The First Conception_Rise of Eris

by Nesly Clerge

  One thing was crystal clear to me.

  Men weren’t better than women, just cagier. They’d made sure they got the better deal.

  And hung onto it.

  CHAPTER 18

  Surely there had to be civilizations where women were in charge, and I was determined to find out what and where they were. Maybe even live there one day.

  I read about the Mosuo in China. Men handled the political roles, but women were the head of the house, over their extended family that lived with them. Property was inherited through the matriarchal lines, and women made the business decisions. Children were raised with their mothers, which made me wonder where the fathers lived. Children also took their mothers’ last names, rather than their fathers’. That didn’t concern me either way.

  My mama was the head of our house by default, though who knew how long that might last. Put a man in her bed, and she abdicated that role, and common sense, in a heartbeat. And although she was improving—because she had to—I couldn’t exactly see her making any major business decisions. I still had to help her with our money and budget.

  The ways of the Mosuo sounded terrific. Until I got to the part about their free-love sexuality stuff. Send Buster to them for a week. They’d change their minds in a hurry. That or kill him.

  There was a slight semblance of this way of life among the Akans in the Gold and Ivory Coast areas, but that was mostly about inheritance. And men still ran pretty much everything else.

  The Bribri in Costa Rica and northern Panama seemed to split their roles. Some things were for women only, like determining which clan children belonged to, inheritance—again, and some sacred ceremony where only women prepared a cacao drink they used. Bribri men were the shamans who touched the dead—they can keep that one, sang the funeral songs, and prepared funeral foods. I couldn’t help notice they didn’t put men in charge of anything to do with the living. Guess they figured out that one a long time ago. Less harm caused that way.

  Still, everything I read about these groups said they thrived. I guess with years and years of practice, those women believed in themselves. But it didn’t make me want to go to any of these places, as I’d hoped. If I were interested in anthropology, maybe. But I’m not. I’ve already had to study human nature way more than I would have liked.

  At least there were a few places on the planet that understood women and men were equal, but not nearly enough of them. Made me wonder why women had put up with this nonsense for so long, passing it down from generation to generation.

  Made me wonder what the world would be like if the tables were turned.

  And whether there was a way for me to accomplish this.

  Two quotes I’d read in my favorite, left-behind book came to mind. The first was by J. J. Van der Leeuw. “The real mystery of life is not a problem to be solved, it is a reality to be experienced.”

  The other was attributed as a motto of Mary, Queen of Scots. “In my end is my beginning.”

  A flash of insight came to me. I knew what I wanted to do with my life. Had to do with it.

  I’d make men pay for their sins in a way that would really get their attention.

  I just had to figure out precisely what that way was.

  CHAPTER 19

  Mama managed to stay single longer than I thought she could or would. She didn’t seem too bothered by this, which, I admit, surprised me. One day, while she was out and I was home, I figured out why. I found it under her mattress when I put clean sheets on her bed. I say her bed because after she got back from the hospital when Anthony beat her, she said it was time I slept on the sofa so that we sort of had our own rooms. I think this had more to do with it than anything else. I’d seen enough of Buster’s to figure out what it was and where it went.

  As soon as I turned the hideous thing on, I dropped it. Held my breath when I picked it up, shut it off, and stuck it back where I’d found it. The nasty thing sent shudders all through me, even while I washed my hands three times with hot water and soap.

  But I still didn’t understand why she needed it. Nor was I going to tell her I knew what she kept hidden under her mattress. At least now I understood where the buzzing I’d heard at night came from. I’d thought it was an insect trapped inside.

  I’d gotten my period three months after I’d turned twelve. And my breasts. And hips. And attention I didn’t want from boys. Abigail didn’t share my feelings about that. She couldn’t wait to start dating and did. Fifteen and dating. If I ever decide to date, it’ll be when I’m ninety and the man is too old to bother me about sexual things.

  However, I listened intently as Abigail described her dates to me. Information is information. Knowledge is power and all that. But I still didn’t tell her about my experiences, no matter how much she insisted she enjoyed what she called doing stuff without going all the way.

  Abigail and I were closer than ever, which is why I let her convince me to use tampons. She said if I didn’t, she’d never go to the beach with me again. Sure enough, the next time we went to the beach, I started. I wasn’t expecting it, and the only thing Abigail had with her was—you guessed it.

  It was a production for her to instruct me as to how to insert it. I thought I did a good job of getting it where it belonged, even though it felt funny when I walked. The darn thing expanded seconds after the water reached over my waist. My eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. I wanted to go home. Abigail had more than one with her and insisted I go through the entire humiliating experience all over again. Thank goodness I learn fast.

  Then things changed somewhat. Abigail, being a couple of years older than me, and way more interested in sex, got serious with a senior. She got married right after we graduated. I was her maid of honor. At first, I was afraid I might lose my only friend, but that didn’t happen. Abigail regaled me with the intimate details of the physical side of their relationship. She almost made me curious enough to find out for myself what it was like, when it was with someone you wanted to do it with.

  Almost.

  Since I was fifteen, and even though I was eager to further my education, I decided to wait a year before going to college. Besides, I needed money. That meant applying for scholarships, grants, and such, and waiting for approval. I got a job as a check-out clerk at the same store where Anthony had worked. I also learned that he hadn’t behaved in prison, so had his time inside extended. That was a huge relief. The last thing I wanted was for him to show up one day, looking to get his old job back. Or looking for Mama and me.

  I received a full scholarship, though decided to find a way to supplement the funds as best I could. Equally satisfying was that I’d been accepted at Stanford for my undergraduate degree in molecular biology. That meant I had to leave Mama in Idaho, but I was close enough to visit her during semester breaks, without travel costing too much.

  I’d taken an entrance exam provided for students who wished to accelerate their studies, so as not to have to start from scratch. I aced it and started with the second-year courses.

  With all the changes involved, surprisingly, the one that rocked me the most, initially, was my introduction to computers. I had to teach myself, at warp speed, how to type, as well as how to not lose any of my documents or blow the darn thing up by hitting the wrong key.

  And there was Heather, my dorm roommate. All five-foot-nine buxom-blond inches of her. Because she was all of nineteen and I was seventeen, she believed she was superior or supposed to boss me somewhat. It was also a case of extrovert meets introvert, the latter being me. I decided not to complain about how much she talked or how often she had friends coming in and out of our room, for one reason: she had a phone installed and let me use it without having to pay for my calls to Mama and Abigail.

  Neither of us had to worry about borrowing each other’s clothes or shoes, not that she, obviously well off, would want to adorn her gorgeous self with my bargain-store pickings, no matter how nice they were. And although I’d developed some curves, nothing of he
rs would have fit my petite five-foot-two form.

  There was another factor in her favor. Heather wasn’t in the least curious about my life before Stanford, or at all, which was a relief. Ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies.

  The Thanksgiving holiday approached during the first semester of my relished foray into the world of molecular biology. I decided to use this break to comb through the shelves of books on this topic in the library so I could be as informed as possible. I waited until Heather was out socializing before I called Mama and disappointed her.

  “It’s okay, Katherine. If you need to stay there for the holiday, I understand.”

  “I’m sorry, Mama. It’ll be our first Thanksgiving apart. But I’ve already arranged to be home with you during December break. No way will I miss Christmas at home. I won’t let you spend it alone, and we’ll have more time.”

  “Still, if you can’t make it then either, that’s okay.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “But if you can’t, if there’s something else you want to do, or if you have to study …”

  “Mama, you don’t sound like you’re feeling well. You’re usually so energized when we talk. Are you okay?”

  “Just tired. Gotta lot of overtime goin’ on.”

  Mama changed the subject and ended the call not long after.

  ***

  I’d found a student with a car, who’d be driving near enough to Coeur d’Alene to drop me off for Christmas break. The day before we left, I called Mama every hour, until eleven o’clock that night, and never got an answer. She knew I was arriving the next day, so I figured she was busy with preparations, and had probably been invited to a Christmas party. That, or the resort needed her help with holiday festivities. She had mentioned working overtime.

  I started to call her at the resort, but we’d always said calls interrupting her at work were for emergencies only. Better to just show up than scare her half to death. She could tell me all about whatever she was up to, once I got there. I’d even help out at the resort for no pay if it meant spending more time together.

  I missed her so much, I seriously considered sitting in her lap with my arms around her neck, as we’d done on the bus trip to our new life in Idaho. And cuddled like that, we’d gab and gab until the wee hours of the night.

  The image was so delicious it took hours before I fell asleep.

  CHAPTER 20

  I told my ride, “The white two-story with green shutters, there on the right. Just pull up in front of the house. Right here is perfect.” I grabbed the overnight bag, bought at Goodwill, from the backseat. “I’ll be waiting here at the time and day we agreed. If you think you’ll run late, you have my number.”

  “Call me if anything comes up for you,” he said.

  I’d had him drop me off in front of the landlord’s house. I shouldn’t have been embarrassed about the garage apartment, but I was. Let him, and others he might tell, believe I sprouted forth from a middle-class family. What business was it of anyone’s what the truth was. During the drive, I’d listened to Marcus talk about his family’s magnificent horses he’d ride while visiting his folks, the skiing time on the slopes they planned on getting in, and all the other things people with money do for the holidays. I got creative with my own stories—I lied.

  I pretended to walk toward the front door of Mr. Hopkins’ house until Marcus disappeared around the next corner. Mama’s car was parked in front of the garage apartment. I was disappointed her nose wasn’t pressed to the front window, eagerly watching for my arrival. Or flying down the stairs to welcome me home—we’d just spent our longest time apart. Two reasons for that not happening came to mind: she was either in the bathroom or in the kitchen, making sure the spaghetti sauce and meatballs didn’t burn.

  Only, that’s exactly what I smelled when I opened the ground-level door to the wooden stairwell.

  CHAPTER 21

  I started to knock then decided it was best to let Mama stay in the kitchen and attempt to salvage our burnt dinner.

  My key didn’t work. She hadn’t mentioned anything about changing the lock, or why she might need to. I pounded on the door and shouted for her. I placed my fists on my hips and affixed a false disapproving expression on my face. When she opened that door, I’d pretend to fuss at her for burning my favorite meal, which I figured happened in her excitement—meals tended to burn when Mama’s mind was full. Then I’d wrap her in a bear hug, see what I could do to repair the sauce, and then wrap her in a bunch of bear hugs.

  She didn’t come to the door.

  The odor grew worse.

  I pounded again and shouted some more.

  Nothing.

  I dashed down the stairs and ran straight to Mr. Hopkins’ back door. I pounded and pounded, but he didn’t answer. Then I realized the garage door was open and his car was gone. I ran back to the apartment, and only because I was feeling temporarily insane, did I pound on our door and shout for Mama again.

  I’d always resented the cheap, hollow door Mr. Hopkins had used, but now I was grateful. I left my overnight bag by the door and hurried down the stairs. I slipped and slid down several steps, ignored the pain, and rushed to Mama’s trunk to get the tire iron. It was a fight to get the key into the lock, because of how uncontrollably my hands shook. I grabbed the tire iron and rushed back up the stairs.

  I beat the door with the tool until I created a big enough hole, close enough to the knob, to reach in and unlock it. I picked up a few splinters and cuts on my arm but didn’t care, because smoke poured through the hole and began to fill the stairwell.

  Coughing like crazy, I flew to the living room windows and threw each one of them open all the way. Rushed to the kitchen. Turned the stove off. Stuck the smoking pot of blackened sauce in the sink. I opened the window above the sink to let the smoke out, waving at it with a dishcloth, all the while choking. Had Mama fallen asleep in the tub again? Had the smoke gotten to her?

  I wet the dishcloth and held it over my nose and mouth. Smoke stung my eyes and made them leak. The bathroom door was open, the tub empty. That window got thrown open, as well.

  The same was done in the bedroom. Certain I’d find her in there, unconscious from smoke inhalation, I looked around. No sign of her. But something had happened in that room. The bed was shoved to the side and positioned at an angle. The lamp lay in fragments on the floor. The smashed nightstand the small lamp belonged on was across the room. Items from Mama’s dresser were either tipped on their sides or on the floor.

  My mouth and throat went dry. My pulse raced even faster.

  I returned to the living room and looked around. Most of the smoke had cleared. Furniture and furnishings were scattered and broken in there as well.

  “Mama?”

  A response came in the form of a moan. I dropped to all fours and raked my eyes around the room.

  She lay sprawled on the floor, between the dining table and the back wall. I stumbled trying to get to my feet but finally made it to her, believing I could drag her outside, into fresh, cold air that would revive her.

  That’s when what had started out as a bad dream became my worst nightmare.

  Mama’s face was battered beyond recognition. The shattered ulna of her right arm protruded from broken skin. Her skirt was puddled around her waist. Her ripped panties were bunched into a tiny clump a yard or so away. Blood smeared her thighs. Other odors mingled with the acrid smell of the smoke and burned sauce. I vomited, wiped my face with the dishcloth and turned back to Mama.

  Her eyes were closed. I knew enough to understand that meant she was still alive.

  I fell to my knees at her side, grabbed her shoulder. She thrashed, as though fighting her assailant away.

  Stunned, I let go of her. “Mama, it’s me. It’s Katherine. Who did this to you?”

  Mama seemed beyond comprehension. I was losing her and didn’t know what to do. “No! Don’t do this. I’ll get help. Hang on, Mama.”

  I stumbled to the
phone and placed the call. Like before, the person who answered wanted me to stay on the phone, but I hung up and returned to sit by Mama. To talk to her. To convince her to stay with me.

  “You’ve healed before. I’ll help you. I’ll contact my advisor and tell her I need to skip a semester or two. Longer, if I have to. I’m already a year ahead. My grades are too good for them to balk. I’ll stay with you. So you see, you have to stay with me.”

  Mama’s swollen eyelids fluttered open into slits. What I could see of her eyes met mine then she went still. A breath, her last one, left her. Her gaze stayed fixed on me but unseeing.

  “No, Mama. No.” I attempted CPR, but the first time I pressed on her chest, broken ribs snapped even more beneath my hands. I ran to the door. Where the hell was the ambulance? Where were the police?

  I returned to Mama and collapsed beside her, my throat so constricted I couldn’t breathe. Then screams, followed by wounded wails, ripped from my throat. Sounds I had no idea I could make. Sounds nature intended as a call for help, so others came running to the person’s aid. No one came.

  Ignoring streaming tears, I gently raised Mama’s shoulders and held her against me and rocked back and forth. “You can’t leave me like this, Mama. No ma’am, you cannot leave me. It’s Christmas. Your present is in my bag. We have plans, and you leaving me isn’t one of them. We have so much catching up to do. I’ll go to the store and get more stuff for sauce and meatballs. I’ll cook. It’ll all be fine, Mama. Do you hear me?”

  Mama didn’t answer.

  Mama didn’t come back to me.

  I don’t know how long I stayed like that, clinging to her, soaking her with my tears, but I finally, gently, put her back on the floor. I stroked her face and kissed her forehead. And talked to her. Again, for I don’t know how long. Time had stopped. Everything had stopped. Except the pain and hollow sensation that overwhelmed me like a dark, ravenous shadow.

  A siren sounded, faint at first, then grew louder as it approached. Enough common sense came back to me, to realize our apartment was about to become a crime scene. Forensics would comb through every inch of the place. I found Mama’s vibrator under the mattress and stuck it at the bottom of my bag.