By Karen Brode

Sometimes it seemed like Momma only knew one word when it came to chores: 

“Margrit!” She always screeched it out so loud the whole neighborhood in their sleepy Texas town knew Margaret’s name. 

Margaret woke with a start. Had Momma just hollered? Or was that just a dream?  

She decided it must have been a dream. Otherwise, Momma would have burst through the door making a racket, waking up the whole house.

Margaret rolled over and edged as far as she could to the side of the bed away from Junior, her little brother, and the smell of his urine soaking the sheets. It didn’t help, though. The sticky dampness was on everything, including her legs, and it stunk. It was too much. 

She eased herself up and sat on the edge of the bed. She turned to look at her sleeping brother and wondered how she managed to sleep next to him night after night. Did other fifth graders have to sleep in the same bed as their brothers? Did other fifth graders wake up each morning in a pool of pee?

There wasn’t any use in getting upset about it. It’s not like she could do anything about it. It’s not like anything ever changed. Nearly every morning she was soaked. It didn’t matter that she rubbed every part of her body with a dingy wet washcloth every morning. She could smell Junior’s urine all day long and she knew other kids could too.

It occurred to her that, in smelling like his pee, she took Junior with her wherever she went, whether she wanted to or not. Sometimes he was even mistaken as her twin. Even though his mind was stuck at three years old, he was big for a seven-year-old, and much to Margaret’s dismay, people thought they were the same age. 

And Junior literally wanted to go wherever she went. He especially wanted to go to school. Looking at his fluttering, sleeping eyes, she remembered last week when she started out the door to school and he had been awake. He came trailing after her, pulling on her arm, wailing at the top of his lungs. 

“Sisser! Sister! Let me goes wit you today!” 

She spent the next ten minutes calming him down, reassuring him they could play school when she got back. Kids like him couldn’t go to school. It was 1962. There wasn’t a place for him. She felt guilty about it, but she was secretly glad about this. Even though she knew she would never be like any of the other girls at school, at least at school she wasn’t responsible for anybody else.

Margaret glanced at the small alarm clock she kept on the window ledge. It was after seven which meant she had about an hour to get ready and walk to school. The walk took her half an hour. 

She looked across the room to the cot where her five-year-old brother, Waynie slept. She moved slowly getting up from the bed. She didn’t want to wake either of her brothers because then she’d be late for school for sure. 

Once in the bathroom, she peeled her nightshirt off and hung it over the shower rod. She ran a dingy washcloth under the spigot of the sink and wrung it out. As quickly, but as thoroughly as she could, she wiped the sticky urine from her body. She knew it wasn’t perfect. She was sure the other kids could smell it on her no matter how long she took to wipe it off. When she was done, she slipped on the same clothes she had worn the day before and took the brush from the sink. She tried to tame her thick, wavy dark hair but it never looked nice. Her mother told her she had gotten her hair from her grandma, but Granny’s hair was silver and she always had it tamed in a bun on the back of her head.

Margaret took one last look in the mirror and decided there wasn’t anything else to be done. As quietly as she could, she tiptoed down the hall towards the front door. She glanced quickly into her parents’ bedroom. As usual, they were both still sleeping. 

At the empty kitchen, she closed her eyes and imagined a big breakfast of scrambled eggs and maybe some fried potatoes. She especially loved her granny’s fried potatoes. But Granny wasn’t there and her parents were still asleep. Besides, she told herself, there wasn’t time for breakfast. Her stomach grumbled. The truth was, there probably wasn’t any breakfast to be had, so it didn’t do any good to daydream about it. She picked up her books and quietly opened the front door. Once outside, she looked straight ahead, pretending not to see the neighbors who were outside tending their lawns. She made a beeline for school.

She got to school just as the bell stopped ringing. She was late. Again. She hated walking into class with all the eyes on her. She just wanted to be invisible. But her teacher, Mrs. Woodcut, wasn’t about to let that happen.

“Overslept again, Miss Teadley?” she asked.

Margaret slunk over the stack of schoolbooks in her arms and pushed a chunk of hair out of her eyes.

“Sorry, Mrs. Woodcut,” she said. 

There were titters all over the room as Margaret sat down at her desk. One of the boys mimicked the way Margaret had said “Sorry” and more laughter broke out across the room.

“Enough, class,” said Mrs. Woodcut. “Please open your history textbooks to page 35.” 

It didn’t take long before Margaret’s empty stomach started to rumble loud enough for the other kids to hear. She heard whispers and some quiet snorts whenever it gurgled. She put a hand on her belly and pressed to try to keep it quiet. It was only 10:30 but lunchtime aromas wafted from the cafeteria into her classroom. She was so hungry, but she couldn’t afford school lunch and she hadn’t brought any sack lunch with her from home. When lunchtime came, she would have to go without. Her stomach growled angrily. She tried not to cry.

After what felt like an eternity, the lunch bell rang.

“Settle, class. Soon enough,” Mrs. Woodcut said, waving her palms down to remind the children to stay put. “Those of you who brought your lunch, please go to your cubby now and bring it to your desk.” 

The classroom filled with the sounds of scraping chairs and murmuring children. About half the students had brought their own lunch. Margaret peered around the room at the sandwiches and thermoses that came out of different bags and pales. She longed for just a bite of one of the sandwiches. Just a crumb. She bet it tasted good.

“Now, children,” Mrs. Woodcut continued, “I must go down the hall to pick up the tray lunches. No one gets out of your seats while I am gone, or expect to meet with the principal after.” 

Mrs. Woodcut waddled out of the class in her diamond-patterned double-knit polyester dress and her gum-soled shoes. She had the same roundness that Margaret’s mother had, but Margaret couldn’t help compare the way the two women carried themselves. Margaret’s mother walked with her hips leading, her top half was slumped back a little, making her stomach appear bigger than it actually was. (And the worn elastic waist pants didn’t help.) Mrs. Woodcut pulled her shoulders up, as straight as her spine would allow, and although she had a sort of waddle like Momma, her whole body was upright and moved forward all at the same pace. 

While Mrs. Woodcut was gone, many of the children finished up their sack lunches. Several girls on the front row pulled mirrors and powder out of purses they had stashed in their desks. They held them up and dotted the powder on perfect skin. 

Behind her, boys giggled in a way that scared Margaret. If they all ganged up on her, she didn’t know what she would do. 

To distract herself, she took out a book and tried to pick up where she had left off the day before. She loved to read but rarely got a chance to do it at home. There were always things that had to be done. In books, though, she could disappear. She thought of the characters as her friends, her confidantes.

Finally, Mrs. Woodcut returned. She pushed the cart into the room and gave each child who had paid for lunch a steaming plate of meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and green beans. 

Margaret looked away. She couldn’t stand it. She knew if she thought about it too long, she would cry. So, she put her book away, folded her arms over the desk, and laid her head down. Maybe she could take a nap while the others ate. 

“Miss Teadley,” Mrs. Woodcut said, “kindly move your head so I can put your tray down.” 

Margaret sat up with a start and stared at the tray placed in front of her. 

“I, um,” Margaret began, but she didn’t know how to ask where the lunch had come from without the other kids hearing and making fun of her. She knew her mother had not paid for the lunch. But who? How? 

“No ‘ums,’ in this classroom, Miss Teadley,” said Mrs. Woodcut. “Please eat your lunch so the others are not waiting for you for recess.” 

Margaret was so hungry all the questions faded from her mind. To have this wonderful meal placed in front of her made her feel grateful, hopeful.  She took a bite of mashed potatoes and then a bit of meatloaf. She savored every crumb. She had even been given chocolate milk, her favorite.

For the rest of the school day, Margaret felt better than she had felt for a long time. She actually worked up the nerve to ask another girl in her class to play on the monkey bars—and she had accepted! With a full belly and a potential friend, she could believe things might be different. 

That feeling was with her all the way to the end of school that day. She practically skipped toward home. She noticed all the flowers growing and the perfectly groomed green grass lawns. She heard the birds singing. It’s a wonder what a good meal might do, she thought, smiling.

But her smile faded when she got to her block. Down the lane, she saw a bright clean van parked in front of her house. Even from half a block away, she had to squint at the sun shining off the chrome bumper. The newness of it unsettled her. Nobody ever visited their house, especially someone with a fancy van. 

As she passed other homes, Margaret noticed some of the neighbor ladies talking in their yards. They gestured toward her little four-room house, but when they saw her watching them, they stopped talking. Their brows furrowed and their lips curled into half-frown, half-smile. It was a smile of pity. Margaret knew it well.  

She was pretty sure she didn’t want to be a part of anything that was happening at her house, so she glanced around at Old Man Tatum’s house and saw his car wasn’t in his driveway and his curtains were closed. If he wasn’t around, she could sneak back behind his house and get to hers without being seen.

She looked behind her and noticed the ladies had moved into one of their driveways. They now seemed more concerned about a clump of weeds that had started growing alongside the edge. Margaret took the opportunity to duck behind the evergreens that lined Mr. Tatum’s driveway. Then she made a beeline to the back of his house. 

From the corner of his yard, Margaret hid behind a tree she had always thought of as The Christmas Tree. Mr. Tatum never decorated it but since she could see it from her house and her family never had a tree, she had imagined it being hung with streamers and lights and filled with gifts.

“Mrs. Teadley,” said a man Margaret could hear but not see. “The Rotary Club is happy to bestow you with a brand new washing machine.” 

Another man with a loud, goofy voice spoke next. “Yes. If you’ll kindly let me through, I’ll get it hooked up in a jiffy.” 

Momma giggled and Margaret heard the screen door open and close. She watched through the windows as Momma and her brothers led the men to the closet that was meant to hold a washing machine.

Through one of the open windows, she heard Junior ask, “Where is Sisser?” Her mother made some motion for Junior to hush and then she turned back to the men in the house.

Margaret felt her whole body burn with embarrassment. Her mother clearly thought it was great the Rotary Club was giving them a washing machine. But this called so much attention to her family, and not the kind of attention anybody wanted. 

She edged around the tree and spotted a familiar broken plank along the side of her house. She had discovered a few weeks earlier she could lift the plank and crawl underneath the house for some peace and quiet. She stared back toward the windows and noticed the men, Momma, and the boys walking to the front door. She needed to get to her hiding spot before they noticed her.

“Would you mind if we get a picture of you and your family for the paper, Mrs. Teadley?” asked one of the men. 

Margaret could just barely see him as he stepped off the porch onto the broken walkway leading up to their house. She could tell he was wearing a nice suit. Momma must be beside herself.

Margaret felt sick. She had to get to her hiding place and figure out how to live in that place forever. When she heard her mother make her loud, roar of a laugh, she made a run for it to the side of the house. She edged her way to the broken plank, threw her books inside, and slid into the small opening. Once inside, she felt like she could breathe.

“Is this your whole family?” asked the man in the suit.

“Naw,” Momma said. “We’re missin’ my husband who is out driving his cab. That’s what he does for a livin’. And I’ve got a daughter who should be home from school by now.” 

Margaret knew what was coming next. There were footsteps across the porch and then, “MARGRIT! Where are you?” 

Her mother lowered her voice with a giggle. “Where on earth did that girl get to?”

At that, Margaret heard Junior shuffle across the porch and onto the dirt yard. “Sisser! Sisser!” 

Margaret held her breath as Junior walked back and forth past her hiding place. 

“MARGRIT!” Her mother walked from one side of the porch to the other. “I don’t know where in tarnation that girl’s gone. It’s not like she’s got any school friends that’d keep her.” Margaret felt her face burn with embarrassment.

“Well, we could just get the three of you?” asked the man. He sounded impatient.

Through the cracks in the planks, Margaret could just barely see parts of Mr. Tatum’s backyard next door which led to the next neighbor and the next after that. Each one was green with a grassy lawn and dotted with bushes of flowers. They seemed to enjoy tending their lawns and flower beds. She had seen Mrs. Waxly give Mr. Tatum a bulb from her tulip bed and he had gone to plant it immediately into a special pot along the edge of his back patio that now bloomed with the long, green leaves of a tulip plant. 

The only neighbors who had a yard remotely as desolate as theirs were the Johnsons across the street. Their grass was lush all the way up until the summer when it turned yellow and died in the hot Texas summers.

She was pretty sure all those people owned their homes. She had heard her parents arguing over the rent for their house. Momma was proud that they could live on a nice street like regular people. But Margaret knew other children at school who lived in a housing complex for people like her family and she often thought that if they lived in a place like that, maybe they wouldn’t stick out like a sore thumb. Children would wear tattered clothes that had been given to them from some agency and it wouldn’t hurt so bad when other girls laughed behind their hands because she’d have friends who understood her.

Finally, she heard the men telling Momma goodbye and loading up in the van. She heard her mother ask Junior and Waynie what on earth happened to their sister. Junior yelled for “Sissie” again. Before long, she heard the screen door open and bang shut and the shuffle of three pairs of feet overhead.

She sighed and laid down on the dirt floor. The day had gone so well up until then. Now she just wanted to go to sleep and dream it all back. 

Margaret woke to the sound of Junior and Waynie fighting over something and Momma yelling at both of them. She could hear them all the way under the house. It was amazing how loud they could be. She could tell from her hiding place that the sun was much lower in the sky. From the smells wafting in, she guessed it was almost dinner time. 

With the boys fighting and Momma yelling, she knew she could sneak out without being noticed. She was just about to walk to the front porch when she heard the dog whine in the backyard. He was tied to a post in the ground. There were no trees, no grass; just dried up ground. Margaret wondered why they had him. Nobody ever gave him any attention. He didn’t even have a name. And if he saw one of them coming towards him, he sort of cowered, hoping he would not be punished. In fact, she had seen her father kick the dog once when the poor thing strained at his chain so hard that he almost choked on his collar. 

Her father had never wanted him, though. “Another mouth to feed,” was all he said when Momma led him into their backyard to meet the new puppy. 

Margaret looked at him now. How many times had she almost unhooked him from his chain? She wished she could do it without fear of getting in trouble. Momma would never forgive her, even though she had never been out to play with the pup since bringing him home. His ribs showed beneath his mangey coat. No animal should have to live like that.

She looked around to see if anyone was outside. It was dark enough that she didn’t feel obviously seen. She set her books down by the corner of the house and carefully, slowly walked toward the dog.

It whimpered. She crouched a little and whispered, “Shh, it’s okay.” 

When she reached him, he rolled over on his back. It was the first time she had been this close to him. His bones stuck out all over. She scratched his belly and up near his neck. He stunk, but then she figured, so did she. 

“At least one of us should be free,” she said, her heart beating hard in her chest. 

She took one more look around and then gently undid the dog’s collar. 

At the click of his collar being released, the dog jumped up. He had a look in his eyes that told Margaret he knew exactly what was happening. He took a look at Margaret and snuffled, then sneezed. He shook himself out and, for a moment, looked almost healthy. His eyes sparkled. Margaret felt she understood him now, too. With that, he took off running for the woods in the distance. She almost wished she could go with him.

Margaret heard one of the boys yelling from the back part of the house. She jumped up and ran to her schoolbooks. She scooped them up and walked as nonchalantly as she could to the front door. She felt a little stronger now and her fear about letting the dog go disappeared as she thought about the look in his eyes. Plus, she figured nobody would notice for who knows how long.

“Well, now you show up!” said Momma when Margaret walked into the kitchen. “You know that you missed the newspaper men! They took our picture!” 

Margaret tried not to wince at Momma’s excitement. She sounded like Junior whenever he got over-excited about something. 

“I had to start fixing supper without you.” Momma stood beside the stovetop and cut into the bologna slices that were puffing up in the middle of a frying pan. “Grab the bread and set out enough for a sandwich apiece.” 

Margaret did as she was told. She set five plates out on the countertop—one for each of them and her father when he got home—and she laid two pieces of bread on each. The last piece of bread was the heel. Even though it wasn’t her favorite, she took it because nobody else in the house liked it and there wasn’t any more bread after that.

“Everyone gets one sandwich” Momma warned. “That goes especially for you, Junior! Don’t wolf your food down because there isn’t anymore.” 

Margaret handed off the plates of sandwiches to her brothers and set the other plates down where she, her mother, and her father usually sat.

As she took her seat, Momma walked to the table with the pan of bologna. Margaret thought again about how similar her mother and Mrs. Woodcut looked but how differently they held themselves. Momma led with her hips and, now that her pregnancy was starting to show, that posture was even more pronounced. 

Margaret knew she didn’t understand all that much, but she also knew another baby was going to need things they didn’t have. Momma was just happy to have a new baby coming. It was something to look forward to. It made her happy to be expecting a new baby, but Margaret could already see how things would be.

Momma sat down at the table and, while her brothers were inhaling their sandwiches and her mother was settling into hers, Margaret wondered if her mother had ever been beautiful. She noticed now that Momma had brushed her hair out, probably for the Rotary Club and newspaper people. When it was brushed out like that and certain light caught it, her mother’s red hair shone like stained glass. Most days, though, she didn’t bother to comb it. It just hung out from her head in a ratty mess. 

But then Momma belched and laughed. Margaret pretended to laugh as she tucked into eating her own sandwich. She lowered her eyes because she had caught sight of Momma’s teeth. They looked like they had rattled around in the palm of God’s hand before they were scattered like dice into her mouth.

Margaret swallowed her bite of sandwich and clenched her teeth together in a sort of grimace. She tapped her front tooth with her fingernail and remembered all the times she had lost teeth as a kid. It had been sort of a celebration at the time, even though the tooth fairy never came to give her money for them. The teeth that grew in made a U around the top and bottom of her mouth. They certainly weren’t straight, she thought, but they were all there. Had Momma’s teeth not all grown in? Or did people lose teeth as adults, too?

The next day, Margaret made a point to make it to school on time. It was show-and-tell and Carol Piper had brought her Barbie doll, complete with car and house and little hangars for Barbie’s clothes. During lunch, the children were allowed to play outside or take more time looking at the items from show-and-tell. Margaret was enamored with Barbie, so she chose to stay inside.

She had to wait until other girls had moved on to other items before she could spend time with Barbie, but it was well worth the wait. She marveled at all the intricate and perfect details. She had never seen a Barbie doll, but she immediately wanted one. She unbuttoned and rebuttoned Barbie’s blouses and unzipped and zipped Ken’s pants. Where had they found such tiny little zippers?  She wanted to keep looking at all of it, but the bell rang. As children filed in from outside, Mrs. Woodcut told everyone to take their seats. 

Margaret held Barbie in her hand just a moment longer. She touched her hair and then bent the doll at the waist to set her down against the wall in Barbie’s house. Margaret took the two, perfect little shoes and set them in a little pull-out drawer in Barbie’s bedroom and returned to her desk.

Margaret daydreamed about Barbie for the rest of the day and into the next. She hoped Carol had left the doll and all her possessions at school overnight. Margaret made a point to get to school just a little early with hopes of having a few more minutes to play with the doll.

How happy she was when she walked into Mrs. Woodcut’s classroom to see that Carol had left Barbie overnight! She started to walk over to the dollhouse but Mrs. Woodcut made a noise with her throat and gestured with her fingers for Margaret to take a seat at her desk.

That’s when Margaret realized that Mrs. O’Dell, the principal, was there. Margaret wasn’t sure how she had missed her. She was standing at the front of the room, and even in the hallways, Mrs. O’Dell was a formidable figure. She always wore heavy skirt suits, no matter what time of year it was. She wore glasses on a chain around her neck and bright red lipstick that scared Margaret. Everyone was afraid of Mrs. O’Dell. Even the toughest boy settled down when threatened with a visit to the principal’s office. From the very time Margaret was introduced to Mrs. O’Dell in first grade, she had made up her mind she would never do anything that would get her sent to the principal’s office.

Some of the children were looking down at their desks, but then Margaret realized some of them were looking at her. A cluster of little girls near the front had turned to glare at her. She felt her hands clutching the sides of her chair so hard that it made her fingers hurt. Why were they all looking at her?

“Carol Piper,” said Mrs. O’Dell, “Please come to the front here beside me.” 

Carol stood and walked slowly to the front of the room. Margaret feared for Carol. What could she possibly have done? It was clear she was upset, though. Her face was red like she had been crying and her shoulders slumped a little. Even so, Margaret noticed how almost like Barbie Carol looked—her long, chestnut hair pulled back in a smooth ponytail and her skirt bounced just a little when she walked.

Carol’s father was a car salesman at the ritzy car dealership downtown where all the rich people went to buy cars. At least that is what Momma had said. She said they wouldn’t be going there if they ever bought another car. Margaret could not imagine her parent’s going anywhere. They barely had enough money to cover their rent. Carol had everything she wanted. Margaret imagined she probably had French provincial bedroom furniture and pink walls. Margaret couldn’t imagine Carol ever having to sleep in the same bed as someone like Junior.

“We have a thief among us!” Mrs. O’Dell roared. Margaret sat up straight, shocked by the news as well as how loud Mrs. O’Dell could be.

“Carol Piper has told Mrs. Woodcut that someone has taken her Barbie doll’s shoes. She is pretty sure she knows who did this, but we would like for that person to come forward now of their own accord.”  

Margaret glanced around the room, trying to guess who might take Barbie’s shoes. As her eyes moved from one face to the next, she realized they were all looking at her!

Carol broke out in tears and pointed a finger. “Margaret took the shoes! She was the last one to have them!” 

Margaret felt her stomach shoot up into her chest. She thought she might faint.

“Me?” she asked in almost a whisper. “I would never.”

Carol cried even louder and Mrs. O’Dell pulled her toward her.

“There, there,” she said. “We’ll get to the bottom of this.”

“Miss Teadley,” continued Mrs. O’Dell, “Please come to the front of the room.” 

Margaret stood up but held onto the desk out of fear she might fall over her feet. “I didn’t take the shoes, Mrs. O’Dell. Honest!” 

“Come, please,” said the principal.

Margaret shuffled to the front of the room and stood, shaking before the class. 

“Did you take Carol’s doll’s shoes?” asked Mrs. O’Dell.

Margaret swallowed hard. “No, ma’am,” she said. “I would never do that.” 

Carol sobbed into her hands. “She’s lying! She’s the last one to have them, everybody knows that!” 

Margaret shook her head slowly. Her mouth was dry. “No. I promise!” Her voice cracked. She felt even more lightheaded. “I put Barbie’s shoes in the little drawer in her bedroom.” 

Carol looked up from her hands and glowered at Margaret. She walked to the Barbie house and reached into the bedroom and opened the drawer. There were the shoes, just where Margaret had put them the day before. 

Mrs. O’Dell looked from Carol to Margaret and back again.

“Okay, then,” she said with an exasperated sigh. “If I am no longer needed,” she turned to Mrs. Woodcut and they nodded at each other. Mrs. O’Dell turned on her heel and, without looking at Margaret again, she marched out of the room. 

Carol turned to the class, holding the shoes out as if they were still evidence against Margaret.”Well,” she said, “she didn’t put them in the right place!”

Margaret didn’t know how long she was meant to stand there until Mrs. Woodcut told her to return to her seat. More than anything she longed to be at home under her house where no one could see her.

---

Karen Brode is the senior contributor Jet Planes and Coffee. She grew up in Denison, Texas and graduated from Denison High School in 1972.  She took courses at Southeastern Oklahoma State University and worked in a church office for 25 years. She and her husband, Gary, have been married for more than 40 years. They have one son, Brandon. Karen’s hobbies are writing, sewing, and gardening.

By Karen Brode

Opal traipsed ahead of her sisters in her white night-gown. She glanced back at Cleo and Jewel, who followed reluctantly.

“C’mon, slow pokes,” Opal whispered. She glanced up at the full moon and then back to the uncertain faces of her sisters. “It’s almost midnight and I’m not telling this story if we’re not at the cemetery by then.”

Opal had insisted that her story should take place in the local cemetery at midnight. She was 13 and almost an adult. She knew better than either of her sisters how to tell a good story. Jewel was only 11 years old and had lived in Opal’s shadow all her life. It was easy to get her to follow orders, but Cleo was her own person and she rarely let Opal – or anyone else – make her feel inadequate.

Come to think of it, Cleo was a tough nut all the way around. Of all the sisters, Cleo acted the most like a boy. She could climb trees and run faster than most of the boys at school. Although Opal tried to explain that boys weren’t attracted to girls who climbed trees and ran fast, Cleo insisted on doing it anyway. Her independence drove Opal a little nuts, but for now she knew she had both Cleo and Jewel right where she wanted.

“I’m so glad the moon is full tonight,” she told her sisters. “Why, it’s almost as bright as daylight.”

In Opal’s mind, the conditions were perfect for a story at the cemetery. Not only was it scarier because of what time it was, she could see the fear on Jewel’s face, as well as the annoyance on Cleo’s. Opal knew Cleo resented her needing to tell her story at the cemetery. She could see Cleo wasn’t afraid, but she also knew Cleo just didn’t like the whole idea and that was satisfying enough.

Opal leaned over to look more closely at Cleo’s face. Cleo pulled back and frowned. Opal saw the scratches where tree branches had scratched her sister’s face in several places. This made Opal feel even better. She knew Cleo and Jewel would have a time of it with their mother at breakfast when they tried to explain how they got scratched up, but Opal never had to explain a thing.

Just then an owl flew low and hooted, as if it thought the glow of Jewel’s blonde hair was a meal. Jewel grabbed onto Cleo’s arm and made a little squeal.

“They sound like women screaming,” she said. Her voice quivered as she spoke. Opal knew Jewel was near to tears but there was no going back now. They had reached the clearing right outside the cemetery where she would tell the story.

Opal sat down on the grass and, together, the girls formed a circle when Cleo and Jewel sat down facing each other. Opal’s eyes danced in anticipation of telling the long-awaited story.

She sat in silence taking it all in, building the suspense, until Cleo said in her deadpan voice, “Come on, Opal. Get on with it.”

Opal knew Cleo was just as curious as Jewel, so she said, “If you say one more thing, you are going to have to walk home by yourself and not hear my story!”   

Jewel grabbed onto Cleo’s arm. “No! I promise Cleo won’t say anything else.” Jewel’s big round eyes pleaded at Cleo. Her younger sister sighed and nodded.

And so Opal began.

“Do you remember the couple who lived over by the church for awhile?” 

Cleo shrugged. “Kind of. Didn’t something happen to them?”

Opal nodded. “Their names were Sarah and Tom.” Opal pointed in the direction of the church which sat on the other side of the cemetery. “They lived just past there.” 

“Sarah was pregnant that fall, but it didn’t slow her down in her canning and quilting and housework. She was happier than anyone had ever seen her! She felt the beginnings of life in her belly and nothing could make her sad.

“Her husband, Tom, worked all day at the rail yard. He came home at the end of the day so tired and hungry. Sarah often made a pie to celebrate how happy they were. It was fun to celebrate little milestones in Sarah’s pregnancy: the first time the baby kicked, the first time Tom was able to feel the movements of the baby through his wife’s skin. It brought them so close together that they almost seemed like one person. They finished each other’s sentences, they always knew what the other was thinking. It was an unusual relationship in that way.

“Sarah waltzed around their little house scrubbing everything until it glowed. A happy home and a happy husband, and a baby on the way! She felt as if she alone had been singled out to feel the cup of her life running over with love.”

Jewel let go of Cleo’s arm and seemed to relax.

“She sounds so happy,” she said. “I hope I have a husband like Tom one day.”

Opal nodded and continued.

“The town doctor then was Dr. Pendergrast. He came by and asked Sarah to lie on the bed while he listened to her stomach area with his stethoscope.

“He smiled and said, ‘That heartbeat is strong! The baby is going to be a winner, for sure!’ 

“Tom shook Dr. Pendergrast’s hand and even hugged the doctor at at the thought of what was coming soon into his already happy life.

“How long do ladies have to be pregnant to have a baby?” Jewel asked.

Opal frowned at the interruption but she enjoyed being the source of all information for Jewel, so she simply said, “Usually around 9 months.”

Jewel sat up straight and pressed her hands to her belly as if trying to imagine how it would feel to have another human inside her body. A few seconds later her face squinted into confusion and she shook her head. Opal, the knowledgable big sister, allowed her to have this moment before continuing on.

On a cold, January night, Sarah woke in great pain. She tried hard not to be loud and wake Tom up, but the pain became too much and she finally yelled out to him.

“What’s wrong honey?” he asked. 

Sarah looked at him in the dark. Her eyes were wide and full of fear.

Without hesitation, Tom jumped up and ran to get Doc Pendergrast. The snow was falling hard and thick, but Tom didn’t even notice.

Doc Pendergrast threw on his robe, grabbed his black bag, and headed back to Tom’s house with him. The doctor shivered along the way. It was so cold, but being cold took a backseat to saving Tom’s wife and baby. 

By the time they got back to the house, Sarah had fallen onto the floor and was bleeding. Tom ran to her. He cradled her in his arms and rocked her back and forth.

“It’s gonna be okay,” he said, stroking his wife’s hair. “The doctor’s here now. It’s gonna be okay.”

Doc Pendergrast got out his stethoscope. He listened to Sarah’s heart rate and felt of her swollen abdomen. Things were not good. He motioned for Tom to go into the next room.

“The baby is breech,” he said. “I’ll need your help. We have to get the baby turned around.” 

Tom fell to his knees and wept. The only thing he knew about breeched babies was what he had heard about others, and not a single one had survived that he knew of.

Doc Pendergrast bent down and shook Tom’s shoulders.

“You can’t do this right now,” he said. “Your wife is in the other room in pain. She needs your help now.”

The two men went back to Sarah. She groaned and cried out in pain. Tom ran to her and held her upper body but he felt completely useless and scared.

Sarah’s cries and writhing went on for about an hour. Dr. Pendergrast tried and tried to get that baby turned around. But after a while, Sarah stopped crying. Her body went limp in Tom’s arms. Slowly, Dr. Pendergrast looked up into Tom’s eyes. He reached for one of Sarah’s hands and felt for a pulse. He stood and pressed his fingers to her neck, willing her heart to keep beating. But he felt nothing.

The doctor placed a hand on Tom’s shoulder and he shook his head.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “She’s gone.”

Tom’s eyes became wild like an animal’s. How could his wife be gone? She was just here, moaning in pain.

He sat up and gently laid Sarah back on the bed, but he refused to believe she was dead. He kissed her on the lips. He shook her shoulders. He lifted her hand to his chest and begged her to wake up. He looked from his wife to Dr. Pendergrast and then he knelt beside her. 

“Please come back, Sarah,” he said. “I can’t live without you.”

Dr. Pendergrast knew Tom needed some time to get used to the idea that his wife and unborn child were dead, but it was early January and it was colder than usual. They had two more months of winter ahead. This meant that it was only going to get colder. The ground was only going to become harder. They needed to bury Sarah as soon as possible.

The doctor cleared his throat and tried to be as gentle as possible when he said, “Tom, I’m sorry to say this but we need to get Sarah buried as soon as possible.”

Tom looked up from Sarah’s body, his eyes red from crying. They looked even wilder than before.

“Buried?” He said, his voice rough with emotion. “No. I need more time.” He reached across his wife as if to protect her, to keep her from going anywhere.

“I’m sorry,” the doctor said. “You can’t wait to do this. We’ve got a hard freeze coming. The ground’s going to freeze, too. No one would try to dig a grave in frozen ground.”

“A grave?” Tom stood up so fast that Dr. Pendergrast braced himself for a punch in the jaw, but just as quickly, Tom sank back and fell into the chair nearest him.

“You don’t worry about that right now, Tom. I’ll go talk with Demetrius and see if he can get started on a grave. You stay here. Rest a bit. I’ll be back soon.”

Tom put his head in his hands and wept.

Demetrius was the prime grave-digger in town. He was the only man who could dig a grave completely perfect in an eight-by-four rectangle in a short amount of time. He was was a rough and lonely kind of man. He lived alone in a box car out in the woods not far from town. The only company he kept there was the wooden caskets he built and stored in one end of his box car. Death and the business of death was what he knew best. It is also what put alcohol on his table.

The grave digger could usually be found at the seedy bar over on the east side of town around mid-afternoon. Any other time he was at home sleeping off whatever he drank at the bar. Rumor had it that Demetrius had ten children with a nice lady in the next town but they all hated him because of how he behaved when he drank.

Dr. Pendergrast had never been to Demetrius’ box car but he knew the general direction. He had hoped he could go his whole life without ever needing to visit the man, but now he was forced to go in the middle of a cold winter night. He took a deep breath and banged on the box car, yelling as loud as he could to try to wake Demetrius from his alcohol-fueled coma. 

It was a long time before Demetrius came to the door. When he finally did, his eyes were red and bloodshot. Dr. Pendergrast thought briefly about running away. The man looked like a demon in the night.

The doctor forced himself to stay put on Demetrius’s steps and he shivered—out of fear as much as cold—as he told Demetrius what had happened.

The grave digger nodded. His words were slurred and slow. “Yeah. Yeah. I understand you.”

He leaned to one said and, for a minute, Dr. Pendergrast thought the man might fall over. When he came back upright, though, he had a shovel in his hand. “Show me where you want it dug.”

As they walked through the snow, Dr. Pendergrast wondered how many drinks Demetrius had had before he went to bed. Not that he judged the man. No one managed to get through life without a little help. Knowing he was in good company, Dr. Pendergrast took a whiskey flask out of his coat pocket and took several swigs.

He led Demetrius to the spot near Tom’s house where the grave should be dug and then he told the grave digger about Sarah so he could pull a coffin from his boxcar to fit her. Demetrius started digging and Dr. Pendergrast turned to go help Tom prepare is wife for burial.

He fell in the snow twice on his way back to see about Tom. All of his extremities felt frozen solid but at least he had some warmth in his stomach from the whiskey. 

Walking along in silence, Dr. Pendergrast’s thoughts fell to Tom and Sarah and then on to his own marriage. His wife wasn’t anything like Sarah. She was judgmental and disappointed in him. But it hadn’t always been like that.

Lily had been the belle of the ball when he met her. Every boy in the county wanted to dance with her and escort her to parties. She looked at him sometimes with fluttering eyelashes as she was whisked off on some other guy’s arm. It had taken him a long time to get his courage up to ask her out, but when he did he realized that he was always the one she wanted. It had made him feel so good, so happy to know that a woman of such high social standing would want anything to do with him.

Things had been so good in the beginning. Lily stayed with him through all the hard years when he barely eked out a living while he was in school to become a doctor. Over time, though, she had come to see him differently.  She often looked at him like she didn’t recognize him. In his mind, all she did was judge and resent him.

His family was not wealthy like many of the other guys from medical school. He never took Lily or anyone else home to meet his family. They were all crazy, every single one of them. Everybody but him.

He thought back to his home. He hadn’t been back in decades. Back into his whiskey-muddled mind tumbled thoughts of his life back home. His poor daddy worked other men’s fields to try to put food on the table. His momma sat by a window in the parlor with a wad of snuff in her mouth. She kept a can nearby to spit in, but she didn’t always hit the target and she didn’t care either.

His younger sister really wasn’t right in the head. When he left home, she was 19 and still played with dolls, drooling food out of her mouth as she conversed with people only she could see. His parents tried to ignore it because there was no alternative. In school, he had learned about mental illness. It was then that he decided that they were all mentally ill, so he stopped going home.

When he got to Tom and Sarah’s house, Tom was sitting near his wife. He wasn’t crying anymore but he seemed to be in a state of utter disbelief.   

“Doc, I think I saw her move a little bit,” he said, his voice hopeful.

The doctor shook his head and put his hand on Tom’s arm to help him up. He needed to get the man away from his wife’s body.

“I’m sorry, Tom. That can’t be. Sometimes we want things so bad, our mind plays tricks on us.”

The doctor led Tom into the parlor and had him sit on the sofa.

“Listen, I know this is hard. I’ve asked Demetrius to dig a grave and prepare a casket. That snow out there is falling hard. We need to get Sarah to her final resting place before the ground is frozen solid.”

“She was just here, Doc,” Tom said. “We went to bed like nothing was ever gonna be wrong. We had our whole lives ahead of us. You saying you want me to just toss her in the ground now?” Tom stood up and paced to the other side of the room. “I need more time to say goodbye!”

Hours went by and the sun was beginning to crest the horizon. The doctor spent that entire time talking Tom into what was going to happen next. It wasn’t easy. At times, Tom was belligerent and angry. But by the time, Doc heard Demetrius outside kicking snow off his boots on the front porch, he was pretty sure Tom understood what needed to happen. 

“It’s time now, Tom. Nothing we do is going to bring her back and nothing good will come from you hanging onto her now.”

Before Demetrius could knock on the door, Doc went to it and opened it to let him in.

”I couldn’t get it dug more’n five feet down,” the grave digger said coming into the parlor.  He seemed somehow invigorated by the job he had just done, but when he caught sight of Tom, he bowed his head in respect. “Sorry, sir. I have the coffin waiting right near the grave, ready when you are.”

Tom wailed and fell to his knees. The doctor led Demetrius to Sarah’s body and, together, they wrapped her in blankets and a small rug. Tom couldn’t leave Sarah to go to her grave alone, so he followed behind.

As the doctor and Demetrius laid Sarah into the coffin, Tom tried to keep the men from putting the lid on top. To the doctor’s relief, Demetrius stepped in and gently lured the grieving husband back. Then he went to nailing the coffin shut and as the last nail was hammered, Tom turned away and sobbed.

It took less than half an hour for the burial to take place. When it was all over, Tom stared blindly at the mounded grave.

“Come along, Tom,” the doctor said. He patted Tom’s arm to try to wake him out of his shock. “Let’s go home and get you a hot cup of coffee.”

Tom shook his head and looked directly into Doc Pendergrast’s eyes.

“You don’t…,” he choked on this words and then cleared his throat. “You don’t have anything that could help me join her, do you?”

Dr. Pendergrast pulled away from Tom and shook his head. “Oh no, son. You don’t want to do that. You’ve got years ahead of you yet and you’ll feel better soon.” 

Dr. Pendergrast turned away to take a swig of his whiskey so he didn’t see Demetrius nod as if to tell Tom he had just the thing to take all his sorrows away.

Tom nodded and reached for Demetrius’ hand. “Thank you. I’ll get you your payment as soon as I can.”

Demetrius nodded with an extra knowing glint in his eyes. Then he turned and walked back toward his boxcar.

The doctor went back with Tom to help him get settled in. He stayed as Tom slept fitfully.  Eventually, Dr. Pendergrast fell asleep on the sofa but he awoke when he heard Tom screaming.

“Sarah!” He said, coming out of his bedroom. “I heard her calling to me!”

He ran to the chair where his coat had been laid and he started putting it on. “I need to go to her. I need to go get her!”

“No, Tom!” The doctor blocked him from the door and gently pushed him back toward the kitchen. “Sit down for a minute. It was just a dream.”

He went through the cupboards and found a bottle of brandy Sarah must have used in her cooking. He poured a glass for Tom and half a glass for himself.

“Here, drink this. You’ll feel better after.”

Thankfully, Tom was more tired than agitated, so it wasn’t long before the brandy had him sleeping again.

Tom woke up several more times, sure Sarah was calling to him and, each time, Dr. Pendergrast tried to convince him otherwise.

“Look, Tom, Sarah is too far away. Even if she was screaming, you wouldn’t be able to hear her unless you stood right next to her grave.” 

This went on for two days and Dr. Pendergrast was so worried for his friend that he stayed with him the entire time. Finally, though, Tom said he was going to the grave and he took the shovel.

Dr. Pendergrast knew the only way to convince Tom that his wife was indeed gone for good was to let him do what he needed to do. He followed Tom out into the bitter cold and watched as Tom dug through the foot of snow and the dirt.

“I just have to see, Doc,” he said as he worked. “I’ll never rest if I don’t do this.”

When he dug to the top of the coffin he pried off the top with the tip of his shovel. There, unraveled from the rug and blankets was his dead wife. Tufts of hair lay all around her, as if she had gone mad in the struggle to get out. The bottom half of the coffin was covered in blood and between his wife’s legs lay the baby, blue and frozen.

“Oh my God,” he said. “They were alive.”

Before Tom could say anything more, Dr. Pendergrast grabbed the shovel and hit Tom in the back of his head as hard as he could. Tom fell into the coffin on top of Sarah and the baby.  The doctor kept hitting Tom until he was certain he was dead.

Methodically, Dr. Pendergrast piled the dirt back on top of the coffin, and then continued to fill the space above with snow.  He bent down to make sure nothing looked out of place.  Then he went to Demetrius’s box car, and leaned the blood covered shovel against it.

He only fell once on the way back to Tom’s house, but he would have a tall one when he got there. Then he would sleep on Tom’s sofa as long as he wanted.

By Grace Washington

Reverend Samuels let me out of his car at the edge of the road by my house. I leaned against the catalpa tree and watched him drive off.

I listened to the magical sound of the rain dripping off the leaves. The big rainstorm was over, but there were still clouds scudding across the moon.

I stood there for a long time trying to absorb what I had been told by my pastor. In a way, I wished he hadn’t told me anything. A part of me wished I would’ve never known that Ernest Washington, Jr. was not my father. If I had never known, I wouldn’t have to think about it. I wouldn’t have to look at myself and know that I was different.

But Ernest Washington, Jr. had been good to me. I had called him “Daddy” and now I felt like the biggest fool in the county.

I ran a list through my head of friends and acquaintances at church and in the community. They probably all knew.

The sound of the screen door squeaking and slamming against the wood frame broke my thoughts. Momma came running out of the house.

“Grace, why are you standing out here? Why didn’t you come inside first thing and tell me about Pearl?”

I couldn’t speak. Not yet. I watched Mother come down the steps and walk toward me with a purpose I hadn’t seen in her in years.

“Don’t you know I’ve been worried sick about all of you?”

I smiled, but it was more out of the sad realization that my mother worried so much about some things and cared so little about so many other things—like telling me the truth about my father.

“Why are you smiling? Is Pearl gonna be okay?”

Mother fussed with a handkerchief tucked into her sleeve. She started to pull it out and then shoved it back in again. She didn’t seem to know whether to blow her nose or wind her watch.

Finally, she stopped in front of me and sighed.

“Why didn’t you tell me Pearl was pregnant? You know how I hate secrets.”

I leaned my head against the tree and closed my eyes.

“Secrets,” I said, my voice cracking. “You talk to me about secrets, Mother?”

I opened my eyes and saw Mother’s looking right at me like I was crazy. In a flash, though, I saw her see my meaning. Fear brushed across her face and she bit her lip.

Just as quickly, though, she dismissed the thought with a shake of her head and a wave of her hand.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Grace Washington.” Her voice was weaker, less full of anger and purpose. Less confident.

“I…I’ve been worried sick,” she repeated, wringing the handkerchief she finally pulled from her sleeve. “I…Is Pearl okay?”

I nodded. “She’s okay. She’ll be okay. She’s got some healing to do. She lost the baby.”

Mother shook her head again and looked over at me like a shy child.

“Why didn’t you all tell me about her condition, Grace? I feel like such a fool not knowing.” She paused to blow her nose and then in a whisper, “I bet everyone in Milledgeville knows.”

“Like they knew about you?” I asked. The words left my mouth with a bitter taste.

Mother looked at the ground and all around her, but not at me.

“You talk about secrets,” I said, the anger and sadness churning up into my chest. “You never told me that you and Ernest had been married for only two months when I came along. I called him ‘Daddy’! I never knew that you were pregnant with me before you even met him. Talk about looking like a fool!”

Tears poured from my eyes at these last words. Now it was my turn to not know what to do. I felt like running screaming down the street but years of always being the responsible one rooted me to the ground. I bent over and sobbed.

Momma reached out a hand and placed it on my shoulder. I could feel her shaking through my coat.

“Oh Gracie, honey.” She was crying too. “I just wanted you to be happy. I never wanted to hurt you.”

I looked up at her and she dropped her hand to mine.

“Come along now,” she said, her voice quiet and trembling. She wiped her eyes and pulled me gently down the walkway to our porch. When she got there, she patted the top step for me to sit down and then she sat. We must have looked a picture of sorrow sitting there slumped together.

After some minutes, she said, “I thought it was best to do what I did, to not tell you. Life is complicated enough without all of this kind of thing.” She reached a hand to dab at my tears and then she lifted my chin. “You have been such a good girl, a fine girl. I’m so proud of you.”

“Momma,” I said, “Tell me about my father.”

Mother looked off and squinted, as if the past lived somewhere on the horizon.

“I was 16 years old.” She smiled weakly. “My Momma told me I had to quit school and help the family make a living. But I didn’t want to quit school. Still, I knew my Momma was tired and needed help. She was a domestic worker in one of the finest houses in Macon. She kept their silver polished to a gleam and nothing in their house was anything but the finest.”

Momma lowered her head and a fat tear splashed down onto the step below her.

“The people living there weren’t so fine.” She shook her head and dabbed at her eyes. “Even so, everyone envied me getting to work there because it was the home of the richest people in that town. I lived in their house Sunday through Thursday. They were that kind of rich. They denied themselves and their children nothing, but I couldn’t expect no favors. If I ever had any time that wasn’t taken up with polishing or washing or scrubbing, I was allowed to sit at the kitchen table for short periods of time and read the Bible.”

Mother sighed. “Mr. James Edward Peyton was the name of the man I worked for. He was not only a lawyer, but also a judge. He sat at the head of every table anywhere he went. People were always wanting him to come for supper, do favors for him. All the white folks in Macon thought it was good to have him for a friend. I didn’t pay no attention to him but I made sure his coffee was just the way he wanted it. He usually scanned the local newspaper as he drank his coffee and ate his eggs.

“I never thought he noticed me much either until the day he came up behind me while I was washing the dishes. He leaned against me and told me what a woman I had become. I tried to keep working, but he took the things out of my hands and dropped them back into the water. Then he turned me toward him and….”

Mother had a hard time going on. She sobbed into her handkerchief and I leaned over and hugged her.

“I never knew, Mother,” I said, rubbing her back. “I never knew.”

“I was so scared, Grace. In so many ways. He could have made my life miserable or even had me killed, so I did whatever he wanted.”

I pulled Momma to me and held her in my arms while we both cried. I was so heartbroken.

I didn’t need her to tell me more. I knew where things had gone.

But now that she was talking about it, it seemed she needed to purge it somehow. In a voice I barely recognized, she went on.

“It was every Monday night after that. He’d come to my closet of a room and do what men do to make themselves happy and then he would leave without a word.”

The shock of what my mother had endured sunk in and replaced any thought I had had about my real father. It wasn’t until we had both cried ourselves dry that I realized her story was over. She had told me about my father. My father was a monster. Hatred for the man who had caused my mother such pain burned deep within me.

“Now you know, Gracie,” my mother said. “I’m sorry.”

I wanted to scream. “Momma, how can you apologize to me? You did nothing wrong.”

Momma smiled and wiped her tears. “I’m sorry I never told you,” she said. “I wanted things to be simple. I wanted you to blend in and be like all the others.” She took my hand again and patted it. “But you’re not like all the others. You are sometimes so different. Sometimes so much like him.”

I didn’t want to be like him. I wanted nothing to do with him. But I knew she was right. I hadn’t been much like anyone in my family. I always thought it was because I was just different in general. I never knew that the difference I felt was because of a man who raped my mother.

Mother must have sensed the fear and sorrow boiling up inside me because she put her hands on my face, looked me straight in the eyes, and shook her head. “I don’t want you to ever doubt that you’re my daughter. You hear? You came from a different place than the other kids, but you belong to me. You got all the good things from your real father and none of the bad.”

Her earnest words calmed my soul. This was the first time in a while that I felt at home in my family. I took one of her hands and kissed it.

We sat in silence for a while, each of us sniffling old tears.

After a while I said, “Did Ernest know who my real father was?”

“Ernest was the best of men,” Momma said through more tears. “But I never told him where you came from.”

She flashed an anxious look up into my eyes. “Men can get crazy at times and I didn’t want to put any more burden on him.”

I nodded in understanding. If she had told Ernest, what could he have done about it that would have done any good? The man who hurt my mother was powerful and rich. Ernest was just a poor black man whose only recourse would have been violence—and that wouldn’t have done any of us any good.

I looked out toward the eastern sky and saw the beginnings of a new day dawning. I pulled Mother tightly to me. She leaned her head on my shoulder. After awhile, she went to sleep in my arms. It was what I wanted her to do. I would sit there with my arms wrapped around her until she woke. I loved my mother so much. I had always loved her, but I now I loved her more.

---

Grace Washington is a contributor to Jet Planes and Coffee. Like many of our writers, she is from Texas with roots all around the South. Her stories often uncover the realities and courage of those who fight for justice.