“I guess it was the crazy whore in me,” Della whispered softly.
“You can’t help it,” he said, his voice softening a little. “You can’t stop it because you don’t know better. You ain’t ever been taught right. I couldn’t resist your temptation and you couldn’t stop giving yourself away. You can’t help what you are, I guess.”
“Go.”
“I’d like to talk to you sometime when you’re feeling stronger. I don’t want you to think I don’t care, I do.”
“Go,” she said.
“Maybe in the future we could talk this out and then you could see.”
“Leave,” she said. “Leave.” He walked out, shaking his head. I sat with her on the couch until her momma returned, and then I went to her room to finally get some sleep. When I woke up, Della was watching TV while her momma and two men sat in the kitchen passing around a joint.
“Let’s go outside,” I said to Della. “It’s nice out there tonight.”
She smiled and joined me at the door.
“That’s fine, girls. Me and the boys gonna stay inside where the fun’s at!” Her momma laughed.
We sat on the hood of her momma’s car. A car so dinged up it was hard to tell what its original body shape had been. She still seemed sad, but calm.
“I see you gotta date,” I teased her.
She laughed. “Yep, it appears I do. A stoned forty-five-year-old man that can’t keep his eyes off my momma. Some date.”
“You look real good. I like your eyeshadow.”
“Thanks. You know he keeps looking at my head. Like when we talk or something. Most guys just stare at my boobs, but not him. He just looks at my head, and I can see the disgust in his eyes. But you know what’s really funny? I kind of get a charge out of it. Here this gross man came to my trailer looking for some loving for himself, and he don’t want it because of my bald head. He doesn’t want me! All I have to do is just look at him, or touch it, just stick my hand up and start rubbing the baldness, and he looks like he’s gonna get sick. Why, if I had my hair, I’d be beating him off with a stick! It’s a different feeling altogether, to be unsexy. It almost feels powerful. I’m just Della. I ain’t a woman really, or a sex magician. Don’t know if I’ve ever been just me. I had boobs by the time I was ten. And hips by the time I was eight. Men have always been after me. And now they ain’t. I may keep it this way.”
“You’ve always been the standard for what’s sexy here in Crooktop. You wait, all the girls at the high school are gonna start shaving their heads if you keep yours bald.” I laughed.
“You think they will?” She laughed too. “Wouldn’t that be wild? Men would have to learn to like it then, I guess. You gonna go to church tomorrow?”
“I can’t go into town. Can’t risk seeing Father Heron.”
“Where you been? I looked for you at the diner and couldn’t find you.”
“Off with Trout,” I said, smiling. “We’re running off again on Monday.”
“What? Where to?”
“We been working the tomatoes at another camp. Now we’re leaving for the ocean. That’s why I come back to get you. I can’t leave you behind.”
“So you’re leaving for good?”
“I have to. Father Heron found out about me and Trout. And I won’t let Father Heron kill him or me neither. So we’re running.”
“Maybe if you gave him a chance, Mercy. Maybe he’d come around to Trout.”
“He ever come around to you? You been my best friend for years now. He let you come to the house? Can I ever be honest and tell him when we’re gonna hang out? No. I have to lie and say I’m working just to get to see you. And you ain’t a mater migrant.”
Della nodded her head slowly. “He’s a damn fool,” she whispered. “An old hateful bastard.”
I laughed. “If there’s one thing Father Heron would hate to be, it’s a bastard.”
“I can’t imagine you off this mountain,” she said. “It’s all you know.”
“I love him more than this mountain,” I whispered, remembering Mamma Rutha. How can you leave your homeland? her people had asked. Because it’s easier to leave my home than it is my heart.
“I love you more than this mountain too, Della. And I want to take you with me.”
She smiled, with tears in her eyes. “There ain’t nothing for me here anymore. If you’d asked me a few days ago, I wouldn’t have been able to leave Randy. But I can now. I want to leave everything behind. That dirty trailer. My momma. That awful shadow that chases me. I don’t want none of it anymore.”
“So you’ll come?” I asked.
“Yeah. I’ll come with you. When we leaving?”
“Early Monday morning. I’m meeting Trout by a stream. You can meet us by the river, in the old migrant camp.”
“I can’t believe we’re really gonna do it. We’re gonna leave this hellhole. After all our talk about one day escaping, we’re gonna do it.”
“You bet we are.”
“What do you think Trout’s gonna say about my hair?”
“Same thing he always says about you,” I said, laughing. “ ‘That Della DeMar is one wild woman.’ ”
Chapter XIX
The hour before sunrise is an hour of tricks on the mountain. It may appear to be a cool October morning, filled with the whispers of a coming winter, and turn out to be a hot Indian summer day. The black of night may fade into a cool purplish navy before bursting into a warm butterscotch sky. It’s an hour of indecision. The first yawn and stretch of a new day, a Monday.
A bobwhite was awake. Singing his simple song to a sleepy world. Just three notes. Two the same, and then one a little higher. Mamma Rutha said they were singing their names. Bob-by-White. I whistled it back to him. He answered, and waited for me to repeat. Bob-by-White!
We played our game, singing to each other, as I walked down the valley. I looked up Crooktop, Mamma Rutha was out there somewhere. Probably sleeping beneath a poplar tree. “Shhh,” she would have whispered to me if she had heard me singing ‘Bob-by-White.’ “Give the mountain some peace, some peace to draw its strength for a new day.” But I had too much strength myself to walk quietly. I was taller than the mountain. Hotter than the coming sun. Happier than the song of the bobwhite. Because it was Monday, the day of love.
I thought about him, walking up the mountain as I walked down. How he might already be there. Sitting on the rocks, looking into the fire trout stream. “Don’t show nobody this place,” he had said. “It’s our secret place. Where the fire trout was born.”
I had whispered vows of forever that night up on Thorny Ridge. And as I walked down the valley I was living them out. Wherever you go, I’ll go.
When I was little, I never dreamed of my wedding the way that Della had. Della would cut clippings from magazines of flowers and cakes and dresses. She had a whole shoe box stuffed with ideas. She wanted a princess dress. With lots of lace and pearls. A long train that swept behind her. Flowers and flowers and flowers. Flowers everywhere. And her hair. Now that would be the challenge. Highlighted, crimped, curled and fluffed, it would definitely be bridal hair. There would be an organist. A handbell choir. A limo with champagne. Maybe even a honeymoon to the coast. I would be in the wedding of course. Wearing dusty rose, the color she said I looked the best in. Her groom would be in a tux, looking like something out of a soap opera. With shiny shoes and slicked-back hair. Della’s mom would be teary but composed. And everyone that didn’t like her would envy her, and everyone that loved her would be so proud.
My wedding had been different. A harvest midnight. A mountaintop for an altar. Moonlight for a veil. A gray tent with red ropes for a honeymoon. Oh, but the groom! Just the thought of him had put white lilies in my hands, a wreath of baby’s breath in my hair, and white satin over my body.
I was close. My heart began to beat a searching rhythm, seeking its mate. My hands began to tremble, ever so slightly, knowing that they would soon be covered by his. I pushed back the thic
k leaves. Breathing in the wet steam of the morning. I stumbled over briars and pushed them back with my bare hands, never feeling the pain. I could see the rocks in the distance. The ones that he had first held me on. My pace quickened, pushing me toward the stream.
“Trout?” I called out.
I was early. I had left while the mountain still slept, and he was still on his way. I sat down on the rocks and waited. I smoothed my clothes and pulled my fingers through my messy hair. I used a small pebble to try and push back my cuticles. When I had fixed myself as good as I was going to get, I looked around. Arched hickory and oak branches created a green cathedral ceiling. The ground was covered by a lush moss carpet. All of it framed by stained glass as the first yellow rays of sun spilled down on the silver stream. But where was my groom?
I waited until the dew was dry and the morning’s frisky creatures grew slow and lazy in the heat. Until my stomach began to complain with hunger. Until the sun reached its peak. I kept my eye on the path that he would walk up. Any minute. When my feet grew numb from being dangled off rocks, I let them dangle as dead limbs. When my back knotted from a lack of support, I just let the muscles twist and harden. I wasn’t moving without him. I told myself if I just waited long enough. If I hoped hard enough. If I focused all of my energy, my very breath, on willing him there, it would happen.
As night fell, our secret place became nowhere. I was alone in the middle of nowhere.
But I was still waiting. Finally standing, my legs struggled to support new weight. Pacing. Back and forth in the moonlight. I will wait forever, I told myself. Until I die from hunger, or sorrow. I will wait until he comes.
“Please come, Trout,” I whispered to the bit of moon peeking through the woods. “Please hurry. Please. Please. Please. Please come now.” The moon didn’t answer me. And Trout didn’t come.
It was a noisy night. Branches creaked from the squirrels that scampered across them. Something large and unknown rustled in the brush. My ears strained for the sounds of the path. Any minute they might hear footsteps. I dozed in and out of consciousness. Sleeping until a noise would wake me. The snap of a branch. “Trout?” I would call out into the darkness. My voice sounding small and hollow. No answer. And no more noise. So I would doze again. Until another snap. “Trout? Is that you?” No answer. Sleep finally pulled me from my misery.
I was walking through a field. And soon I was standing by a pool of water. Looking into it. There was baby’s breath in my hair. And a light. At the very bottom. And it was swimming toward me. Closer and closer. A shimmering light, growing brighter.
So bright it woke me. Even through sleepy eyes I could still see the fading light. I sprang to my knees. Was it the fire trout? A last sparkle. Then nothing. Had I imagined it all?
I knelt by the stream until dawn. Through hours so dark I couldn’t even see the water, but could only hear it. I was keeping watch for the fire trout. When dawn returned, I knew I had to go to him.
Maybe he didn’t get the note. Maybe the Mexican man had only pretended to understand who Trout was. Maybe he was sick or hurt. My mind held all the maybes, but it clung to what it knew. Wherever he was and regardless of why he didn’t come, he loved me.
I traced my way back toward the valley. I wondered what happened to Della. If she waited by the river, just like I had at the stream. I would make it all up to her. After I found Trout.
A car passed me and the driver waved. Was it someone I knew? Someone from First Baptist? Did they know I was on my way to love the mater migrant? Would they call Father Heron? As panic began to take control, I told myself it didn’t even matter. Because I couldn’t turn around. Even if Father Heron himself stood in my path.
I stood in the flatland and caught my breath. I started looking for his tent. I saw tents with gray rope. White rope. Brown rope. Yellow rope. But no red rope.
“Trout?” I called outside the tents. “Where are you, Trout?”
He never answered. I began to feel sick. Everything seemed to be moving too slowly, like I was walking through molasses. Like my mouth was filled with peanut butter. “Trrrrooooouuuttt,” it called thickly.
But then my eyes saw it. And my heart quickened so that I felt dizzy. The old brown truck. Worn and beaten, it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. I ran to it. He wasn’t in it, but it meant he was still there somewhere. He had probably just gone for a morning walk. Maybe he was headed toward our secret place at that moment. I sat down in the bed of the truck. It was my anchor. My one solid link with Trout.
I sat there for a couple of hours. Until the other people in the tents began to stir. I imagined that Father Heron had heard by now. I was back, and I was with the mater migrant. It was a thought that I decided to deal with later. I told myself I’d suffer anything for Trout. Anything, if he would just come.
The migrants began to build small fires and brew coffee. My eyes darted from one face to another. Until I saw the Mexican man that I had given the note to. Stirring his coffee, laughing over a joke with his friend.
I walked over to him. He looked at me curiously.
“¿Trucha?” I asked him.
He shook his head.
“Trout! ¡Trucha!” I insisted.
He shook his head again.
I pointed to the brown truck.
“¡Trucha!” I said again, my voice grating with frustration.
He stared at me with calm eyes, and nodded.
“Gone.”
“You don’t understand. I need to see Trucha. I was just here with him a few days ago.”
“Gone.”
“For how long? A morning walk?”
He shook his head, and turned to walk away. I grabbed his arm. I would have held him forever to get my answers.
“No come back!” he insisted, his face very serious.
“There must be a mistake. His truck is here. Did you give him the note?”
“Gone. No come back,” he yelled as he reached in his pocket and pulled out my note. I stared at it, and I believed I would die from the pain it brought.
I had seen death before. Once, I found a dead groundhog stretched stiff and cold beneath a peony bush. Like a stuffed animal, or a cheap carnival prize. I stared at it and wondered what death would do to me. Would I become a plastic doll?
I had my answer. When he said that word. Gone. When he showed me that note. I looked up to see the peony branches. To smell their sweet flowers hanging over me. And all of the things a doll can’t do fell upon me. A doll can’t stand on its own. So my legs gave way, pulling me to the ground. Dolls can’t have blood coursing through their veins. So thick red love spilled out of me. Dolls can’t cry. So my wet eyes were replaced with empty ones, that couldn’t even blink. Trout was gone. And so was Mercy.
Chapter XX
So there I lay, beneath the peonies. With eyes that only saw glimpses. Of the rough weathered hands that carried me. With ears that only heard prayers. Pleading for mercy. Mercy for the Mercy doll.
I had a doll once when I was little. A plastic baby doll with fuzzy yellow hair. How I loved her. I named her Sally, after a beautiful lady at church. I would rock her. Sing to her. Pretend to feed her. I took her everywhere with me. Even to church. And that’s why Father Heron killed her too. He said she was an idol. That I loved her more than Jesus. Maybe I did. I was only eight, and at least I could see Sally. It was hard to see Jesus, with Father Heron always standing in front of him.
He burned her. In the backyard after church. He built a big hot fire and made me throw her into it. “No!” I cried. “Don’t make me burn Sally!” We ran away. Me and Sally. We hid behind the tiller in the shed. “Don’t cry, Sally,” I whispered to her. “We’ll stay here forever so you won’t get burned up.” But he sniffed us out, his nose smelling our fear. And when he found us, he made me wish that my limbs were unfeeling plastic things like Sally’s. I cradled her in my arms. One last time. I smelled her fuzzy hair. It smelled like baby powder. I kissed my baby.
“I lov
e you, Sally,” I whispered.
“Throw her,” he said.
“No!” I screamed. “I’m not gonna let you kill her!” And then he took my arm, the arm that clutched my Sally, and held it over the fire.
“Let go or burn with her.”
It felt cold at first. Like he was holding my arm down in icy water. Then the pain came, and I knew that I was burning. The tiny hairs on my arm singed and withered. He watched in silence as I cried. I looked at Sally, her pink skin blackened by smoke. And then I let go.
She fell down into the hot red flames. I turned to run, but he held me there and made me watch my baby burn. Her fuzzy yellow hair turned black, and then gray, and then fell off. Her eyes were open staring straight at me. “Close your eyes,” I begged her. But she just looked at me, asking why must Sally burn? Her eyes sagged and drooped until they were little colored pools of melted plastic. Her twisting body made a shrill hiss as it withered into ash. My baby was screaming for its momma.
And now I was somebody’s doll. Don’t love me more than Jesus, I wanted to tell her. Or he might burn me too! Then I’d be a melted pool of plastic. My stringy hair would turn black, then gray, then fall off. And my eyes would droop and sag. If only my plastic lips could move, I would tell those rough hands, Please don’t love me more than Jesus.
PART TWO
Eternal Peacein Glory
Chapter XXI
Someone was singing my song. “I awakened you under an apple tree, la la la . . . There your mother brought you forth, la la di di la . . . Now set her as a seal upon your heart, for love is as strong as death.” As strong as. Why didn’t it say stronger? Wasn’t it love that was making my plastic hands begin to tingle and move?
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