The Curing Season

by Leslie Wells

  —No, but I am now.

  I cannot tell her about the earplugs, the indignity of it. She would not understand why I put up with it. For her to understand, I’d have to tell her everything about what Aaron does to me, how afraid of him I am. I just don’t feel ready for that revelation yet.

  —It is good to talk to you, I say. —If my husband was any different, I’d be able to talk all the time. But he is . . . angry. And he drinks, and—

  Suddenly to my horror I am crying. Nita comes and puts her arms around me. I stand there for a few moments, her arms lightly embracing me. Then we pull back and I dab at my eyes.

  —Sorry, I—

  —That’s all right. You gonna be all right, Cora. Whatever mess you in now, I believe you can find a way out of it. I just do. You too smart not to figure something out. That’s just what I believe, after talkin to you.

  Nita squints up at the sky.

  —’Pears to me it’s around one o’clock, she says. —I tole John’s mama I’d help her shell some beans this afternoon. I guess we mought to be goin. Tyreee! Yvonne! You all come on, we got to go.

  —Maybe we can meet here next week, I say in a rush before the children approach.

  —I’ll be here, Nita says. —I sure will. You have a good couple of days til I see you again.

  —You too, Nita.

  Tyree and Yvonne are tussling over something, and she goes to separate them. Joshua looks up at me and wails,

  —we stay longer? Please? We havin fun, Mama. Can’t we stay?

  —Hmmhmm, I say, and shake my head.

  Nita turns and waves, the children tell Joshua goodbye, and we part. I have gotten so used to talking in the last hour that I almost ask Joshua about the cicada shells. I stop myself, fretting. How long will I be able to go on like this? It is as if talking to Nita has opened a door that has been closed for too long. The door swells, being unconfined by its frame, and is almost impossible to shut again.

  All the way home on the path, Joshua chatters happily about Tyree and Yvonne and how they played. I worry that he will say something about them to Aaron, and decide to watch what Joshua says carefully tonight. Maybe I can keep him away from Aaron altogether.

  All afternoon as I play in the yard with Joshua, I run through imaginary scenes in my mind in which I am defiant of Aaron. I picture him stomping into the kitchen, and me yelling back at him when he starts to shout about dinner. Or me simply not cooking dinner, just feeding myself and Joshua and letting Aaron fend for himself when he gets home. I imagine myself explaining that half the time when I cook he never shows up anyway, off drinking or doing God knows what somewhere.

  What if I waited until he was seated at the table and grabbed up the iron skillet and cracked him in the head? I imagine this several times and in several different ways: me confronting him, screaming at him that I’m not going to endure his treatment anymore, stabbing him with a paring knife or hitting him in the head with the skillet. Every time I imagine it, I am stronger and more lithe than he, can move faster around the kitchen table and can aim better. Each time in my mind I conquer him, have him begging for forgiveness on his knees as I make him cower. Then I grab Joshua, threaten Aaron once more, and make my escape out the door forever. Every time I picture it, I feel better.

  By evening, I am almost looking forward to Aaron’s return from wherever he has spent the day. It is curing season again, a time when there is plenty of work, but Aaron seems to be the only man in Tarville without steady employment. He has taken Nettie with him, so he must have done some ploughing somewhere. Unless he just ties her in the woods while he’s drinking, so he can pretend he’s been working. But this is one of those nights, usually so longed-for, that he does not return home until very late. I start humming Joshua to sleep in his bed, fall into a deep slumber myself, and do not wake up until the sun finds its way through a chink in the wall.

  Chapter Twenty

  The mailman rarely comes by our house; in fact it’s been months since Aaron got any mail. But this morning he trudges up the dusty dirt road and hands me a letter that looks like it got rained on, stomped on, and mauled by a tomcat.

  —This’n got for’arded from your last place of res’dence, the mailman says. —Reckon I could have a glass of water? I’m parched.

  I nod and let the rawnecked young man in. Normally he merely leaves the letters tucked in our screen door; this is the first time he’s spoken to me. He looks around the kitchen while I dip out a cup of water from the bucket. He drinks deeply and hands me the cup for more. I give it to him and wait impatiently for him to finish. I want him to leave so I can read the letter before Aaron comes in. From what I can tell, it’s in Sibby’s handwriting; it has to be from her.

  —Thankee, ma’am, the man says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. —Mighty hot, and goin to get hotter, if you can believe the papers.

  He waits for an answer. I nod, take the cup, and stand there looking at the door.

  —Well, goodbye then. He leaves the house awkwardly and trudges down the hill.

  Joshua is running around outside, chasing a cloud of blue-white butterflies. I sit at the kitchen table and open the letter carefully. A corner is ripped off the top, but part of the date is visible. It is four months old.

  Dear Cora:

  It’s been so long since we’ve heard from you, it’s like you dropped off the face of the earth. I’m writing to you at the last address I had, even though I heard you moved. The last few letters I sent came back with Addressee Moved Away stamped on it. I hope this one won’t come back to me. Won’t you write to me, if you get this?

  First of all, there’s been a lot of news. One of our old cows died having her calf and we’ve had a real struggle to keep the little one going. Charlie rigged up a bottle from Daniel’s old one and is feeding the calf every three hours. I don’t know how long we can keep it up, but so far it seems to be thriving. Mary Jane Markley had her fourth baby in five years. For someone who used to pretend she didn’t know where they came from, that’s quite a record, don’t you think? Charlie says her husband is no-count, but I don’t know why he says that. Probably because he got a better price for his tobacco than Charlie did last fall. Ha!

  May and Willa Smith still live with their Daddy. Seems like nobody who came a-courtin was good enough for them. Some boys did come around, but I imagine it was more for their Dad’s three hundred acres than for their acre apiece of fat behind.

  My knee baby Carol is now two, can you believe it? Daniel is going to be one next month. Where has the time gone? I hope you and that fellow are doing well. Have you settled into a town where you will stay yet? Land sakes, it seems you all did a lot of moving around, from what I can tell. Charlie has asked around about you as far as Shoah, but he lost track of you a few years ago. I would love to see you and your husband. Maybe you even have children by now. Please do write and let me know how we can get in touch with you.

  Charlie is still growing tobacco with his cousin Tom, that’s working out all right. We lost half the last crop to hail, but this one looks like it’s going to turn out. It’s something to keep the kids in clothes with them shooting up like weeds, but at least I get some hand-me-downs from the neighbors. I dressed Daniel in Carol’s outfits until a month ago, and then Charlie said enough, you’ve got to put him in pants now. So I try to sew things out of old gunnysacks. At least he’s at the age where he doesn’t mind what he has on yet. Maybe he never will, since he’s a boy. He’d be happy if I let him run around naked, little savage that he is.

  Mother, WillieEd and Luke are doing all right. Her health is still not good, but since WillieEd turned sixteen, he’s finally taken on some responsibility and does a right smart turn at farming. They have a truck patch and some hay, and WillieEd’s helping Man Murfree with his tobacco. He does a sight better than Father ever did. To hear Mother speak, you’d think she rues the day Father left here, but I believe that’s just for show. You know she can’t possibly wish him back here. You and
I bear the marks still, don’t we? I’m glad the old devil went to his due. He’s probably roasting nice and hot down below.

  Luke has grown into a sweet little boy. His eyes are the same pretty blue as yours.

  Are you farming, or is your husband working in a town? I’m dying to know. Please do write me and get in touch. I miss you a lot, we went through so much growing up and now we’re all grown up and having children on our own (at least I do) so we have a lot to catch up on. I can’t believe it’s been almost four years since I saw you last. Write me soon.

  Love,

  Sibby

  P.S. That awful Alicia Farnsworth got married eight months after her husband died. You probably didn’t even know he’d died, well he did. And eight months later she ups and remarries. Don’t that take all?

  I read the letter through again, the words reverberating in my head. Despite her entreaties, I can’t write to Sibby now. What would I say? That my husband (who wasn’t even that) drinks all the time, beats me, and barely keeps us in clothing? And what if Sibby insisted on coming to see me? How would I explain that I couldn’t talk or hear? Aaron wouldn’t allow it, anyway. He’d never let me have a visitor from home.

  Maybe if things improve somewhere down the line, I’ll get in touch with her. Or better yet, maybe I’ll manage somehow to get away from Aaron for good and go back home.

  Amazing that she has two children I haven’t even seen. Joshua would have so much fun playing with his cousins. I could just imagine the good times they’d have, running about the yard, catching fireflies in mason jars, playing tag and kick the can. Sibby and I would sit and watch them from the back porch of her farmhouse, sipping iced tea and commenting on their silliness. Charlie sounded like such a nice fellow, too. And with Father out of the picture, maybe Mother could enjoy herself more, spend time with her little grandchildren. With WillieEd almost grown and Luke not a baby anymore, things had to be easier. A strong craving to see them all hits me hard, and tears well up in my eyes.

  Maybe I could get up my courage to try to leave again, I think. If I could predict when Aaron will be away on one of his drinking spells, that would be a safe time to go. Maybe I could get away from him this time, just run away with Joshua, go back home. Surely Charlie would protect us if Aaron came looking for us. And even if people back home found out I had never been married, what did that matter at this point? Sibby was safely married to Charlie, mother of two children herself. What did I care what other people thought, anyway?

  I look out the window to see Aaron coming across the yard. Despite Nita’s encouragements, with the ponderous reality of his presence, all my previous bravado about my imagined escape leaves me. Just the sight of him reminds me of how slowly I move with my bad foot, of the fact that I do not have a cent to my name, of the memory of his fury the one time I did try to get away. I can feel his fists pounding into me, his huge hands around my neck. I think of what those hands could do to Joshua, and fear sends shivers circling around my back like pins and needles. What seems so easy in his absence becomes impossible when face to face.

  Aaron is carrying something heavy in a tin pail. He seems oblivious to the flies buzzing around it, and I wonder if he has gone fishing with Merris Coombs. If so, he has caught a mighty catch, because it appears he cannot hold the bucket without staggering. Joshua trots over to look, then runs back to play.

  Aaron approaches, and I can feel the vibrations of his feet coming up the steps. He enters the kitchen and drops the bucket on the floor. For a minute I can’t tell what it is, with the flies buzzing around and water sloshing. Then the water settles down and I lean in for a better look, thinking it is perhaps a huge catfish. A fetid smell hits me. It is a pig’s head. There is a deep gash on its forehead, and long red tendrils uncoil slowly from the cut into the water.

  I straighten up and look at Aaron. He gestures toward the bucket.

  —My momma used to have a way with pig’s head, he says. —Tell you what you do. You wash it down good with some water. Then boil it in this pot—

  he grabs the biggest pot we have and sets it on the oven

  —for about two–three hours. Then after it’s boiled to a turn, you put it in a pan and cook it in the oven with some lard and salt. It’s a devilish good meal.

  I glance at the head, holding my breath against its smell. I cannot imagine eating something like that, but maybe people do, where he comes from. People develop tastes for all kinds of things when they’re hungry. I turn around and pour off some of the water from the bucket into a pot. Aaron gets set to leave, then turns around at the door and grins.

  —It’s a mighty tasty treat, some might say a delicacy, he says, articulating carefully so I catch every word. —Be careful not to ruin it.

  After he leaves, I think of a dozen retorts I could have made, if I had dared to speak. Somehow my defiance has petered out. It is hot, and I feel tired. I suppose I will have to try to cook this to his liking.

  I stare at the thing in the bucket. Finally, when the water is boiling, I make myself lay hands on it. It is slippery, and a sharp bristle cuts my finger. I try to wrestle it out of the pail, which is hard because its skin is so slimy that my fingers easily lose purchase. The flies are still swarming around it, and one lands on my lip. I blow it off, hating to think where it had been. Finally I get the dripping mess into the sink and examine it. Should I try to clean it out before I boil it? I cannot imagine that he would want the innards left intact. A wave of nausea makes my stomach flip for a moment, but I go to the door and breathe fresh air and it calms down. Joshua is now digging doodlebugs out of the dirt with a long stick. Good.

  I take a fork and try to stab the thing so I can flip it over, but the skin is too tough. Holding my breath against the smell, I put my hands on it again and turn it upside down. The snout rubs against the metal sides of the sink in a way that looks particularly uncomfortable. Poor old sow, I think. What did you ever do to anybody? I resolve to get rid of the mess inside the head before I boil it. I take a tin cup and begin scooping the innards into the pail. The brains stink, and come out in long drooling strands. Finally I get most of it out and pour more water into the head. Then I lift it and put it into the boiling water on the oven. I dump some salt on it and cover it up.

  I carry the pail to the edge of the yard where the sunburnt weeds begin, my right foot dragging as I walk. By the time I dump out the contents and head back to the house, two wild cats are already eating the brains. At least they’ll get something out of this, I think. I leave the pail by the back stoop and go inside and wash my hands three times, but it seems I still can’t get the stink off of them. This is a delicacy that I hope he won’t be in the mood for often. I wonder where on earth he found the head.

  As I bend down to wipe up the mess on the floor, Aaron comes running into the house. I look up at him.

  —You threw out the brains! That’s the best part, you idiot! he shouts, kicking me in the behind. I go sprawling on the filthy floor, skinning my elbows on the cracked linoleum. The pig slime gets all over me, in my hair, down my dressfront. Aaron laughs, and nudges me in the ribs with his boot.

  —Next time ask me if you’re supposed to throw something away, he says, and walks out.

  Slowly I get up on my hands and knees and finish wiping the floor. When I am sure he is gone, I poke my head out the kitchen door and motion for Joshua to stay in the yard. Then I strip right there in the kitchen and go upstairs to find something clean to put on.

  While I am changing, I curse myself for my inaction. All my big ideas seem to have drained out of me. Was my courage only a momentary mental revolt, the result of Nita’s kind words? I tell myself I have to have some backbone. I have been under Aaron’s oppressive thumb for too long. I don’t want my son to grow up this way. I long to cry out, to scream back at Aaron, to tell him he cannot treat me in that manner. Somehow I will have to find a way to leave him.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  All this fuss over the pig’s head is for ano
ther meeting that’s being held tonight in our yard. Aaron didn’t tell me this until late this afternoon, when the head lay leaking into its pan of black juices. I have never seen anything so vile in my life; the eyes caved in upon themselves, flabby gray cheeks squashed senseless, one ear charred dark from touching the side of the stove. But Aaron seems happy with the way it turned out.

  —Company coming tonight, he says, and from that I assume it is his group of men, since no one else ever comes to our house. The church people stay away, probably believing every lie Aaron has told them about me.

  I feed Joshua his supper, a little corn pudding and a quivering piece of cooked flesh I scraped from the pig’s inner cheek so Aaron wouldn’t notice it was missing. If there is meat in the house, you can be sure my boy is going to get some. Joshua is very still tonight eating his meal, making me wonder if Aaron said anything to him.

  —Those mens coming tonight? he finally asks me. His wispy eyebrows meet in a frown over his bright brown eyes.

  I nod and pat down his hair, trying to make him sense that he has nothing to worry about. He slept through the last meeting that was held here, didn’t he? I give him a tight hug and get him upstairs to bed. He has almost gnawed through his chewing stick. I’ll have to remember to find him another smooth one to bring up to bed tomorrow. I’ll dye this one purple if I can find some pokeberries. Joshua likes the pretty colors.

  After I’m sure he’s asleep, I go back down to the kitchen to peel some potatoes. I spent so much time on the pig that they’ll just have to make do with it and some boiled potatoes and their squeezins. They can’t expect me to make a meal out of thin air, and the pantry is pretty empty right now.

  As I peel the potatoes, carefully scoring out the eyes, I start to think again about the paper I found hidden in Aaron’s Bible. Maybe tonight they’d be talking about whatever it was they were planning. I decide that I want to know. If they are planning some nasty business, I want early warning. If Aaron is getting set to go somewhere, I want to know that. Maybe he is planning to just get up and leave in the night.