Hanna found herself sleeping alone. Despite the safety in numbers in Jotham’s house, nighttime still brought out her most fearful thoughts. Brother Paul often spoke of an impending conflict with the cities beyond The Road, and some nights, she’d lie awake waiting for men from a faraway land to come storming through the woods, brandishing pitchforks and torches, crimson in their appetent eyes. It was only this past autumn, when three-year-old Ahmre climbed into Hanna’s bunk and began sleeping next to her, that Hanna’s nocturnal worries subsided.
The bed in Jessamina’s room felt empty without Ahmre beside her. Slivers of moonlight slipped through the curtains, illuminating the sparse furnishings: a bureau, a wicker bassinet, a pot without a plant and an armless rocking chair. As the children fell silent through the wall, Jotham’s house settled. Joints and floorboards creaked, the pipes clanked and the aged roof clicked and clattered with the wind. Hanna breathed in fully. She allowed the air to fill her chest and turned on her side in Jessamina’s bed.
Hanna could hear Jotham lumbering up the stairs, his footsteps heavier than usual. In the past, Hanna had heard him pacing the hallway at night. She could tell by the metallic creak of the door hinges which wife he’d chosen to sleep with. Hanna could tell by the groan of the bedsprings when he lay with Jessamina. In a few short months, Hanna would be the same age Jessamina had been when Jotham planted a baby inside her belly. In their private conversation last week, Brother Paul had described the physical relations between a man and his wife as sacred, witnessed by the Creator. “The Creator’s divine wish is for you to bring your husband closer to his light. It is your sacred duty,” he said. Hanna didn’t know what to think. She had often been confused by the intentions of grown men. And she’d long been wary of them looking at her.
Age thirteen was the year Hanna had sprouted—growing nearly three inches in a single month. That was the year her chest developed and her hips widened ever so slightly, the year she first noticed men staring at her, their flagrant gazes running up and down her body, piercing her, cutting into the fabric of who she was in a way she didn’t yet understand. Thirteen-year-old Hanna still thought the moon followed her in the sky, that the blue wisps of early-evening light were fairies come to life. And now grown men wanted her. Hanna had never thought of herself as an object of desire. But when the rest of the town weighed in, when Hanna turned fifteen and then sixteen and caught women glaring at her the way Jessamina did, she knew there was something different about her. Hanna had never expected so many men to step forward to claim her hand in marriage. Too much beauty in a town bereft of it, was something Hanna had never wished for.
Outside the door, Jotham reached the top of the stairs. He paced back and forth. Jotham paused outside Katherine’s room and then shuffled off-kilter to the children’s bedroom, where Jessamina was sleeping with her baby. Jotham turned on his heel. A second passed and then another. Then his feet appeared at Hanna’s door.
Hanna tensed up. She hadn’t expected Jotham to come to her—never had he done such a thing before—and she held her breath until she could hold it no longer. Hanna exhaled as Jotham turned the door handle and stepped inside.
He closed the door behind him. His frame loomed large, a confluence of shadows hovering over the bed.
Hanna’s heart throbbed in her chest and yet she didn’t move. She feigned sleep, breathing slowly, her eyes closed. She heard her father drag the rocking chair over to the side of the bed. Gracelessly, Jotham sat back in the chair and started rocking. His gaze lingered on her for what felt like an eternity, until it dawned on Hanna that he wasn’t going to leave.
“Father?” she said.
Jotham shifted in the chair. He tugged at a strap on his back brace.
“You’re a young woman now,” he said. “The time for formalities is gone. You may call me Jotham.”
“I could never be so informal,” she said. To punctuate her words, she added, “Father.”
Jotham leaned in closely, and Hanna could feel the air from his nostrils. She smelled his dry sweat, the liquor on his breath. Hanna thought perhaps he might offer his thoughts on her impending nuptials, what life would be like in Edwin’s house. Only, he didn’t say a word. Jotham reached out and touched her arm through the blankets. First the coverlet compressed, then the sheet beneath it offered no resistance and finally Hanna’s nightdress pressed against her skin. Jotham wrapped his fingers around her elbow.
“You’re special to this family. Special in ways you don’t even know,” he said. “It’s given me great pleasure to see you blossom into such a beautiful young woman. Does it please you that I am pleased?”
Hanna forced the words out of her mouth. “Yes, Father.”
Slowly, deliberately, Jotham’s fingers crept up and down her arm. “Many men in our community have made wives of their own daughters,” he said. Jotham paused and when he did, his hand rested against her rib cage. He pressed the coverlet down against the edge of Hanna’s breast. Hanna swallowed hard, unsure where Jotham’s courage would take him.
Outside, a gust of wind swelled against the window. The trees trembled, their leaves crinkling like parchment paper. Inside, the curtains shifted, disrupting the moonlight’s steady stream. Indigo and then silver and then indigo again. Jotham’s silhouette emerged from the shadows. He loomed over top of her.
“Some daughters want their fathers to bring them into womanhood. Some relish it,” Jotham said.
His grip on her arm tightened. The stench of whiskey echoed off him in waves. Inside Hanna’s brain, a clash of cymbals sounded. Her thoughts raced, everything within her afraid. Jotham inched closer. His other hand slinked onto her mattress and Hanna pictured him crawling onto the bed, his weight crushing her, his stubble scraping her cheek, Hanna lying exposed, fragile, defenseless. A moment passed in haunting silence with nothing visible save Jotham’s face, pale and feral in the moon glow. Jotham opened his mouth, a single drop of saliva stretching from lip to lip, like seeping molasses. Hanna clenched her fists. Every muscle in her body tightened. She felt him about to pounce.
Then Jotham coughed, a sudden, painful tremor that caught him by surprise. He pulled away. Jotham ran his hands over his face.
“I would never make you my wife,” he said, leaning back in his seat. “You have a more important role to play in this community. Edwin will make you an honorable woman. He has money to provide for you. He has money to provide for your brothers and sisters, if need be.”
“Thank you for everything, Father—”
“—Jotham.”
“Jotham.”
He lingered without moving. Hanna shuddered under her blankets, terrified that—despite his words—Jotham’s hand might still reach out and grasp a treasure greater than just her arm. Instead, he stood up awkwardly out of the chair. Hanna caught him just as he opened the door to leave.
“Jotham?”
“Yes, child?”
“What will become of Emily when I leave?”
Jotham arched his back and grimaced. He heaved a grunt. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Can I take her with me?” Hanna said.
The question seemed to catch him by surprise. Jotham tapped his fingers against his chin, demurring. “Katherine’s her mother,” he said.
“I know. But Katherine has so many little ones who need her already, and I’m the one who helps Emily with her exercises. I’m the only one who can take care of her.”
“You’ll have your own children to take care of soon enough,” Jotham said.
The conceit in his voice—as though there was humor in the idea of Hanna bearing Edwin’s offspring—sent a fury racing through her. It was all she could do to suppress it. “Just for a few years,” Hanna said, “until Emily’s of age. Until she gets married.”
Jotham snickered. “No man in his right mind would marry a cripple.”
; Hanna glowered at him. Whether Jotham noticed, she couldn’t tell; he’d turned to the side and the light from the hallway obscured his features. Above, the roof creaked. She heard the patter of animal feet and then scratching. Some creature—a raven or a squirrel—was trying to gain entry into this cold room inside Jotham’s crumbling house.
Jotham dug his back brace out of his ribs and went to close the door. “You can take the crippled child with you, if you wish,” he said.
“And you’ll discuss this with Edwin?”
“I will.”
Jotham paused with his hand on the door handle. He looked down at his oldest daughter lying alone in the dark and then scanned the room. Hanna wasn’t sure what he was searching for: a reason to stay, an excuse to explain his presence in the first place, the Creator’s image embedded in the wallpaper. He looked at her one last time. “Good night, Hanna.”
“Good night, Father,” she said. As he closed the door, Hanna caught her mistake. “Good night...Jotham,” she said.
8
The next morning, Hanna was still fast asleep in her nightclothes when Jessamina barged through the bedroom door. She set her baby in its bassinet and then stood over the bed, arms folded, teeth clenched, her foot tapping on the hardwood floor. Hanna sat up, bleary-eyed.
“Get out!” Jessamina barked.
Hanna climbed out of bed and stepped into the hallway as Jessamina yanked the sheets off the mattress. The new mother held them at arm’s length, as though afraid a single dead skin cell might touch her. She tossed the bedsheets at Hanna, who barely caught them in her foggy state. Hanna watched Jessamina place a new coverlet over the mattress and then shift the rocking chair back to the corner where it belonged.
“I heard you’ll be visiting Edwin’s household today,” Jessamina said.
Her tone was probing, but Hanna simply gave Jessamina a blank look.
“One wife is dry like sand,” Jessamina mumbled, as much to herself as to Hanna.
“What do you mean?”
Jessamina didn’t make eye contact. She grabbed the door handle and slammed it shut, leaving Hanna standing in the hallway alone. In the next room, the children were stirring. Soon there would be chaos. Hanna tapped her knuckles on the door frame, and when Jessamina didn’t respond, she knocked loudly. A moment passed before the door flung open. Jessamina had a diaper in one hand, baby Sayler naked in the other.
“What do you mean—dry like sand?” Hanna said.
“One of Edwin’s wives can’t have babies. I haven’t the faintest idea which one,” she said. Jessamina’s lips twisted into a self-satisfied smirk. “It bodes well for you, doesn’t it? Knowing he’ll probably keep you, even if you’re barren too.” Jessamina’s mouth hung open, basking in her own callousness. “Barren like your mother proved after you.” Before Hanna could say another word, Jessamina slammed the door and baby Sayler started to wail.
* * *
An hour later, Hanna stood on the front steps as Charliss led the children down the street for their first day of school since the winter break. It was strange to watch her siblings leave without her and to not have Emily by her side. Hanna would have liked nothing better than to accompany them. She’d become accustomed to the routine of attending classes, of interacting with their instructors and helping teach arithmetic to children from other families. There was safety inside the schoolhouse’s doors, in knowing what each day would bring, in the structure of Hanna’s life before.
Hanna leaned against the column that held an awning aloft. Its faded blue paint had chipped, revealing rotting wood underneath. There was some give to the column, as if a strong wind could dislodge it and cause the awning to come crashing down. Hanna picked off a sliver of wood. She felt its damp underside and was twirling it in her hand when Kara appeared at the doorway.
“Are you ready for your visit to Edwin’s house?”
Hanna looked down at her new blue dress. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the window. Thirty minutes ago, she’d taken a quick bath and ran a brush through her hair.
“I think so.”
“Then come inside and help me in the kitchen,” Kara said.
The kitchen in Jotham’s house wasn’t just for cooking. It doubled as a storage room, a laundry and a play area for the toddlers. As Hanna entered, her sister-mother Katherine was pulling a steaming wet pile of clothes from the washing machine and dangling them over a clotheshorse to dry. The whole while, she kept her head half out the window, gossiping with the neighbor’s wife and unleashing a hearty laugh every few seconds. Kara stood by the sink, washing a bushel of spinach while the toddlers dashed in and out of the room.
“How can I help?” Hanna said.
Kara handed Hanna a knife and a half dozen strawberries. They stood side by side, Kara dicing almonds while Hanna chopped the strawberries into little cubes. Usually, when Hanna helped her mother in the kitchen, Kara would hum under her breath. It was an involuntary act, the melody always the same, a soft, gliding, wordless tune. Today, however, Kara was oddly silent, her chopping motion short and quick.
“Are you okay?” Hanna said.
Kara looked up, startled from her thoughts. “Why do you ask?”
“You’re not humming.”
“I never hum while I cook.”
“You always hum while you cook,” Hanna said and hummed the familiar tune.
“Oh,” Kara said, slicing a cucumber. “My mother taught me that song.”
“Was this when you lived by the bay?”
“Shh!” Kara said. She looked at Katherine, just three yards away, her head still halfway out the window. Beside her, little Ahmre had built a nest out of wet socks from the laundry machine. Neither appeared to have heard what Hanna said. “Keep your voice down,” Kara whispered.
Hanna took the cucumber from her mother’s hand and diced it, as well. “Yesterday you mentioned that you lived with your mother in the village. You’d never mentioned that before. It was never part of the story.”
Kara’s shoulders stiffened. She averted her eyes. “It’s just a story. A story for you alone.”
“I didn’t say I thought it was the truth. I know babies are born at home, that the midwives assist in their birth,” Hanna whispered. “But parts of the story are about you. You’ve never told me how you came to Clearhaven, about how you and Father met.”
Just then, Belinda entered the kitchen. She marched straight past Katherine, past the kitchen table and over to the countertop beside the refrigerator where she began rifling through a drawer. She pulled out an old fountain pen, tested the ink and was about to leave when Hanna and Kara caught her eye.
Belinda scanned the ingredients on the countertop. “How much did all that cost?”
“It’s for a spinach salad Hanna’s taking to lunch at Edwin’s today.”
“But how much did it cost?”
Belinda clicked her fingernails against the wall, waiting impatiently. Kara, in turn, folded her arms and glared back at her sister-wife.
“We can’t very well send Hanna there empty-handed, now, can we?” Kara said.
The room fell silent. Katherine ceased her chatter at the window and drew her head inside. The women stood in silence, eyeing each other, neither willing to concede defeat. Just when it felt like their silent quarrel might go on all morning, the toddlers spilled into the kitchen, crying about a broken toy. Katherine steered them into the other room. “Come along, little ones,” she said.
Belinda gathered her eyebrows and churned her jaw, leaving Hanna to wonder whether she was really concerned about a few extra dollars spent at the marketplace. Perhaps Belinda was upset at not being consulted. Or maybe she was searching for an affront, something to legitimize her already-vexed mood.
Belinda pointed to the salad bowl Hanna was filling. It was the only bowl
the family owned that was still in pristine condition, one Belinda had personally brought home from the marketplace. Their other serving plates, dishes and containers were all chipped or in some form of disrepair. Belinda glared at Hanna. “If you break that bowl, it’ll be the end of you,” she said. Then she turned and walked away.
Kara waited a moment to see whether Belinda would return to continue their silent standoff and then resumed dicing the almonds, furiously now. From the next room, Hanna could hear the toddlers singing along with Katherine, a joyful hymn from church, the sound in stark contrast to the mood in the kitchen. Kara’s arms were rigid, the muscles in her neck tensed and she hadn’t looked at Hanna since Belinda left. Hanna almost kept quiet. She almost held her tongue.
“Mother, about that story...” she said.
The moment the words left her mouth, Hanna knew she’d made a mistake. Kara took a deep breath, her shoulders tensed ever further. She brushed the almonds into the salad bowl and then looked around for something else to dice—some strawberries, a stray piece of spinach, anything. There was nothing left. All the ingredients were in the bowl.
“I’m sorry—” Hanna said.
“Don’t apologize,” Kara said. She turned, her face tight, the unexpected battle with Belinda having taxed her to her limit. “I’ll tell you more about the story another time.”
“Another time?”
“Another time.”
* * *
Hanna wrapped a cloth over the bowl, kissed her mother goodbye and set forth down the street. She scanned the bottom-floor windows as she walked, the young children’s silhouettes dashing by, the threadbare curtains sheer to the point of being transparent. Hanna searched the cloudy glass in the sash windows upstairs to see whether Belinda was watching, to see if her sister-mother was silently judging her from above, and found only shadows.
Hanna Who Fell from the Sky Page 6