Читать книгу The Bernice L. McFadden Collection - Bernice L. McFadden - Страница 14

Chapter Five

When Doll turned fifteen years old, Ann baked a three-layer lemon cake to celebrate the occasion. The family sang happy birthday, then Doll blew out the candles and received as a gift her first pair of nylons. Three days later, Ann and August celebrated their tenth wedding anniversary. At the church, an excited Ann joined her husband at the pulpit with a folded square of paper clutched in her hand. The words on the paper were filled with love and exaltations— words that any husband would have been proud to hear his wife recite.

August was taken off guard.

“A speech?” he squawked in surprise. Ann nudged him gently aside and positioned herself squarely behind the podium.

Her eyes sailed over the black and brown faces that looked back at her before settling on the encouraging smiles of Doll and Vesta who were seated in the front pew with their hands folded daintily in their laps.

Ann cleared her throat, unfolded the paper, and began: “My husband and I have been married for ten wonderful years … When I was a child, I prayed that the Lord would send me a God-fearing man, a gentle and kind man, who would make a good husband and a good father …”

Ann stalled. She’d come across a word that she couldn’t quite make out and so apologized for the interruption and raised the paper eye-level to try to figure out what she’d written. The paper slipped from her hand and floated down to the floor. Ann giggled with embarrassment and both she and August stooped to retrieve it—that’s when Doll coughed.

It was a loud and boisterous cough that drew the attention of not only her surrogate parents, but quite a few church members as well. The husband and wife turned their heads in the girl’s direction and Ann saw the thing she was not supposed to see.

Her eyes bulged and her smile stretched into a hard line. When she turned to August, his lips were forming the words: Ann, please, please.

Ann shot straight up.

The congregation shifted uncomfortably in their pews. Something had happened—was happening—but they didn’t know what. Ann backed away from August and his pleading eyes. When he reached for her, she looked down at his hand with such horror and disdain that one would have thought it belonged to the devil himself.

“No!” Ann screamed as she viciously slashed the air with the slip of paper.

Fear and confusion rippled through the church, people jumped to their feet, and in a moment, twenty concerned congregants, including Vesta, surrounded Ann.

“No, no, no!” Ann continued to bellow.

Doll remained in her pew, calmly watching Ann unravel.

Gloria Hardy was a beefy woman who had raised seven boys alone. She had been mother and father, protector and punisher, to those children. Her rise through the church ranks to become a deaconess was an accomplishment she was especially proud of.

It was Gloria who smashed through the circle of parishioners and grabbed Ann by the shoulders. Her intention was to force Ann down into a pew, before she tripped over her own feet and seriously hurt herself. But Ann, out of her mind with what she had seen, sunk her teeth into Gloria’s aiding hand and Gloria forgot where she was and who she was and hauled off and punched Ann square in the nose.

By the time Gloria realized what she’d done, Ann’s limp body was splayed out on the floor like a rag doll.

Back at the house, Ann was in bed, propped up on two pillows. Gloria had dressed Ann’s swollen nose in gauze, lain a cool cloth over her head, and offered a thousand apologies before August was finally able to send her home.

When Ann finally regained consciousness, August was seated in a chair, which he had dragged in from the kitchen and set across the room against the wall.

Ann’s eyes fluttered open. The room appeared to be draped in tissue and August looked like an apparition.

“Ann?”

She gently touched her bandaged nose and winced. She was grateful for the pain, the pain allowed her to know that she was not dead.

August stood and crept across the room. “Ann?” he called again, this time from the foot of the bed. Their eyes locked and Ann’s stomach turned over. She thought she would be sick.

“August,” she began in a surprisingly even tone, “she didn’t have any bloomers on.”

August winced at her words.

“Don’t tell me you didn’t … notice.”

He looked off to the window and muttered, “I didn’t.”

Ann smirked. “You’ve been my husband for ten years; you think I don’t know when you’re lying to me?”

“I’m not lying.”

“Look at me.”

August’s gaze swept quickly across Ann’s face and settled on the bare wall behind the bed.

“Are you fucking her?”

August gasped. She had never used that type of language, ever.

“Ann!”

He wasn’t fucking Doll, but he had, in all fairness to you, dear reader, dreamed about fucking her.

You see, four months earlier, on Easter Sunday morning, August had seen Doll primping in the looking glass that hung on the wall in the bedroom she shared with Vesta. He happened to be walking by and the door was ajar, open just enough for him to glimpse Doll standing before the mirror straightening the bow in her hair and smoothing her hands down the pleats of her skirt. The girl pursed her lips and demurely batted her eyes at the vision that looked back at her, and August couldn’t help but chuckle.

Doll went stiff, and August thought she sensed him standing there. But the moment seemed to come and go. Doll brushed a speck of lint from her collar and then brought her hand to her neck and started to stroke it.

August watched, mesmerized, until Ann called the family for breakfast.

In the church that day, on the pulpit, August made eye contact with everyone except Doll. Only when he uttered the first lines that would close the day’s service did he chance a glance in her direction and was stunned to find the girl was not just looking at him—she was glowering.

An Easter egg hunt followed Sunday service. On the front lawn, the elders sat at picnic benches and younger members spread blankets. Children squealed with delight as they dashed from one discovery to the next, gathering dyed eggs. Doll was too old to participate in the hunt, but was more than happy to shadow Vesta in her pursuit.

The beautiful afternoon faded into a spectacular evening. The North Star was the first of its clan to make an appearance. Loons struck up a serenade and scores of fireflies pulsated through the night air. One by one, people gathered themselves to leave.

Good night, Reverend.

Happy Easter, Reverend.

August and Ann were seated at one of the picnic tables, holding hands and gazing up at the night sky.

“It was good day, wasn’t it?” Ann said as she rested her head on her husband’s shoulder.

“It was a glorious day.”

Ann grinned.

“Where are the girls?”

Ann straightened up and looked around. “They’re around here somewhere,” she said. “I just saw them a moment ago.”

“They’re probably in the back. You wait here; I’ll go and get them.”

August rounded the church and spotted Vesta and Doll seated on the grass with their legs stretched out like matchsticks. A wicker basket heaped with colorful eggs rested between them. Doll’s arm was extended over her head, the tip of her index finger trained at the sky.

“That there is the Big Dipper and the one over there is the Little Dipper …”

Vesta cooed with wonder.

“Okay, my little stargazers, it’s time to head home,” August announced upon his approach.

“Daddy, I think I got a splinter,” Vesta said, and curled her right foot onto her lap.

“You did?” August eased down, took Vesta’s foot into his hand, and examined the sole.

“Do you see it, Daddy?”

August shook his head. “It’s too dark. Your mother will take a look at it when we get home.”

“I looked and I didn’t see no splinter,” Doll murmured.

August patted the top of Vesta’s foot. “Come on now, your mother’s waiting.”

Vesta rose to her feet, grabbed her shoes, and limped across the grass. August stood, brushed torn blades of grass from the knees of his trousers, and peered down at Doll.

“You too, let’s go.”

Doll demurely presented her hand and said, “Please help me up, Daddy August.”

She had started calling him that just days after Coraline had abandoned her on his porch. Daddy August. She’d said it a million times, but never in that slithering tone. The hair on August’s neck and arms spiked.

He took her hand and tugged, but Doll snatched it away and tumbled down to the ground, laughing. Her dress flew up, revealing smooth thighs and the pyramidshaped mass of pubic hair between them.

August’s eyes popped with surprise and he began stupidly stammering: “What … why …”

Doll’s laughter turned raucous.

“Shut up,” he whispered, looking fearfully over his shoulder. “Shut up and pull down your dress.”

August wanted to slap her, kick her, and stomp her face until her mouth was swollen shut. The visions flashed recklessly through his mind, though he couldn’t bring himself to do anything other than demand her silence.

“Shut up! Shut up!”

Finally, Doll stopped laughing.

After pulling her dress down and wiping the tears from her eyes, she extended her hand once again.

It was all August could do to keep from spitting on her. He stormed off, and Doll jumped to her feet and skipped along behind him.

The ride home was quiet and tense. In the carriage, Ann stared curiously at her husband’s rigid back.

“You okay?”

“Fine.”

In the house, she asked again and was met with the same stiff, cold response. Ann sighed, leaned over, pressed a soft kiss onto his cheek, and bid him goodnight.

An eerie quiet, as still as pond water, filled the house. August settled himself into his favorite chair, reached for the Bible on the side table, and pressed it against his heart. His mind was reeling, grappling with and trying to comprehend what he had seen, the way Doll had behaved.

Why in the world wasn’t she wearing any undergarments? Should he tell Ann? Was the girl possessed? Could his own daughter be next?

August gave his head a violent shake, but the images and the questions held fast.

A door creaked open and he fixed his gaze expectantly on the narrow hallway that led to the bedrooms. Soon, Doll appeared.

August stiffened.

“Yes, Daddy August?” Doll yawned.

August couldn’t speak.

“You called me?”

Had he?

August tightened his grip on the Bible.

Maybe he had.

“Come here, Doll.” His tone was soft, but uneven.

The girl stumbled sleepily toward him. Beneath the flickering glow of the oil lamp, she looked like the same sweet child he had welcomed into his home and raised as his own. Perhaps, he thought as he lowered the Bible down into his lap, he had imagined the spectacle.

After all, the day had been unusually warm. The sun had not been blistering—but hot enough to do damage to the senses. And he had been out without a hat. Not to mention his overindulgence of cured ham, buttered rolls, raspberry pie, and sweet tea. The combination could muddle the mind of any sane man. Couldn’t it?

Of course it could, he told himself. Well, the proof was standing right next to him. He couldn’t recall summoning Doll, but he must have, because there she was.

Embarrassed and ashamed, August hooked his pinky finger to Doll’s and said, “Did you enjoy yourself today?”

She shot him a quizzical look. “Uhm, yes, Daddy August, I did.”

“Good, good,” August mumbled. “Now go on back to bed.”

Over the days and weeks that followed, August tried to live his life as if that night had never happened and he had not seen that dark pyramid. But it haunted his waking and sleeping hours, and soon he found himself wondering about the treasure it hid. In his dreams, he did not have to wonder. In his dreams, Doll handed him the key and he would plunder and pilfer that pyramid until the roosters sang.

But outside of his dream state, he had not laid an unfatherly hand on the girl!

“I did not do this thing, Ann, you must believe me!” August wailed.

“Liar!” Ann screamed, then flew from the bed, pounced on August, and began pummeling him with her fists. “Youlowdownnogoodsonofabitch!”

August tried his best to fend her off, but Ann’s rage overpowered him. He would not hit her back, he was not that type of man, so he crumpled to the floor and suffered the abuse.

Seemingly satisfied that she had brought her husband to tears, Ann fled from the room and down the hall in search of Doll. In the bedroom, Vesta was crouched down and pressed into a corner. When Ann burst in, Vesta shrieked with fear.

“Where is she?” Ann screeched.

The wide-eyed Vesta aimed a shaky finger toward the open window.

Outside, Ann circled the house, looked behind pecan trees, the outhouse, and underneath the porch.

Doll was nowhere to be found.

Ann marched from one house to the next, pounding on doors and shouting August’s and Doll’s transgressions into the stunned faces of those who dared answer.

“Your man of God! Your reverend is fucking that devil he brought into our home!”

August trailed Ann, offering apologies to the neighbors.

“Forgive her, she is not well. I think she has fever.”

He pleaded: “Ann, please stop this nonsense. Come back home and let me get a doctor to see about you!”

She stooped down, gathered a fistful of pebbles, and pelted him. “Get away from me!”

Doubling back to the house, Ann went inside, shut and bolted the door.

August pounded on the door for three hours. He pounded until the side of his hand was raw as fresh meat, but Ann never allowed him reentry. He spent the night in the carriage, wrapped in the stinking, rough blanket he used to cover the horse.

The next morning, he was awakened by the sound of his wife’s voice issuing demands: “Put that there. Careful now, don’t break it.”

August rolled back the blanket and peered out into the hazy light. Two men were hauling items from the house. One man August recognized as Ann’s brother, Smith.

A chair, two side tables, crates filled with dishes, pots, pans, bed linens, drapes—all was loaded onto Smith’s wagon.

Vesta shuffled out of the house and plopped down onto the top step of the porch. Her head was bowed, and August knew that her eyes were swimming with sadness.

His heart tugged.

Ann stepped out, pressed her fists into her hips, tilted her head toward the sky, and took a deep breath. She had never looked happier.

“Is this it?” Smith asked.

Ann nodded. “Yes, it’s all I want.” She looked down at Vesta. “We are going to be fine, you hear me? Just fine.”

August would forever look back on that day, when his wife and child climbed onto that wagon and rolled out of his life, with great sadness and shame.

So you ask, why did he not leap from his hiding place, fall to his knees, and beg Ann to stay? While I know many things, there are many more that I do not know or understand. But I will speculate that in that moment, what was more important than his family or his reputation was his desire to bring his dreams to fruition.

After the wagon disappeared down the road, August went to sit on the porch steps. He sat until the sun was high in the sky and the flies took shelter in the shade. He sat until a rustling sound inside the house summoned his attention. He rose, stuffed his hands into the pockets of his trousers, and walked into the house. Doll was seated in his favorite chair, wearing nothing but the brown skin she was born with. Her legs were open and the dark pyramid was split in two, revealing a glittering pink star.

He was aware of the sound his boots made as he crossed the wooden floor. It was so loud he thought the entire world could hear him walking. When he reached her, he fell to his knees, grabbed hold of Doll’s waist, buried his face in her stomach, and began to weep.

The girl stroked his hair and patiently waited for him to unload his sorrow.

Afterward, of course, there was the suckling of the pink star, the heat and pulse of it against his tongue, and Doll’s moans, squeals, and writhing.

Poor August, a man of God, but still just a man, and now a doomed man.

After the coupling, the bursting into wild brilliant lights, August declared that he would follow Doll to the ends of the earth. Sorry to say that the only place she would lead him was to hell—which turned out not to be the fiery underworld he preached about, but right here on top of the world with me.