Paint Chips

by Susie Finkbeiner

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Now, where is that housecoat of mine?”

  I retrieved her garment from the closet in the bedroom. I inspected it. I had just washed it the day before. I rubbed my fingertips over the blood-stained collar. All my scrubbing hadn’t done much to erase it. Taking it to her, I hoped she wouldn’t notice the tiny red drops. I didn’t want her to be ashamed.

  “It is Bible study day at the church,” she said, slipping the housecoat over her head. “We are about the business of finding some help for your sister today.”

  “Marlowe isn’t dead,” I whispered, walking away from my mother.

  “What was that, darling?” she asked.

  “Nothing, Mother.”

  “Very well,” she said, feeling under the cot with her hand. “Cora, do you happen to know where my shoes have gotten off to?”

  “Pa burned them,” I answered.

  “Why would that man do such a foolish thing as that?”

  “’Cause he didn’t want you goin’ nowhere.”

  She stopped. Pulled her hands up. Inspecting me with wide eyes.

  “Cora, have you misplaced your beautiful grammar?” She looked around. “There must be some kind of footwear in this home that I may strap to these feet.”

  The only shoes we found were some old work boots that had once belonged to my father. He’d worn them to the mines.

  “Perfect,” my mother said as she slipped them on. The boots swallowed her dainty feet. She tied the laces as tightly as possible and stood in them. “They will have to do.”

  Watching her walk in those boots caused me to wonder about the shoes she’d worn as a girl. Her banker father would have bought her silk shoes with delicate heels. I swallowed the regret that she left that life to marry my father.

  “Come along,” she said. “We must be punctual.”

  The early autumn leaves had not yet turned color. The wind whipped, chilly against my face. Fresh, rich air moved around, making me feel alive. I breathed deeply of the freedom I found away from that house. I hadn’t been for a walk in so long. The clean air, friendly sunshine, the music of singing birds. All birthed within me the desire to run away. To never return to the shack. I tucked the fantasy away, fully aware of the impossibility of such an escape.

  “Listen, Cora, this is important,” she said, her breathing labored. Each step in those heavy boots taxed what little energy she had. “We are going to the ladies’ Bible study. We have to tell them what your father did to Marlowe. They will help us. I just know they will. They have to.”

  “Mother, why would they help us?” I put my arm through hers to keep her on her feet. We climbed higher up the steep mountain.

  “I have faith that they will, darling, because that is what they are told to do by Jesus Himself.” She stopped to reclaim her breath. “I have been committing this to prayer, Cora. They have to help us. We need them to.”

  She gazed at me, eyes wild with hope. Hope can be a terrible thing after you have lost everything else. It can trick you into thinking that something better is possible. But so often it is false. Only leading to more heartbreak, more disappointment.

  After walking for nearly an hour, we reached the small church building. Tiny, sharp stones had worked their way into my shoes through the holes in the soles. My head ached from resisting the urge to fall into hope. Somewhere inside I knew those women would never help us.

  The chattering, laughing, squawking voices of the women led us to where they gathered in the church basement. They stood together in little circles, filling the fellowship hall. My doubt grew stronger the closer we drew to them.

  One voice carried above all the rest of the gossip in the room. My mother pulled me toward that woman.

  “So, I says to her that she got to actually clean that house of hers to get that husband to stay happy,” the woman said to her friend. “Ain’t fittin’ for a woman to expect her husband to keep true if she ain’t doin’ her duty by him.”

  The woman used her fingertips to pat the hair which sat like a dead raccoon atop her head. Her overly painted face moved with expression as she spoke.

  “Mary Wheeler,” my mother whispered to me. “You remember her, don’t you?”

  “Yes, Mother,” I answered.

  Mary Wheeler raised her voice even louder, hoping to garner more attention. “I says, ‘Sister, ain’t no doin’ if you ain’t doin’ right by your man.’”

  “Well, what did she say to that, sister?” her friend asked, a scandalized smirk on her lips.

  “She says, ‘Oh, SisterWheeler, you’s a fountain a wisdom.’ I looks at her, right in her eyes and says, ‘Lenore, I just been sayin’ the very words of Jesus.’ You should’a seen the look on her face.”

  The two women giggled in their self-righteousness.

  My mother took one labored step toward the women. She dingy and thin. They clean and plump.

  She cleared her throat loudly to gain their attention. The chatter continued to fill the room.

  “Excuse me, sisters. Might I have your attention? I need to have a word with you.” She stood straight, dignified and with some sort of authority. I tried to disappear into a corner.

  “Oh, ma’am, this ain’t the proper place for you to come and get no charity.” Mary Wheeler said, voice snooty, merely glancing over her shoulder. “We got our food bank open on Fridays. You come back with your little girl then.”

  “I am not here for charity, sister, although I appreciate the sentiment,” my mother said. “I am in need of another sort of help, however. And it is a desperate need. It must be addressed with the highest sense of urgency.”

  “What’s your name? I ain’t never seen y’all in church before,” a woman from the other side of the room asked.

  “My name is Thelma Yarborough. I have been a member in good standing in this church all my life. My maiden name was Levenson. I live on the ridge. I haven’t been able to attend church in quite some time due to illness.”

  “Oh, Sister Yarborough. We ain’t seen y’all ’round here in a coon’s age. You look different. You say you been sick? You sure do look sick to me.” Mary Wheeler’s words bore an edge of bitterness. She crossed her arms, stretched her neck, and thrust out her chin.

  “I have come today to ask for help.”

  “Surely the daughter of a rich banker wouldn’t need no help from such poor women as ourselves.”

  “I have no need for money.” The tendons in her slender neck tensed as she swallowed.

  “Well, I’m right surprised y’all don’t. Didn’t your daddy disown you when you got yourself in the family way outta wedlock? ’Cause y’all wasn’t married yet?” Mary pursed her lips and glanced around the room to make sure everyone heard of my mother’s shame.

  “Out of wedlock typically means before marriage.” My mother shot her a piercing leer. “I am not ashamed of what occurred before my wedding. It is well known and I have been forgiven. I, at least, do not have to keep secrets about relations I had with men before marriage. Would you know anything about that, Sister Wheeler?”

  “Well, I! What are you sayin’?”Mary Wheeler asked, scandalized.

  “Oh, nothing, Mary. Nothing at all about why you hate me so much.” She sighed. “But that is not why I have come here today. I need your help.”

  “Y’all got problems with Ducky? I heared your husband been workin’ for him. Ducky is a vile sinner that the flames of hell are warmin’ up just special for him.”

  “Amen,” women from around the room chimed in agreement, nodding pious heads.

  “Please, listen to me. You and I both know that we have made mistakes in the past. And I am sorry that I hurt you. Believe me, Mary, I wish I could take it all back, I would. I wish I’d never have spoken to Harold in the first place. But all of that is done. It can’t be made untrue. But I am in need. And I need you to help me. All of you. Please, I am begging you to hear me.”

  “Beggin’ ain’t becomin’ of a lady.”

&nb
sp; “Mary Wheeler, you listen to me!” my mother demanded, desperation creeping into her voice.

  “You best not be speakin’ to a pastor’s wife like that,” one of the ladies said.

  “I will handle this, ladies,” Mary said. She looked at my mother, conceding for a moment, nodding at her. “Go ahead, Thelma.”

  “It is dire that you ladies, my Christian sisters, help me. I am here to talk to you about my daughter Marlowe.”

  “Ah, yes, Marlowe. One of Jesus’s precious angels. God rest her soul.” Mary nodded her head, feigning compassion. “We been prayin’ for y’all. Her death was a tragedy for us all. God must’a had a need for her in heaven.”

  “She is not dead.” The color drained from my mother’s face. Her shoulders slumped. “You have all been deceived.”

  “Oh, sister, she is dead, indeed. And you know it. We heared all about it from your husband. God bless that man.” Her head continued to nod. “He come here tellin’ us all ’bout the bills y’all got with the doctor. How he gotta slave away at Ducky’s just to make ends meet so y’all don’t lose the house. Such a sad history. We took up a offerin’ for y’all to pay some of them bills. We sent him home with fifteen dollars.”

  “He lied. He’s a liar!” My mother started to sway. I rushed to her, held her around the waist. “He drank up all our money. He gambled everything else off. He sold my daughter Marlowe to pay for his vices. He sold her to Ducky. He sold my daughter!”

  “Thelma, I am shocked! The way you speak of your husband.” Mary spoke as if breathless. “This ain’t at all becomin’ a Christian wife.”

  “Perhaps you would all benefit from taking a better look at your husbands. Where do they spend their evenings? What happened to their Christmas bonuses from the mine?” my mother asked, defiant. “I would wager that they have seen my daughter at Ducky’s. And many of them may have raped her. Why don’t you ask them about where my daughter is?”

  The women in the room looked at my mother with wide, shocked eyes. Mouths dropped open. One woman gasped.

  “This ain’t at all fittin’ for you to come in here and talk about that den of debauchery. And accusin’ when you don’t know nothin’. You ain’t got no proof. We is a group of upright, Christ-fearin’ ladies. And our husbands ain’t never once stepped foot in that chamber of sin. I’m downright scandalized that you could even think that way. And to call your husband a liar, yet you turn around and lie yourself about your little girl not bein’ dead. It just ain’t right, and I ain’t listenin’ to one more word of it.” Mary pointed at my mother. “Perhaps somethin’ dark has took possession of your soul. We’ll be sure to pray for you, ma’am.”

  “But, I...” my mother stammered.

  “I said we’ll pray for y’all,” Mary interrupted. “We’ll pray that y’all have plenty food to get you through the winter. That’s all we gonna do for you.”

  “But my daughter is being raped. She is being forced.” Her voice broke of all authority, all control, all power. “Not one of you cares?”

  “Let’s go home, Mother.” I pulled on her arm. “They aren’t going to help us. They never would have. They aren’t the good Christian women that we hoped for.”

  “Whitewashed tombs,” she muttered.

  “What was that?” I asked, looking into Mother’s eyes. Bright red blood vessels striped the white, making her glare fierce, wild.

  Peeling my hands off her, she stood tall and straight once again. She screamed. A primal, terrifying scream. The women, including Mary Wheeler, turned back toward her. This time, in fear.

  “You all look so pretty on the outside, don’t you? So clean and dressed in your best clothes just to make everyone else think you’re so good, so high and mighty! You all painted on fresh makeup from the five-and-dime and sprayed your hair in place. You just want to look so perfect to each other. Such a nice looking bunch of mean, angry, horrible people. You look okay, but you are all disgusting! All of your hearts are rotten. You are dead inside. All you are is a bunch of women trying to hide the decay of your souls.”

  Mary moved her mouth to speak. No words came.

  “Not all who cry out ‘Lord, Lord’ belong to God.” My mother beat the air with her hands. “Don’t you know that? If you don’t know that, then I suggest you start opening your Bibles and reading it for yourself. Pastor Wheeler isn’t teaching you anything if you don’t know that.”

  Her arms moved, out of control, over her head. I had to move back so she wouldn’t hit me.

  “Jesus tells us that if you didn’t do for the least of these, you did not do it for Him. If you ignore those in need, then you are ignoring Jesus Himself! Well, get a good look. Look at my hair, the bones sticking out of my body, my worn clothes, these old work boots. Take a look, I tell you. You are looking right at the very least of these. I am beat up, poor, my daughter sold to a brothel. I am the least of all the world. Look at me! And you refuse to help me. You are looking right into the eyes of Jesus and telling him ‘no!’” She spat in the direction of Mary Wheeler. “I pity you.”

  “Mother, we need to leave now,” I whispered into her ear.

  She followed me, muttering, out of the fellowship hall, up the stairs and out of the church building. We walked back down the mountain and to the ridge with much stumbling of steps. By the time we reached the shack, her arms around my neck, I carried her.

  My father returned home that evening, furious at the news of her outburst.

  “Ain’t nobody gonna never believe a word outta you again,” he yelled amid curses. His open hand made sharp noises against her face. Her back. Her arms. “This is our family business. Ain’t no one else in the world gotta know nothin’. You think you so smart ’cause you got through high school? Well, how smart is you now?”

  When he finished with her, he found me.

  “You be still,” he snarled at me. “Don’t you think to make no sound. You hear?”

  It was the first time a man ever touched me. And it was my father. After it was over, I rolled up tight, trembling.

  “Now you’re dirty like that whore sister of yours,” he said, fixing his clothes. “But she do that fifteen, twenty times a day and makes me good money. You watch yourself or you gonna be movin’ out to Ducky’s too.”

  For all my tears and silent begging, Jesus slept the whole time.

  ~*~

  Lisa wiped the tears from her face. Grabbing a napkin from the kitchen counter, she blew her nose.

  “Oh, Cora,” she said, shaking her head.

  “Why are you crying?” I asked, putting the warm cookies on a plate.

  “I am so sorry.” She rubbed her eyes, smearing mascara and foundation across her face.

  “It’s okay,” I said. My eyes remained dry.

  “It’s not. Not at all. They should have helped you.”

  “Oh, now that I think about it, there really wasn’t much they could have done.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” She cleared her throat. “They should have done something for your family. They let you down.”

  “But they wouldn’t have been able to do anything for Marlowe. Ducky was a very powerful man.”

  “If they had done the right thing, your father would never have raped you and beat your mother that night.” She frowned. “That was something they could have protected you from.”

  “Well, I hate to mention this, but God didn’t help us either.” I handed her a cookie. “He could have saved us from my father. But He didn’t do anything at all.”

  “He was trying to use those women to help you. I’m sure of it. They could have done His work. Instead, they just didn’t do anything. Well, except insult your family. They failed.”

  “I suppose. But what really nags at me is this. Why didn’t God stop it from happening? Why did He let my father do those things to me?”

  “I don’t know.” She sighed. “But I can tell you this—God knew what was happening. And He was there with you. You just may not have known it.”

 
He’d been there with me. But He hadn’t stopped my pain. Doubt and faith both throbbed in my heart.

  Dot – 32

  “Hold still, Dorothea!” Grace said, along with a few cuss words.

  “Three dollars,” I said.

  “It’s gonna be a whole bunch more if you don’t stop goof-ballin’ around.”

  “Isn’t that better, Grace? Lola would be very impressed by your creative word choice.”

  “Oh, whatever.” She rolled my hair with a curling iron. “So, you and Promise talking yet? You know, after your big fight.”

  “What?” I turned to look at her. “How did you know?”

  “Hello. These walls are thin. We all hear each other’s business. Quit moving.” She held my head still and sprayed something in my hair. It smelled like flowers. “Well, are you guys talking again?”

  “No. She hates me.” I covered my face with my hands.

  “Best find a way to bless her, Dorothea.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Do you ever listen in Bible study? Yesterday, Lola talked about blessing those who hurt us. Remember?”

  “Not really.”

  “Geesh, Dorothea.” She stepped in front of me, moved my hands, put her face close to mine. “Promise hurt your feelings, right?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Well, you gotta find a way to bless her. Do her chores one day. Or make her some brownies. I don’t know. But find a way.”

  “To heap burning coals on her head?” I smirked.

  “I don’t know what that’s all about, but it don’t sound so nice to me.”

  “It’s in the Bible.”

  “It still don’t sound as nice as blessing her.” She stepped behind me to fuss with the back of my hair.

  “Whatever, Grace.”

  “So, where’s Mr. Hotty taking you on your date?”

  “It’s not a date.”

  “Oh, give me a break.”

  “Seriously. He never used that word, if you really need to know. And don’t call him ‘Hotty.’ His name is Paul.”