But seems the good Lord is not even so merciful as that. Duke’s voice intrudes on this meditation, calm and conversational, saying something about how he always did admire my spirit, though it were such temptation to the devil that old Beelzebub done bought it for his own.
“Go to hell,” I reply.
To which command he only sighs. Curls his fingers around the fringe of tiny lace at the décolletage of my camisole and pulls downward, so that my breasts spill free into the open air.
For an instant, even the raging creek seems to hold its breath. Or maybe I simply cannot hear it anymore; maybe my senses are all wound up into such a knot that nothing can slip through, not sound nor sight nor touch. There is Duke’s hand on my bosom, sure, but I can’t say how I know it’s there. Only that my flesh curdles, and some flurry of activity takes place along the wall.
“Take your paws off-a me,” I whisper. Try to lift my hand, but my arm don’t obey me. Like a wing dragging behind an injured bird.
“Would you look at that,” Duke says slowly.
The world commences to tilt around me, and then I perceive that I’m the one tilting, that Duke is catching me and holding me upright. Digging his hands at the waistband of my skirt, so that it falls away, hands on my knickers tearing those too, and my vision is grown blurred, my head is too light to remain fixed on my neck, and I am floating away somehow, away from his hands, except I’m not, of course. I’m stuck here on earth. Some kind of present hell from which I cannot seem to wake.
“Now, this be interesting,” comes Duke’s voice, from somewhere nearby. “Mighty interesting. What shall we name this particular work-a art, gentlemen? Redhead Sunk in Shame?”
I guess the gentlemen are having trouble arriving at a decision on the spectacle of my bare-naked bosom in the cold springhouse air, while the creek fixes to flood, the water so cold as it creeps up my legs that I can hardly breathe for the pain of it. The pain in my arm where my step-daddy near to broke it. Duke holds me in place and turns me to face the wall, the horrified expressions of Anson and his baby brother, Billy, and he presents me to them like you would present a prize sow at the county fair.
“All them pictures as she took. Baring her harlot’s skin afore the eyes of man. Surely we can summon up a name for this-un, betwixt the three of us. Redhead Afore Her True Redemption?” He brings his arms around my front and gathers up my two breasts in his hands. “Redhead Submits to the Embrace-a Her Lord?”
Billy cries out. “You’re a damned monster!”
“Quiet,” Anson says.
And I cannot look upon them, the faces of these two brothers who have each, in their turn, lain with me in the heat of bed. I, Ginger Kelly, on whose bare-naked photographic image a hundred thousand lustful men have feasted, cannot meet either gaze: not that of the dear boy whom I once adored, nor of the man for whose sake I would barter this poor body in an instant, did I imagine Duke Kelly would keep that bargain. I look upon my own brother instead, my beloved Johnnie whose eyes lie evermore closed, and I think, He has won, Duke has won, he has sunk me in shame at last, he has surely made a harlot of me.
“Of course,” says Duke, “I might could think of a better name. One that does surely fit my darling baby girl in her interesting new situation.”
I go on staring at Johnnie, and a prayer starts up in my head for his soul. Dear Almighty Lord, though You did abandon me here in my hour of need, I beg You, find mercy in Your everlasting heart for Your servant Johnnie, who did but sin for the love of me …
Duke continues. “What? Speechless, the both-a you? Ain’t you understood my meaning? Ain’t you got eyes in your heads? Look upon this fair skin. Look upon this fair bosom-a hers and speak me the truth.”
His right hand moves to the flat of my belly, all rough and pink with cold, while his left hand does pluck the nipple of my breast.
“Which one-a you two sinners has got this harlot with child?”
8
NOW THERE is silence again, but a different kind of silence altogether. I don’t guess I can explain its particular quality, really, except to observe that while the sudden baring of my breasts might have occasioned shock, we were none of us in any doubt that said bosom did exist. And if you could wet your finger and test the air for wonder, you might feel it now, rushing and swirling among us like the water that rises up against the thick stone wall of the springhouse, spilling inside through the cooling channel.
I rasp out, “You’re a liar, Duke Kelly, and always have been. I’m no more with child than you are.”
“Now, why should I lie about a thing like that, with the evidence a-laying right here under my hand? I do surely know the look of a woman’s bosom when she be commencing to breed.”
“And I say you’re a liar.”
“I don’t guess you been feeling poorly of late, baby girl? Maybe missed your monthly sickness?”
“Course not!” My teeth now start to rattling, my whole naked body to shaking in the damp cold as fills that stone room.
“Now, you just look those two fellows in the eye, Geneva Rose, and say that thing again.”
“Don’t need. It’s impossible, that’s all.”
“Well, now. Might be I done put this question to the wrong sinner. I guess any fellow could reckon whether he be the father of a harlot’s babe, or no. Ain’t that right, boys?”
Silence, save for the hullaballoo of the creek outside, clamoring to fill the channel, to drown us as we stand. Water’s near up to my knees now, and I’m shivering and rattling under Duke’s fingers. Going a little mad. Altogether too weak even to raise my hand against him.
“Come, now,” Duke says. “Confess your sins to save your souls. Tell me which one-a you has had to do with this hoor. Left behind your wicked seed to take root between her legs. Or is it the both-a you?”
“You’re a villain, Kelly,” Anson says.
“You best fess up. You best fess up afore I take my fist to her sinful womb. Afore I commence to cleanse her-a wickedness and prepare her for holy redemption.”
“You’re wasting our time, Kelly. Wasting your own time. The water’s rising. Miss Kelly is freezing to death. Leave the damn woman alone and do what you came for.”
“Came for?” Duke sort of roars. “You think I been to all this trouble for you, son? Why, you was just doing your job. I ain’t got no particular quarrel with that. Done earned yourself a good soldier’s death, Mr. Marshall, and I do swan you shall have it. But this one. This dirty hoor-a mine, this Judas that betrayed her daddy and her people. I called all you all here on her account, see, to punish her as the Lord does instruct us to punish those who turn against their own.”
“Only a coward toys with a woman.”
“You calling me a coward?”
“I’m saying you and I have a reckoning, and it seems to me you’re putting it off. You’re tormenting a defenseless female, instead of having the courage to match yourself against men.”
Duke takes my hair again and yanks back my head, exposing my throat. “Then I reckon you fine gentlemen oughta put her out-a her present misery and answer my question. Be a simple one, after all. Which one-a you boys did sire a babe inside this harlot’s womb?”
And Billy blurts out, “Stop it! Let her go!”
“Is you confessing at last, Mr. Marshall? You did plant this seed?”
“Yes! It’s mine, she’s mine!”
Shut up, Billy! Anson shouts.
“You did have to do with this hoor? Take her to bed and fornicate with her?”
“Yes!” Billy sobs.
“Yes, sir?”
Shouts Anson, Billy, no! Damn it, wait!
“Yes, sir!”
Duke releases me so sudden, I lose my footing. Fall kersplash on the floor of the springhouse, which is now so deep and as frigid as a penitent’s bath. I look up to find Duke removing something from his pocket and affixing it to the knuckles of his right hand.
“They Lord! No!”
Duke takes a single stri
de forward—we are that close, inside this miniature space—and releases his fist like a piston, into Billy’s young cheek.
I don’t know if you’ve ever seen the effect of a set of brass knuckles on tender human flesh. I don’t recommend that you do. I do expect I shall see it always, scored on my memory, the slow explosion of blood and flesh and the sound of splintering bone. Billy just grunts and goes limp. So I scream for him, I scream from deep in my chest, force my numb limbs upright to strike down the devil that is my step-daddy, but he does anticipate the blow, I’m afraid, and his elbow meets my stomach to send me stumbling against the opposite wall.
But in doing so, he brings his body closer to the wall on which the prisoners hang, and in turning his vain head to witness the result of his labor, he misses the movement of the man in the middle. The way Oliver Anson Marshall does gather his puissant body into a steel spring and balance all that power on the balls of his feet, under the rising water. How he does wait in this coil until Duke takes one more careless step in my direction, and then brace his hands in their cuffs and unleash all the force in those legs, mass times velocity, right square into the midsection of Duke Kelly. And so great is the mass and the velocity of Anson’s strike, translated by these laws of physics into a nigh-unstoppable force, my step-daddy liketa broke that stone wall as he hits it.
In that instant of impact, I realize that the Lord Almighty has not abandoned me after all. Has not wholly abandoned this earth to the imperfect justice of man, for Duke’s eyes remain open, his brain remains certainly conscious of what has occurred, even as he drops like a gunnysack into the channel that flows beneath the springhouse walls and into the hell-bent creek.
And you will surely recollect what I told you before: that Duke Kelly cannot swim, no more than he can read the words in the Good Book.
9
FOR SOME few seconds, I continue to stare at the wall, on the spot where my step-daddy struck, as if he might somehow reappear. A faint whimpering starts up. Anson says my name atop it. I turn and set to crawling toward him through the icy water, and then I consider the whimpering and remember my Billy-boy.
“Get the key,” Anson says, voice so rough as the walls around us.
“Key?”
“On the ledge.”
I look at him. Fix Anson full in the face for the first time, and the sight of him shocks me, so bruised and swollen as he is. Cry out in pity. He just nods to the right, over the body of my brother Johnnie, and I summon the strength in my limbs to crawl in that direction, through maybe two foot of swirling, icy water, toward the stone shelf where we used to keep butter. I run my hand along the plane and find a small steel key.
“Handcuffs,” Anson says.
I splash back to him, key in hand. My numb, shaking fingers cannot seem to stick the damn thing in the keyhole. His hands are white, the wrists raw. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I keep saying, over and over, and he says nothing at all, just sits there patient and warm and hurt while I work to free him.
I think, The bastard, the damn bastard, keeping that key in sight.
The key finds its mark, the lock turns. Handcuffs fall free and Anson makes a sound at last, half grunt, half sigh, like he’s been holding his breath the whole while. Then he says Billy, and I turn to his brother.
“My God,” I whisper, and this time I find the keyhole at the first strike. Lift away the chains from my dear Billy-boy and gather him in my arms, caressing his bloodied hair, keening in agony. Anson sticks something in my hand, a cloth, my sodden skirt, and I hold it to Billy’s face and try to clean the blood, try to find the start and end of his wounds. I look up and meet Anson’s terrible gaze, and I say Forgive me.
He just fishes the key from the water beside me and commences to unlock Johnnie’s body from its chains, working swift and stiff, like he is made of wood, like his joints stand in need of oiling.
“How do we get him out of here? Woods are full of Duke’s men.”
He answers, “Just run and trust to God.”
He lays his hand on Johnnie’s still head and murmurs something soft, and he turns back to the pair of us, Ginger and Billy, his broken brother Billy, who is waking up and starting to moan. Straightens and finds the buttons of his shirt and slips it from his shoulders. “Put this on,” he tells me. “Quick, now. Not much time.”
I take the shirt and put it on, quick as I can, while Anson, chest clad only in undershirt, undershirt lumpy with soiled bandages, slides his brother carefully onto the bridge of his own shoulders.
“You can’t!” I gasp.
“No other way. Hurry up. Can you get your skirt on?”
I find my skirt and wring it. Cold’s penetrated me so deep, I can’t even think. Just follow orders. Cover my nakedness. Anson hoists his brother a little higher on his back. Flinches just a bit.
Shot rings out, so faint you can scarce hear it above the creek’s roar.
“Goddamn,” I whisper. “They’re outside!”
Anson goes still, considering. He starts to slide Billy back down from his shoulders. “Stay here.”
But before he can lower Billy to the ground, the door flies open.
I stumble back. Splash on my bottom before the towering figure of Luella Kingston, wrapped up warm and comfortable in her hat and mackintosh, revolver gripped in her right hand.
10
YOU’RE LATE,” I tell her.
“Had to stop and kill a fellow on the way. Where’s Kelly?”
“Downriver,” Anson says. “Let’s go.”
She looks at him, and my God, the bitch doesn’t even flinch. Like she has seen this man in such a condition before. Just reaches into her pocket and pulls out a second revolver, which she holds in my direction. “Can you shoot straight?”
I stand up, snatch the gun, and inspect the barrel. Fingers so stiff and cold, I’m as near to drop it as fire it. “If I have to.”
“Don’t worry about her.” Anson hoists Billy, and even so gentle as he is, Billy lets out a cry. “Come on.”
But I cannot leave without pressing my lips on Johnnie’s poor head, before it reverts to the possession of River Junction. His soul I do trust to the possession of the Lord.
11
LUELLA GOES first. Me next, revolver in my right hand, ready to fire. The rain’s started up again, cold pellets against my wet clothes, though I scarce feel anything at all. Don’t know how I stand, don’t know how I contrive to walk across the wet grass, up that slope, waiting for the shot that kills me. But no sound flies above the noise of the running creek, no bullet strikes my chest and sends me to earth. Maybe Luella’s shot the sentry. Maybe they’ve discovered Duke’s body downstream, caught in the footbridge or maybe the wreckage of said footbridge, and we have stolen some lucky sliver of opportunity.
Regardless. There we go, panting uphill toward the ornamental gardens that now stand atop the site of the old henhouse—I daresay the roses do grow abundant in such soil, come June—and the great house built from the spare change of thirsty lawbreakers. Behind me, Anson grunts out the mighty effort of carrying his limp brother. The sound of the rain now overcomes that of the roaring creek. Luella leads us past the back corner, the kitchen corner through which we snuck in an hour ago, now ghost-lit by the gray sunrise, and I guess she means to make for the orchard and the waiting automobile that will carry us free of River Junction.
And at that instant, passing the kitchen corner, some kind of bee stings the back of my hand. The exact same spot as before, in Mama’s bedroom.
“Wait!” I call out.
Luella turns around so sudden, I nearly smack her chin. “What? What’s wrong?”
“Patsy,” I say.
12
SHE’S STILL asleep, poor mite. Out cold in the great French canopy bed in her white-and-gilt room. Slept right through the murder of her big brother and the torture of her big sister. The just vengeance wrought upon her daddy, leaving her an orphan.
I lay my hand around the top of her soft, warm head. “Pat
sy. Patsy-pet.”
Her blue eyes open.
“It’s me, darling. It’s Geneva Rose. Your sister, Geneva.”
“Ain’t you in New York City?”
“Not now. I’m visiting. Just for the day. And guess what? You’re coming to visit me.”
“Visit you? When?”
“Now.”
She studies this. Struggles upright under my hand. Hair falls over her face, and she pushes it back in a gesture that reminds me of our mama. “What about Johnnie?” she asks.
I gather her up in my arms and lift her from the bed. Drag the blanket from the sheets and drape it over my shoulder and around her body. I am so weary, eviscerated, each muscle and bone and tendon drained of life, and yet my arms find the power to carry her, I don’t know how. “Johnnie’ll meet us later, darling.”
“You’re all wet.”
“Got caught in the rain.”
I don’t know what it is with children. She just snuggles right against my chest and believes every word I say. Because why? Because I am her sister, her own Geneva Rose, and Johnnie has taught her to love me, though she knows me but little. Her warm body nestles deep in my bones, lending me the strength to carry her down the hallway to the back stairs. Into the kitchen, where the kitchen maid has just arrived, sprinkled with rain.
The Wicked City: A stunning love story set in the roaring twenties Page 33
