Her maman was ready to spit on the woman’s shoes and cast the evil eye upon her, but Charice dragged her away and stuffed her in the carriage. “Her words mean nothing, Mother. I will deal with this on my own. You’ve protected me for far too long.”
****
Alone in her bedroom, Charice removed the little poppet she had fashioned in Christophe’s image from its wrappings. Tears would have fallen from her eyes, but the change was almost complete, and they had become nothing more than glass buttons, dimming the world into shades of grey.
“Oh, Christophe, I am so sorry for what I have done,” she sighed.
The realization of what was happening to her had come the minute she saw the stupid look on his face, the same one she’d seen in the mirror for years. Reciting the incantation in her head she’d used that night, she’d realized her mistake. One word, one syllable, had caused the desired effects to rot like an old apple core in the sun.
She spoke the damned words aloud, “All that is done to this doll happens now to me as I so do command. It should have been his name, not me. No never should have I said me!” Gripping the little doll tighter, she felt the pressure on her own chest. “And then, and then, I had to make it worse. I had to say the right words right after the wrong!” she exclaimed.
“Papa Legba, how do I right these wrongs? When I asked the pin piercing his heart to do so with love for me, when I wished to fill our minds and hearts with the knowledge of our union, I did not know what it was I was asking.”
Inadvertently, the misuse of the powerful magic her mother so easily commanded had rendered a great exchange between her and Christophe. What was meant to bring love and joy had brought a swap of mental capacity and unrequited feelings. With that horrible mistake, came the guilt that washed over, her stiffening limbs. She’d turned her body into that of a poppet and had stolen Christophe’s mind instead of his heart.
Fingers sticking together, her skin turned rough and threaded, as if cut from burlap. She forced the digits on each hand apart, the fabric like flesh tearing, and shoved on a pair of gloves. The tight fitting leather stung the raw patches, but she had work to do while her body was still somewhat functional, and the use of her hands was vital.
Charice listened closely to the familiar sounds of the house, straining her ears for the right moment. Afternoons were never busy times for her mother, most of the voodessa’s customers didn’t come around until the evening shadows could conceal their presence there, and the lady often rested before they began to arrive.
To her relief, Charice heard her mother’s records begin to play, a sure sign she was closed up in her own room. Sneaking down the wide, spiraling staircase was difficult with her legs barely able to bend. Nearly falling on several occasions, she held fast to the banister and made it to the bottom. Quietly, she shuffled toward the room off the back kitchen, the one her mother had always forbidden her to enter.
Behind the beaded curtain, the candles flickered in front of the saints and the many offerings. All the workings of a woman who lived and breathed magical power stood proudly on the altar. Her eyes took a moment to adjust to the low flickering light, but she’d snuck in so many times before, she knew just where to find what she needed.
Charice scooted forward, happy she’d thought to use the gloves, when she attempted to open her mother’s pine work box. Her body screamed in pain as she kneeled down, and rooted through the contents. Inside, she found a piece of white silk, natural sea salt, a large river stone, a dried apple, and twine. Fingers fumbling against their ever growing immobility, she carefully laid the poppet inside the cloth as gentle as if it were a newborn child.
A fear of magical words kept her mute as she sprinkled the salt over the doll; they’d already caused her so much trouble. Instead, she envisioned herself whole once more and Christophe returned to his formal glory. Once the crystals formed a layer over the tiny form, Charice folded the cloth around it, and bound it with the twine.
Nabbing one of her mother’s knitting needles, she punctured a hole in the dried apple, and threaded the end of the twine through it. “An offering to you, Papa Legba. Please help me make this right,” she whispered as she knotted the string around the heavy river stone three times.
By the time she’d finished, she found she couldn’t stand, her legs refused to unwind from beneath her. Gripping the shelf, she tugged upward, straightening her right leg and lifting her weight with her arms. The struggle lasted several minutes, the shelf teetering dangerously as bottles clattered together. The stitches ripped and blood trickled down her leg, the edges of dried grass itching against her roughened skin.
She wanted to cry, to shut her eyes and collapse on the floor, calling out for her mother. However, none of those things would save her, and she knew Papa Legba wanted her to heal herself. Magic always had its price, and she would have to pay hers.
Releasing the shelf, she toppled forward, her body out of her control. The jolt knocked a few of her mother’s potions and jars of herbs to the floor, the shattering of glass echoing through the house as if it were gun shots. As she fought to gain her balance, Charice heard her mother calling from the other side of the house.
“Charice?” the sound of sleep clung to her voice, but the edge of worry crept in. “Charice, is everything okay?”
Somehow, the panic screaming through her head gave Charice the strength to move. The increasing cloudiness of her vision left her off kilter, but she managed to escape through the curtain and grab a rain coat from the hook by the door, shoving the poppet in the pocket. There was no way to force her arms to twist and bend through the sleeves, so she buttoned it over herself with quite some difficulty, and hid her face with her hair.
She would’ve preferred to ride one of the steeds, instead of using the coach, but she feared losing the use of her limbs and falling to her death. Her face held downward, she called to the stable man to hitch up the horses, and while he went to follow her command, she fought her way up and into the seat.
Within minutes, she was on her way to the river, the home she’d loved all her life fading in the distance behind her. Pressing her gloved hand to the window, she whispered, “Goodbye, Maman.” If her plan did not work, she would never see the house or her mother again.
****
The murky dampness hanging on the air near the river smelled of watery freedom. Her body screamed in pain and filled with a deadening numbness in alternating waves. Every movement took so much effort; she feared she would not make it to the edge of the river wall in time. The weight of the doll and stone in her pocket seemed to grow with every second, and she thanked Papa Legba the riverfront was void of people.
All she had to do was toss the poppet into the waters and ask the spirits there to cleanse away what she’d done. Hope drove her forward in lurching, dragging movements, and her heart beat pounded oddly against the fabric like skin covering her chest.
Her mind whispered, “You’ll never make it.” Afraid, Charice raised her arm to hurl the poppet the remaining distance, the stitches at her shoulder popping.
“Cha-rice?” Christophe’s voice sounded strange, the word not quite rolling off his tongue the way it should.
She spun, her black button eyes locking on the confusion shining in the bright blue of his. “Christophe?”
He stood on the edge of the wall, wearing only one shoe and looking as if he’d been wandering the streets unattended for hours. She hadn’t even noticed him there in her need to free them both from her curse. Tears streamed down his face, and she knew he’d come there to die.
“Chris—”
He waved goodbye and took a single step forward, a sad little smile lifting the corners of his mouth before he plummeted into the water. She tried to scream his name, but the final stitches closed her lips forever, and Charice fell to the cobblestone path. The world around her seemed to grow large, the doll in her pocket weighing heavier and heavier.
****
Just outside of town, in a room be
hind a curtain of beads, in the house of a powerful voodessa, two little poppets sat upon a shelf. The little male doll had been crudely sewn, as if done by a child. The female doll, dressed in a tattered raincoat, looked as if she’d seen many better days, but they were beautiful. Their little black button eyes stared straight forward, their hands touched, and their stitched smiles seemed the most pleasant things in the world.
The mad voodoo woman who cared for the two little effigies murmured to them as she lit the candles to honor the saints, “You really did it this time, Charice. How do I save you now? You played with magic, and we have all lost. At least you finally got what you wanted. You have your true love.”
Secrets
March 11, 2014
US District Court
Lexington, Kentucky
“Mrs. Brandon,” Eric McCain’s southern drawl drew out her name, “can you tell us why you are here today?”
“Some secrets can’t be kept. If you try, they burn like a fire in your belly and devour your mind and soul, leaving you in ashes. They eat at you, day after day and night after night, until you are nothing but bare bones and a broken heart. Sometimes, you have to say the words, if only to save yourself. I might spend the rest of my life behind bars, but the truth will set my heart free.”
Ruby Brandon stared straight forward, looking without seeing the man before her. She felt strangely uncomfortable in the royal blue dress, and the feel of lipstick weighed down her mouth. With trembling, aged hands, she placed her finger on her lip. A year in prison, a year in the cold solitude after such a long and happy life, and she’d already forgotten how it felt to dress like a normal woman.
“Mrs. Brandon, what I meant to say was can you tell the court why you are on trial?”
She had to force herself not to smile at the polite young man in the beautiful suit, he was so serious. “Mr. McCain, I’m sure they all know, but if it makes you happy…” She shrugged. “I killed my husband, George Drake, in the summer of seventy-three.”
McCain gave her an encouraging nod, “Why did you kill your husband, Ruby? Is it okay if I call you Ruby?”
“Mr. McCain, I think we’re well passed such formalities. Call me whatever you wish. But to answer your question, I killed him because he was an absolute prick.”
The people in the courtroom gasped in shock at the tiny old woman’s words, and the judge banged his gavel. “Counselor, I suggest you control your witness.”
Ruby cast him a weary glance. Pompous ass, she thought.
“Tell us what happened that night, Ruby.” McCain stepped back and let the elderly woman speak.
She sat in silence for a moment, faded gray eyes fixated on the blue veins that traced a ropey pattern across the backs of her hands. With a deep breath, she tossed her short gray hair, and looked up to meet the eyes of the twelve people who held her life in their hands. Suddenly, she wasn’t telling her story to the jury, she was reliving it in her mind.
“It’s been over forty years, now, but I remember it all very clear. I don’t think anyone can forget something like that. If they can, I’d like to know their secret, because I could never forget mine.”
July 20, 1973
Lexington, Kentucky
The sweltering heat beamed down on the metal sides and roof of the already ancient motor home, making the atmosphere unbearable. Ruby, young and beautiful, stood next to naked in the little bedroom at the back. Her eyes roamed the varying shades of blue, black, purple, and yellow that covered her flesh. George had been especially thorough the last time he’d beaten her, making sure every inch of skin that wasn’t visible to the public hurt like hell.
Theirs had been a whirlwind romance. She’d met George, ten years her senior, in the little diner where she waitressed. His charm and confidence had made the military uniform even more impressive, and six weeks after she had served him the first cup of coffee, they’d been married. Within a week after that, he’d bought the little silver motor home, and they’d left out on their grand adventure. They hadn’t even crossed the state line before he’d beaten her for the first time. That all had been six months before, and though he often apologized, blamed his drinking, and promised not to do it again, she had learned better. The violence inside of him knew no bounds.
“Ruby!” his voice echoed through the small enclosure.
“Yes, George?” she nearly ran from the room and into the small kitchen where he stood staring into the icebox.
“Where the hell is the rest of my beer?” he growled, a meanness she knew well glistening in his dark eyes.
“Honey, I told you earlier you were almost out.” She hated the whimper in her voice.
George turned away for a moment, the slam and clank of jars and food accompanying the mumble of curses coming from his mouth. She couldn’t see his face hidden behind the door, just a shock of pitch black hair bobbing up and down, but she knew he was scowling as he muttered. He always did.
Her body trembled, the muscles already reacting to the blows before they came. “George,” she spoke his name as sweetly as she could. “Let’s go into town and get some more. We could get me some of that strawberry wine you bought me on our honeymoon. We can come back here and dance under the stars to Willie, Patsy, and Merle.”
She wanted so badly for him to be that man again; the man who had held her with gentleness and sang love songs in her ear as they swayed to the music. If he would do that, she could almost forgive all the times he’d left her wondering if he might kill her before he stopped.
“Shut up,” he screamed. When he straightened, his face was red with anger and his eyes bore into her as if she were the cause of all that was wrong in the world. “George, let’s go here. Let’s go there. I want. I want. George,” he mimicked. “You always want something, don’t you Ruby. You selfish little bitch. You drank my beer or poured it out, didn’t you? Didn’t you? You did it just so I can drive all the way into town and waste my money on you!”
The first blow came before she even realized he had crossed the space between them. The back of his hand landed across her cheekbone, the large knuckles sending bright burst of pain through her vision. She reeled, shocked he’d hit her in the face and feeling the hurt throb.
The sobs and tears erupted instantly, and the beating commenced. The blows came in an unending torrent, raining down on her body as if they were lightning and thunder, shaking her bones and breaking her skin. All she could do was try to cover her face with her arms, and beg for the mercy she knew she wouldn’t receive.
By the time he stopped, Ruby couldn’t move. He’d punched, kicked, and slapped her repeatedly for what had seemed like forever, and then he’d disappeared into the bedroom. She lay on the cold, wooden floor and listened to the sound of him snoring, afraid to move despite the pool of blood and tears forming under her cheek. In her heart, she knew she had to escape, there was no choice. Time passed slowly, unconsciousness and terror alternating, until she knew he truly had passed out.
Ruby struggled to her feet, using all of her strength to bite down against the pain. With quiet steps, she moved to the small padded bench that served as both a linen closet and the only seating outside the truck’s cab. Her eyes darted to the suitcase she’d kept packed and hidden behind the bench for weeks. She didn’t have a plan, no place to run or hide, but it was clear she had no choice. With quiet steps, she limped over, braced herself against the small table, and slid the battered green case out.
The hinges creaked as she lifted the bench seat and grabbed for a towel to staunch her bleeding nose and lips. Fear struck deep in her chest, and she stood as still as she could, hoping the sound had not awakened the monster sleeping in their bed. Counting her breaths, her eyes fell on a shock of metal hidden beneath the folded towels.
She gently pulled away the towels, a surge of fear clicking in her heart like the hammer of the gun that lay at the bottom of the pile. The revolver hadn’t been there the day before, she was sure of that. The questions choked her, like a vicio
us hand stronger and larger than George’s. Her mind instantly wondered if he meant to kill her. Yet, Ruby picked up the gun. The weight and promise of power swaying her into a calm sort of madness, she let her finger lay against the trigger.
“Just in case,” she whispered and laid the gun on the table. Her eyes pivoted between the firearm and the bedroom door as she opened the case and slipped out a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. She could see the bottom of George’s boots, the unmoving heels her only reassurance he still slept. Barely able to stand, she slipped the clothes over her skin. Even the weight of the light fabric made her ache.
The screen door was the only thing seperating her from freedom, and it suddenly loomed up like an unbreakable fortress preventing her escape. Doubts rushed in, reminders of the many times he’d told her she’d die before he’d let her leave. Nausea caused her to pause, and she gulped in a lungful of dry air, her head pounding harder with every rapid pulse of her heart. She almost shoved the suitcase back in its place behind the bench, tucked the gun back under the towels, and gave in—almost.
Forcing her tattered limbs to move, she lifted the suitcase in one hand and the gun in the other. One quiet step at a time, she made it to the door, and sat the suitcase at her feet once more. Her hand froze on the small latch, one little push kept her from making the second most dangerous leap she’d ever taken; the first being marrying George.
From where she stood, she could no longer see into the bedroom, and the thrumming in her ears from her labored heartbeat and breathing made it difficult to listen. Absolute terror swallowed her, and Ruby felt as if she were tumbling into the pits of hell. Again, the niggling voices urged her to stay and wait until she was closer to civilization, wait for anything or anytime. Her shoulders slumped and her weary head dropped forward, tears squeezing out of her swollen eyes.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
As Mad as a Hatter: A Short Story Collection Page 14