Breaking TWIG

by Deborah Epperson

I took a deep breath and stepped over the threshold. Frank closed the door behind us. Here I was again, on the dangerous side of that door.

  "Better get those wet clothes off, Ladybug. Take a hot shower and get ready for bed."

  "Maybe you should help her, Frank," Helen called from the living room. "What about it, Becky? Do you need Daddy Frank’s help in getting those wet clothes off?"

  The side of my face that wasn’t black and blue redden as the heat of humiliation flashed over me.

  Frank’s face darkened; his jaw tightened. "Pay her no mind. She’s been drinking."

  I nodded. Momma often said disgraceful things to me, but this tirade had been aimed at my stepfather because he dared to help me. It shamed me to know I carried her blood. If I could, I’d find a leech and train it to suck all her Picker blood from my veins, leaving only my papa’s good Cooper blood.

  *****

  The clock read half-past two by the time I crawled into bed. My head throbbed and my body ached, but the pain in my heart kept the sandman at bay. Every time I closed my eyes, a picture of Johnny kissing the brunette flashed across my mind. As I grabbed a tissue, I saw the doorknob turn. "Frank?"

  "Nope, it’s me," Helen said, closing the door behind her.

  My neck muscles knotted. "Where’s Frank?"

  "Taking a shower. Don’t worry. I’m sure he’ll check on his Ladybug before coming to bed. Did he tell you about our arrangement?"

  I pulled the quilt up under my chin. "No."

  "He will. Just ask him." She snickered as she wiped off one of my tears. "Are you crying because you’re happy to be home, Sugar?"

  I knew better than to answer that question.

  Helen stood. "There’s no use crying unless it can do you some good. A few, well-timed tears can be a useful tool. Otherwise, crying is a waste of time and energy." She walked to the door. "By the way, stay off the damn railroad tracks. If I wanted you dead, I’d kill you myself." She slammed the door behind her.

  She hadn’t come to check on the injuries she’d inflicted. Her sole purpose had been to inform me that Frank would be paying a high price for helping me. She knew such knowledge would hurt more than any pinch, slap, or kick ever could.

  It seemed like forever before a sliver of light invaded my room. "Come on in, Frank."

  I turned on my bedside lamp. "I’ve been waiting for you."

  "You should be asleep, Ladybug."

  "What’s this arrangement you made with Momma?"

  "Don’t worry about it. You get to sleep."

  "I want to know what it is."

  "We’ll talk tomorrow, Becky. It’s late and I’m tired."

  I pointed to the jar of medicine. "Too tired to put that stinky salve on my back?"

  "Certainly not." Frank retrieved the jar from the dresser. "Do you want to sit up or be on your stomach?"

  I rolled over on my stomach. With great care, Frank pulled up the back of my pajama top. I flinched when he first applied the creosote-smelling balm.

  "I’m trying to go easy."

  "That stuff is cold. While you’re doctoring my back, tell me about this arrangement you made with Momma. Okay?"

  "There’s not much to it. I told her I’d come home, but wouldn’t abide her being mean to you." He reached for more salve. "She agreed to stop hitting you."

  "Why did you tell her about me standing on the railroad tracks?"

  "You weren’t standing on the tracks, Becky. You were waiting for the train to run over you. Helen needed to realize how far she’s pushed you."

  He pulled down my top and I sat up. "There’s a towel on the vanity bench. Are you mad at me, Frank?"

  "No, go to sleep." He wiped his hands on the towel. "I’ll put this in the laundry."

  "Are you sure you’re not mad?"

  He came over, pushed back my bangs, and inspected the stitches. "I could never be mad at you. I just want you to be happy . . . and safe."

  I gave him a hug. "I see what Momma’s up to. After all these years, she’s finally figured out how to make you her Pick."

  "What are you talking about? What’s a Pick?"

  I gave him an abbreviated history lesson on Picks and Pickers. "Momma’s going to try to play us against each other."

  "That’s ridiculous, Becky."

  "No, it’s not. You’ve got to leave, Frank, before it’s too late."

  He stood. "The only place I’m going is to bed."

  I reached for his hand. "Trust me. You need to go now."

  Frank ran his hand over his face. "Earlier tonight you were begging me to stay."

  "It’s different now. Before, Momma was angry with just me. Now, she figures you’ve betrayed her too. I know her. You have to leave before she finds a way to punish you also."

  "It won’t be like that. I agreed to give our marriage another chance. Helen says I owe her that much." He let out a deep sigh. "She’s probably right."

  "You see how she’s gone and messed up your thinking? Trust me, you don’t owe her anything." I considered telling him about the insurance salesman, but decided not to. If I did, I might end up having to call an ambulance after all.

  Frank kissed the top of my head and turned off the lamp. "Get some rest, Ladybug, and don’t worry about me."

  As soon as he left, I turned on the lamp. Despite my exhaustion, I had to figure a way to save my stepfather. Once Momma got her hooks into a Pick, she never let go. If Frank wouldn’t leave, then I’d have to. But where would I go? Not to Johnny’s, that’s for sure.

  Tears started rolling again. Reaching under my pillow, I pulled my fuzzy stuffed cat from its hiding place. Johnny had bought it for me because it was the spitting image of a kitten Grandpa Eli had once given me. I’d named my toy kitty Pinecone in honor of his real life twin.

  "What am I going to do, Pinecone?" I asked as I slipped my hand around the back of the kitty’s neck.

  With a little help from me, Pinecone shook his head.

  I told my furry friend about Johnny and the brunette. "I can’t believe he could betray us like that, can you?"

  Again, the cat shook his head.

  I pulled my kitty to my heart and we cried. After a while, I wiped my tears off my cotton-stuffed friend. "We can’t worry about that traitor anymore. We have to think of a way to get Frank out of Momma’s vindictive clutches."

  Pinecone agreed.

  The memory of the train and how warm and inviting its light had looked came back to me. But the train only came through Sugardale twice a week.

  I recalled a story from the Sugardale Gazette about a young woman who’d killed herself by slicing her wrists. Several fat blue veins lay just under my skin. I’m very skilled with a butcher knife, having cut up dozens of chickens in my life.

  "It’ll be rather messy, won’t it?"

  Pinecone nodded.

  "Momma will probably make Frank clean it up, won’t she?"

  My kitty agreed.

  I decided to end my life in the upstairs bathtub. It was a deep, old claw-footed thing. I didn’t want the blood to overflow the tub and make a big mess for Frank. I’d have to get a butcher knife from the kitchen. Might need to sharpen it too. After all, I didn’t want to saw my veins open. No use in adding extra pain.

  There were a few letters I wanted to write before my demise. One to Frank to tell him not to blame himself for my suicide. Another one to Johnny so he’d know how he broke my heart. If he felt any guilt, it would serve him right. And dear Momma deserved a letter. I wanted her to know I’d beaten her this time. She wouldn’t have Frank or me to pick on anymore for I was certain he’d leave her after my death. My last letter would be to Claudia. She’d be disappointed in me, but knowing the pain I’ve endured, maybe she’d forgive me.

  It occurred to me that killing oneself involved a lot of work. "Pinecone," I said, scratching his fuzzy head, "I’m too tired to kill myself tonight. We’ll have to wait until tomorrow. Okay?"

  Pinecone nodded. He was always such an agreeable kitty.

>   CHAPTER 9

  The intruder stood over me; his hand covered my mouth. "Be quiet," he ordered.

  I nodded. My uninvited guest removed his hand and switched on the milk-glass lamp sitting on my nightstand. I covered my eyes to shield them from the unexpected light. Peeking through separated fingers, I asked, "What do you want, Johnny Santo?"

  He didn’t answer. Instead, he stuffed my robe against the bottom of the bedroom door to keep the light from escaping into the hall. Then Johnny tiptoed over, sat down on my bed.

  "Why the hell are you here?" I asked.

  "It’s not like you to cuss, Rebecca." He reached for my hand. "I’ve been coming over here every night for the past five nights. Where’ve you been?"

  "Not that’s any of your business, but the doctor said I should stay home from school for awhile." I jerked my hand away. "Momma was worried that people would ask questions about my bruises, so Frank took us to Atlanta for a few days. He thought we could all use a little vacation."

  Johnny frowned. "A vacation with Helen? Sounds more like a nightmare."

  "It was tolerable enough. Momma went shopping everyday with her friend, Eva Whitcomb."

  Johnny edged closer. "Eva Whitcomb? Isn’t she the rich lady who’s had a bunch of husbands?"

  I nodded and picked at a loose thread in Grandma Cooper’s old quilt. "Why are you here? I told you goodbye at the Dairy Freeze."

  "I want to explain about Lynn."

  "There’s nothing to explain." I could’ve gone all my life without knowing the name of that brown-hair hussy.

  "Don’t you want to know why I kissed her?"

  "Nope." Chalk up another bald-face lie for me. I longed to know everything, but my wounded pride prevented me from asking.

  Pride is a tricky emotion to navigate. If you don’t show any, people ask, "Where’s your pride, girl?" And if you do have pride, those same folks remind you, "Pride goes before a fall." No matter which side of pride you come down on, you can find yourself in a lot of trouble. It’s like Momma in a way. No matter which way you jump, she’s gonna get you.

  "Let me explain," he pleaded.

  I crossed my arms. "Did you ever notice how the name Lynn rhymes with the word sin? Lynn . . . sin. Sin . . . Lynn."

  Johnny scratched his head. "She’s a nice girl, Rebecca."

  "Then sneak into her house and bother her instead of me." I fell back and pulled the quilt over my head. Johnny tugged at the cover, but I held tight. It’s amazing how strong a girl can be when she’s crazy-mad.

  "You really want me to leave?" he asked.

  "Figured that out on your own, did you?"

  "Don’t be sarcastic. You sound like your mother."

  I yanked the covers back and sat up. "I don’t sound like Momma. How can you say such a hurtful thing?"

  "I’m sorry." He brushed his hand across the fading bruises on my face. "She got you good this time, didn’t she?"

  "That’s nothing. You should’ve seen my back."

  Johnny’s right hand balled into a fist. He slammed it against the palm of his left hand.

  "I’m gonna kill the goddamn bitch."

  "You shouldn’t take the Lord’s name in vain, Johnny."

  He grabbed my hands. "I thought you didn’t believe in God."

  "I might be wrong. I was wrong to believe you loved me."

  "No you weren’t. I do love you. It’s just . . ."

  "Just that she’s prettier than me?"

  "She’s not prettier than you, but she’s available and you’re not."

  I yanked my hands away. "What do you mean?"

  "Thanks to your mother, we seldom get much time together. It’s not enough. I need more."

  "Me, too, but she’s always watching me. It’ll be worse now." I hugged my pillow.

  "What are we going to do, Johnny?"

  "Does this mean you forgive me?"

  "Have you been cheating on me all along?"

  "I swear I haven’t. That was the only time." He slicked back his dark hair. "Two guys from work came over. We had a few beers and then went to get something to eat. The Dairy Freeze was crowded so Lynn and her friends asked if they could share our table."

  "And you just had to let them. Right?"

  "I wanted to be polite."

  "Next you’ll be telling me you weren’t really kissing her, you were just inspecting her tonsils for biology class."

  He rubbed his thumbs across the back of my hands. "I’m sorry. I love you. Please forgive me."

  Johnny was the only boyfriend I’d ever had and I’d never known him to lie to me. Still, I couldn’t help but wonder if he was telling the truth. The first time I visit him just happens to be the first time he’s kissing another girl? Humph!

  I remembered Momma’s yarn about how she bedded the insurance man to get a better rate for Frank. Johnny’s tale wasn’t much better, but there was one big difference. I wanted to believe his story.

  "Do you believe me?" he asked.

  Grandpa Eli had often told me that the real truth was seldom what we thought it was. "Most of the time," he said, "people choose to believe a story because it fills their need. At other times, they’re afraid not to believe it. Then right or wrong, that belief becomes their truth."

  I’d never understood his words until tonight. Although my brain didn’t accept Johnny’s story, my heart begged me to believe it. I chose to listen to my heart.

  "Yes, Johnny, I believe you. What are we going to do now?"

  "You still want to elope?"

  I threw my arms around his neck. "More than ever, but how—"

  "Leave everything to me," he whispered. "Just be ready next Sunday night."

  *****

  It started raining as we returned home from Sunday night prayer meeting.

  "Damn," Helen said, pushing back a limp curl. "This rain is making my hair fall."

  "They predicted we’d get some rain from the hurricane that hit South Carolina this afternoon." Frank closed the front door. "Looks like they were right."

  "My next beauty shop appointment isn’t until Wednesday. What am I going to do with this hair until then?"

  "That’s the problem with hurricanes, Helen. They’re so damn inconvenient."

  "Oh that’s cute, Frank, real cute."

  He headed for the stairs. "I’m going to bed."

  "Don’t you want to wait for me?" she asked.

  "If it rains all night, the new greenhouse might flood. I need to get up early to keep an eye on things." He looked over the rail at her. "I’m tired. I’m going to sleep."

  "Seems you’re tired a lot these days. Maybe you should see a doctor," Helen yelled. "What the hell you looking at, Becky?"

  "Nothing, Momma, I was just thinking."

  "Imagine that. Little Becky is thinking. Should I break out the champagne?"

  My jaw tightened, but I held my tongue. I couldn’t afford a fight with Momma tonight.

  "I was thinking maybe Henry Nash could move your appointment to Monday."

  "It’s Monsieur Henri. Can’t you remember anything?" She stood in front of the large gilded mirror that hung over her Queen Anne credenza. "Mondays are busy, but he might fit me in." She smiled at herself and twirled a golden curl around her finger. "I am a good customer, aren’t I?"

  "Yes, ma’am." Momma seemed to be developing a keen interest in Henry Nash. As far as I could tell, Mr. Nash didn’t return such interest—at least not yet. Henry was likable enough, but he wasn’t half as handsome as Frank.

  Except for Johnny, my stepfather was the best-looking man in Sugardale. His blue eyes, dark hair, and the small dimple in his chin caught the eye of many of our female customers. To me, Frank had the rugged good looks of a lumberjack, the soul of a poet, and more patience than that fellow in the Bible had. I didn’t know any lumberjacks or poets personally, but I’d heard tales and read books about them. Momma was a fool to treat Frank so bad.

  She walked over to the phone table, picked up the receiver and started diali
ng.

  "Isn’t it sort of late to be calling someone?" I asked.

  Momma slammed down the receiver. "Are you spying on me?"

  I shook my head.

  "You’d better not be. I’ll kick your lazy ass up between your shoulders if you ever do. Now go to bed." She picked up the receiver and started dialing again.

  I was halfway up the stairs when it occurred to me tonight would be the last time I’d ever see my mother. For some strange reason, I went back downstairs. She was talking on the phone. "Momma?"

  She cupped her hand around the mouthpiece and whispered, "Hold on a minute, Henry." Momma looked at me. "Didn’t I tell you to get in bed?"

  "I just wanted to tell you . . . goodnight."

  "Goodnight. Now go to bed." She turned back to the phone. "You still there, Henry?"

  I had no regrets about leaving her. None at all. I started up the stairs.

  "Becky Leigh," she called.

  I swiveled around. Momma stood in the living room doorway, the phone in her right hand, the receiver pressed against her shoulder. "Ma’am?"

  She tilted her head, gave me a smile. "Sweet dreams, Sugar. Don’t let the bedbugs bite."

  "Sweet dreams to you too, Momma." Why did she have to pick tonight to be nice to me? There should be a law. If you’re mean to your kids, you’ve got to be mean to them all the time. This business of being hateful one minute, nice the next, and then hateful again was just too dang confusing. But it didn’t matter. I was leaving, and I sure wasn’t going to miss her.

  CHAPTER 10

  Our plan had seemed so simple. We’d meet behind the greenhouse at midnight Sunday and walk to Bragg Road where Johnny’s car would be parked. We’d drive the fifty-eight miles to the Tennessee line. Once across, we’d get a motel room and sleep a few hours. First thing in the morning, we’d get a marriage license and get hitched. Tennessee didn’t require a waiting period or blood test, and Johnny had bought a fake driver’s license for me that said I was eighteen. After the wedding, we’d drive to Texas. Johnny’s relatives in San Antonio would put us up until we could get jobs and an apartment.

  I’d brought sandwiches and cookies, had pinned my hair up under a ball cap, and worn one of Frank’s old jackets. Anyone passing us would think we were two guys. Neither one of us had planned for a driving rain courtesy of a hurricane named Ida. A few miles across the Tennessee line, we came upon a fishing camp and rented a cabin to wait out the storm.