Bound by Blood and Brimstone (13 page)

Shortly after, Festus White wired our house. Quite an accomplishment, I thought, since

he was missing two fingers. When he was finished, we had a grand total of one outlet per room

and the miracle of electric lights.

Lorrie Beth's big thrill was turning on our new porch light so she could see somebody

coming if they decided to "sneak up on us in the middle of the night.” Never mind that she was

never up at that hour to see
anything
.

I didn't think Daddy was impressed with those glaring, overhead lights. He said they

gave him headaches, and he still kept his oil lamp by his chair for reading. It turned out to be a

good thing we kept our oil lamps. Otherwise, we would’ve been in complete darkness every time

we had a thunderstorm. Without fail, the power was knocked out with the first lightning flash.

Janine remained a permanent fixture at our place until the day she left for Alabama in

early August. She had become as much a part of my life as Lorrie Beth, and it seemed the three

of us were joined at the hip.

I'll never forget the day she left. It was raining. She dropped by early one morning with a

leather satchel in her hand, on her way to catch a bus in Hardin. As Lorrie Beth and I stood on

the porch to say our goodbyes, I had a clear and sudden vision in my little "window."

I saw a bright-eyed, tow-headed child in overalls, sobbing into her hands. It was there

and gone, like a candle winking out in a dark room, and the sorrow it left me with nearly choked

me. I didn’t have the words to tell Janine what was inside me then. All I could do was take her

hand and say, "Great summer, huh?"

"There'll be others, Cleo. Never doubt it.” Her eyes darkened almost to navy, and she

held my gaze for several seconds. "You watch out for Cat. Don't let Turd-face near her."

I swallowed hard, holding back the flood behind my eyes. "I won't."

She turned to Lorrie Beth. "Number one rock thrower in Warren County, right?” And

then she was gone.

The summer drew to a close and, without Janine, the days were longer. Daddy's work

hours at the mines picked up a bit, allowing us less time with him, and Momma kept us busy

filling her new freezer Daddy had bought for ten bucks. On the last Sunday before school started

back, I received two astounding pieces of news.

The first was revealed at church that morning. At the close of a frenzied sermon about the

fate of Judas Iscariot, Reese Watkins hit the congregation with a sledgehammer's blow. Rose

Hughes, the girl who’d made the fatal mistake of becoming a "whore just like her sister," was, in

Reese's words, a "fallen woman." In an attempt to flee her sin, she’d taken her own life. She was

now with Judas, he told us.

When Momma and Daddy arose from our bench to leave the building, I sat like a hunk of

stone until Lorrie Beth had to drag me up by the hand.
Maybe instead of fleeing from her sin, she

just wanted rid of those wagging tongues
. Those were the words that played in my head, like a

broken record, all the way home.

That night, after supper, I got the second piece of news from Momma. In the middle of

doing dishes, she told me about the trip she and Daddy had taken "on business" the day we’d

been left alone. They’d gone to see some kind of doctor because Momma thought she was sick,

the worst kind of sick, she told me. It was the kind of sickness even Wonnie couldn’t fix.

She was convinced that she had a cancerous tumor and wouldn’t live to see another year.

I nearly dropped one of her best plates and felt the blood drain from my face. Every part of me

had gone numb, and when I tried to speak, my mouth wouldn't work. I was helpless to do

anything but stand there and gape at her.

"After Angel passed, I guess everything was messed up inside, so I didn't know what was

wrong,” she said, her back to me as she emptied the dishpan. “For a while there, I believed I was

as good as dead. But, Ember Mae, God is with us.”

At last I found my lost voice and managed to stammer, "What? What's wrong with you

Momma?"

Her face was glowing when she turned and took one of my hands in hers. "I'm going to

have a baby. And you and Wonnie will deliver it."

As fall waxed and waned, Lorrie Beth and I waded through a new school term, and

Momma blossomed. Wonnie had predicted the baby would be a boy because Momma carried it

low in her belly and, of course, whatever Wonnie said was gospel. People always talk about the

“glow” pregnant women have. Even if it can be attributed to something as unromantic as

hormones, there’s something to be said for that look of a woman “with child,” especially when

that woman is loved by a man like my daddy.

I’d seen women in that condition swell until their features bloated and their eyes dulled,

leaving them to lumber about with the sluggishness of a sick elephant. In Momma’s case, her

skin grew luminous, her hair thick and glossy, her eyes vibrant.

Instead of languishing about with her rounded belly, she stepped more briskly, often with

a song on her lips. Watching her flit about the kitchen, up to her elbows in flour, or brushing out

her hair after her bath, I could’ve believed she was a teenager again, vigorous and ready to face

the world for the first time. I’d never seen her laugh more freely or accept Daddy’s kisses more

eagerly as she did then
. It’s like she’s
under a spell
, I thought.

One afternoon Lorrie Beth and I came in from school to find Momma glued to the

television, as twitchy as a cat’s tail before a big pounce. Daddy had surprised us with this marvel

one weekend in November following a furtive trip into Hardin.

“Girls, it’s official; we’ve now stepped into the modern world,” he’d declared before

turning on the newly installed set. We’d stood transfixed, sucked into the adventures of the

world’s smartest collie and her fair-haired boy master. It didn’t matter to us one bit that, of the

two channels we got, the reception was iffy at best.

We would simply adjust the set by hand while Daddy climbed the hill behind the house to

the antennae where he waited for one of us to signal him with the shotgun when the picture was

clear. We would’ve been just as willing for him to climb Mount Everest if it meant getting that

magic box to work, so it wasn’t particularly odd to see Momma watching it that day after school.

What we did find strange was her reaction.

“Come here you two, you’ve just got to see this,” she called when we cleared the

doorway with our books. Feverishly, she yanked us over to the set before we had time to speak.

“Look at this; it’s some kind of show about music, and they play records and dance, and it’s

wonderful! It’s called
American
Bandstand!
” She had her hands clasped together and was

practically vibrating where she stood, leaving me to wonder if it were possible for a pregnant

woman to explode.

On the screen, a mob of teenagers bobbed, swayed, and gyrated to Elvis’ “Jailhouse

Rock.” I had to admit to a certain tingling fascination as the beat roved through my blood like a

rogue pirate, but in the end, those middle class city kids didn’t have a thing on Momma. With a

savage cry of delight, she darted to the middle of the floor and stunned us with her own version

of the country’s latest craze.

With astonishing grace, her feet flew as she swiveled her hips and undulated her great

bulk, transforming into some kind of Madonna siren. Lorrie Beth had clapped her hand over her

mouth, her eyes the size of dinner plates, and I would’ve laughed if not for my own shock.

“Lady, who are you, and what have you done with my wife?” It was Daddy, standing in

the doorway, hardhat in hand, his coal-blackened face split by a mile-wide grin. It was my turn to

stifle a gasp then. We stood mutely, like intruders forced to take refuge in shadow, as Momma

danced over to him with smoldering eyes and pulled him hard against her.

“Will, Baby, come on and Jitterbug with me; I know you got the rhythm in you!” A

strange light flared up in Daddy’s eyes, his hot gaze melding with hers.

“Mona,” he chided, “you might hurt the baby.” But Momma would have her way. She

reached back for her hairpins and tossed her head to release their burden, a slow smile spreading

her lips. She laughed with abandon, like a child let out for the summer.

“No, this is good for the baby. He likes it!” Daddy chuckled and stepped back, grabbing

her hands and adding his own beat to Momma’s. They’d forgotten all about the two other people

in the room. It was some time during Elvis’ rendition of “Teddy Bear” before they remembered.

We were lucky enough to find a blue spruce for our Christmas tree, after searching the

woods an entire afternoon in bitter cold. It was perfectly shaped, full of needles, and without

holes or bare spots. Blue spruce was always my favorite, having an ethereal quality, as though

God commanded the snow to dust its surface, then changed His mind before it finished.

We dragged it off the mountain and into the front room, where it was draped with strands

of holly berries, popcorn, and big colored lights. Wonnie had come over a couple of days before

Christmas Eve to help Momma with the cleaning and baking, perfuming the house with yeast

and cinnamon. Upon seeing the finished tree, she’d shaken her head in disapproval.

“Electric lights,” she grumbled. “Next they will have trees that decorate themselves.” In

spite of her words, I noticed that she managed to sneak glances at the accursed thing every time

she thought no one was looking. She helped us hang the green woolen stockings over the mantle.

Momma had knitted them herself and, based on their gigantic size, she planned on using them for

one purpose. Daddy would never wear them; that much was sure.

On the big night after supper, Daddy read to us from the Bible all about Jesus’ birth, and

we sang carols. Of course, Wonnie Dean dragged each song completely out of tune, but Daddy’s

smooth baritone on “Away in a Manger” made up for it. Then we all sat in the dark staring at the

tree lights and the dancing fire in the grate, each of us wrapped in a pine-scented blanket of

warmth and our own thoughts.

“Off to bed with you two,” Momma said drowsily. “You’ll have a big day tomorrow, so

you better get some sleep.” She wasn’t telling us to get ready for Santa Claus. Our belief had

been of our own choosing. Daddy viewed Santa, I think, as a pagan tradition that Christians

didn’t need, but he never forbade us the childhood fantasy.

When we awoke Christmas morning, a deep covering of snow had swallowed the world

outside our window, painting everything we saw a pristine white. Naturally, the first thing we did

was run to the mantle to check the bulging stockings, packed to the brim with apples, nuts, and

hard candy.

“Don’t you dare start stuffing your faces with that candy before breakfast,” Momma

called from the kitchen. Those eyes in the back of her head never took a vacation, even for

holidays.

“Merry Christmas, girls!” Daddy exclaimed. He was wearing the only red shirt he owned,

his face clean-shaven, his black hair combed straight back off his broad forehead. Standing in the

doorway, grinning at us with his coffee mug in hand, he looked to be roughly eighteen, and for a

second my heart swelled and burned within me.
He’s so handsome
, I thought.
There’s not a

daddy in the entire world I’d trade him for
.

We always exchanged gifts after breakfast according to Momma’s rule, but first, there

were surprises from Santa. Lorrie Beth got a new doll - a cherub-faced baby in a swath of pink

ruffles. I got a brand new copy of Nancy Drew’s
The Clue of the Velvet Mask
and a Nancy Drew

Mystery Game.

Squirming through breakfast was no easy feat, knowing that more gifts waited, but when

the torture was finally over, it would be Daddy’s gift that dealt the heaviest blow. Momma had

gotten me a new, hard cover journal to keep my poems in, and Wonnie Dean gave me a hand-

sewn leather pouch with a drawstring. “For you own herbs and roots,” she said.

When Daddy gave me his foil-wrapped package, it was lumpy and hard, and tied with a

red ribbon. Inside were four carved figurines, each wrought with excruciating detail. It was

instant recognition--Momma, Lorrie Beth, me, and Wonnie. Wonnie wore a serene smile and had

on an elaborate Cherokee tunic. She was slightly bigger than the others, with more detail in the

face and on the hands.

I noticed that Lorrie Beth had been carved with two perfectly matched legs, and green

stones had been added for the eyes. Momma was captured in wood with her protruding belly, her

hands wrapped around it protectively. Her long hair was down.

Daddy watched me open them, turning over each one in my hands. “See the one of you,

the expression I carved in your face? That’s what I see when I look at you--wisdom beyond your