Bound by Blood and Brimstone (30 page)

I nearly choked on the words. “No. I never saw her before.”

In the purplish backdrop of creeping twilight, my walk home was surreal. Jagged images

and thought-rags scudded about, battering the cage of my skull. Dizzy, sickened by my

revelations, I tore my way through underbrush and around rotting logs, staggering, my thoughts

in a vicious tangle.

Sue Lee, Sue Lee and Caleb, drawn by Wonnie’s own hand. How could that be? How

could she sketch, so vividly, faces of people she’s never known? Maybe she’s been to that house

before. Could be, she might’ve even delivered some of the Jacobs’ children. Yeah, that has to be

it. She’s lived so long in these mountains, seen so much of birth and death, she must’ve come in

contact with the family before.

She said it was from a dream. How could she be having the same dream over and over,

losing sleep from it, just like me? And she talked about that sicko stuff like it was actually

happening. Not just a dream - real.

Could it be true? Sue Lee, caged like an animal, with Caleb torturing her and their mother

watching? “She makes the boy lie with the girl. Then she makes them both, brother and sister, lie

with her.” Those were Wonnie’s words. Brother and sister—lovers! The three of them, sweet

Jesus! What a twisted triangle from hell!

Are there really people in this world who could do such a thing to their own flesh and

blood? How could they, and be human? Maybe they aren’t. Maybe they really are monsters.

Heaven knows I’ve thought it often enough of Sue Lee. Monsters, without a soul.

On and on it went. Questions rose, hit a blank wall, then tumbled back down, scattered

like forgotten dominoes. It was too much to wrap my mind around, too far out of my reach to

grasp.

Sorrow and pity warred with outrage for dominance of my emotions, outrage for my

sister, forced to fight for her life and doomed to carry the burden of guilt for having done it, and

pity for that hapless creature chained in her own filth and to her brother’s embrace. There was no

making sense out of the senseless.

Doggedly, I forced one foot in front of the other, propelling myself forward by swinging

my arms. In the back of my mind simmered a niggling distaste of what awaited me at home. I

was late, and there was about the same chance of blowing up an onion sack as there was of me

working up enough juice to run the rest of the way home.

It was quite a dilemma, since Momma had never cottoned to us staying out late, and to be

honest, I would’ve preferred a fat rash of boils on my rear end to getting the broad side of

Momma’s tongue.

My heart lifted as I entered the front yard and saw the bare, scrubbed patch of yard under

the weeping willow tree by my bedroom window. It was bare because it served as the parking

spot for Daddy’s old jeep, which was nowhere to be seen. Suddenly, brief snatches of

conversation echoed inside my head:

Momma saying something about organizing a clothing and food drive at the church “for

that poor Jacobs woman and her children,” planned for this evening.
Oh, happy day. I have
the

house to myself. I’ll just go on to bed, and by morning, maybe Momma will forget to ask me what

time I got back.

Foremost in my mind, as I reached the door, was how much I wanted sleep, but how

scared I was of its journey.
Blessed solitude. It’ll have to be enough
. That thought carried me

across the threshold. Then, I drew a blank.

In Daddy’s old chair with an open Bible across his lap, sprawled Reese. The one thing I’d

never counted on was being trapped alone in the same room with this interloper. I decided not to

grant him the pleasure of my discomfort. Cool and collected, that’s how I’d play it.

“Guess Momma and Lorrie Beth are still at church,” I muttered, crossing the floor

quickly to get past him. Tell her I’ll just see her in the morning. I’m going to bed.”

“Hold it right there.” His voice wasn’t loud or menacing, but full of deadly calm. I halted

in midstride, hot blood flooding my cheeks. With my best imitation of wide-eyed innocence, I

turned and faced him.

“Yes?”

“We’re going to have a talk, you and me. Your Momma’s idea.”

“Uh, gee, I’m awful tired right now. Can’t it wait ‘till morning?”

“No, it can’t.” His face was placid, revealing nothing, as he gestured for me to take a seat

on the couch and closed his Bible to lay it aside.

Primly, I settled myself on the edge of the worn cushion, pressing my knees and feet

together like I was waiting for church in my best skirt and blouse. To emphasize my fatigue and

unconcern, I stifled a yawn delicately.

“Actually, she planned on all four of us having this little sit down, but you didn’t make it

back early enough,” he said pointedly. I could feel his eyes on me, and I imagined his dead one,

fixed and glassy, like one glued in a deer’s head, stuffed and mounted on a mantel. Determined

to keep my own eyes averted, I plucked imaginary lint from my jeans, keeping my hands busy.

“Maybe you could just tell me what she had on her mind,” I offered hopefully, “and I can

talk with her in the morning.”

“That won’t work,” he insisted.

“Why not?”

“Because the biggest hunk of it has to do with you and me. A lot of stuff’s been brewing

around this house quite a while now. Got your Momma nearly worried out of her mind, and I

don’t care for that. Not one bit.”

“Momma’s worried? I didn’t know that. She seems fine to me.” If ignorance truly is bliss,

I planned on walking out that door wearing gilded wings and a halo.

“Well, she’s not fine. She can see what’s going on around here, whether she lets on or

not. She can see things are wrong with you and your sister.” His tone was gentle, but I flinched.

The reflex wasn’t lost on him, and I could see it pleased him.

“I don’t know what you mean,” I bleated, stiffening.

To lean forward, he uncrossed his legs, and dropping elbows to knees, he laced his

stubby fingers beneath his chin, like a child ready to pray.

“Ember Mae, you can tell me. Something’s not right with your sister. A blind man can

see that. She tries to hide it, but it’s right there in those big green eyes of hers. Windows to the

soul, you know. And you. Such a sweet, caring sister. Don’t think I haven’t noticed how you

look out for her. If something bad were to happen to her, say some kind of trouble, you’d

probably cover up for her. Why, it’d be only natural.”

Beneath the silky words lurked a slick, oily undertone, pricking the fine hairs on the back

of my neck in a staunch salute.

“I do try to be a good sister,” I avowed cautiously, “but I’d never cover up something

bad.”

His expression earnest, he leaned still farther out of the chair, creeping closer. “You sure

about that, Honey? We’re family now, you know, and there should never be secrets in a family.

For nothing is secret that shall not be made manifest, neither anything hid that shall not be

known. Luke 8:17.”

He’d tipped his hand now. He’d resorted to Preacher mode, booming out his quote in an

attempt to cow me with biblical bluster. I wasn’t buying it. I could play this game with the best

of them.

“Shall not God search this out? For He knoweth the secrets of the heart. God shall judge

the secrets of men by Jesus Christ according to the gospel. Psalms 44:21 and Romans 2:16.”

Clearly, my counterattack hit pay dirt, and while I knew on some level I'd invited

disaster, I didn't care. The hectic color blotching his cheeks, the rigid set of his shoulders, shot a

thrill shiver through me. As I steeled myself for a thunderous backlash, chocked full of God's

holy disapproval, he derailed me again.

"You never have liked it very much, have you Ember Mae?"

"Liked what?” I could’ve been conversing with a turnip for all the sense this was making.

My lips, oddly numb, simply mouthed an appropriate response, while my brain vacationed

somewhere remote.

"Me and your Momma. Together."

I merely blinked and waited.

"Yeah, I know," he rushed on, throwing up both hands as if to halt my protest. "You've

never said so, outright. Too polite and well-bred for that. But it's true. You've never accepted the

fact that your Momma and me are married, and that we'll stay that way 'till death us do part.” He

was out of the chair now, pacing, his hands clasped behind his back, the way he always did in the

pulpit.

"Oh, I've accepted it," I countered, forcing a bland expression. "I'm just a kid, after all."

Abruptly, he stopped pacing and wheeled on me. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," I said sweetly. "I mean, of course, I accept. That's what kids do. That's all they

can do. It's not like they have a choice or anything.” He'd stepped closer as I'd spoken, no doubt

intending to intimidate me, but I was having none of it. Reaching for a Sears catalogue Momma

kept by the couch, I began leafing through it idly. When he failed to react to my blatant

disrespect, it was my turn to be taken aback.

His tone, barely audible, would've melted butter. "You know, Honey, I can understand

you missing your daddy. Any idiot would get that. But I think maybe what you don't get is how

much your Momma needed me after your daddy died. I've told you before, Ember Mae. I love

your Momma. You girls, too."

"What about Sam?” I cut in.

"Of course, of course, him too," he amended absently, barely skipping a beat. “I want you

to know that I'd give your Momma the moon and stars around it if it was mine to give. And don't

you realize I'd rather cut off my arm than to see any of you hurt?”

This syrupy speech gushed forth as he stood over me, forcing me to look up at him. I

avoided his eyes and focused my attention on his splayed nostrils and the fine black hairs

sprouting there, praying all the while for Momma to come sailing through the door and rescue

me from this fate worse than death. Instead, to my horror, he hunkered down in front of me,

blasting any chance I’d had of keeping my distance and, lowering his voice to a conspirator’s

whisper, he pled his case.

“Listen to me, Ember Mae, Honey. If you could just find it in your heart to give me a

chance, I’m going to prove to you how much I care.” He wanted me to know how well off he

was. He told me all about his “nest egg” he’d saved up before marrying Momma, a sizable chunk

of money, just begging to be spent on the right woman. He planned to add on to the house, plow

up more fields, buy more stock.

“Maybe even a couple of horses,” he mused, rubbing his stubby hands together. “And

I’m not talking about an old broke down plow mule either. Real horses, Ember Mae. The kind

you and Lorrie Beth can ride with your head held high.”

From confidential confessor to impassioned parson, his voice rose and fell, alternately

wheedling, cajoling, intense. I perched, rigid and breathless, barely able to conceal the trembling

muscles of delayed fatigue. Foggily, I wondered why he seemed so desperate. What exactly was

he trying to convince me to believe?

Somewhere to my left an errant fly droned, and it took every ounce of self-control not to

track it with my eyes or swat it. I drifted, no longer caring to appear aloof. My eyelids, hot and

dry from lack of release, screamed to shutter down in darkness. I was nearing the edge, that

dusky border of consciousness where sight and sound try to meld with touch. Only snippets of

that voice could reach me now as echoes from a vast tunnel...

“I’ll start a logging operation in the spring--gold mine in virgin timber--hire local boys--a

fine day for this family, Daughter”

I jerked hard enough to sling the Sears catalogue off my knees onto the floor. Like a

drowning victim breaking the surface, I sputtered, near gagging. “Huh? What? What did you

say?”

The sweat I’d worked up on my way from Wonnie’s had turned to ice in my pores,

freezing to death any particle of fatigue I had left. From some remote place, some fathomless

depth inside, a white-hot rage was bubbling up.

“What?” Reese was standing over me again, hands on his hips. I realized I had no idea

when he had stood or how long he had been so. His eyebrows arched into bushy question marks,

his color high. Being interrupted in the midst of one of his rants wasn’t on his list of favorites.

“What do you mean, what did I say? Haven’t you been listening? I’ve been telling you

that a new day has dawned for this family. I’ve been telling you that your days of feed sack

dresses and wearing your Momma’s castoff shoes are gone!”

“You, you called me ‘Daughter,’” I managed.

There was a breath of silence. Confusion reigned in those squat features, but indignation

shoved it aside with a sharp intake of breath and narrowed eyes. “Yeah, I called you ‘Daughter.’

Something wrong with that?”

“My daddy called me that,” I said woodenly. On some level I sensed a line had been