Child Bride

by Jennifer Smith Turner

  But soon he volunteered to help in the kitchen—there were crates of cans that needed moving, boxes to be carried, heavy pots to lift, trash to be taken outside … and me to brush up against.

  My knees became weak when I felt his flesh glide against my inner arm. I shifted my weight against the cabinet, lost my balance, and began to fall. He caught me by the waist, holding me against his chest. “You all right?” he asked. I could feel his belt buckle pressing against me through my cotton dress.

  “Yes. I suddenly felt dizzy.”

  “Maybe you need to sit down.” But he didn’t let go of my waist, didn’t move me away from him to a chair. He continued to press against my upper body. I melted into him. Beads of sweat formed on the tip of my nose; my cheeks began to burn. I closed my eyes as I felt his warm breath on my forehead.

  “Nell, are you all right?” Phyllis came running over. She gently led me to a nearby chair. “Sit down—I’ll get you some water. Charles, see if Doctor Kendal is still in the church.”

  “I don’t need a doctor, just lost my balance. I’ll be fine.”

  “Charles, maybe you should go now. Leave me to look after Nell.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Leonard.”

  I stared at the floor as he walked away, anxiously listening to his footsteps as the sound became fainter and fainter.

  “Nell, you’re a married woman with a house full of children. What’re you thinking?” Mrs. Leonard whispered in my face, while holding onto my shoulders.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know perfectly well what I mean. This is the Lord’s house. You are a Godly woman, a married woman.”

  “It’s just that … Henry and I … we don’t…. It’s been over a year since he’s touched me. He’s afraid I’ll get pregnant again. So he refuses to touch me, and he won’t use any birth control. And Charles is so young, so—”

  “Nell! It’s wrong. Go home to your family. Do not shame yourself or this church. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes. Phyllis, please don’t be angry with me.”

  “Just go home, Nell, to your husband and children.”

  THE NEXT SUNDAY I asked Phyllis if it would be okay if I came back on Wednesday nights to work in the kitchen and the children’s space—just to keep up with things. Last Sunday, Charles had grabbed my arm as I headed to the ladies’ room before going home and pulled me into a corner under the stairs. He whispered, “Nell, I want to see you.” He suggested that we could spend time together, one night a week, to get to know each other. We could talk about books and our lives. I hesitated at first, but the thought of being with a man who was educated, who was interested in my thoughts, who made the hair dance on my legs and arms and the back of my neck—I wanted to have this.

  “Seems to me we get everything done on Sunday afternoons,” Phyllis said.

  “You know there’s always something that needs doing. I’m happy to give more time—just one night a week,” I replied.

  Phyllis put away the pot she’d been drying, rubbed her hands on the apron, and walked over to where I was standing by the stove. With a quizzical look on her face she asked, “Charles have anything to do with this?”

  “Charles! No, this is about me wanting to be as helpful as I can. And honestly, I’d welcome the peace and quiet.”

  “Nell, I don’t know what you’re cooking up, but be careful.”

  “I’ll be fine, Phyllis.”

  I bumped into Charles in the vestibule and slipped a note into his hand: “Wednesday nights at 6,” it read.

  Wednesday night arrived, and I raced back to the church. I asked Henry to watch the children, saying, “Phyllis needs me to finish some chores.” I expected him to tell me that it was my job to care for the little ones, that I should stay home; but he just acquiesced, said he was tired, he’d put the children down and go to bed early.

  Charles was waiting for me, but he didn’t hear me walk into the room. I watched him for a moment, enjoying the look of his face as he read from a book propped up on the table. He was holding the book and sitting just as a student would in a classroom, hoping for the teacher to admire his posture and attention to studies. His eyes seemed to dance from word to word, line to line, as though he were eagerly absorbing each image created by stringing the words together.

  “I almost thought you weren’t coming tonight,” he said without looking up.

  “I didn’t think you knew I was here.”

  “I was aware of you from the moment you stepped inside the building. Come here, sit by me.” He pulled a chair out, rising as I walked toward him.

  “What’re you reading?” I asked.

  “All God’s Children Got Traveling Feet, by Maya Angelou.”

  “I don’t know that one. I read her first book, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. It was beautiful and sad.”

  “But joyful and triumphant. All of her work has a positive lilt to it, even when the circumstances are less than favorable.”

  “I think that’s why I enjoyed her book. It reminded me of life as I know it.”

  “Any trouble leaving the house?”

  “No, it was easier than I thought it’d be. Henry agreed to watch the children.”

  “Is he a good man, your husband?”

  “I’d rather not talk about the family.”

  “What do you want to discuss?”

  “You. Tell me about your life. I want to hear about college—what’s that like?”

  “It’s a lot like church, actually. A group of people come together on a regular basis, share stories and experiences, get preached to, and then go away in the hopes of applying what they’ve learned. Then they come back together and compare notes. Probably more gossip happens on campus than at church, but that may not be true. The biggest difference between a college campus and the church is that there are more young people at college. Here it seems like everyone’s old, like decrepit grandparents.”

  “Don’t you like it here?”

  “I miss being around my friends, miss college life. My plan was to stay on and get a master’s degree, but I was pulled back here when my father died. I’m glad to help out my mother, but it’s just not what I expected I’d be doing right now.”

  “I lost my daddy too. I think about him all the time. Momma has family around her, so I didn’t need to move back. But I did spend time with her, and it was sad to see how she’s changed since Daddy passed. Death changes things.”

  “That it does, but let’s not talk about sad things. I understand you like to read.”

  “I read all the time, and I have some favorite books—classics, I think they’re called. My schoolteacher introduced me to the love of reading. I hope to see my children become readers too.”

  “No talk about the family, remember? I brought a book for you that I think you’ll like. If you can read it by next week, we can talk about it Wednesday. Think you can do that?”

  “Yes. What’s it about?”

  “Lady Chatterley’s Lover, by D. H. Lawrence. A true classic, about a man and a woman who meet and fall in love.” He handed me the book and helped me up. “We should get going.” He stood so close I could take in the scent of him. He placed a gentle kiss on my cheek, then turned and left.

  I clutched the book to my chest and continued to savor his scent lingering in the air, and then touched the spot where his lips had brushed my skin.

  RAIN PELTED AGAINST the house in endless streams that created rivulets on the sidewalk and puddles of mud in the back yard. The tomatoes in the garden strained against their stems, as if trying to keep their green skins away from the ground long enough for the rains to cease, so they could escape rotting. I welcomed the chill and damp that engulfed the neighborhood as I sat by the back door, poring over Charles’s gift. Reading the story, which was pregnant with the aroma of thick moist forests, leaves dancing on seldom-trodden trails, sensual trysts in a vine-covered shelter, caused my body to stir.

  I had
wanted to begin reading the night I returned from meeting Charles, but fear, or perhaps the expectation of excitement, kept me from touching the book while Henry was in the house. The brief description of the two lovers on the dust cover and the image of a man and woman entwined like weeds in an untamed forest were like promises that the story would carry me to places I’d want to languish in alone. And so I sat at the backdoor, Henry’s shoe-cleaning items to my left, the sink full of pots and pans at my back, the little garden in view but barely visible through the sheets of rain, the children fast asleep for their first nap of the day—and devoured every word of my prized gift.

  We were in an actual house now, not the tiny apartment that had defined my world for years. With three children, their toys, cribs, clothes, and two adults, we just couldn’t live any longer in a place meant for just one person.

  One day Henry had come home and announced, “We’re moving. You need to get everything packed so we can be out of here before the next rent payment is due.”

  “Where’re we going?” I asked.

  “Home, our own house. We need more room. It’s getting so I can’t find an empty spot in this apartment to sit down. The children are growing fast, and there’ll be more to come. We need a house for our family.”

  “How can we afford a house?”

  “Not buying, just moving—we’ll be renting, like here. A guy at work, his mother passed away months back, and her house has been sitting empty; he doesn’t need it but doesn’t want to sell yet. I asked if he’d consider renting, and he said yes. Won’t cost much more than this place—he’s giving me a good deal. I just need to take care of it and save him some money, in exchange for reasonable rent.”

  The following Sunday we were standing at the front door of our new home. It was a brick row-house in the middle of a street lined with mirror images of the same house. The cement sidewalk served as the front yard, and three cement steps were the front porch that led to the metal screen-door of the entryway. Inside that was a living room, a long narrow space with one window looking out onto the street. On the left was a staircase leading to the second floor, where two bedrooms opened out from either side of the landing. A bathroom faced the stairs.

  The dining room was just beyond the staircase, immediately followed by the kitchen, which had a tiny window facing the backyard. A small entryway led from the kitchen to the back steps and a fenced-in yard the size of a postage stamp.

  “There’s a yard! Can I garden here, plant vegetables and flowers?” The open space made me think of our farm and the vegetable patch Momma tended. She always made sure to have fresh vegetables and herbs in close proximity to the kitchen. I’d scurry out to pick whatever Momma needed as she prepared meals inside. I especially liked to pluck the mint and basil; both left a scent on my hands that tickled my nose as I inhaled. It made me imagine what food Momma had planned for that night’s dinner. But the mint always ended up in a cool drink the adults sipped while out on the porch.

  “Of course, you can do whatever you want. Gardening’ll be good. I’d like to have some homegrown vegetables with our meals. This place needs to be cleaned up. You can take care of those things.”

  I relied on the church ladies and Phyllis to help me with the house. Phyllis had offered to come by our apartment when we first met, but I didn’t want her—or anyone, for that matter—to see how we lived. Ginny and the girls were the only people who had crossed the threshold of the apartment, and after a time I couldn’t stand having even them see my life inside those walls. But the house was different. It wasn’t grand, but it was much more inviting than our apartment. There was space to move around without bumping into a piece of furniture or another wall. The windows in the living room brought street-level light inside that lit up the floors, almost making the wood look smooth and hiding the discoloration and scratches. Every room had wallpaper. The design was a collection of faded flower patterns on an off-white background. In the front room the primary floral colors were blue, in the kitchen green, and in the bedrooms were pink and yellow. I ran my fingers over the torn edges of the seams, thinking that a little glue would make it look new again. I wanted to love that house, but it was never my home, not like the home where I grew up.

  Phyllis and the church ladies descended upon our new home like a flock of birds feathering a nest. It was nerve-wracking watching them inspect every corner of the house, making sounds as they nodded their heads but not saying anything to me. I followed their gazes, trying to determine if they approved of our house or thought it was a sorry-looking place. After inspecting the backyard, they came back in and started chatting away.

  “I have some pieces of furniture just sitting in our garage—a small sofa, chairs with comfortable cushions, and decorative pillows,” Phyllis said. “I’ll have one of the boys bring those over for the living room.”

  “And we have a large kitchen table we don’t use any longer,” said one of the other ladies. “It’ll look good in your kitchen. There are six chairs that match too. I’ll have my husband bring those this weekend.”

  Another added, “The folding chairs taking up space in our attic will work in your backyard for something to sit on while you’re watching the children play.”

  “I’d better talk to Henry first,” I said. “He may want us to live with things as they are until we can buy furniture.” But I began to imagine how different the house would look with more and better things sharing the space with us.

  “Don’t worry about Henry,” Phyllis said. “I’ll have my husband speak to him, tell him it’s important for the church ladies to do what needs doing. You should let him know about our plans.”

  That night I made Henry’s favorite meal. The house smelled as delicious as I knew the meatloaf would taste. While he was deep into enjoying his dinner, I said, “Phyllis and the ladies were here today. They liked the house and had suggestions on how I can decorate. They even offered to bring furniture, pieces that’ll fill in the empty spots. They’ll have it brought over this weekend.”

  “Don’t want other people’s furniture,” he grunted.

  “It was smart of you to work out a deal with your buddy for us to rent this place. Phyllis was very impressed—she said she’d talk to the Reverend about how you’ve done well by your family and how the church ladies would like to help out. We could invite the Reverend over to see our home, once it’s presentable.”

  “She was impressed?”

  “Yes, they all were—said this is a good neighborhood, close to church, and the house is one of the best on the block. It just needs some freshening. And we do need furniture. Is it okay to let them bring a few pieces? Once we buy our own, we can give it back or share it with someone else.”

  He grew quiet and kept eating the meal. I helped the children and anxiously waited for Henry to respond.

  “She’s talking to the Reverend about our house?” he asked.

  “Said she would, probably tonight.”

  He finished his supper and got up to clean his shoes. One of the first things he’d done when we moved into the house was to set up a corner by the back door for his shoe-cleaning materials. There were several shallow shelves behind the door that had probably been used to store jars at one time. The tins of shoe polish, brushes, and rags fit neatly on the shelves. Henry had cleaned the area meticulously before placing his things there and standing back to admire the collection of items.

  Now, as he was buffing one of his shoes, he said, “They can bring the furniture, but don’t go behind my back again. Understand?”

  “Yes, Henry,” I replied.

  “And I want to invite the Reverend over soon, so make sure everything looks good.”

  They showed up early Saturday morning with two trucks and several cars full of furniture and other household items. Henry greeted Phyllis at the front door as though he were welcoming special guests to his private manor. She brushed past him as if he weren’t even there.

  I WAS HALFWAY through Lady Chatterley’s Lover bef
ore the children’s stirring caught my attention. I tore myself away from Constance and Oliver’s lives to reenter my own and begin the everyday tasks that occupied my time and sensibilities as a wife and mother. I felt as though I should take a shower to help me regain control and make it easier to attend to the children, but I didn’t want to wash away the lover’s heat from my body or consciousness.

  Wednesday night couldn’t come fast enough for me. I’d finished the book by Saturday and hoped to speak to Charles on Sunday, but that didn’t happen. He ignored me. I tried to get his attention when he sat in the pew across the aisle from where I was sitting with Henry and the children, but he looked the other way. He didn’t offer to help in the kitchen either. Every time the door swung open I turned, expecting to see him stride in with a warm smile and offer to help. But he stayed away.

  Phyllis asked, “You seem distracted—what’s wrong, Nell?”

  “Nothing, just have things on my mind,” I said.

  “Is everything all right at home?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Henry?”

  “You know how it is.”

  “By the way, Charles won’t be in the kitchen any more. I told him we’d be just fine without the extra hands. Seemed like he was glad to go straight home.”

  I had to wait until Wednesday to let Charles know how much I’d enjoyed Lady Chatterley’s Lover, how pleased I was that he wanted to share this particular story with me, and how my nights had become restless with thoughts of a love as profound as theirs. I paced the kitchen and the children’s room of the church, waiting for him to arrive. After a while I sat in one of the chairs in the kitchen, then moved to the little children’s chairs, then tried the overstuffed chairs in the sitting area just outside the main meeting space. I jumped up when I heard Charles say, “Hello, Nell.”

  “Hi,” I replied. “I was deciding on the best place to sit.”

  “Come with me. I think the children’s room is cozy.” He took my hand and led me to one of the low tables that I used when reading to the children. He guided me into a chair and then positioned himself in one facing me. His legs straddled my knees, which were pressed together. He leaned forward, brushed a wisp of hair away from my right eye, and said, “Did you enjoy the book?”