They Call Her Dana

by Jennifer Wilde

  “Mornin’, Dana,” he said.

  His voice was harsh and husky, so guttural it often sounded like a growl. I had never heard Clem O’Malley speak kindly, and I had never seen him smile. Not as tall as either of his sons, only a few inches taller than me, he had a strong, powerful body with thick chest, broad shoulders, muscular arms. His features were flat and coarse, the cheekbones broad, the nose large, the jawline hard, unyielding. His mouth was large and pink, the full lower lip curling with undeniable sensuality, and his thick auburn hair was brushed severely to one side. Clem O’Malley brought to mind a healthy, brutish animal acharge with strong red blood and tremendous energy.

  The mystery to me was that so many women seemed to find my stepfather appealing. More than one woman here in the swamps had gone utterly daft over him. They seemed to revel in the rough, abusive treatment he gave them. He had quite a reputation as a tomcat and spent an inordinate amount of time in the pursuit of tail. He and Ma hadn’t slept together for years, didn’t even share a bedroom, and she had long since grown immune to his brazen infidelities. I wondered how Ma could ever have married such a man. What had driven her to … to accept such a brute after the graceful, gracious life I knew she had had earlier?

  Clem O’Malley sauntered slowly toward me in that heavy-limbed, stealthy walk that reminded me of a panther. He wore tall black boots and tight gray breeches and a very thin white cotton shirt that bagged loosely at the waistband. The full sleeves billowed as he moved. The boots, I noticed, had been freshly polished, and the shirt was clean. Though the other men who came to visit had to pay for her services, the mulatto Jessie gave it to Clem free of charge. She even polished his boots and washed his shirts, despite the fact that he treated her like dirt. Puzzled me to pieces, it did. Jessie must be daft, too.

  “Ain’t you gonna speak?” he inquired.

  “I ain’t got nothing to say.”

  “What-ja doin’, lollygagging about? Ain’t you got chores to do?”

  “I done ’em all earlier.”

  “You feed the boys breakfast ’fore they went to market?”

  I nodded sullenly. My stepfather uncurled his arms and brought one hand up to his chin, the strong, blunt fingers resting on his jaw, the ball of his thumb slowly stroking his lower lip. Clem O’Malley was forty-five years old, yet he exuded a potent sensuality as strong as musk. Though fresh and clean, his thin white shirt was beginning to grow damp with perspiration. He smelled of leather and sweat and male flesh. The sunlight burnished his thick auburn hair, giving it deep coppery highlights. The intense, open desire smoldering in those blue-black eyes made me extremely apprehensive. I knew what he wanted—the same thing Jake and Randy and all the others wanted—and I tightened my shoulders, cool and defiant.

  “You ain’t scared-a me, are you, little Dana?”

  “I ain’t scared-a you, Clem.”

  “You oughtn’t-a be. I wouldn’t hurt you for th’ world. You’re growin’ up mighty fast. Yeah, you’re gettin’ real ripe. I been noticin’ that lately. Can’t help noticin’ it, the way you almost pop outta that dress-a yours. Real ripe. Real fetchin’.”

  I made no reply, gazing at him with level eyes. Truth is, I was scared of him, but I wasn’t about to let him sense that. I vowed I’d claw his eyes out and kick him in the balls if he dared lay a hand on me.

  “Jake and Randy tell me you’ve been real uppity lately,” he said, thumb still stroking his lower lip.

  “Indeed?”

  “Figure it’s ’cause you’re nervous and high-strung, like your Ma. Figure it’s ’cause you’ve got all that tension inside that ain’t been released. You’re mighty big to still be holdin’ on to your cherry.”

  “That ain’t none-a your business, Clem.”

  “I put a roof over your head, put food in your belly.”

  “And I work like a slave for it,” I retorted. “Go stick it in Jessie or some other whore, Clem. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll leave me be.”

  His eyes grew hard, gleaming with anger, and his mouth tightened into an ugly line. Clem intimidated both his boys, intimidated Ma, intimidated everyone around with his brute strength and harsh manner, but I wasn’t going to let him intimidate me. He had only stared at me before—he had never spoken to me quite so boldly or made his objective clear—and I knew I couldn’t give an inch. Though I was trembling inside, I continued to gaze at him with cool defiance.

  Clem O’Malley stood there before me, his large hands balled into fists, his mouth working at one corner. He started to say something but had second thoughts and held it back. He wasn’t accustomed to defiance from anyone, and it must have galled him to have it from a mere snip of a girl. He glared at me for several long moments, struggling to control his anger, full of menace, and finally he gave a bull-like snort.

  “Where’ve you been?” he demanded.

  “I’ve been to see Mama Lou, to get medicine for Ma. She had another bad turn.”

  That gave him pause. He suddenly remembered he had a wife, remembered she was ill. It was something he rarely thought about.

  “How is she?” he asked irritably. “I just come back. I ain’t been inside the house yet.”

  “She was resting when I left her.”

  “I got some things to check on in the barn,” he told me. “I’m gonna be wantin’ some lunch ’fore long. See that you have it ready, and see that you watch that mouth-a yours, too, missy. I ain’t havin’ no uppity little slut talkin’ to me like that! You understand?”

  I didn’t answer. My stepfather snorted again and turned and started toward the barn, heavy shoulders rolling beneath the damp white cotton. I took a deep breath, more shaken by the encounter than I cared to admit. Somehow I was going to have to get away from here. Somehow I was going to have to get Ma well and get her away from here, too. Her family … maybe we could go to her family. Surely they wouldn’t turn her away. We had to leave this awful place before … I refused to think any further. Squaring my shoulders, I went into the house.

  Something was wrong. I sensed that immediately. The hallway was dim, and the house was very still, too still. The hot, muggy air seemed to be permeated with an ominous quality, and the silence was ominous, too. It was as though the house had a life of its own and was holding its breath. I felt an instinctive panic, for I knew, already I knew, in my bones, in my blood. I could feel the color leaving my cheeks. For a moment I was frozen, unable to move, held fast by the panic. I felt a wave of dizziness and feared I might faint, but I didn’t. I dug my nails into my palms and prayed for strength, and then I hurried down the hall to Ma’s room.

  She was sitting up in bed. Her face was as pale as white candle wax. Her damp hair was smoothed back, and her beautiful eyes were wide open, gazing wistfully at something only she could see. The sheet covering her glistened bright red, literally soaked with blood. My knees went weak. I thought I would fall. I let out a sob and Ma heard me and peered intently through the mist, finally able to see me. She smiled. It was a lovely smile, tender and warm.

  “Dana,” she whispered.

  “Ma. Oh, Ma!”

  “He came back,” she told me. Her voice was barely audible. “The redbird came back and—and he brought his family. A—a whole flock of redbirds. See them, darling?”

  The pain and panic I felt was almost unendurable, and then it seemed suddenly to cease. I know not where the calm came from, but it came when I needed it, saving me, giving me the strength to do what I must do. I seemed to be in a dream, far removed, and nothing was quite real. The small, shabby room with its bare hardwood floor and dingy walls, the dilapidated furniture, the faded patchwork quilt at the foot of the old brass bed, the wet scarlet sheet: none of them were real. As though in a dream, I removed the soiled sheet and discarded it and replaced it with a fresh one I took from the bureau drawer. The panic was numbed, yes, the pain at bay, but tears spilled over my lashes nevertheless.

  I bathed Ma’s face with a damp cloth and moistened the lips still
curved in a smile. The springs creaked noisily as I sat down on the bed beside her. Sunlight streamed through the open window, rays aswirl with dust motes. There was a sweet, cloying odor in the air—was it the smell of death? I took Ma’s hand in mine and squeezed it, and she looked up at me, hazel eyes glowing with tender love.

  “But—you mustn’t cry, my darling,” she said. “I am not afraid. You mustn’t be afraid, either.”

  “I—I brought the medicine, Ma. You—I’m going to give you some, and you—”

  “It’s too late for medicine, darling,” she whispered.

  “Ma—”

  “They came through the window, and I knew. It—it’s for the best. I’m of no use to anyone anymore, and as long as I—you—you have your whole life ahead of you, and as long as I—”

  She cut herself short, frowning, and then she began to shiver. I let go of her hand and pulled the fresh sheet up over her and got the patchwork quilt and spread it over her as well, festive squares and circles of blue and green and pink and yellow and gold sadly faded. I sat back down and gently stroked her cheek. I had an airy feeling of unreality, for this was still a dream, it wasn’t real at all.

  “You’re going to be all right,” I said, “you’re going to be all right,” but it was someone else speaking.

  Ma looked up at me, her eyes full of tenderness, full of concern, and the gentle smile still rested on her lips. It seemed to be frozen there. I took her hand again, and it seemed colder, seemed lifeless. The anguish was there inside of me, but I couldn’t feel it, I couldn’t face it. The girl in the ragged pink dress was someone else, and I was observing her with a strange, light-headed objectivity.

  A swamp bird called out, and the sound came through the window. The mote-filled rays of sunlight made misty patterns on the bare brown floor. My mother was leaving me, she had already begun her journey, and I could feel nothing at all. The emotions were locked inside, held close by invisible walls, and I knew it was a blessing. Objectively, I knew I couldn’t give way, not yet, and so I held her hand tightly and the tears spilled over my lashes and I told myself this was really a dream. The sweet, cloying odor hung in the air like a miasma. It was indeed the smell of death.

  “Dana?” It was the faintest whisper.

  “Yes, Ma.”

  “Promise me you will be strong.”

  “I will be, Ma. I promise.”

  “Make—make something of your life. I wish I could be here to guide you, but …” The whisper faded way.

  The smile faded from her lips and she closed her eyes, breathing in soft, short gasps. Her face was pale, waxen, coated with a faint sheen of perspiration, and her graying honey-blond hair gleamed with dampness. After a moment she opened her eyes again and saw me and the smile returned. Her eyes filled with joyous recognition.

  “Robert,” she said.

  She thought I was someone else, someone named Robert.

  “You never knew,” she whispered. “If you had known—Oh, Robert, if you had known, you wouldn’t have—I wanted to die then. I wanted to stop living, but I couldn’t because—because I was carrying our little girl. They turned against me, turned me out, and I had no one—”

  “Ma. Ma, it’s me. Please—”

  “Dana?”

  “I’m here, Ma.”

  “But—Robert? Where is Robert? He was here. A moment ago he was—you mustn’t blame him, Dana. He never knew, you see. If he had known—he wouldn’t have left me. He—he was so handsome, so strong, like a young god. He wasn’t our kind, I knew that, but he wasn’t bad. I tried to tell them—I love him, I told them, but they didn’t want me to have anything to do with …”

  The words were coming with great effort, barely audible, and I could hardly see her through the tears brimming over my lashes. Everything was shimmering behind a glistening blur. I held on to that limp, cold hand so tightly I could feel the bones beneath the flesh. I could feel her slipping away. The room seemed to fill with an invisible force that lifted her, drawing her from me. I clutched her hand, desperately trying to hold her back.

  “Ma,” I pleaded. “Ma.”

  “Dana?”

  “Yes. Yes—I—I’m right here, Ma.”

  “I did what I—I had to do,” she whispered. “There was no one to turn to, and then—then there was Clem. He needed a mother for his two little boys and I—you were on the way, and there was nothing else …”

  Her voice grew even fainter, and those sad, lovely eyes were full of anxiety. All my life there had been unanswered questions, and now she wanted to answer them. I could see that. She frowned, trying to find the strength, unable to do so.

  “For—forgive me, my darling.”

  “Ma! There’s nothing to forgive. I—”

  “What will you do? It—it was wrong for me to—to keep it from you so long. I should have told—you should have known. May—maybe they will—New Orleans—the family. Maybe they will forgive me and—you’re blameless. Maybe they will—”

  “Who, Ma? Who are—”

  Her eyes widened, staring again at something I couldn’t see. Moments before she had been tense, anxious, and now she relaxed. The gentle smile curved on her lips again, as though in greeting. Warm, salty tears bathed my cheeks, and a soft sob escaped my lips. Ma heard it. With great difficulty she tore herself away from the unseen and looked at me, trying to focus.

  “Dana? Is—is that you?”

  “It’s me, Ma.”

  “I …” It was a mere breath.

  “Yes? Yes, Ma?”

  “I—I love you, darling.”

  “And I love you!” I sobbed.

  She closed her eyes. She took a deep breath and exhaled and there was a soft, rattling sound and then silence. I clutched her hand, and I could feel life leaving her. The air seemed to stir ever so faintly with a mere suggestion of movement, and then it was over and Ma was gone. I released her hand and, ever so calmly, leaned over and kissed her cheek, silently saying goodbye. I stood up, still calm, looking around at the room without seeing any of it. Numb, blessedly numb, I shook my head and gazed at the emptiness. I knew I couldn’t possibly go on without her.

  Chapter Three

  I STIRRED THE BATTER, wooden spoon weaving in and out, hitting against the side of the bowl, and then I poured the batter into two greased loaf pans. The oven was hot, coals glowing a bright red-orange when I opened the black iron door and placed the pans inside. I put the flour away and washed the bowl and began to wipe up the flour sprinkled on the counter. Late morning sunlight streamed in through the open kitchen windows and with it the barnyard smells of manure and damp hay and rotting leather. My ragged pink dress was damp with sweat under my armpits, and I could feel sweat trickling down my back. I paid no mind to it. Mess cleaned up, I checked the green beans cooking in a pot on top of the stove, adding a little more water, a generous pat of butter, some salt. They would be good and tender by noon. I noted that dully, not interested at all, not caring.

  You go on, I had discovered. You go on living even though living is like death. The Negroes and some of the more superstitious folk here in the swamp believed in creatures they called zombies, men and women who had been called up from the grave by some voodoo spell. These creatures walked and moved arms and legs and tramped through the swamps like living human beings, but they weren’t living at all. They were dead, merely going through the motions of living human beings, and that’s what I felt like. I moved, yes, I fed the chickens and milked the cow and cooked the meals and did my chores like someone living, but I was dead inside.

  Eight days had gone by since Ma drew her last breath, and I had been in a trancelike stupor the whole while. They had taken Ma away and put her into a crudely built pine box, and the next day a wagon had fetched us and I had ridden to the tiny settlement on the banks of the river. The sky was a dismal slate-gray and filled with low, ominous black-edged clouds as the wagon let us out at the weed-infested cemetery. A motley crowd awaited our arrival, grim-faced men in shabby suits, slac
k-mouthed women in worn cotton dresses. There was no sympathy, no warmth. These people were past caring. They had come merely out of curiosity. I saw the hole in the ground and the mound of damp brown earth beside it, and I felt nothing, not even when they lowered the pine box down into the hole and began to cover it with the earth.

  There was no church here, no preacher, and there were no words spoken for my ma. I stood there stiffly beside my stepfather. Clem was grim-faced, too, looking uncomfortable in the old gray frock coat that matched his breeches, and a threadbare emerald-green silk stock. My stepbrothers shuffled about uncomfortably, eager to be gone. Neither of them saw any reason why they should be here, for neither of them had cared a fig for Ma. Jake muttered a curse when it began to drizzle. As the earth was shoveled into the grave, slowly covering the coffin, Randy looked around at the women, finally spotting a lush slattern with moist pink lips and faded blond hair. He winked at her as another shovel of dirt hit the coffin. In my trance, I observed all this, and I wondered why I couldn’t feel anything, why I couldn’t cry. Salty tears had spilled over my lashes during those last moments with Ma, but I hadn’t shed a single one since. The living dead don’t cry.

  The rays of sunlight coming through the kitchen windows were brighter now. It must be nearing twelve. I took the pork chops out of the larder and shucked three ears of corn and peeled silky brown threads from the hard yellow grains. I dropped the ears into a pan of boiling water atop the stove and, brushing an errant honey-blond wave from my cheek, trimmed fat from the pork chops. Nine should be enough. Nine? I vaguely recalled Jake saying he and Randy wouldn’t be home for lunch, they were going crayfishing with the Anderson boys. I put six of the pork chops back into the larder, carefully wrapping them in cheesecloth. I never ate at the table with the men. My stepfather would be lunching alone today.