by Greta Cribbs
It was in that moment that she reached the sure conclusion that men were her enemy. The enemy, in fact, of all women. In my case, I suppose, she proved herself to be correct.
Was my grandfather aware of his impure thoughts as he stared down at Mother’s near nakedness that night? Perhaps. Perhaps his anger at her, his assertion that she was a tramp and a hussy and the other less tasteful terms he proceeded to call her, stemmed from his inability to admit his own secret longings. I suppose I’ll never know.
What I do know is that he beat her that night. Beat her worse than he’d ever beaten her before. So badly, in fact, that she was unable to return to work for the remainder of the week.
But not so badly as to harm the tiny creature just coming into existence within her, which was to eventually become me.
I survived, and I began to grow.
And when my grandfather became aware of my existence, he beat Mother again. When I grew big enough that I was visible to the general populace, he threw her out of the house.
Chapter two
“So you were conceived as the result of a rape?”
Duane Tolloch inclined his head.
“And you believe this happened because of some curse?”
“It happened on October 13. What am I supposed to believe?”
Meredith shuffled her papers again. “You’ve already mentioned that date. Forgive my skepticism, but I was not aware that October 13 held any special significance in the world of superstition. Aside from the number thirteen, of course. But that occurs every month, not just in October.”
“When you live in Crimson Falls, October 13 is a very significant date.”
“And what’s so significant about October 13 in Crimson Falls?”
“It’s Founder’s Day.”
“Lots of towns have a Founder’s Day.”
“Lots of towns weren’t founded the way Crimson Falls was.”
“What do you mean?”
Tolloch leaned back in his chair and smiled. “Well, there’s that whole story of the two families fighting over land. The family who stole the land killed the family who claimed to own the land, then built the town on the spot where the blood was spilled. All the most respectable citizens of Crimson Falls descend from those usurping settlers.”
“The Dry Martini and Manhattan demographic, you mean?”
Tolloch flashed a sardonic grin. “You learn quickly.”
Meredith did her best to return his smile. “Class distinctions are not unique to your hometown, Mr. Tolloch.”
“No. But one must assume that massacring an entire family, dumping their bodies over a waterfall, then naming a town in honor of the event is not quite so universal an experience.”
“No, not quite.”
“But I’m sure your director doesn’t want me to waste precious film on local history.”
“That’s not the primary reason for our visit, no.”
“Then let’s get on with it, shall we?”
“Yes. Let’s get on with it.”
***
Mother left her job at the bar after her encounter near the cemetery. She could not quite bring herself to go back to that place where loud, drunken men swarmed around her night after night. Where she was required to play the flirt for the extra tips it would bring in.
So with no job and now no home to go to, plus the arrival of yours truly growing closer with every passing day, she emptied the Mason jar she kept under her bed of all the money she had accumulated over the years (not too substantial a sum, I must say) and walked, carrying two suitcases and a handbag, to the Crimson Motor Court, up on the northern edge of town, in search of economical lodging.
The Crimson was nothing to write home about. Just one of those roadside establishments that popped up across America once people decided a car was something everyone needed to have. It’s still there if you ever care to drive into Crimson Falls, but it’s called the Crimson Motel now. The building was small. Just eight or so rooms with a lobby on one end. Mother directed her steps toward that lobby with the hope of procuring one of those rooms for the night. For quite a few nights, in fact.
Delbert Griffin, proprietor, regarded her with an unreadable expression as she came in. She set down her suitcases and hastily pulled her coat in closer around her middle, but she was too late. The unfortunate fact of my presence did not escape Mr. Griffin’s notice. It made no difference anyway. Everyone in town knew about the Tolloch girl who had gotten herself in the family way before bothering to get a ring on her finger. No one knew the true circumstance of my conception, and so everyone formed their own opinion.
Most of those opinions were not very pleasant.
“I suppose you want a room,” he said through tight lips as she approached the counter.
“Yes, please.”
“Well, you might as well look somewhere else.”
Mother swallowed and adjusted her coat again. “There is nowhere else.”
“This is a respectable establishment. Our guests expect a certain level of, um...decorum. We can’t have rumors getting out that certain...unsavory things...are happening on our premises.”
“Nothing...unsavory...is going to be happening.”
“From the looks of things, some unsavoriness has already occurred.”
She blinked back a tear and raised her chin, mustering every ounce of self-respect she possessed and daring to look him in the eye. “I’ve no control over what happened in the past. But I do need a room now.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You have money?”
“Some.”
“How much?”
“How much is a room?”
“Regular rate is five dollars a night for single occupancy.”
“In that case, I’d like to stay for two weeks.”
“I’ll have to discuss this with Mrs. Griffin first. We have standards, you understand.”
“I’ll wait here while you discuss it with her.”
“You’ll..?” He cleared his throat and fixed his dark piercing eyes on her. “Very well,” he muttered. “She’s just finishing up changing the sheets. Wait just a moment while I go and speak to her.” He squeezed around the counter and passed Mother on his way to the exit.
The door clanged shut behind him and Mother watched through the window as he strode down the sidewalk, stopping before the open doorway of one of the motel rooms. He made a beckoning gesture with his hand and a few seconds later a woman in a pale blue house dress, flowered apron, and “sensible shoes” stepped out.
Mrs. Griffin, Mother presumed.
The two of them entered into an animated conversation.
There seemed to be a bit of a disagreement over whether Mother should be granted permission to lodge at the Crimson Motor Court. There were lots of gestures and crinkled brows and hands on hips. A few shakes of the head accompanied by the occasional raised eyebrow. From the way his chest heaved and his head bobbed up and down with every other syllable, it seemed that Mr. Griffin had been pushed to raise his voice, though his words did not make it to Mother’s ears on the other side of the pane of glass.
Mrs. Griffin shook her head.
Mr. Griffin ran a hand through the sparse strands of hair on his nearly-bald head.
They both stared at each other without speaking for several seconds, then Mrs. Griffin reached behind her back to undo the straps of her apron. She stepped back into the room she had been, presumably, cleaning, then, seconds later, reappeared on the sidewalk again, sans apron.
With defiant determination, she walked toward the office while Mr. Griffin remained outside, sulking.
The door clanged once more and Mrs. Griffin stood before Mother, smiling. Was that smile simply a polite one? Or could it possibly be genuine?
“Miss Tolloch. Welcome to the Crimson Motor Court.”
“Am I?”
“Are you what?”
“Welcome.”
“Why, of course you are.”
“Is Mr. Griffin in agreement?”
Mrs. Griffin dismissed Mother’s concern with a wave of her hand. “My husband worries unduly over our reputation.”
Mother sniffed. “And you’re not worried?”
“I’m a woman. I know that things sometimes happen.”
Another sniff. “What would you know about that?”
“I know we can’t always control the things that happen.”
Mother looked down at her feet and shrugged.
“And sometimes we don’t want the things that happen. Don’t choose them.”
A tear rolled down Mother’s cheek. “No,” she murmured.
“But they happen anyway, and we can’t stop them.”
She dissolved into full-fledged crying now. For a time unable to form coherent words, she just shook her head and sobbed.
Mrs. Griffin enfolded her in a soft embrace and let her weep for a time.
When the overwhelming force of her sobs receded somewhat and she could suck in a decent lungful of air, she whispered into Mrs. Griffin’s ear, “I wanted to stop them. I tried.”
Mrs. Griffin held her tighter and said, “I know, sweetie.”
After she calmed down a bit, she paid for her lodging and followed Mrs. Griffin down the sidewalk to what was to be her room for the coming nights. Once the door was closed and she collapsed onto the bed, she ruminated over what had just occurred with her two gracious hosts. The experience only served to water the seed that had been planted in her mind on the night of my conception.
And the seed began to flower.
She knew now. Beyond any doubt, she knew that men were her enemy and the only sympathy and understanding she would receive in this world would come from her fellow women.
Chapter Three
“Going to need a new reel soon, Greg,” said Carl the Camera Man.
Greg nodded. “All right. Let’s cut.”
The barely perceptible whir of the Arriflex and the Nagra came to a stop and Meredith sat back in her chair for a breather. She was no stranger to talking with disturbed patients. Doing so in front of a camera, however, added a level of tension she had not anticipated.
Tolloch seemed to enjoy the break as well, though the interruption of their conversation, necessitated by the switching off of all recording equipment, caused an awkward silence to settle over the room. Tolloch’s eyes darted from person to person while the members of the film crew tried to avoid looking into his eyes at all costs. These were filmmakers. Not psychologists. Not law enforcement officers. And they were young. Barely out of college. Meredith could only guess how far outside of their norm this interview was.
Carl tinkered with the camera for a few minutes while everyone else in the room sat quietly and waited. Meredith pretended to study her notes. Sam drummed his fingers on the table on which the Nagra sat. Greg tapped his foot and hummed softly to himself. Tolloch twiddled his thumbs, a phenomenon Meredith, as far as her memory served, had never actually seen in person. The clock on the wall ticked off the seconds, which stretched to minutes, which felt like days.
Finally, Carl said, “Right, Greg. Ready to roll.”
“Great, thank you, Carl. Let’s roll sound.”
Sam pressed a button on his machine. “Sound is rolling.”
“And camera.”
“Camera rolling.”
Greg clapped the slate again, then gave Meredith the go-ahead to continue with the interview.
***
Mother didn’t know that July 8, 1946 would be my birthday. She awoke feeling a little more tired than usual, having slept fitfully the night before. She felt out of sorts for most of the morning but was unaware that her body was gradually getting itself in gear to deliver a bouncing baby boy sometime that afternoon. So she went about her work as usual.
But, wait, let me back up a bit. I haven’t mentioned that part of the story yet, have I?
Yes, Mother was working again. Mrs. Griffin had compassion on her and gave her a job cleaning rooms at the motel. In exchange, Mother was allowed to lodge in the caretaker’s cottage at the back of the property.
Mr. Griffin, in the name of propriety, insisted that she wear loose-fitting clothes in an attempt to hide her shameful condition. He also bought her a cheap wedding ring to stave off questions from any guests who did happen to notice her growing midsection.
So when, at about ten o’clock on the morning of the eighth, that first pain tore through her, discretion was the driving force governing her actions. She was in the bathroom of one of the motel rooms, bedecked in Mrs. Griffin’s flowered apron and wielding a scrubbing brush, when that uncomfortable sensation radiated from her enlarged belly. She carefully set the brush down on the edge of the sink and grabbed hold of the doorjamb, leaning forward and resting her head against the cool, smooth wood. She took slow, deep breaths as she stood there and let the contraction build to its climax, mild since it was only the first one, then gradually subside.
Once it was done, she hastily finished her job of scrubbing, changed the sheets and towels, then quietly carried the cleaning supplies to the storage closet located behind the motel lobby.
Another pain ensnared her as she set the bottle of Clorox bleach in its spot on the dusty wooden shelf. This one caused her to sink to her knees, coming dangerously close to sending the bottle of toxic cleaning agent cascading down upon her head. A short cry escaped her mouth, but she bit her bottom lip, hard, and forced herself into silence.
It lasted a bit longer than its predecessor, and Mother knelt on that grimy closet floor, clutching the fabric of her dress in two tight fists and forcefully blowing air out through her nose, while she gently rocked back and forth and waited for it to pass.
It did pass, eventually, and she stood, trembling slightly, and exited the closet.
The caretaker’s cottage stood a good distance from the motel, the Griffins having thought, rather wisely, that anyone living there would want to be far from the noise of comings and goings that characterized such lodging establishments. On a normal day, Mother was glad for the privacy this afforded her. Today, however, the walk across the tree-dotted field seemed a nearly impossible task.
She walked quickly, determined to arrive safely at home before another pain had opportunity to lay hold of her. It being summer, and a sunny day at that, sweat beaded on her forehead and trickled down the back of her neck. The heat from the sun pressed down from above and radiated up from the ground, making her quite breathless. And it was still only mid-morning.
She was maybe ten yards from her front door when the third contraction came on. She happened to be a couple of feet from an old oak tree, and she staggered over to it, resting her back against its sturdy trunk and forcefully suppressing the desire to cry out.
Her belly drew itself into a hard knot and pain raced up and down her spine while she stood there, trying not to be seen by any motel guests who may have been out and about that morning. She squeezed her eyes shut and bit down on her bottom lip, willing herself to remain silent. She absolutely must remain silent. Her job would be on the line if she drew attention to herself while in such a state, and then what would happen to her?
With her hands, she reached above her head and clutched at the bark of the tree, gripping so hard her fingertips were rubbed raw.
When the contraction finally released her, she stood gasping for a few seconds before she could quite work up the resolve to travel the rest of the way to the house.
Then she started walking. One shaky step at a time. The tall grass tickled her ankles and tiny sticks snapped under her feet and the whole way she was terrified another pain would hit before she made it to the safety of her home. She did make it, though, and when she grasped the rail that led up the steps to her front stoop she thought surely she had never felt such relief in her life.
It was then that her membranes ruptured.
It did not surprise her. Mrs. Griffin had kindly taken her under her wing and explained the more gruesome aspects of impending motherhood. Mother knew exactly what t
o expect. She knew enough not to be appalled, but she also knew enough to be acutely terrified that something might go wrong.
She did not consider calling for help, however. Her fear of dying in childbirth was not quite as intense as her fear of what Mr. Griffin would do should one of his precious guests report to him that they saw a doctor going into the little house behind the motel.
No. Mother would do this alone, unless Mrs. Griffin deigned to make one of her afternoon house calls, in which case she would be glad for the company. But Mother would not go calling on Mrs. Griffin. That would be decidedly improper.
She stared, somewhat mesmerized, as her waters gushed down her legs and pooled in the soil at her feet. She thanked God or whatever it was she believed in that such unpleasantness had occurred outside rather than on any of the handsome pieces with which the Griffins had furnished the little cottage.
Once the fluid had seeped quite thoroughly into the ground, she climbed the three short steps to her front door, then turned the knob and stepped inside.
Encased within those four walls, a sense of security enveloped her. She leaned back against the smooth plaster and slid to the floor.
She endured two more contractions while sitting in that position, each one more intense than the one before. She tried her level best to regulate her breathing and to remember what Mrs. Griffin had said about the strong pains being the most effective for bringing the baby sooner rather than later. The way these were seizing her, holding her in their grip for a full minute at a time, then finally leaving her dizzy and breathless, surely she could look forward to it all being over within a few short hours.
She managed to collect herself enough to stand and go about making the house ready for my arrival. She placed towels on all the furniture. The bed. The sofa. The soft chair in the corner. Mrs. Griffin had also made it clear that things often went much more smoothly if a woman had the opportunity to move around a bit, so Mother, not being quite sure where she would end up when the blessed moment came, made the effort to prepare the entire house. Then she slipped off her underpants, removed her apron, and slid some twine and a pair of scissors into the pocket of her dress.