Bluegrass Symphony

by Lisa L. Hannett

  I did as my master bid for several weeks, though I would’ve rebelled given the chance. If Mister Pérouse could leach the children’s blood and jus from my stomach, I realized, they could do the same. I could rescue their memories, I knew it.

  I could return them. Re-turn them.

  So I kissed Mister Pérouse, devoured him whenever he came close enough to bite. Let him take my interest as affection, as enthusiasm, as a gesture of reconciliation; let him think I was grateful for being his brood mare. I didn’t care, so long as his mouth was on mine and my family’s history trickling down my throat.

  In those moments, I closed my eyes and imagined the sensation of Beth and Miah’s tiny bites on my stretched skin as they drank down forgotten stories. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t picture Harley joining in.

  That image of my sisters sustained me for five months. I tried reading to pass the time but the books cluttering Mister Pérouse’s apartments were failed distractions; their plots like snowflakes melting in my fevered mind. I hardly remembered a word. I thought of the girls as the days turned to weeks, refined my plan until the flutter of kicks in my womb drove me to act. I needed fresh air if this third baby was to survive; I needed to move. More than anything, I needed to see if I was right.

  When Théo delivered my food tray, as he had morning after morning, I stopped him before he went to bed.

  Lifting my hand from his sleeve as though it were infected, he sneered at my belly. “You think to keep this one, non?”

  “She’ll survive,” I agreed, positive my child was a girl. I straightened into every inch of my height, a head taller than Théo. Looking down, I met his gaze and held it. A shadow fell across his face. He tilted his bald head, stared up at me with magpie eyes. If I’d flinched then, the moment would’ve been broken, my opportunity lost. But though I spoke quickly, my voice was steady. “I can barely breathe in here—” Carefully-timed pause. “You don’t know what it’s like to be trapped, Théo.”

  He didn’t blink. A slight frown furrowed his forehead. Of course he knew what it was to be held unwillingly. He’d been here three times longer than I’d lived. Was that enough to poison his mind? Enough to convince him to let me out? Maybe not, but I was willing to risk it. Even those whose hearts have stopped beating must feel, sometimes. Loneliness isn’t governed by the warmth in our veins.

  “I just need to see my family,” I said. “I’ll come right back—I just want to kiss them goodnight.”

  Théo snorted. “Sensiblerie. Stupid girl, what do I care for family?”

  Silently, I wrapped my arms around myself and hunched. Tried to make myself look small and vulnerable. Again, Théo blew air from his lips; half laugh, half derision. I didn’t respond, but sank to the edge of Mister Pérouse’s bed as his cousin left the room. The door closed with a hollow clunk.

  Floorboards creaked as he paused on the other side. The key slid in, scraped out.

  There was no sound of bolts shifting home.

  I waited a heartbeat, two; then sprang to my feet, crept to the door. Pressing my ear to the wood, I could hear the diminishing scuff of Théo’s boots as he moved down the corridor. Away from me.

  My pulse was so loud in my ears I couldn’t tell if he’d actually gone or if it was a trick. Taking deep breaths, I steadied myself—or tried to. Of its own volition, my shaking hand moved to the doorknob, turned. Spots whirled in front of my eyes; the excitement was almost too much. Exhaling, I flung open the door.

  I sped toward my sisters like I was being chased.

  They showed no delight in seeing me, not until I guided them away from Harley and the boys to the private corner where Beth’s bed resided. Harl watched us pass but pretended not to: his back was too stiff, his laugh too loud to be natural. The girls didn’t spare him a second look. Frantically, I pulled the screens to; quickly, so quickly. When I thought we were out of his sight, I raised my pinafore and urged my sisters to drink. Then, finally, they were all smiles. Voracious and thirsty.

  Stretched out on Beth’s quilt, I closed my eyes. Mister Pérouse rarely lifted my skirts higher than necessary; so unless they marred my neck or cleft, he wouldn’t see any marks they made. I bit my tongue when their fangs perforated my belly. Again and again, their heads bobbed as they sought the sweetest blood I had to offer. I directed them around the places I thought my daughter lay curled—soon a double band of dripping holes was scratched beneath my ribcage. Time slowed. I floated on their quiet slurping, the musk of unwashed skin and blankets. I didn’t have to force them off me; satiated, they stopped on their own. Looking at the mess of red pooled beneath me, soaked into mattress and clothes, I hoped they’d guzzled enough to remember.

  For a moment, none of us spoke. Miah sniffed, went back for seconds. My heart sank. I couldn’t bear to look at her, or at Beth. Couldn’t see the forgetful glimmer in their eyes, the dew on their lips.

  I’d done it for nothing. Risked everything for nothing.

  “I’ve got to go.” I swallowed the lump in my throat, and gently pushed to dislodge Miah. Tried to muster sufficient energy to stand. “Dawn’s breaking: time for night creatures to go to sleep.”

  Warm tears spilled over my cheeks as Beth wriggled up beside me until her head was parallel with mine. Flinging an arm across my chest, she squeezed and said, “Tell us a story before you go. The one Ma always told. You know, with the crazy bird in the gumdrop tree? The one who cried and cried instead of laughed and laughed?”

  “Okay,” I said, though I could hardly speak for crying, hardly breathe for hugging. Beth’s eyes had gone from pink to blue. Focused. Clearer than I’d seen them in two and a half years. A giggle burst from my throat, and its echo came from Beth’s. Neither of us had heard that story since Miah was smaller than the baby inside me. My laughter died off as I looked at my youngest sister. When I began the tale, the pressure of her mouth at my waist increased. Nothing more.

  “Once upon a time—”

  “Qu’est ce que tu fait?”

  Mister Pérouse’s voice whipped me upright. In a blur he was upon me. His fingernails pierced the soft flesh in my upper arm; yanking me from the bed, he knocked the girls to the floor like ragdolls. Neither of them cried out: already the memories were fading from Beth’s eyes. “It isn’t enough!” My face hot with tears. “I need more time.” But there was none to be had.

  A fist slammed into my cheek. I stumbled, skinned my knees. He pulled me up, tearing my hair, my dress. Théo shook his head, pretended not to hear the commotion as he skittered up the far wall, taking refuge in a fourth-floor balcony. Arianne nodded at my master; with a lift of her eyebrow, beckoned him to visit her chamber after punishments had been meted. Few of Mister Pérouse’s young flunkies paid any attention, no matter how hard I sobbed, nor how loudly I begged as he dragged me down the hallway. Except, that is, for Harley. Shuffling from foot to foot, he loitered just outside the grande salle. Like a puppy waiting to be let in after he’d done his business.

  Like a messenger just returned from an errand.

  Harl averted his eyes as we screamed past. Back to Mister Pérouse’s apartments; back to thick musty draperies; back to stagnant air. I cried out and clawed at the wallpaper, at the doorframes, until my nails were split and bleeding. Harley followed, staring at his toes. My stomach churned with lava. Rage, not fear, filled my mouth. I spat at my brother, a big shining gob of hate.

  The least I could do, the most I could do, was ruin the traitor’s boots.

  Rats crawled all over me.

  Claws scritching, scratching; jaws squeaking like door hinges. Skittering across the storage room’s cold concrete floor, they spoke with my brother’s voice.

  “Get up,” they said. Thump, thump; a herd of them landed on my shoulder. Jump, jump; they urged me awake.

  “Get up,” they repeated. I didn’t want to. My head was heavy, my lashes stuck together with the glu
e of dried tears. The bites on my stomach itched, already healing; the bruises Mister Pérouse had left on my face, thighs, and buttocks throbbed. My ears rang with the sound of his blows, the echo of his words.

  “You think I’ve hidden you for my sake?” Whack. “Imbécile.” Whack. “Idiot.” Pause. “I’ve done this for you,” whack, “not me.” Whack, whack. “For the baby.” Whack. Whack. Whack. “He’ll not be born for years if you’re turned.” Whack. Pause. “We don’t need another Arianne!”

  My cheeks grew hot with shame. They stung like someone was slapping me. I rolled over, but the feeling persisted.

  Someone was slapping me.

  “I’m sorry,” I said to the baby.

  “Get up, hurry! It’s almost dusk—he’ll be up soon.”

  I peeled my eyelids apart; it hardly made a difference. Harley’s silhouette blocked most of the light sneaking in from the corridor. Eyes open or closed, the space was dark, and so small it hardly deserved to be called a room. It was barely a cupboard, just outside my master’s quarters; no more than a few metres deep, half again as wide. Bare shelves lined the walls and a rusted bed frame was crammed in at the back. Three of its legs were twisted. One was snapped off at the base.

  I sat up, my back and joints aching. The baby turned and kicked, as unhappy to sleep on the floor as her mother. Harley put down the pail and broom he carried, then pulled at my hand, “Come on. You don’t have much time and this—” he gestured at the cleaning supplies “—won’t fool anyone for long.”

  It took me a second to realize what his presence meant. “You have a key?”

  The question was redundant: I could see it clutched in his fist. I stared at him, mouth agape. My hand rose to my belly, and Harl read the gesture for what it was: Why haven’t you used it before now?

  “I don’t want any trouble. Just go. You’re ruining everything, Adelaide.” Adelaide, not Ada. “It was all fine—everything is fine. We’re happy here. I’m happy. We’re happy.” He dragged me to my feet. The door was open, yet I couldn’t go through it.

  “Harl—”

  He shook his head. “See? That’s what I mean. My name is Harold—get used to it.” His voice went up an octave, and for a second he was the little boy I chased snakes with. The boy who leaped from quarry ridges, a coconut oil sheen on his skin. “But you can’t, can you?”

  I thought I’d wept myself dry on the storage room floor, but my sight blurred as I looked at this young man who’d taken over my little brother’s body.

  “No,” I said. “No.”

  Emotions streamed across Harley’s face; I couldn’t catch all of them. Confusion? Maybe. Disappointment? Certainly. And resolution. Yes, that most of all.

  I looked for love, for remorse.

  Kept looking.

  “Go,” he said, firm as the key he pressed into my palm. “Go home. Now.”

  “Oh, Harl.” My voice cracked into a sigh. I squeezed his hand, my eyes blurred with tears. “I’ll get Bethany, you get Miah—”

  He pulled away. “No, Ada. Just you.”

  I stopped halfway out the door. Miah might be lost, but there was still hope for Beth. “It won’t take long, I’ll just—”

  “No.” Every line in Harley’s face read, Don’t make me regret this. “‘Just’ nothing. Leave.”

  Ma would be so upset if I left them alone. There’s so many dangerous critters in this land, she’d reminded me, almost every day, before she went to work. Then she’d tickle me until I squirmed, adding a witch’s cackle to her voice. And ain’t they all got a hankering for children’s sweet meat!

  Irrational, unbidden thoughts. I stamped them out. “Who’ll look after you?”

  “Go,” he repeated. No reassuring smile, no farewell embrace. “We’re fine. We’ve been doing just fine.”

  “I can’t,” I begin to say, but my daughter kicked me into action. You can, she assured me with a jab to the ribs. You will.

  “You sure he’s asleep?”

  Harley shrugged.

  Without another word I slipped from the room, the key warm and slippery with sweat. I can’t thank you, I wanted to finish, but didn’t. Such thanks would be too much for what Harl hadn’t done. Too little for what he had.

  That evening, I watched the sun set.

  Its vibrant colours reduced my eyes to slits. The ochres and golds mirrored the late summer fields; the highway’s black line the only sign of what was ground, what sky. I ran towards the road, towards the light. Tried to shake away the darkness. Tried to stop looking over my shoulder, to stop imagining Mister Pérouse appearing, disappearing, appearing. Tried to erase images of Harley luring Jacques away from the front door, and Arianne to his bed. His manipulation, their hunger: a whiff of his lukewarm skin all the bait he needed to secure my escape.

  Headlights in the distance spurred me on. I moved as fast as I could, forced to stop and catch my breath too frequently. Even I knew the highway belonged to truckers at night: if I missed this one, another would be along sooner or later. I couldn’t afford it to be later.

  Dry air scraped in and out of my lungs as I ran. Every tuft of chickweed, every patch of wild wheat seemed to hide my master. I didn’t stop at the freeway’s edge—lifting a thumb was too subtle for my needs. I staggered onto the road, waited on the painted division between lanes. Solid white double lines: no passing. A good omen, I hoped.

  The hiss of hydraulic brakes accompanied by blinding headlights. I scurried to the driver’s side, knelt like a supplicant. Wasn’t refused.

  “Where you headed, darlin’?” The trucker nodded as I mentioned the crossroads between our acreage and Kaintuck town. “I know it,” he said, lending me a hand getting into the cab, squeezing my fingers as though to make sure I was solid. “Buckle up.”

  He turned the radio on, whistled through tobacco stained teeth along with four hours of country and western tunes. Once, he offered me water and half an egg salad sandwich, both of which I gratefully accepted. Otherwise, the bulge of my belly, the dried blood on my dress, or the anxious scowl on my face kept his eyes on the road, hands firmly on the wheel. When we reached my stop, I had no payment to give him but a smile. He took it kindly then returned it twofold.

  “Take care now,” he said. “And good luck.”

  “Thanks.” The croak of my voice was lost in the drone of bullfrogs and crickets; the chorus of my childhood. The adrenaline that had sustained me all night left my body in a rush, and exhaustion flooded in. As the truck’s taillights winked out over the horizon, I stumbled into a ditch by the roadside, immersed in familiar, foreign sounds. Five kilometres separated me from my family’s doorstep, but it might as well have been a million. Every part of me cried out for rest.

  I slumped to the ground. With both feet plunged in murky water pooling in the dip of the trench, my face and arms scratched to bits by thistles and long grass, and my back twisted on hard soil, I slept.

  I woke hot and thirsty. The sun was a half a hand’s width above the hills; the dried grass waving above me scant protection from its harsh rays. I was too exposed: the top of my head felt like it was on fire. Already the water at my feet had dwindled to muck—I scooped up as much as I could, coated my face and hair in it. More mud than liquid, it wasn’t fit for drinking. So with a sandpaper tongue and black slop dripping down my back, I started the final leg of my journey home, wishing I had one of Ma’s bonnets.

  My thoughts wandered as I walked. Would raccoons have infested the house? What if it had burned down? Would there be anything left for me to return to? Would Mister Pérouse have beaten me there? Most of all, would my blood-rags, hidden in jars all these years, still be there? The urge to destroy them quickened my pace.

  In and out, I thought. Break all blood-ties. Don’t let master sniff them out. . . .

  I knew I couldn’t stay. But it was important I see the place, see that something h
ad remained. That all wasn’t lost. The baby was restless. My stomach didn’t stop churning until I got to the familiar wooden fence. Until I followed it to the open gate, rusted but still intact. Until I saw the birches and cedars unscathed by axe or fire. Until I reached the yard and the house. Both worse for years of neglect, but both whole. Both there.

  The tension in my neck and shoulders eased.

  Home.

  The front lock held, which surprised me. I rattled at the doorknob, but the noise only inspired a scurrying inside. A stir of scrabbling feet.

  Raccoons, I thought, relieved. Or squirrels. I could handle vermin and I could handle a barred door. These were the least of all evils I’d envisaged. At the back of the house, my bedroom window was slightly ajar. I had no praise for useless gods, just gratitude to the carpenter who’d constructed frames prone to contracting in the heat. After jimmying it with a stick, the glass slid easily in its tracks. The casement was low—any higher and I don’t think I could’ve managed it. My entrance wasn’t graceful, but it did the job.

  Inside, the air was close and rich with decay. Fluorescent orange splotches of possum piss dotted the sheets and area rugs; brown pellets covered every flat surface and led like a breadcrumb trail out of the room. Slumbering and still, the house wrapped me in its embrace. I walked down the hall carefully, quietly, lest I wake it. The living room was darker than whiskey dregs. My feet crunched across the floorboards, snapping and popping on unseen twigs. At the far side, I stubbed my toe on the corner of the woodstove—it never felt so good letting loose with a blue streak of curses.