Nether Regions

by Nat Burns

  Pausing outside Louie’s door, the voices came back to her. “At least he didn’t burn your beautiful face” had been the hushed confidence from her friend, Nita May Ginter. “You could have ended up like him.”

  Delora had gotten god-weary sick and tired of hearing that. She wished Louie had burned her face. Then at least she would have no excuses. Her life really would be over. Actual scars hidden, she could move among regular people with little trouble. They didn’t know what lay beneath her clothing. They didn’t know she was disfigured, dysfunctional, less than a woman. If it had been her face burned in the fire, they would know right away, would have no doubt. She wouldn’t have to say with body language and voice, no, you can’t come near me. I’m not whole.

  The healing had been bad—weeks lying flat on her back, a gel-coated pessary preventing her vagina walls from falling inward and healing together. She would never be able to have children now, they’d told her sadly. The delicate tissues there would never be able to take the stress. Then there had been the infection and the hysterectomy and it was a done deal. It was okay by her; she didn’t need children now anyway. How could half a person give the whole love a child required? She had enough to take care of as it was.

  Louie was awake. He had his face turned toward the slanting, early morning sunlight, and the weak glow from behind gave his shiny, scarred face the topography of coal. She paused, hand on the doorknob, to study the almost appealing landscape.

  “Well, ain’t you gonna say anything?” he asked after a few long minutes of silence. He turned his ravaged face toward her and was no longer beautiful. “It’s gotta be you, Delora. Ain’t nobody else in the state of Alabama can stand still as a retard like you can.”

  Delora moved into the room and touched his arm. Grasping and pulling on her arm, he pivoted his large frame on the bed until his feet touched the floor. He sat there a long time, a hacking cough shaking his shoulders, while Delora moved to the bureau and lit a cigarette for him. Back at his side, she pressed it between his fingers and heaved him to his feet, his wooden walking stick pinching the flesh of her forearm.

  They made their way out into the hall and to the bathroom where Louie pissed long and hard. He lifted the cigarette to his lips as he leaned over the toilet and took a deep drag of the tobacco smoke. Delora let her gaze roam across his back, now hidden beneath the white cotton of his T-shirt and had a hard time imagining her hands gripping that back as he pounded his flesh into hers. She had a hard time imagining that she had even sought his company at every break and lunch period at Tyson County High School. Those days seemed a long time ago, especially as each of the two years they’d spent healing from the fire had seemed like it lasted ten.

  Lost in reverie, Delora squeaked in surprise when Louie’s hand fumbled hard on her shoulder. She lifted his cane from the rim of the washbasin, and they lumbered along the hall together toward the bright light of the kitchen.

  “Mornin’, Louie,” Rosalie said. She stood at the stove frying a large pan of bacon and sausage. Eggs in their little nests on the counter patiently awaited their turn in the pan.

  “Smells good, Rose,” Louie said as he felt his way into his chair. He fixed sightless eyes on the window and Delora knew he could feel the heat on his skin.

  She fetched plates and silverware and set the table, folding napkins into neat triangles next to each setting. She moved to the toaster as Rosalie broke more eggs into the sizzling frying pan. They moved together in a well-rehearsed routine as Louie sat at the table smoking, lost in thought. Some mornings he would talk about the job he had had before, driving a tractor-trailer for Ebbler Trucking. His cross-country time had been the best in eight years they’d told him. He also acquired fewer tickets in three years than any of the other drivers.

  Delora knew these stories line by line and was able to tune them out easily. It was the quiet days that troubled her. They were like storms brewing. He always came out of the quiet times angry. Often they could placate him with beer, but this was unpredictable; his anger sometimes stalked them for days.

  Delora kept her eyes averted from Louie as they ate and guilt gnawed at her. Why couldn’t she be more compassionate? The sight of Louie eating never failed to spoil her appetite. It wasn’t so much the messy way he ate, more the avid way he ate—face almost in his plate as he loaded his mouth and chewed with bovine persistence. She hated him, that was all. Hated him for stealing her life.

  Thief, she mouthed silently as she chewed her toast.

  Soon her simple meal was finished, and she stood thankfully to leave the table.

  “And where do you think you’re going?” Louie’s voice arrested her.

  Delora paused in the act of rinsing her plate in the sink.

  “To work, Louie,” she answered quietly.

  “I don’t think so. I’m seeing Franklin at the park this morning and I’ll be needing you for my bath.”

  “Louie, I can’t. I have to be at work by eight thirty on greenhouse days. You know that.”

  Louie slammed his fork next to his plate, the clanking sound as it glanced off the plate making Delora cringe. “I’ve spoken, Delora. And I don’t want to hear backtalk.”

  Delora chewed her bottom lip and clutched her robe more tightly about her neck. Rosalie had paused in eating her breakfast and was watching Delora with jaundiced eyes.

  “So what, you want me to lose this job? Who’ll buy the groceries then? Do you want us to be living in the streets?” Delora spoke without thinking.

  Louie sat back in his chair, heels of his palms pressed against the table edge. “You’re skating on thin ice, Delora.”

  Delora turned to Rosalie, her mouth working helplessly.

  Rosalie sighed as if the weight of the world rested on her shoulders. “Stop it, you two. Yes, Delora, I’ll get him ready and to the park. Just get your ass on out of here.”

  Delora glanced doubtfully at Louie. He sat immobile, but she could tell the battle was over. She muttered a grateful thanks to Rosalie and hurried to her room.

  Chapter Eleven

  Salamander House was unusually quiet Tuesday morning. Sophie rolled over in bed and stretched, feeling blood move into her feet and hands. She wiggled her fingers and toes, marveling at the wonderful rightness of the Universe’s creation.

  She paused to gauge her mood. She felt alone again today. These days it seemed her mind realized too often that there was no one out there for Sophie. She was a partner to the Bayou Lisse and that was all. The bayou was a jealous mistress and would let no one else aboard.

  “Pshaw,” Sophie muttered aloud as she turned onto her stomach. She ground her hips into the mattress slowly, enjoying the push and pull against her pubis. She sighed and stilled, cupping her chin with a closed fist, allowing mind to rule body. Who could love a thirty-year-old swamp witch anyway?

  She thought of saucy Massie Styles, rebel child and scandal of Tyson County. She would welcome Sophie, and their coupling would be fun, accompanied by laughter and a good bit of rough-and-tumble desire. She could smell the tangy yarrow-like smell of Massie’s hair and feel her coarse, deeply-tanned skin under her right hand. She clenched that hand, alone in her bed, and realized that wasn’t what she wanted. Not really. Being with Massie satiated that need for woman-flesh for a while, but it didn’t go very deep, didn’t touch the places Sophie needed to have touched.

  Sophie rolled onto her back and stared at the rippled texture of the ceiling. She spied her favorite gnome peeking at her, revealed by a curve of plaster that defined his hat and one chubby cheek. He’d been there for years, conversing with her since she was a small child.

  “Too alone’s not good, Mankin,” she told him with a knowledgeable air. “I know the work is important, but what about me?”

  Mankin looked at her with fixed, twinkling eyes.

  “Life’s a joy,” he said in her mother’s voice. “Stop feeling sorry and get up and do something useful.”

  Sophie stuck out her bottom lip. “No,”
she said stubbornly. “I’m just gonna lay here and let everyone get on with things as best they can.”

  Mankin shook his small head, mouth in a somber line. “It just doesn’t work that way, Sophie.”

  “I know,” she interrupted. “I was put here in the bayou for a reason. I know. I’m just...I’m tired, I guess.”

  “Heal thyself,” he said with infuriating smugness.

  She pulled her eyes away, letting her head fall to one side. “Bastard.”

  She rose and moved to the bathroom. She could hear Clary working in the kitchen. The sound was comforting.

  Clary had both doors open so a slow draft of healthy air moved through the entire house. Sophie inhaled and found growing herb smell mixed in with the cooking smells of roast chicken and stuffing.

  “Working on lunch, I see,” Sophie said as she entered the brightness of the kitchen. She rubbed eyes not quite ready for morning sun.

  Clary looked up from the onions she was chopping and smiled at Sophie. “Good morning, sleepyhead. I needed to cook this chicken Henry Collins sent. What’d you do for him?”

  “Healed Cicely’s abscessed tooth.” Sophie yawned and opened the refrigerator.

  Clary stared at Sophie as if ciphering a difficult equation. “That was two years ago.”

  Sophie shrugged and nabbed milk from the icebox. “Guess he got in a habit,” she replied.

  “Habit, hell. I didn’t know they were still coming from him. That’s a chicken a week for two years…”

  Sophie laughed. “Don’t even try,” she said as she moved to the table, milk in one hand, a box of bran flakes in the other.

  Clary laughed and resumed her task. “Damn,” she muttered.

  “Where’s Grandam?”

  “Church day,” Clary answered as she reached to close the refrigerator door that Sophie had left ajar. She favored Sophie with a sour look of reprimand.

  Sophie grinned at her as she chewed cereal. She had forgotten that Tuesdays were Grandam’s day to quilt for the homeless. During the past six years the ladies auxiliary of the Light of Holiness Church had made nine quilts for the homeless shelter in Goshen. Making the quilts was also an important social outlet and know-it-all Irma Geneva Haws usually picked Grandam up on the way, no doubt giving her an earful of local gossip as they drove the sixteen miles to the church.

  The kitchen fell silent again as the bayou morning intruded. Water lapped the shore outside, and a river otter, probably the small troublemaker Astute, scraped a piece of food against the tin underpinning of the house. The local family of otters had discovered the protective tin to be a great tool for cutting open crayfish and other river delicacies.

  “What are you up to today?” Clary asked as she opened the oven to check on the cooking bird.

  “Only one visit for a change, checking on Myria’s leg.”

  She lifted the bowl and drank the last swallows of cereal-flavored milk. “Need to make some workings this afternoon, though.”

  “For who?” Clary wiped her hands and sat at the table across from Sophie.

  “I ain’t telling you squat...unless you give me a kiss.” Sophie leaned forward, exuding a charm Clary had always found irresistible.

  “Behave yourself,” she admonished. “For who?”

  “Salty sure has you whipped,” Sophie stated with some amusement.

  “You know I don’t swing thataway,” Clary reminded her.

  Sophie smiled wickedly. She so loved to give Clary a hard time.

  “You’re just horny. You need to go out more, find you someone,” Clary said finally.

  “Go where?”

  “Go over to Thirsty’s.”

  “Too many guys,” Sophie sighed. “And the women there out-butch me.”

  Clary laughed. “I’m going to go get mint for this afternoon’s tea. You’d best get on with what you’ve got to do before you get yourself in trouble.”

  Clary rose and strode out the kitchen door. Sophie leaned back in her chair and laughed ruefully.

  * * *

  “We sure are glad you’re sticking to the old ways, Miss Sophie. Your grandma saved my daddy’s arm with nothing but a bandage and some root herbs. And this after Doc Franklin had given up on it.”

  Myria Pulet’s smile was big and infectious, and her dark eyes gleamed with joy even when she was sick or in pain. Sophie had seen her through many highs and lows during the past twenty years.

  “I’m glad too, Myria,” she replied, packing up unopened gauze packages and surgical tape and taking a seat at the kitchen table. “There’s a whole lot more to healing than just doling out medicine. You’ve got to work with nature.”

  Myria leaned to push gently at the bandage newly fastened to her right calf. It was a stark white against the dark chocolate of her skin. “How long you reckon it’ll take for this to heal?”

  “Now, Myria. What do we always say?” Sophie chided gently.

  Myria smiled again and laughed, embarrassed. “Seven days. Don’t ask until seven days.”

  “That’s right. The good Lord made the world in seven days according to the Bible. It’s foolish for us to expect any more than that.” Myria’s grandchildren, playing in the cabin doorway, attracted Sophie’s attention. Poor as dirt, they were nevertheless happier than anyone would have a right to request.

  Kinsie, the youngest girl, was playing with a cricket that had wandered inside. Clearly understanding that a cricket in the house means good luck, she was endeavoring, squatting on chubby toddler legs, to coax the departing cricket back inside.

  “Let it go on, Kinsie baby. More will come.”

  Kinsie swiveled to look at Sophie. The other children stilled and studied her as well.

  “More crickets?” Kinsie spoke well for her age, although a pronounced lisp accented her S sounds.

  “Ummhmm. You can’t force him to stay. It stops the magic, you know.”

  Raleigh, six years old and unusually affectionate for a boy his age, crawled into Sophie’s lap and wrapped one skinny arm about her neck. With breath scented from morning cereal, he addressed her in a very adult voice. “You mean the crickets won’t come back, right?”

  “Yep, they won’t come visit if you take away their free will. We all like that free will, don’t we?”

  “Free will,” agreed Kinsie, rising and watching the cricket crawl outside into the morning sunlight.

  “Why do you have Raleigh today, Myria?” Sophie asked, cupping the boy’s chin with one hand and examining his face. “He’s not sick is he?”

  Myria rose and walked carefully into the kitchen. “No. Just a triflin’ mama. She wouldn’t get outta the bed in time to get him ready for school.” She lit the gas fire under one of the stove burners and blew out the match with an emphatic grunt.

  Sophie looked at Raleigh, somnolent on her lap and thought of his mother. Floray, Myria’s daughter, was as good-natured as her mother, but depression and hopelessness attacked her often. Divorced from a common-law marriage, with four children and a job at the local CVS pharmacy, Floray had a solid foundation for her feelings.

  “What about the other girls? Did they get there?”

  “They got up and ready all right, but no one wanted to fool with him or the baby.”

  “Did Floray ever get up?”

  Myria nodded as she separated tea bags into two mugs. “She brung them over. That Sterling was here again. He come with her. I just don’t like that boy.” She sighed and leaned one ample hip against the counter, folding her arms into a protective pretzel across her body. She gazed out the kitchen screen door into the bare dirt front yard. A few pale petunias bloomed raggedly in urns just off the leaning front porch. She seemed to be studying them.

  “Is that Fletch and Mary’s boy?”

  Raleigh, intrigued by Myria’s elderly golden retriever, Sam, squirmed from Sophie’s lap and moved to see what the dog was stalking under an abandoned truck tire at the edge of the yard.

  “He is.”

  “I thou
ght he was a good fella.”

  Myria brought over the full mugs of brewing tea and set one on the table in front of Sophie. “They’re all hoodlums, you know. All them young boys with their dicks in their hands. They only want one thing and they think my girl is gonna give it to them.”

  Sophie nodded at the truth of Myria’s words. “Is she using protection?”

  Myria sighed and settled her motherly body into the chair opposite Sophie. “Far as I know. She goes over to the free clinic and gets pills. They give her them rubbers too, so I guess she’s all right.”

  She turned her attention to her grandson. “Raleigh! You get away from there. Mister Water Snake might be out there looking for you.”

  Raleigh, typically obedient, lured Sam from the tire and into the clearing where he promptly sprawled his body across the dog’s tawny back. Sophie smiled.

  “I’ll take him over to the school for you,” she said. “I think I’ll stop in and see to the Tom kids and it’s on my way.”

  “Ain’t you the sweetest thing? One of these days I’m gonna have to get Carlton to teach me how to drive.”

  Sophie took a deep pull on her hot tea as she stood. “Don’t do that. Then y’all have to get another car. It’s not worth it.”

  “Raleigh! Get your shoes, boy. You’re going with Miss Sophie.”

  Kinsie crawled into Myria’s lap and slipped her thumb into her mouth. Raleigh stuck his head around the door. “Going where?”

  “To school. Your shoes are over there next to the bed.”