Bound by Blood and Brimstone (2 page)

cries pierced me as sharply as Momma’s axe blade on the butcher’s block.

“There is so much
gi-ga.
She will leave this world soon if we cannot stop it.” That was

Grandma Wonnie. At the sound of her voice, a thread of calm stole through me as if a cool hand

had stroked my brow. Grandma was there, so whatever had gone wrong in my world could be

righted.

“No! No! Let me die! Oh, God, please help me!” With those anguished pleas came a

subtle shifting within me, and I had the sense of being someone else, someone bigger and braver.

My Momma was in there, and she needed me. I gripped the curtain and pulled it aside. I had to

see.

Daddy and Wonnie stood on either side of the bed where Momma lay in a sea of blood.

The jittery light cast by the oil lamp gave it an obscene life, as if something slithered and boiled

on the bed, on the sheets, on the floor. Daddy’s and Wonnie’s hands were streaked with it.

Momma’s nightgown was soaked in it and clung to her body, molding itself to the huge mound

of her belly.

Her thighs were splayed and, as I watched, she arched her back, shoved her head into the

pillow, and pealed out an inhuman screech that jarred the marrow of my bones. Her head flailed

back and forth, slinging matted hair, and her eyes were sunken, shadowed, staring, but seeing

nothing. Her hands clawed the air, fending off some unseen terror, then, like wounded birds,

dropped to her sides to clench the sheet with trembling fists.

Wonnie’s darting black eyes glittered intently, as though she could see something hidden

from everyone else. Quick, cat-like, she stole up beside the head of the bed and placed her hands

on both sides of Momma’s face, bending so her eyes could meet Momma’s. Wonnie’s voice rang

out in rhythmic prayer, like a tuneless lullaby.

In a moment, Momma stopped thrashing and stilled her clenching hands. Her frenzied

panting slowed. Wonnie continued to pray, smoothing back sweaty strands of Momma’s hair.

“
U-ne-qua,”
she chanted repeatedly, her tone eerily hypnotic.

Kneeling by the bed, Daddy took one of Momma’s hands between his. His head was

bowed as he stroked her palm and wrist, his body rigid. Outside, the wind’s rage intensified, its

wailing voice mimicking a woman in mortal terror.

Wonnie placed her hands lightly on Momma’s abdomen. Suddenly, to my horror, that

great belly quivered and knotted up under the bloody nightgown. Momma gasped. “Now,”

Wonnie commanded. As if some silent signal had been passed, Daddy thrust his arm behind

Momma’s back and lifted her. With a sharp intake of air, Wonnie shoved down on that sheeted

mound while Momma gulped a breath and held it, straining. Suddenly, Wonnie’s hands

disappeared between Momma’s thighs and she braced herself and tugged hard. My head was

spinning. What was she doing to Momma?

Some huge mass plopped into Wonnie’s outstretched hands, something dark and wet with

a glistening rope attached. Against my will, a choked yelp escaped me, and Daddy’s head

whipped around, his eyes bulging. Blackness swam up and around me.

Some unknown time later, I was enveloped in warmth and the quiet of the stilled wind. I

opened my eyes to the sight of flames flickering in the hearth. I was being rocked. With each tilt

of the cane-back chair, its legs struck the floor, jarring me with a solid thud. Daddy’s arms

wrapped me.

“You awake, Em?” I pivoted to look into his eyes. Daddy’s eyes always reminded me of

our coal bin when the morning sun struck it, all black and glitter, like the dust left by some grim

fairy. I noticed they were bloodshot and moist, ragged sorrow shadowing their depths.

Instinctively, I lifted my hand to his face. I loved touching my daddy’s face, all the

rugged angles and planes, the skin, berry-brown and weathered. With tentative fingers, I traced

the crinkly lines around his eyes and the creases bracketing his mouth, sensing loss, as though a

familiar milepost was missing from a beloved landscape. In a flash, it all returned, the

unspeakable thing I’d seen, and I quivered in his lap.

“I guess you’re plenty scared,” he whispered. I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. His

arms drew tighter around me. “The things you saw last night weren’t meant for such young

eyes.” He paused to gaze into the fire. “First, you need to know Momma’s going to be fine after

some rest. Wonnie’s taking good care of her for us.”

In the breath of silence following his calming voice, without warning, the dam broke. All

the stifled terror and awe gushed out, and I sobbed against his shirt while he stroked the back of

my head with his rough hands.

“It’s all right, it’s all right, Ember Mae,” he murmured, rocking me back and forth again

until I was finally quiet and emptied out. For a long while, he held me in snug arms, his cheek

against my forehead as we listened to the night song of a lone whippoorwill through the screen

door.

“Do you remember Momma telling you that God had given us a baby who’d grow inside

her belly until it was time to join us?” I nodded and sniffed, shifting in his lap. “Well, last night

after we’d all gone to bed, the baby decided it was time to be born.” His voice caught, and he

closed his eyes as the fire crackled, spewing a fine spray of glowing embers.

A small muscle fluttered along his jawline and, briefly, the sinewy arms that wrapped me,

trembled. Finally, he opened his eyes and gazed at me from behind wet lashes. “Something went

wrong and Momma couldn’t get the baby to come. Wonnie and I, we tried to help, and Wonnie

had to
make
the baby come.”

I stared into the fire, recalling the massive, dark lump I’d glimpsed. A glimmer of

understanding was beginning to surface. “That
thing
was our new baby?”

“Your and Lorrie Beth’s sister, Angel Roberts.” He tried for a shaky smile, but it faltered

briefly before his lips firmed into a taut line.

“I want to see her!” I struggled in his lap and turned to scoot to the floor, but he caught

and held me fast by the wrist, forcing me to face him.

“Ember Mae, you have to listen to me now.” His tone let me know his words were not to

be questioned. He drew a deep breath and let it out. “She’s gone.” From my bedroom, Lorrie

Beth cried out in her sleep, giving voice to my welling grief.

I shook my head, the stubborn denial already on my lips. “No,” I whispered, trembling

like a wind-scattered leaf as cold awareness gripped me. Daddy reached for my chilled hands,

absently stroking my palms with his thumbs. They were blunt and work-coarsened, like fine

sandpaper.

“Gone means dead, doesn’t it?” I demanded. With the force of will few children can

muster, I fought the new wall of tears barricaded in my chest. Daddy hugged me hard, teasing a

tangled strand of hair off my brow, coaxing me back on his lap.

“You mustn’t be afraid of death, Baby. It’s just another part of living. It comes to all of

us sooner or later, but it’s not the end of everything. I want you to remember that.” From the

kitchen, the fragrant steam of brewing coffee and sizzling ham wafted, signaling Wonnie’s

tireless tread on the approaching dawn. I burrowed deeper in Daddy’s arms and nestled my head

beneath his chin.

“If it’s not the end, then what happens after we die?” I asked.

“We just go on to a better place,” he said, his warmth and earthy scent lulling me into

drowsiness. “We go back to
Un-e-qua
, Wonnie’s Great Spirit, God. Whatever name we use for

Him, His arms are where we return when He calls us. That’s where Angel is now.”

“Must be pretty crowded where God is,” I murmured, my voice fading to nothing down a

long, gray tunnel, where Daddy’s answer was lost.

Momma wasn’t at her usual place at the breakfast table that morning, or many mornings

after. She disappeared in her room and wouldn’t come out for the longest time. When she did

finally show herself, she looked like an imposter, wilted and gray-skinned, the luster gone from

her blue eyes.

Afterwards, people came by with leaky eyes and drooping faces, bearing pots of greasy

chicken and dumplings no one could eat. Women from church arrived to help Wonnie with

chores, filling the house with their constant clucking, strutting like fat hens in their sturdy shoes.

Miraculously, Lorrie Beth had managed to sleep through the entire bloodbath and

appeared to be unfazed by our mind-bending loss. We never saw our baby sister. I overheard

some of those twittering church ladies say that Wonnie had taken Angel into the woods and

buried her with the afterbirth. Some kind of Cherokee hocus-pocus, they claimed.

Preacher Reese Watkins eventually put in an appearance one evening at suppertime, his

pine-scented aftershave so thick and cloying, I had to flee the table to keep from keeling over.

“I’m so sorry for the loss you’ve suffered, Brother Roberts,” he said to Daddy, his voice

low and perfectly somber. “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of

the Lord.” I hated him on sight.

Strange, how one hour or even one moment in our lives can have so much power. I

should know. After that long, violent night, I was different. I would never truly be a kid again, at

least on the inside, where things count. The year was 1952. I was five years old. Even then, the

storm was building.

On the first day of school, when fate marked Lorrie Beth with its cruel hand, she was still

innocent enough to believe animals could talk and that elves stole her misplaced shoes. Her

world was steeped in stardust and peopled with fairies, a place unfit for lurking monsters.

Being a lover of words, learning to read at Daddy’s knee by the fire, I’d looked forward

to school for as long as I could remember and couldn’t imagine it being anything less than a

stellar event. My craving for the written word would be quenched once I started school, and

Lorrie Beth would finally gain the confidence to stop shadowing my steps. I believed that.

Walking the dusty path out of the hollow that morning, headed for Silver Rock

Elementary, I kept sneaking glances at my sister. She bubbled and bounced as she limped along,

her childish chatter blending with the chorus of twittering birds around us.

As I observed her, a hot flood of envy and pride swirled within me, bringing unwanted

tears close to the surface. Maybe it was the way the breeze played with her thick curls, causing

them to dance about her face like a dark cloud. Maybe it was because the violets in her dress

sparked her green eyes, turning them into emeralds under the September sun.

Probably, though, it was because of the brave attempts she made to ignore her limp.

Lorrie Beth had been born with one leg a couple of inches shorter than the other, forcing her to

throw one hip to the side when she walked. We never gave it a second thought at home, but I

knew, around other people, she was self-conscious. That worried me.

To add insult to injury, Momma, who’d always claimed such pride in her “un-identical”

twins, insisted on dressing us alike. That morning we sported homemade, full-skirted, matching

dresses, sewn from linen feed sacks. While the pattern of tiny purple violets against a white

background was lovely, I longed for the faded denim and lye-worn cotton of summer.

“You scared?” I asked her, slowing my stride, but being careful not to show it.

“No, I can’t wait,” she said, practically squealing. “I just feel like I’m about to bust, don’t

you?” I understood her anticipation. As we neared the edge of the clearing and the last dirt

stretch to the stone schoolhouse, I, too, felt the rush of adrenaline.

One thing in particular had me so anxious, I doubt if judgment Day could’ve kept me

from being there for first bell. That one thing was meeting Miss Hacker. All summer long,

tongues had been wagging about the new schoolteacher. Some said she was an old maid whose

dead uncle had left her a billion dollars. Others wagered that she was fleeing a broken romance.

Neither story made any particular sense to me. If she’d had a billion dollars, common

sense would’ve dictated she move some place with electric lights. On the other hand, if she were

looking for romance, pickings were sure to be slim in Silver Rock Creek. Folks said she was

from Charleston, which made her “city.” I couldn’t wait to see her.

Before midmorning, my excitement had died an agonizing death. To begin with, Miss

Hacker didn’t like me one bit. She was quite put off by the fact that I could already read. I was

doing it all wrong, and now she’d have to undo the monstrous damage. She determined then and

there that all reading at home was to stop immediately. The other thirty students heard the entire

humiliating exchange, and one of them brayed laughter like a deranged donkey.

Miss Hacker’s head snapped up, and her darting eyes searched the room for the guilty