by David Hunter
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Martin was nothing if not a creature of habit.
After dinner he went to the wrap-around porch to sit in his favorite rocking chair, smoke his favorite tabaccy in his favorite pipe. He'd flip a coin, heads meaning he'd get some vanilla dessert that evening - another flip would determine if it be his wife or daughter. In the event of vanilla he hoped the coin would dictate it be his daughter, he easily tired of his wisp of a wife. Tails would mean chocolate - another flip to determine mother or her young daughter. He smiled as he thought on the possibilities, his enduring descriptions of flavors and types of dessert, terms in which he thought of people pretty much all of his adult life.
His mind went back to his first week of marriage. Some eight years passed, moren or lessen. His father-in-law was a kindred spirit, didn't have much use for the women folk other than cookin' and pleasure for himself and a few of his kin when they paid a visit. Reckin' that's why Belle didn't have much spit in her.
A few romps in the hay with minor bruises and cuts, were Martin's way of celebrating the first week of gettin' hitched.
Belle's Ma died when she was knee high to a grasshopper. She pretty much took over raisin' the youngins at home, within a year assuming wifely duties to her Pa 'til he got himself another woman. Not that her Pa completely let her alone after gettin' hitched again, but she had some nights of fitful sleep alone. Even such nights the slightest noise, a creak of the stairs or tree hitting the house on a windy night would awaken Belle as surely as a slap on the face.
For Belle, marriage would be no better – or worse – than living with her Pa. Just different, having to very quickly get used to the demands and personality of a different man. She had seen Martin many times over the years, mostly in town. He was fine-lookin', to be sure, but those coal-dark eyes seemed to conceal something brooding just under the surface. Menacing or mysterious, just getting away from Pa . . . Belle could only imagine.
A flirt here, sometimes a shy sideways glance there, assured that Martin took a shine to her. When he came to call on Belle's Pa she was surprised at how readily Pa agreed, no objections. She felt so sure that he would never set her free. 'Course, going out to the church picnic wasn't 'xactly settin' her free, but it was the first glimpse of hope and the possibility of one day being happy.
They didn't go to the picnic. Belle returned home with a soiled dress, dried tear stains on her face, hair rumpled, and bits of leaves still embedded in the disheveled curls. Pa gave Martin a stern look, asked him if anybody seen him. Assured that there were prying eyes nowhere near, Pa smiled, slapped Martin on the back, sending him on his way. Nothing more said, nothing more done, other than to ask Martin to thank his Pappy for the fine horse he received as a gift last week. Belle knew her fate was sealed.
The first week of marriage Belle found Martin to be no better than Pa; even worse 'cause Pa at least never beat her. She couldn't run away, 'specially with the war and danger from Yankees all around. Belle was strong enough to know that killing herself would just condemn somebody else to eventually take her place in Martin's home. If she killed Martin and played the grieving widow convincingly, she figured she'd have a home and be free of him with the means to never have to return home to Pa. With a very limited education and no thought of matters such as a Last Will & Testament, she weighed her options.
Most women would have been so worn down emotionally and mentally broken by a life such as hers that any plan of escape would never have even started to form, let alone be seriously considered.
Still young at just fifteen and made of stronger stuff – possessed of a certain pride and dignity she saw her Ma carry in spite of her own tragic life – Belle hoped that there might still be something more for her if she acted quickly enough.
There were a couple different poisons at the farm, given all the critters what were eatin' the crops in the ground and tabaccy hanging on the racks to dry. This seemed to Belle the best option. A tall, barrel-chested man, petite Belle could never hope to gain the upper hand in a physical match against Martin. She'd be no match even when he was in the throws of his worst drunken stupor of which there were many; starting with their nuptials night. That night included disgusting perversions her new husband forced on her followed by her first beating as Mrs. McGlothlin.
Hesitantly but with steadily growing resolve Belle licked a finger, slowly lowering it inside a jar of poison, a powder sprinkled in areas where mice were found. Removing the finger to taste it she grimaced with disgust, dry heaving. Any varmint stupid enough to actually eat this vile-tasting stuff deserved to die.
Her only other option was the jug of some liquid kept in the barn. Belle couldn't read the words but the skull-and-crossbones on the label told her all she needed to know. She tipped some liquid onto the top of her index finger. It did have a slightly odd taste but nothing that would be overt if properly mixed into a big breakfast. Martin could be counted on to nearly breathe in his food taking little, if any, notice of taste. This was 'specially true of breakfast: grits, eggs, even coffee when they could rassle up some.
When coffee wasn't available, generally the case during this dreadful war, adults settled for something a little "stronger" to get some fire in their bellies with a long day of work ahead. Men and children not engaged in war had to work double hard to make up for the lack of hands in the fields, not counting slaves.
Belle endured the pain and shame of her fourth day and night with Martin knowing that everything would change the next morning. She even hummed very quietly, almost imperceptibly. Martin liked everything to go as he demanded, with precision, without the slightest deviation.
Belle never hummed before, she damn sure had no reason to now; not with a swollen, bruised eye and torn ear lobes. She had the nerve to wear the most disgraceful earrings Martin had ever seen. He would not tolerate a Jezebel under his roof. Rather than tell her, he felt it best to be the man of his house, ripping them from her ears with his hands.
How could he marry somebody so stupid, so deserving of almost constant punishment and discipline? Martin didn't feel like humming, last night was anything but enjoyable for him. So why should she? He kept a watchful eye on her always but more intently this morning.
Stirring the grits he saw her take something from her apron pocket, pouring it in as she removed the pan from the fire. Enraged he flew at her, pinning her scrawny neck against the wall while yelling so uncontrollably that his saliva peppered her face.
Breaking down like the coward he knew she was, Belle admitted her poor judgment pleading with God and Martin to forgive her. Martin threw her to the ground, stomping on her chest until he felt ribs break; the cracking sound so sweet to his ears. Then he grabbed the frying pan from the potbelly stove, throwing the contents, still steaming, on her face.
Broken sobs and whimpering, Belle turned over on her side in a futile attempt to protect her face and head from his wrath. After a few more kicks he stormed from the house, furious with indignation and rage, making his way to the shack of one of his slaves. His wife wouldn't be any good for his gratification in her current state.
If Belle ever tried to do anything like that again, she'd find herself buried deep in the woods, next to two other white women who stupidly chose to not be compliant. Such was the case with a slave girl, maybe eleven years of age, who was buried by her Pappy in the black cemetery. Others joined her over the years. How was it that females just didn't know their place?
Yes, such memories caused a slight grin to cross Martin's face as he sat rocking slowly, smoking his pipe. What added to this moment of pleasure was the knowledge that his wife and oldest daughter were trembling just now, quiet as the mice that they were. Martin knew they would stay as still as possible now that the dishes were washed, dried, and put properly away. They sat there, trembling, just waiting to hear the fall of his footsteps. Would the coin toss bring him back into their home, or over to the slave shacks?
He thought on so many personal pleasures, past and just mome
nts away, the twilight time of day being his favorite.
His mind went wandered to his childhood. His Pappy brought home a puppy for his birthday. The mutt couldn't have been more than knee-high to a grasshopper. The puppy was kinda fun but by the end of the day too needy. When not napping or eating it would not leave Martin's side no matter how many times he kicked it away.
At the creek where Martin would go to catch crawdads, Mama made the best crawdad pie, he also liked to shoot at 'coons and squirrels with his slingshot. Sometimes he'd hit them. Coons he learned quick 'nuf to leave be when injured, they could be mean rascals. Their bites were something vicious. Martin respected coons. Squirrels had a bite something vicious too, but were a lot easier to handle as they were lighter. Made for good eatin' too. Martin loved knocking squirrels out of trees, seeing how many times it would take to throw rocks at them 'afore they finally died. It interested him to watch their large eyes, black as they were, you could see life in them. When they died you could see the life sorta leak out of their eyes. A dozen or so squirrels later Martin still could not quite pinpoint what it is about death and the eyes, but something was there. Would this limited to squirrels?
Pleased that Pappy got him a puppy, it was rare Pappy even acknowledged his existence, he was very annoyed by how much of his time the dog seemed to need. When it was awake, the darn varmint just wouldn't leave him alone. Wonder if he could see life leave a dog's eyes too? The stupid dog happily followed him down to the creek, bounding over the smallest twigs and rocks. Stupid and small.
At the creek, he took off his britches, wading deeper into the creek with the puppy cradled securely in his arms. The fool mutt looked happy, panting with his tongue hanging out, eyes darting everywhere anticipating whatever adventures to which puppies are drawn.
Quickly lowered into the cool water, he enjoyed seeing the dog kick its overgrown paws in a feeble, pathetic attempt at escape for a breath of air. While Martin was amused, he wasn't happy. Nothing made him happy, or sad for that matter. Slight amusement at seeing the dog struggle for life at least gave him some sense of finally, though fleetingly, feeling alive and connected to the world. It brought back the memory of his first up-close squirrel kill.
Eventually the puppy's eyes fixed on Martin's, through the slight rippling of water. Shore 'nuf, as the life left, his small body with overlarge ears and paws going limp then totally still, there was something in the eyes that gave away the fact that death held full sway. Curious about those he felt were sub-humans, he would recreate this same experiment with one of Pappy's slave girls.