The notion of moving to Palm Beach didn’t register with me either. But then, little did. Numb, lost, dazed and bewildered, I stumbled through a world that looked familiar. The same plaid curtains and matching bedspread. Frank’s green toothbrush hanging next to my blue one in the bathroom where we’d shared a bubble bath last Monday evening. Everything looked the same, but felt strange.
It was as if the earth had been knocked off its axis. My world was cockeyed, twisted, skewed by events beyond my control or understanding. If Grandpa Eli were alive, he’d have said my life had gone catawampus.
A catawampus life is one that’s out of kilter. It’s lopsided, crooked, and bent beyond recognition. A catawampus life is a life devoid of truth.
As I sat on our bed, smelling Frank’s favorite blue shirt, the scent of him filling my senses, I realized all I had left was a catawampus life. A world where nothing was the same as it had been seven days prior. My life, which had held such promise a week ago, was now devoid of all truth, as my mind and heart battled over whether or not Frank had betrayed me.
If I could turn back the clock for one week, everything would right itself again. Life would be good again. I’d feel safe. Frank would be alive. He’d hold me, comfort me, and love me once more. He’d show me where the new will was. I’d get him to the doctor’s in time. I could save him and myself, if I could go back to last Monday night.
"Please, God," I whispered. "Grant me this one little prayer, and I’ll never ask for anything else. I’ll never lie or cuss again. I’ll be a good girl forever."
"They say only crazy people talk to themselves."
I twisted around to find Donald standing in the doorway, a beer bottle in his hand. "What are you doing here?"
"I came to inspect my property and to give you this." He sailed a piece of paper at me.
"It’s an eviction notice. I want you and that know-it-all mother of yours out of my house."
I made no move to pick up the hand-written document. "That’s not legal. You’ve got no say until the will has been probated. A lot can happen before then."
"I saw Helen’s van parked at that new lawyer’s office. He won’t do her any good. She can’t afford to pay him, unless she plans to spread her legs for him." Donald stopped to gulp down some beer. "That’s her style, but he’s young. I heard he has a good-looking wife. Why would he need a worn out bitch like Helen?" A slow smirk spread across Donald’s face. "If you made him the same offer, he might be tempted to accept. After all, we guys know that you redheads are always hot and eager for it." He rubbed his hand across his crotch. "You cherry-heads need it on a regular basis. Right?"
Standing up, I pulled my shoulders back and lifted my head high in an attempt to appear taller than my 5 foot 3 inches. "I want you to leave now."
He laughed. "You’re confused, moron. This isn’t Daddy Wooten standing here. I don’t give a shit what you want." He took another swig. "When he came to visit my girls, Daddy would brag that he’d convinced you he loved you. We’d laugh about how gullible and stupid you were to believe he’d ever marry a freak like you."
"You’re a damn liar. Frank loved me."
"The only thing he loved about you was the hole between your legs."
I crossed my arms and grinned, determined not to let Donald’s vulgar lies upset me.
"You can’t stand it because he chose me over you, can you?"
"The hell he did. Daddy left everything to me. If you and that whore Helen weren’t such idiots, you’d understand that blood is thicker than pussy."
Somewhere in the back of my brain, a voice whispered, "Walk away, Becky." But I didn’t listen. Perhaps, after years of watching Master Picker Momma retaliate and destroy her enemies, I imagined her skills had somehow seeped into my bones. Maybe it was because I didn’t have anywhere else to walk to. For some reason, I didn’t back down.
"Frank was ashamed to call you his son. Although it pained him greatly, he finally admitted to himself you were a rapist and murderer of your own unborn children. The only thing Frank didn’t know was you’re a damn arsonist too. But I know, and I have proof."
Donald’s entire face wrinkled. His lips pinched closed making him snort air through his nose like an angry bull. He glared at me.
Realizing I’d struck a nerve, I mustered the courage to continue. "I know Frank loved me. He told me over and over how he loved me more than he’d ever loved anyone, including your mother."
I didn’t see Donald’s raised hand until it was too late. The beer bottle crashed into the right side of my head. My legs buckled. I fell forward onto my hands and knees. Specks of color floated in the haze before me as I tried to focus. A warm, sticky liquid dripped from my scalp onto the braided rug. I crawled toward the murky outline of the ladderback chair in the corner and used it to pull myself up on my knees.
Donald grabbed a handful of my hair, yanked me to my feet. "You’re gonna pay now. You’re gonna pay for turning Daddy against me."
He smacked my face so hard I felt it in my legs. Blood gushed from my nose. Still, I managed to rake my fingernails down his cheek.
He grabbed his face. "Damn bitch!" His fist slammed into my jaw.
My teeth sliced my bottom lip. Blood poured from my head, my nose, and my mouth.
Gagging, I spit, then swallowed hard. Blood swirled in my stomach, mixed with gastric juices, then erupted from my throat. A rank mixture of vomit and red spewed across the legs of Donald’s khakis.
"Goddamn you," he shouted.
Another whack. This one sent me reeling backwards. My spine slapped the hardwood floor. I screamed. For a moment, I couldn’t move. Finally, I rolled onto my right side, pulled my knees into my chest, and waited for Donald’s next blow. It’s funny the thoughts that flash across your mind when you’re in severe pain. Logic would’ve dictated I consider a plan for escape. But instead, I thought of how odd it was that we begin life in the fetal position and now I was, in all likelihood, going to end my life in the same pose. It was as if my twenty-one years of living had been for naught. Nothing had changed, not even the position of my own body.
Donald jerked one of Grandma Cooper’s crocheted doilies off the dresser, sending Frank’s bottle of cologne crashing to the floor. The scent of Old Spice mixed with those of blood and vomit. Bile coated the roof of my mouth.
My stepbrother kicked me. "That’s for messing up my new pants." He kicked me again. Then twice more. The last kick landed in my lower back. Donald wiped his pants off with the antique scarf. "You’re not even worth killing." He grasped my left hand, twisted my wrist, and dragged me across the room to the bed.
"You’re breaking . . . breaking my hand," I screamed.
He laughed. "You’ll be lucky if that’s all I break." Donald picked me up, threw me onto the bed, yanked my pants and underwear off, and tossed them on the floor.
Naked from the waist down, I tried to pull the bedspread over me, but my left hand went limp. My other hand lay wedged behind my back. Donald’s fingers gripped my throat.
With his right hand, Donald undid his belt buckle. "There’s only one thing a dummy like you is good for." He unzipped his fly. "Do you remember the first time I helped myself to a piece of you? You were nice and tight then. Bet that’s not the case now, is it?" Donald started working his slacks down his hips. "Let’s see if Daddy taught you anything. If you want, you can close your eyes and pretend I’m him."
I tried to kick him, but he pressed his thighs against my lower legs and tightened his fingers around my throat. I fought for each breath.
He grinned. "Relax, stupid. You’re gonna like what I’ve got for you a lot more than anything my old man ever gave you."
My mind swirled. I saw the ladderback chair rise high into the air behind Donald.
Was my vision real or a hallucination? He pulled back a little. Just as his pants fell around his ankles, the chair crashed down upon his head. He screamed, grabbed his skull with both hands, and staggered sideways before tripping over his khakis.
"Hello, Donald," Helen said. "I didn’t know you were stopping by today." She looked at me. Her face clouded over.
Donald was the one on his hands and knees now. He shook his shoulders. Pieces of wood fell off his back and onto the floor.
She strolled toward him, stopping to pick up one of the broken chair spindles. "If I’d known you were coming, I would’ve baked you a cake."
He rose up on his knees. "You fucking bitch. You’re dead."
"I don’t allow such language in my house, Donald." Helen slammed the piece of wood upside his temple.
He let out a howl and fell sideways, hitting the crown of his head on the edge of the dresser. Holding his head, Donald thrashed around on the floor, kicking his feet, moaning like a dying cow.
Helen walked back to the bed, picked up the edge of the bedspread, tossed it over me. "You should’ve called before you came over. Becky’s not dressed for company."
I tried to sit up, but couldn’t put any weight on my left hand. "Momma," I whispered.
She opened her handbag, took out her cigarette case, and lit a smoke. "Stay down, Becky. This isn’t over yet." Holding the cigarette between her lips, she reached into her bag and pulled out a white metal object before tossing her purse onto the bed. Not once did she take her eyes off Donald.
He grabbed the dresser for support and staggered to his feet. His pants and underwear circled his ankles. Limp genitalia peeked out through the tail of his shirt.
Helen puckered her lips and blew little smoke rings in his direction. "It’s easy to see you didn’t inherit any of Frank’s best qualities. How did you sire so many kids with that puny thing? Are you sure Kim and Amy are yours?"
"You close your mouth, Helen, or I’ll close it for you." He struggled to pull up his pants.
"That’s mighty big talk for someone who has so little to offer. Now that I’ve seen the evidence, I’m sure those girls must belong to Charlotte’s lover. She just passed them off as yours." Helen took another drag off her Camel.
What the hell was she doing? My mother could fight and fight dirty, but Donald was six-one, 200 pounds, and so mad his eyes were about to pop out of their sockets. It was her nature to have the last word, but this time I feared Momma’s need to win at all cost would get us both killed. Not that I cared much about living anymore. Still, there had to be less painful ways to die.
Donald managed to get his pants pulled up. He didn’t bother to fasten his belt. Blood from his head wound trickled down his cheek. He wiped at it, but it continued to ooze down his jaw and drip onto his shirt collar. "I’m through fucking with you. You’re both finished."
Momma let loose a laugh so wicked it would’ve scared the Devil himself. Blonde curls fell across her cheeks, hiding everything except blood-red lips, alleycat green eyes, and the smoke pouring out her nostrils. "You’re through fucking anyone, Donald."
She raised her right hand and touched a button on the side of the white metal object.
A four-inch steel blade popped out. "Can you believe this souvenir from the islands cost only three dollars?" She held the switchblade up for him to see, took a deep drag off her cigarette, and then held up her smoke. The end of it glowed. "What do you want first, Donald? For me to blind you with my cigarette or to geld you with my island keepsake?"
He grinned. "A little knife like that doesn’t scare me."
A fiendish smile parted Helen’s lips. "It doesn’t take a big knife to gut a hog if you know what you’re doing. You stick the knife in fast and low, twist it 180 degrees and rip upwards. That hog’s guts will fall right out." As she talked, Momma demonstrated her disemboweling technique on an imaginary pig.
The smirk on Donald’s face disappeared. "You’re both crazy. I’m leaving."
"What’s the matter?" she asked. "Don’t you like to play with girls who bite back?"
My stepbrother hugged the far wall as he passed in front of my knife-wielding mother. Once out of the room and headed down the stairs, he yelled, "We’ll finish this another time, bitch."
Helen ran to the top of the stairs. "I’m ready when you are, jackass."
The front door slammed. I tried to sit up, but a bolt of pain shot through me. I fell back against the mattress. Blood trickled down the side of my head and dripped into my ear. Still in the hallway, Momma was mumbling something. The stench of blood, cigarettes, vomit, and Old Spice blended together. I gagged.
Helen came in carrying a washrag. "Don’t you throw up, Becky Leigh." She wiped the damp cloth across my face. "Roy Tate is on his way. You hold on until then."
"Roy Tate?"
"I called him. We need to get you to Doctor Condray’s. I can’t get you down those stairs by myself." She folded the washrag, laid it across my forehead. "You lie still. We need some fresh air in here." She opened the window, got another washrag, and wiped the blood off my hands. "I’m not going to clean you up too much. I want Roy and Doctor Condray to see what that bastard did to you."
"Is it . . . that . . . that bad?" I asked.
"I wouldn’t recommend looking in a mirror anytime soon."
I put my right hand to my face to feel the damage.
She pulled it back down. "Don’t touch it. You’ll make it worse."
"I can’t . . . can’t move my left hand or see . . . out my right eye."
"The right side of your face is swelling up. That’s what’s closing your eye." She picked up my injured hand.
I screamed.
"Damn Donald’s hide. I think he broke your wrist." Momma smacked her fists against her thighs, stomped her foot, and started pacing in front of the bed. "Why the hell didn’t I kill him? I must be getting soft to let such an opportunity slip by."
"Donald’s too big. He’s too . . . too mean. He would’ve killed us."
She folded her arms and glared at me with eyes wild and crazed like those of a trapped bobcat. "I got rid of my daddy when I was fourteen years old. He was bigger and meaner than Donald Wooten could ever . . ." She gasped, slapped her hand over her mouth.
I lay there staring up at my mother. Had I heard her correctly? She killed her own father? The blood in my ear must be interfering with my hearing. Maybe the throbbing in my head had triggered some sort of hallucination. Beatings tended to scramble the mind and produce temporary confusion.
There was a loud knocking.
Helen looked out the window. "There’s Roy. I told him to come to the backdoor. You keep your mouth shut and let me do the talking." She started to leave.
"Wait," I whispered.
She spun around. "Don’t you dare ask me any questions. Not now. Not ever."
I pointed at her mouth with my good hand. "Your lip . . . lipstick . . . is smeared."
"Damn. Where’s my purse?" Momma grabbed her bag, snatched the cloth off my head, and wiped her mouth. She applied a fresh coat of scarlet lipstick, smacked her lips twice.
The knocking grew louder.
"Just a minute, Roy," she yelled. "Do I look presentable?"
I nodded as best I could.
She headed for the door. "Don’t worry, Sugar. Your momma is going to take care of everything."
Her words didn’t reassure me. Who was this woman? All my life, I’d depended upon others to protect me from the demon I knew her to be. But today, she’d risked her life to protect me from Donald. One minute, she’s lamenting not killing my attacker. The next, she's fretting over smeared lipstick, while I’m bleeding all over the bedspread. All these years, I thought I knew who and what my mother was. But then, I thought I knew Frank too. Nothing made sense anymore. I closed my eyes and welcomed the darkness of the descending unconsciousness.
CHAPTER 28
When we returned from the doctor’s office, Roy Tate carried me up the backstairs into our house. I guessed his age to be mid-fifties. His hair had more gray than black now and the crow’s feet around his eyes were joined by deep wrinkles along the edge of his tanned face. Despite his age, his body was still fit, still muscular. My weight seeme
d no burden to him.
Momma turned down the covers on my bed. "Put her in here, Roy."
With an unexpected gentleness, the former sheriff laid me in my bed. He grabbed a pillow, lifted my left arm carefully, and slipped the feather cushion under my wrapped hand and wrist.
"Thanks for taking me to . . . the doctor, Mr. Tate." My swollen lip made talking difficult.
"Anytime, Becky." He stood looking down at me, frowning. "Your wrist would heal faster if it’d been broke instead of just strained so bad."
"Donald did a number on her, didn’t he?" Momma said.
Roy nodded. "He’s going to hurt worse than Becky when I catch up with him."
Momma shoved a couple of pills and a glass of water at me. "Take these pain pills the doctor gave you. They’ll help you sleep."
I swallowed the medicine. "Donald looked bad . . . after Momma finished with him."
Roy laughed, reached over and rubbed her shoulders with a familiarity that made me uncomfortable. "Did you manage to get your licks in, Helen?"
"You know I did." She flipped back her hair. "If he’d raped Becky, I’d have killed him."
"If Donald had raped her, you’d have a stronger case."
"What do you mean?" I asked. "Momma told Doctor Condray we . . . weren’t pressing charges. That’s when . . . he got so mad at her."
"We’re not pressing charges now," Helen said, "but Roy and a couple of his friends are going to inform Donald that if he tries to kick us out of our house, his ass will end up in jail for assault and battery. That’s why Roy took those pictures of you. He’ll keep them as evidence to use against that bastard."
"You’re using my beating to . . . blackmail Donald into letting us keep the house?"
"I prefer to think of it as leverage." She turned to her friend. "Donald did rape Becky when she was thirteen. Can we use that against him now?"
"Why didn’t you tell me about it then?" Tate asked. "We could’ve burned his ass."
"Momma didn’t believe me. It didn’t fit . . . her plan . . . at the time."
"Pay her no mind, Roy. Those drugs are starting to work." Momma pulled the blanket up under my chin and whispered, "You be quiet. I’m telling this story." She motioned to the ex-lawman. "Let’s talk in the hall. Becky needs her sleep."
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