Breaking TWIG

by Deborah Epperson

  "I’m sorry I lied, Anna."

  Momma grinned. "Told you she was lying."

  Anna looked at me and then at Frank. Their eyes locked. It appeared to me as if Anna was sending Frank a message in eye code. I couldn’t tell what the message was or whether my stepfather was receiving Anna’s telepathic eye communication or not. I just wanted to leave before Momma changed her mind and called Sheriff Tate to come get Johnny.

  "Can we go home, Frank?" I asked.

  Frank looked at Momma. She shrugged. That could mean yes or no. Momma does that when she wants to test someone’s loyalty to her, or to see if they’re smart enough to come up with her answer on their own. I wondered if Frank knew he was being tested.

  "I think we’re done here," he said. "We’ll talk more about this at home."

  Momma nodded. Frank had passed the test.

  *****

  It took Mr. Garza and his two teen-age sons to hold Johnny back while Momma and Frank put me in the car. Anna came out and assured me I’d be safe with my own mother. I don’t think she believed that was a true fact. I know I didn’t. But Anna had been comforting me all of my life. She wasn’t going to stop now when I needed her most.

  Anna gave me a good-bye hug. "I’ll see you tomorrow."

  "No, you won’t," Momma said. "You’re fired."

  It felt as if someone had hit me square in the chest. I couldn’t breathe. I tried to climb over the front seat of our two-door car, but Momma pushed me back.

  "I’ve worked for your family thirteen years," Anna said. "You can’t fire me like this."

  "I just did." Momma crossed her arms in front of her heartless chest and proceeded with her tongue-lashing of my beloved Anna. "I have long felt that Becky did not need to be around your kind. I’ve wanted to fire you for years, but her daddy refused to let me."

  Anna’s chin quivered. "Mr. Paul was afraid to leave Rebecca alone with you."

  "Don’t expect a good reference from me," Momma said as she got in the car.

  Anna grabbed the door handle. "You owe me eight days pay, Helen."

  It was the first time I’d ever heard Anna call my mother by her first name.

  Momma pushed Anna back, slammed the door, rolled down the window a tad. "I don’t owe you a damn thing. If you think I do, take it up with Sheriff Tate."

  Anna knew as I did, she’d have a better chance at being named Miss Georgia than she’d have of getting the money my mother owed her.

  Frank started to drive off, but Anna ran in front of the car. He slammed on his brakes.

  I went flying forward into the back of Momma’s head.

  "Damn you, Becky," she screamed, while slapping me back.

  My head pounded. My face stung. But I couldn’t focus on my pain because of my fear for Anna’s safety.

  "Go, Frank," Helen shouted. "Run over her if you have to, but just go."

  Frank stared at Momma as if he was seeing her for the first time. "I can’t run over her, Helen. Are you crazy?"

  Relief filled my every pore. Not just to hear Frank’s refusal to slaughter my dear Anna, but to hear that perhaps, he’d realized what I’d known all my life. My momma was crazy.

  She touched his arm. "I didn’t mean for you to actually run over her, Sugar. I only wanted you to frighten her a bit."

  A tapping on Frank’s window caught our attention. Anna motioned for him to roll down the glass.

  "Don’t do it, Frank," Helen said. "Let’s get out of here."

  To my surprise and Momma’s dismay, Frank rolled down the window. He was a braver man than I’d given him credit for being.

  "Please, Mr. Wooten," Anna begged. "Don’t let her hurt Rebecca."

  "Let’s go, Frank," Helen yelled.

  Frank mumbled something about me being okay and eased the car forward. As he did, he glanced back at me. The expression on his face told me he hadn’t a clue as to what Anna was talking about. But Momma did.

  CHAPTER 2

  Momma shoved me into our living room. "Sit down Becky Leigh and don’t move. I’ll be back." She stomped up the stairs.

  I did as I was told. When Momma returned, she’d have Papa’s favorite belt. Whipping me with it made the pain worse and the humiliation greater. Momma was clever in that way.

  Donald strolled into the room, walked over, and leaned down. "I warned you about telling anyone, didn’t I, moron?"

  I looked up into the meanest eyes I’d ever seen. His hand darted toward me. I crossed my arms in front of my face.

  "Donald, what the hell are you doing?" Frank asked as he slammed the front door.

  I wiped the sweat off my top lip and started breathing again.

  "Make this kid shut up, Daddy, before her lies cost me my football scholarship."

  Helen entered the room. "Don’t worry, Donald. She’s going to shut up." She walked over to me, snapped Papa’s belt twice. "You owe your new brother an apology."

  A shameless grin spread across Donald’s pitted face. "Yeah, you owe me an apology."

  I looked to Frank, hoping for some kind of miracle intervention from him. He stood there in silence. I’d lied to save Johnny and stood ready to take a whipping for it, but I would not apologize to Donald for his raping me. Holding my trembling chin as high as possible, I marched over to the ottoman, bent over it, and waited.

  "If that’s the way you want it," Momma said.

  The worst time in a whipping isn’t the actual blow itself. It’s the seconds between the hits. That’s when you feel the sting of the first smack and know a second one is on the way. Then there’s a third, a fourth, and a fifth. After the fifth blow, I stopped counting. By then, the pain all ran together.

  "I’m going to whip you until you apologize to Donald. I can last longer than you can."

  My tears made a puddle on the hardwood floor. I had complete faith in Momma's ability to outlast me. Summoning the last of my courage, I readied myself to die on that stool.

  "Stop it, Helen. For God’s sake, stop it."

  I looked up and saw Frank grab my mother’s whipping arm.

  "Stay out of this, Frank." She tried to pull her wrist out of his grip. "We agreed we’d each discipline our own kids. This doesn’t concern you."

  "The hell it doesn’t." He released her arm, but snatched the belt from her hand.

  Helen uttered some obscenities and moved away.

  "You can get up now, Becky," Frank said.

  I stood. My head swirled and my knees buckled.

  My stepfather grabbed me. "Are you all right?"

  Momma lit a cigarette. "She’s okay. She’s had worse."

  Frank lifted my head. Our eyes met. I could see he felt sorry for me. I don’t particularly like being pitied. But in this case, I thought it a generous gesture on his part. After all, I’d accused his son of a terrible crime and then recanted my charge.

  I held his arm for support. "I’d . . . I’d like to go upstairs and take a bath."

  "Sure," he said. "I’ll run you some water. Maybe you should help her, Helen."

  "She can take a bath by herself."

  "Damn, Helen, this child almost fainted. She could pass out in the tub and drown."

  Momma stared at me. "Do you need your mommie to give you a bath, little girl?"

  "No, ma’am."

  Frank looked at his wife and shook his head. In time, he’d learn what Papa and I had come to know. It’s a waste of breath and energy to argue with my mother.

  *****

  Frank filled the claw foot tub. "I hope this isn’t too hot for you, Becky."

  I laid my nightgown and robe on the back of the commode. "I’m sure it’s fine." It was only 2 p.m., but I was exhausted and longed for the forgetfulness found in sleep.

  "Anything else you need, Ladybug?" he asked.

  "No, sir, but why do you call me Ladybug?"

  "Because you’re as cute as a bug. Like a ladybug, you’re red on top and always working in the garden." He ruffled my hair. "If you don’t like me calling you that,
I’ll stop."

  "It’s okay. Papa and Johnny always called me Twig."

  Frank smiled. "Is that because you’re so little?"

  "Yes, sir, and because a twig has to be flexible to survive. Papa said a twig must bend or a bad wind will break it. He told me to think of myself as a twig."

  My stepfather’s smile faded. "Would you prefer me to call you Twig?"

  "Ladybug is fine. Only Papa and Johnny call me Twig."

  Frank nodded and reached for my hand. "I need to know what happened today."

  "I’ll tell you what happened," Helen said as she sashayed into the room. "Becky let Johnny get into her panties. When Donald caught them, she made up a lie about your son to protect that Mexican boy."

  I stared at my feet, too embarrassed by Momma’s vulgar lie to look at my stepfather.

  "Helen, I want her to tell me what happened. I need to know the truth."

  Momma stood behind Frank giving me the look. If I told the truth, she’d call me a liar and phone Sheriff Tate to go get Johnny.

  Frank got down on one knee in front of me. "I know you’re not accustomed to having a big teenage boy around, Becky. Donald hasn’t had much experience with little girls either. Did his roughhousing get out of hand? Did he scare you? Is that what happened?"

  I nodded. I didn’t mind lying to Momma. She didn’t care if I told the truth or not, as long as I said what she wanted to hear. But I felt real bad about lying to Frank. Then again, I doubted he wanted to hear that his son was a rapist.

  Helen grinned. "What did I tell you, Frank? She’s a liar. Always has been."

  "I think she’s confused. This is all new to her."

  "Confused or not, I hope you see the trouble your lies have caused, Becky, not to mention interrupting my watching President Kennedy’s funeral." Momma pointed her finger at me. "Don’t think I’ve forgotten you ripped my new dress. I owe you a whipping for that."

  Frank stood. "Helen, if you spank this child for tearing your dress, you’ll have to spank me too. After all, I tore it first."

  "Why are you coddling her? All you’re doing is rewarding her for her lying ways." She stormed out of the bathroom.

  "You’d better get your bath before the water gets cold," Frank said as he turned to leave.

  I grabbed his arm. "Anna’s husband passed away years ago, so she needs to work. Do you think Momma will let her come back to work here? She and Johnny are my only friends."

  Frank shook his head. "I doubt it."

  I hate crying in front of people.

  He handed me a towel. "Tell you what, Ladybug, this is all new to me too. I could use a friend myself. How about you and I make a pact to become friends?" He extended his right hand and we shook on it.

  After my stepfather left, I undressed and looked at myself in the full-length mirror hanging on the bathroom door. My front didn’t look too bad, except for my red eyes. I used Momma’s makeup mirror to see my backside. The red welts on my upper rear and lower back didn’t surprise me. I’d seen them before. But in addition to the welts, my rear end and upper thighs were sporting nasty black and blue bruises. On my back, the faint outline of Donald’s hand could be seen.

  I used up all the hot water trying to get the smell and feel of Donald off of me. After my bath, I slipped into Momma’s bedroom, stole some of her fancy hand lotion, and rubbed it all over my body. She owed me that much.

  *****

  Entering my room, I found Momma sitting on my bed holding my shoebox of special photographs. Behind her, spread out on the chenille bedspread, were the rest of my pictures.

  "What are you doing with my pictures?" I asked.

  "I’m sorting them for you." She stuck her hand into the box and grabbed a fistful of its contents. When she opened her fingers, tiny bits of paper resembling confetti fell back into the container. That’s when I saw the scissors resting on the bed beside her.

  I grabbed the box. "You cut up my pictures?"

  "Only the ones with Johnny and Anna in them."

  "No," I yelled as I sifted through the pieces. I dropped the box, ran to the bed, and searched through the remaining photographs.

  She grinned. "You won’t find any pictures of Johnny. I got them all."

  I wanted to pull out every curly blond hair in her head. But then, my eyes spotted something behind her. On my vanity, stuck between the wood frame and mirror, was the last picture of Johnny. Momma followed my line of sight straight to the picture. The race was on.

  She was a good foot taller than my 57 inches and had a longer stride. But I was quicker. She took one step toward the vanity. Coming around her left side, I slammed my entire 78 pounds into her. Momentum and surprise were on my side. She went sailing sideways, landing on my bed. She cussed and called my name, but I didn’t look back. I snatched the picture off the vanity, held it close to my heart, and turned back toward the door, intent on making my escape.

  Like a bullfrog, Momma hopped off the bed and landed smack dab between me and the open bedroom door. But I’d gone through too much that day to be defeated now.

  I rushed to the window. In a heartbeat, I threw it open. I was halfway onto the second floor verandah when Momma grabbed my robe. I shed the housecoat and dove for the floor, knocking over a lawn chair in the process. A pried-up nail slit the tail of my gown.

  Jumping up as fast as my aching body would permit, I celebrated my victory with a couple of dance steps. Then I remembered there were no stairs leading off the verandah.

  "Damn." Normally, I hate cussing. But I felt justified in using profanity this once.

  I did a quick assessment of my predicament. Momma was hanging out the window, motioning for me to come back inside and threatening me with more whippings if I didn’t obey. I figured I’d get a whipping even if I did go back. But if she thought I’d hand over my last picture of Johnny, then she was truly, certifiably crazy.

  There were two ways off the verandah—back through the house or skidding down a live oak tree that stood a good four feet from the railing. I’m a good jumper, so I figured my best shot at freedom was that tree. I could pounce off the railing and grab hold of a limb on my way down. If I missed, I’d hit the brick walkway below.

  I remembered a story Grandpa Eli had once told me. As a prisoner of war in World War I, he’d endured four months of torture. He once said, "When a person suffers constant, severe pain, he ultimately reaches his pain threshold. After that, it doesn’t matter how much more pain they heap upon you, Miss Becky, it’s all the same."

  I knew two things. First, Grandpa was a smart man. Second, I’d definitely reached my pain threshold. So if I hit those bricks, it couldn’t hurt much more than it was hurting already.

  Holding Johnny’s picture in my teeth, I climbed upon the railing and was about to make my leap of faith when two arms wrapped around my waist.

  Frank pulled me down. "Are you trying to break your neck, Becky?"

  "Hold on to her," Momma yelled out the window. "I’m coming."

  I squirmed every which way trying to get out of his embrace, but it wasn’t my day.

  "Calm down, Ladybug. What’s the matter with you?"

  I opened my mouth to plead with him. A draft caught my picture and it floated away.

  "Grab the picture, Frank," Momma shouted as she joined us on the verandah.

  He released me and I scrambled to get my photo. "That picture is mine."

  Three sets of hands vied for the snapshot. My stepfather won.

  "Give it to me," Momma demanded.

  "No, give it to me," I begged. Momma and I jumped at his hand, but he held it higher than either one of us could reach.

  "You two stop this nonsense." Frank’s eyes narrowed. "What’s this all about?"

  Momma and I started talking at once.

  "One at a time," he said. "Becky, you be quiet and let your mother speak."

  My chin quivered. I’d played this scene before. Momma would tell her side of the story and that would be the end of it.


  She threw me a sarcastic smile. "Since the Santo boy is no longer a part of Becky’s life, I figured it best to be rid of anything that might remind her of him."

  "Did you rip up all of Becky’s pictures of Johnny?" Frank asked.

  "I felt that was best." She held her hand out for the snapshot, but Frank turned to me.

  "What do you think about that, Ladybug?"

  For a moment, I couldn’t get my mouth to work. Adults seldom asked for my opinion. In the past, whenever Momma and I’d argue, Papa would give into her to keep peace in the family. Later, he would apologize to me for not taking my side into account. But his apology didn’t make me feel better. It just made me feel sorry for Papa.

  If I said I wanted the picture because Johnny was in it, I knew Momma would pitch a hissy fit. I decided on a different approach.

  "That’s the last photo Papa and I took with Grandpa Eli. He died two months later. That’s why I want to keep the picture, Frank."

  "I told you to call him Daddy Frank, didn’t I?" Momma reached over intending on giving me a slap upside my head, but her husband grabbed her wrist.

  "There’s been enough hitting and slapping today, Helen." Frank looked at the snapshot. "I can’t see the harm in letting her keep one picture."

  "I do." Helen jerked her hand free. "And I don’t appreciate you undermining my authority with my daughter. How would you like it if I did the same to you with Donald?"

  "She’s got a point, Becky."

  My heart sank. I wished I had jumped off the verandah and spattered myself all over the bricks. "Are you going to give my picture to Momma?"

  "Of course he is," she said.

  Frank looked at Momma and then at me. He held up the photograph, ripped it in two, and handed her the smaller piece. He gave me the larger one.

  I looked at mine. There was Grandpa Eli, Papa, and half of me. Momma got the other half of my image and all of Johnny’s.

  She promptly tore her part into little pieces. "Becky Leigh, when are you going to realize that I’m the boss?"