Читать книгу The Bernice L. McFadden Collection - Bernice L. McFadden - Страница 13

Chapter Four

Sadie was dead, and it was the best for everyone really, because her particular type of magic would have been useless in that situation.

So, Coraline took Doll to the reverend.

“You can have her,” Coraline said, and shoved Doll roughly toward him. “Ain’t no good in her, only Esther, and she’s all bad.”

The reverend’s eyes swung wildly between Coraline and her sobbing daughter.

“Sister Coraline, I can’t—”

Coraline backed away. “Nah, nah, Reverend, you gotta take her or I’ma kill her for sure,” she warned as she raised her right palm to the sky. “I swear to God, I will kill this child and then the blood ain’t gonna just be on my hands, your hands gonna be red too.”

August Hilson gently took hold of Doll’s arm and she flinched in pain. That’s when he noticed the black and blue bruises.

“My Lord,” he whispered in horror, “did you beat this child?”

Coraline was already walking away. She turned her head slightly and slung, “No, Reverend. I didn’t beat Doll; I beat the whore inside of her.”

August led Doll into the house and guided her to the sofa. “Sit here,” he said, and then disappeared into the kitchen.

His wife Ann was standing over the sink, stuffing seasoned rice into the belly of a raw chicken. “Who was that at the door?” she queried without turning around to look at him.

“Ann.”

The seriousness in her husband’s voice was heartstopping. Ann slowly turned to face him. August was gray.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

In the living room, Doll could hear August’s hushed explanation, which was followed by Ann’s shrill “She did what?”

In a moment, Ann was at Doll’s side, cradling her against her bosom.

“My sweet, sweet Jesus,” she murmured. “What kind of mother would do this to her own flesh and blood?”

August shook his head in dismay. “Caroline is hot now. Maybe in a day or two—”

Ann’s head snapped up. “In a day or two what? Don’t tell me you’re thinking about sending this poor child back to that woman?”

August was thinking exactly that.

“Oh, I won’t have it, August. Next time might be the last time for this little girl. Doll is staying right here with us.”

August and Ann had a child of their own named Vesta. A six-year-old with a lisp and tender ways. At the dinner table that night, Vesta shoveled forkfuls of steamed rice and baked chicken into her mouth, all the while keeping her eyes glued to Doll.

After dinner, Ann dressed Doll in one of her halfslips. “You’ll wear this until I can find you a decent nightgown,” Ann said, before tucking the girl into bed alongside Vesta.

She read them a story, and planted soft kisses on each of their foreheads. The “I love you” Ann shared before closing the bedroom door was big enough for both girls.

In the darkness Vesta whispered, “I been praying for a sister.”

Doll’s hand moved across the empty space between them, found Vesta’s hand, and squeezed it. “Me too,” she said.

Doll slipped into the Hilson family as easily as a lost puzzle piece they didn’t know was missing.

“See, I told you,” Ann commented to August one day as she sat darning socks, “that Coraline was the crazy one. Doll’s been nothing but a joy.” She smiled to herself, knotted the stitch, and then used her teeth to sever the thread. “She’s just the sweetest thing.”

August, who was seated across the room sucking on his pipe and reading the newspaper, nodded in agreement.

A few years later, Ann’s words—She’s just the sweetest thing—would float back to August as he slid inside of Doll and exploded into a million points of light.