Speak Through the Wind

by Allison K. Pittman

  Kassandra barely had time to take a few steps away from her precious bundle of belongings before bending over to retch against the wall, bringing up blood-tainted spit. She allowed herself a bitter laugh as she sought an unsoiled corner of heir ruined petticoat to wipe the corners of her mouth when she was finished. So this, then, was the result of her first night of freedom from Ben. She imagined him somewhere—either holding court back at Mott Street Tavern or even just around the corner—sharing her low laughter.

  How was it she had been able to live the earliest, smallest years of her life on these same streets in complete and utter peace? Had her survival instincts been completely eroded by years of Reverend Joseph’s pampering and Ben Connor’s protection? She reached into the deep pocket of her skirt and found the handful of coins taken from the jar on the shelf in the apartment. In her early, hungry days, this would have been a fortune—infinite bounty Now, she wondered how it would get her through this day, let alone the next, or the next. Reverend Joseph and Ben thought they saved her, but they hadn’t. They’d crippled her, made her unfit to live with either of them. Or alone.

  She hadn’t felt frightened as she strode through the streets alone last night. She didn’t really feel frightened when Bob’s drunken frame knocked her down. She’d been startled, then annoyed, but the reverend’s assurance that God’s watchful eye and his own careful training would always keep her safe in this world, coupled with Ben’s reliably long arms, had kept her from ever feeling any real fear. It wasn’t until this new morning, her face swollen and sore, her teeth loose, her hair and hands encrusted with filthy alley dirt, her underskirt streaked with blood, that Kassandra felt truly afraid.

  She hugged her arms tight around her and folded herself against the tenement wall. Dear God, she began, then stopped. This was the God that saw everything, even the tiniest sparrow falling to the ground. Had He seen her last night? A new sense of shame enveloped her, dwarfing any she’d felt before, making her so small that she was sure she escaped God’s notice. She couldn’t pray. There, in that alley, cut and bruised and torn, she was overcome with such longing that she faltered a bit and fell to her knees. For a year she’d been vacillating between ignoring the growing emptiness inside her and placating it with the occasional prayer or glance at Scripture. Last night that emptiness became a deep, black, hopeless chasm.

  She had to go back to him. But not like this.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Kassandra saw, just next to where she’d been sick, a discarded, rusted tin bucket languishing on its side. There was a short, dull pain in her back when she bent to pick it up, and she wrinkled her nose a bit after sniffing inside. God alone knew what this bucket had last been used for. Left with little other choice, though, she picked it up and went to look for the closest water pump.

  There was one not far—maybe half a block away—and she debated whether or not her bundle of possessions would be safe in that long of an absence. She took her chance and walked as quickly as her wounded body would allow without drawing attention to herself.

  She rinsed the bucket twice before finally filling it. Then, she walked swiftly back to her little nest, keeping her head down and her eyes on the ground, though nobody seemed to take much notice of the bruised, bedraggled young woman fairly limping through the street.

  Once back, she picked up her bloodied petticoat and tore off a sizable square. This she dunked into the water, wrung it out, and brought it to her face. She winced a bit as it made first cold contact with her bruised cheek, and though she hadn’t brought out her mirror, she was increasingly satisfied as she saw the remnants of blood and dirt come off on the clean cloth. When at last the rag came away clean, she pronounced herself so, and tore off a second piece of the petticoat.

  She dunked this new piece into the water and wrung it out, then brought it up under her skirts and scrubbed her legs and thighs, hoping to cleanse away every trace of her violation. The same cold water that had been initially uncomfortable to her face was somewhat soothing to her swollen flesh, though part of her wished to have a boiling kettle to submerge herself in a scalding bath. She longed for the healing of the lavender and comfrey compress she’d used just after the baby, and for just a moment she allowed herself the luxury of being glad the child was dead so he might never know the kind of world that would do this to his mother.

  Once clean, she knelt in front of her little bundle and untied the knotted rope. She took out a small jar of a lavender and lanolin cream Imogene had given her to protect the newborn’s skin and pried the large cork out of the jar’s mouth. The healing properties of the cream were immediate, and she sent a silent, heartfelt thank-you to her caregiver and friend.

  Kassandra dug into the bundle once again to find a clean pair of bloomers and debated whether to pull on another petticoat. She had several, as Clara had always told her a well-dressed young lady never wore fewer than three, but the idea of being such a slave to fashion seemed more ridiculous now than ever. He wouldn’t care how many petticoats she wore. He had probably never noticed.

  She once again tore strips of cloth from the petticoat, soaked them in the rapidly graying water, and wound them around her hands. Finally, she found her silver-handled hairbrush and brought it through her hair, dislodging tiny clumps of mud with its bristles. She began to plait it into the single braid she’d grown accustomed to wearing twisted into a knot and secured with Ben’s comb. But she stopped herself and opted instead to leave it loose, with only the hair framing her face pulled away, as she’d worn it the day she left, hoping, somehow, to recapture just a bit of that innocence that now seemed to never have been. The comb was still lying in the dirt in the middle of the alley, where it had undoubtedly fallen the minute she hit the ground. As she took the few steps to retrieve it, she found herself in a much better state for walking, and the journey ahead seemed a little less daunting.

  Her toilet complete, Kassandra noticed the handle of her hand mirror peeking out from the skirt in which it was wrapped. She debated for just a second on taking it out, but decided as long as she didn’t look at herself, she could imagine she was much the same girl as she had been almost exactly one year ago.

  Maybe he would think she was the same, too. And they could start all over again.

  Kassandra folded the corners of Ben’s mother’s quilt around everything she owned and tied the little bundle securely. Then, standing, she picked it up and attempted to hoist it over her shoulder, without success. She slowly lowered her arm and took the first of many, many steps, willing her feet to bring her aching body to Park Avenue.

  Back to Reverend Joseph.

  Back home.

  With each step she rehearsed what she would say when she saw him. From Canal to Grand she envisioned herself the weeping penitent. Unable to look him in the eye. She would simply walk, head bowed, into his waiting arms and listen to his whispered joy as he held her tight.

  But as she grew closer, the anticipation of their reunion changed the scenario, and her steps took on a weightless quality Each replay of it increased their joy until her trudging reverie showed her to practically fly into his open arms, drawn through the air by the force of his smile. The thought of it would have brought an actual smile to her lips, had the expression not threatened to reopen the newly scabbed wound at the corner of her mouth.

  Never mind that, though. Reverend Joseph wouldn’t insist on a smile. Or even an explanation, she was sure. Not today, at least. They would have years ahead of them, Kassandra learning at his feet just as she had as a child. Reverend Joseph reading Scriptures, reintroducing her to the truths she longed to remember. He would drill her once more on her Bible, and to prepare for such tests—as well as to quicken her journey—she assigned a book to each step. Genesis. Exodus. Leviticus. Numbers. Deuteronomy.

  Kassandra heard the bells when she hit the intersection of Broadway and Ninth Street, just as she cycled past Second Samuel for the third time. The sound of those bells was as familiar to her as the voice of thei
r caretaker. She stopped dead and thought hard to calculate the date. The days had been somewhat of a blur since the baby—and truth be told for most of the months before—but she knew it wasn’t a Sunday. And while any respectable-looking man with a watch fob shied away from her before she had the chance to inquire about the time, it clearly wasn’t the evening, but it was long past noon. No reason for the bells of the Tenth Street Methodist Church to be ringing at all. The last time she’d heard the bells was the day she left, when Reverend Joseph ordered a mournful chiming chorus in honor of the late Clara. If the bells were ringing, then Reverend Joseph was there.

  She took a brief detour on her path toward home, turning east on Tenth Street.

  The crowd gathered around the church steps was massive, spilling nearly half a block and making any chance of reaching the door impossible. The first thought Kassandra had upon seeing them was utter relief, as nobody was dressed in mourning clothes and there was no hearse waiting at the front. There was a carriage, though, bedecked with flowers, and the general tone of the people gathered there was jovial.

  A wedding.

  Kassandra smiled—almost—and tried to imagine who would be coming through the church’s ornate doors as man and wife. Who had been engaged when she left? Who had been slyly flirtatious? She allowed herself a private, youthful giggle, indulging in a one-sided schoolgirl conversation, trying to hearken back to that innocence when Sarah James had been her only link to all things carnal. She scanned the crowd now, looking for a glimpse of her childhood friend, wondering if she still wore her hair in sausage curls and silk ribbons.

  Then the door of the church burst open, and the crowd made a path for the new bride and groom. The gathering was at least twenty people deep, and Kassandra had no chance of making her way through. But she would be patient. Soon the bride and groom would ride off in their carriage, the throng would disperse, and Reverend Joseph would be alone—in the good humor that weddings always put him in.

  Then she saw him. As tall as she remembered and just as thin. Kassandra’s breath caught somewhere just below her throat. She dropped the burdensome bundle she’d been carrying through miles of city streets and brought both hands to her mouth to stifle a scream.

  Meanwhile, Reverend Joseph stood in the open doorway smiling as the bride, dressed in an elegant and expensive gown, appeared in the doorway as well. Kassandra craned her neck, straining to get a better fix on the woman’s face.

  It was that dull Dianne Weathersby. How many Friday afternoons had this woman spent in Reverend Joseph’s parlor, while her conniving and desperate mother tried to manufacture a courtship between her daughter and the eligible young minister? Kassandra couldn’t wait to see the poor man who had been coerced into such a union.

  Reverend Joseph took the silk hat handed to him, put it on his head, and held out his arm to the former Miss Weathersby. Arm in arm they walked down the steps. When they reached the carriage, Reverend Joseph handed her up as if escorting a queen, then planted a quick kiss on her cheek when he sat beside her. He reached down and pulled out a large bag of sweets, throwing handfuls into the crowd to the delight of the children. With a good-natured command to the driver, whips were tapped to horses and the newlyweds drove away.

  The carriage passed just in front of Kassandra. So close that one step would have taken her into its path. But the thought of it didn’t occur to her until a corner was turned and they were gone.

  “You can’t very well go back to him now, can you, my love?”

  It couldn’t be. But she knew that voice as well as she knew the other.

  “How did you find me?” She didn’t want to look at him.

  “Ah, now, Kassie.” He grasped her shoulders and forced her to turn around. “Haven’t you learned yet that nothin’ happens to what’s mine?”

  “Plenty has happened to me, Ben.”

  She’d kept her eyes downcast, but Ben touched his hand to her chin and forced her to look up. He flinched a bit at what he saw.

  “It wouldn’a happened if you’d stayed with me.”

  Kassandra left those words hanging between them, trying to sort out if they’d been spoken in compassion or as a threat. There was nothing to confirm either one, just a chastising smirk that made her wish she could spit one of her loosened teeth into his face.

  “I will not go back with you,” she said.

  “Ah hah!” He swept his cap off in a grand gesture toward the scattering crowd. “And how do you think the fine new Mrs. Reverend Joseph will feel about bringin’ this fallen little angel into her house?”

  “He will welcome me back.”

  “Are you sure of that? A woman can turn a man’s head about things.”

  “I am like a daughter to him.”

  “Listen, Kassie girl.”

  He drew a protective arm around her, and before she knew it, she’d been herded off the sidewalk and around the back corner of the church, away from curious eyes.

  “It’s one thing to be the little girl back home after runnin’ away with the handsome delivery boy.”

  “I no longer find you as handsome,” she said.

  “Nor, my love, are you so little.”

  “And who did this to me?” She felt tears well up in her swollen eye and tried to turn away.

  “Aw, now, love,” he said, lightly running his finger over her bruised face, “you can’t be blamin’ this on me, now. How many of them were there? Seven? Eight? That’s more men in one night than most—”

  Kassandra reached her bloodied, bandaged hand back and slapped Ben’s face so hard the imprint was immediately visible among the freckles.

  “Do you know what they did to me?” She was close to screaming, but the thought of the happy gathering just a few feet away brought her back to her senses. “Do you, Ben?”

  “Kassie—”

  “They—they raped me.”

  The sound of it, spoken aloud, made it real at last. She balled up her fists and pummeled his chest, over and over, repeating in a choked whisper, “They raped me. They raped me. They raped me.”

  He took the blows unquestioning, unflinching, until the pain in her hands brought them to a stop. He didn’t try to comfort her in any way, never attempted to put his arms around her, draw her close, hold her. He simply stood—as unyielding as the solid wall behind her—until her hands were still, her breath steady.

  Then, in a quiet voice of reason he said, “And just what do you think the reverend’s wife will think about all that?”

  “What can you possibly mean?”

  “She’ll want to know what you were doin’ alone in the street at night, talkin’ to a group of men—”

  “I did not talk to them!”

  “Of course you could always just keep it to yourself, but women have a way of sensin’ these things.

  “No, Ben Connor,” Kassandra said, shaking her finger in his face, “You will not do this to me again.”

  “And what am I doin‘?”

  “I will not let you seduce me again.”

  Ben threw his hands up in a surrendering gesture. “Kassie! I haven’t touched you—”

  “You know what I mean. It worked once before, but not again. I will not listen to your lies again.”

  “Now, love.” He attempted to grasp her arms, but pulled away at her recoil. “Stop and think. Did I ever, even once, lie to you?”

  “Of course you did!”

  “Think, Kassie. I may not be the most honorable man in the world, but I am a man true to his word. I never lied to you.”

  “You deceived me.”

  “That’s not the same.” That grin was back, and the past few hours—the past year—was disappearing behind it. “Come back with me now, Kassie. There’s no thin’ for you here.”

  “There is nothing with you.”

  “You’ll be safe. I promise you that.”

  “Is that all I am allowed to ask for?”

  “You’ve seen this city,” Ben said. “Bein’ safe is more than a lo
t of women have.”

  He turned from her then and started to walk away, leaving her in the shadow of the church. It would have been a clean exit had he not stumbled over her bundle that she’d dropped sometime during their conversation.

  “What’s this?” he said, bending down to pick it up. “This looks familiar.” He shot her a mischievous grin. “You’re quite the thief, aren’t you?”

  “Please, Ben,” she said. “I didn’t have anything—”

  “Now, you know I can’t allow anyone to steal from me.”

  “I’ll send it back.”

  “Oh, no, love. I might be offerin’ you up to the reverend’s new wife, but I’m takin’ this with me.”

  Ben hoisted the bundle over his shoulder and started down the street. He had one hand in his pocket, and Kassandra swore she heard him whistling.

  She stood alone watching, for the second time, any hope she had for a future disappear around the corner. She took one following step, then another, and when she, too, rounded the corner, she saw Ben standing next to a hired cab, her belongings in his mother’s quilt strapped to the back, grinning like the triumphant prince.

  “I know it’s been a long day for you,” he said, “so I figured to take you back in style.”

  Silent and sullen, Kassandra allowed herself to be handed up to the cab’s seat.

  It was late afternoon when the cab came to a stop in front of Mott Street Tavern. Ben stepped down and gallantly held out his hand to help Kassandra to the street, but she ignored him and did her best to breeze past him. When the cabbie unlashed her bundle and attempted to hand it to Ben, she shouldered her way between them, saying, “I will take that.”