by Julie Kibler
Finally, when the sky is graying, he stops praying. “We better go,” he says. “Jess will freak out if we don’t show up in time for the sunrise.” He unties my sleeves and then folds the blanket. My arms can slide into the sleeves of the sweatshirt properly now, though my hands don’t reach the cuffs, and I wrap them around my chest. If I weren’t cold, I’d tear it off and leave it here on the dewy grass.
Seth walks behind me as we find the car to leave the blanket. He’s silent except for random cursing under his breath. I can’t tell who or what he’s cursing. Himself? Me? As Jess and Jordan come around the path, their blanket wrapped around both of them, Seth mutters, “Excuse my language.” I gape. I can’t help it. He’s sorry about his language? That’s all?
We climb the steps to the terrace at the top of Mount Bonnell. Not really a mountain. Just a ridge with Austin’s skyline visible to the east and the river to the west, extravagant homes along its banks. I struggle with the steps, my insides and outsides sticky and sore. Seth presses his hand against the small of my back, and I physically flinch. He drops behind. Not far enough.
The sun is rising over downtown when we arrive at the top.
Jess basks. She glows. Her eyes, her mouth, her entire being is joyful. I haven’t seen her ring in a while.
While the others face east, Seth with hands crammed in his pockets, Jess and Jordan marveling at the fierce and delicate strands of pink and red and orange and blue that thread the sky and around downtown and through the water far away, I face west and fling my purity ring beyond the stacked stone wall and listen for tiny clinks as it tumbles down the hill. I close my eyes to imagine the splash as it hits water not yet touched by the sun, and concentric circles that increase until they’re too far apart to discern.
Jess is asleep before we reach the interstate, breakfast forgotten. She doesn’t stir as I quietly open and close the car door at my house. Seth emerges to accompany me, but I ward him off with my arm. He glances at Jordan through the glass. “I won’t tell,” he says, his voice steady, steely. We both know what it was, that voice reminds me, and the blame lies squarely with me.
I ignore him. As I turn the front door knob, I can’t help looking toward the car, still idling at the curb. In the street, Seth leans against his car door, his arms folded on the roof, his chin on one fisted hand. His eyes burn like coal, begging. Judging.
I slip inside my house. My mom quietly snores on the family room sofa. I turn off the porch light and tiptoe past her. Soon, she peeks inside my room, then pads down the hallway to hers. I lock my bedroom door, and I lock my bathroom door, and I stand under needles of hot water for what feels like hours, until it runs cold and I’m shivering again.
Then, I sleep.
LIZZIE
Tyler, Texas
1917
Other than a few tears when Lizzie explained what she meant to do in Tyler, Docie took it well. “You’ll be back for Christmas, right?” she said. “And for my school program?”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Lizzie said. “I’ll be gone a month, six weeks at the most. I’d miss you too much to stay longer.”
Docie had nodded that way nearly grown girls did, more concerned with friends and school than whether her mother was around. She’d learned how to behave like a proper young lady watching Miss Ruth, though Miss Ruth had gone off to college and would likely return with her M.R.S. if things went the usual way.
Docie had more mothers than a girl needed. Ivy had promised once she finished growing, she’d turn back to human again, and she’d been exactly right. Docie’s emotions didn’t bounce up and down and all over the place so much now. Lizzie would never have left anyone else to deal with that. Besides, Mrs. Nettie had promised to keep a close eye. She’d promised that if Docie so much as mentioned a certain boy, she was to tie her up—ha!—and send for Lizzie.
Docie had taken a shine to young Mr. Wilbur Upchurch, a right handsome boy. They’d been friendly all through the years, especially after the Upchurch girls had pushed them into playing house that time, so she wasn’t surprised. Docie’s eyes lit up to see him.
Lizzie knew the look. She’d seen it on those who fancied themselves in love.
Lizzie’s own heart should have gone soft watching her daughter in her first big crush. But something was off about Mr. Wilbur. He was obstinate inside and out. Once, Lizzie caught him sneaking a smoke behind the printing office, his insolent look daring Lizzie to tattle. Then, last month she’d sat near him in a service and caught a whiff of something strong when he’d opened his mouth to sing. Brother JT and Sister Maggie Mae were so busy ministering and traveling, she wondered if they had any notion what he was up to.
All Lizzie had yearned for in her wretched youth was constancy and calm. The same made Docie itch. Lizzie feared she’d want things that mightn’t be good for her, and people too. The part of her that craved excitement, just like her Aunty Mat had, worried Lizzie to pieces. Mostly, she hoped Docie wouldn’t throw herself at the boy. She feared Mr. Wilbur would catch her, happily, and then throw her away in the long run, like Mattie’s Charley—and every man Lizzie ever knew, at least before the Home.
* * *
—
Getting off the train at the Tyler depot was eerie. Late October was usually bright and sunny, but once the heat broke—along with Miss Hallye’s nerves—the autumn had gone gloomy. Clouds painted Tyler even grimier than she remembered. Main Street was cluttered with horses and carts, and motorcars kicked up the dirt. The train engine noisily belched smoke as it took on more passengers.
Mrs. Nettie had sent a letter ahead, but Lizzie’s nerves knotted to wonder if anyone would meet her. If her journey commenced with neglect, she’d know the outcome too.
Lizzie hadn’t seen her mother in thirteen years—nearly all of Docie’s life. But her ma waved her down from the street, and Lizzie knew her at once. She reckoned the faces of kin etched the brain as sharp as the notion of how they’d treated you.
She picked up her borrowed satchel full of serviceable dresses plus a nice one for Sundays, along with sturdy boots and stockings. Hard work lay ahead—the least would be what her mother asked. Her stepfather hardly tipped his hat as Lizzie shoved her bag into the wagon bed and hauled herself up to a board nailed across the sides behind the spring seat. Her mother looked her up and down, taking in her luggage, her dress, her hat, and her good coat—which Sister Maggie Mae had insisted on giving her for the journey.
“Ain’t we Miss Fancy now,” Ma said.
Lizzie waited for a more affectionate greeting, but Ma directed Arch to pull out, and they headed away from town. Lizzie had already determined she would not call him Pa again. He’d never deserved it.
She watched the road, noting what they passed. Brother JT had said to hightail it back to the depot if things weren’t what she hoped—or if she had no one to take her there whenever she departed. Their place was near where they’d lived before, in a little community just below Tyler with a store, a gin, and a sawmill. Along with planting what land surrounded the interchangeable rent shacks, Arch had taken jobs in the lumber as long as she could remember, other than when they’d tried for land in Oklahoma. They’d come right back when their number wasn’t pulled.
Arch pulled off the main road and soon turned the horses toward a barn beside a weather-beaten shotgun-style house—as familiar to Lizzie as any building at the Home. Like every other place they’d lived, the porch sagged in the front and the outhouse stank in the back.
Lizzie’s mother led her inside, leaving Arch to tack the team. “It ain’t much, but it does. I expect it’ll do for you too.” She showed Lizzie where to stow her bag, in a corner near the stove. She’d set up a bedroom of sorts—a rope cot, with a stained sheet draped across a string for privacy.
It was more than she’d had growing up—or even at the Home—but her ma only saw her disappointment, same as always. “Ain’t but
one bedroom. Since all you kids took off, we never needed more. Privy’s in the back. Watch for black flies. We’ve had an issue this fall.”
Black flies meant nobody had bothered to dig a new hole and move the privy or to drop stove ash in the hole. Probably both. She’d watch her backside for sure—the bites could make you sick. She’d been in high cotton the last thirteen years with indoor plumbing filling water closets hung up high. The first time she’d pulled the chain, when they left their sickroom, Docie had screamed in terror. Lizzie chuckled now to remember.
Her ma turned sharply from stirring a pot simmering on the stove. “Hope you don’t think you’re too good for us now. You was lucky those folks took you, but we carry on here the best we can.”
“I ain’t too good,” Lizzie said. “I’m here to help out, like I promised.” If she was fortunate, maybe she’d get the chance to show them they needn’t live this way, always out to grab what they could, knocking over anyone or anything to jump ahead.
And maybe, just maybe, they’d come to see they’d hurt her too.
An apology wouldn’t fix it or take away her hurt, but she hadn’t come for herself. She’d come for the peril of their souls.
For supper they ate beans, likely simmered on the stove for days, a little pork butt added every few. The fire kept it from souring, and the concoction nearly seasoned itself. Her mother cooked up cornbread by browning butter in the skillet, then filling it with milk, meal, and egg, then shoving it in the cook box. Lizzie mostly remembered being hungry, but reluctantly conceded that the simple meal wasn’t the worst part of her old life. Beans and cornbread at the Home had always tasted plain in comparison—unless Docie had convinced Mattie to add sugar to the cornbread before she left them for Oklahoma. Matt could never say no.
Lizzie soon became reacquainted with her ma’s and Arch’s habits, making herself useful where she could, even hauling and splitting wood for the stove. She’d worked hard at the Home, but she saw how soft she was now. By suppertime the second day, her palms and fingers had blistered from sweeping and digging and using an axe. She asked for cotton wool and lard to wrap them, and her mother pointed to the cupboard. She found only a tiny tuft, so she bought her own when they went to the store a few days later, then returned her coin purse to a secret compartment in her case.
Saturday, she asked whether they’d go to church in the morning. Arch snorted and went to smoke. Her mother snorted too. “You’ll know the judgment’s come by my screams from hell.”
Lizzie sighed.
Ma constantly walked a thin line between angry and not. All day, she sipped from a flask in a string pocket under her apron. If her snuff ran out between trips to the store, she drank extra gin from a bottle hidden in the coop—not to keep Arch from complaining. To keep him from finishing it.
Most nights, Arch still passed out before he took off his boots, often with a smoldering cheap cigar hanging from his hand. It was a miracle he never set the straw mattress on fire. Lizzie marveled she and Docie had come away alive. The cigar’s aroma made her sick.
But true to her mother’s word, Lizzie hadn’t seen a sign of Arch’s sons.
Sunday, she huddled in bed pining for her family—her real family. The girls would rise and don their nice dresses and march singing to the new tabernacle—huge, with white siding and a sanctuary with plenty of room for the girls, children, workers, and a thousand guests besides. A single family had donated the whole sum for building it.
Lizzie had gone lazy recently, wanting to sleep longer, bored with the sermons. Often, they went over her head, and though she carried her beloved Bible every single Sunday and every morning to breakfast, her mind had wandered while others thumbed through their scriptures so effortlessly.
A person valued something, though, once it went missing.
She sat up and pulled her Sunday dress over her chemise—the dress tight because she hadn’t bothered with her corset this week unless they went to the store. Her mother had laughed her down the front steps the first day, when she’d gone to split wood in the stiff bones, her back so straight she couldn’t properly bend.
“Your fancy things won’t last five minutes here, missy,” she’d said, but Lizzie kept at it until she got two measly chunks for the fire. The next day, she left the corset in her case. She reckoned it didn’t matter much now whether she wore it.
“Take the wagon if you want,” her mother said, when Lizzie emerged from behind her curtain. “You could walk though. Church right down the road. We’re a little tired.”
When Lizzie had arrived, the house had reeked of filth. She couldn’t make it pretty, but now it was clean and didn’t stink so bad. The sheets and towels no longer stood on their own from sweat and grease, and even the windows sparkled where she’d taken vinegar to their few glass panes.
That was why her mother had sent for her. Lizzie could accept it, but she wouldn’t give up on her own hope. Now that the house was in order, it was her only reason to stay. “It’s all right. It’s late. But will you go with me next week?” she said.
“Dammit, Elsie,” Arch shouted from the porch. “I told you. We got no need for religion around here. Those sissy preachers got her brainwashed.”
“Now, Arch, Lizzie’s being polite is all.”
It was the first time her mother had taken up for her in…forever.
“I really want you to go, Ma,” Lizzie said. “I ain’t been the same since—”
“Don’t bring horseshit inside this house. You want to go to church, we won’t stop you. But don’t go meddling. We don’t need nobody bossing us.” Ma stroked the bulge at her hip.
Lizzie sighed. How had Mattie stood all the door-to-door visits, the handing out flyers on the streets for so long in OKC? No wonder she’d wanted a regular job. But maybe when it wasn’t your own folks slamming the door in your face, it didn’t sting so much.
Thank goodness the Home had taken the time to drill verses into her head persistently until she had much of the New Testament by heart to recite when she got frustrated. And days, while she worked, she sang hymns, hoping they’d catch their truth. She was no trouble to Ma and Arch now—they’d be worse off without her. But Arch spit tobacco juice where she’d just cleaned, and Ma interrupted Lizzie’s singing to point out spots she’d missed.
Nights, she lay in the bed—lumpy where ropes held up the mattress and musty from old straw, even after she aired it over the line—thinking of home, aching to hold Docie, though Docie didn’t like that so much now. Aching for her babies. Even aching for Miss Hallye’s nose in the air. She missed her sisters’ hugs; her ma hadn’t even touched her hand or shoulder.
Somehow, over thirteen years, she’d learned the meaning of family.
It was not these folk.
For years, she’d imagined if her mother could just see her, straightened up and doing good works, she’d be proud. Now, she knew Ma was not fit for that, never had been—at least not since Arch broke her spirit. Maybe the few nice memories she’d had of her ma had been conjured to comfort herself.
After a month, she’d given up on church, no energy even for a solitary prayer, her defeat hitting her hard. She didn’t know how long she could go on doing a servant’s work for nothing.
The next Saturday, her ma brought a handbill from the store, announcing a dance at the Odd Fellows’. They’d take the wagon to town after supper, she said. “There’ll be folks haven’t seen you in years. Let them see how fine you turned out.”
Was it true praise or words to mock her? Believing the best was a wager. But she knew helping her ma and Arch was right, and even if Ma was cruel, it didn’t negate the good work she’d done.
Brother JT would say to guard her heart. And she was certain sure he’d tell her not to even think about going to that dance. If ever there was a place to backslide, a dance had it written all over it.
But Brother J
T hadn’t written to advise her. No one had, but she didn’t need reminders to know what was in her heart. Besides, who would have read them to her?
She was strong now, smarter. She could mind herself. Ma and Arch said they only went to watch folks—and, she reckoned, for one more excuse to drink. In the end, they’d need someone to pile them in the wagon and lug them home, or they were liable to drive the horses into a ditch.
She’d go. This once.
CATE
Grissom, Texas
1998
I force myself to the kitchen to eat something the Sunday after prom. I keep my face and voice neutral, relaying the basics about the night to my mom, who can’t wait to hear the details.
I don’t talk about Seth. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to talk about Seth. Mom sighs and says she wishes I’d had more fun, but I won’t regret going, one day.
I think, If she only knew how much I will regret going—always.
Monday, I stay home from school. Mom thinks I’m exhausted. She fusses around me all day, and when she threatens to take me to the doctor, I know I have to go back. I won’t see Seth there, but the thought of seeing River is almost—almost—worse.
In the library, I pretend I’m busy. I skip lunch several days in a row. The day I return to the cafeteria, I slide into a crowded table with kids I don’t know well. I count on River’s assumptions. That I chose Seth after all. Or that I was embarrassed to hold hands or kiss in public. Or that I’d worried things were happening too quickly.
If only.
The truth is, everything is ruined. Every time I think of River, I think of that kiss, and then I think of Seth seeing us, and of his determination to prove I’d like his kiss better. Of what happened after. Of how I never expected Seth to go as far as he did until it was too late and too hard to stop him—and how I still struggle to believe it actually happened. Or how I maybe didn’t fight it hard enough, or say no the right way, or at the right times.