Betty

by Tiffany McDaniel

  “A centipede,” I answered.

  “That’s right,” he said. “And why do some roots look like insects?”

  “Because it’s a root that…” I tried to remember, word for word, what he had said. “A root that the earth, in her wisdom, has preserved.”

  “That’s right, Little Indian. We can only reckon the earth has chosen this particular insect because of its energy. An energy that we must lay our hands upon and use as wisely as the earth has.”

  I walked by his side as he carried the decoction to Persimma.

  “Same as before?” she asked. “ ’Cause I don’t want no tomato roots or nothin’.” She eyed him like she was a first-time customer. “You understandin’ me?”

  “I assure you, Persimma, it’s the same.” He handed her the jar.

  “I heard you take feathers as payment. That true?” she asked. “I don’t wanna be payin’ top dollar—”

  “I don’t take no feathers,” he said without the anger I would have had. “No beads either, nor deerskin. No matter what you heard.”

  She handed him the money. He put it in his pocket without counting it. She stood there, lingering and biting her lip.

  “Somethin’ else?” he asked.

  She leaned over and whispered in his ear. I tried to hear what she was saying, but all I could hear was the way her jaw cracked.

  “Constipated, are ya?” he asked loudly.

  “Curse men like you, Landon Carpenter.” She slapped him on the arm until she, too, grinned.

  “You got anything to help me?” she asked.

  He told her to wait there, then he grabbed my hand and we walked to the slippery elm growing at the back side of our garage.

  “Always harvest bark from where?” he asked me.

  “From the side of the tree the sun shines on,” I said.

  He told me to lay my forefinger on the trunk to measure a piece of bark. With his knife, he cut into the tree, harvesting a small square no longer than my finger. As we walked back toward Persimma, he showed me how to peel the outer bark away, revealing the cream-colored heartwood on the inside.

  He told Persimma she would have to boil it in water and drink the tea from it.

  “They call it slippery elm,” he said to her, “ ’cause once it’s wet, it’s just about the slipperiest thing you’ll ever hold.”

  “I ain’t got no more money on me,” she said.

  “You can pay me next trip you make.”

  “All right, all right, moneyman.” She turned and walked with high knees through the snow back to her house.

  Dad took the money out of his pocket and counted it. He gave it to me to count, but I only pretended to. We nodded at one another like we were in business together.

  “Constipated means she can’t shit, right?” I asked him as we walked back to the house.

  “Yep.” He smiled.

  “Is the bark gonna make her shit?” I asked.

  His laugh was loud.

  “Yes,” he said, “it’ll make her shit.”

  We stomped the snow off our boots as we walked up to the back porch, where Mom and Fraya were. Fraya was hugging her diary to her chest while Mom was staring off at the flurries.

  I stood next to Fraya, elbowing her to get her attention.

  “You know that tree bark over there will make ya shit?” I told her, but she didn’t giggle like Flossie would have. I straightened my face and asked Dad what else the bark was good for so I could show Fraya I could be serious, too.

  “Oh, it’s good for sore throats and—”

  “Hey, Dad, Flossie and Lint are eatin’ the puddin’,” Trustin said from inside the kitchen.

  “Shut up, tattletale,” Flossie could be heard saying.

  “That’s for dessert, kids.” Dad flung open the screen door and went inside.

  Mom turned to me and Fraya.

  “You know what else that tree is good for?” she asked in a hushed voice. “It’ll make ya lose a baby.”

  “Lose a baby?” I asked as the image of a woman walking her child through the woods came into my mind. I imagined the child’s hand slipping out of the mother’s before they both disappeared into separate sides of the dark.

  “You can’t use bark for somethin’ like that,” Fraya said.

  “Can, too,” Mom said to Fraya. “When I was comin’ up, I knew a girl who had got in trouble. She decided her only option was to stick a piece of slippery elm bark inside herself. The problem was, she couldn’t get it back out. It ended up gettin’ all soured up in there. Not only did the baby die, but she died, too. Now I always wonder when I see someone comin’ by for slippery elm, if it’s ’cause they’re constipated, or ’cause they’re constipated.”

  She patted her stomach before going into the house.

  “I don’t get it.” I turned to Fraya. “Why’d the baby die?”

  “Never mind, Betty,” she said. “You’re too little to have heard such things.”

  I started to head inside, where it was warmer, but Fraya stepped out into the yard. Tilting her head back, she let the snow fall into her eyes.

  “Yeah,” she said after I asked her if she was coming inside.

  By that afternoon, Fraya was scribbling away in her diary. Leland was sitting on the sofa, using his new pocketknife to clean his fingernails. Trustin was painting with one of his pine needle brushes, all while Flossie danced and kissed Elvis’ photo. It was a good day, ending with a good meal that sent us all to bed happy. Lint was perhaps the happiest as he placed the horn beneath his bed.

  “It’s n-n-not a horn at all,” he said. “It’s the f-f-fossil of a demon eater’s tooth. And it’s gonna eat all the demons that h-h-hide under my bed.”

  I was writing about Lint’s fossil that night as I sat under my blanket with a flashlight, when I heard soft footsteps on the other side of the closed door. I peeked over at Flossie. She was still asleep.

  At the sound of another creak, I rose out of bed. Once out in the hall, I saw no one. At Mom and Dad’s room, I held back the deerskin curtain to see them in bed. Dad was snoring and had all of the covers on him. Mom was asleep on her stomach, her arm hanging off the bed and her slip hitched up to her thighs. A small puddle of drool wet the pillowcase. I held my hand over my mouth and giggled.

  I tiptoed down the stairs, where I looked over the rail just in time to see the end of a blanket trailing the floor behind a figure moving toward the back of the house. Moments later, I heard the kitchen screen door open and close, making a gentle tap against the frame. I hurried downstairs and immediately noticed a pair of snow boots missing from the pile by the door.

  I ran to a nearby window and saw the figure move toward the garage, their boots leaving prints behind them in the snow. Whoever it was had the blanket on their head like a cloak, hiding their face.

  As if sensing me, the figure abruptly turned. I ducked beneath the window. I waited a few seconds before daring to peek again.

  The person was disappearing behind the garage.

  “What are they doin’?” I asked the lamp beside me.

  When they next emerged, they had something in their hand as they headed toward A Faraway Place.

  “You’re not allowed there,” I whispered.

  Still, the figure climbed the ladder as they held tight to whatever was in their hand. They pushed the snow over and sat on the stage. Only when the blanket fell back did I see her face.

  “Fraya?”

  Her breath billowed against the cold as she sang, pulling the blanket tighter around her.

  THE BREATHANIAN

  Man Gored by Deer, Blames Gunfire

  A farmer who was gored on his property by a buck charging out of the woods blames the unknown shooter for the incident, saying, “The deer got spooked by all this gunfire. I just happened to be in
its path. I could have been killed by its antlers.”

  The man’s condition is stable.

  The buck, which was apprehended on the west side of the farmer’s property, was shot and killed by Sheriff Sands. A doe approached from out of the woods and stood watch over the buck’s body until it was removed.

  15

  To play the whore in her father’s house.

  —DEUTERONOMY 22:21

  I woke the next morning to the sound of a gun firing. I quickly buried my head beneath my blanket, fearing the gunman was standing over me.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Flossie asked.

  I peeked out to see her standing at the dresser, brushing her hair.

  “Who has the gun?” I asked.

  “What gun?” She shrugged.

  “Didn’t you hear it, Flossie? Someone fired a gun in our room.”

  “Betty, I was standin’ here the whole time. No gun went off. You had a dream.”

  She laid the brush on the dresser and left the room.

  Despite her saying no gun had gone off, I was certain one had. To be on the safe side, I checked beneath my bed and in the closet. Finding the room empty, I lay back down and shivered, still hearing the gunshot and waiting for my sisters and brothers to finish up in the bathroom.

  When I heard the last of them going downstairs, I got up. I loudly yawned as I stepped into the bathroom, not expecting to find Fraya hunched over.

  “Oh, sorry, I thought it was empty,” I said to her as I stepped back out in the hall.

  Her knuckles were white from gripping the sides of the sink.

  “You sick, Fraya?” I asked.

  She quickly wiped sweat off her forehead before grabbing two barrettes from the shelf to clip the sides of her hair back.

  “I’m fine,” she said before swallowing hard and looking at herself in the mirror. When she saw the top of her dress was unbuttoned, she quickly fixed it. Her fingers trembled as she did.

  “You sure you’re not sick?” I asked.

  “Nothin’s wrong, Betty.”

  She gnashed her teeth as she smiled. When she patted my cheek, her palm was clammy.

  “You don’t look good at all,” I told her. “I think you got the flu or somethin’.”

  “I told ya, Betty girl, I feel great,” she said, struggling to walk steady. She used the wall as her support to make it out into the hall.

  “Maybe you got sick when you went outside last night,” I said.

  She paused at the top of the stairs.

  “It was freezin’ last night,” she said. “I didn’t even allow my feet outta the blanket.”

  “But I saw you. At least, I thought I did. I must have dreamed it, like the gunfire.”

  “You must have, ’cause I was in bed.”

  She walked down the stairs. I said nothing about the color that had drained from her cheeks.

  Inside the bathroom, I stepped in something wet. When I turned my foot over, I saw a drop of blood smeared on my heel. I saw another drop on the toilet seat. I noticed the cabinet door was slightly open and Mom’s sanitary napkins were pulled out. I pushed the box back and closed the cabinet before using a tissue to wipe the blood off the seat.

  When I got downstairs, Fraya slid her plate of pancakes in front of me as I sat beside her at the table.

  “You can have my breakfast, Betty girl,” she said. “I’m not hungry.”

  She picked up the small pitcher of Dad’s syrup and started to pour it over my plate. The syrup was just sugar boiled in water, but I liked lots of it. Fraya’s hand was shaking so badly, though, I thought she was going to drop the pitcher.

  “That’s enough,” I said.

  She set the syrup down and fidgeted in her seat. Before I could ask what was wrong, she vomited on the table. Everyone pushed back in their chairs.

  “Eww, Fraya.” Flossie spit her bite of food out.

  “I’m sorry.” Fraya wobblily stood from her chair. Dad caught her before she fell backward.

  “How long you feel sick for?” he asked.

  “Just come on this mornin’.” She wiped her mouth. “I need to lie down.”

  She curled inward, holding her stomach.

  “You’re burnin’ up, girl.” Dad felt her forehead. “I’ll give Doc Lad a call.”

  “No.” Fraya gripped Dad’s arm. “I’m already startin’ to feel better. Besides, don’t you have a tea or somethin’ you can give me?”

  “I don’t treat emergencies.”

  “Ain’t an emergency, Dad. It’s only the flu or somethin’. I just need to rest. I don’t want a doctor to come. I don’t want all the fuss.”

  Dad helped her get upstairs to her bed. Mom quickly started moving the plates to the sink. She told the rest of us to gather up the tablecloth and take it outside to shake the vomit off so she could wash it.

  “It’ll have to go in the river,” I said. “So the water can carry it away.”

  Mom slapped the back of my head as she passed.

  “And make sure y’all stay away from Fraya,” she added. “Whatever bug she has will pass through everyone and there’ll be so much sickness in this house, we’ll have to move.”

  Flossie refused to touch even a corner of the tablecloth.

  “It stinks.” She held her nose. “I’m gonna be sick myself.”

  It was Leland who grabbed the tablecloth and carried it outside. He let the vomit slide off on top of the snow while he looked up at Fraya’s window.

  We all thought she would be better by the afternoon, but she threw up the tea Dad made her. He decided to burn sage and wave the smoke around the room to help disinfect it. Afterward, he went out to the garage to cook up a wild ginger syrup to rub on Fraya’s stomach. I stared in at her as I stood out in the hall. Mom wouldn’t let me in the room because of the germs. She told me to go back downstairs, where Flossie and the boys were watching TV, but something about the way Fraya was sweating through the sheets caused me to stay and keep watch.

  “Well,” Mom said to me, “if you’re gonna hang around, you might as well be useful. Go wet a washcloth under cold water and bring it back to me.”

  I quickly did what she asked. She laid the wet cloth on Fraya’s forehead.

  “I’m gonna have to call Doc Lad,” she said to Fraya. “If we don’t get a jump on this flu, it could turn serious real quick. I’ve seen it before.”

  “Don’t call Doc.” Fraya reached out to Mom. “He’s just gonna poke around and make me sicker. It’ll pass. Please, Momma.”

  Maybe it was the way Fraya had called her “Momma” that made Mom give in.

  “All right.” She picked up the empty glass from the side table. “Let me fill this up with more water.”

  As Mom turned to leave, her eyes caught on the navy blanket draped over Fraya. There, around Fraya’s hips, the fabric was darker than the rest. Mom set the glass down, then touched the blanket in the dark spot. Her fingers came away red. Mom jerked the blanket off and revealed a pool of blood drenching Fraya’s skirt.

  “Jesus Crimson.” Mom grabbed her mouth.

  “There were drops of blood in the bathroom this morning,” I said.

  “Why didn’t you say somethin’ earlier?” Mom turned to me.

  “I thought it was from you. I saw your napkins out of the box. I thought it was—”

  “Go get your father.” She pushed me forward. “Now.”

  I hurried down the steps so quickly, I nearly fell.

  “What is it, Betty?” Leland stood up from the sofa.

  “I need Dad,” I said, running past.

  “He’s out in the garage,” Flossie said.

  I threw open the front screen door and jumped over the steps into the snow.

  “Dad, it’s Fraya,” I said out of breath when
I’d made it to the garage. He had been preparing the ginger rub. He dropped it as he darted out of the garage and into the house, me on his heels.

  When we got upstairs to Fraya, Mom pointed to the blood and said it was no flu.

  Dad immediately ran back downstairs. I could hear him on the phone.

  “Doc? Landon Carpenter here. My daughter’s bleedin’ real bad. No. Not like Alka. It’s comin’ from…Just get over here real quick.”

  Flossie and the boys started up the stairs to see what the commotion was. Leland pushed everyone out of the way to be the first to step into Fraya’s room.

  “What’s wrong with her?” he asked Mom.

  She pushed him back out in the hall.

  “Y’all need to stay out from under Doc Lad’s feet when he gets here,” she said before turning to Fraya, who had started to repeatedly apologize. Mom tried to get answers out of her, like when the bleeding had first started.

  “I don’t know,” Fraya replied, her voice shaking. “I woke up and it was there. It was spotty at first. I used one of your napkins.”

  Dad rushed up the steps.

  “Doc Lad will be here soon,” he said, going over to hold Fraya’s hand. “Everything is gonna be fine, Fraya. We’re all here.”

  He turned to us kids and waved us into the room.

  “Grab my hand,” he said to me. “And Flossie you grab hers. Boys, get in line. We’re gonna pass our strength to Fraya. She needs her family.”

  We formed a chain around Fraya’s bed, Mom holding Lint’s hand at the end.

  “You’re gonna be fine, Fraya,” Dad told her. “Ain’t that right, kids?”

  He waited for us all to nod.

  “You’re gonna be fine, Fraya” he said again. “You’re gonna get well and write your songs and sing and sit out on A Faraway Place. Here is your song, Fraya. Here in this room. Even in the pain. Don’t think the sunrise won’t come again. I can see images of you dottin’ the acreage.” He turned his head to look out the window by the bed. “I see these images of you on into the future. There you are singin’ and joinin’ each decade of your life, until you stand in the back of the field, with your hair silver, and all the life you’re meant to live. The future is writin’ to you now, Fraya. It’s writin’ to you now to say you do not die here in this bed.” He turned back to her. “Remember how powerful you are, my girl. You are so very powerful.”