Breaking TWIG

by Deborah Epperson

  In the bedroom, the light had been muted and had conspired with me to obscure my real intent from Frank. The bright, artificial glare of the coverless bathroom lights would show me no such mercy. It wasn’t my body I feared showing him, but rather, my face. Facial expressions had been known to betray a person’s true feelings, and I was just a novice Picker.

  As the warm water sprinkled down on me, my tensions trickled down the dark drain along with the sweat and physical remains of our earlier joinings. Frank stood behind me, massaging my scalp and neck. He continued down my back, massaging, then washing, then massaging again.

  "Close your eyes and lean your head back," he said. His fingers crept through my hair as he continued his mission of washing then rinsing. "You can open your eyes now, Becky." Frank spun me around and lifted my chin. "Is it okay?"

  My pulse quickened. The last thing I wanted in this room was direct eye contact with Frank.

  Until tonight, this bathroom had provided me the sanctuary that can only be found in a room that has a door that has a lock. This was where I’d run to in a naive attempt to feel clean again the day Donald’s sin ripped through my body and killed my innocence. This was also where I’d cried for my lost, yet still beloved, Johnny. And this room, with its cold, cracked linoleum floor, was where I often came at night, to hold myself and rock, and grieve for my dead unborn and all the babies that would never grow inside of me.

  In this room, there was only the truth. If Frank looked into my eyes now, he would see my deceit. He’d know I seduced him not out of love, but out of a desperate desire to make him my Pick so I could get Papa’s house.

  "Becky, did you hear me?" Frank asked. "Is the water temperature okay?"

  "It’s fine." I looked out the small window above the tub. My eyes moved past the gravel driveway to a group of mimosa trees lining the western border of our property. Their feathery limbs silhouetted against a moonlit sky swayed in the wind. They reminded me of marionettes on stilts, shooing away demons or signaling a warning no one would heed.

  "Now the front," he said.

  Frank’s words brought my attention back to his hands. He scrubbed the bar of soap back and forth across the washrag, looked at me and grinned. The soapsuds grew until he seemed satisfied. "Okay, honey, where do you want me to start?"

  I held out my hand. "I can wash myself."

  He laughed. "Yeah, but where’s the fun in that?" He rubbed the cloth across my left shoulder. "Might as well start at the top."

  I turned my attention back to the window. As Frank moved the washcloth across my shoulder, I concentrated on making my mind a blank. I’d almost succeeded when his hand moved to my breast. He moved the lathered cloth in circles starting from the outside and creeping toward my nipple. He finished with the left breast, then moved to the right.

  My stomach felt as if I’d swallowed a dozen moths and they were frantically seeking their freedom. My eyes darted across the blank wall above the window trying to find anything that would take my attention off Frank’s hands as he moved the cloth across my stomach and down my legs.

  At the top left corner of the window there was a crack. It started at the header and moved up the wall, throwing off smaller cracks in its wake. An army of nails had tried to force the wall to stand at attention. But with the passage of time and the erosion of the foundation beneath it, the sheetrock cracked and settled wherever it could find support. The wall, once so fresh, pristine, and strong, was ugly now.

  My eyes drifted back to the window. A white curtain rod ran its entire width. It hung there, serving no purpose, providing no protection from prying eyes. It simply waited for someone to hang a nice curtain on it so it could be pretty again. So it could complete the destiny for which it was created. For years, the rusting little rod had been waiting for someone to come along who would recognize its potential.

  Everything in my life was cracked and broken. Like the little rod, I too had been waiting for someone to make me feel pretty and useful again. I’d been waiting for someone to rescue me. Frank had to be my savior. There was no one else.

  He slipped the cloth between my legs. I gasped and tilted back on my heels. He guided my hands to his shoulders. "Hold on to me, Becky. I won’t let you fall."

  He pulled me into his chest. My arms pushed up around his neck. While his left hand burrowed deeper between my thighs, his right explored my back and hips.

  "Stop, Frank," I whispered, but he didn’t hear me. "Frank . . . stop."

  He stepped back, his face clouded with confusion. "Don’t you like my bathing you?"

  "Sure," I said, while avoiding his eyes. "But the hot water will be gone soon and you haven’t washed."

  He smiled. "Turnabout is fair play."

  Droplets of water ricocheted off my skin and onto his. I realized my Pick expected me to bathe him.

  "We’d better rinse you off first." Frank twirled me around, pushed me under the spray.

  As his hands doused me with lukewarm water, my mind scrambled to find a way out of my impending task.

  He guided my hands to the chrome, added-on rod that carried water from the spout of the old tub up to a showerhead bolted into the wall. "Hold on here, Becky."

  I gripped the pipe with both hands. The bottom of the tub was slippery, but I wasn’t afraid of falling. Frank was behind me. He’d catch me.

  "My first wife was sick for a long time," Frank said as he ran his hands up and down my arms. "We liked to take baths together, but long baths left April feeling weak. So we switched to showers."

  When I was nine, Momma insisted I take classes at Miss Tilton’s School of Proper Etiquette. Miss Tilton guaranteed any graduate of her school would always know the proper thing to say under any circumstances. But here I was, standing naked in a shower with a man intent on reminiscing about the bathing habits of his late wife, and I couldn’t think of a word to say. Momma should ask for a refund.

  "I think that’ll do it," Frank said. "Now you can wash me."

  Having failed to come up with a good excuse not to take my turn as washer, I shrugged and said, "Okay." Maybe it wouldn’t be as brazen an act as it seemed. After all, we were lovers now. Might as well practice playing the part.

  I squeezed the soap too hard causing it to slide out of my hand and drop between my feet. As I bent to retrieve it, my hips brushed against Frank’s groin. A kaleidoscope of shadowed faces—Donald’s and the Pickers-in-white—exploded inside my brain. I screamed, shoved Frank down, and fell out of the tub.

  He tried to stand, but slipped and fell again. "What the hell is the matter?" he shouted as he finally got his feet under him.

  I crawled across the floor, snatched up my robe, and slipped it over my wet body.

  Frank stepped out of the tub and headed for me.

  "Don’t," I yelled and waved him away.

  But he didn’t stop. Instead, he helped me up. "What’s wrong, Becky?"

  "Nothing. Go away." I recognized the look of bewilderment in his eyes and the confusion in his voice. It was the same look and sound that came from me whenever Momma whipped me for no other reason than because she could.

  "You’re shaking like a bird lost in a hurricane. What did I do wrong?" he asked.

  "Nothing’s wrong. I just . . . wanted… a cup of tea."

  Frank took my face in his hands. "No one screams like that because they want tea." He studied me for a moment. "Hell, I forgot you’ve had no experience with men."

  I pulled away. "Yes, I have. I was married once. Johnny and I were married, no matter what Momma says."

  "A two day, common-law marriage hardly qualifies you as being experienced."

  "Don’t forget about Donald." The words slipped out before I realized it.

  Frank stepped back. His breathing deepened. "You said he . . . didn’t rape you."

  I headed for the door.

  "You said Donald’s roughhousing scared you. You told us—"

  "I told you and Momma what you wanted to hear." I turned to face him.
"But you knew the truth, Frank. You knew Donald raped me."

  The hiss of the shower filled the white room. For the first time in almost seven years, I’d repeated my accusation. Now the word hung there between us, spinning on some invisible thread, spinning a web of truth around Frank from which he couldn’t escape.

  "I’m going to make some tea. Do you want some?" I asked.

  He didn’t answer. He stood trapped by the bonds of one little word—raped.

  At the bottom of the stairs, I glanced back. Frank stood at the top of the landing. Water dripped from his body onto the floral carpet runner that accented the staircase. For the first time,I allowed my eyes to take in all of his nakedness.

  I thought such a sight would embarrass me. Instead, a strange warmth seeped through me as I stared at the forty-year-old man standing there in the only suit God ever gave him. Hard work and daily exposure to the Georgia sun had left him trim, tanned, and tempting fodder for any woman who had a certain hunger, the one polite society insisted she deny or risk being labeled tramp or whore.

  Momma’s friends used to tease her about how young Frank looked. He could pass for thirty, while Momma’s face owned every one of her thirty-seven years. I now understood why our female customers always wanted Frank to wait on them and tended to buy more hardware supplies than they’d ever use. I felt a twinge of jealousy.

  My words had slashed Frank’s heart. I regretted leaving him for I knew how deep a cut could run when you’re alone. I started up the stairs. He turned and walked away. The bathroom door slammed. I didn’t follow.

  *****

  I filled the kettle with water, set it on the stove, but didn’t turn on the gas. Instead, I walked out onto the back porch and sat down in Grandpa Eli’s old rocking chair. Momma had made the job of being a Picker look so easy. I leaned back, closed my eyes, and rocked.

  "You shouldn’t be in the night air with your hair wet, Ladybug."

  I smiled, but didn’t open my eyes. Frank had called me by his pet name for me. He couldn’t be too mad.

  "Tell me what happened that day," he said.

  I stopped rocking and looked up. The darkness of the porch hid his face from me. "Trust me. You don’t want to know."

  He got down on his knees in front of me. "I have to understand how my son could do something so vile."

  "Hearing the details won’t explain why Donald raped me." I tried to kiss Frank’s forehead, but he pulled away.

  He stood with his back to me, his arms wrapped around a porch column. I didn’t have to ask him what he was feeling. I knew the thoughts bombarding his heart and mind because I’d spent many evenings hugging that same post. He was trying to hold on to his sanity, praying for this to be a nightmare, and hoping he’d wake up soon.

  Which Frank should I answer? Frank, the friend? Frank, the lover? Or Frank, the Pick? The Pick I needed in order to keep my home. If my words cut too deep, he might leave. Picks had been known to revolt. Some Picks get so numb, they can no longer feel the needles their Picker sticks into them. Such Picks are useless to themselves, to others, and to their Master Picker. Since my return from Havenwood, I’d become such a Pick.

  I went inside, turned on the burner beneath the kettle, and set out two mugs with teabags. I played with my teabag, dunking it up and down as if the hot water was already present. The screen door slammed. Frank sat down opposite me. The whistle of the kettle stopped my game. I filled our cups and dunked the little bag for real. Frank didn’t move.

  "Now, Becky," he said. "Tell me now."

  "It’ll only hurt you."

  He jumped up, stepped to the back door, and slammed his fist against the doorframe. Blood ran down his arm.

  I snatched up a kitchen towel and tried to wrap his hand, but he pulled it away.

  "I asked Donald if he raped you. He denied it repeatedly. I swear to you, I didn’t know." Frank slid to his knees in front of me. "Can you forgive me?"

  He wrapped his arms around my waist just as I had wrapped mine around Anna’s. She hadn’t been able to save me from Momma that day in ’63. Now years later, I couldn’t save Frank from the truth about that damn day either. And I couldn’t forget Momma’s prophetic words.

  The day after the rape, after Frank left for work, Momma warned me never to say anything against my stepbrother. "If Frank leaves me because of what you said about Donald, I’ll kill you, Becky Leigh."

  That was the first time my mother had actually threatened to end my life. Even so, it was her threats against Johnny that scared me the most.

  "Keep your mouth shut and those skinny legs of yours together because I ain’t having no half-breed Mexican brats running around here," she’d warned. "I know plenty of fellows who’d kill that boy if I asked them to real nice."

  I never took her threats lightly. But even though I’d kept my silence, Momma still almost managed to kill us. She got Johnny sent to Vietnam, and she let that butcher dentist cut on me. She made good on her threat to kill our baby.

  I’d never mentioned the rape again until tonight. In the beginning, I’d understood why Frank didn’t believe me. We hardly knew each other then. But after all we’d been through together, I’d come to think that he must have realized the truth by now. Granted, my belief wasn’t based upon logic. It was simply my deep-seated need to have someone I loved and trusted believe in me.

  An irrational sense of betrayal seized me as I looked down at the man who’d both saved and betrayed me. Should I forgive him for not believing me? Could I forgive him? I patted his head. "Everything’s okay, Frank." Lying kept getting easier for me.

  I pulled away, went into the living room, and turned the television on then off. A half-empty pack of cigarettes lay on the end table by Momma’s chair. I picked it up.

  "Put those nasty things down, Becky."

  I threw the pack at Frank. "Watch out. You’re beginning to sound like Momma."

  "That’s not funny." He crumpled up the pack and tossed it on the end table. "I know you’re upset. You have a right to be angry."

  "Gee, thanks. Thanks for granting me the right to be angry because your son raped me."

  Frank rubbed the back of his neck. "It’s late, let’s finish this tomorrow."

  "We’ll finish it now," I yelled. "One way or another, we’ll finish this tonight."

  "Calm down, Becky."

  "Don’t tell me to calm down. I hate that."

  He threw up his hands. "I don’t know what you want from me. I know you want this house, but I still believe getting you away from here would be the best thing to do."

  "You’re trying to save me again. Every time you do, I end up having to forgive you for something."

  Frank shook his head. "All the lies and the pain. How can we ever get past them?"

  "We get past them by taking one last hard look at everything. All the painful secrets come out tonight. Then we put them behind us and go on with our plan."

  He stared at me, his blue eyes wide and questioning. "Where do we start?"

  "You once asked me what happened at Havenwood. Now, you’ve asked me about Donald. I’m ready to tell you if you still what to know."

  He hesitated for a moment, then said "I need to know . . . right?"

  "Yes. But the truth isn’t pretty." I walked over to him. "Do you think you’re up to it?"

  CHAPTER 18

  I reached behind my chest-of-drawers, retrieved my journal and went back downstairs. I handed it to Frank. "Everything you need to know starts on page thirty-two."

  He stared at the notebook for a couple of minutes then handed it back to me. "I can’t read it, Becky. I’m sorry."

  "If I can live through it, dammit, you can read about it." I pushed the journal into his hands and sat down in front of him. "Start with the letter to Claudia."

  "Who’s Claudia?"

  "An imaginary friend from when I was a kid. I’ll tell you about her some other time."

  Frank nodded. He turned to page thirty-two, paused a moment, then began to
read.

  Dear Claudia,

  You’ll be heartbroken to hear Momma pushed me into a bottomless pit called Havenwood. She told the doctors I’d killed my baby and had tried to kill myself. They chose to believe her lies instead of my truth. I wasn’t surprised. After all, Momma is a champion Picker.

  One night, two Pickers dressed in white came into my room. I tried to fight them, but they knew Donald's tricks. A Pick turned on her stomach cannot see her enemy. She can’t strike the Picker whose hands bear down on her back, pushing her down so that the only thing that hears her scream is her own bed. A bed has no mouth to tell. It has no arms to slap the Pickers away. After awhile, I gave up the fight and accepted my place as their Pick. Then they rolled me over and began again.

  They told me I was lucky because they could have their choice of Picks in this house of Hell. I would’ve gladly passed the honor to someone else if I could’ve.

  In time, the Pickers-in-white grew weary of me. There were new faces on the floor and fresh meat to be explored. Thus, they moved on. But I knew that in another room, a fresh Pick lay on her stomach, her cries for help muffled by her own bed linens. But I remained silent and continued my quest to be invisible, lest the Pickers notice me again. I never talked about my role as their Pick. Not to others. Not to Frank. Not even to my own self, except in the dreams and screams that came when I slept.

  Like Momma, the Pickers-in-white were champions. And like her, they left me with nothing. Not my pride. Not my sanity. Not even the ability to mourn for my dead child. For I was numb. I could no longer see the stars in the night sky or hear the whistle of the wind or feel the beating of my own heart.

  Frank laid the journal on the coffee table, rested his elbows on his knees. "Now I know why you screamed in the shower. I remind you of Donald and the others."

  "No, you don’t. It’s just that when my hips brushed up against you that way, I saw their faces. For a moment, I was back in Havenwood."