The Beautiful-Ugly (The Beautiful-Ugly Trilogy)

by James Snyder

  Brother John leaned forward and said, “In the first place, child, it isn’t our place to question Jesus’ reasoning. When we do that, our faith dissolves like—like the sugar in this coffee.” He held his cup up in the air, then took a sip from it.

  “Now that I’m thinking about it,” said Mr. Cardswell, “there were signs along the way I should have picked up on.”

  “Let’s not be too hasty,” Brother Williams said.

  But she saw that Mr. Cardswell was working himself into one of his moods. He leaned toward her and said, “Don’t you understand, you could be putting my whole family at risk. I mean, if God identifies you with us, and blames us for your sins.”

  “But I don’t think I’m sinning,” she said.

  “You are sinning if you don’t pledge your devotion to Jesus,” he told her. “Now I want you—right here and now—to say that pledge before Brother John and Brother Williams.”

  “But I can’t—”

  “You won’t, you mean.”

  “But—it’s not in my heart, Mr. Cardswell. And if it’s not in my heart, won’t Jesus know I’m lying?”

  “No he won’t,” said Mr. Cardswell. “I mean—Jesus wants you to say it.”

  “Even if I don’t mean it?”

  Mr. Cardswell set down his coffee cup and began wringing his hands together, saying, “Don’t you understand if you say something enough, after a while, you start to believe it.”

  She didn’t see that. She looked away, only wishing she could go to bed, deciding she would rather listen to Suzy snoring than the three of them. She looked imploringly toward Mr. Cardswell, “Can I please go to bed now?”

  “Not until you’ve said the pledge.”

  “But I can’t.”

  “You won’t.”

  “No—”

  “And stop saying no to me. You know I don’t like that.”

  She looked at him tiredly, distractingly, not really thinking about anything at all, saying quietly, “And Paul said to the Ephesians: ‘And, ye fathers, provoke not your children to wrath--’”

  Dark-faced, she saw Mr. Cardswell come half out of his chair toward her, startling her. “Don’t you dare—”

  “Brother Cardswell!” said Brother Williams, holding out a hand to stop him.

  Mr. Cardswell apologized and sat back down in his chair.

  Now Brother Williams looked at her carefully a moment. “We’ve taught you well, haven’t we, child. Of course, Paul also said we should bring you up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord, which is exactly what we’re trying to accomplish here.”

  But she didn’t say anything else now. She sat there, sniffing, waiting.

  “Brother Cardswell,” said Brother Williams, “we shall work this through, by and by.”

  Mr. Cardswell reluctantly nodded in agreement.

  She saw the three of them get up, and Brother Williams shook Mr. Cardswell’s hand, but Brother John embraced him, as to offer some greater support.

  After they were gone, Mr. Cardswell motioned for her to follow him. They went back out to the garage, and he stood a little to the side, watching her, as she unfolded her metal chair and sat back down before the workbench.

  At the kitchen door, Mr. Cardswell turned to her and said, “Oh, and don’t even think about us adopting you at this point. You understand there would have to be some major changes for that to happen.”

  He went out, closing the door.

  After that, she remained there the rest of the night, still in her red-satin, black-ribbon Sunday dress and shiny black patent shoes and white stockings, becoming so tired at one point she nearly fell forward off the chair—but catching herself, and sat upright, exhausted, and her body aching so badly she only wanted to lie down somewhere, anywhere, staring hopefully for a while at the hard concrete beneath her; until finally realizing that Jesus must have felt her pain and discomfort as well; must have felt her pain as she had felt his; as it was near dawn when she saw the tears of blood streaming down both his cheeks and dropping onto the metal lid of a small paint can there; which she couldn’t see exactly, because it was too high above her; but she heard—the red tears plopping down one, two, three, four upon the unseen lid like the whispering, comforting sound of a softly dripping rain.

  Chapter 15

  The Way It All Ended

  She saw it was different now. It was all different, even though she couldn’t say exactly what all the differences were. But she could feel things different, although no one said a word, except Becky, who told her she should mind herself. She should take care.

  That was on the night before she went away to teach summer Bible camp, and Connelly went to her bedroom to watch her pack.

  “How long are you gone?”

  “A month.” Connelly watched her put her favorite red-leather Bible into her suitcase and shut down the lid and zip it. Then she looked over at her, sitting there. “You be careful now. Do you understand me?”

  She nodded.

  Becky said, “The only reason they haven’t sent you away is because they think they can turn you. It bothers them they can’t.”

  “Turn me?”

  She shook her head. “Just mind yourself, that’s all.”

  *

  In the morning Becky was gone. Becky who had been her best friend and confidant, which was the word Becky had used to describe their relationship. “We’re confidants,” she had told her. “That means we have one way we talk to other people, to them, and one way we talk when we’re alone.”

  She understood that. Then Becky said it was like the layers of mystery she felt when she was sitting in church. Like layers of vapor in the air you breathed, when you thought and saw things differently. That is, things said, things understood, depending upon which layer you were in at the moment. And you had to act accordingly, Becky told her.

  The day she left, Connelly felt the familiar wrenching emptiness inside her, which she had never known before her parents and Eric left her. Before that, it was like nothing bad could ever happen to her. She was loved too much, protected, for that to happen. In fact, she hardly thought about bad things, before. But now she understood. Bad things could happen to anyone, anytime, no matter how much you were loved and protected. And she missed Becky even more because of that. Because she loved her and because, in the blink of an eye, she knew she might never return to her. It could happen. She knew that now.

  Sitting alone with her in the kitchen, Mrs. Cardswell read her Bible to her and tried now and then to explain the importance of sacrifice, whispering, “We must all learn to give ourselves over to God, Connelly. He says in Samuel, ‘Wherefore kick ye at my sacrifice and at mine offering?’ God doesn’t like it when we tell Him no. He doesn’t like it when we misbehave. Neither does Mr. Cardswell.”

  Who, she saw, spoke to her even less now than he did before. Once he saw that making her sit out in the garage wasn’t going to change her much, he more or less began to ignore her, speaking to her only when he had to, or telling Suzy or Mrs. Cardswell to tell her this or that.

  “He’s shunning you,” Suzy told her when they were playing with their dolls in the bedroom. “You’re a sinner and he’s separating you from his life.”

  “I’m not,” she said.

  “You are,” said Suzy. “Why do you think they make you sit in the cafeteria now, instead of going to Sunday school?”

  She didn’t say anything. She lay on her bed, trying to gently rub one of the scratches off Priscilla’s face.

  Suzy said, “Father says Brother Martin doesn’t want you contaminating the other little soldiers with your ideas.”

  “That’s stupid,” Connelly said.

  “I’m telling father what you said.”

  “What’s he going to do—make me go sit in his ugly garage?”

  “I’m telling,” Suzy said, and ran off to do so.

  But he didn’t do anything. She knew he wouldn’t anyway, because he had, according to what he announced to everyone one night at di
nner, “washed his hands of her.” And, after a while, Suzy returned and began rearranging her dolls again.

  *

  Then one late Sunday afternoon, the week after Becky had gone away, she was alone in her bedroom. They had all returned from brunch an hour before, and were waiting for evening church. She always thought that an odd time for everyone, between churches, with nothing exactly to do; and she was lying on her bed with Priscilla, when the twins came suddenly into the room, both still dressed in their matching dark blue trousers and white shirts and red bow ties, and shut the door behind themselves.

  She didn’t say anything, but she was surprised. That was the first time either of them had ever come into the room, and now they were both there.

  “What’s the matter?” she asked them.

  Matthew said, “Do you want to be sent away?”

  “No.”

  “Then you need to be quiet or father will send you away. He told us he would.”

  She didn’t know what they were talking about, but then they had never talked to her about anything like that. But the next thing she knew, there was one of them on either side of the bed. She looked up at both of them, and their faces were red, looking down at her.

  Matthew said, “I’ll hold her down.”

  She was so surprised, she said nothing as they both sat down, one on either side of her, and Matthew leaned over her and pinned her against the bed with his hands.

  “What are you doing, Matthew?” she said, looking at him curiously, not understanding any of it.

  He said, “If you’re not quiet, we’ll tell father, and he’ll send you away. He told us he would, so you better be quiet.”

  “But what are you doing?”

  “Hurry,” Matthew turned and said to Noah, who was lower on the bed, nearer her legs.

  She could barely see past Matthew, leaning over her and holding her, to what Noah was doing. But she could feel him, lifting her white-chiffon hand-me-down dress, and pulling down her underwear.

  “What are you doing, Noah?” she said, catching her breath.

  He didn’t answer her.

  She lay there, staring at Matthew, whose eyes avoided her, and felt what was going on below. She could feel his fingers, first one, then another, like little crooked worms, inside her.

  “Hurry up,” Matthew said.

  After a moment, they changed places. Noah held her, while Matthew went below, and her seeing the top of his head lowered against her like a burrowing beetle; and she again lay still, feeling the gouging fingers. It hurt a little, and she winced, noticing Noah wouldn’t look at her either, averting his face.

  When Matthew was finished, he pulled up her underwear and pulled down her dress, telling Noah, “You can let her go now.”

  At the door Matthew turned halfway toward her, warning her again about saying anything. “He’ll send you away,” he said.

  Now they both went quietly out, shutting the door behind them.

  Afterward, she continued to lie there. She finally pulled her legs up against her body and held Priscilla tightly against her. She was still lying there when Suzy came and told her she had to hurry, that everyone was waiting to go to evening church.

  *

  They came again the following week. Twice. The second time she struggled against them, standing in the middle of the bedroom floor; and Matthew slapped her hard across the face, and she began to cry.

  “You better shut up,” he told her, giving her a shake.

  Then, sniffling, she lay obediently down and let them examine her and probe about her as before.

  After they were gone, she lay curled up, thinking about what she should do. She understood they were touching her there, and that was wrong, but she didn’t know what to do. She knew if she told anyone, they would send her away. She knew that and was afraid. Where would they send her now? She didn’t know. She didn’t know anything anymore, except where she was now, which she really didn’t like; but she was afraid where they would send her next; that it might be even worse. It was all so confusing now, everything about everything was confusing, and she lay there and cried a little about it, but not much. She thought about the crying, how much she had cried since Melissa had first told her about her parents dying. Then she thought about the twins and what they were doing. She didn’t understand it, why they wanted to do it. They would just touch her there with their fingers—always the same: first, one little finger wiggling about inside her, then another. It was silly, all that fiddling about, and why would they do it? What could they possibly be looking for there? She thought it was silly. Boys were silly, doing it. And she lay there for a long while, trying to understand all of it, until Suzy came in with one of her girlfriends, and they laughed at her for lying on the floor like that.

  “You look like a snail,” said the girl.

  And they both laughed at her.

  *

  When she turned eight and was in the Fourth Grade, she began to notice things. It was mostly the way she thought about things—the new, different ways she was able to think about them. She wondered why, considering it often at night over some months, and thought it probably had something to do with the cost of Jesus’ love (at least, as it had been explained to her), which she thought excessive; as well, with the twins fiddling about her, which she had finally stopped, all of a sudden, just by telling them—no. That was the day they pulled her into their room, and, as they fumbled once again with her pants, she stopped them, slapping away Noah’s hand.

  Then Matthew pushed her hard against the door.

  “I’ll go tell your mother,” she said, wincing, raising her arms, her hands becoming fists before her.

  They both looked at her, disbelieving.

  Matthew said, “They’ll send you away. They’ll put you somewhere you won’t like.”

  “Good,” she said. “At least I won’t have your filthy little fingers inside me anymore.”

  Now they both stared at her, until Noah said, “We better let her go, Matt.”

  Matthew continued staring at her, flush-faced and furious. “Get out of here,” he said, almost choking, almost ready to cry.

  And she left.

  *

  These months passing, she could see, ever so faintly, she was growing up. She saw it mainly when she looked into the mirror: How her little girl’s face was changing, becoming something else; with the softness of her cheeks melting away and her real cheeks appearing; her brows and her chin as well; her nose; all becoming more distinct, more her. But it was her eyes that most interested her. Not so much the eyes themselves, with the dark, wet look of them, but the searching way they looked back at her, looking back at them. And there was one moment, for the very first time, she wondered who she was. Who was she, really? Because her eyes, her face, were not telling her much, except that they were changing…into something else. But each time she thought she caught a glimpse of who was there, she was gone, and someone else appeared, also disappearing before she could catch her. It was frustrating, but she did see something after a while that seemed to calm her, or even excite her, in spite of everything.

  There were moments she saw bits and pieces of her mother there, of her father, in her very own face. And it was amazing glimpses: her mother’s smart thoughtful pretty gaze, or her father’s funny wicked glance, at her. She caught her breath. Were they there? Were they really there inside her, growing inside her, and somehow making their way out to look at her and, in their way, talk with her? Or was that God’s way (after all this time) of telling her about them? She wondered. She looked again…but saw nothing but herself, disappointed.

  *

  The way it all ended with them, with the Cardswell family, at first surprised her. And then it didn’t. It had been going forward as always, the weeks and months passing, with nothing seeming to change, but everything different at the end.

  One night during Family Bible, Becky told Mr. Cardswell that she had changed her mind. She had decided not to go to the Bible college, as
they had talked about, and that was only an afternoon’s drive away. Instead, there was a liberal arts college, in another state, where she wanted to study medieval history; she was interested in that instead.

  Mr. Cardswell stopped his Bible lesson and looked at her. “I thought we had agreed on this, Rebecca.”

  “I’ve changed my mind, Father,” Becky told him. “I’ve given this a lot of thought, and this is what I want to do.”

  “We’ll talk about it later,” Mr. Cardswell said, opening his Bible again.

  “There’s nothing to talk about, Father,” Becky said. “I only hope you and mother will give me your blessing.”

  Mr. Cardswell shook his head. “Neither our blessing nor our money. Are you prepared to finance this crazy scheme on your own?”

  “I can get aid,” she said. “And I’ll get a job if I have to. And, Father, this is not some crazy scheme. This is the first important thing in my life I’ve decided on my own to do, and I’m going to do it.”

  Connelly also thought that was the first time she had seen Mr. Cardswell so. He stared at Becky, and then he looked over at her. “This is her influence, isn’t it? We were fine before she came here and disrupted everything.”

  “This has nothing to do with Connelly,” Becky said. “This is my decision.”

  “Your decision?” he said. “Your decision, Rebecca?” He then lifted up his big Bible and slammed it down hard on the table, making everyone around the table jerk and wince. “Well, damn your decision, I say! And damn the day we brought her here among us!” He pointed his finger at Connelly, staring severely back at him now, unblinking. “You’ve done this. You’ve changed her.”

  “No, Father,” said Becky.

  “Yes, it’s her all right,” Mr. Cardswell affirmed. “I know what you two talk about when you’re together, and it’s nothing good.”

  “That’s not true, Father,” said Becky.

  “Oh yes,” he replied. He looked back at Connelly. “I remember when we brought her here. With her braided hair. And her cheap jewelry piercing her wanton flesh. I wanted to believe. I felt God was telling me to do that. But deep in my heart I was suspect. I know you can’t always turn such bad into good. That is, in spite of our best intentions, the unholy and the ungrateful remain unto themselves.”