THE SECOND MILAGRO (n/a) Page 11

  Christmas. And guess who’ll be there?” His grin widened. “Hank

  and Billy.”

  “They’re home? Now?”

  “Sure are. On leave. Got another surprise, too.”

  “What?”

  “See that green car, out by the curb? That’s Billy’s. He let me

  drive her here to get you. Handles like a dream.”

  Her breath caught. “I can’t go.” She looked toward the kitchen. “You can’t? Why can’t you?” He leaned into her face, then

  glancing around, backed off. “Billy and Hank expects us. They got

  things all ready,” he whined.

  “I got a friend here, Pa. Spendin’ the weekend with me, and

  Elsie and Jeff.” How could she explain Rachel to Pa? Or Pa to Rachel?

  Her heart beat hard, taking her breath. Rachel would know all about

  her now. She wouldn’t want to be friends with a girl whose Pa had

  been in jail. She’d never be able to face Rachel again. With a sigh as deep as a well, she whispered, “I’ll go.”

  * * *

  Dorothy recognized the little church on Dry Valley Road as Pa turned onto a dirt lane an hour’s drive from Talladega. All the way there, he had talked, about Hank and Billy, and she had thought about Rachel. Jeff and Elsie had put up an argument about Pa taking her. She had wanted to go, as long as it was just for a visit. Elsie promised to see that Rachel wasn’t lonely, and Dorothy would have a few days to think of what to tell Rachel.

  Barbed wire lined the road. Fence posts sprouted cedar trees. Sooner than she expected, there was the old house. Smaller than she remembered, with clapboards missing, but some new tin on the roof. The chinaberry tree was taller. Car parts and tires lay tangled in high weeds like burrs in a dog’s fur.

  As soon as she got out of the car, two slim men in Army fatigues rushed out of the house and grabbed her, turning her to face one, then the other.

  “Well, if it ain’t little Doe.”

  “Ain’t she a beauty?”

  She stared at them. One had Pa’s high cheek bones and green

  eyes. Billy. The other one was Hank. He looked like Ma. She searched his dull, brown eyes for something familiar, but it was like looking into Choccolocco Creek after a rain: beneath the muddy water were things you knew—fish, turtles, tadpoles—but out of sight, they were mysterious and frightening. She shifted her weight and shrugged their arms from her shoulders.

  “What’s wrong, kiddo? Ain’t you givin’ out no hugs, at least? Betcha there’s a lineup at your door like the kissin’ booth at the fair. Ain’t that right, Pa?”

  The older man glared at his sons. “Aw, you two leave her be, now.” He squinted at Dorothy. “Don’t want you rilin’ up the cook. Let’s go, girl. See what you learned in that diner.”

  In the kitchen a wild turkey covered the table, its feathers mudcaked and bloody. The top of a cold wood stove was cluttered with yams and onions, jars of green beans and a sack of flour. It was obvious what the men expected her to do. It was also clear that not much had been cooked in this kitchen since her mom had died. It would take hours of cleaning before she could think about cooking the feast they had planned for tomorrow.

  As she moved around the small space, touching the old pots and pans, the sink and table, she was overwhelmed by memories. Ma, one hand mixing dough, the other on one of the twins hanging on her hip. Children chattering, grease frying. The feel of the soft tops of unbaked bread.

  Hard work was the only way to keep back the tears. She had learned that long ago.

  As the hours between plucking feathers and peeling potatoes went by, she kept the men content with beer and sandwiches. Except for an occasional question, they ignored her as long as the food and drink kept coming. When they had passed out and the fire had died, she went down the hall to the tiny bedroom where she and the twins had once slept.

  Earlier she had swept the room and opened the window. Now she lowered it against the cold night air. A rusted iron bed, small trunk, and kerosene lantern furnished the room. She lit the lantern and set it on an upturned bucket. In the trunk she found two old quilts. And a glassless metal frame. She picked it up and stared in the lamplight at a picture of her family.

  Jackson, Hank, Billy. Pa, straight and stern in a chair, his hands stiff against his thighs, oblivious to her, the baby on his lap. Ma, standing behind, only her head and shoulders in view. Probably she was pregnant. No one was smiling. This was her family. Not the man and woman she had described to Rachel. She was not the darling daughter of lost and mourned dead parents. She rebelled at the thought. No matter how hard she tried to imagine otherwise, with every pump of her heart, her mind chanted: this is my pa, my brothers.

  She propped the picture against the lamp, blew out the light and drew herself into a ball, ghosts of the twins crowding her.

  The next day was a disaster. She slept late, didn’t get the turkey in the oven until noon and it took the rest of the day to cook. She didn’t have enough wood and when she asked Pa to get some, he slapped her and sent her out to chop it herself. They sat down to eat after dark, the men drunk and grumbling.

  It was late when she put on her gown and fell into bed. A noise woke her. Dawn was aglow through the torn curtains.

  “Dorothy, you awake?” Hank was calling her.

  “What?” she answered.

  “Can I come in a minute?”

  She pulled the quilts around her and whispered, “Yes.”

  The tall young man who looked so much like their mother eased quietly through the door and shut it. He was dressed in his uniform, his hat held flat in his hand, burred head tilted, as if embarrassed to look at her.

  “Why’re you dressed? Where’re you going?” She sat up against the iron bars of the bed, dragging the quilts with her.

  Hank put his finger to his lips and frowned, glancing at the door. “Me and Billy got to go back to base. Our leave’s up.”

  “Why didn’t ya’ll tell me you’re leaving this morning. I’ll get up. I won’t have a way back if I don’t go with you.” She swung her feet on to the cold floor, but Hank put his hand out and sat on the side of the bed.

  “Pa’ll take you later. He’s keeping the car. Me and Billy’s going overseas. Can’t take the car with us, now can we?” He laughed quietly, glancing again at the door.

  “But I don’t want to stay if you’re leaving.”

  “Pa won’t take you now, Doe. He—he’s got some things, washing and stuff, he wants you to do, then he’ll take you. He promised me he’d do that, as soon as the chores are finished. You’ll just have to stay another day if you work fast.”

  They said nothing more for minutes. A rooster’s crow split the quiet. As if it were a signal, Hank said, “Gotta go, kid.” He stood up, turned to leave, then came back. “One more thing, Doe.” He reached in a pocket and brought out a slender box.

  Dorothy jumped as he took a knife from its case.

  “I want you to keep this.” He squatted down and held out the knife. The smooth, milky handle touched her hand.

  “Why?” She drew back like he was handing her a snake.

  “Just a gift. Could come in handy some day. You might use it, say, to open a letter, or if you went fishing, to cut some bait.” His words came fast and low.

  “I don’t understand—”

  “Take it, Doe. Keep it handy. That’s all.” He dropped the knife on the quilt, leaned forward and pecked her cheek. “See ya next time I’m home. Take care of yourself.” The door closed on his last words.

  Long after the car rattled down the road, Dorothy lay in bed. She would have stayed there, but if Pa was going to take her back home, she had to get up and do the work he expected.

  She took the knife from its box and looked at it more carefully in the sunlight. The white handle glimmered like the inside of muscles and periwinkles they used to gather from the mud of the creek. The blade glistened like a new dime. She was sorry she hadn’t thanked Hank
properly. It was a nice gift. She slid it between the picture frame and the lamp.

  The pile of smelly clothes she gathered reached almost as high as the old wringer washer on the back porch. By the time they were all hanging in the sunshine, she was exhausted. She still cleaned floors and scooped ashes out of the fireplace. Pa had not returned by supper time. She ate a sandwich and sat in a willow rocker in front of the fire she had started and waited. When he got back, he would take her home. To Elsie and Jeff’s. Back to school, the diner and Rachel.

  His hand on her shoulder woke her.

  “What you doin’, girl? How ’bout something to eat? Nothin’ cooked and you sleepin’? Done let the fire nearly go out.” He headed out the door for wood.

  Dorothy cooked biscuits, gravy and some of the leftover turkey. They ate in silence. When she started taking the dishes away, she said, “I got all the chores finished, Pa. When I’m done cleanin’ up, I’ll be ready for you to take me back home. Elsie’ll be needin’ me.”

  His green eyes seemed as dead as algae on the pond when he turned to her. “Home? What you mean go home? Don’t you know that’s where you are, girl? Why, I ain’t takin’ you back nowhere. You’re mine. Nobody better get no ideas otherwise.”

  “But—but what about school?” Her hand pressed against a cold emptiness in her stomach.

  “You got enough of that book learnin’. You know how to cook. That’s all you need to make a man happy. Well, almost,” he laughed.

  The cold inside her hardened into ice. “But Elsie’s depending on me. And Rache—”

  “There’s nobody but me, now. You best understand that. I need you here.”

  “But Hank said—”

  His hand came across her face, twisting her head. “Don’t you backtalk me, girl.”

  She worked at the sink until she heard him go outside. Then she went to her room and dropped to the bed, all emotion drained away. She stared at the photo of her family. Her future stared back in black and white images. No more school, no job, no life, just years of hard work that would defeat her in the end. And worse than all, she would never see the McFalls or Rachel again.

  She looked at the knife Hank had given her. Perhaps she understood now why he was so mysterious this morning, and kind. He knew Pa wasn’t going to take her back to Talladega. He knew she was going to live here forever.

  Well, she wouldn’t. She put the picture frame and knife back on the upturned bucket and paced the room. She’d leave. She’d show them. All of them. She would not let this happen. There had to be a way to get back to Elsie and Jeff. That was where she belonged. They were really her mom and dad.

  Pa was yelling for her to get him a beer. When she took one to him, she tried to talk to him again. “Pa. I need my other things from the McFalls. Can you take me back to get them?”

  He swigged half the bottle of beer in one swallow, then his eyes moved down her blouse and skirt. “You got better clothes and more of ’em than your ma ever had. I seen what all you brought in that fancy suitcase. You don’t need nothing else of those folks. Looks like they done spent plenty on you. County paid ’em well enough I guess.”

  She wasn’t sure she heard him right. Her hands gripped each other, her nails digging into her flesh. “What? The county paid them? What do you mean? Why?” Her legs went out from under her and she sat hard in the willow rocker.

  He laughed. “Why, you don’t think them people kept you and bought all these fancy clothes for nothin’, do you?” He reached for her shirt sleeve, but missed. “Hell, no. They put me in jail and then pay somebody else to take care of my kids. I’d done that myself, if they’d just left me alone. Damn sheriff.” He turned up the beer bottle.

  Inside her a dam broke. She fought back hateful tears as she ran from the room, out of the house, to the clearing along the creek bank. The sound of his laughter rang in her ears. She flung herself on the ground and let the flood inside her flow like the swift currents at her feet. When there were no more tears, she considered his words.

  All this time Elsie and Jeff had me live there because they were paid to, she thought. That’s why Elsie wanted to make sure I was coming with Pa just for a visit. If I don’t come back, they won’t get any more money.

  Her anger grew. She picked up pebbles and hurled them into the creek. Truths that denied her accusations were as obscured as the rocks that fell beneath the murky water. She never wanted to see the McFalls again. Or Rachel. But she couldn’t stay here either.

  A plan formed in her mind. She had some money saved. It was hidden in an old coat pocket. It wasn’t much, but if she could get back to Talladega, she could go to the house while Elsie was at work, get her things, her money and take a bus. Somewhere. Rachel had told her all about Washington. It would be easy to get work in a big city. As she made her plans, her heart became as hard and cold as the December ground.

  When she went back to the house, Pa was still drinking at the table. He watched her every move as she cleaned up the dishes. She gave him another beer, willing him to drink more. When he was asleep, she would leave. If she could get the keys to the car, she’d try to drive. If not, she would walk. The evening wore on, but he still sat, half-awake in the chair.

  “You better get yourself to bed, girl. Don’t want you thinkin’ you can sleep all day like today.” He slurred his words. His eyes glowered at her from under half-shut lids.

  She lay on her bed, waiting for him to go to sleep. She dozed. A noise woke her. She reached for the covers and felt a hand close around her leg. The dark was all hands, pushing her down as she tried to get up. One hand lifted her skirt, the other pulled at her blouse. It ripped. Sandpaper skin rubbed her knee. She flailed the black veil of night. Fingers groped her panties. A scream, caught in her throat, strangled her. She couldn’t breathe. A knee came down on her thigh. She jerked her leg to one side, raising it with force against nothing but air. A hand crushed her left breast. She shifted her weight and dumped the hand off to her side. Unpinned, he fell on top of her. Flattened against the mattress, she had no leverage to keep him from separating her legs. She felt a hard mass of flesh slap against her thigh.

  He raised his shoulder and put his hand beneath her hips. She slid her right hand free and reached for the wooden bucket. She searched for something solid. Touched the lamp. Couldn’t lift it. Something metal. Slender metal. She gripped the picture frame like a lifeline, digging the edge into the palm of her hand. The weapon found its mark. Only a grunt came from its victim. Then a hand gripped her throat. Her head jerked with a slap, and everything went black.

  Unconsciousness was a blessing that didn’t last long enough. But she pretended. She was awake, but she kept her eyes closed, her body still. Her mind contained all her energy, blocking out the torture she refused to feel.

  His body shuddered and his grip on her bare hips relaxed. His breath was rhythmic. Hers had been shallow so long that she was light-headed. She tried to push out from under him. When she had almost succeeded, his hand grabbed her hair, and his body, seemingly more alert than ever, closed over her again.

  He was saying terrible things to her, words that she knew only from bathroom walls and in boys’ laughter. His hand was trying to unwedge her legs.

  She couldn’t endure it again. She wouldn’t. She had to stop him. Her mind raced. She had to get the knife! She felt along the upturned bucket. The knife wasn’t there. Had she heard it fall to the floor when she picked up the frame? Her right hand edged slowly down the mattress, felt the cold metal of the bed frame and the empty space between bed and floor. Spider webs pulled at her skin. Her fingertips touched the rough pine planks, pushed outward and back, slapped and stretched. Cold steel nicked her thumb. She gripped the blade and tiptoed her fingers to the handle. Purchase was slight. She raised the knife carefully onto its tip, then grabbed for a hold.

  She was riveted toward her goal. The knife was in her palm, fingers closed tightly against the handle. Secure, ready. She repeated the words, not again, over and o
ver in her mind, like a cheering chant. She lifted the knife, pushing away the knowledge that this was her father. Stab for stab, an eye for an eye, she thought, and brought her hand higher.

  It was not the pain between her legs that made her drop the weapon. It was her scream. The knife clanged against the floor, louder than all other sounds.

  “What th’ hell?” He sat up punching at the air, fighting unseen assailants.

  Dorothy scrambled from the bed. He caught her arm as it darted about. Flinging her against the wall, he lunged for the blade that glistened on the floor like a severed moonbeam. She ran from the room through the dogtrot to the kitchen, searching for a weapon. A heavy iron skillet was on the stove. She crashed it against his head as he came through the door. His body slumped, then sprawled. He didn’t move.

  She wrapped a quilt around her nakedness and ran through the woods to the creek. In the dark, leafless kudzu and honeysuckle vines grabbed at her like long fingers. She dropped the quilt and ran into the water. The dark depths that had frightened her as a child could not keep her from the cleansing current. She dipped her hands in the frigid water and tried to wash away her horror.

  Her body shook so hard she had trouble keeping the quilt around her shoulders as she walked slowly up the path back to the house. She would leave now. He could not stop her.

  She dressed in the dark, gathered her things, then remembered the car keys. His pant’s pocket, she thought. Where were his pants? She felt around on the floor, hoping he may have left them there. She touched wool cloth. And keys.

  When she reached the car, she threw her things in the seat and scrambled around until all the doors were locked. She didn’t breathe deeply until she sat behind the wheel, staring at the house. He wasn’t coming after her. No one was. She wasn’t sure where she would go or what she should do, but she was leaving without a doubt, without a look back.

  Jeff had let her drive his pick-up, but it was a straight shift. This car had no gears, no clutch. Her hands shook uncontrollably. When she had the right key, it turned with a click. The motor sputtered, caught, but she held the ignition down. The car screeched like a wild, wounded animal. She released the key and tried again. The motor coughed, started. She felt for the light switch. She’d never driven at night. She pulled knobs, flipped switches. The radio blared. Then, two beams shot across the yard, illuminating the house, the porch, the doorway. Pa. He was leaning against the door frame.