From Pharaoh's Hand

by Cynthia Green

  Beth closed her eyes and shuddered.

  “He’s been kicking an awful lot today. I think he’s hot. Maybe it will cool off after the sun goes down here in a bit.”

  “Well, he better get used to it. Until I get the new house built anyways.”

  “New house?”

  “Yep. Been savin’ up to build me a regular box an’ strip cabin. Won’t that be something.”

  “You’ve been saving up? But you don’t work.”

  “Shut your smart mouth, Liza. I got money. You forgettin’ them crops out back? You forgettin’ my little trip into the big city? I made plenty of them before you came along.”

  “How could I forget,” Beth muttered dryly.

  “I’m goin’ out to check on them crops. They’s just about ready for harvest. When I get back I want to see that bedroom cleaned out for Junior. I got big plans for that boy. Me ‘n him’s gonna spend our days a huntin’ and fishin’ and floatin’ the Buffalo.”

  Before Beth had time to reply, the door slammed shut behind Catfish.

  Left alone to her thoughts, Beth again felt a rush of panic. Her heart quickened. This was not the life she had intended for herself, much less the baby she carried and was soon to give birth to. Catfish had her life all mapped out for her. She would spend the rest of her days washing, gardening, and slaving for him and Junior. And what life would Junior have with Catfish as a father? The baby kicked hard against her ribs as if rebelling against the very idea of it all. This sharp jolt awakened Beth’s senses. At this moment there was no fear of what Catfish would do to her. At this moment, all that mattered was the well being of her child. Her maternal instincts were rising up in her. Their need for survival was beginning to supersede any fear that Catfish had instilled in her. She must find the courage to escape. If she allowed her baby to be born here in captivity, then Catfish would win. She would be under his rule forever.

  “No, my sweet baby. You will not grow up in this dump. You will not be under his rule the rest of your life. I will find a way, my sweet. We will get out of here. Soon, I promise.”

  Beth waddled to the bathroom. She wasn’t sure exactly how things were supposed to progress with the pregnancy. Health class had taught her the simple facts--nine months gestation, and then labor. They had even watched a video of a live birth. It was not something she looked forward to going through. Being seven months along, she knew that time was a precious commodity. Who was this Mama Lorraine, and where did she live? Perhaps she was not far. Maybe there were neighbors closer than she imagined.

  Catfish’s trailer could not be seen from the road, so Beth never saw the mailman. A couple of times the meter man’s truck had pulled into the yard, and he had gotten out and checked the meter. Both times Catfish had been home and had threatened her with the knife if she made any noise from within the trailer. Other than that and the occasional visit from Poke, which always took place down by the river, no one had ventured onto the property in six months. She had naturally assumed there were no neighbors within walking distance, but maybe she was wrong. Maybe she could walk away from it all. Catfish had made her believe he would hunt her down and kill her in the most brutal of ways. And besides the fear of death, where would she go if she escaped. She could not go back home now with a child in tow and explain her absence. How could she explain her choice to have an abortion? How could she explain to her Daddy how she gotten in this predicament? She could not go home. But she could go somewhere. Anywhere would beat this miserable trailer and the dirty old taskmaster.

  Once Beth had decided this, the rest was easy. Her actions were no longer the actions of a hesitant, fearful teenager, but that of a courageous mother tiger fighting for her unborn young. She had to act quickly. What would she need -- clothes, money, food? She ran to the closet in the bedroom she and Catfish shared. She flung open the door and began shoving boots and boxes out of the way. She was looking for a suitcase, an overnight bag, something to put a few things in. Something light enough to carry with her. It was already hard to walk, given the thirty pounds she had gained on her tiny frame. She rummaged through the items on the floor of the closet. It was getting late in the afternoon toward dusky dark, and the light in the room had grown dim. She stood up and reached for the cord to pull to turn the closet light on, and as it came on, above her head high on a shelf, a dark wooden box with gold trim caught her eye.

  “I just wonder what that is,” she said out loud. But she couldn’t reach the shelf. She was too short. There was a straight back chair with a woven seat sitting against a far wall. Without the slightest hesitation, Beth threw the dirty clothes that were draped across it to the floor and drug it to the closet. She placed the chair against the wall to the left of the doorway and with a great effort, pulled herself up and into the chair. She was puffing when she stood up to reach for the box. What if he comes back? Beth, you’re crazy. He will kill you both.

  Her hands were shaking as she reached for the smooth box and slid it off the shelf toward her. She held it firmly against her belly with one hand as she steadied herself against the doorframe with the other and made her way to the floor. She held her breath as she opened the wooden box, which resembled a t-shaped cross. She closed her eyes and sighed with relief as she saw what lay inside, a roll of bills, the keys to the truck, and five golden rings lying against the backdrop of a purple silk lining.

  “Thank You, God,” she spoke aloud. Now to find a bag for some clothing and food. She could take the truck. She couldn’t believe her great fortune. There wasn’t time to look for a suitcase. She wasn’t even sure Catfish owned one. She went to the kitchen and got a plastic garbage bag. She threw a box of crackers into the sack and four cans of Vienna sausages. That would have to suffice. Back to the bedroom she raced as fast as her body would allow. She took the keys and the wad of bills and shoved them down into the deep pocket of her housedress. Then she wrapped the walnut box in another dress and placed it in the bottom of the sack. She could pawn the jewelry to survive. The last thing she grabbed was her North Side Indians shirt and jeans that she had long since outgrown, but they were hers-- the last vestiges that remained of who she once was. She put the chair back in its original spot and closed the closet door. She opened the blinds and peeked out toward the tree line. He had not returned yet. She had better take this chance. It might be her last.

  She slid her feet into a pair of Mrs. Jones’ old garden shoes and waddled into the living room. Her eye landed on the hilt of the hunting knife lying casually on the table beside the ratty recliner. Panic swept over her as she envisioned Catfish cutting her throat and throwing her in the river to die. She made her decision. The knife would no longer hold her prisoner. She could use it to defend herself. She grabbed the knife and shoved it down into the layers of the t-shirt that lay on top. She then made her way out of the hot, dirty trailer with the garbage bag slung over one shoulder and the truck keys in hand. Her heart was racing. Could she get to that truck and race away before Catfish returned?

  Two steps, three steps, and then a quick run to the door of the GMC. She yanked it open, threw the bag inside, and pulled herself up into the driver’s seat. She fumbled with the keys, but finally was able to get them into the ignition. She pulled the driver’s side door shut and turned the keys. The engine sputtered. It groaned. It ground. But it refused to come to life. She pumped the gas pedal hard and tried again. It sputtered, groaned, and ground.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Beth saw a flash of movement running toward the truck. It was Catfish. He was running from around the corner of the trailer. His arm was raised. He brandished the gardening hoe like a bat. She pumped the gas. She turned the key. Oh God, help me. Help me. He’s going to kill me. Beth locked the doors and kept trying to get the truck to start to no avail. Catfish swung at the windshield, cracking it all the way across. He was yelling obscenities at her.

  “I’m gonna kill you. Get out of that truck! Get out of that truck now!”

  By this time, Catfish had made i
t to the truck and was reaching for the door. Furious to find the driver’s door locked he reared back with the gardening hoe and struck at the window. It did not break. He struck it again, this time finding success. He reached in to find the knob of the lock and pulled it up. Beth was scrambling to the far side of the truck, desperate to unlock the passenger door, but the knob was missing. She fumbled with the garbage bag. She had to get to the knife. But the knife had shifted to the bottom of the bag. She could not find it. Catfish was still screaming and reaching for her legs to pull her feet first from the truck.

  Beth’s head was facing the floorboard as she fought to hold on and not let Catfish drag her from the truck. She knew she was a dead woman. With one hand she reached beneath the seat hunting a tire iron, a flash light, anything she could use to deter Catfish with. She felt something smooth and cold. She yanked it free. It was a brown quart-sized beer bottle. She was losing ground. Catfish was pulling her from the truck on the driver’s side. She let go of the seat and allowed him to pull her toward him. As she passed the steering wheel and came as close as she dared to him, with all her might, praying to God for strength, she came up over her head with the beer bottle and smashed it to bits across the forehead of Catfish Jones, who much to his own surprise, slid to the ground and passed out. Beth looked down at the lifeless body and wondered if she had killed him. He wasn’t moving, and his head was pouring blood from the cut the bottle had made.

  Beth briefly caught her breath, and then reached behind her for the garbage bag. She grabbed it and slid out of the truck, stepping across Catfish and slamming the door behind her. She was a bit winded and dazed for a few seconds as she stood wondering what to do. A groan from behind her startled her to action. She must hide, lest he regain consciousness and come after her. The canoe! If she could make it to the river, she could set off in the canoe for civilization. Catfish would assume that she had taken off down the road, the logical route. She might just have a chance this way. But could she make it to the canoe? It was quite a way down the hill. She had to hurry to get out of his sight range before he regained consciousness. She topped the hill running, the white bag hitting against her leg. She felt the sharp point of the knife poking against her leg, but did not stop to see if it was actually cutting her. It did not matter at this point. She had to get to the canoe.

  Once on the backside of the hill and out of sight of the trailer and truck, Beth stopped to catch her breath. She was holding her belly and gasping in deep ragged breaths. Her legs felt like they were on fire, but she could not afford to stop for any length of time. A sharp pain grabbed at her lower belly. She thought it was just a muscle cramp from running so hard so fast. It never occurred to her that the baby was under great stress as well. It never occurred to her that this sharp pain might actually be early labor. That is, until the second pain struck, and then the third, a few yards on down toward the river. She could barely see the outline of the canoe, a small sliver against the sand in the distance downstream. And then another pain hit, and she knew. There was no doubt that the baby was coming now. Now, when she finally had a chance to escape.

  Oh God, what am I going to do? Please don’t come now. Don’t come now. Wait, baby. Wait til I get us to some help. Ohhhh... ohh...OHHH! Beth felt a rush of water and blood flow out from her as her water broke. Bent double in pain, she made her way slowly to a grove of trees, holding her belly, the tears intermingling with the huge drops of sweat that had formed. If she could just get to the grove of trees, they at least might afford her a small amount of protection. She had to lie down. She felt the urge to push as the pains came. She felt the baby’s head. There was no time to lose. Holding on to the trunk of a nearby pine tree, she lowered herself to the ground. Beth gritted her teeth as great waves of pain swept over her, coming faster and faster with barely any time in between. Beth felt between her legs. The baby’s head was out; one more great push and it would be fully birthed. Beth stifled a scream as she felt the baby ripping and pushing his way out of her. And then it was over. He was out. She pulled him to her belly, all wet and bloody, and then he began to wail. Terrified, Beth tried to stifle his cries. She held him to her breast. She rocked back and forth. Finally, she unzipped the cotton housedress and placed him to her breast. The baby had no trouble latching on and began to nurse.

  Thank God. Thank you God. Oh he’s perfect. Then she felt the cord and another great urge to push again as the afterbirth was expelled. Beth fumbled for the bag next to her. She dumped it out with one hand, found the large knife, and willed herself to cut the umbilical cord tying the baby to her body. When she had freed him, she took the extra dress that she had brought along and cleaned and dried him as best she could. Then wrapped him tightly in the soft blue t-shirt. Exhausted from his traumatic birth, the baby slept against her. She must get to the canoe. Catfish would be looking for her by now. He had probably heard the baby’s cries. She laid him, wrapped in the shirt, on the grass beside her. She quickly gathered up the food, the box with the rings, and the jeans and put it all back into the garbage bag. She left the knife out--just in case she needed it. Catfish would not harm her baby. She would fight to the death for this beautiful son to whom she had just given birth.

  Her legs trembled as she pulled herself up using the trunk of the tree and stood. She put the bag over her wrist by its loops and held onto the knife. She leaned against the tree on her elbow and scooped the baby up with her free arm. She fought the dizziness that was threatening to overtake her, gathered her courage, and began the trek downstream to the canoe. The journey seemed like forever, but only took Beth half an hour. She breathed a silent thank you to the Lord as she finally reached the sandy shore where the canoe lay. Exhausted, she managed to finally flip the canoe over and place the bag inside on the bottom of the canoe. Then she placed the baby on the bag, which was padded with the jeans inside. It was the best she could offer this new little one, for the time being. She promised to make it up to him somehow when they had reached safety.

  Blood was still running from the cuts the knife had made in her leg on Beth’s run downhill. Her face was streaked with tears and sweat and blood and dirt. But she was alive. And her baby was alive. Determined to get them both to safety, she tugged with all her might on the canoe, moving it inch by gut-wrenching inch with her toward the murky green water. Beth’s world was spinning. A kaleidoscope of trees, water, and sand began swirling around her. She shoved the boat out into the current, intending to step inside herself and pull away from shore, but the current pulled the canoe faster than she could respond. Beth grabbed for the canoe, and suddenly lost her balance. Her body was falling. She felt the cool water swirling around her legs as she fell half in and half out of the water, her head striking a huge red rock on the shore, and the kaleidoscope faded to black as the tiny newborn floated calmly away into the approaching night.

  Chapter 21

  All Hell Breaks Loose

  Back at the jailhouse, the interrogation was growing quite heated. The sheriff had questioned Poke over and over about the source of the drugs and the child porn tapes. Poke had was resolute in his denial. None of the items were his.

  “Ain’t mine, Rus. The boys brought that stuff in.”

  “Do you really expect me to believe that? There was over fifteen thousand dollars there, Poke. You had to have been selling it. And I want to know where you got it. You got a crop stashed out in the hills somewhere?”

  “No, I don’t have no crop out nowhere.”

  “Just tell me where you got it. We can make a deal, Poke. You know you’re facing prison time.”

  Poke was sweating buckets. He and Sheriff Wright were sitting at a small wooden table. There were no fancy two-way mirrors, only a lone camera filming the interview from high above. Poke fidgeted in his seat. Sheriff Wright took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and offered one to Poke.

  “Nah, I don’t want that. I want out of here.”

  “What’s the matter, Poke. Not your brand, eh? You prefer them
funny left-handed cigarettes. Well, this is the best you’re gonna get here.”

  “You think you’re funny, don’t you. Who told you about the weed? Vernon?”

  “Now don’t you worry about that none. All you boys will get your just desserts.”

  “Boss, the National Weather Service has just issued a Severe Thunderstorm Warning for Perry and Decatur counties with high winds and hail likely,” interrupted Shorty the dispatcher.

  “All right, Shorty. Looks like we’re in for a little rain. Maybe it’ll cool things off. Keep an eye on the radar. Me and Poke are gonna be here awhile longer.”

  “Sure thing, boss.” And he closed the door behind him.

  “Now back to matters at hand. Poke, are you prepared to sacrifice your freedom for whoever it is that you say is responsible for these drugs and tapes? These are federal charges, boy.”

  “Who you callin’ boy, there. You better watch yoreself.”

  “I never would have figured you for a child molester, Poke. What else you keepin’ hid?”

  Poke jumped up from the chair prepared to rip the lawman’s head off, but the door to the room swung open with no warning and the dispatcher ran in.

  “Boss, a tornado has been spotted just across the river, moving at 90 mph. We’re in the direct path of the storm. We’ve been advised to take cover immediately!”

  “Goodness, Shorty. Ninety miles an hour! That’s right on us! Come on Poke. Let’s get you back in the cell.”

  They were just outside the room and headed down the narrow hall that led to the prisoner area when the lights flickered for a second and went off. They could hear the roar of the storm as it blew overhead.

  “Get down Poke.”

  “We is gonna die. We is gonna die right here in jail. Oh God, we is gonna die.”

  “Shut up Poke, and cover your head with your hands.”

  They got down in a squatting position against the wall and covered their heads. The wind was a fierce howling monster. They heard the sound of breaking glass. A loud clap of thunder caused Poke to shriek.