a moment, before reaching down and linking my pinky finger with his. Pulling gently, I can immediately tell that he's not really paying attention, but I still twist our pinkies together the way we twisted them on that very first night when we got with each other. I twist tighter and tighter, determined to get his attention, until finally -
“Ow!” he hisses, pulling his finer away.
“We can't stay here like this forever,” I tell him.
He sighs.
“I hate it,” I continue. “I mean, I hate them. Pa's no use, and Joe's a retard, and your family's a million times worse. A billion, even. We won't be free of them ever, not while they're alive.” I pause, trying to imagine how it would feel to get in Jesophat's truck and drive away, to leave this land behind forever. Sure, it'd be sad to never see the family farm again, but I'd get over it. As long as I've got Jesophat, I don't care where I end up, and we can start new somewhere else. We can build up our own household.
While Jesophat remains silent, I look at his stubble again. There are times, like this, when he just disappears inward and I know there's no reaching him. Or at least, I've never found a way, and if I can't, then I reckon no-one can. Me and Jesophat have got things special between us.
“My father knows about us again,” he says finally.
I feel a shiver run through my body. I know where this is headed.
“How?”
“I dunno. Someone must've been spying on us one time.”
“That's impossible,” I tell him. “We're always so careful.” Looking around at the fields, I wait to see if there's any sign of movement, but there's nothing.
“People still see things,” he continues, “no matter how careful you try to be. There's always snoops and busy-bodies, and people with nothing better to do with their time other than snitch on others. If I find out who...”
His voice trails off.
“Did he punish you?” I ask.
I wait for an answer.
“He did, didn't he?” I continue. “Where, Jesophat?” I run my hands over his shirt, which he's kept on ever since he arrived, and after a moment he flinches.
“Stop that!” he says firmly.
“Let me see!”
“There's no need.”
“Let me see, Jesophat!”
He pauses, before slowly sitting up. I pull back and watch as he turns around, and then he lifts the back of his shirt to reveal several thick, deep cuts running all the way from his waist to his shoulders.
“Hell, no,” I stammer, shocked to see that the cuts are still glistening. The skin around them is red raw, and there are a few more marks on his flesh where the whip looks to have not quite hit properly. “You let him do this to you again?”
“What am I supposed to do?” he mutters. “He's strong, and he got me by surprise.”
“But still -”
“You've never been lashed,” he continues, interrupting me, “so don't tell me what I should and shouldn't have done.” He pauses, before lowering his shirt again and turning to me with those big, dark eyes that I love so much. Today, there's just a little more pain than usual in his expression. “It's the first hit that gets you,” he explains. “Knocks the wind out of you, takes the fight out of you and drops you to the ground. Then he strikes again and again, real quick. It's over in less than a minute, but there's no time to fight back. It's not just the skin splitting, that's the least painful part. The bad bit is when you feel your meat getting disturbed, and your bones getting scratched, and -”
He pauses, before turning away again.
“He knows what he's doing. He knows how to do it so I don't get a chance to fight back.”
“All the more reason to leave,” I tell him. “Jesophat, you don't need to knock your father down. You just need to leave him be. Ignore him. Let him and your brother sink into the dirt where they belong and rot there! Move on and pretend they don't even exist.”
He shakes his head.
“I can do it to my family,” I continue, “so why can't you do it to yours?” I wait for an answer. “Don't you... Don't you love me enough?”
He pauses, before turning and grabbing my neck. Pulling me close, he kisses me harder than ever, hard enough for his stubble to scratch the skin around my mouth. It hurts a little, but for the life of me I know I can never fight back. I can't breathe, but he lets me go soon enough and I fall back breathless against the grass.
“Did that answer your question?” he asks.
I nod as I start to sit up. He caught me by surprise, and I can feel my heart pounding in my chest. I think my lips are pretty scratched, too.
“That farm's my birthright,” he continues, staring out across the land toward the distant fields, toward the treeline that marks the division between our fathers' farms. “I'm not gonna let him screw me out of it,” he mutters. “I've put up with that bastard for seventeen years and I'll put up with him for a few more if I have to, but I will have that land and I will make it work for me. It's not rocket science. I don't need him teaching me anything, 'cause I can pick it all up for myself just fine.”
“Sure you can,” I tell him. “I know that. I never doubted you.”
“And it's gonna be mine,” he adds, turning to me. “You believe that, don't you? I need to know you're on my side, Serriah.”
“I am on your side!” I reply, scared that he'd even have to ask. “I love you, you know that!”
He stares at me for a moment, before nodding. “Yeah. Yeah, I know that. Just...” Reaching out, he puts a hand on the side of my face, as if he's holding me tight so he can get a better look at me. “I need you to be on my side no matter what.”
“No matter what.”
“Even if it means waiting a little while.”
“I'll wait forever.”
“And this land will be ours.”
“I know,” I reply, as a tear rolls down my cheek. “And we'll be good people, won't we? We'll be real good people, real friendly and honest and god-fearing. We'll be respectable, not like our disgusting families.”
“That we will.”
“I know it.” Leaning closer, I kiss him gently on the lips, while breathing deep, trying to get as much of his smell into me as possible. I know he'll be going back to his father's farmhouse soon, and I'll have to wait another day to be with him again. “But what are you gonna do?” I ask cautiously. “I mean... If you don't want to leave, then we have to stay, but... How are you gonna get the land from your parents?”
“I don't know yet,” he mutters, staring up at the blue sky, “but I'll come up with something. You've just gotta hang on in there, Serriah, and let me figure it out.”
“I'll wait for you forever,” I reply, watching the crow high above for a moment before turning and wriggling my pinky finger against Jesophat's, “and I won't let anyone or anything get between us. No matter what happens, I'll always find a way for us to be together.”
Serriah
“Dumb bitch!” Joe shouts, slamming me into the wall and then shoving me to the ground. Before I land, he kicks me hard in the chest, sending me thudding back against the side of the table.
He steps toward me again, and I instantly raise my trembling hands across my face while letting out a faint, sobbing whine.
I hate the way I always cry during a beating. I should be strong and resilient, but I just don't have it in me.
“Please,” I gasp. “Don't...”
“Did you think we wouldn't find out?” he asks, towering above me and puffing his chest out. He's copying Pa, saying the same words and trying to stand the same way. “We always find out, and you always go running back to that asshole. Don't you care about the family, Serriah? Don't you care that it makes us look bad when you're mucking about with an O'Reilly?”
I try to reply, but I'm trembling too much and I know he's
going to hit me again at any moment.
Suddenly he jerks his right foot toward my face.
I scream, pulling back, but he doesn't hit me and instead he steps back, laughing at my fear.
“How are you getting on over there?” Pa asks from the kitchen table. A moment later, I hear him turning to the next page in his newspaper.
“I think she's learned her lesson,” Joe replies, keeping his eyes fixed on me. “She's sure as hell cowering like a goddamn pig, anyway.”
“Whenever you think she's learned her lesson,” Pa continues, getting to his feet and coming to take a look at me, “that's when you need to deliver one more really good kick, just to make sure it sinks in. Otherwise, she's liable to go running back to the O'Reilly bastard, just like all the other times.”
I shake my head, but I know it won't do any good.
Joe grins, and then suddenly he steps toward me and kicks me hard in the belly, so hard that I cry out.
“There,” he mutters. “Just in case there's anything growing in there from the last time you lay down with him. We don't want any belly weeds, do we?”
“Don't kick her there,” Pa says with a sigh. “If you're gonna take over her beatings, you've gotta do 'em properly. Hit her somewhere with bone, maybe even crack a rib or two. Give her something to carry around with her for a few days and make her sore, so she doesn't forget.”
“Please,” I whimper, as Joe takes a step back. I keep my hands across my face, desperately trying to make sure I don't lose a tooth like last time. Jesophat won't think I'm pretty if I -
Suddenly Joe kicks me hard in the chest. For a fraction of a second I feel as if he's broken through and hit my heart, but the pain quickly starts to subside. I reach out with a trembling hand, trying to hold him back as I desperately struggle for breath. Beneath me, the floorboards creak as I try to sit up.
“Oh, get out the way,” Pa sneers, shoving Joe aside. “I thought you'd be better at this, boy.”
“I'm sorry, Pa, let me try again.”
“You just watch and learn,” Pa continues, still looking down at me with anger in his eyes. “You can have another try next time she brings a beating upon herself.”
“No,” I stammer, “Pa, please -”
He steps back and then kicks me hard in the chest, so hard that I immediately feel something breaking. I let out a deep, hawking gasp, and for a moment I can't breathe at all. Starting to panic, I reach out and grab Pa's leg, hoping to make him see that something's really wrong this time, although he and Joe quickly start laughing. I roll onto my back, still not able to breathe, and I start clutching my throat. After a moment, however, I manage to get some air into my lungs, although the pain is sharp and intense and I'm quite sure Pa fractured at least a couple of ribs on the right side.
“She'll live,” Pa mutters, turning and heading back over to the table. “And that, boy, is how you administer a beating. If you're struggling to hit her hard enough -”
“I'm not struggling!” he says defensively.
“If you're struggling,” Pa continues as he sits down again, “then here's a little trick. Don't think like you're hitting her, think like you're hitting the wall behind her.”
“Huh,” Joe replies. “That's pretty smart.” He takes a step back, ready to try.
“No!” I gasp.
“Not now!” Pa hisses. “Are you stupid, boy? If you cause too much damage at once, you might actually kill her. That's not what this is about, is it?” He grabs his newspaper and straightens it out. “She can't do her chores if she's too badly beaten up.”
As Joe slinks off, I stay flat on my back, focusing on getting air into my lungs while trying to find a way to crawl away that doesn't hurt so much. It feels as if there's a blade tucked between two of my ribs, slicing through my chest every time I move. The pain'll fade eventually, though. It always does. This isn't the first time I've taken one of these beatings, but I know that one day they'll be over. One day will be the last. Maybe even today.
I just wish Jesophat would agree for us to leave this place and never come back. It's the only way we're ever gonna be free.
Slowly, sobbing but trying not to make too much noise, I start dragging myself toward the door. The pain in my ribs is getting worse, grinding through my body and forcing a gasp from my lips.
***
Ma's up and about tonight.
I hear her shuffling across the boards, not too far away. I look over from my bed, but of course there's no sign of her. My room is dark and the house is mostly silent, with Pa and Joe having gone to bed. The pain in my ribs is too strong to let me sleep, and I've been half-expecting Ma to show up, like she does on most nights when I've been beaten around a bit. It's almost as if my screams bring her closer.
It feels good to hear her sloping footsteps.
After a few minutes, the sound stops. That's how it always goes. Sometimes I think she's here for a bit, then not, then here again, and so on. Other times, I think she just likes to stop and rest, like she doesn't feel the need to go racing about the place. Whatever, it's just good to know that she's here, that she hasn't forgotten me. I just hope tonight isn't one of those nights when she starts weeping.
I hate it when she weeps.
Rolling over to the other side of my bed, I wince as I feel my fractured ribs creaking. I look out the window, staring at the vast dark land that surrounds Pa's farmhouse. Jesophat's out there somewhere, and God knows what he's doing tonight, but I hope he's in a better state than me.
And I hope...
Lord, let him see the light. Either give him the strength he needs to put his folks in their place, or give him the wisdom to up sticks and take us away from here. We'd be okay together on the road, just him and me, and we'd find somewhere to settle eventually. I don't want or need fancy clothes and diamonds, or big wads of money, or anything like that. I don't need to be rich, I'm not even sure I'd want to be. I just want a house, a nice house, somewhere safe and clean, and I want not to get hit anymore. I don't want to hurt anyone. I want to be happy, and I want Jesophat to be happy by my side.
Can't I have that?
Please?
Can you hear the words I'm thinking? If you can, Lord, can you say something? Let me know you hear me. Just say my name out loud, right now, and I bet I'll hear you somehow.
My name's Serriah.
Tell me you're listening. Tell me you're hearing my words, or reading them like pages in a book, or just getting them somehow.
Silence falls.
I think maybe I hear him after all. Or am I just deluding myself?
A moment later, I hear Ma starting to weep.
Turning and looking toward the door, I realize she's sobbing gently. The nights when she weeps are the worst, because those are the nights when her spirit seems most troubled. Sometimes I think she's weeping 'cause of the agony of childbirth, or 'cause she's sorry she died at the moment I was born. Other times, I think she's weeping 'cause of how things have turned out.
Life would sure be different around here if she hadn't died. I wish I'd had a mother. A good mother, someone who wanted to take care of me. Sometimes, I almost think I want that more than I want a husband.
Getting up from the bed, despite the grinding pain in my chest, I limp toward the door and then I lean out, looking toward the top of the stairs. Ma's weeping is coming from the room at the far end, the room Pa say we're not to use on account of it being where Ma died. I make my way along, getting closer and closer to the door, and I can hear her weeping getting louder and louder now.
Stopping next to the door, I place a hand on the wood.
Sometimes, I think Ma's trying to say something when she weeps, like she's trying to get words out but she's trembling and shaking too much. Sometimes, I even think she's pleading with someone.
Taking a deep breath, I turn the handle and push the door open. Sure enough, when I look into the darkened room, I see a figure sitting slumped on the bed. I step closer and see the figure's face, al
l shadowy and trembling, but with the door open there's just enough light to make out her features. It's Ma, alright; long-time dead, ever since I was spat out, and she's got her legs open, like she's remembering the night I was born. I edge closer to the bed, the way I always do, but she hasn't noticed me yet.
“Take me away,” I whisper as I get closer. “What's it like, where dead people go? Is it safer than here? Does it hurt less?”
She's whimpering now, and I can see sweat glistening on the side of her thin-skinned face. There are patches of bone showing through on her cheek and around her eyes, and the flesh of her lips and mouth is missing too, revealing her teeth. She looks half dead and half alive. Whenever I see her like this, I never know what to make of her. The first time it happened, I was terrified. Seconds and third times too. But slowly, over the years, I've gotten used to seeing her, and it's almost comforting to know that there's something beyond death, that the finish line of life isn't just a tip-over into nothingness. There's something after.
Then again, sometimes I think she's not here at all, and I'm just mad.
Suddenly she screams, tilting her head back and letting out an anguished cry. I flinch, but I don't run, not even with all the feeling of panic in my chest. I've seen her do this often enough. I'm used to ghosts.
Serriah
“Do you believe in the existence of hope beyond death?” I ask as Jesophat stomps into the barn the next morning. When he doesn't reply, I look over at him and see that he's stopped nearby with his back to me. “Jesophat? I asked if you believe that there's something deeper and more spiritual that comes after our time here in the dirt. Something fairer.”
He pauses, before turning to me. There's blood all over the front of his shirt, and fear in his eyes.
“I sure hope not,” he whispers.
“What happened?” I ask, running over to him. When I get closer, I see that there's blood on his face and neck, too, but I don't see any wounds. All the blood seems to have come from outside and there are different shades. I don't know how, but I get this real deep-down feeling in my gut that this blood isn't Jesophat's, and that it's from more than one other person.
