Hidden Jewel

by V. C. Andrews

  My body was shaking; I couldn’t move. He reached down and grabbed my left arm just below the elbow, squeezing so hard, I screamed. Then his left hand cracked across my right cheek, snapping my head back. The shock of it was worse than the pain that followed. I couldn’t speak or swallow down the throat lump. He dug his fingers into the top of my head and gathered a clump of my hair, pulling me to my feet. I was sobbing silently, my chest feeling as if it would burst.

  “Get them fancy rags off now,” he ordered. “Do it!”

  My hands shaking, I began to unbutton my blouse. I was crying and shaking the whole time. When I slipped off my skirt, he smiled with satisfaction.

  “You take all of that off,” he ordered. “Even them store-bought underwear. Do it. I got to see what I got.”

  I thought I would faint first. The air in the shack was stifling. My skin was crimson from the heat of fear passing through my body. When I didn’t move, he turned, found a wide, black leather belt in the pile of clothing, and wrapped one end of it around his wrist and hand. My eyes widened as he approached, lifting his arm. I raised my arms to protect myself, and he swung the belt and slapped me across the thigh. The blow took my breath away.

  Instead of lifting me by my hair this time, he dug his fingers under my bra and pulled with such force that the hooks gave way and the bra was torn from my body. He tossed it over his shoulder. I fell back against the cot, screaming. He hit me again, this time on the other leg. I felt my eyes roll back, and then all was dark.

  When I opened my eyes again, I was on my back on the cot, wearing the sack dress with nothing underneath. I didn’t move. The pain along my thighs reminded me vividly of what had happened. I saw that my lucky dime was gone, too. At first I was afraid to turn to the right or the left, but when I did look, I saw he wasn’t there. I took a deep breath and sat up to be sure he wasn’t in a corner or below me on the floor. The shack was empty.

  Encouraged and hopeful, I stood up, but realized I still had that chain locked around my ankle. I tried to slip it over my ankle bone, but it was too tight. Maybe I could get the other end loose, I thought. If I had to, I’d carry that chain for miles to escape.

  As I started across the shack, I saw a large note pinned to the closed front door. It had apparently been written with a burned piece of wood: “I went to get some whiskey and food for you to cook. Clean up fore I get back. Your husband Buster.”

  Panicking, I hurried over to the railroad spike and tried to get that end of the chain loose, but it was just as tightly wrapped and locked.

  I opened the front door and stepped out on the gallery. I realized Buster had taken my watch, but I knew I had been here for some time because the sun was down over the cypress trees, casting long, dark shadows over the canal Buster wasn’t in sight, but neither was anyone else. Even so, I yelled, “Anyone, please help me! Please, anyone!”

  I waited. My voice echoed over the water and died in the swamp. An egret flew out of the trees, soared over the water, and disappeared down the canal. When I looked off the left side of the gallery, I saw that the sky was growing overcast. A thick bed of ash-gray clouds was sliding in over the turquoise background, and the wind had begun to blow through the swamp. Then I turned to the right side of the gallery and saw a cottonmouth snake that had woven its body through the slats. It tightened its coil when it saw me. I couldn’t breathe. Slowly I made my way back to the shack doorway and then stepped in and slammed it shut.

  Buster Trahaw could leave at will without worrying about my escaping. I was chained inside and guarded by every creature that lived in the swamp, I thought. What was I going to do? Afraid of what Buster would do if he returned and I hadn’t cleaned, I started to straighten up the shack. I picked up and folded all the clothing, most of it filthy. I gathered the dishes and pans and put them in the sink. The water was rust brown, but I washed the dishes as best I could. When that was done, I scrubbed the plank table, straightened up what little furniture there was, and made the cot bed. I found a broom in the corner. Half of it was gone, but there was enough for me to sweep the plank floor. I took a wet rag and cleaned the windows. I looked everywhere for my clothes, but I couldn’t find them. I guessed he had thrown them into the swamp along with my watch and bracelet.

  There was a small wooden box in the far right corner. I was hoping there was something in it, perhaps a tool that I could use to tear off this lock and chain, even though I didn’t know what I would do once I was free of it. There was no other canoe outside, and I certainly couldn’t swim in the canal with alligators and snakes just waiting. I had no shoes either, so even if I made it to the marsh, I would be terrified stepping through the tall grass.

  There were no tools in the box, just a pretty linen tablecloth with hand-embroidered birds; but under the tablecloth I found some old sepiatinted photographs. They were pictures of a pretty young woman standing barefoot on the grass in front of my great-grandmere Catherine’s shack. When I studied the face, I realized the woman resembled Mommy. Buster had claimed this was my great-grandpere Jack’s trapper shack. I guess it was and this was my grandmere, Gabriel.

  If only her spirit were here now, I thought, hoping for the only thing that could help me … a miracle. There were pictures of an older couple who I imagined were my great-grandmere Catherine and my great-grandpere Jack. In one of them, Great-Grandmere Catherine was holding a baby, who I imagined had to be Mommy. Seeing their faces and realizing who they were gave me some comfort and for the moment I felt a warmth and a sense of hope. Somehow, some way, I would get out of this horrible situation.

  I put the pictures back and closed the wooden box. Then I stood up and gazed about the shack. Where could I hide? What could I use to defend myself? A trapper’s long knife hung on the wall. I seized it. I had never imagined myself stabbing anyone, even the likes of Buster Trahaw, but when someone was desperate, even someone like me, she could reach down into places she never thought existed within herself and find the strength. I was sure of it.

  Suddenly I heard his thin laugh. Then Buster shouted for his wife to come to the door. I put the knife back, intending to use it when I had the best opportunity, and then I tiptoed to the door and opened it just enough to peer out. I saw him poling up the swamp toward the shack, pausing every few moments to take a swig from his jug.

  “Wife! Get out on the gallery and greet your husband!” he screamed. “Get your rump out there or I’ll beat it till the skin comes off! Hear? Get out!”

  Terrified to disobey, I stepped out on the gallery. Even the cottonmouth must have heard him and fled, for it wasn’t there.

  “Now, that’s more like it,” he cried. “Wave. Go on. Wave.”

  I lifted my hand and limply did so. He laughed again and poled harder until he reached the dock. The whole shack seemed to shake when he stepped up. He staggered for a moment and then smiled and handed me a bag of groceries.

  “Got us our wedding dinner,” he said. “And lots to drink. Buster’s finally going to celebrate his marriage. Take it.” I moved quickly and did so. Then I turned and went into the shack. He came in and stood gaping.

  “Well, now, this is a wife. I knew it. I knew a Landry wouldn’t let me down. Good woman. We gonna have a good life together.”

  “What is this?” I asked timidly when I took out what was in the bag and unwrapped some of it.

  “Pig’s feet and gizzards and all the fixin’s for a gumbo. Don’t you know how to make a roux?” I shook my head. “What! Sure you do, woman. You just stand there and work until you get it right, hear? I’ll just sit back here, drink a little rotgut, and watch my good woman work. Go on. Do it! And if it ain’t good, I’ll take it out on your hide. You got one nice hide, too.” He put his large hand on my back and slid it down over my buttocks and squeezed until I cried out, which only made him laugh harder.

  “First we eat; then we consummate the marriage,” he said in a hoarse whisper. His lips were beside my ear, and his breath smelled like a dead rat. My stomach churned, a
nd my legs felt as if they would crumble, but I closed my eyes and held myself up, fearing that if I did faint, it would only be worse.

  Fumbling with the ingredients, I tried desperately to remember what our cook did. I had watched her work a few times. A roux was only a brown sauce, but every Cajun cook did something different to make it special. My hope was that Buster would be too drunk to know what anything really tasted like. For the time being, I had to pretend I knew what I was doing. And so I started to prepare the meal, which to Buster Trahaw was a celebration but to me was more like a last supper.

  Buster sprawled on the cot as I worked, and after a while, when I turned to look at him, I saw he was asleep. I gazed up at the knife. I could get it off the wall quietly, tiptoe over to him and … Could I do it? Of course. I had dissected frogs and worms. I knew where the blade should go, but I had never deliberately killed anything. I cried if I accidentally stepped on a grasshopper. I knew, however, that if I didn’t do something, Buster would have his way with me.

  Maybe I could just frighten him into giving me the key to the lock, I thought. I could put the knife to his throat and tell him to get the key out of his pocket, or maybe I should just hit him hard over the head with the cast-iron frying pan. My body was shaking with all these choices.

  I heard him grunt and then snore. His eyes were closed, and his head was turned to the wall. This was my chance to get the knife. I put down the mixing spoon gently and just as gently started toward the knife, holding the chain as I moved so it wouldn’t rattle over the floor.

  Buster grunted again and I paused, holding my breath. He blew air through his thick lips, snorted, and then began to snore again. I tiptoed closer to the knife, reached for it, nearly dropped it, and then clutched it to my bosom. I turned slowly and just as carefully made my way back. When I was only a foot or so from him, I closed my eyes and prayed for the strength.

  Mommy could do this if she had to, I told myself. My father and poor Pierre were waiting for me to find Mommy and bring her home. I couldn’t remain a prisoner in this shack much longer, and all that was standing between me and my freedom was this cruel man who didn’t deserve an ounce of mercy. I stood there, hardening my heart against him until I was convinced I had the courage to do what had to be done. Then I stepped forward, raised the knife, and pressed the blade against his ugly Adam’s apple, which resembled a small rodent under his skin.

  I pressed it quickly, and his eyes snapped open.

  “Wha …”

  “Don’t move a muscle,” I said, “or I’ll slice your throat the way you slice a pig’s.” I pressed the blade tighter.

  “Hold on, now, hear?” he said. “That’s a sharp knife.”

  “Then don’t move until I tell you to move,” I said.

  “I ain’t movin’. Damn,” he said, sobering up quickly. “This ain’t no way for a man’s wife to behave.”

  “I am not your wife and I never will be,” I said. “I’d rather be dead, so don’t think I won’t cut your throat,” I warned. I was surprised at the fury and the determination in my voice. “I have this knife right up to your jugular. Your blood will spray all over that wall you’re staring at,” I warned him. I could see his eyes widen and bulge with the imagined sight.

  “Easy, now,” he said. “I’m not going to hurt you. You be my wife.”

  “I told you. I’m not your wife. Now reach slowly into your pocket and take out the key to this lock you have around my ankle. Go ahead, but slowly. Slowly!” I cried, pressing the blade against his throat again.

  “I’m movin’ easy,” he cried. He slipped in his hand into his pocket and came up with the key. I took it quickly.

  “Don’t move. Put your hand back into your pocket,” I ordered. “Go on.” He did so.

  It was a bit of a contortion for me, but I lifted my foot up to the cot, threaded the key into the lock and turned it. It snapped open, and I took it off, loosening the chain so I could slip my foot free.

  Now my problems were just starting, I thought. Once I took the knife from his throat, what was to prevent him from turning on me and attacking me again? Thinking quickly, I realized I could just duplicate what he had done. I picked up the chain and put it over his leg.

  “Whatcha doin’?”

  “Lift this leg. Lift it!” I screamed, keeping the knife pressed tightly to his throat. He did so and I pulled the chain under and around, threaded the lock through the links just the way he had done to tighten the chain, and snapped it shut. Then I took a deep breath to try to slow my heartbeat.

  “You’re crazy, woman. You can’t do this to Buster Trahaw.”

  I counted to three and pulled the knife away and stepped back just a second before he took his hand out of his pocket and reached out to grab my wrist. Only an inch of space fell between us, but it was enough. I ran for the door as he turned on the cot and lunged.

  He had enough chain to reach a foot or so out the front door, so I had to get out and to the pirogue before he reached that point. I nearly slipped and fell into the water when I hurried down the steps. I grabbed the railing. It cracked, but held my weight and I swung around to get my footing again.

  Buster was out the door, waving his mallet-sized fist in the air and cursing. “You git back here and unlock this chain, hear? Git back here!”

  I flung the key into the air and it plopped into the water. Buster’s eyes bulged with fury. His face was cherry red; he looked as if the blood vessels in his cheeks and forehead would burst. He was so shocked and angry he couldn’t form sensible words. He stuttered and stammered and waved his fist wildly, pounding his own thigh. Then he jerked on the chain, straining so hard the veins in his neck popped against the skin. Fortunately, he couldn’t get the chain over his knee. However, the effort and the pain filled him with even greater frustration.

  I didn’t wait to see what he would do next. I stepped into the pirogue, untied it, and took the pole into my hands the way I had seen him do it. I pushed away from the dock.

  “Don’t you dare leave Buster Trahaw!” he screamed. “Don’t you dare!”

  I pushed down. The pole went so deep, I thought I would never reach bottom. I nearly fell over with the attempt and my effort to steady myself. The pirogue started rocking precariously. Terrified of falling into the murky canal water, I sat down hard and waited for the canoe to steady itself. Buster continued to scream, his voice driving birds out of the branches. I think even the fish swam away.

  I rose again and, more carefully this time, stuck the pole into the water until I found something solid. I pushed and the momentum sent the canoe forward. Another thrust moved it faster. I felt more confident and did it again. When I turned, however, I saw that I was driving the canoe toward a pile of fallen cypress trees. I switched sides quickly and poled to the opposite direction. Then I looked back at the shack. Buster had been quiet for a moment. He was staring at me, disbelieving; but when he saw I was making headway, his anger rushed back in an even greater wave of rage. He stepped back into the shack and then charged forward, tearing the spike from the floor and freeing the chain.

  His momentum carried him over the railing and into the swamp. He fell with a gigantic splash. For a moment I just stood there watching, and then I saw him pop up. Chain and all, he started to swim after me. I dug the pole in frantically, my fear making my efforts clumsy. The canoe went too far to the right, hit a rock, bounced, then went too far to the left and almost got caught up in weeds. I pushed and tugged.

  Buster drew closer and closer. His powerful body cut through the swamp water almost as quickly as an alligator. I could see his red face drawing nearer. I cried and dug the pole down, pushed and pushed, sobbing as I struggled to stay a few feet ahead of him.

  “I’ll get you and whip you good!” he vowed. “Stop that canoe.” He paused to wave his fist at me, and I dug in again so I could make the turn and pass through the narrow opening to enter the wider canal. For a moment he was gone from sight. I developed a smoother rhythm and pushed with
more accuracy, but I hadn’t realized that the canal was shallow at the turn. When Buster reached it, he gathered the chain in his hands and walked over the mound. Just when I thought I might have put enough distance between us to make his catching up with me impossible, he appeared only a half dozen feet away on the shore.

  I pushed harder. Desperation gave me needed strength. He scampered through the narrow water and then dived in again, holding the chain with one arm for a moment, like a lifeguard saving a drowning swimmer. His power and determination were overwhelming. Surely he could catch me soon, I thought, and I would be doomed to a terrible punishment.

  When the water grew deeper, he released the chain and began to swim with both arms. Now he was less than a half dozen feet from the canoe. I was only going to have a few more moments of freedom, I thought, and I contemplated diving into the swamp myself if he seized the canoe in those big hands of his. He might very well pull it over anyway, spilling me into the canal.

  I was so tired. My thrusts grew shorter and the length of time between them longer. My hands were stinging with the effort, the skin on my palms blistered and bleeding. My shoulders ached, and my chest felt as if I had swallowed a rock which lay there, just under my pounding heart.

  “Leave me alone!” I cried when he drew close enough for me to see his clenched teeth and snarling lips.

  He dug his arms into the water with more determination, and then suddenly he stopped with a jerk.

  “What the …” he cried with surprise. I saw him duck down and pull on the chain. “I’m caught on somethin’,” he yelled. He treaded water as he struggled to free the chain.

  I hesitated, held the pole, and let the canoe drift on its own for a moment. He could be faking it, I thought, but he did look as if he had been surprised.

  “Help me!” he called. “Don’t leave me out here like this. Get back here.”

  Something splashed on my right.