The Devil's Beating His Wife (4 page)

I marveled at him. The sun streaming through the window caused his whitening blond hair to shine. His tanned, weathered hands were now marked with dark freckles. My stern and powerful father had become a cranky old man. That in and of itself wasn't all that surprising. We all got old. But this had happened in only two years, since the day I waved goodbye to them and went off to war.

Mother grabbed the lid of the pot and swept it into the air as if presenting some great feast. The stench of burnt grains filled the room. She grabbed a spoon and dug into the pot. She had to stab the oatmeal a few times before she was able to get a serving onto the spoon.

"You like my oatmeal," Mother said, plopping the mush into a bowl. She placed the bowl on the table and slid it in my direction.

I glanced down at the dark brown heap. I thought I'd rather take my chances with another serving of that English brown bread. I lifted my eyes and favored Mother with a slight smile.

Father grunted in disgust. "I do not like your oatmeal. In fact, I hate it. I even hate you whenever you make this awful stuff." Father pushed away from the table. "I'm going into town for a real breakfast," he said as he stormed out of the room. I could hear the muffled words "shit" and "rather eat fresh maggots" as he left the house.

Mother skipped to the doorway and peered around the corner. Tendrils of hair fell from the bun at the top of her head. She stood on her tiptoes as she watched Father climb into his truck. She shook her fist in the air and yelled, "Don't come home until you get that attitude sorted out!"

Father honked his horn and drove away. Mother's back straightened as she pivoted away from the door. Her face was serene as she smoothed her filthy, oat-splattered apron. Shrugging her shoulders, she glanced at me, a hopeful expression on her face. I grabbed the sugar bowl and sprinkled several spoonfuls over the oats. Smiling outwardly and groaning inwardly, I lifted the spoon and took my first bite. I lowered my head so she couldn't see the dour expression on my face.

"Damn it, Baxter, don't force yourself to eat it if you don't want to." Taking Father's place at the head of the table, she grabbed the paper and opened it. Snorting with laughter, she said, "Why don't you go over to Carver's house? I heard that slut of his is a damn good cook."

Relieved, I pushed my bowl away. "Maybe you could invite her over sometime to show you a few things?"

The knuckles of her fingers went white. She slowly lowered the paper. The fine hairs at her neck were standing on end. Her skin had paled beneath the dark red rouge that she wore on her cheeks.

"There is no way on God's green earth that I will ever allow that person into my kitchen again," she said.

"Jesus, Mother. It's been five years. You ain't let that go yet?"

"What that girl did to this family is unforgivable, Baxter."

"Unforgivable? You mean getting knocked up by Carver?"

More strands of her dark blond hair fell from her sloppy bun. She was outright quivering with outrage. Her blood-red lips had disappeared into a grim line. I couldn't believe she was able to force out her next words: "Don't you dare use that type of language around me, Baxter."

"You called her a slut not two minutes ago!"

Her head swiveled on her shoulders as she looked for something to hit me with. It was too damn early in the morning to be thrashed by my mother. Especially on an empty stomach.

"Please accept my apologies, ma'am. I meant no disrespect."

"I certainly hope not," she said, lifting Father's mug of coffee. She raised the paper and snapped it open. The pages vibrated with her rage, although she tried to appear calm as she sipped from the mug.

Placing my hands onto the table, I pushed my chair back and hoisted myself to my feet. As I walked towards the kitchen, I glanced in her direction. Mother watched me from the corner of her eye. She tensed, ready to spring if I lost my balance. One minute, the harpy was ready to bash my brains in and the next minute, she was an overprotective battle-axe. I splayed my hands in front of me, motioning for her to stay back. Stiffening my legs and straightening my gait, I focused on staying on my feet and made it into the kitchen with barely a limp.

Feeling quite safe at the sink, I asked, "Why haven't you hired another maid?"

"You know why," Mother said from the doorway. I reached out to hold onto the nearest object, hoping to ease the burden on my leg. Her approach startled me, and I burned my hand when I placed it on the top of the still-hot stove. She moved across the kitchen and grabbed my hand. Shoving it under cold running water, she clucked her tongue in annoyance.

"Ever since that unfortunate incident," she said, "none of the colored people will step foot on this land. I can't say that I blame them. What happened to that boy wasn't—" She pressed her lips together and wrapped my hand in a towel. "I blame that Mary-Alice."

I didn't respond. I still wondered if Mary-Alice's flirtatious ways had been the reason that boy had ever crossed Carver's mind. She was the type of woman who found power in manipulating the men who loved her.

"Things haven't been the same around here since then," Mother said, moving away from me.

It hadn't taken long for news of Spicey's brother's death to spread around town. The damn boy was hanging from the big tree in the center of our small town. At first, people only talked about the sailor found hanging in the tree. Then they began to connect that it was Spicey's brother. The initial word had been that the Klan had ridden into town, targeting the coloreds in the military. I had latched onto that rumor myself, spreading it around to the few curious folks that asked for my opinion.

But hell if Spicey's mama hadn't set the town straight. She'd gotten the coloreds all worked up. They held meetings at the colored church. She would pay testimony to what happened that night. Even Spicey had stood before the townsfolk and told them what she had seen. The preacher had gathered a group to go down to the sheriff's office to file a complaint. They didn't get very far with that. The sheriff was Charlie's uncle. Since his nephew had been part of the gang, he had been well-apprised of that night's events long before the delegation reached him. He calmly explained to them that the death was ruled a suicide by the coroner. Word spread that the sheriff had actually said the boy was too terrified to fight in the war.

"Enough of that unpleasantness," Mother muttered to herself. "That was nearly three years ago and it's time to let sleeping dogs lie." I could hear the sadness in her voice even though she tried to hide it with a fake smile. "Baxter, I've been thinking of hosting a party for you. I'll invite some of our friends. Since you've been gone, a few new families have moved into the area, and there are a few eligible girls that I'd like you to meet. There's one in particular, a pretty girl named Rita, that I think you might like. She has that dark hair and dark eyes that you seem to favor." The dark hair, dark eyes, and dark skin of Spicey were what I actually favored, and she knew that.

"Mother, we both know that I ain't got no say in this. No matter my opinion, you will throw this party. Shoot, if I attempted to hide, I well imagine you would hog-tie me to a chair."

"You have that about right, honey."

"However, I don't think the guests would appreciate your unique culinary talents."

"Don't be silly, I plan on hiring a cook for the night." She pinched my chin, then grabbed my face and kissed my cheek. "I'm so glad to have my boy back and alive."

"Get your hands off of him," said a voice from the doorway. "He's too old to be smothered."

Mother rolled her eyes and glanced around me. "That girl is not here, Carver. You tell me you didn't bring that girl here."

"That girl?" Carver asked, stepping forward to kiss Mother's cheek. "As in my wife? You know, one day I hope you two manage to work out your differences. She simply adores you, Mother. Just like we all do."

Mother stuck her nose in the air and huffed loudly.

Carver's lips puckered and his dark blue eyes glinted with mischief. "Well, well, well. My big brother, the hero, has returned to his adoring mama. I heard you snuck in last night. I had to hear it through the grapevine that you've returned."

I knew there must have been confusion on my face when I glanced in Mother's direction. She arched an eyebrow and said nothing. I cleared my throat and shifted my gaze back to Carver.

"I've been back since Saturday evening. I thought Mother told you, and you were staying away for some reason."

"But it's Tuesday." He shot Mother an angry glance. "I didn't get no phone call."

Mother fidgeted. Smoothing down the front of her green dress, she lifted her chin and glared at Carver. "I called, but that girl answered. So I hung up the phone."

"Mother," I said, disbelief in my voice.

Carver said nothing, but I could see the annoyance in his eyes. He nodded, accepting our mother's words. She'd rather keep him ignorant than inform his wife of any news. Carver's mouth tightened as he placed his arm around my shoulders and walked me out of the kitchen.

"Don't you worry none, big brother," he said. "I'm here to save you."

"Save me from what?" I asked, placing my own arm around his shoulders.

He tapped my chest and nodded towards Mother, who was scampering behind us. "The hen, of course."

Mother was once again on her tiptoes, trying to glance over our backs. I could hear her huffing with displeasure. "I hope you are referring to your father."

Carver stopped and turned to face her. "Since when has a man ever been likened to a hen?"

The shock stopped her in her place. An exasperated shriek crawled up her throat as she stomped her foot down on Carver's. He hopped back and pretended to be injured. He laughed and resumed his shuffle out of the house. I gave Mother a brief salute before I followed Carver.

Mother shouted from the porch, "Please don't be mad! You know how much I dislike that girl!"

"Her name is Mary-Alice, Mother, and she's my wife," Carver called out over his shoulder.

I climbed into Carver's truck. He glanced back towards the house and waved at our mother. "I'll bring him back well-fed. I'd invite you, but as I'm taking him to my house.... Well, you understand."

She stiffened her spine, spun on her heel, and grabbed the screen door. Pulling it open with frustration, she stomped back into the house. The door banged loudly on its hinges. I cringed. Carver chuckled.

Mother would quickly recover. In a few minutes, she'd be helping herself to Father's favorite gin. That had always been her preferred breakfast, anyway.

Carver pulled out of the yard and turned onto the county road that led to his house. He'd been lucky to find a house not that far from our parents, but that had been a negative rather than a positive for Mother. She'd much rather that girl be on the far side of the state, miles away from our family.

Mother had never warmed to Mary-Alice. From the moment Carver had invited her over for dinner and introduced her to the family, Mother had been open with her dislike. Mary-Alice was the daughter of a poor cotton farmer who was known for drinking away any profits the family might have seen. Eight years ago, her mother had run off with another man, leaving her children with their drunken father. Seven months later, she'd returned to the family with a big, round belly. Her husband had accepted her back and graciously accepted the bastard. He had been a hell of a lot more forgiving of her misdeeds than the town had been.

No one forgot. No one pretended to not care about their business. Everyone distanced themselves from the scandalous family, but then Carver went off and fell in love with the eldest daughter. It had shamed Mother in the eyes of our little community. Instead of blaming Carver for making a poor choice, she had placed all the blame on Mary-Alice's shoulders.

Things hadn't gotten better when word got out that Mary-Alice was pregnant. Mother firmly believed that the young seductress had trapped the lustful Carver into marriage. She was right, of course. Mary-Alice had spread her legs, hoping to fuck her way into a good family. I had firsthand knowledge of her aspirations.

We drove in silence past several farms, including the sheriff's house and our uncle's place. We sped past the peach trees and cotton fields. We passed the wooded road that led to the Colsen's farm, an old run-down shack that people said was haunted. No one liked to look too hard at that place. It was as if staring at it too hard might result in an early demise.

Yet, it was all beautiful to me, and I had taken it all for granted. Every spot had been familiar to me as a boy. Now my eyes sought out every landmark, searching out small things I might not have noticed before. Overseas, I had slept in beds that had once belonged to noblemen and their wives. I had ransacked the cellars of ancient estates. I had hidden in the opulent rooms of esteemed clergymen. None of that was as beautiful and appreciated as my home.

"How does this compare to ol' Europe?" Carver asked. He and I had grown up very close. We were each other's best friend. He had long ago learned how to read my moods and thoughts. As he steered the truck onto the gravel road that led to his house, he chuckled. I noticed Mary-Alice standing outside, pinning the laundry to the line. Hearing the truck pull onto the drive, she turned towards us and waved happily.

The truck had barely stopped when Mary-Alice grabbed the door handle and pulled it open. I stepped out and her arms locked around me. I tried to pull away, but she managed to tighten her grip even more. I felt her breasts press against my chest; her nipples were pebbled and her breathing was shallow. I glanced down into her face.

She was a pretty woman with light gray eyes and mousy brown hair. She used to dye it a platinum blond, but it fell out once, and she never bothered with the dye again. That had humbled her vanity a bit.

Peeking at me through her blackened, curly lashes, she spread her full, red lips and I recognized the message there. Since the first moment I met her, I knew if I crooked my finger at my brother's wife, she would come to me. Quite willingly.