Bound by Blood and Brimstone (43 page)

of me.

Reese loomed in the doorway to Lorrie Beth’s room, holding two square packages

wrapped in white tissue paper. Both were adorned with bows of blue and pink ribbon.

Lorrie Beth shot up from the bed where she’d been folding diapers. “What’re those?” I

couldn’t fault her for her suspicious tone. Given her situation, it was only natural to look a gift

horse in the mouth.

Shuffling his feet, he chucked the boxes onto the bed, blushing all the while like an

awkward suitor. “For you. The smaller one’s for Joshua. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately,

Honey.”

With her thin shoulders squared and arms folded, she kept her defenses up. “Thinking

about what?”

Jostling the baby on my knees, I stuffed his mouth with chocolate icing and wished for

something to shove in my own. The whole scene was unsettling, and I didn’t want to be the

cause of having it blow up in my sister’s face.

Reese dropped his head a second, assuming a humble stance before raising moist eyes to

hers. His answer was hesitant, muffled. “I’ve been thinking about you, how hard all this has been

on you. I know it must seem like we’ve been mean at times, but we had to protect you from

being a cast out. Your mother and I, we still love you, you know.”

He shifted his weight and settled his glance on the bed, nodding. “I thought it would be

nice for you and the baby to have something pretty for yourselves, so I bought those today. Why

don’t you open them?”

Wordlessly, she picked up the smaller package first. Inside was a plush, floppy-eared

puppy wearing a plaid collar. “I thought maybe the little guy would like to sleep with it,” he

suggested.

The other box contained a fancy vanity set with a silver handled mirror, hairbrush, and

comb. All three were heavy pieces, finely crafted, obviously expensive. I jabbed the last piece of

cake in my mouth to drown out my gasp.

“I figured you could use these,” he said. “You need something sturdy with such thick

hair.”

Hurriedly, I snatched a folded diaper off the bed and swiped at the chocolate smears

around Joshua’s mouth. How lovely. She can brush and comb her hair, and pretty it all up. Then

what? Where’s she going to go to show it off? The outhouse?

When Lorrie Beth didn’t spout the expected gratitude, he merely shrugged and gazed at

her, clasping his hands in a contrite gesture. “I just wanted you to remember that we do love you.

Everything will work out, Sweetheart. God loves you, too. Don’t ever forget that. He loves you

and He’ll forgive you. I can only pray that you’ll forgive us, too.”

I was at a complete loss for what to feel about Reese’s tender display of regret. He

certainly seemed sincere at the time, as sincere as when he’d broken down and confessed to such

a ghastly upbringing. While there’d never been any love lost between us, I’d adjusted my view of

him once I’d been able to see him as that terrified little boy.

Over time, my feelings for Reese had evolved into a kind of suspicious pity, similar to

what I might’ve felt for a wounded dog. Your heart is touched by the animal, even to the extent

of wanting to bind up its wounds. On the other hand, instinct dictates that getting too close will

get your face bitten off.

Even my abhorrence of Reese’s treatment of Lorrie Beth during her pregnancy had been

tempered by the fault I’d laid at Momma’s door. Her apathy and failure to do right in the midst

of so much wrong made her guilt far graver, in my opinion.

As more time passed, my assessment of Reese would remain in a state of flux due to the

kaleidoscope of faces he wore, but I couldn't define that assessment at any given time if my life

depended on it. Strangest of all, was the fact that when it was all said and done, I never knew any

of them. It was as though we'd all been aliens, foreigners tossed under the same roof by fate's

fickle winds.

“I think you need to start planning for college, Ember Mae, and don't you dare try to tell

me you're not going,” Miss Fisher insisted. “Your writing skills in this class, along with your

science grades should guarantee you a scholarship to any college in the state. Maybe even out of

state.”

A constant source of amusement to my classmates, Miss Fisher was roughly Sam's height

and sported a misshapen, blue-black wig she insisted was her real hair. Nobody was fooled.

Curled, teased, and stretched to comic proportions, it sat atop her tiny head like some grisly

lampshade.

“I haven't decided yet, exactly,” I hedged. “I mean, I'll only be sixteen when I graduate,

and I figure it couldn't hurt to take off a couple of years. From school, I mean.”

She snorted, tilting her head to glare at me over the tops of her glasses. “Whatever for?

So you can trap yourself into waitressing for the rest of your life? You have far too much talent

to be wasting it in a dive, wiping tables, Ember Mae.”

“Kelly's isn't a dive, Miss Fisher,” I said, bristling. “It's a respectable family restaurant,

and I make good tips.” I made it all sound so easy, when in truth, my status as a wage earner had

come about as a pure miracle.

I'd fully expected to face a full-fledged war upon seeking permission to work in town.

Planning my argument well in advance, I'd been prepared for Reese to blow up, sermonizing,

preaching me into hellfire and damnation. Surely, he’d view my position as a waitress equal to

that of a strumpet, guaranteed to tarnish my standing in the Christian community. When he

reacted totally out of character, giving me his blessing, it was all I could do to keep from keeling

over in a dead faint.

Miss Fisher's ice blue eyes drilled mine and, discovering the stubborn pride mirrored

there, she backed down. “Well, work is as excellent character builder,” she allowed, dropping

her eyes to the stack of papers she'd been grading. “As long as you don't let too much time pass

by. Silver Rock Creek has a way of holding on to its people.”

“Yes, Ma'am,” I agreed, careful to inflect my voice with appropriate respect.

Fidgeting with the corner of a dog-eared essay, she avoided my gaze, collecting herself.

Her eyes were moist when they finally met mine, her voice wobbly. “You know, it's a rare thing

for a teacher to come across a student as gifted as you are. It happens once, maybe twice in a

career. I'd like to be of some help to you if you'll allow me.”

Dragging open her warped desk drawer, she rummaged hastily, her bony fingers picking

around the clutter like the jerky scratching of a chicken's feet. With a small cry of victory, she

unearthed a grimy index card from a pile of broken pencils and shoved it in my hand.

“I'd like you to keep this,” she said. “It's the address and phone number of a friend of

mine. He lives near the campus of the University of West Virginia and offers free housing to

recommended students.” I gave the card a cursory glance, more astonished that Miss Fisher

would have a male friend than with the kindness of her gesture.

“Thank you,” I mumbled, oddly moved by her fluttering hands and hideous, fake hair.

She smiled and patted the stiff black mound on her head. “My suggestion would be

medical school or journalism. I think you may even have it in you to write a novel someday. But

I wouldn't get too attached to your job, Ember Mae. You wouldn't want to get stuck here in

Silver Rock Creek too many years. It might be impossible to get out by then.”

In reality, my burning desire for a paying job had been born of the desperate need to get

out of the house and away from its stifling tensions. I hadn't even seriously believed it possible

anyone would hire me, given my age and the taut reins wielded by the adults in my life. Maybe

I'd underestimated the advantages of my long, lean body and the determined set of my head.

Kelly Fitzpatrick took in my appearance with one quick appraising glance, nodded

approvingly, and inclined his head toward the red, vinyl booths behind us. “You ever wait tables

before?” His voice was brusque, coarsened by cigarette smoke.

“Lots of times,” I lied. Thus, my first job interview concluded.

I hid my meager earnings in a gallon jar behind Momma's sauerkraut in the cellar.

Digging in both heels, I tackled those weekday evenings and Saturdays with a vengeance; my

world narrowed to a pinpoint. The result, of course, was tunnel vision. Shamelessly, I abandoned

vigilance and turned my back on the heaving chaos at home.

Arriving late from work one evening, I saw Reese traipsing to the barn with a lantern,

where he remained until I caught the first view of day from my window the next morning. When

I questioned Momma about this, she shrugged it off.

“He’s going out there to pray,” she said.

“All night? In the barn?” I queried, feeling slightly queasy.

She slammed her comb on the dresser where she sat grooming her hair for bed. I noted

how gray it was becoming as she turned flaming eyes on me. “What's wrong with that, Ember

Mae? Huh? Maybe you need to read your Bible. Men of God have always gone off to themselves

to pray. What’s it to you?”

I thought her defensiveness a bit extreme, but fatigue drove it to the back of my mind as I

drooped off to bed. It would be a long time before I thought about it again.

Shortly after Sam entered first grade, Reese decided he was old enough for his own

masculine space. Sam met the news with his usual serene acceptance and tilted his elfin face to

Reese's,

a

slow

smile

deepening

his

dimples.

“Can I still sleep with you all sometimes?”

“Sure, son. Just don't make it a habit.” Unable to resist those dimples, Reese grinned, his

homely face transformed into something strangely beautiful as he gazed at the little imp in front

of him. Awkwardly, he tousled Sam's curls. “We'll just have to see.”

Sam appeared to enjoy his new room and stuffed it with a hodge-podge of boyish clutter

and mismatched fabrics. Poring over his arrowhead collection and ancient bottle caps unearthed

on one of his “treasure hunts,” he could entertain himself for hours, solitary and content.

Consequently, when he began sneaking into my room at night, begging for refuge under

my covers, I was taken aback. As weeks passed and his visits became more frequent, I detected a

quiet intensity in his eyes and an urgency lurking beneath his pleas.

“All right, Sam, what's up? Now, I know you love your new room; you can't tell me you

don't. Sweetie, I don't mind you sleeping in here, but why did you stop wanting to stay in your

own room?”

He hesitated, kicked at the sheet and flopped on his side, facing me. “Well?” I prodded.

“I'm afraid,” he admitted, reaching for a strand of my hair.

“What of?” It wasn’t to be believed. Sam had the heart of a lion, never having been

plagued by night terrors, monsters under the bed, or fear of darkness. I waited, his warm breath

quickening as it stirred against my cheek.

“Reese scares me,” he whispered. “He comes and stands by my bed at night.”

My arms and shoulders broke out in a rash of goose flesh, and I pulled the quilt up

farther, fighting to dampen the alarm in my voice. “What does he do when he stands by your

bed?”

Sam swallowed before reaching for my hair again. He twisted a strand into a thick rope,

which he wrapped around his finger and used for a blindfold. Then he unwound it and stroked it,

letting it slide through his fingers over and over. I waited, knowing he’d open up only when he

was sure he wouldn't cry. “He prays for a long time. Just standing over my bed, praying. And he

has a hammer in his hand.”

After Sam's confession, my eagerness to get us away from Reese and Momma flowered

into panic. I couldn't imagine what might prompt Reese to such bizarre behavior, but I didn't

want to wait around and find out. Unfortunately, I didn't have near enough money to finance a

four-party escape. Choices were few.

Fabricating a dramatic tale of rat infestation and nightmares, I declared Sam's room unfit,

moved him into my room, begged Kelly for more hours, and added poetry to my writing

submissions.

Driven beyond endurance to fulfill my goal, I'd forgotten there was a world beyond my

own, a world just as stricken with tragedy and sorrow and just as rich in fear. Briefly, I was

reminded of that other world on a blustery November afternoon during my senior year.

It happened in the middle of English class. Just as we were preparing to take a test on

Shakespeare, the door whooshed open, and Mr. McIntyre, our principal, interrupted the teacher

in mid-sentence.

Visibly shaken, he announced that school was about to be dismissed for the day. Not a

single catcall was heard. No one broke out in cheers.

“We've just received word of some bad news,” he said. “President Kennedy has been

shot.” Not even a gasp erupted to breach the thick silence. Mr. McIntyre's eyes darted to each