Bound by Blood and Brimstone (4 page)

sister. Observing Momma for a couple of weeks following Aunt Celeste’s yearly visit from

Huntington was all that was needed. Momma would drift from room to room with glazed eyes,

her hands fidgety, plucking at some loose thread or twisting her hair around one finger. Likely as

not, she’d forget to gather the eggs or even cook supper if Lorrie Beth or I didn’t remind her. I

sensed she enjoyed Aunt Celeste’s visits no more than the rest of us, but seemed bound to endure

them, no matter the cost.

As usual, the cleaning frenzy started two weeks before Aunt Celeste was due to arrive

with her mousy husband, Robert, and her son, Melvin. Beds had to be stripped and all linens

were boiled with lye soap and aired. Walls and windows were washed and curtains laundered

and starched stiff enough to stand alone.

Floors were scrubbed, and every visible surface was scoured and polished until no self-

respecting germ could possibly survive. Through it all, Momma barked orders at Lorrie Beth and

me, her eyes bright and feverish, her hands chafed from hot water. I fully expected her to spit-

shine the two of us along with the furniture.

By the time Aunt Celeste glided up our porch steps one Saturday morning in early June, I

was in a funk, already wishing them gone. She could do that to me every time. She always got

my goat, the way she swept through the door, holding her head as if it bore a crown, her beady

eyes darting about the room in search of a spray speck of dust. In her silk suit, pearls, and white

gloves, she appeared to be ready to attend a White House luncheon.

“Mona! William!” she called, striding into our front room, extending her gloved hand.

“Has it really been a whole year?” Everyone agreed it had, indeed, been an entire year. Then

followed those awkward moments when everyone shuffled their feet and tried to figure out what

to do with their hands.

Robert made a weak attempt at a smile and shook hands with Daddy, swallowing

nervously and clearing his throat. I could see his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down his throat

like a scurrying squirrel.

Cousin Melvin stood there, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, staring down at

his Buster Browns. Even from where I was standing, they still smelled new, without a scratch or

scuffmark in sight.

I never saw Melvin in overalls and bare feet like other kids I knew. Aunt Celeste was

probably afraid people might mistake him for a farmer’s kid, so she made sure he was never

without his short pants and suspenders.

Daddy had told me Aunt Celeste and Uncle Robert worked in a factory and had electric

lights and an inside bathroom. I supposed with such luxury, it wouldn’t do for people to suspect

Melvin had spent any time in a cornfield or hayloft.

After greetings, I knew what was coming next. It always did. “Ember Mae,” Momma said

suddenly, as if the thought had occurred the first time, “why don’t you and Lorrie Beth take

Melvin and go outside? You all can play on the porch until dinner.”

She suggested it because she knew Melvin wouldn’t have ventured past the porch for all

of Solomon’s Treasure. I decided he must’ve been scared by a dirt clod as a baby. Feeling glum

and irritated to my core, I had no recourse but to traipse out to the porch with the two of them.

Since I’d been through it more than once, I knew what was going to happen. First, there

would be ten minutes or so of Lorrie Beth and me trying to be polite, asking if he wanted to see

our oak tree where we played house and pirate games. Naturally, he’d refuse. Next, we’d attempt

to talk about our friends and where they lived in the hollow or about skipping rocks in the creek.

Most often, that would be followed by a sigh or a yawn.

Then, for the next three hours, we’d have to listen to Melvin brag about his new riding

pony, his mother’s shiny car with the new leather smell on the seats, his piano lessons, his

vacation to Boston, and his fancy Catholic school where everybody wore uniforms. After he

finished, he’d describe in detail, yet again, the playroom his parents had built with shelves for all

of his expensive toys and books.

By the time the first hour had passed, I was seething. After another thirty minutes, I could

picture miniscule mice in my brain, racing to and fro, frantic to find a way out of their maze.

There had to be a way out for us. Then, out of the blue, it came to me.

I was never sure what possessed me to do it. Maybe I was mad at Momma and Daddy for

foisting Melvin on us when they didn’t have to. Maybe I wanted to get back at Aunt Celeste for

all the times she’d left our house making Momma feel bad, and me not knowing why. Maybe the

summer sun had fried my brain.

I was only certain of a glimpse of freedom as I stood there looking at Melvin’s white

shirt, with its creased sleeves, and his pinched, ferret’s face.

I knew Lorrie Beth was in the same agony, but she was far too nice to do what I was

about to do. Casting her one of our “sister looks,” I said, “Say, Lorrie Beth, I just thought of

something. Don’t you think maybe we ought to tell Melvin about Harry Wicker? Maybe warn

him?”

Lorrie Beth, having no clue where I was headed, said, “Uh, Oh yeah, Harry Wicker,

that’s right. I almost forgot.”

Not used to being interrupted during one of his boast fests, Melvin gave us a cold glance

and said, “Warn me about what? I don’t know any Harry Wicker.” He said it in a way that let us

know he wasn’t accustomed to not knowing something.

“Well, that’s just the problem,” I said solemnly, warming up to the lie. “If you did, you

would’ve already had the worst of it over with. But seeing as how he’s never seen you, I don’t

know.” I trailed off and glanced away as if struck by a vision too horrific to bear contemplating.

I had his attention now. “What in blue blazes are you talking about? I’d already have the

worst of what?”

I dropped my voice to a conspirator’s whisper. “Well, see, about three months ago, this

older boy, Harry Wicker, moved in here from some big city up north, Chicago, I think. They say

he was part of one of those street gangs that do nothing but bootleg and beat people up.”

I paused, letting that sink in before adding, “They called themselves The Iron Fists, or

something like that, isn’t that right, Lorrie Beth?”

By this time, Lorrie Beth’s jaw had dropped open. She promptly snapped it shut and said,

“Oh, yeah, I think that was it.” Melvin looked like someone had just told him his rear end was

hanging out. He swallowed.

“The Iron Fists, huh?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Harry Wicker was their leader. He’s moved down at the mouth of the

hollow and he’s already been expelled from school from beating some kid to a bloody pulp.”

Through the screen door, Momma’s nervous laughter could be heard, colliding with Celeste’s

high-pitched twitter, and Robert cleared his throat for the millionth time. “The thing is he hates

anybody younger or littler than him, and all strangers. He sees someone young and new, he just

flat wants to kill him.”

Melvin thought about that, fiddling with his right ear, which was what he did when he

was agitated. “Well, if he’s only been here three months, how come he hates strangers? Isn’t he a

stranger too?”

Thinking quickly, I said, “No, see, he was born here, but moved away when he was little.

He’s actually an insider.”

“Oh,” Melvin said in a small voice. I’d always suspected our cousin wasn’t the shiniest

penny in the jar. Now was the time to reel him in.

“Harry’s favorite thing to do is patrol the hollow, looking for new boys. He comes by

here every afternoon, should be here any minute now. You can’t miss him. He’s in eighth grade,

built like a bull.”

I watched Melvin tugging on his ear, his eyes growing rounder by the minute. I waited. I

could see the wheels turning as he thought about what his spindly body and narrow face would

look like after “Harry Wicker” got through with him.

Finally, I went in for the kill. “Of course, there’s one thing that’s guaranteed to keep

Harry away from anybody.” I let that trail off, adding a dramatic sigh.

“What?” he asked, his voice nearing a squeak, clinging to this last hope like a drowning

man to a life preserver.

“Well, there’s no way it could work for you, since you can’t get off the porch.”

“Who says I can’t get off the porch?” He said, desperate for salvation.

“Well, you never have before,” I reminded him. “Besides, you might get dirty and, never

mind, I guess we may as well wait for Harry and take our chances.” I sneaked a look at Lorrie

Beth, who was as goggle-eyed as Melvin. She knew there was no such person as Harry Wicker,

had no idea what I might be plotting, but would play her part to the bitter end.

“Yeah,” she added. “I sure hope you don’t get scared at the sight of blood.” He glanced

down at his white shirt.

“Listen, Momma will skin me alive if I get these clothes dirty,” he said, running a shaky

finger under his collar.

“Probably,” I said, “but look at it this way, Melvin. What’s worse, a whipping from your

momma or bloody murder?” That did it. A swarm of wild locusts wouldn’t have stopped him

from doing whatever it took to ward off Harry Wicker. He would’ve slept in the stall with our

sow if need be.

I explained that we had something in our barn that Harry was so allergic to he’d break out

in hives and choke to death within seconds if he got near it. His cousin had told me, I said, but if

it got out that she’d told, she was as good as dead.

Allergies, I figured Melvin could relate to, since Aunt Celeste was always claiming he

was allergic to nearly everything in sight. She always brought a suitcase of Melvin’s rice puffs

and cans of Vienna sausage because he couldn’t eat Momma’s cooking. Celeste claimed he was

likely to itch.

From that point, it was a cinch. I had Lorrie Beth stay on the porch to be our lookout

while I took Melvin to the barn. “Now, you can’t let the smell put you off; that’ll wash off easy,”

I said, leading him into the cool, dark interior. “Remember, only the fresh ones work. That’s

what really sets Harry to running.” He glanced down uneasily at the big piles of steaming cow

droppings scattered throughout the barn.

“Are you sure this stuff will work?” he asked, the color leaching out of his face. At that

moment I almost felt sorry enough to tell him the truth.

“Absolutely,” I said, “but you have to put it on thick before it takes effect.”

In a matter of minutes, Melvin was a dead ringer for a kid who’d been dunked in a giant

bowl of brownie batter. He coughed, gagged, and heaved the entire time, while I kept reassuring

him of the miraculous saving powers of those smelly clumps. By the time he was done smearing

himself, I was wondering how long people would have to stand downwind of him. I was also

wondering where I could find a good hiding place.

I instructed him to go back on the porch with Lorrie Beth to wait for Harry Wicker while

I latched up the barn. I waited behind the barn door, watching until I saw Lorrie Beth grab her

nose as Melvin approached. Then I made a beeline for the woods. I barely had time to reach the

cover of the trees before I heard Aunt Celeste’s screams.

Naturally, the chaos I’d unleashed put a strain on the remainder of their visit. Though I

fully expected the sort of beating from Momma that left little, if any, skin intact, I didn’t receive

it the night of Melvin’s incident. I managed this miracle by sneaking into the house after

everyone had gone to bed, bone-tired. Dealing with several layers of cow manure stuck to human

skin could do that to a person.

The next couple of days were colored with a gray dread of what was sure to come, so I

made myself as scarce as possible. Lorrie Beth slunk around like a roving weasel even though

she’d done nothing to feel guilty about. Somehow, that even made me feel worse.

Melvin maintained the same distance from me as he would a leper. Uncle Robert moped,

and Daddy managed to remain invisible. That left Momma and Aunt Celeste in the house for the

rest of the week, trying to come up with ways to appear to like each other.

I counted the endless days until Friday, when I knew the three of them would pile into

their brand new Ford and make their way to the mouth of the hollow. With only one day left

before regaining our lives, I chanced upon a conversation couched in so much mystery it harried

my thoughts and invaded my dreams for years.

I’d assumed everybody had gone into town with Daddy and Robert when I climbed our

oak tree with my copy of
Alice in Wonderland
, my best idea for a retreat. The wildflowers were

in bloom by the smokehouse, and the sky, with its high clouds, looked like patches of blue velvet

and lace. After a while, the heat enticed me to the house for a glass of Momma’s lemonade.

As I neared the top step of the porch, I heard voices through the screen door and stopped