In the hills, a girl who reached sixteen without being engaged was almost beyond hope, bound to be an old maid.
"Listen Vern whisperin," mumbled Sarah, keening her ears from behind the faded thin red curtain, "talkin bout me. Girl's cryin agin. Why am I so mean t'her, why not Fanny who causes all the trouble? He likes Fanny, hates her--why not jump on Fanny? Our Jane, Keith? An most of all Tom."
I pulled in a deep fearful breath. Oh, the pity of Sarah thinking about turning against Tom!
It was terrible the day when Sarah lashed Tom with a whip, as if in striking him she could get back at Pa for never being what she wanted him to be. "Didn't I tell ya t'go inta town an earn money? Didn't I?"
"But, Ma, nobody wanted to hire me! They got boys who have riding lawn mowers with vacuums that pulls in cleaves. They don't need a hill boy who hasn't got even a push mower!"
"Excuses! I need money, Tom, money!"
"Ma . . . try again tomorrow," cried Tom, throwing up his arms and trying to protect his face. "I'll never get a job if I look swollen and bloody, will I?"
Frustrated momentarily, Sarah stared down at the floor--unfortunately. Tom had forgotten to wipe his feet. "Didn't look, did ya? T'floors clean! Jus scrubbed it! An look at it now, all muddy!"
Wham! She slammed her heavy fist into Tom's astonished face, spun him back against the wall, jarring from the shelf above our precious jar of stolen honey that fell on his head and spilled the sticky stuff all over him.
"Thanks a heap, Ma," said Tom with a funny grin. "Now I got all t'honey I kin eat."
"Oh, Tommy. . ." she sobbed, immediately ashamed. "I'm sorry. Don't know what gets inta me . . . don't ya go hatin yer ma who loves ya."
A nightmare with a capricious red-haired witch included had come to live in our house. A nightmare that didn't go when the sun dawned, when noon flared bright and cheerful; the stringy-haired, loudmouthed, ugly witch showed no mercy, not even to her own.
It was September. Soon we'd be going back to school, and any day Sarah's baby could come, any day. Still Sarah didn't go as she threatened time and again, thinking she'd really hurt Pa when she took away his look-alike dark-haired son. Pa stayed more and more in town.
All the hours blurred one into the other, horrible hours less than hell but far from paradise. Over the summer, we had grown noticeably larger, older, needing more, asking more questions. But as Sarah's unborn child swelled out her front, the oldest among us grew weaker, quieter, less demanding.
It was building, building toward something. That something kept me tossing and turning all night, so when I got up in the morning it was as if I hadn't slept at all.
five Bitter Season
.
LOGAN WAS WAITING FOR ME
HALFWAY DOWN THE TRAIL to the valley to
walk me to the first day of school. The weather was turning chilly in the hills, but it was still pleasantly warm in the valley. Miss Deale was still our teacher, since the school board continued to allow her to advance with her class. I was enchanted by her, as always; still, I kept drifting off . . .
"Heaven Leigh," called the sweet voice of Miss Deale, "are you daydreaming again?"
"No, Miss Deale. I don't daydream in class,
only at home." Why did everyone always titter, as if I
did daydream?
It thrilled me to be back in school where I'd see
Logan every day, and he'd walk me home and hold
my hand, and with him I could momentarily forget all
the problems that beset me in the cabin.
He walked beside me on the way home, both of
us eagerly discussing our plans for the future, as Tom
led the way with Our Jane and Keith, and Fanny
lagged way back, accompanied by her many
boyfriends.
All I had to do was to look around and see that
soon our mountain nights would be freezing the water
in the rain barrels, and all of us needed new coats and
sweaters and boots that we couldn't afford. Logan
held my hand, glancing at me often, as if he couldn't
stop admiring. Slowly, slowly, we strolled. Now Our
Jane and Keith were skipping, laughing, as Tom ran
back to check on what Fanny was doing with those
boys.
"You're not talking to me," Logan complained,
stopping to pull me down onto a rotting log. "Before
we know it we'll reach your cabin yard, and you'll
dash ahead, turn to me, and wave good-bye, and I'll
never get to see the inside of your home."
"There's nothing to see," I said with my eyes
lowered.
"There's nothing to be ashamed of, either," he
said softly, squeezing my fingers before he released
my hand and tilted my face toward his. "If you're
going to stay in my life, and I can't picture life without
you, someday you'll have to let me in, won't you?" "Someday . . . when I'm braver."
"You're the bravest person I've ever known!
Heaven, I've been thinking about us a lot lately; about
how much fun we have together, and how lonely the hours are when we're not together. When I'm finished with college, I'm thinking about becoming a scientist, a brilliant one, of course. Wouldn't you be interested in delving into the mysteries of life along with me? We could work as a team like Madame Curie and her
husband. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
"Sure," I said without thought, "but wouldn't it
be boring, shut up in a lab day in and day out? Is it
possible to have an outdoor lab?"
my arms around his neck and pressed my cheek
against his. It felt so good to be held like this. "We'll
have a glass lab," he said in a low, husky voice, with
his lips close to mine, "full of live plants . . will that
make you happy?"
"Yes . . . I think so . . ." Was he going to kiss
me again? If I tilted my head just a little to the right,
would that eliminate the problem of his nose bumping
against mine?
If I didn't know how to manage a kiss, he sure
did. It was sweet, thrilling. But the moment I was
home all my elation was lost in the tempestuous seas
of Sarah's miseries.
That Saturday dawned a bit brighter, a little
warmer, and, eager to escape the sour hatefulness of Sarah at her worst, Tom and I went to meet Logan, and behind us tagged Our Jane and Keith. We were all good friends, trying to make Keith and Our Jane as
happy as possible.
Hardly had we reached the river where we
intended to fish when over the hills came Sarah's
bellowing hog call, beckoning us back. "Good-bye,
Logan!" I cried anxiously. "I have to get back to
Sarah; she might need me! Tom, you stay and take
care of Our Jane and Keith."
I saw Logan's disappointment before I sped
away to respond to Sarah's demand that I wash the
clothes instead of wasting my time playing around
with a no-good village boy who'd only ruin my life.
No good to love playing games and having fun when
Sarah couldn't sit comfortably or stand for longer than
seconds, and the work never ended. Feeling guilty to
have escaped for a few minutes, I lifted the washtub
onto the bench, carried hot water there from the stove,
and began scrubbing on the old rippled board.
Through the open window that tried to let out the
stench from Ole Smokey, inside the cabin I could hear
Sarah talking to Granny.
"Used t'think it were good growin up in these
hills. Felt freer than bein some city gal who'd have to lock away all her sexual feelins till she was sixteen or so. Went t'school only three years, hardly ever learned anythin. Didn't like spellin, readin, writin, didn't like nothin but t'boys. Fanny an me, no different. Couldn't keep my eyes offen boys. When I first saw yer son my heart did likkity-splits an flip-flops, an he were a man, almost. I were jus a kid. Used t'go t'all t'barn dances, every last one, an I'd hear yer Toby playin his fiddle, an see yer son dancin with all t'prettiest gals, an somethin deep inside me told me I jus had t'have Luke Casteel or die tryin." Sarah paused and sighed, and when I took a peek in the window, I saw a tear
coursing its way down her reddened face.
"Then there goes Luke off t'Atlanta an meets up
with that city gal, an he ups an marries her. My face,
when I saw it sometimes in mirrors, looked coarse as
a horse as compared t'hers. But didn't make no difference, Annie, it didn't. Married or not, I still wanted
Luke Casteel . . . wanted him so bad I'd do jus anythin
t'get him."
Grandpa was on the porch rocking, whittling,
paying no mind. Granny was rocking, not even
seeming to be listening as Sarah talked on and on.
"Luke, he didn't look at me, though I tried t'make
him."
I kept on scrubbing dirty clothes, keening my
ears to hear better. Near me was a rain barrel full of
frogs croaking. Clothes I'd already washed were
flapping on the line drying. Another peek inside
showed me that Sarah was working near the stove,
cutting biscuits with an inverted small glass, and in
her low monotone she continued as if she had to tell
someone or burst--and Granny was the best kind of
listener. Never asking questions, just accepting, as if
nothing she said would change anything. And no
doubt it wouldn't.
I was all ears, and I kept sliding closer and
closer to the window in order to hear better.
"I hated everythin bout her, that frail gal he
called his angel; hated how she walked an how she
talked--like she was betta than us--an he doted on
her like some jackass fool; tryin t'act fancypants like
she did. Still, we all went runnin afta, specially when
she got herself knocked up; we thought he'd want
t'screw around on t'side, an he paid us no mind at all. I
decided I'd get him one way or nother. He couldn't
have her then, so he took me three times, an what I
prayed fer happened. He put in me a baby. He didn't
love me, I knew that. Maybe he didn't even like me.
He seemed bothered every time he were with me, an even called me angel once when he was ridin me. When I tole him I had his kid comin, he started turnin money ova t'me fer t'baby I had in my womb. An jus when I thought I'd have t'up an marry some otha man,
that city girl obliged me by dyin . . ."
Oh, oh! How awful for Sarah to be glad my
mother died!
Sarah talked on in her flat, emotionless way,
and I could hear the faint squeak of Granny's rocker
going back and forth, back and forth.
"When he came t'me t'ask me t'marry him so his
baby could have its father, I thought in a month or so
he'd ferget all bout her--but he didn't. He ain't yet. I
tried t'make him love me, Annie, truly I did. Was
good t'his baby named Heaven. Gave him Tom, then
Fanny, Keith, an Our Jane. Ain't had no otha man
since I married up. Would neva have nother if only
he'd love me like he loved her--but he won't do it--
an I kin't talk t'him no more. He won't listen. He's got
his mind set on doin somethin crazy, an won't let me
say nothin t'keep him from tryin. Gonna go an leave
us all, that's what he's plannin t'do someday soon.
Leave me here to wash, cook, clean, suffa . . . an take
kerr of anotha baby. I'd stay foreva if only he'd love
me. But when he turns on me an shouts out ugly words, they eat on my soul, tellin me I'm sendin him t'his ruin, makin of him a mean, ugly animal that hits out at his own kids--wishin they were hers, not mine.
I know. I see it in his eyes.
He won't eva love me, not even like me. Ain't
nothin I got that he admires. Cept my good health, an
he's ruinin that. By God, he's ruinin that!"
"Why ya keep sayin that, Sarah? Ya seem
healthy nough."
"Neva thought that dead wife would take his
heart in t'grave with her, neva did think that," Sarah
whispered brokenly, as if she hadn't heard Granny's
question. "Don't kerr no more bout him, Annie. Don't
kerr no more bout nothin. Not even my own kids. I'm
jus here, puttin in time . . ."
What did she mean? Panic hit me hard. I almost
tipped over the washtub and the scrubbing board I was
leaning so hard against the rim.
The next day Sarah paced the floor again,
mumbling to herself and anyone who chose to listen.
"Gotta escape, gotta get away from this kind of hell.
Ain't nothin but work, eat, sleep, wait an wait fer him
t'come home--an when he does, ain't no joy, no
happiness, no satisfaction."
She'd said all that a thousand times, and she was still here. It had been building so long I thought it could never happen, though I'd had ugly dreams of seeing Sarah murdered and bloody. I dreamed of Pa in his coffin, shot through the heart. Many times I wakened suddenly, thinking I'd heard a gunshot. I'd glance at the walls, see the three long rifles, and shudder again. Death and killings and secret burials were all part of mountain living, which was always
close to mountain dying.
Then the day came . . . what we'd all been
nervously anticipating. It started early on a Sunday
September morning when I was up and putting on
water so we'd have some hot water for quick washups
before going to church. Out of the bedroom came
howls of distress, loud, sharp, full of pain. "Annie, it's
comin! Annie, it's Luke's dark-haired son acomin!" Granny scuttled around lamely, but her legs
hurt and her breath came in short gasps, making my
help more than necessary. And right from pain one
she seemed to know this birthing was going to be
different, and more complicated than the others. Tom
ran to hunt up Pa and bring him home as Grandpa
reluctantly got up from his porch rocker and set off in
the direction of the river, and I ordered Fanny to take
care of Keith and Our Jane, but not to take them too far from the cabin. Granny and Sarah needed my help. This labor was taking much longer than it had when Our Jane came into the world on the same bed where all of us had been born. Exhausted, Granny fell into a chair and gasped out instructions while I boiled the water to sterilize a knife to cut the umbilical cord. I tried to stop all the blood that flowed from Sarah like
a red river of death.
And finally, after hours and hours of trying,
with Pa in the yard waiting with Grandpa, Tom,
Keith, and Our Jane, and Fanny nowhere to be found,
while Sarah's face was white as paper, through all that
blood emerged painfully, and slowly, a baby. A little
bluish baby lying exceptionally still and strangelooking.
"A boy . . . a girl?" wheezed Granny, her voice
as weak and thin as the wind that fanned our worn
curtains. "Tell me, girl
, is it Luke's look-alike son?" I didn't know what to say.
Sarah propped herself up to look. She stared
and stared, trying to brush back her hair that was wet
with sweat. Her color came back as if she had gallons
of blood to spare. I gingerly carried the baby over to
Granny so she could tell me just what kind of baby
this was.
Granny looked where some type of sex parts
should be, and neither she nor I saw any.
I could hardly accept what my eyes told me.
Shocking to see a baby with nothing between its legs.
But what did it matter that this child was neither girl
nor boy when it was dead and the top of its head was
missing? A monster baby, icky with running sores. "STILLBORN!" screamed Sarah, jumping out
of bed and seizing the baby from my arms. She
hugged it close, kissed its poor half-face a dozen or
more times before she threw back her head and
howled out her anguish like one of those mountain
wolves that screamed at the moon.
"It's Luke an his damned whores!" Wild and
crazy, she ran like a fury to where Pa sat outside, and
she called his name just once before she shoved the
baby into his arms. He held the baby with expertise,
then stared down with incredulity and horror. "SEE WHAT YA DID!" yelled Sarah, her
single shapeless garment stained with the fluids of
childbirth. "YA AN YER ROTTEN BLOOD AN
WHORIN WAYS DONE KILLED YER OWN
CHILD! AN MADE IT A FREAK, TOO!"
Pa yelled out his rage. "YOU'RE THE
MOTHER! WHAT YOU PRODUCE AIN'T GOT A DAMN THING T'DO WITH ME!" He threw the dead child onto the ground, then ordered Grandpa to give it a decent burial before the hogs and dogs got to it. And away he strode, to jump into his truck and head to Winnerrow to drown his sorrows, if he had any, in moonshine, and later he'd no doubt stagger into Shir
ley's Place.
Oh, how terrible was this Sunday when I had to
bathe a dead child in the tin tub, and get it ready for
burying while Granny took care of Sarah, who
suddenly lost all her strength and began to cry like
any ordinary woman would. Gone the Amazon
fighting strength, only a woman after all, a sobbing
bereaved mother on her knees asking God why a baby