Tuesday, June 13, 2006

THE MOON IT GIVES NO LIGHT

CHAPTER THREE

“There’s many a star that shall jingle in the west,
There’s many a leaf below,
There’s a many a damn will light upon a man
For serving a poor girl so.”
"The False Young Man" sung by T. Jeff Stockton, Flag Pond, Tennessee, September 3, 1916


“Bethany, Melody, Samuel. Get cracking. It’s a long drive home.”
Mary called the trio to help gather up the remnants of the hot dog and iced tea sale.
The twenty or so dogs they’d sold tonight meant seven dollars and change to add to their account at the Mountain Cove Bank. Nickels and dimes added up.
Ingles in Tellico donated the hot dogs, buns, and fixings. Mountain Home Bible Baptist in Madisonville, the county seat, supplied the napkins, tea, and sugar. Elvira had loaned Mary her commercial cooker, so the dogs and buns were irresistible. Without such generous help, all their efforts wouldn’t break even, let alone make a profit.
Anyone who came to any of her VISTA activities was delivered right to their doorstep, no matter how late it might be, or how far up the torturous, twisting tracks a kid lived. Parents didn’t have any cause to complain. Some jokingly referred to her as Mary’s Mountain Taxi.
This winter past there had been several late nights driving back from the skating rink in Madisonville. Luckily, there was a movie theatre there, too, so she didn’t have to drive to Knoxville. But no matter where they went, picking up the kids from Spring Creek and taking them back home added a good hour one?way to any trip. Sometimes she put in a full eight?hour workday driving, not counting the activity she’d planned. Many nights her Ford was the only thing moving on the road besides possums and coons.
Mary made a quick mental tally: the Shelton Laurel Recreation Center had $87.56 in the bank. The sum represented a Herculean effort. A hundred bucks was their goal. A couple more softball games and they’d make it.
Then she’d get some scraps of bright material and sew curtains on Elvira’s old Singer. She’d buy a dozen or so handmade chairs, the sturdy kind crafted by folks in these mountains. Hopefully, there’d still be some seed money left for the kids to have a dance or two in the fall, and hold another fund-raiser. Oatmeal cookies and hot, spiced cider would be good sellers on crisp, fall nights.
Mary would be far away, in New York, scurrying to class down crowded, concrete sidewalks, hunched against the chilly wind blowing off the East River. She’d be memorizing carefully drawn illustrations of the human body with acetate overlays depicting the different systems: muscular, skeletal, nervous. Peering intently through microscopes, she would find what she was looking for.
Her student nurse’s cap had arrived in the mail not too long ago, and she’d twirled on the wooden floor of the country store, modeling it for Elvira while the Coke cooler droned.
“Oh, honey, you look right smart. I’m so proud of you.”
Elvira’s words echoed now in Mary’s ears. If she only knew what the wild girl didn’t want to remember ? the trouble the wild girl got into when memory failed her ? Elvira wouldn’t be so quick to praise her, nurse’s cap or not.
Everyone was in the car, ready for the ride home. Before she pulled out onto the dark highway, Mary glanced into the rearview mirror at the three teenagers in the backseat. Blonde and wiry, they looked like they belonged here in these hills.
Earlier that evening Melody had reacted to Mary’s announcement that she’d be leaving in August. “Shoot, Miz Mary, I’m gonna pine for you something awful. What’re us kids gonna do without you?”
Bethany had chimed in, “That’s right. You make us feel good, like kids can do important stuff, too.” Samuel added, “Who’s gonna do that when you’re gone?”
Mary didn’t know what to say, but managed a placating, “You’ll do just fine without me.”
They weren’t convinced; she hadn’t been so sure, either. She knew from bitter experience just how difficult it was to believe in yourself when you lived with constant criticism.
And worse.
The big slab of rock with graffiti all over it loomed in her headlights. Over the years just about every graduating senior at Mountain High had left a mark. The next dirt track was the turnoff to the cove where her passengers lived. In a few years they’d be scrawling their own statements on that rock. Or so Mary hoped; she knew the dismal statistics. Over half of the incoming freshmen never strode across the small, scarred, wooden stage in the high school auditorium for their high school diploma.
Samuel, Melody, and Bethany were bright, but being smart wasn’t enough.
Teachers, administrators, parents, preachers ? everybody and everything seemed to conspire against the young people in Monroe County. Local logic maintained there was always tobacco, logging, and poaching deer for the boys; marriage, quilting, and babies for the girls. Not necessarily in that order, either.
School had been a trial for most of the parents and their kids weren’t encouraged to finish. The adults figured they’d managed to make it without much book learning. If living off the land was good enough for them, it was good enough for their kids. It was that simple.
There was nothing she could do about the odds stacked against Melody, Bethany, and Samuel. Her VISTA work was a Band?aid on arterial bleeding. She sighed in frustration.
Out loud she offered what she could, “Before I forget to tell you, thanks. You all were a big help today. I can see those curtains now.”
Bethany giggled. “I had to slap Sam’s hand. He sure was hungry for one of them dogs.”
Melody’s high voice piped up. “I told him to no never mind, and watch his paws, thank ye. We ain’t gonna ‘et up our profits, son.”
Samuel’s grin grew even wider, and he ducked his head, embarrassed that the girls had told on him.
“Hang in there, Samuel. You, too, Melody, Beth. When we get our $100 dollars, we’ll have our own hot dog roast. Some’mores, too, and seconds for everyone. My treat. You’ve earned a play party.”
Anticipation flared like shooting stars in the three pairs of blue eyes. Stone soup was still popular fare in these mountains.
Fireflies flickered beneath the trees as she navigated the Ford down the narrow lanes that branched off the main dirt track, and dropped her passengers off, one by one.
“’Night, see you soon.”
“’Bye, Maa?ree,” each one called, their accents thick as smoke in their throats.
* * *
Alone, Mary breathed in the night, which was sweet like ripe fruit ready to be plucked.
Brian had agreed to meet her at the pullover on Folsom Gap. As she drove the dirt roads back to the twisting blacktop, a chorus of cicadas rang out from every grove she passed. The rhythmic droning of the insects matched the mood she was in.
Twenty minutes later the taillights of Brian’s car glowed red as he backed his car in beside hers. “Oh, good,” she whispered. She wanted him. Bad. She’d been afraid he wouldn’t show, and later stammer some lame excuse when she saw him around town.
She had on a loose, Indian print flowered skirt, and a blouse that tied in the front; her legs were bare. She wasn’t wearing underwear. Sex was easier dressed this way, she’d discovered, and wondered why no one realized that when they insisted on the purity of feminine skirts and dresses over the supposed provocation of masculine jeans. Maybe easier access was the reason the self?appointed morals police preferred women in dresses. Preachers were men, too. She shut off her thoughts and the car, got out, and walked over to Brian.
Leaning into the open passenger window, she smiled and said, “Hi.”
His face in shadow, he answered, “Hi. Come on, get in.”
Mary heard what she hoped was impatient ardor in his voice, but most likely he was worried someone would spot them. Vehicles were few and far in between at this time of night, but Brian didn’t like to add to the talk about them. Once, in fact, he’d complained that meeting on the sly cheapened his work here in the county.
Angered by the blatant double standard, she’d wanted to ask, “What about my work?” But, unwilling to risk losing him, she’d kept silent. She’d been too pushy with Jeff and he’d tired of her soon enough.
When she opened the door, Brian grabbed her waist and pulled her down, sliding over to make room for her. He thrust his tongue into her mouth when he kissed her. He didn’t waste time; she liked that about him. His hand moved up her leg toward the crotch of her panties. Her excitement mounted as he slipped his fingers inside her. She arched her back, matching the rhythm of his hand with her hips.
Brian sat up suddenly and pushed her head into his lap. She knew what he wanted without being told.
“That’s good. You like that won’t you?”
The wild girl thrilled at his rough tone, while Mary watched her lips move up and down. A cat lapping cream straight from the bottle, she wasn’t surprised when the bottle burst; she’d pushed it over the edge.
Like a cat, Mary contemplated the results, her blue gaze detached and clinical. She licked her lips and tasted salt.
Brian played with her hair, coiling a tendril of red curl around his finger. She liked being petted, and pushed her head into the palm of his hand just like Katz and Jammer did when she stroked them. She wanted to make a purring sound, but was afraid to try; he’d think she was being silly.
Resting her head on his chest, she listened to his heart racing. She’d done that. Made him speak an ancient language, the drumming deep inside the body. Blood spilled through the chambers of his heart, then emptied. Systole. Diastole. The many rooms of the heart where blood and love lived.
When he was quiet like this, playing with her hair, or kissing her eyes, she felt like a green plant, tropic, moving toward the light of his love and care.
“I brought some rope. I have a new idea. Wanna try it out?”
Hearing the suppressed excitement in his voice, she didn’t know what to say. The rhythm of his heart was erratic now, unpredictable. Dangerous.
Grabbing her by the hair, Brian brought her face up next to his. Her eyes brimmed with an old fear, but the man looking into them saw only desire.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Brian let her go and reached down beneath the car seat; he brought out the coil of rope. The cord trailing across her buttocks felt silky, not rough like she’d expected. Like a horse trying to shake off horseflies, her skin quivered, an involuntary, muscular response.
He pushed her face down on the seat and began to tie her hands behind her back, drawing the rope tight around her wrists. He was good with knots, knew all sorts for camping and sailing; he’d learned in Boy Scouts. She couldn’t move her arms and welcomed the burn of the rope as she struggled against it. Then he tied her ankles together.
Brian leaned back and stared at his handiwork. The body beneath him was still and white. He’d trapped the very moon, stopped it from rising above the rocky ridge. Aroused by the trembling flesh, he plunged his hand between her legs and roughly rubbed her clit. She writhed and twisted like a snake he’d run over once with his car. He couldn’t see her face. She could be anyone. The anonymity was more pleasurable than he’d anticipated. Ready again, he thrust into her from behind.
Her face jammed into the car seat, Mary had difficulty breathing; her wrists and ankles chafed at the rope. The wild girl was ablaze with excitement. She lived in a country called Contradiction. Pleasure. Pain. Go with the flow, Contrary Mary, she heard a voice say. Good advice. She followed it through Brian’s orgasm and her own.
He whispered, “Maybe, I won’t untie you. Just leave you here overnight, locked in your car. Or toss you out by the side of the road. I could, you know.”
She struggled to sit up, which was difficult to manage with her legs immobilized and her hands tied behind her back. She flopped like a fish on a hook. Her breasts were twin moons. Brian reached to pluck them out of the sky; she winced as he twisted and pinched her nipples.
“See?”
She most certainly did. The wild girl was dancing on the border now, trying to find her way without a map.
“Brian Woods, untie me this very minute,” Mary scolded. “What if someone came along and found me like this? Wouldn’t that be a juicy scandal? VISTA would love it.” She’d chosen exactly the right words. Brian shook his head like someone waking from a spell. “Yeah, enough fun and games for tonight.” He loosened his expert knots. Silently, she righted her blouse and skirt, feeling his eyes follow her every move.
Finally, he asked, “Did you like that? The rope, I mean.”
Mary turned toward him, trying to see into his eyes; she couldn’t, but she remembered how his heart beat its rhythms in her ear.
The wild girl skirted the edge of a steep and unfamiliar country.
Like the precipitous drop along the higher reaches of the mountain road Brian had pointed out to her last winter. The trees and shrubs had been bare. At the bottom of the canyon, near the silver ribbon of river twining its way through the rock, was a crumpled heap of metal. The car was so far away it looked like one of her brothers’ toys. Mary imagined the squeal of tires as the vehicle skidded off the road, crashed through the trees, and plummeted, a stomach-churning, thousand-foot fall.
She recalled feeling a frisson, a tiny flick of terror.
“Yeah, I, I...did. I really did,” she stammered now, startled by her reply.
* * *
Watching Brian pull out onto the road, lights off, coasting in the direction of his cabin, Mary inhaled the sea-spray fuck odor clinging to her like perfume. Her body was still excited.
Just before they’d parted, she’d casually mentioned her threesome fantasy to Brian. He’d been interested, she could tell.
“I pick the guy, though, OK? It’ll be a surprise.”
Mary had agreed. The mystery added to the excitement. They would meet at his place for dinner Friday. He’d invite a small group of folks over, including Mr. X. They’d wait until everyone left and then do it to her all night long, just like the wild girl wanted.
Mary rubbed her wrists one at a time, letting the Ford find its own way, while she soothed the burn from the parachute cord. Her ankles would have to wait.
Brian said a factory had been making the stuff in Coker Creek. When it closed, lots of folks managed to get some. Strong and flexible, it was perfect for the many jobs on a farm needing rope.
How would the silky cord look on her imaginary quilt?
Stitched by unseen hands ? just like in a fairy tale ? the stuff made a perfect piping, nicely framing the reds and purples of her labia and the pink of her nipples. She’d ask Brian to cut some for her, a souvenir of their steamy, seamy sex.
During the long, cold winter in New York, she’d start on the quilt she could see in her head. When she was finished, she’d hang it proudly over her bed; a flag, a banner declaring that she was a sexual being. She would inhabit a new country, a place where she’d remember everything that had ever happened to her. She’d put each and every tear and drop of blood, every laugh of delight, and scream of pain and orgasm into that quilt.
What would her parents think? They were certain to arrive for a visit, especially now that Daddy was retired. The Morans enjoyed the New York Broadway scene, and bought tickets for at least one hit play each season. They usually made a long weekend out of their trip to the city. Her mother loved to hunt for bargains at the swanky stores on Fifth Avenue.
Mary could hear Belinda’s gasp when she saw her daughter’s needlework. Her cheeks flamed red. The flush of embarrassment spread down her throat, below the starched collar of her blouse. Mary was fiddling in the closet, pretending to look for something, but she kept an eye on her mother.
In the end, Belinda ignored the stories portrayed on the quilt, just as she ignored everything else about the real life of her daughter, preferring the make-believe scenarios in her head to the truth.
“What unusual work, Mary. Did you make it yourself?” her mother would ask.
Maybe Mary would tell her what her Daddy had done to her while Belinda looked the other way, just like she was looking then, anywhere, except at the quilt.
The road snaked through ridges hunched against the night sky. The moon was a pair of horns in the west. The bright eye of Venus gazed relentlessly in the final hours before dawn.
She rehearsed just how she would tell her mother.
“Daddy did it to me for years, you know, Mama, while you were out playing bridge. Ha, ha. I tried to get away from the house when I could. Took walks. Went to youth group. Sometimes I couldn’t escape. I lived there, you know. Your daughter; his, too. It was awful feeling trapped, but sometimes what he did to me made me feel good, like nothing I’d ever felt before. I was confused. My body wasn’t my own, but belonged to him. Bad things made me feel good. My father did bad things to me. I must be a very naughty girl for him to do these things. That’s what he said, too. I was only fourteen. There was no one to tell me what was right, what was wrong. I had to try and sort it out myself.
“I thought about confessing to Father Frank, but I was afraid of what he’d do, the names he’d call me. Maybe he’d refuse to give me absolution until I stopped, and how could I stop it. I’d be cast out of God’s church then. If I died ? and I wanted to believe me ? I would be buried without a Requiem Mass in unhallowed ground. I’d never get to heaven. Never, ever see the face of God. These things were important to me. Then. So I kept my mouth shut.
“Remember how quiet I got? You called me your A student. Your good girl.
“How come you never guessed what kind of man you’d married? Or did you know, and choose to ignore the truth of what went on in your very own house, afraid you’d lose him if you complained?”
Mary parked the car by the white house where the two cats waited, put her head down on the steering wheel, and sobbed. She’d never be able to say those words out loud to her mother.
How could she?
Over the rim of the dash the stars wheeled in the darkness. There was her hope, the North Star. She listened to the melody of Laurel Creek, and the sound soothed her. There was nothing she could do about any of it now, except remember. The past was over and done.
Water under the bridge, the Lieutenant Colonel liked to say.
Even if she did somehow manage to utter the terrible truth to her mother, he’d deny it all. The years of using his only daughter, a fiction of her imagination. Her accusation, a betrayal of the familial trust. He’d call her whore and worse.
She could hear him now.
Her father might even kill her in his rage; he was capable of murder. Everyone in the family was aware of the anger simmering in his blood like a malarial fever. No one ever spoke of it, preferring to tiptoe around him, praying he wouldn’t boil over, trying not to get scalded when, inevitably, he did.
The night her mother hadn’t cooked his T-bone just right - medium rare - Belinda had been distracted by a tussle Steven and John had gotten into. An argument over something that had happened at school. Some game they’d been playing. Who’d won. Who’d lost. Kid stuff.
Adolphus was in the den, sipping a martini, relaxing. A Navy lawyer, he worked in a constant pressure cooker. Everyone left him alone before supper; they knew better than to cause trouble.
Her mother turned away from the broiler for just a minute really, but that minute had done it.
Or overdone it. Mary laughed at her own pun, recalling that night. The sound that came out of her mouth was brief and bitter.
Her father sat down a few minutes later and cut into his steak; the muscle in his jaw started twitching. A telltale sign. Mary spotted it first. Steven and John stopped eating and stared.
Belinda was finishing up at the stove and had her back to them. She turned to take her seat at the table. The steak came flying through the air and hit her on the side of her head, leaving a streak of blood and grease across her cheek, and the sculpted curls of her sprayed hair. Belinda’s mouth fell open, but she didn’t make a sound.
In a cold, tight voice Adolphus said, “This isn’t fit to eat. Fix another.”
Without a word, her mother got up and went to the refrigerator. Luckily, there was another steak to cook. Medium rare, this time. The only way the Lieutenant Colonel liked it.
When Belinda placed the new steak on his plate, the four of them held their collective breath, waiting for his verdict. He didn’t say anything, but cut into the meat with a knife, stabbed a piece onto his fork, put it into his mouth, and chewed. The steak must have been broiled just right. The Lieutenant Colonel cleaned his plate, while his family watched his cheek, the bites of meat he swallowed, and listened to the clicking sound his teeth made as he bit down on the fork. No one else ate much that night.
There had been too many scenes like that. It wasn’t difficult for Mary to imagine her mother standing by, helpless as usual, while her husband struck their only daughter down.
The Catholics insisted there was very little difference between the sins of commission and those of omission. Take your pick, folks, Door Number One, or Door Number Two?
Mary watched Belinda hand her husband the knife he’d plunge into her daughter. Like Abraham gripping the blade pointed at poor Isaac’s heart. In the name of the Lord. Only Mary didn’t expect the Lord to stop her father’s hand. Or her mother’s, either.
Exhausted, Mary leaned back against the car seat. She was tied up even without ropes, that was certain.
Would she ever be free?
The sound of water making its own way over the rocky creek bed was the only reply.

25 Comments:

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