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Authors: D. L. Dunaway

Tags: #Fantasy, #Contemporary, #Speculative Fiction, #Literature & Fiction, #Historical, #Science Fiction & Fantasy

Bound by Blood and Brimstone (7 page)

BOOK: Bound by Blood and Brimstone
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with vicious joy in her squinty eyes.

“Ember Mae Roberts, I bet you don’t even know what people have to do to make a

baby!” I was in over my head. Dimly, I could hear the rowdy laughter of the older boys as they

played marbles. Girlish voices, attuned to the rhythmic sweep of a jump rope, drifted on the

spring air.

“Sure I do. I’m just not allowed to talk about it anywhere but home. My momma said it’s

for private talk.” I had no earthly idea where that came from, but I was desperate to save myself

from those she-devils and their wagging tongues.

Callie’s sharp eyes never wavered from my burning face. “But this
is
private, private as

can be. Nobody can hear but us. So, come on and tell us, Ember Mae. What do people have to do

to make a baby?” The three of them waited as my mind careened about for a lifeline. My future

as an outcast hinged on what was about to come out of my mouth.

Miraculously, Miss Hacker was my salvation, choosing that exact moment to ring the bell

for next class. I spent the rest of the day in a daze, pondering what people did to make babies and

why some babies were given away. Mostly, I wondered what whores were and why so many

people hated them.

By the time we gathered our books at last bell, my head ached and my belly was full of

pin-prick cramps. I hardly spoke a word all the way home.

A couple of days later, I was on the receiving end of that enlightening talk mothers are

supposed to give their daughters when they reach a certain age. The problem was I didn’t feel the

least bit enlightened.

As part of my routine, I liked to get up at three in the morning before Daddy left for the

mines. It was a chance to spend time with him while he ate breakfast, a quiet time in the kitchen

with the scents of coffee and bacon and the sound of Momma’s soft singing as she packed his

lunch. Once in a while, we’d have our coffee on the porch, gazing at the fading stars and

enjoying our own thoughts and good company.

That morning, summer vacation ahead, I’d gone back to bed, hoping to sleep a few more

hours before chores. Instead, I was awakened by the roar and rattle of Momma’s wringer

washing machine. During those first few moments of revving up, its gasoline motor could’ve

easily roused the dead. Before I could pry my eyelids open, I heard Momma calling me.

Washday was an ordeal, taking up the better part of a morning. Had we been a bigger

family, it would’ve likely taken until suppertime. Since Lorrie Beth wouldn’t have stirred during

a bomb blast, I left her sleeping and staggered into the kitchen. When I found Momma on the

back porch, she already had the iron pot in the yard, fired up and boiling.

There she’d toss in her homemade lye soap before adding sheets, towels, rags, or

anything else she wanted to be extra white. Even with the few clothes we owned, Momma was

meticulously devoted to turning out an immaculate wash. She’d just finished adding some items

to her copper soak tub when I approached, rubbing sleep from my eyes.

“Did you need me, Momma?”

She raked a strand of hair from her face and straightened, rubbing her back. Her cotton

housedress was already damp with sweat from tending the boiling pot over the fire. “Yes, I do

need you, Ember Mae,” she said, wringing the soak water out of a piece of clothing and thrusting

it at me. “What happened to these?” It was the pair of panties with the red stain I’d noticed in the

school outhouse.

“I’m not sure,” I mumbled. “I thought I’d scratched myself, but I couldn’t find a mark on

me anywhere.” Her blue eyes held my gaze, searching my face. Finally, she sighed and dropped

the stained underwear back in the tub. I caught something she muttered under her breath,

something probably not meant for me to hear. It was, “Oh, Lord, not now. I needed more time.”

I stood waiting, fearful I’d somehow done something to disappoint her. She wore the

expression of someone who’d caught a whiff of bad pork. Suddenly, she was all business,

explaining what she referred to as “the truth of all women.” It was quite confusing, and she

recited it in the tone of someone who’d rather be talking about something else, anything else.

She explained how I would bleed from my lower parts every month. It meant I was

growing up. It was something all women “put up with.” She said I’d have to be especially careful

about keeping clean during those times, that I should never talk about it or let anyone know when

it was happening.

All during her speech I sensed the anger beneath her words, maybe because my

“window” allowed me a peak into her heart. The realization jolted me, and I struggled to think of

a reason for her to be so mad. Was she in a bad mood because she dreaded wash day, knowing

what all that hot water and lye soap would do to the delicate skin of her slender hands? Was she

upset because I’d caused a stain, making more work for her?

She shuffled over to the boiling pot to stir the sheets with a wooden paddle. “Things have

to change now, you know. You’re a woman now, and you’ll have to start acting like one. We

can’t have you running around here, climbing trees, staying out in the woods all hours like some

wild animal.”

At that, my heart plummeted to my feet. No trees? No woods? She may as well have told

me I wouldn’t be allowed to breathe. I was about to open my mouth to protest when she finished

me off by saying I couldn’t go swimming during “my time.” To speak disrespectfully to a parent

could carry a sentence of near-death, but with her last words, I figured I’d be better off dead

anyway.

“That’s not fair! Why do I have to quit doing all the things I like, just because of this

stupid woman-stuff?”

She dropped the pan of sopping sheets on their way to the wringer and stared at me

unblinkingly. As she appeared to be gathering her thoughts, I waited for her wrath to descend.

Instead, she said simply, “Better get used to it, Ember. It’s just the way things are.” She

sent me to her room to look for a blue box beneath her bed, where I found some thick cotton

pads and a couple of latch pins. “Pin one to your underwear every couple of hours when it starts

up heavy,” she instructed. “Now, take these to the clothesline.”

I dragged the heavy basket of clean sheets and the bucket of clothespins to the edge of the

back yard, where a bleached rope was stretched between two apple trees. There I stayed until

early afternoon.

By the time Momma entered the kitchen to start supper, I’d worked myself into such a

tizzy, I didn’t care if she took a hickory limb to me. After we’d finished hanging wash, gathering

eggs, mopping floors, and feeding the stock, I was ready to snap Lorrie Beth’s head clean off her

shoulders.

We were in the front room dusting, when I turned to her and shoved my dust rag in her

face. “Here! I’m done with this. I have to get out of here before I scratch somebody’s eyes out.

Tell Momma I don’t want any supper.”

I left her standing with her mouth gaped open, clutching dirty dust rags to her chest. I lit

out for the woods, my head so muddled I barely heeded the path I took. I considered heading out

for Wonnie’s cabin, but didn’t feel possessed of the energy it would take to get there.

Instead, I ambled aimlessly, breathing in the spring air full of wildflowers and listening to

birdsong. I watched the sun draw lacy patterns on the ground through the leafy ceiling and let the

silence of the forest wash over me. Finding my favorite perch on a flat rock, I sat and watched

the creek tumbling over sharp stones as I seethed.

Why was this happening? Why did Momma seem angry, as if I’d done something bad?

Why couldn’t I keep climbing trees and swimming and throwing rocks, just like always? Why

did I have to wear a cotton saddle between my legs every month? It was the greatest injustice I’d

ever known.

I decided right then and there I wanted no part of being a woman. I’d simply refuse to

grow up. My last thought, before nodding off to sleep with my head on that rock was of Lorrie

Beth. How could I possibly explain to her how crappy it was to be a girl?

When I awoke, it was well past suppertime, and I was too exhausted to care that I might

be in a heap of trouble. I trudged through the back yard, hoping to avoid another face-to-face

with Momma. I knew it would happen sooner or later, but I was praying for later.

As I closed the gate behind me, I saw Daddy sitting on the step carving. “If you’re

looking for your Momma, she’s with Lorrie Beth. She’s had to rub down her hip again. You

know how the pain can get sometimes with that limp of hers.”

“Oh,” I said, suddenly feeling small. I watched as he bent his head over his project,

manipulating his carving knife with deft fingers. Daddy was a skilled carver, capable of bringing

a small block of wood to life with delicate precision and detail.

“What do you think?” he asked, adding a final flourish and reaching the small figurine

out for my inspection. It was a tiny coal miner in his hard hat. In the center of the hat, where the

light would’ve been, a bright, faceted stone was embedded, sparkling dimly in the backlight from

the kitchen door. “It’s quartz,” he said.

I marveled at the polished surface, the character evident in the miner’s face. “I thought

you might like to keep it,” Daddy said. “Maybe you could put it on a chain or ribbon to wear

around your neck.” Dumbstruck, I closed my fingers around it and swallowed past the lump in

my throat.

“Thanks, Daddy. It looks just like you.” I could feel the heat of unshed tears behind my

eyes.

“That was the idea,” he said. “And the light on the hat is to help you find your way home

if you ever feel lost.”

That was my undoing. Somehow, I found my way to the shelter of his arms and clung for

dear life, my garbled words tumbling out in a sodden rain against his chest. Silently, he stroked

the back off my head until I’d cried out. After a couple of minutes his handkerchief found its

way into my hand so I could blow my nose.

“Daddy, I’m sorry I ran off like that, but Momma was so mean.” I sniffed wetly and

scrubbed at my streaming nose with his limp handkerchief.

“I think you caught your momma by surprise,” he said softly. “She was thinking you’d be

older before this happened.”

“But she was so angry! And she said I couldn’t do anything I like anymore!”

“Sit beside me, Honey,” he said, patting the step next to him. I sat, watching his face in

the falling light, noting the traces of coal dust embedded in the lines around his eyes from so

many hours spent underground. From inside, Lorrie Beth’s lilting voice rang out in laughter to

mingle with Momma’s.

“Listen to me now, daughter,” he said. “Don’t worry one minute about what your

Momma told you. You just go right on climbing trees and running the woods like you’ve always

done. You go right on being Ember Mae Roberts.” He draped his arm across my back and pulled

me snugly against him.

In his comforting embrace I felt invincible. Maybe that’s what unhinged my tongue.

Unbidden, the question popped up and leapt out of my mouth before I could stop it.

“Daddy, what’s a whore?”

“Ember Mae Roberts, where did you hear such a word?” Momma demanded. She stood

behind us, blocking the light from the kitchen, hands on her hips, and blatant rage on her face. I

froze.

“Momma, I was just...”

“Tell me this instant where you heard that word, or I’ll beat you within an inch of your

life!” Her shrill voice was brittle, close to breaking, and I jerked, nearly falling off the step.

“Mona!” Daddy was on his feet, facing her down, his eyes, flashing. In an instant

Momma’s face changed, softened. She blinked, as though coming out of a trance, broken by

Daddy’s command.

A look passed between them. There was something raw in that look, and I felt it. It was

pure, soul-wrenching pain, a world of it. Then it was gone, and Daddy spoke simply.

“I’ll handle it, Mona. Why don’t you make some coffee?” She nodded, turned, and

headed for the kitchen. Daddy glanced uneasily at me, as if he expected me to shatter into little

pieces. “You okay, Em?” I nodded, not trusting myself to speak as a tiny tremor rattled through

me.

“Now, then, let’s talk about this thing,” he said. I told him what I’d overheard at school.

He explained that a whore was an ugly word that should never be used against anybody. He told

me some women didn’t respect themselves and allowed men to use them, and that such women

were sad and deserved compassion, not criticism.

“You’ll understand better when you get older,” he said, “but don’t ever be guilty of using

that word against any woman. It’s hurtful.”

We sat together on the step while the crickets began their night songs, me loving my

daddy and him with his arm around me as the last drop of light bled from the day. And still, I

BOOK: Bound by Blood and Brimstone
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