by Lori Roy
Next to the stove, a boy sits on the floor, knees drawn up to his chest. So many nights, that had been Dale’s job—to keep the fire from going out. Daddy never liked to bother with starting a fire from scratch, but Dale wasn’t much good at knowing which pieces of wood were dry or which were too big or which would smoke. The boy tips his head in the direction of the only other room. Everyone knows my desire, even this boy.
Not wanting to hear the sound of another shell falling into its chamber, I say his name as I open the door. I walk in, not thinking about John Holleran back at his house. Since the day we buried Dale and I pushed his hands from me, John has stayed away. I hear him outside the house some days, asking Daddy what needs doing. Daddy is a shameless man, so he gives John plenty of work. I never come out to say hello, and when I hear his truck coming up the road, which I always do, I go inside and pull the door closed. I walk into Ellis Baine’s bedroom, not thinking about what a good man John Holleran is or the fine husband he’ll one day make for someone. I don’t think about the baby growing inside Juna, and I close the door behind me.
A small window lets in just enough light. Fully clothed in long trousers and a heavy shirt, Ellis is lying on the narrow bed, legs crossed, boots on his feet. A shotgun rests on his chest. He draws in a deep breath, but I don’t hear him let it out.
I start with my jacket, pull it off, and leave it to drop at my feet. Next I unlace my boots with fingers still stiff from the cold. My knuckles and the tips of my fingers ache. I can feel Ellis watching, but that’s why I’ve come here. I’ve come so he’ll see me, at least this once.
Toe to heel, I pry off each boot and sit them side by side on the floor. Under my coat, I wear only a dressing gown. A draft runs through the room, and the thin fabric flutters against my stomach and the front of each leg. If the light is reaching me, Ellis will see the shape of me now.
Juna is beautiful in the face and striking with her black eyes, but her body is hard because she works every day picking berries or chopping wood or topping tobacco. I’m the softer of us two. Daddy’s always said it. A man wants a woman with a soft place he can rest his head. He wants a woman who will stroke his hair and tell him he’s a good man who does good things and does things good. He wants a woman who will be warm when she lies next to him at night but who will stay out of his way when the sun rises. I’m all of those things, but Ellis will never know because at dawn Joseph Carl will hang.
Long before I slipped past Daddy and Juna, I decided where I’d be going and what I’d be doing. Since I first started thinking about wanting a man, I have wanted Ellis Baine. He knows things. He knows how to burn the fields for his tobacco and will stand over his land, sniffing the soil, rubbing it between his fingers, knowing just when the rain will come and leave the ground soft enough to set the tender plants. He doesn’t meet with the other fellows to talk about what is best. He always knows. He knows because he stands in the middle of his fields and feels something strong inside. That’s what I want—someone who feels something, anything, strong. Feels it so strong it fills him up and keeps him from eating proper or caring about hair grown too long. I want to feel things like that, to have things swell up inside me like they swell up inside Ellis Baine.
Slowly, I tug the twine holding my gown closed at the neckline. It will fall open, and this thing will happen. The bow unravels. The neckline of my gown falls open wide enough that I can tip one shoulder and then the other and it drops to my feet. He can see all of me now—the hidden dark places, the curves that dip and lift. My chest rises and falls more quickly than before. The light from the window and the shadows shift with every breath. Ellis’s head rolls forward and then back—a nod. I hadn’t seen the men, sitting there on the floor, leaning against the wall. Two more nephews, cousins, or uncles, both of them seeing all of me.
They stand. One of them makes a noise as if clearing his throat. They are slow about it. They pull on their boots, lace them up, take the time to tuck their shirts, and when finally they pass me by, their sleeves brush against my bare shoulders. One carries a jacket draped over his arm, heavy wool, sour like the doctor’s had been because it’s never able to dry through and through. They move slowly, knowing they’re allowed to look.
And they do. They look. They don’t bother with my face or hair or shoulders. Their eyes settle on me, on whichever spot is to their liking. One stands to the side of me, one to the back. Those eyes stay on me until the bed creaks beneath Ellis, and then the men move on. A burst of warm air fills the room when they open the door. It closes again, and Ellis exhales that deep breath.
“Why you here?” he says.
“I need to explain?”
He smiles. Not that I can see it on his face, but I can feel it. I’m sure I can feel it. I wait for him to call me to his bed. That would be his way. He’s one to call a person to him, never one to cross the distance himself. But he doesn’t. He swings his feet over the edge of the mattress. His boots hit the floor with a thud. The thin planks rattle beneath my bare feet. He groans as he stands, like maybe it’ll be some effort to have me. He takes a step in my direction and stops.
Outside the door, chairs topple; more heavy boots hit the floor. Someone bangs on the door to the small bedroom. It shakes in its frame. Footsteps pound across the room; voices shout. Maybe one sounds like John Holleran.
I bend to grab the thin cotton gown pooled at my feet, but before I can gather it and thread my arms through its sleeves, Ellis reaches for me and lifts me. He grabs me by my shoulders, slides his hands down my arms, and tugs the gown from me. Outside the room, there is more shouting, more banging on the door. Ellis stands before me, holds one wrist at my side, and lifts his other hand to my breast. He rests it there, not moving it. The door behind me opens, and in two steps, John Holleran is in the room.
I pull back, wanting to cover myself, but Ellis won’t let go. He pinches my wrist to hold me in place, lifts his hand from my breast, turns that hand over, and strokes my bare skin with the back of his fingers. Maybe John was going to raise his shotgun, maybe he was going to throw a fist, but the sight of Ellis Baine touching me that way—or, worse still, me standing in that room alone with the man—stops him. My clothes don’t lie torn and shredded on the floor. My boots sit neatly, side by side near the bed. He knows I’ve come here because I wanted to, and it breaks him somehow.
“Will wait outside to see you home,” John says.
He leaves as quickly as he came. Someone closes the door. When the voices and all the knocking about quiet in the next room, Ellis takes his hand from my chest, unwraps his fingers from my wrist, and as he waves at my clothes still lying on the ground, he turns away.
When I am dressed and have buttoned up my jacket, Ellis walks from the room. He says nothing, but I follow. We pass through the kitchen full of men, most of them scattered across the floor, their heads resting on rolled-up jackets or blankets, a few sitting at the table, where they lean on their elbows. Ellis pushes open the door and walks through ahead of me. At the stone block leading off the porch, he stands aside so I can pass by.
A full moon lights up the path ahead just enough that I can make out John Holleran leaning against the back of a truck. Outside the house, I take deep breaths of the cold, fresh air. John never lifts his head to see it is me walking his way, and he doesn’t stand until I have passed.
“See to it she don’t come back,” Ellis calls out from the porch. “What’s left is yours.”
• • •
THEY BUILT THE gallows from scrap wood, used threepenny nails instead of screws, and they’ll hang Joseph Carl when the first orange sliver of sun breaks the horizon. It’s another cold morning, damp, sodden. This is what I’ll remember, the dampness and the dark and how I wiggle my fingers inside my cotton gloves to fend off the stiffness. I’ll remember the ache in my knuckles, the numbness in my toes, our warm breath, Juna’s and mine, that turns smoky when it hits the cold morning air.
It’s as if the whole of Kentucky has come t
o see Joseph Carl hang. With not enough rooms to rent, these visitors to town have stayed the night in their cars or on the ground, and a few thought to bring tents and wooden cots. They’ve built fires to grill their food. I’ll remember this too, the smell of frying bacon. It’s like a perfume, sweet and greasy. As we walk among the crowd, Daddy forcing a path for us, we pass through the smell of it. I can’t stop the ache in my stomach, the way I inhale, the way my eyes flutter and then close, the way I slow my step to smell it a few moments more. I can almost remember the taste of it and how it would fill me up. I’ll remember this always—the grease popping in a dry cast-iron skillet, the rumbling in my stomach—and I’ll never eat bacon again.
Their faces are unshaven, these people who have come from Illinois, Ohio, and West Virginia and as far away as California. Their clothes are creased and unkempt, and yet they’ve worn their finest. The men wear ties, pulled loose after many long hours of travel and more still of waiting until dawn. The ladies wear skirts and jackets and have pinned their hats in place. They’ve stayed awake all night, fighting one another for a spot. Even now, one man will shout out, pushing another, and yet another will stumble between and point to the gallows that rise high above them so all will have a good view.
At the top of the rise overlooking the field where we’ve gathered, cars are parked, each one with its headlights pointed at the spot where Joseph Carl will hang. People stand in truck beds or sit on the rooftops of cars, their feet dangling over the windshields, shifting about ever so carefully so as to not cause a dent. Tipping a bottle or sucking on the end of a cigar, they look down on the gathering, a few pointing at Juna and me as the crowd parts to make room for us.
We’ve fought through the onlookers until we’ve reached the front. It’s a place of honor, a place our family has earned. That’s how Daddy told it as he parted folks, pushed them aside with his gloved hands, cleared a spot big enough for Juna and me. It’s a place the Crowley family has damn sure earned.
At first, as we fought through these many strangers, they didn’t realize it was Juna Crowley passing them by, but then she would look one of them square in the eye and he or she would call out. It’s her. It’s Juna Crowley. That’s the one. It happened over and over as we stumbled and tripped and bounced through the crowd. That’s her. That’s Juna Crowley. They say she’s evil, you know. Evil through and through. And then they’d laugh, some out loud. Others would turn away, but their shoulders would shake; they’d lay their heads back and shove the next fellow so he’d not miss out on the joke. But as Juna continued to stare at them with her black eyes, and as she cradled her belly and they saw the signs of the child who grew inside, the laughter would quiet and they’d turn a shoulder or step from her path.
By the time Joseph Carl’s trial was over, folks had started talking about the child making its way inside Juna, and now the news has spread to strangers come from across the country. There was no mistaking it, no hiding it. The baby was evil to be sure. The proof was in how quickly it grew. Not like any other child, but in a few short months, already it was making itself known. Look closely, when the breeze takes her skirts, and you’ll see.
To keep the peace, men have come from all around the county. They’ll stand at the crossroad into town and keep watch for those Baines. The men will level their guns, waiting for a truck. They’ll listen for dried oak leaves being crushed by a leather boot, the snap of a birch branch that could only mean someone was trying to sneak through the brush. They’ll listen for a man drawing hard on a cigarette, the breath he exhales. They’ll stand as long as they must to see justice done. They’ll keep those Baines from passing this road so Joseph Carl will hang and maybe their crops will grow again and they’ll stop being hungry and their children will stop crying with bloated stomachs and bloodshot eyes. They’ll rid themselves of something evil, and their lives will be good again. And because not a single Baine is among the crowd, the men must be keeping to their posts.
It took five minutes for twelve men to say Joseph Carl should hang. There was the white shirt, a shirt exactly like the one Juna described. I thought I had burned it all the way through, left nothing but cinders and ash in that barrel, but the sheriff and her men found it straightaway. They found the shovel lying alongside the house, flipped it around, used the handle, and lifted the scraps of that fine white shirt from the barrel. The collar was still stiff, and one sleeve and cuff held on. One of Sheriff Irlene’s men dropped it in a brown paper bag. And even though Dale never named Joseph Carl, the boy might never have been found if not for Joseph Carl finally telling the whereabouts. Joseph Carl was only able to tell because he was to blame, and now Dale Crowley is dead and isn’t that murder?
But the men in charge—they were lawyers, I suppose—didn’t bother with the crime against Dale. The crime against Juna was crime enough. She saw the man, no question of that, and knew of the fine white shirt stole from Mr. and Mrs. Brashear’s line. That Baine boy had been a good one when he was younger, but then he left and went God knows where. That time away hadn’t served him well. Look what became of him. Look how he changed. Lastly, there was the baby growing inside Juna—more proof still of what Joseph Carl had done—and a man who did such a thing to a woman would hang until dead in front of whoever should choose to watch. Even given the tempting, evil sort of woman they all knew Juna to be. She had ascended, which made her especially tempting. Evil is like that. Tempting. Still, Joseph Carl ought not have done what he did to the boy.
As we wait for dawn and for Joseph Carl to mount the steps that lead to the gallows, people keep a safe distance from Juna and me. They allow themselves only a glance in our direction. They whisper, and when their children point at us, the mothers swat their hands away. But as we stand waiting, folks forget we’re altogether different. They begin to shuffle closer, to fill in the gap between us and them. The men smoke cigars. The fat orange tips glow, sparkle. And they drink whiskey. They take it in great gulps and let out long sighs after they’ve swallowed. The sharp scent tints the air. Every so often, someone spits on the ground. They stomp the clumps of prickly lettuce that have sprung up in the field, kick aside rocks and chunks of dry dirt. When one stumbles, another grabs hold of an arm, gives a lift. They rise onto their toes, shoulder against one another, press their bodies sideways to make themselves smaller, all to make certain they have a clear line of sight.
Someone drapes Juna and me with heavy coats, men’s coats that smell of the tobacco the men chew and spit and their whiskey, and they are warm still from whichever men had been wearing them. Juna holds her coat under her chin with both hands and nods her thanks to the familiar folks who whisper kind words to her. You’ll get on, they say. Justice will see you through. Yours is a fine, strong family. Take refuge. Take solace.
Only a few pass our way in the beginning. But one after another, the need spreads among them, the need of the town’s people to speak some kindness to Juna, and more and more folks step up to voice their good wishes. They touch a forearm, pat the back of a hand, shake their heads at these strangers who laugh at us. Not wanting to chance getting caught up in Juna’s black eyes, they look mostly at me while they whisper their kind words, but they can’t resist a glance, a flick of their eyes, at Juna’s midsection. They want to be able to say they saw it—the early signs of the child.
Some will remember, though incorrectly, the day Joseph Carl Baine hanged as a day folks celebrated. There will even be reports in newspapers across the country of folks cheering and tearing the buttons from Joseph Carl’s shirt and the socks from his feet. For years to come, a fellow will say the leather boots that sit on his hearth, the laces tied together in a double knot, belonged to Joseph Carl. Fellow will lie and say he pulled them right off Joseph Carl’s feet while he was still dangling, the rope stretched tight by his burden, his head slung off to one side, the burlap hood still tied off at his neck.
Others will choose to pass on a story of a dignified group who gathered to see justice done and took no pl
easure in the day. They will talk of ladies who wore dark wool dresses and gentlemen in hats. They will remember children who stood quietly, didn’t talk back, didn’t dare talk back. They will remember those same children hoisted to sit on their parents’ shoulders so they’d rise high above the crowd and could see what happened when a man lost his way.
To the east of the crowd, elm trees, their leaves having faded to a pale yellow, block the rising sun. It’s the job of one of the boys from town to stand under those trees and watch for the first hint of daylight. We can’t see that boy from our place of honor, but he must be shuffling from foot to foot as he waits, trying to fight off the chill. By now, he’s probably bored and kicking at the piles of leaves, wilted and slimy, that lie at his feet. Finally he sees that first glimmer of orange, and he calls out to one fellow, who calls out to another. The crowd quiets. Feet stop shuffling about. The last man swallows the last mouthful of whiskey. Cigars still glow, though a few are tossed on the ground and boot tips stomp on them, twist until they’re snubbed out.
As the shout travels through the crowd, growing louder as it passes from one man to the next, folks begin to press forward again. My body is forced up against Juna’s and her bulging stomach. I imagine a small foot kicks up against me or that an elbow pokes at my ribs. The closeness of many bodies and jacket sleeves rubbing against one another and of heavy boots stepping into soft spots in the damp ground stir up the smell of our dark, rich soil. Folks press forward to fill in, but they’ll stand no closer than Juna and me to the spot where Joseph Carl will hang.
Sheriff Irlene is the first to mount the ladder leading to the top of the platform. With one hand, she hikes her skirt up about her ankles, and with the other, she holds the side rail. Two men follow behind, waiting until she reaches the top before taking to the first rung. The one fellow has to shove the other to get him moving. As the men climb, the joists and posts creak under their weight. The smell of the fresh-cut lumber lifts into the air.