by Lynn Pruett
In the day she affected brightness and cheer so well no one knew that her heart had shrunken to a dried prune or that she did not give a hoot about missing silverware or ads with Bible verses about wanton women. To her daughters, she showed that the will marches on, despite missing a heart or a brain or a leg. On you go, pain not altering your stride in the least. This was not said to her daughters, Connie and Darla, it was implied, shown in her kindness to the Inedible Fat man when his overly solicitous inspection of the fat pipe dislodged it the day before the fish fry.
THE LADIES OF THE CHURCH OF THE HOLY RESURRECTION
When the front-page wedding picture of Sheriff Dodd and Jessamine Bohannon appeared on the ladies’ breakfast tables, they quickly dropped a serviette on it to spare the children. They thought it was a prostitution bust. Later, in secret when they read the caption, they fanned their faces to keep from succumbing to shock. Paul Dodd had married her! By the second hour of cocktails, they felt gladness in their hearts. They called each other and said, “Have you heard the good news? Hattie Bohannon’s daughter has married the sheriff!” Meaning they could pretend to be happy about the news but really they were happy for Hattie’s comeuppance. But at 3 A.M., tiny pinches of sympathy entered their hearts. They were, after all, Christian women. Nothing could be worse than what her daughter had done. Nothing. Now they could pity Hattie Bohannon, and from that position of elevation they made kindly remarks among themselves about her trials and tribulations.
REVEREND MARTIN PETERSON
He’d write a quiet considered sermon, one that took nothing from him. The relief of the rain had stemmed some of his pent-up feelings. He wanted to ease the congregation into the mass baptism, now that the river was flowing clear again. Until the rain had raised the water level, it seemed the baptism would be more like mud-wrestling than an opportunity for spiritual salvation. Now it would be sweet relief to rejoice in the aqueous bounty of the Lord. And thanks to the boycott and the drought, he knew, the whole county knew, and even Hattie Bohannon had to know that the truck stop was permanently doomed. The sheriff was not going back up there, not after marrying Jessamine Bohannon, who had had the sense not to return to church. There was general relief all around, a sense of victory.
Stelle was painting again: snakes, always snakes that looked strangely and accurately feminine. Long and tall, a flow of sensual curves and knowing eyes, hooded with gold like the eyeshadow of tarts. This is what saw him at breakfast; this is what he saw as he wrote.
Stelle herself came in wearing a drab olive blouse and matching pants, carrying a Bible with her finger marking a passage. Martin stole a glance at her eyelids and was relieved to see they were unpainted.
“I’m writing the sermon,” he said. “It’s on an even keel, the obvious verses to prepare for the river baptism. What have you found?” he asked tentatively. In the past, she’d discovered unremembered gems of startling clarity that added to the breadth of his sermons. Perhaps she’d done the same today.
“Yours first,” she said.
“And if a man take a wife and her mother, it is wickedness: they shall be burnt with fire, both he and they, that there be no wickedness among you (Leviticus 20:14),” he read.
“That is distortion,” said Stelle.
“It’s an interpretation.” He shrugged.
“And so is To avoid fornication, let every man have his own wife, and let every woman have her own husband (First Corinthians 7:2),” Stelle countered, her face cool, lacking even a hint of humor. “Martin, do we want to lead a congregation that thrives on hate?”
“We are servants of the Lord. We follow His design. We are not to force the congregation one way or the other based on our interpretations of the Bible,” said Martin.
“Martin, that is what ministry is and always has been.”
“What has happened to you?” Martin shouted. “Where are you anymore? You are not here for me. You are not here for God.”
“I don’t believe that tolerance and forgiveness and taking care of the weak are antithetical to Christian doctrine,” Stelle said. “I do not believe in a military church.”
“So what am I, Hitler?”
She fixed her dark eyes on him and he held their gaze steadily, her doubly dark pupils emanating a cool disgust. She flicked her eyes away from him. The Bible lay open between them, the verses she’d quoted underlined in red. If she wanted to, she could find passages to justify anything. But, he thought with a sudden surge, so could he.
If it was forgiveness she called for, then let her own be the cornerstone in the new house of the Lord.
JESSAMINE BOHANNON
Every afternoon at five o’clock, after the showers, the sun blazed back in the sky and steam rose from the pavement. We lived in a ghost land. Blacktop had breath and it was warm and smelled of tar.
I marked my days by the rainfall, the sunshine, the tiny beams of stars light-years away. I had never been so bored in my life. Paul went to work in the morning and often in the night as well, while I hung around the house, his house. It didn’t seem like mine.
He had ways of doing things that seemed to be written somewhere in iron. The first week I found little squares of yellow paper, crammed with instructions and admonitions, stuck to things all over the house. Use 409 to shine the front of refrigerator, dishwasher, and stove. Lemon Pledge ONLY on cabinets. Hang my shirts so they open on the left. The one that burned the most, on the end table, the yellow tab with a large red arrow aimed at a water ring that obviously I was responsible for. Please don’t stain the furniture when watching TV. USE COASTERS! There are forty-three in the china cabinet. Why couldn’t he tell me instead of writing notes, as if I were a housekeeper he never saw?
I think he was surprised by how fast he had a wife living in his house. Most days I was going out of my mind waiting for Paul to come home, nothing to do but invent worries. Sometimes I called my sisters but they seemed nervous talking to me, like I was a big disgrace. But my wedding picture had been on the front page. My reputation was wiped clean. I imagined Richard Reynolds seeing how good and happy I looked and his stomach tightening and then throwing up because that could have been us. Not that I wanted him anymore, but I would have liked him to suffer some, too.
It became clear that it wasn’t me and my life Mama had been saving, it had been Heather’s all along. But I can’t believe it’s true that Mama is the best mother. I seem to be the only person who knows her flaws. Paul won’t entertain a single bad word said about her, and he is my husband.
About ten days into my married life, I stared into the green refrigerator. It was hard to dredge up energy to cook supper. Maybe I should order a pizza in Gadsden. Then I could drive around for an hour. Hah! There in the meat compartment was the missing ham Paul claimed was stolen last night. I couldn’t understand how a man who had lived in this house for a dozen years suddenly couldn’t find things in his own refrigerator. He was so orderly. I felt like hanging the ham on the front door. Next time he woke me up in the night, lost and confused, I’d tell him to keep looking. The doorbell rang before I found the car keys.
It was Stelle Peterson, our first visitor. I thought of pretending I wasn’t home because I hadn’t been to church since Reverend Peterson refused to marry us, but I was lonely. I opened the door.
“How’s married life?” Stelle asked. Her skin was clear but it looked like it had been recently shrink-wrapped around her strong cheekbones. Maybe it was the vermilion scarf she wore, pulling everything tight, her white streak of hair a wide part, the rapids through granite.
I smiled and nodded at our small yard and house and let the domestic scene do the talking.
“How’s your mother?” she asked.
“The same,” I said. Even though I should have felt grateful to Stelle for taking me into the church when I needed it, I held a grudge against her husband. It put a damper on my belief in their brand of God. I always thought God forgave. I had prayed long and hard one day, asking to be forgiven for having
Heather without being married, and the lightest, happiest feeling had filled my heart. My child was supposed to be in this world. I expected forgiveness from the Church of the Holy Resurrection.
“Guess what?” Stelle said.
“What?” I asked, crossing my arms. I feared a spontaneous devotional meeting coming on.
“Ann Reynolds is pregnant. I knew you’d be delighted to hear the news. And”—she lowered her voice as if afraid the hydrangeas would hear—“she’s going to breastfeed.”
“What, with one tit?” I said, and wished I hadn’t.
“Now, Jessamine, that’s not very nice.” Stelle colored. She’d seemed on the verge of saying something welcoming, but now her cool smile stretched into a haughty arc.
“My word.” I guess Richard hadn’t suffered much at all. I pulled the door shut behind me. “We’re out of food. I have to make a quick run to the store. Sorry, Stelle.”
“I’m in a hurry to get to rehearsal anyhow.” Her shoulders straight, Stelle walked toward her Cadillac, which blocked out the setting sun. Dangling from her scarf was the thin cord that would connect her to the Tape of Perfect Pitch.
That night, pretending my restlessness was the fault of pepperoni pizza, I was plagued with dreams of a single enormous breast, attached to Ann Reynolds like a hot air balloon. Poor Ann would be known as the one-breasted wonder and her child would be judged too. Then I imagined bringing Heather here, giving her the front bedroom, the two of us reading bedtime stories, picking out cool clothes. I would go to parent-teacher conferences and give my opinions. I would help her learn to mutilpy and teach her what an offensive tackle was as opposed to a defensive end. We’d be, mother and daughter, a lovely complement to Paul in his uniform. I wouldn’t be lonely anymore.
On his side of the bed, Paul snored. Nothing bothered him at all. One would think a sheriff would fear for his life or at least have dreams about being shot. But no: snore, snore. Our ceiling was clean and white. I believed mightily in God. I’d thought God and Paul would take care of my problems with my old reputation. Perhaps they had.
I turned over and looked at Paul’s profile, his smooth forehead. He didn’t seem attracted to Mama anymore, not that I could tell. He’d planned a delayed honeymoon trip for us to Atlanta. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that somewhere a connection wasn’t hooked up right. Paul groped my thigh in his sleep. Resigned, I reached for him.
I spent the next day in preparation for a serious talk with Paul. All afternoon I had imagined what it would be like to have Heather here with us. I figured two parents in the house would outweigh one working mother, if push came to shove. I prayed that Mama would see this as a chance to move ahead with her own life.
After my shower, I cleaned the kitchen and decided to cook a meal without burning anything, and to have the place nice when Paul got home at ten.
Candles flickered over our dinner plates. The wine was chilled, the chicken tender, the salad fresh and pretty, with onion curls and bacon bits sprinkled among fresh leaves of spinach. Paul gazed at me over the food with his familiar longing. I chose to concentrate on his fine chin.
After supper we sat on the front steps. He popped open a beer can.
“Paul,” she said, “I need to know some things.”
He swallowed his beer and waited.
“Do you go up to the truck stop?”
He pressed the can so it clicked. “It’s my job, Angel.”
I leaned my cheek into his shoulder. “Have you seen Mama?”
He pulled a long draft of beer. His arm clutched my hip. “Honey, that all happened before I met you.”
“Before we decided to get married,” I corrected, and then felt very sad for Mama. I reached for the beer and took a sip. If I brought Mama into our talk, I’d have to ask questions that I should have thought of before I married him.
“I never loved her like I love you.”
I put the beer to his lips. “I had lovers too, Paul.” I didn’t understand his attitude but I didn’t want to hear anymore about him and Mama. I shivered. Paul stroked my bare arm.
“Honey, I heard tales about you. I trust they are not true.”
I was glad we were looking at the half-grown pine trees in front of the house instead of each other. Paul crumpled his beer can and threw it at the trash can beside the road. It clanged.
“A three-pointer.” He grinned. “That was a real nice dinner you fixed us tonight. It makes me real happy we shucked the other folks and found each other.”
He nudged me to sit in front of him. Ensconced by his thick thighs, I let my head drift back to rest on his chest. Together we stared at the white impatiens in the yard. Overhead, moths swirled around the yellow light next to the front door.
“Paul. I have a child.” Did his chest tighten and slide away from me for a second or did I imagine it? A button on his shirt rose against my skull with each of his slow, deep breaths.
“I wish I had brought another beer out here,” he said.
I pushed my elbows into his stomach.
“Don’t hurt me, Sugar. I don’t know what you want me to say. I don’t know what to say, Jessamine.”
I looked up into his face. His cheeks sagged and his nose twitched in a brief second of uncontrol. His eyes fell on mine as he said, “Honey, this is what I feel. I feel that we both have pasts.”
My fingers tingled like someone was stabbing me with pins. “It’s Heather, Paul. She’s my child. I mean, she’s Mama’s now, but I had her.”
He cupped my breasts with his hands and tweaked my nipples. My big secret had only turned him on. I wanted to push him away. He was always turned on, even when I woke with sleepy breath and tangled hair and eyelids stuck together. I wriggled my head out from under his chin and twisted my breasts away from his hands.
Despite the dim yellow light, I could see his neck darken and color rise on his cheeks. He clasped and unclasped his fists. Several times his jaw opened but no sound came out. His breath got faster until it was audible, the short grunts of a sweaty runner. Air choked him. He was hyperventilating. I pushed his head between his knees and raced inside for a brown paper lunch bag.
I slipped the bag over his head. Gradually its loud, violent flapping subsided. Paul sat in the porchlight, his shoulders broad, his fists tight, the bag his protective helmet. I placed my hand on his forearm. His muscles were tight as a spring. He was embarrassed. I slid my fingers under the bag and stroked his ears, then inched up into his hair as his chin emerged from the bag. I kissed his chin. With slow exploratory fingers and lips, I nudged the bag up and off his head, as if it were the wrapper of a delicious present.
He raised his hand, slow, as if he feared an electric shock, to touch my face. He rubbed my cheek and sent shivers up my neck. It was the only way he could show his love for me.
“Paul,” I said. “Let’s hug. Let’s just go to bed and hug all night.” But the words I breathed through his hair did not convince me of the limits of my own desire. “Let’s just hug all night.”
HATTIE BOHANNON
Alone and overwrought, she went to the river, pushed out Troy Clyde’s raft, and glided into the stillness. It was warm, as night is in Alabama in August. She docked at the tomato patch and, in the dark, pulled weeds, losing herself in the sensual feel of the dirt, the pungent odor of the lush plants. Under the sky, there was peace. Crickets chirped in the high grass and the Ruby rolled on, gently brushing the river reeds. It was a place to sleep. Finally, she’d found a place to sleep.
When she woke on the soft grass mat her body had made, she rolled over and looked at the stars. The bugs had hushed. There was the good iron smell of the soil, a hint of tomato in the air. She breathed deeply and rested and thought of the long-ago frozen nights she’d roamed the house disturbed by dreams, drawn by the silence of the night to thoughts of peace in death. I like being alone, she thought. I need to be hugged as the earth is hugging me, in this darkness that is peace.
When her father died, she had understo
od that it was not God but living that was so hard on him. It was the bad market prices for crops, the uncertainties of the weather, the things he could not control that inspired his helpless rage. Living is hard, she knew first hand, and yet there were times of respite. All I want is to feel like this, free and rested. My own place, uninterrupted.
She thought of her mother, long gone from Maridoches, living a new life. Sadness welled as the wave of abandonment washed over her but ebbed. She understood now a little better her mother’s need to flee. Maybe it wasn’t a bad thing to change course. Maybe it had been a triumph for her mother, made at great sacrifice, to leave her home and two older children. Maybe she’d felt she had no choice.
Uneasily she let her mind return to the truck stop. Here, in the starlight, it seemed to exist in another dimension. An alien world of dangerous situations; a place ruled by public scrutiny; requirements and rules she did not believe in. I bet those church people are dancing with joy. She’d read the letters to the editor, letters foaming with rage so blind it made her want to carry a gun in the glove box to protect herself. A world with that kind of hate was no place to raise children.
Why should I stand in the doorway awaiting a bullet from a mad fundamentalist, thumping his Bible as he shatters my windows and molests my children? I cannot let my daughters work there any longer. I must protect them. They are too young. I was the naive one.
