by Pamela Morsi
"I don't think it's necessary to fire a gun this early in the morning," Beulah protested lamely.
The two appeared ready to commence argument on the point when Granny Piggott broke in.
"We cain't spend all day here with the two families fit to fawnch on ever detail," she declared with a snappish lilt to her tongue. The old woman seemed prepared to make a personal decree, but Jesse stopped her.
"This first one is Miss Althea's hog," he said, not quite understanding why the other people were even offering their opinion. "So we'll do whatever she wants done."
The correctness of his words quieted the crowd momentarily and they all looked expectantly at Althea. She hesitated, taken a little aback. So naturally, she turned to the only person sure to have only her interests in consideration. She turned to Jesse.
"What do you think we should do?"
Jesse paused thoughtfully a moment before answering. "Let's use the pistol. That way there's no chance of suffering," he said. "I can stand right behind the shooter with my knife."
"All right," Althea agreed immediately.
That Jesse had made the decision was obvious to everyone but Jesse. Hence the strange looks that he received as he moved through the crowd toward the hog pen were a puzzlement to him.
In the last week, with the occasional help of Oather and Eben, Jesse had built a table-high platform with a high pole and a dragging ramp next to the hog pen. A huge cast iron potash kettle filled with water boiled rapidly on the ground fire pit at the end of the platform. Jesse surveyed the water. Wood ashes and pine tar had been added giving the color a milky appearance.
"Do you think it will do?" he asked generally.
A discussion among the men ensued and ultimately resulted in a bit of rosen added to the blend.
Jesse removed his coat and hung it on a fence post. The shirt he wore beneath it was worn and near threadbare. Hog killing was messy work. The other men did likewise. Buell handed the pistol to Oather. The young man stared at it for a moment, looking quite pale. It was well known that the younger Mr. Phillips didn't care for guns, hunting, or shooting.
"I'll do it," Jesse's brother-in-law Roe suggested. He took the pistol from Oather and followed Jesse as he opened the gate to the hog pen.
"SOO-EEE pig!" Jesse called out as he held out a nice, fresh carrot before him. "Come here, now," he told the healthy well-fed young hog. "We know you're hungry."
By necessity the hogs had not been fed since the previous morning. Eagerly the big swaggering swine belonging to Althea hurried over to the proffered carrot. Jesse gave it to him and watched him chomp at it. He smoothed the rough hair on the pig's face and scratched his snout lovingly. Jesse had kept and cared for the hog for several weeks now. But hogs were raised for food. They were not family.
Jesse dipped a thumb in the mud and then made a print on the swine's forehead, just off center and a little above the eyes.
"See you in heaven," Jesse said gently.
He stepped back only a pace and pulled his knife. Roe, his hand trembling slightly, placed the muzzle of the gun directly upon the muddy thumbprint. The sound of the shot was somehow muffled in the morning air. The hog dropped immediately without so much as a squeal of pain or a grunt of acknowledgment.
Jesse moved up beside Roe as he handed the gun back to the men behind them. Roe and Oather then rolled the carcass on its back and Jesse used his knife to stick it. Blood began pouring out like flood waters.
"Don't waste any of that," Granny cautioned as one of the salted pans was passed up. The old woman's recipe for bloodwurst was the most prized on the mountain.
* * *
Eben arrived unfashionably late. But just in time to see Roe and Jesse kill the hog. Silently he cursed himself. He should have been here. The McNees and Winsloes expected it of him. He expected it of himself. And he'd awakened in plenty of time. Beulah would have never left the house that morning if she hadn't thought him right behind them. But he had dawdled, not purposely—well, yes perhaps purposely. Knowing he was to spend the day with her, that she would be there, it had slowed his step.
Mavis Phillips. He saw her immediately, of course. She was standing with her mother. That wild red hair was forced into a tame little braid that she wound tightly at the back of her head. As if by some extra sense, she knew his presence and raised her eyes to meet his gaze. She flushed and immediately returned to her task, pretending she had not seen him. Just as he pretended that his heart did not beat faster at the sight of her.
Daily, with heedful planning and deliberate care he courted Althea Winsloe. Yet daily, his thoughts were only for Mavis Phillips. She was in his musings, in his dreams. Truly, she had never left them. But somehow distance had proved an ally. Eben had begun to worry about the wisdom of choosing to live so near her. If he were to win Althea Winsloe, the sight of Mavis ever so near might well prove to be more self torture than revenge.
He could win Althea. He was more certain of that than ever. The boy thoroughly liked him now. Althea found him amusing and he believed she was learning to trust him. Oather's courting was determined, but there was a cold deliberateness about it. He was no more at home on the farm than Eben himself. And marriage to him would mean a constant battle between Buell and Beulah. Althea wanted freedom from interference. Oather couldn't give her that. Eben would. It was all he could give.
Baby-Paisley caught sight of him and came running. His glove hat on his head, the deer tail bounced in the breeze.
"We done kilt the pig," he said excitedly as Eben swept the boy up in his arms. "Where was you?"
"I was on my way," Eben answered. He'd grown genuinely fond of the little boy who was so artless and unrestrained. Paisley had gotten a good deal when he'd chosen to marry a woman like Althea, he thought. A man could do worse than a woman who could raise a fine son.
"Let's find your mama," Eben said.
The child pointed. "She's got the coffee," he said.
"Did you get to have coffee?"
The little boy shook his head solemnly. "Mama woan let me drink it," he said. "But Gobby Weston says he drinks it all da time."
"That's probably 'cause his mama ain't got no cow," Eben said diplomatically. "I bet he'd drink milk if he had it."
"I drink milk ebberday!" the boy bragged.
Althea did still hold the coffeepot, though it was empty. "I'll make you some more," she said, although her attention was firmly fixed upon the three men pulling the hog up the ramp to the platform.
"Don't bother," Eben told her. "I know you want to watch the butchering."
"Maybe Granny or Mrs. Phillips—" Althea turned to ask one of the older women to make the coffee for her. She didn't immediately see either of them, but did spot someone else.
"Mavis? Mavis, could you make some more coffee for Mr. Baxley?"
She looked up, obviously a bit startled. Eben watched her as she moved toward him.
"My goodness she's pale," Althea whispered to him. "It must be all the blood. It bothers lots of folks. But I had no idea that Mavis had a weak stomach."
Eben didn't answer that he thought perhaps it was not the killed hog but the man wanting coffee that had drained the color from the young woman's face.
"I'll take that," Eben said, grasping the handle of the coffeepot.
Althea let it go gratefully and turned back to the action on the platform. Jesse and Roe had tied the hog's back feet together and were lowering it, headfirst into the boiling water. Moving the hog up and down to keep it from cooking, the scalding liquid would loosen the hair from the hide.
Eben turned his back on the work and walked toward Mavis. He watched her raise her chin high. Strangely, he felt a sense of pride in her. He didn't cower her, not even now. She refused to be lowered to the woman he had made of her.
"This is real nice of you, sugartail," he said with nasty sweetness when they reached the cooking fire, far out of earshot of the rest of the crowd.
"Aren't you afraid I might poison you?" Mavis ask
ed, her eyes narrowed.
He grinned at her. "Not really," he answered. "There are a lot of women I'd think capable of such as that, but not you. You're not direct enough. You'd want to coax a man to death, use your wiles on him."
He watched her swallow the lump in her throat and knew he scored another hit. Somehow, it didn't please him as much as he wanted it to.
"Is that what you want, Eben?" she asked finally. "Do you want me to be straight, honest, and direct?"
He shrugged. "It would sure be an unexpected change," he said.
"All right," she said. "I want you to give up the idea of marrying Althea Winsloe. I want you to let Oather have her."
He grinned, unkindly. "You want me to let Oather have her? Why should I do that?"
"Because . . . because, I don't think that you really want her. I don't think that you really even want this farm. I've not seen any real interest from you in even that."
"What do you think I do want?"
"I think you want to hurt me. You want to move here, right up the path from where I live so that I can see you every day and never have you."
"I think you flatter yourself, Mavis. You think the world revolves around you. But as for me, I don't hardly give you a thought."
"Please don't marry her, Eben," she said. "Please don't do it."
"You're jealous," he accused with an evil chuckle. He folded his arms across his chest and glared at her contemptuously. "You planned on me being your husband and now you can't stand to think some other woman is going to have what you gave up so much to get."
"I'm not asking for me," she said, nearly choking on her own words.
"Then who are you asking for?"
"I'm asking . . . I'm asking for Oather."
"For Oather?" He hooted with laughter. "Now that's a real good one, sugartail. I'm supposed to believe that Oather is dying for love of Althea and I'm standing in the way. That brother of your ain't got no interest in her at all. I'd swear there ain't a drop of hot blood in the feller. He treats her just the same as he treats you or his mama. When he promises not to beat the bed ticks with her, I can almost believe it myself."
"Oather has got to marry her, he's just got to."
"And why is that?"
"It's . . . it's his last chance. Papa is really set on it. He's said things, terrible things."
"Saying terrible things is a way of life for your father," Eben answered.
"No, there's more to this. So much more, I don't even understand it. But I'm afraid. I'm afraid if Oather doesn't manage to win her, well, I don't think Papa would ever forgive him."
"Yep, that daddy of yours, he is one man that sure has to get his way. I guess that's where you get it. You just have to make things turn out like you want them. Too bad for you that I'm not a man to be led around by apron strings."
"I'm begging you, Eben," she whispered desperately. "I'm begging you to let Oather have her. If he marries her, then he will have proved to Papa whatever it is that needs proving. Please, Eben, it means nothing to you."
"What about my pride, Mavis? You never seem to recall that I have pride."
"You can do it without much fuss. You don't have to let him win, just step aside. Please, Eben. The farm means nothing to you. She doesn't mean anything to you. It could mean everything to Oather."
"Everything?"
Her expression stricken, Mavis nodded. "Oather talks about leaving. He talks about it all the time. If he and Papa have another falling out, I'm afraid he'll go. We won't be a family anymore. I couldn't live with that. Please, Eben, I'm begging you. Isn't that what you've always wanted? You've always wanted me to beg."
She was begging. He could see it in her eyes, in her stance. Somehow it wasn't as welcome a sight as he would have imagined. She was really scared. She was really worried about her brother. Eben was convinced that nothing else could make her come to him this way. Nothing else could make her beg him again. She'd begged him on her knees that day so long ago. He'd walked away from her then. He knew that she never planned to humble herself to him again. But she had. Begging and pleading for her brother.
Eben glanced over at the butchering platform. He didn't see Oather, but he knew he was there.
Deliberately he turned back to stare at Mavis, forcing his expression to remain unmoved, frozen. The thaw inside him was growing, but he forcibly kept his face cold.
"I don't see any reason why I should help you," he said.
"If . . . if you will," Mavis hesitated. "I'll . . . I'll let you. I'll let you have me again."
"You'll what?"
"I'll let you have me again. I . . . it's all I have to offer. You say you want me for your . . . your something unlawful on the side. I won't be that, Eben, if you marry Althea. I swear that I could never forgive myself if I did that to her. But if you'll let Oather have her, I'll . . . I'll be whatever you want me to be."
"You mean you'll be my whore."
"Yes."
Angry heat swept through Eben as if he himself had just been dipped in boiling water.
"Damn you, Mavis Phillips. Damn you once more," he cursed. "You're at it again, ain't you? Trying to make things go your way. Trying to control me. That's what you want to do. You want to control me, tell me what to do. Run my life. I'm not that kind of man. I'm not weak. I'm not led around by a woman's skirt. Not me. Not ever."
The venom in his voice made her tremble.
"I didn't mean . . ."
"I know exactly what you meant. You meant to get your way, just like you tried before. But this time I call the shots. I make the rules. You want your brother to have that woman, well, you're going to have to stop giving orders and start taking them. Do you understand me? You'll not be telling me what, or when, or how. When I say frog you're going to jump and the only question you're allowed to have is how high. Do you understand me?"
"Yes." Her voice was a tiny whisper.
"Come on."
"What?"
"You want to be my whore? Well, I'm ready to take my whore right now. You do what I say, you come on right now, or you just forget about your brother altogether."
Eben turned and began to walk toward the woods. He didn't look back. She would come or she wouldn't. Fury still filled him. He hated her. He hated her. She had used her body to try to control him. And she wanted to do it again. Well, he would not be controlled. He would control. He would control her and her body.
He heard her come running up behind him. He continued to climb. Away from the path, away from the people, he continued to climb away from the restraints of the community and she was right behind him.
In a break in the brush, he saw the bent grass where an animal had bedded down. They were a goodly distance from the Winsloe cabin and completely alone. He turned to her. Grabbing her arm he pulled her to him roughly.
"Are you ready to be my whore?" he asked. "Are you going to do what I tell you, when I tell you? Are you willing to heed whatever I say?"
"Yes."
He reached over and pulled at the pins in her hair, deliberately jerking at them.
"Your hair should be loose and wild," he said. "A whore ought to look like one. That's what I've always thought."
He pulled at the collar of her dress and forced his hand down the neck of her bodice, managing to get a rough grasp on her breast.
"Your teats ain't very big, sugartail," he said. "Most of my whores has got bigger teats than you."
Her eyes were closed. She was pretending this was not happening, he was sure. She was going to let him do what he wanted and pretend she wasn't there. He was not about to let her get away with that.
He stepped back from her.
"Drop your drawers and pull up your skirt," he ordered. He was determined to make her accountable for what was happening to her.
She didn't meet his eyes. She fumbled a moment with the yards of brown calico. When they were gathered about her waist, she pulled at the drawstring of her pale cotton underwear. Hastily she stripped them down and stepped
out of them. Black stockings covered her legs from the top of her boots to just past her knees. Above that she was pale, pink skin and dainty red curls.
Eben undid the buttons on the front of his trousers and pressed her back against a tree.
"I know you're ready. Whores are always ready." Clasping her buttocks in his hands he raised her up and wrapped her thighs around his hips. His teeth were clenched in anger. With not so much as a kiss on her cheek he rammed himself inside her.
She cried out. It was a cry of physical pain, but also one of humiliation. He had hurt her. He had really hurt her. It was exactly what he had wanted to do. It was what he had wanted to do for a very long time. He rammed again and again. He was hurting her. He was hurting her. That's what he wanted to do. So why were tears running down his cheeks?
In an instant, the angry, frustrated desire he had felt fled. In its place was only shame and despair. How had they come to this? How had something so beautiful come to this? It wrenched at his aching heart, wounding him. He had loved her. He had really loved her. And it was all spoilt. It was all ruined. It was all gone forever. Eben moaned like an animal in pain. "Oh, God, Mavis. Oh, God, I am sorry," he whispered. He buried his face in her hair. "I am so so sorry." And he wept.
Chapter Eighteen
The men worked on the hog with easy camaraderie and the skill gained from years of meat tending. After being dipped for several minutes into the hot water, first one end and then the other, the hog was laid out on the platform and the men gathered around. With bell-shaped scrapers they removed all the loosened hair from the carcass in rough abrading movements reminiscent of shaving.
Oather, who had nearly worn himself out helping to dip the hog, made his way over to the water bucket. His face was reddened from exertion and he was dripping wet with perspiration. Althea scooped him a ladle full of the cool, refreshing liquid. He accepted it gratefully.
"It's hot work," he commented.
Althea readily agreed. "Yes it is," she said. "I had forgotten."