“God never takes but what he doesn’t give back tenfold.”
Stop talking. Just stop.
Beneath Bendetti’s incessantly moving mouth lay the black casket, shining like a grand piano. It was a disgraceful contrast, a circus piece thrown into the middle of a horror show. As if it was grinning at her. As though, if Molly raised the lid, she would find that Charity’s broken face had been pinned into the same ghastly smile.
The wind whipped again, and this time, instead of Bendetti’s words, it carried the distant hint of a psychotic laugh, low and sweet, as if reveling in its insanity. It sounded like Charity’s laugh, but wild and boundless. Perhaps her ghost had gone as crazy in death as everyone thought she was in life. Molly pressed her hands over her ears. The wind sent a few leaves tumbling. They rolled into the hole in the ground into which the men would soon put her sister. They would bury her deep. Covering her. Shutting Charity away from the light forever. Sadness welled in Molly’s heart. It pushed a few more tears out of ducts she had thought emptied by so many hours of grieving.
Molly was in the third row back. Her mother and father stood in the front, Molly’s empty chair beside them. They hadn’t moved away from her, she had moved away from them. Standing in the front row had felt like standing with her toes in a bonfire. She’d had to put some distance between herself and the casket. Maybe from them, too.
Mother was a statue, solid but teary on the outside, a pathetic wreck on the inside. Molly hated her mother about half the time. It came and went. When it came, it came with a vengeance. When it went, it fell like a withered leaf. She knew she should hate the doctors too. She’d tried to hate them, but she just couldn’t find the time between hating her mother and hating herself.
Charity, I’m so, so sorry. I love you so much. I should have listened. I should have done something else, anything else. I should have just asked you what you wanted and done it for you. I’ll do it now. Just come back and be my sister again, and I’ll do whatever you want. Just stop this and come back and we’ll go away together and be sisters forever.
When Molly wasn’t hating herself for not saving Charity, she was hating herself for hating her mother. She loathed her inability to help someone who was hurt so badly. Mother blamed herself, and Molly was glad for it, at times. And she despised herself for being glad for it. Somewhere deep beneath the huge blank space that had become her grief, she would survive and find a way to care for her mother again, but now she wanted her to die.
It’s your fault. The wind whispered again. You killed me, Molly. Molly almost burst out in hysterical laughter, and tears. Her Daddy caught her eyes. He was in even worse shape than Mother. He was the shark again. An inconsolable predator, bereft of his young. Someone was going to pay for this. It didn’t matter who. It was almost worse than Charity’s death—Daddy acting like he could do something about it.
Daddy, just stop. Why won’t everybody just stop?! Nothing can make this better!
Molly was so deep in her black ocean that she missed the first part of the whispered conversation behind her. Two of the town’s women were talking right though Father Bendetti’s eulogy.
“How long did the fever take to run its course?” Mrs. Harding asked, as if it was Sunday, and she was so bored of yet another sermon that she had switched topics to the weather. She and Mrs. Orem must not have realized that Molly was standing within ear shot.
“Two weeks,” Mrs. Orem replied. She was almost as hairy as her husband, the dirty ogre who ran the general store. “Some doctors took her to try to right her head. Not that you can fix that, mind you. That wasn’t crazy, that was them demons.”
Molly thought she’d been stabbed.
“What she did to the square,” Mrs. Harding rejoined in horrified condescension. “Have you ever seen the like?”
“Demons, I’m telling you,” Mrs. Orem groused. “That little girl was full of ‘em.”
Mrs. Harding replied with a toneless disdain, and what was that noise? Was she filing her nails? “Deserved what she got, says I. Never a better mother in the world. Everything money could have bought, she gave that ungrateful child. What was it anyway? Yellow fever?”
“Scarlet.” Mrs. Orem said. “And how’d she catch it, that’s a question for you. What did them doctors do?”
“A fever blanket?” Mrs. Harding asked dryly.
Without knowing how she’d gotten there, Molly found herself standing on her chair, screaming down on the women behind her. “How dare you! Charity was the most wonderful person in the world, and you are horrible, horrible, despicable wenches! You don’t deserve to be here! I hope you die! I hope you…”
Molly screamed at them while half the town stood and stared, faces turning white above their black outfits. Molly screamed until she was hysterical. She screamed for a solid minute as her father and mother tried to coax her, and eventually force her away. She would later remember being carried out. The rest of what she said, though, never came back to her.
Three years later (October, 1912)
Garret loved Molly more than anything in the world, except maybe his brother. But sometimes, it was hard for him to focus only on the love. He couldn’t seem to separate it from the other things a young man wasn’t supposed to be thinking about. Or so they said. The curve of Molly’s neck glowed in the firelight, as did her blonde locks, splayed all over the ground next to Garret’s head. The lace of her dress was pretty but frustrating. He laid his fingertips on her neck and ran them down to the edge of the lace.
“Garret,” she rolled over, eyebrows raised.
“Right, sorry.”
She scooted closer to him and they didn’t move for a while. He was glad for the fire. Not only was it warmth and light, but the scent of it helped to obscure the coal smoke which always lingered in a young blacksmith’s clothes. He needn’t have worried, though, because the fire stank again tonight, like coal with too much sulfur in it. It frustrated him to no end. He wanted these nights to be perfect for Molly. This was their secret place, the hidden nook in the side of the hill, ringed tightly with trees, with the flat spot perfect for a fire and two people to snuggle together. No matter how carefully he collected solid branches with no rot, the fire stank half the time anyway.
He gave up on worrying about smells and moved closer to her. She took his hand and spread his palm in the firelight, so she could look at it.
“This is your lifeline,” she said, tracing one of the creases in his palm with a delicate finger.
“My what?”
“Your lifeline,” she said, looking up at him. “It tells of a long and happy life for you.”
Her finger strayed to one of the scars on his wrist. Small, crescent-shaped, he had three on one wrist, and four on the other. He’d gotten them in the shop some way or another. He didn’t really remember, but she always seemed interested in them. It made him uncomfortable.
“What about your lifeline?” He took her hand and spread her palm. Her skin was fine and well-cared for. It reminded him of an ivory carving he’d once seen. He probably shouldn’t be touching something so nice.
“Mine isn’t certain yet,” she said. “Oh, I’ll have a happy life,” she added assuredly. “But so much of it is unresolved.”
“Like what?”
She quirked the corner of her mouth in a long suffering smile. She had his hand again. Up against her perfect skin, his looked like leather. “So many callouses for a sixteen year old,” she murmured.
Garret blushed. Denny, the clerk’s son, had soft hands, more like Molly’s. The life of a blacksmith’s son was rougher, and his hands and arms were corded and tough, despite his small physical size. His hands weren’t pretty to look at, or nice to touch.
“Well, I…” he began, but she took a breath, and despite the fact that her dress covered most of her breasts, the soft fullness of them completely derailed his train of thought.
“Garret,” she said, sitting up beside him. “What are you thinking about right now?”
> How? How does she always ask at the exact second?
“Well, I was thinking,” About how your mother would kill us both and burn our remains if she even knew you had that dress. He sat up beside her and balled his rough hands up behind himself. He shook his head. “I don’t know. I was thinking about my hands and yours, I guess.” He had to look away when he said it, and he hated it when he couldn’t look her in the eyes.
“What else?” she pressed.
Garret squirmed and got a little aggravated. Then why did you wear it if you didn’t want me to notice? He hated getting angry when he was with Molly. It was the time he wanted most not to be angry. What’s wrong tonight? Normally we’d be making out already. Should I ask if she’s okay? Maybe I shouldn’t…
“Garret…” she said with a tone. He’d been staring at her breasts while he thought.
Five minutes ago she’d been chattering about the fairy in her window box and the garden gnomes she said dug up her mother’s petunias every night. Without warning, she’d gone over an emotional edge. Why the serious turn? He’d tried to wheedle it out of her, but she wasn’t forthcoming, and he couldn’t do more seriousness after the day he’d had. So he returned to her eyes. They were deep wells of warmth that went down, down until they faded away into a restful place. They could ground him when nothing else could, so he held her eyes and tried to let go of the tangle inside.
On nights when the tangle wasn’t so bad, he could sneak out of his house, pebble-peck her window, and they’d steal away together, like they’d done tonight. He wished he could only be with her when he was in a good mood, but those days were rare anymore. She was always patient, though. Always kind. Always wonderful, even when she was serious. She always knew exactly what to say or do. He wished he could figure out how to do the same for her. Sometimes she would read to him, or teach him the things he’d missed in school. Feeding his family required him to quit at fourteen. And always, her presence would calm him, settle the fear and anger which always seemed to fill his thin frame.
Those were the bad nights. But on the worse nights, which fortunately were very rare, he might just end up with his head in her lap, crying, while she ran her fingers through his hair.
On the worst nights, there had only been a couple of those, he stayed away from her at all costs. On those nights, he would take his hound dog, Babe, out into the hills. They would walk for miles.
But whether it was a bad night, worse night, or a worst night, his Ma would always be there at the kitchen table when he came dragging himself back in at the crack of dawn. She was always furious, and always berated him. The severity would depend on how many arguments she’d recently had with Pa, and whether or not someone had refused her advances in town, and whether or not someone had looked at her wrong, and so on. If you don’t stop dragging into the shop looking tired, she would bark, people will think I’m a bad mother. And how could he possibly do that to her, with all she did for him, feeding him, sheltering him, staying up with him when he was sick, giving birth to him, etc.
Garret snapped out of his memory and back to the present.
Molly was watching him, a small, sad expression on her face.
“Try to let it go,” she said. “Just be here with me. Okay?”
“God, why does the fire stink so bad?” he asked, partially to change the subject, and partially because the smell was getting so intense it was making his eyes water.
“What do you mean? I don’t smell anything.”
Garret picked up a long branch and started poking through the fire to see if there was anything in it which shouldn’t be there.
“Don’t you smell it? Like sulfur.”
She shrugged. “Smells like wood smoke to me.”
Garret frowned. The stink was making his throat close up. But it wasn’t just the sulfurous odor, was it? Her perfume was overwhelming, as was the smell of the soap she had bathed with, but he didn’t mind being overwhelmed by either of those.
Heavy scents seemed to feed his needs and desires, making them glow hot as the orange embers. God, he was burning with it. He needed her in every way. Wanted to be with her. She was sweet and funny and more beautiful than the marble goddesses her mother put on their lawn. The goddesses were naked, though. That was a definite plus.
“Garret,” she said with a sigh. “Let’s talk.”
“I don’t really want to talk,” he said honestly. Her cheek bone had such an alluring curve, he had to touch it. He ran his fingers from there down to her chin.
Her eyes held steady. “Garret, do you love me?”
He nodded.
She didn’t seem satisfied so he said, “I love you. I want to marry you.”
She smiled then. “Where will we live? Here or somewhere else?”
Garret scooted a little closer to her, fascinated again by the curve of her neck. At the moment, he really didn’t care where they were going to live, but he tried to give it half a thought. “We’ll live here.”
“But don’t you want your own shop? Wouldn’t we have to move away so you don’t compete with your Pa?”
Garret had sneaked his face into the crook of her neck and was immensely enjoying her perfume. She was filling his nose and his mind and his heart. He couldn’t lose her. He could never lose her. He’d die on the spot.
“Sure, we can move.”
“Where? It won’t become real unless we can imagine it first.”
Her imagination was usually fun, but now it was getting annoying. “Anywhere you want.” He dared to lay a kiss on her collarbone. She scooted away from him a little bit. The smell and feel of her had him hooked tightly enough through the nose that he teetered when she pulled back.
“Garret,” she scolded. “You’re not listening to me!”
By talking about the shitty house that’s all I’ll ever be able to afford instead of the mansion you live in now? He restrained himself from scooting up against her or something more aggressive. It took a lot of effort.
Her lips curled down into the enticing pout she got sometimes…
A LOT of effort.
“We, uh…” he began with all the eloquence he could muster. “Uhhh…”
She turned away from him, grabbed her book and buried her face in the pages.
The stink of the fire was twining tightly with his feelings, and he was angry and ashamed that she had thrown away his advances as if they meant nothing. As if he meant nothing. Around the edge of her book, he caught sight of her expression. She was upset, but she was also hurt. Garret’s anger evaporated. Shame poured a cold bucket on his libido. He’d hurt her feelings. She was in the right anyway. It was the modern world of 1912. Making love before they were married was the cardinal sin. If she let him take her, and anyone found out, or God forbid, she got pregnant, they would be treated like lepers. It would practically end his career before it started unless they moved far away.
What’s wrong with me?
A nasty answer came to him, whispered out of nowhere, as if the stink of the fire had been given words. What if you’re just like your mother?
Garret tried to move gently, so as not to look as desperate as he suddenly felt. He scooted up against Molly, which she, after a moment, allowed. He put an arm around her, pulled her close and kissed the top of her head. After a couple minutes, he felt her relax. She just wanted to be held for a while, and he was glad to do it.
The Appalachian Mountains. November 1912.
Garret awoke slowly. He tried to keep his fingers in a dream about Molly, but sleep slipped his grasp. He yawned luxuriantly and stretched. Being with her made him feel contented and strangely powerful, as if there was nothing he couldn’t do. But he wasn’t with her. He was in the small bedroom he and his brother Sarn shared. And his younger brother did not make him feel contented or powerful in any way. Well, maybe that wasn’t exactly true. Garret stifled a snicker as Sarn’s chest rose in a long wheezy-whining intake. What fourteen-year-old snored?
Garret stole out of bed and to his
wash basin. The silvering had peeled off the edges of the mirror, and the center had dulled, but he could still see his narrow face and his thin, but well defined chest, arms, and abdominals. His wavy brown hair was beyond help. Nothing his cap wouldn’t cover.
He slapped some water on his face and peeked out the window. The sun was edging over the horizon. I’ve got to get my butt out of bed earlier. Molly will be thirty by the time I’m done with her sixteenth birthday present. He tiptoed down the short hall and into the kitchen, being careful to avoid the squeaky floorboards.
Scrounging was the breakfast ritual, and sometimes the dinner ritual as well. He found half a loaf of bread in the breadbox, a pat of butter in the icebox, and nearly cackled aloud when he discovered the remains of the cherry cobbler. Ma hadn’t cooked much recently. But there were dry goods on the shelf (purchased by Pa), so Sarn and Pa would have plenty to eat. Garret grinned devilishly and scooped most of the cobbler onto his plate.
“Early bird,” he mumbled to himself, only feeling a tad bit guilty as he returned to the table and dug in.
Garret ploughed through the plate, double timing when he heard Sarn stir. He was cramming the last piece into his face when Sarn rounded the facing.
He was a freckle-faced boy, thickish and big for his age. He had sandy blonde hair from nowhere anyone could figure, and a facial expression as plain as his outlook on life. Garret loved him almost as much as he loved to sit on him.
“Hey,” Sarn crabbed. “Did you leave any of that? You didn’t, did you?”
“Get a fork.” It came out as “Gemmafor,” and Garret opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue. Sarn surprised him by moving faster than anyone his size should have been able to. He had his entire fist in Garret’s mouth before Garret could realize he was actually going to do it.
Garret flung him away and almost choked. Sarn collected himself and his slobbery, already chewed handful of cobbler and walked back into their bedroom.
Brimstone Page 7
