The Complete Collection (6 page)

Chapter 2

She is methodical in her madness.

She watches as I pile loads of wet wash into my bucket and
drag them outside to dry in the hot sun.

She smiles at me, hateful. At least this time I’ve managed
to escape before she spills something to undo my hard work.

I carry the heavy bucket up the hill in the backyard as the
sun beats down on me.

Some dislike washing. Not me.

As I scrub and scrub our clothing and linens, there’s
something in the aching of my elbows that heals me.

When I wash my bed clothing clean of my dried tears, I hope
for a new start.

Hope. A foolish, necessary thing — isn’t it?

I break into a sweat as I place my bucket at the foot of the
drying line. It’s strung between two trees, buried in their bark, their
insides.

Up here we like to bury things, you see.

I use the bottom of my dress to wipe my brow. No one can see
me up here.

No one but him.

Not far from me, the Blacksmith, a hired hand, also uses a
cloth to wipe the sweat from his eyes. Constantly in the throws of the fire,
the heat, and the iron, his is work is far hotter than mine.

He never speaks, and no one really knows if he can.

But still, he is able to communicate with me. I raise a hand
in greeting, and he touches his head; a chivalrous salute.

We continue our work.

He never speaks, but he sees.

I’ve seen the flame burn in his eyes. For some reason, it
calms me.

We are together in the merciless slap of the summer heat,
and in our isolation.

I wash myself, slowly. As much as possible I try to drag out
any time spent outside the miserable prison that is my small home.

My husband, once charming and eager to woo me, has become
withdrawn and cold.

When I first met my husband, I was lonely. Needy. Empty.
Much like now.

The youngest girl in a family of 11 boys, I had always been
an afterthought; a waste of time and resources. The boys did all the work
around our family farm, and I got whatever scraps were left behind after they
ate. Which wasn’t much.

I tended to wander around town, seeking scraps, hiding in
corners, looking for something — waiting for something.

Something to fill my emptiness.

Then came my soon-to-be husband, one day on the street. The
temptation was too sweet.

He was kind to me. At first.

And why not? He had a young, pretty wife who required almost
no dowry because her family was only too glad to get rid of her, useless parasite
that she was.

Soon though, it became apparent that I wasn’t just his wife,
I was an unpaid housemaid and cook.

I’d leave, but there’s nowhere for me to go. At least here,
there is a roof over my head and I don’t have to fight for food. I doubt abandoning
my husband would make me anymore endearing to my own family. In fact, they’d
probably disown me in shame.

I hang my washing on lines strung from tree to tree,
imagining the lines taut around my neck, putting an end to my meaningless
existence.

I turn and see the old woman — and I know we share the
same thought.

My death is the only earthly thing that could unite us in
happiness.

Chapter 3

“
SILENCE
!”

She screams and the rap of the cane on the hardwood kitchen
floor echoes through the small house.

You should know that I like to sing.

I sing old songs to myself — songs that bring me back
to my childhood. Perhaps I learned them from a kindly aunt or grandmother that
I barely knew, but somehow remember.

The old woman can’t stand to hear me sing.

“Stop that awful noise! Get to work!”

I return to the task of preparing a simple dinner for my
husband and his mother, but the song remains in my head, and in my heart, where
no one can take it from me.

I look out the window and see the Blacksmith on the hill.

He can hear it. I
know
.

He stares at me through the window, and his strength brings
me comfort.

The song in my heart continues over this pot of baked beans
and bacon, and as my bread bakes in the oven.

I am at peace while I cook, though I eat very little.

My stomach does not always tolerate digestion.

* * *

I tried to leave once.

Just once.

The axe in the tree serves as a reminder of how foolish that
was.

My husband and his mother don’t want me, but they need me.

They don’t want to pay a housemaid to cater to their needs,
and none would stay anyway.

I still have nowhere else to go.

I welcome death, but preferably not at the hands of my
husband and his axe.

Some days, I imagine the axe in
my
hand as I stand
over my husband’s mother, who is sleeping raspily.

I imagine the axe buried into her skull.

The rest of society may condemn the vicious acts of Lizzie
Borden. But I find myself sympathizing with her —
admiring
her,
even.

I imagine what drove her to those bloody deeds on that dark
day.

It happens, you know.

“JESSIE!”

I wish I could wash my name straight out of my husband’s mouth;
leave a filthy hole behind. But instead, I say:

“Yes, I am coming
.
”

I ladle beans into the bowls of my waiting, unappreciative
audience. I am sweating from the work and the heat.

I place the bowls before my husband and his mother. They
don’t ask where
my
plate is.

“What, no bread?”

“It’s coming,” I say.
Choke on it
.

I don’t say that.

I return to the kitchen and deliver them the warm bread.

“Beans again?” says my husband.

“I thought you liked beans,” I say.

“Well, I don’t.”

The sound of the bowl hitting the floor is loud.

My husband’s mother laughs.

“I’ll get you some jam for your bread,” I say.

“Clean this mess up first!” she says.

“Yes,” I say.

“You are lucky we allow you to stay here, girl.”

“You’re useless,” he adds.

On my hands and knees, I fill my apron with the destroyed
dinner.

I agree.

Chapter 4

I stare at the cleaver on the table
in front of me.

I can’t do it.

I just can’t.

I can’t butcher an animal. I can’t cut its head off. They
can’t make me.

“You live on a farm, girl. This should be easy,” she says.

The chickens are my friends.

I am so lonely.

“Do it.”

I take the cleaver. I consider bringing it down on the old
woman’s head instead, imagine her surprise and horror.

This picture gives me peace.

“Go. Do it. Pick a good one.”

I walk out into the yard with the cleaver.

I can hear the chickens.

I am so lonely.

There’s a table near the chicken coop.

I can’t do this
.

I stand before the coop, cleaver in hand. I pause, knowing I
can’t do it.

I don’t hear her come up behind me until it is too late. I
turn quickly to face her.

She brings the cane down on my face, and I fall to my knees.

I can see the sun going down in a bloody haze through my
split eye, its lid split open by her cane.

I fall to the ground.

“When I tell you to do something, you do it.”

She grabs a scrawny chicken, slams it on the table and
swings the cleaver down. No hesitation.

I lift my skirts and run, sobbing, barely able to see the
rising red moon.

I get as far as I can until I am out of sight of the old,
miserable woman.

Again, I fall to my knees. My hatred consumes me.

I sob into my wretched brown dress.

Tears and blood and pain; all too familiar.

* * *

I feel a hand on my shoulder.

I jump back, ready to defend myself against an attack.

Instead, I look up to see the icy blue eyes of the
Blacksmith, so different from my bloodied, brown ones.

He says nothing and reaches for my hand, undeterred by the
blood and tears.

I am afraid.

I have not felt another hand in mine for so long.

I follow him into darkness. Nowhere could be worse than
here.

Silently, he leads me into his small cabin.

There is a fire burning inside the summer warmth; the
Blacksmith thrives on heat.

He leads me to a wooden chair and I sit. He has poured water
into a pot by the fire and it is warm. He dips a clean rag into the water and
comes back to me.

With strong and callused hands, he gently cleans my bloody
eye and face with the cloth.

Our eyes remain locked.

Deep, fathomless, steely blue, bruised, naked, unbuttoned,
brown.

My fingers tighten around the arm of the chair as he kneels
to get closer to my face. He puts one rough hand under my chin for a better
view of the split. It’s clean now and again, I am soothed by his strength.

Again he reaches to wrap the cloth around a bundle of
scented herbs and drenches it in warm water.

He returns to me, my hands still tight against the arms of
the chair. He lifts the warmth to my swollen eye and softly applies pressure to
the wound. Reluctantly, my eyes close from his closeness and the lulling scent
of the rosemary.

I am not alone.

But we both know I don’t have long.

The Blacksmith step back and refreshes the cloth in the
water. He takes my hand and lifts me to my feet. He presses the cloth into my
hand.

I am reluctant to leave, but we both know I must.

Before I go, he stops me. He reaches for something on the
table.

A cleaver.

He turns me toward the table and I feel his strong, warm
body against my back, more intoxicating than any medicinal herb.

My eyes close again.

He takes the cleaver in his hand and slowly traces the edge
of the blade down my right arm.

I shiver.

I am not so afraid anymore.

I am where I belong. Changing. Seduced by his darkness,
allowing the same to awaken in me.

He eases the handle into my hand, gently, and his hand is
wrapped around my smaller one.

Together, we lift our hands high and our combined power
brings the cleaver down hard, hitting the table with a force that shakes us.

You can do this.

I can do this.

His hand on my hip urges me on.

I lean my head back against his chest and draw one more
breath of his addictive strength.

* * *

As I shuffle past my captors, they
are reluctant to look at my poor eye, and the cleaver wrapped in my heavy skirt
goes undetected.

* * *

The next morning, the sun is barely
up before I push past the old woman and head out into the yard.

She looks after me, sensing something different.

I unroll the cleaver from my dress. The hard handle feels
good in my hand.

Without pause I bring the cleaver down as hard as I can,
welcoming the spatter of blood from my former friend. I still pity them, but I
have no choice. I know what he needs me to do. I want to be like him.

I am hungry to please him.

Surveying my work on the table, I smile before wiping my
face.

It’s easier not to care.
This
is who I am. Who I want
to be.

I look up into the yard and see his silhouette.

I know that he is smiling, too.

Things are different now.

Outwardly, I still do not smile, but I am smiling inside.

I go through my routine, but I feel better:

Confident.

Indifferent.

My husband clearly isn’t sure what to make of this.

He is suspicious, but still does not care enough to think
too deeply about it.

My husband’s mother only cares that I am not as miserable as
she would like me to be, and so she watches me closely.

But I don’t care anymore.

I sleep with the cleaver under my bed.

In these warm last days of summer, I loosen my long, brown
hair from its braids and knots; let it flow through my fingers.

I deliberately hang my wet laundry on the line in the
backyard, now my oasis.

It is kissed by light breezes I never noticed before.

He watches me from afar.

Always our eyes are locked, as if we are inches apart.

Shirt. Dresses. Pants. Bed sheets.

I hang my washing on the line while he watches, and waits.

I sing, and he listens.

Chapter 6

I cannot sleep.

Despite its lightness, my linen nightdress weighs heavily on
my heart as I toss and turn in the cool evening.

I can hear fall whispering to summer in the trees.

I’m coming.

Coming
.

I want to ride that breeze—hear those ancient,
ritualistic whispers. I want to be part of the earth and the sky. I want to be
rocked to sleep on the moon.

Coming.

I’m coming.

I lift myself from bed and stand at the window. The
life-laden branches shimmer in time to my breath. The wind teases my hair. In
the distance an animal cries out, either in pain or in pleasure.

I see him.

I don’t know how long he has been waiting for me—how
many hours, how many nights.

I’m terrified. I’m transported.

Gently, I walk down the stairs from my place of
imprisonment, past the slithering, sleeping sounds of my captors.

They do not dream. But I live in one, carried by my love and
the breezes in the trees.

I step into the night and my breath catches. The grass urges
my bare feet forward, faster.

The night is alive around me. Watching. Waiting.

The moon appears on fire.

The misty clouds are tongues, reaching to taste the
darkness.

He waits.

I run.

I can feel my hair kissing my shoulders.

I’m coming.

We stand before each other and a cloud passes over the moon.

The only light is the steel blue of his eyes.

His white shirt is muddied with blackness, soot and grime.
He pulls me to him by my elbows and once again, our eyes are locked.

His soil is clean. I welcome it.

With his thumb he traces my healing eye, his gaze never
breaking from mine. I reach up to rest my hands on his shoulders.

The night holds its breath. The moon beats in those hushed,
waiting moments between summer and fall.

His fingers find my face and leave a trace of dirt behind. I
stop him from wiping it away.

No.

I want it.

I take his hands in mine and place them on my hips.

Everywhere.

I am flying on the wind.

He smiles. The flame in his eyes ignites.

He opens my mouth with his and I cry out, deep into him.

We fall to our knees into the grass.

He lays me on my back and under the moonlight I am eager and
open.

His fingers are wound in my hair, tightly, as the flames of
our kiss burn us both. I welcome the pain.

My nightgown is pushed up and away. He finds me and for a
moment we both cannot breathe.

We close our eyes and welcome our own change of seasons.

Like so many other wild things in darkness, my gasp of pain
and pleasure echoes through the night,

I am dirty. I am exhilarated. I am changed.

And I am with child.

From now on, the music is mine.