The Daughters of Warring: Part 6

Isabel wrote furiously, the words coming alive at her fingertips:

Eileen’s mother was away ,visiting her grandparents in Philadelphia. Her Grandmother had recently taken ill, she said, and they couldn’t be sure when her mother would be back. Her father was at work, so we were alone.

Up until then, I’d kept secret what happened between Stephen and I. We sat in her room, and I told her everything. How things had went farther than I expected, and that I didn’t know what to do.

Eileen gave me a handkerchief to wipe my tears. Dropping her voice to a whisper, she posed the one, vital question. “Could you be with child?”

“It‘s possible.”

“When was the last time you bled?”

I flushed with embarrassment, but I told her.

“I may be able to help you,” she said. “Come into the kitchen with me.”

I watched as she boiled a pot of water. From the shelves, she began to pull down jars of herbs and roots, throwing bits into the water. Once the pot boiled, the water turned into a sweet smelling, amber liquid. Eileen added a bay leaf and a dollop of honey.

“What’s that supposed to do?” I asked.

“Well the bay and the honey are for the flavor. It’s really horrible without it.”

“What is this?”

“It’s a remedy. It will make you bleed, within a day or so. There won’t be a child. Then you can act as if none of this happened.”

“Does it work?”

“It works, provided you’re not too far along. My mother learned it from a woman that she used to work with, another midwife. I’ve given this to quite a few girls with…problems,” she hesitated. “Is that why you came to see me today?”

“I came to talk to you because you’re my friend,” I replied. “Though I had heard talk, that you know things about herbs.”

Eileen patted my shoulder. “That is as it should be. Don’t worry. What was spoken and done here between us will be secret. For only us and God to know.”

I nodded, and took a drink of the hot brew.

Before I left her house that day, I hugged her. I remember that she kissed my cheek. She watched me from the window. As I left, I looked down, tightening my bonnet and ducking my head against the wind.

I didn’t know that would be the last time that I saw Eileen before her execution. There were only ten days left until her life was over.

November came with draughts of heavy rain and wind. The weather matched my morose temperament. Since I shared my room with my sisters, I took to sitting downstairs in the basement alone. There was an old bed there. For hours I would sit in that space, bundled under layers of blankets. I cried there in secret. My parents knew that I was upset over Eileen’s death, so they attributed my behavior to that. They didn’t know the truth. They didn’t understand that I feared that I was to blame for her death. I couldn’t imagine who had found out about Eileen’s brew, or who would have went to the magistrate about it.

The cold hands of the magistrate worked the rule of law, without compassion.Well I’m sorry, but it takes longer than that for me to…just leave me alone.” I spat.

So my parents let me be. I was grateful for this. I needed time to think.

Stephen did not come up to the house much anymore. He had his own home, closer to the church. Father started meeting him there. I assumed that Stephen decided it best to stay away from me. That suited me just fine. I had no wish to see him, did not want to even think of him. Sometimes, as I woke or fell to sleep, I could still see his eyes, his smile.

It was easy enough for me to recall the path I’d went down with him. I could not afford such a mistake again.

“It’s almost Thanksgiving,” Margaret told me. She came down to the basement and sat on the stairs, watching me. She folded her skirts, placing her palms in her lap. “I know you’re upset about Eileen, but you must break this mood you’re in. It’s been weeks now.”

 “I don’t know what this is, but it’s more than Eileen. Do you know how content Suzette is, since you’re spending all your time down here? It’s like you’re on some kind of self inflicted punishment. I don’t expect you to be happy. But you must learn to put on a brave face.

At least go through the motions of regular living. Isabel!”

Irritated, she stomped up the staircase and slammed the door when I didn’t answer her.

I thought that I was prepared for what Margaret might say, but I hadn’t expected her to say that Suzette was happy with my discomfort.

How well Margaret knows me. Suzette’s pleasure was the only thing that convinced me to leave my new found hiding place.

***

Isabel laid back against the cot.

Once the ink was dry, she stuffed the papers into her pillowcase. She wanted to make sure the guards didn’t grab them, or that the edges wouldn’t get chewed off by the rats. Sometimes she could feel their little eyes watching her, peering from the dark corners of the room.

It was getting more difficult to write. Tomorrow, she would have to commit to paper the events that had put her life in jeopardy. She would write about how Stephen died.

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©2010 Lori Titus

Lori is writing a Marradith Ryder Series related project–meanwhile, she awaits the release of a new novella called Hailey’s Shadow next month. Her novella, Lazarus, is available on Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Lazarus-Lori-Titus/dp/1453775722/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1293547468&sr=1-1

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We wouldn’t be knitting tonight, nor planning bake sales, chicken dinners or pancake breakfasts. We wouldn’t talk about Lurleen Baptist’s Annual Garage Sale and Barbeque at tonight’s meeting. Tonight would be one of those other nights.

Lise, Emma, and I glanced at one another, holding on to a coppery wire of agitation as Violet Auster took the first seat at the table. As the founder and chairwoman, Violet took the first everything.

Amelia Scott-Devlin, with her cropped blonde hair and narrow glasses, had once again skipped our Thursday night church meeting. She’d told me several times that Violet’s leadership just wasn’t her cup of tea. Violet knew how she felt, but never let show so much as a twitch.

To my left sat Emma Ertzberger working a lovely piece of moss stitch in bright blue and kelp green, the colors of swimming pools. To my right, Lise Warrington crocheted stitches and loops into tiny acts of rebellion. Violet often reminded her that we were all knitters here, not crocheters.

Two empty chairs - Amelia’s and Charlotte Ledbetter’s – sat at the other end. Amelia had skipped tonight’s meeting, but Charlotte was gone for good. Violet had surprised us weeks ago by calling a vote for Charlotte’s dismissal. We all voted against, naturally; Charlotte was one of us, and believed in our work. A little too passionately, maybe, but always with good intentions. In the end, in spite of unanimous “nay” votes, Charlotte was dismissed and we were left reeling, a teetering ship with an unbalanced captain.

But it left a sore spot. We all loved her except for Violet, who felt that Charlotte’s good intentions and gung-ho attitude were grand thorns in the outreach’s side. Charlotte had been a one-woman counseling center, recycling program, and relief service. A tiny thing, her hair delicate and frosty as cobwebs, she sincerely believed the Lord had put her on this earth to ease the sufferings of the homeless, the desperate, and the lost.

The outreach was Violet’s baby, but Charlotte was its heart, soul, and hands. She opened up her home to those in need of a warm bed and a hot meal, and pushed carts loaded with loose-meat sandwiches through downtown Lurleen until every one was gone, meted out just as God Himself would have done it. She always carried a stack of warm blankets and unfailingly produced gallons of strong coffee for the cold and miserable, all of whom remarked on the delicious aroma and the fashionably bitter taste of almonds.

“It’s gourmet,” she’d explain, her eyes bright with cold.

People wondered how small, frail Charlotte could have possibly nourished so many people on her tiny widow’s pension. Though they appreciated it, they wondered. And when the lines at the Lurleen County Shelter got shorter and the beds grew emptier, they wondered even more.

Unfazed, Charlotte tilted her chin down, a habit that made her look both wise and mysterious, and said, “Remember the fishes and loaves.”

Charlotte overreached, but it was her good nature that drove her to it. Personally, I think she went a little checkered in the head trying to help so many in such dire straits, but only because her sweet old heart couldn’t stand to see their misery. Charlotte made it her personal mission to wipe out hunger and homelessness in Lurlene County - and she did. The emptiness of the LC Shelter was her testament.

But when the questions began, Violet pulled in the reins. Now Amelia was on the block.

“Amelia Scott-Devlin’s activities are a threat to future outreach work. This could be as troubling as our dilemma with dear Charlotte. Bless her heart, but she did leave a mess for us to clean up. Nonetheless,” she continued, “we have work to do. To continue, we need solidarity. Though it pains me, I recommend Amelia’s dismissal. Shall we vote?”

I raised my hand. Violet’s eyes ratcheted to me. “Yes, Maddie?”

I cleared my throat, a bombshell in the quiet room. “I vote for your dismissal, Violet.”

Violet paled and pressed her lips together. The dark red lipstick feathered and spread out into the cracks around her mouth. “Denied,” she said.

“Seconded,” Emma said, tucking her knitting away. She drew two long rosewood needles, size eight, from her denim bag. They had belonged to Charlotte and, like her, they were pliant but sturdy. Dark but beautiful.

Lise put away her crochet hooks. Her hand came out of her bag holding a skein of creamy silk and bamboo yarn, a lacy combination of softness and strength. She began to unwind it even as I pulled a wad of beige wool roving from my own bag. I hadn’t brought the good stuff, of course; once it had been in Violet’s mouth for a while, it would be ruined.

Violet looked at the door, and from the other side came the telltale click of the lock. I patted the key in my skirt pocket as shadows moved beneath the door. Darkness as someone turned off the lights. The final slam of the fire doors at either end of the hall. Footsteps. The growl of a cold engine.

Amelia would be heading back to her house now to set up our meeting space. With Charlotte gone, Lurleen Baptist just didn’t feel like home anymore.

I wadded up the roving and pushed my chair back. Lise and Emma gathered up their needles and we all moved toward Violet. Her eyes darted furiously between us.

“Charlotte would third if she could,” I told her. “She drowned, but you know that.”

“In the baptismal,” Lise added. “You know that, too.”

“You’re out of order!” Violet screamed, backing herself into a corner. “Guilty as the devil and out of order!”

“Ain’t we all?” Emma whispered, and brought the needles forward.

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©2010 Willa Ann Suvis

Willa Ann Suvis is a librarian, a student, and a worrier. She grew up in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, and is a  fan of cats, knitting, Shirley Jackson, and Flannery O’Connor (to name a very few authors).