Reckless: Shades of a Vampire (11 page)

“Why?”

“Just wondering. The sheriff said they hadn’t found his truck. So we could be on the lookout.”

“The sheriff? You talked to the sheriff?” Judith says, before wailing like somebody had just come up from behind and scared her.

“He came by the house with his deputy, Judith,” Emma’s father says. “He just wanted to tell me so we could comfort you in this time of need. That’s all.”

“We brought you a pie, Judith,” Emma’s mother says. “Emma made it. It’s pumpkin. Fresh out of the oven.”

“Thank you,” Judith says, gathering herself. “You are so kind. Thank you.”

“We’ll get on out of your way,” Emma’s father says. “But let me lead a prayer before we go. Let’s bow our heads.

“Our heavenly father, all knowing, all powerful. The fate of this man is in your hands. The fate is this family is in your hands. The fate of our each and every step is in your hands. We submit to you for answers. Amen.”

“Amen,” say the others, save for Emma, who is looking at a family picture on the end table of Judith, Josh and their baby. She thinks of Michael, wondering what their family picture might look like if they married and had a baby.

Judith stands, and thanks for Mays for coming. She walks them to the door.

“Let us know if anything changes,” Emma’s father says.

Emma has trouble falling asleep later that night. She can’t stop thinking about Josh’s truck. The moon is mostly full, under a clear sky. She blinks off and on, but is mostly awake, counting away the passing hours in her mind until her eyes spread wide open at about 1 a.m.

She’s full of energy, like she’s had a full night’s sleep, and she parts her curtains to soak in the illuminated darkness. Emma puts on her black dress, the one she had hung back up that afternoon at her mother’s admonishment, slips on some shoes, and tiptoes up the hallway by her parents’ room. She stops to listen, and hears both of them snoring, her mother lightly and her father heavily, as if he’s gasping for breath in a room with no oxygen.

Emma keeps moving down the hallway with the softest of footsteps that are more like a soft glide. She slides through the parlor and out the front door, which she opens and closes so quietly she doesn’t make a single creak. In the night air, she feels free and breathes the air in deeply. Emma floats her arms out like they are wings, and bounds across the highway to the Denton farm with a quiet dash.

She stops in front of the barn, and thinks of Michael. She closes her eyes, and smells the pollinated air with deep inhalation in hopes that she gleans his lingering scent.

“Ahhhhh,” she murmurs. “Michael.”

Emma looks left, right and straight ahead, trying to determine where Josh might have parked his truck on Sunday night when he came to meet her. She remembers seeing Michael drive the tractor down a small, double trail-like dirt road to the right that runs from the highway. She walks swiftly to the road, about 300 yards away, and darts like a black bat down it once she’s there.

In a few minutes Emma sees the moonlight glance off a shiny image ahead. Sure enough, it’s Josh’s truck, pulled headfirst into a ticket for good hiding except for the back third, which sticks out into the road. It can’t be seen from the highway, and nobody uses the Denton farm since Michael left, so she wonders if it will be any problem left there at all. She doesn’t know where to move it, anyway. Even if she did, she’s never driven a car before, much less a truck.

Emma pushes through the brush to reach the driver’s side door. She peers into the window, but it’s dark inside, shrouded by the brush. She pulls on the handle, and the door opens, though the brush restricts it. She pulls harder, and again, managing to pry it enough so that she can slip inside.

Emma looks at the ignition, but the keys are not there. She inhales, and smells Josh. She quickly exhales. She wants to forget Josh. Emma feels around the seat, in the crevice between the fold.

No keys.

She feels along the floorboard, beneath the steering wheel.

Bingo!

She finds a key ring, with keys. Emma feels for what might be the right one, settling on one bound in hard plastic around the base. She pushes it in the ignition, but doesn’t try it. She gets out of the car, shoving the door into the brush and crawling out in the slim crack. She shuts the door softly until it latches. She slips back up the dirt road, over the paved road, through the parsonage pasture, quietly back into the front door, down the hallway, and gets into her bed still wearing the black dress.

Emma falls fast asleep.

As the fall season encapsulates Sand Mountain in late October, with brightly colored leaves falling from the trees and a clear Harvest moon brightening the nights, Emma’s father believes it is time for her to convert her girlhood into womanhood and take a place in a home of her own. Emma’s father makes the announcement at the breakfast table, as she peruses her daily list of chores, which includes cutting flourishing chard from the garden, hanging and beating rugs from the house for cleaning, and washing the family’s car.

“I have arranged a sitting for you, Emma,” her father says, buttering a piece of toast. “Saturday evening. Five o’clock. If it is God’s will, he will sit with you at church the next morning.”

Emma knows what a sitting is. It’s a pre-arranged date under her father’s supervision. She wants to vomit.

“A sitting?” she asks. “Whom will I be sitting with?”

“David Samuels,” her father says.

“I don’t know who that is father. Why should I have a sitting with someone I don’t know.”

“He’s the preacher’s son. David’s father leads the Henegar Pentecostal Church.”

“Of course,” Emma says.

“Will I recognize him when I see him?”

“I don’t think so,” Emma’s father says. “He was home schooled, like you. He’s worked in the church since he was a child. He is training under his father to be a preacher. He will become an assistant in the summer, his father says, and he is ready for a wife so he can serve God.”

“How old is this David Samuels?” Emma says.

“About your age,” her father says. “Two years older I think. But he’s a fine young man of God I understand. We shall see. But that’s what his father says.

“I’ve known his father most of my life. He’s a little bit liberal for my liking. They don’t handle snakes any more. But they still speak in tongues, and have Sacred Harp singings. And maybe, in time, I can teach David a thing or two.”

“I don’t want a sitting,” Emma says. “I don’t want it, Father. What if I say no?”

“Or you defying me, Emma?” her father says, raising his voice. “Are you defying God?”

Emma doesn’t want to pull up her dress for another spanking. She doesn't want the licks, and she doesn't want to give her father the gratification.

“No, father. I am not defying you.”

“So this David Samuels will be here to meet me on Saturday at 5 o’clock in the evening?”

“Yes. You shall make some cookies that afternoon. Time them to be ready at five minutes before five. You can pull them out of the oven and the smell will win him over. Start making a fresh pot of coffee when he knocks on the door. Your mother will come and get you. Then bring the coffee and cookies out on a tray. It should be done before you even sit.

“And wear your white dress,” he father says.

“Yes father.”

Saturday arrives, and Emma is finishing the cookies just before five in the afternoon as her father instructed. She’s wearing a white dress, covered at the moment by her apron -- one her mother gave her years ago that has the words “Bless This House” adorned on it. She had mixed up peanut butter dough, plopped droplets down on a greased baking sheet, and is now sliding them into the oven. Her father walks into the kitchen as she shuts the oven door.

“Let me get a look at you,” he says.

She turns to face him, looking down at his feet.

He clasps her chin and lifts it up so that her eyes are facing his.

She shudders at the touch.

“You are almost a grownup,” her father says. “God has blessed you with a beauty and obedience. Let’s make this work. There aren’t many good eggs to pick from on Sand Mountain. You crack one. Not many left.”

Emma doesn’t respond.

“Keep the apron on until you see him,” her father says. “Come out of the kitchen with the tray of cookies and coffee wearing the apron. Take the apron off after you put the tray down. He’ll see that you are good in the kitchen. That you know what to do with the good things God gives us.

“Then, when you take the apron off, he’ll see that God blessed you as a beautiful child of his. But when you sit down, sit to his right. Understand?”

“Yes, father,” Emma says. “Apron on, put tray down, apron off, sit to his right. Yes, father.”

“Let him know that you obey God, and thus, will obey him. Remember the scripture.
And so train the young women to love their husbands and children, to be self-controlled, pure, working at home, kind, and submissive to their own husbands, that the word of God may not be reviled
.”

“Yes, father. First Timothy, verse two twelve. I know it. “Submissive to their own husbands…”

Peanut butter and cookie dough aroma fills the house, as the droplets rise and pucker at three hundred and fifty degrees. Emma pours water into the coffee maker, and loads up three scoops of Folgers coffee grounds into the pot. She turns it on, and sets a tray with sugar, cream, cups and napkins. Her mother walks in, wearing a lavender dress and high-heeled shoes she rarely ever wears.

“All ready, Dear?” her mother says.

“You certainly are,” Emma says.

Emma’s mother walks over to her and brushes a hand into her hair. Emma looks her mother in the eyes. Her mother has tears welling in them.

“Be at your best Emma,” her mother says in a soft voice. “Your father wants this for you. He has planned very carefully. He thinks the time is right. He thinks God has sent the right person. It is your job, dear, to make sure the deal is done.”

“Deal?”

“We came into this world with the plight we have, Emma. We have few choices. We are called to serve the men who serve the Lord. We are followers, and servants.”

She touches the bite mark on Emma’s neck.

“This might be the only thing that keeps him away,” her mother says. “You are such a beautiful girl. But nobody wants a tainted girl. I know it was a mistake. You know it was a mistake. Your father knows it was a mistake. But he may wonder what you did to deserve this.

“They don’t handle snakes anymore at David’s church. So maybe he won’t think anything of it anyway. But try to keep it out of sight. Try not to flaunt it in his face.”

“I know,” Emma says. “Sit to his right, so he can’t see the left side of my neck. I know. Father already told me.”

Knock. Knock. Knock
.

“Oh, goodness. He’s at the door,” Emma’s mother says. “I’ll get it. You gather the things, and give me us a moment. Then come into the parlor. We’ll visit for a few minutes, then leave you to alone to get acquainted. Good luck, dear.”

Emma hears talking near the front door as she scoops fresh cookies from the baking pan onto the tray she has prepared. She isn’t listening to the small talk from the parlor. Her mind is elsewhere, focusing on someone other than David, the preacher’s son.

Emma wonders where Michael went, what Michael is doing, and if Michael is thinking of her. She feels her insides twitch, and her pulse quicken at the thought. She closes her eyes, thinking of their embrace, his kiss, and his smell. She glances out the kitchen window into the late afternoon light at the tractor he used to drive while she watched, hungrily.

“Emma, dear,” her mother calls. “Emma. You have a guest.”

She’s lost track of time. She isn’t sure if three minutes have passed or thirteen.

“I’m coming, mother.”

Emma takes the tray and walks into the parlor wearing her apron, just as her father instructed. She sees her father and mother standing on each side of a short young man.

“Emma,” her father says. “This is David.”

“David,” her father says, “this is Emma.”

David is perhaps five-foot-six inches tall – clearly an inch shorter than she is. He is wearing a dark suit, a pressed white shirt, and a wide black tie. He’s wearing black patent leather shoes, slightly scuffed, and he’s holding a pot of orange mums. He has short, closely cropped dark hair, a long, slender nose, and a pale face covered in red scars and still-festering pimples – some rearing white heads.

“Evening, Emma,” David says, extending his arm. “I brought these for you.”

Emma doesn’t move.

“Oh, how nice, David,” Emma’s mother says. “Here, I’ll take them. They are beautiful.”

“God gives us much good,” David says. “We can thank him for flowers.”

“Amen,” Jeremiah says.

“Emma,” her mother says. “Don’t you want to put the tray down, and offer David some coffee and cookies?”

“Oh, yes,” Emma says, walking the tray to the coffee table.

She puts it down.

“Would you like some coffee and cookies? They are fresh.”

“Yes ma’am, I would.”

David takes a seat on the couch.

“We’ll just let you two get acquainted,” her father says, taking Emma’s mother by the arm and leading her out of the parlor.

Emma pours two cups of coffee.

“Do you like cream and sugar?”

“Both," David says. "You?"

"Cream," Emma says. "Just cream."

She stirs each into one cup, handing it to David. She puts two cookies on a napkin and hands those to David. She takes the other cup of coffee and one cookie on a napkin and sits on the other end of the couch, to David’s right, as her father instructed. She crosses her legs, puts the napkin with the cookie in her lap, and takes the cookie directing it toward her mouth for a bite.